#places to eat in Plymouth

[gigabyte-flare]

He Comes Alive (Part 7)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Summary: You awake in a top secret facility where you learn of Leon's true nature

Word Count: 5.9k

Pairing: vampire/plagas!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

Warnings: Biting, blood, gore, murder, unprotected p in v, masterbation, oral (m and f receiving), stalking, pet names, kidnapping, breeding kink, blood play/kink, age gap, dubcon, pregnancy, monster f*cking, body horror, lactation kink, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT [More warnings may be added in future entries]

A quick reminder that I no longer do tag lists

“Where’s Leon?”

“In this building.”

“Where am I?”

“At the BSAA North America headquarters in Washington D.C..”

“BSAA?”

“The Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance.”

“Did Leon do something wrong?”

The man called Clive lets out a chuckle, leaning back in his chair, “that’s a loaded question.”

You feel a lump form in the back of your throat. You swallow it back, remaining silent in hopes that Clive will continue.

“Nine years ago, the president’s daughter was kidnapped by a cult in Spain called Los Illuminados. D.S.O. Agent Leon S. Kennedy was sent to rescue her. Both of them had become infected with a bioweapon-- a parasite the cult called Las Plagas. Leon had successfully removed the parasite from the president’s daughter, however…”

Clive pauses and you can feel your heart start to race at the implication, but still you press, “however, what?”

Clive clears his throat, “by the time the U.S. government realized Leon was still infected, he was long gone, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. He’s been on the run for nine years.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The hikers? That man at the festival? Your father? They’re all his victims,” Clive states.

“You’re lying!” you shout, standing up from the chair and slamming your hands onto the table.

“The plaga feeds on blood in order to survive; it seems to have an affinity to human blood, too.”

“You do realize this sounds absolutely insane, you’re making it sound like Leon’s a vampire or something.”

Clive chuckles again, “that honestly wouldn’t be that far from the truth,” you watch his eyes glance to your swollen belly, “I take it that’s Leon’s baby you're pregnant with?”

“Yes,” you reply curtly before sitting back in the chair, crossing your arms, “it is.”

“Shit…”

“What?”

Clive takes a deep breath before continuing, “I hate to tell you this, but your baby isn’t entirely human.”

Your eyes widen, “excuse me?! Now you’re fucking with me, this is insane!”

“Don’t you find it odd that Leon hasn’t taken you to a single prenatal appointment? Odd that your pregnancy seems to be progressing awfully fast?”

You stand back up again, angrily shaking your finger at Clive, “you are full of shit!”

“Deny it all you want, it’s the truth. Unfortunately you’re too far along in your pregnancy to safely abort, we’ll have to wait until you give birth so we can euthanize it; we’ll make sure it’s done humanely.”

“No one is coming near my baby! You’re just trying to scare me!”

You watch Clive reach into his jacket, pulling out a photo and placing it on the table in front of you. What you see immediately makes you pause and stare. It’s a poorly lit room, a person is tied to the support beam, covered in blood and what you assume is bite marks on their neck.

“This was taken in Leon’s basement after we apprehended him. This is why he kept the basement locked.”

You can’t take your eyes off the photo, especially after you realize you recognize the clothes; it’s a woman that had gone missing after coming out of a work Christmas party in Plymouth; you had seen a photo of her at the party on the news. You feel chills go up your spine.

"Unfortunately she died from blood loss when we were transporting her to our clinic," Clive states.

You swallow hard before making eye contact with Clive, “what the hell is going on…?” 

“I think it will be easier to show you, come with me,” Clive replies, standing up from his chair and motioning for you to follow him. 

You hesitate for a moment before you decide to follow, going back out into the hallway. The two of you eventually make your way to a single elevator, watching Clive swipe a card and then call the elevator. It beeps before the doors slide open and the two of you step inside. 

“How long have you been watching us?” you ask, figuring out that based on what Clive had said to you about Leon not taking you for prenatal check-ups, that someone was watching you and Leon’s every move.

“Shortly after Halloween, a police officer in Oakvale had reached out to the FBI to ask about Leon; in turn the FBI reached out to us. We had to ensure that it was definitely him before making our move.”

You nod, shifting uncomfortably on your feet and unconsciously rubbing your belly. After a couple minutes, the elevator door opens and Clive steps out, you follow him closely. Several men in lab coats turn and greet Clive.

“Director O’Brien! For what do we owe the pleasure?” one of the scientists asks before looking at you, “is this…?”

“Yes she is,” Clive replies, “has he been fed yet?”

The scientist looks back at Clive, shaking his head, “not yet, we were just about to get ready to.”

“Excellent, bring us to the observation room.”

“Of course, director.”

The scientist leads the way bringing you down another hallway that’s barricaded with several large steel doors. At the end, he turns to a door on the left, swiping a keycard and inputting a passcode, causing the door to slide open. You can’t help but feel like you somehow woke up in a science fiction movie. You pinch yourself again to make sure you’re definitely not dreaming.

Once in the room, the scientist pulls up the blinds on a large window and you see Leon, still in just his sweatpants, sitting on a basic metal bed hunched over, staring at the floor. Your heart seemingly skips as you rush up to the window, putting your hands on the glass.

“Leon…” you say softly.

From what you can see, there is nothing out of the ordinary about Leon and you start to reckon that they have the wrong man. Leon wouldn’t hurt anyone. Looking around the room, you notice there is a purple hue. You look up at the room’s ceiling and see that between each fluorescent light is a purple one; the same lights that you saw when you and Leon had gotten ambushed at home.

“What are the purple lights?” you ask, turning to Clive as you remove your hands from the glass.

“High powered ultraviolet lights. The plaga can’t stand sunlight. That’s why he only hunts at night.”

Suddenly, a walkie talkie that is sticking out of Clive’s outer jacket pockets goes off, “We’re ready to commence feeding if you are, director.”

Clive grabs the walkie talkie out of his jacket and replies, “proceed.”

On the left side of the room, a door slides open and a blindfolded man is pushed in and the door closes. The man practically falls onto his face. The man sits up on his knees and you see that his hands are bound behind his back.

“He’s a death row inmate,” Clive says, answering a question you hadn’t even asked, “we have a partnership with the penitentiary and they supply us with inmates that are going to be executed.”

Your attention is drawn back into Leon’s room when the UV lights are switched off and the fluorescent lights dim. Your eyes are drawn to Leon when he suddenly lifts his head, his eyes locked on the man that’s in the midst of a panic attack in the middle of the room. Before your eyes, you watch dark, inky veins start to spread over Leon’s exposed skin. Leon suddenly stands up, walking towards the man like a predator stalking its prey. Movement coming from behind Leon makes your breath hitch; a long, jet black tail comes out  of Leon’s back; the closest thing you can compare it to is a scorpion’s tail.

That isn’t all, four more appendages come out of his back, these looking like claws. You want to close your eyes, you want to run, but you can’t; your eyes remain locked on Leon. In a split second, Leon pounces onto the man, the man’s cries for help going unanswered as you watch Leon’s mouth latch itself onto his neck. The four claws latch onto the man as his tail whips itself back and forth as Leon feasts upon him. You suddenly feel your baby shift in your belly.

Leon suddenly stops, unlatching himself from his meal and looking directly at you. 

“Can he see us?” you ask, your voice shaking.

“No, it’s a two way mirror,” Clive replies, rubbing his chin with his fingers.

Leon stands up walking right up to the window, his eyes locked onto you. To your horror, you see his eyes are red, seemingly glowing in the dim light. His blood stained mouth hangs agape and you can see that all four of his incisors are elongated and sharp. Leon puts his hands onto the glass, his gaze still locked onto you.

“Angel?” he says, his eyes widening, “is that you?”

His tail moves back and forth as he stares at you and that’s when your baby inside you starts moving erratically, causing you to wince in pain as you grab your belly. 

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Leon continues, his hands running down the glass, leaving trails of blood behind, “this is not how I wanted to show you my gift.”

“Gift?” you whisper, taking a couple of steps back from the window.

“He’s referring to the plaga.” Clive replies.

“Our little girl has the gift, too,” Leon continues, his right hand pets the glass as you watch his gaze shift to your belly, made even more unsettling knowing that he can’t see you, “isn’t that right, sweetie?”

Your baby shifts again, feeling your baby’s foot go up your rib cage, causing you to yelp as you once again grab your swollen belly. 

There’s no way your baby is reacting to him right? Right?

You watch as Leon’s crimson eyes narrow, one of his fists balling up and punching the glass, causing it to crack. You scream, stumbling backwards and falling to the floor as Leon throws another punch at the glass, cracking it further. Clive rushes over, picking you up off the floor as he grabs his walkie talkie.

“Turn those damn UV lights back on! NOW!” he shouts into the walkie talkie as he pulls you out of the observation room.

You turn and look back as the UV lights are powered back on, Leon letting out the most inhuman scream you’ve ever heard in your life and in an instant, you watch his grotesque appendages retreat back into his body as he stumbles away from the glass, clutching his head with his hands.

As you and Clive retreat back to the elevator, Leon’s cries of your name fill the halls.

You have no idea how much time has passed since the incident with Leon. Clive had you relocated to a more comfortable room at the facility; it has furniture, a small refrigerator and a window to look outside. You’re sitting in a rocking chair next to the window, rubbing your pregnant belly unconsciously as you watch a gentle snowfall outside. Over and over, your brain plays out the last few months since you returned home from dropping out of college.

Every little thing you had noticed that was odd suddenly made sense: eating the rarest meat imaginable, that one time you thought he had sharp teeth when he bit into his burger, him suddenly going into the basement, him getting up in the middle of the night to ‘check traps,’ the day they found what was left of your father, that smile he had on his face was burned into the back of your mind. Your eyes unconsciously widen at another revelation; the red eyes you saw in your window that night, they were Leon’s.

“It was him… he was the B.O.W. the whole time…” you whisper to yourself, a single tear rolling down your cheek. 

The sound of the door opening startles you and you watch Clive walk in, giving you a gentle smile and wave as he steps into the room.

“I just spoke with your mother,” Clive says, taking a seat on your bed across from where you sit, “I let her know you were experiencing complications in your pregnancy and that you had to be taken to a specialist in D.C., so she at least knows where you are. I didn’t mention Leon to her.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly, letting out a sigh as you return your attention back out the window.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, the concern evident in his voice.

“Empty? Lost? I’m not sure what to feel… I feel like the last few months have been a cruel lie,” you reply honestly, wiping more tears that run down your face away with the back of your hand.

“I know and I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine how hard this has been for you.”

“Is it true that you can’t cure him?” you ask, looking back over at Clive.

Clive nods, “unfortunately. The parasite has completely taken over his body, if we try to remove it, he will die.”

“How… how is he?” you ask, not really sure you actually want the answer.

“He’s refusing to feed. We’ll have to execute him sooner than we intended,” Clive replies, leaning forward, resting his forearms onto his legs.

“Execute?!”

Clive nods, “yes, he’s too dangerous to keep alive. Our hope was to study the plaga inside of him before putting him out of his misery, but he’s making that difficult.”

“Is there any chance I could say goodbye to him before he’s executed?”

Clive stares at you puzzled for a moment before replying, “I believe I can have that arranged.”

“Good,” you say with a soft sigh of relief.

Despite everything, you still love him. You still love the baby growing inside of you. The thought that both of these things that you love so dearly are going to get taken from you absolutely kills you.

“I’ll make sure to come get you when that time comes,” Clive says, standing up from the bed and walking over to the door, “don’t hesitate to give us a holler if you need anything.”

You believe another few days passes, you awake one morning to the sound of wind howling; a blizzard seems to have come in. Just after you get yourself dressed and cleaned up, Clive once again comes into your room.

“It’s happening tonight,” Clive says, his look solemn.

You acknowledge him with a nod before following him out of your room and back to the elevator that brings you to the underground research facility. This time, instead of bringing you to the observation room, Clive brings you to the door leading to Leon’s containment chamber.

“Remember,” Clive begins, causing you to draw your attention to him, “we’ll be watching. We won’t let him hurt you.”

You nod as the door to his containment chamber slides open. You step inside the small chamber inside the door, it sprays some kind of mist on you which you suspect is some kind of sanitizer. After that, the final door opens and you see Leon, laying on his back staring at the ceiling. You step inside, listening as the door slides shut and locks, making your heart jump in nervousness. At first, Leon doesn’t acknowledge you, instead he continues to stare at the ceiling.

“Leon?” you finally speak up, your voice soft.

Leon lifts his head, staring at you for a moment before he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, practically running to you. He places his hands on your shoulders, looking at you in disbelief.

“Angel! You’re ok, I’ve been so worried!” he exclaims before planting a kiss onto your forehead.

Now you’re able to get a good look at him. His skin is extremely pale and you can see the faint, inky black veins all over his exposed skin. It reminds you of the time you had gone to the festival, before he had killed that man behind the fairground. Now you know why Leon had looked so terrible that day.

“I’ve been worried about you, too,” you say hesitantly, avoiding eye contact with him.

“What’s wrong Angel? It’s just me,” Leon coos, his hand gently grasping your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

His gaze shifts down to your belly, a smile slowly overtaking his lips as he stares down in awe; once again feeling your baby move inside you.

“My God… you’ve gotten so big! Our little girl is growing like a weed!” he says, the excitement evident in his voice as he places a hand on your belly, rubbing it slowly.

A hint of sadness hits you, knowing that as soon as your baby is born, it’s going to be humanely euthanized, but you don’t want to do anything that could cause Leon to lash out, so you keep that knowledge to yourself. 

“How do you know it’s a girl?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“She told me,” Leon explains, his gaze shifting back to you, “because of our gift, we are constantly connected.”

You feel your pulse pick up, feeling your baby continue to writhe inside you as Leon continues to rub your belly.

“I’m going to give you the gift, as well. We’ll be together in both body and mind. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Before you can even process what he just said to you, you notice there’s a sudden change in the lighting; your eyes dart around to see what changed when you notice the subtle purple hue is gone. The UV lights have been turned off. You want to panic, but you take deep breaths to try to keep yourself calm. You reckon it must be a mistake, they’ll turn the UV lights back on in any second. However, more agonizing seconds go by and you realize that they are not coming back on.

Leon slowly looks up, a smirk spreading across his lips when he realizes the UV lights are off, “well… that's convenient.”

He closes his eyes, rolling his neck and shoulders as you watch in horror as the dark veins on his skin get even darker. When he opens his eyes again, you are once again met with the crimson eyes that have haunted your subconscious since the day you saw Leon from the observation room. But now that he’s right in front of you, everything inside you is telling you to get away. You take a couple steps back away from him, his smirk immediately turning into a frown.

“No, no, no! It’s ok, I won’t hurt you, Angel,” he pleads, reaching out to you and grasping your upper arms to stop you from moving away, “I just want to take care of you.”

You watch as his tail snakes out from behind him, moving between the two of you. The end of it goes under your shirt and you watch as the blade-like end of his tail moves upwards, slicing through your shirt. Once your shirt is completely sliced open, his fingers gingerly push the remains of the shirt off you, exposing your swollen breasts to him. He brings one hand up, brushing one of your sensitive nipples under his thumb, causing a small white bead of liquid to come out before running down your breast, pooling onto your pregnant belly.

“Aw look, you’re making milk. Our little girl will need blood, not milk. No matter, I’ll make sure it won’t go to waste,” Leon says before leaning down, wrapping his mouth around the leaking nipple and sucking hard.

“L-Leon!” you cry out, trying to push him away.

You look over at the mirror, knowing that there are people watching. Does Leon know there are people watching? You want to cry out for help, to get someone to come get you out, but you can’t; you don’t want to risk invoking Leon’s fury. After what seems like an eternity, Leon unlatches himself from your breast, his crimson eyes staring down at you lustfully. A grin slowly forms on his face, showing off his long, sharp canine teeth.

He grasps you gently, coaxing you over to his bed where he spins you around, forcing you to bend over onto the bed with your knees on the floor. You rack your brain over what on Earth he’s doing when you feel a very sudden sharp pain in your shoulder, causing you to scream. You then hear a low moan; Leon’s mouth is latched onto your shoulder, his fangs sinking deep into your flesh as blood starts to pour out from the wound. 

He releases his mouth from you briefly, his breaths heavy as he grips onto your waist, his hands then reaching around to undo your belt and pants, “you taste just as divine as I remember, Angel,” he purrs into your ear.

You start to question mentally what he’s talking about until you recall back to the first night you stayed at Leon’s house when the two of you had sex for the first time. He wasn’t just eating you out that night. He was feeding off you. This newest revelation causes a sudden wave of nausea to come over you, causing you to gag. You quickly cover your mouth with one hand while the other grips the sheets on his bed, tears burning the corners of your eyes, threatening to pour out. 

He bites back down into your shoulder as his hands make quick work pulling down your pants and underwear, his fingers rubbing your slit slowly, gathering up the slick of your body’s arousal on his fingertips. While still feeding off you, he pulls down his sweatpants and you feel the head of his cock prod at your entrance. Your eyes widen when you watch two of the claw-like appendages stab down onto the bed in front of you while the other two wrap around your waist, trapping you against him; you feel one of his hands rest on your hip while the other grips your hair, pulling your head back. It takes everything in you not to scream.

With a quick thrust of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, unlatching his mouth from your shoulder with a loud moan as his grip on your hair tightens. You cry out at the feeling of him practically splitting you in half; he feels so much larger than you remember. There’s also another sensation inside you, one you don’t recognize at all. It’s almost hard for your mind to even describe; like a thousand fingers are stroking your inner walls and your cervix and with each quick thrust of Leon’s hips, it feels amazing. You can’t help but let out a loud moan as Leon pistons himself into you, hurtling you towards your release. 

“That’s it Angel, you’re doing so well for me. My perfect mate,” he purrs as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, the hand on your hip gripping so tight that it’ll surely leave bruises, his other hand running down your neck before resting onto your other shoulder, “now, be a good girl and take my gift.”

Against your better judgment, you turn your head to look at him. Leon is opening his mouth and you watch as four mandibles come out from the depths of his mouth and you can hear something squealing from inside his throat. No longer able to put on a brave face, you start to scream, thrashing your body in a desperate attempt to get away from him. The strange sensation you noted inside you suddenly starts to sting as you try to get yourself off him and you feel the claws wrapped around your waist start to cut into your skin as they grip you tighter. 

The door to Leon’s room suddenly opens and Clive along with two men with tactical gear and guns swarm in. Clive holds up a large UV flashlight, shining it directly at Leon’s head. Leon roars, the mandibles going back inside his mouth as he falls backwards, freeing you from his grasp. You quickly pull your underwear and pants back up before running over to Clive, using your arms to cover your exposed breasts. Clive positions you behind him as the two men move to either side of Leon, their guns drawn and pointed at him. One of the scientists then rushes inside the room, Clive turns his head to address him.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Clive shouts at the scientist right before the UV lights turn back on.

You wince when you hear the inhuman cry come from Leon as he scrambles to crouch himself into the corner of the room, gripping his head and trembling.

“We just wanted to see what he would do, that’s all!” the scientist says, pleading with Clive.

“She nearly got infected! Was that part of your plan?!” Clive shouts, walking up to the scientist, getting in his face.

“Well, no…”

“The lead researcher will be hearing about this, now get out of our way, I need to take her back to her room,” Clive continues, practically shoving the scientist out of the way as he gently grasps your upper arm to lead you out of Leon’s containment chamber.

As you walk out, you turn and look at Leon, who’s still crouched in the corner; his eyes are locked onto you, a smirk spread across his lips.

Leon stays seated in the corner of his containment chamber for the majority of the day, only moving to relieve himself in the toilet inside his containment chamber. Scientists have been in and out of his containment chamber as well, almost as if they’re preparing for something, though he didn’t have the slightest clue of what that could be until the lead researcher comes in with his young assistant, who looks vaguely familiar to Leon. 

The lead researcher takes Leon’s vitals and a blood sample, staying completely still through it all, watching the assistant take a seat on Leon’s bed, taking notes with a clipboard and pen.

“Dr. Jacobs, a question if I may?” the assistant suddenly asks.

“Go ahead, Chambers.”

Chambers. Rebecca Chambers. That’s why I recognize her…

Rebecca was a former member of S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team prior to the Raccoon City outbreak incident on September 30, 1971; Leon’s first day as a police officer. A part of him wishes he had died that day.

“How did he manage to infect the fetus? I thought you said it was transmitted via the bloodstream, hence why he bit her.” she asks, setting the clipboard and pen down onto the bed next to her.

Dr. Jacobs swallows hard as he turns to address her, “we believe there are plaga larvae in his semen, which fused with the embryo upon fertilization even though we found no larvae in the semen samples we were able to get. Somehow… the plaga inside him can control when a larva is released… absolutely extraordinary, a real shame we’re executing him tonight.”

Leon subtly raises an eyebrow.

“What about the baby?” Rebecca presses.

“The baby will be humanely euthanized upon birth, the BSAA wants to put the plagas parasite to bed for good even though the child could provide valuable data. I tried to fight it but O’Brien wouldn’t budge.”

What?

Leon remains calm on the outside, but on the inside, he is panicking. He has to protect his offspring at all cost, but how? That answer comes on a silver platter when he watches Rebecca stand up from the bed, grabbing the clipboard but leaving the pen behind on his bed. He waits a couple minutes to see if they realize she had left the pen in here. When he’s confident they’re not coming back in, he stands up, walking over to the bed and collapsing onto it, clutching the pen in his hand as he lays down. He turns, his back facing the camera that’s on the opposite wall pointed towards the bed. 

During his stint in the military after surviving the Raccoon City outbreak, Leon picked up a few tricks, one being how to make lockpicks out of just about anything. He meticulously takes the mechanical pen apart, using the metal parts to make a crude lock pick, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand.

Later that evening, the door to his containment chamber opens and Dr. Jacobs comes in along with another man in tactical gear with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a pistol strapped to his leg. Dr. Jacobs is carrying a metal folding chair, which he hands to the guard for him to set down onto the floor after opening.

“Sit,” the guard orders Leon, pointing at the chair.

“Yeah, yeah…” Leon replies, standing up from his bed and sitting in the chair.

“Hands behind your back. Now,” the guard barks.

Leon does as he’s ordered, putting his hands behind his back around the back of the chair. The guard walks behind him, handcuffing his wrists together. Unbeknownst to the guard, Leon has his makeshift lock pick wedged between two of his fingers, completely concealing it. The guard walks back around, standing in front of Leon as Dr. Jacobs prepares a syringe of bright green liquid. Slipping the lock pick out, he begins to pick the lock on his cuffs.

“It pains me to do this Leon, it really does,” says Dr. Jacobs as he approaches, the guard moving to the side of Leon to let him through, “you were a brilliant agent. I admit this will not be pleasant, but you won’t suffer for long, I promise.”

Leon manages to free himself just as Dr. Jacobs kneels down to inject him with the deadly serum in the syringe. In the blink of an eye, Leon snatches the syringe from Dr. Jacobs, stabbing it into his neck and pushing the syringe. Dr. Jacobs’ expression contorts as he collapses onto the floor, his body going into a seizure in what Leon imagines is the painful thralls of death.

The guard curses as Leon stands up from his chair, pointing his AK-47 at him to shoot. However, Leon’s too quick, he side steps and grabs the AK-47, using the strap slung around the guard’s body to strangle the man, all the while, the gun is still firing, shooting out all the lights in the ceiling, including the UV lights. Inky black veins quickly envelope Leon’s body and his eyes shift into the deep crimson as Leon bites into the guard’s exposed neck, drinking as much blood as he can in a short period of time.

He then kneels down to Dr. Jacobs’ lifeless body, searching his pockets to find a fob. With this fob in hand, the door to the containment chamber opens, allowing Leon to make his escape. He can sense his offspring is several floors above where he is, so he quickly finds the elevator, the fob allowing him access to it. 

When the elevator doors open, several guards are waiting for him, guns drawn. In an instant, Leon’s tail and back appendages emerge and he practically leaps out of the elevator pinning one of the guards down and ripping out his throat while his tail whips around, decapitating and fatally stabbing the other guards. Just when Leon thinks he’s in the clear, he hears more footsteps coming towards him. He looks up, blood dripping from his mouth and chin and finds Director O’Brien with about 10 more guards behind him.

“I should have known you wouldn’t go quietly, Leon,” Director O’Brien says, crossing his arms.

“Where is my mate?” Leon growls, standing up to face them, using his back claws and tail to make himself look bigger.

“In a place you won’t get to, Leon. You’re not leaving this hallway alive,” Director O’Brien replies.

“We’ll see about that.”

Leon begins to step forward, his legs and arms mutating, turning black like his claws and tail. His fingers become more claw like and his legs contort to become more insect-like; his feet also transform into three toed claws. His jaw splits open to reveal rows of sharp elongated teeth, his four incisors still longer than the rest. His four mandibles also come out of his mouth and he lets out an inhuman roar as he charges towards Director O’Brien and the guards. This is the furthest Leon’s ever let himself transform and he’s honestly eager to see what he can do.

The guards shoot at him, but the bullets do little to no damage to Leon as he rips through them like paper with his razor sharp claws, blood and guts spilling everywhere. In the chaos, Director O’Brien slips away, running down the hall. Leon sees this and quickly gives chase, what’s left of the guards strewn all over the white marble floor in his wake. Director O’Brien comes around the corner with his angel, his mate in tow, both of them stopping in their tracks upon seeing Leon.

Leon opens his mouth wide, letting out a loud hiss as he glares at Director O’Brien. Unfortunately in his current state, he’s unable to speak. His crimson stare shifts over to his angel, who to his dismay, is visibly frightened.

Angel, don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you…

He curses internally about not being able to give her his gift; if he had been successful, he would be able to communicate with her easily. His gaze then shifts to her swollen belly, sensing his offspring is strong and healthy inside her. He watches as she grips her belly, flinching.

“Back off, Leon!” Director O’Brien shouts, pulling out a small flashlight from inside his dark green coat and turning it on, pointing its purple beam directly into Leon’s face. 

Leon, turns his face away, growling as he feels the light sting his mutated parts. His tail whips forward, slicing off the hand holding the UV flashlight before he turns back to Director O’Brien, stalking towards him and using one of his clawed hands to pick him up and pin him against the wall. Letting out a guttural growl, his mouth and mandibles open wide only stopping when he feels his mate’s hands on his arm.

“Leon, don’t kill him, please!” she cries, “don’t kill him and I’ll… I’ll go with you…”

His mutated mouth closes, turning to her to see her bloodshot eyes staring up at him, pleading with him. He lets out a soft purring sound, turning back to Director O’Brien and abruptly dropping him. He falls to the floor with a gasp, Leon’s attention back onto his mate as he grabs her by her wrist. She looks up at him, the fear evident in her eyes as she starts to panic, pulling against his grasp as she hyperventilates. 

Angel, don’t do this… it’ll be ok, I promise…!

She then faints; Leon’s quick reflexes catch her before she collapses onto the floor. He picks her up into his arms bridal style, stalking into one of the rooms that has a window. Using his tail, he smashes the window open, the blizzard raging outside now blowing snow into the room. Leon leaps out of the window, carrying his mate into the stormy winter night.

Part 8

[seat-safety-switch]

“Everything’s in the cloud now,” I shout at the hot air balloonist over the sound of the burners. Sun glints off my snub-nose .38. “I was never smart enough to be a hacker before.”

Phineas Fogg looks behind him. "Uh-uh," I gently scold, and shake the gun for emphasis. "That went overboard a long time ago." He looks glumly over the edge of the basket, hoping to see his Passenger Removal Blackjack. It's a a desperate hope, one that it was simply misplaced by me, rather than yote parabolically into a nearby state fair from 8,000 feet. "Now drive."

"Fucking Missouri," he spits, and he's right. In any other state, this would be a felony. Balloonists are like gods there, unimpeachable even by law enforcement. Here, the gods meet mortals, and they don't like it.

We float higher and higher as he works what I have determined to be a crude throttle. The fire is beautiful, but I know that I cannot allow myself to be distracted by the purging of hydrocarbons. These balloony-types are crafty, having fought their way out of the vicious canvas wars of their disgusting home country. I know that if I take my eyes off the prize for one second, he'll try something.

Indeed he does. We pass briefly over an attractive red-and-white circus tent, itself an overinflated artifact of a bygone age of freaks. My unwilling travelling companion takes the opportunity to leap out of the basket, falling hundreds of feet. He bursts through the roof of the tent, landing squarely in a conveniently-placed bale of hay. Figures, I grunt to myself, but then I notice that he's not moving. No doubt the Barnum Bros have gotten themselves a cost-cutting MBA, who has decided that rocks painted like hay is sufficient enough to convince the rubes that the elephants are eating well and treated well, in equal measure.

I have caught myself in quite the pickle, I realize, as I look at the crude array of burners, levers, strings, springs, and apertures that lay before me. Saturday morning cartoons have taught me that this contraption operates the balloon's height, but its exact nature is unclear to me. Safe for the moment, I decide to take advantage of the surprising-but-welcome solitude and meditate on the issue, sitting cross-legged in the bottom of the basket and pivoting my thoughts towards the eternal expanse of human ingenuity. Carburetors of my youth come unbidden to my mind's eye on this vision quest, and soon I have discovered the common ancestor of this gas-burping nightmare and my precious Plymouth Volare's single-barrel, ethanol-rotted Ball & Ball.

Opening my eyes, it is very clear to me now what I must do. I floor the fucker. An enormous wall of flame bursts from the burners, singing my eyebrows. I laugh, and rise into the sky. Up there, in the clouds, the banks dwell. I am coming for them.

[mcrdvcks]

Sweet Dreams - Chapter 4

Chapter Summary: After celebrating Thanksgiving for the first time, Logan and Alexandria go on a simple reconnaissance mission.

Word Count: 13.4k+

Pairing: Logan (X-Men) x Original Female Character (platonic relationship)

Notes: hello! i was going to post this yesterday but it was my birthday (i turned 20, pls i don't know how i made it this far) so i was able to relax. but here we are!

i'm not sure if i'm going to post until around thursday/friday since i have two midterms, and it's only the FOURTH WEEK of classes. anyways, enjoy :)

TW: blood, violence, slight allusion to torture

Series Masterlist - Chapter 3 → Chapter 5

AO3 Link For Chapter

November had rolled around and so had a holiday called Thanksgiving. They were given part of the week off, Wednesday through Sunday, to celebrate.

As far as she knew, or what was told to her, the holiday was on Thursday.

Alexandria, Jean, Kitty, Scott, Jubilee and a few other students were sitting in the common area. Currently Scott, Kurt, Bobby, and Kitty were playing a game on the TV called Mario Kart. Alexandria had no idea what the game was, but they all seemed pretty into it.

She leaned closer to Jean, “what exactly is Thanksgiving?”

Jean looked up from where she was lounging on the couch, a smile spreading across her face. “Thanksgiving is an American holiday that celebrates giving thanks for the good things in life. Traditionally, it's about coming together with family and friends to enjoy a big meal.”

Alexandria raised an eyebrow. “And what’s the big meal?”

“It usually includes things like roast turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and pie—pumpkin pie is pretty popular,” Jean explained, as she glanced over at the TV where the Mario Kart race was heating up.

“So, it’s basically a feast?” Alexandria asked, trying to piece it all together.

“Pretty much,” Jean confirmed. “It’s also a time for people to reflect on what they’re thankful for. It’s not just about the food, but about spending time with the people you care about.”

Alexandria nodded, absorbing the information. “But… why? Can’t you do that any day?”

Scott, who had just won a race and handed his controller to Ben, or as some called him, Match, sat in between Alexandria and Jean. He placed an arm around both of their shoulders. “Thanksgiving was a dinner between the Plymouth colonists and Native Americans back in the 1600’s. But now it’s more of just an excuse to eat a lot.”

She nodded again, side-eying the arm around her shoulder. Alexandria looked over at Jean and noticed Scott was casually rubbing Jean’s shoulder as he cheered Kurt on.

She wondered what that meant, and why Jean started to blush faintly. Kitty broke her out of her thoughts. “Wanna play?”

Alexandria glanced warily at the controller, “I don’t know how. I’ve never played,” she paused, hoping she was going to use the right term, “video games before.”

Kitty’s eyes lit up. “It’s easy! Here, I’ll show you.”

She took the controller from Alexandria’s hands and began to explain the basic controls. “So, this button makes your character go, and this one makes them jump. You use this stick to steer.”

Alexandria nodded, trying to keep up. “And what does this do?” she asked, pointing to another button.

“That’s the item button. You get power-ups during the race,” Kitty said. “They help you get ahead or mess with other players.”

Alexandria took the controller back, her grip tentative. She glanced over at the TV screen where the game was already in progress. The colors and movement were dizzying. “Okay, I think I get it.”

Jean gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, it’s all about having fun. Just jump in whenever you’re ready.”

Alexandria hesitated for a moment before pressing a few buttons. The character on the screen wobbled a bit before straightening out. “This is… not as complicated as I thought.”

Kitty laughed. “Exactly! You’re doing great. Just remember, you don’t need to win, just try not to crash too much.”

As the game started, Alexandria tried to keep up. The characters whizzed around the track, and she struggled to steer properly. The other players were pretty focused on the game, so Alexandria mostly kept to herself, trying not to get in the way. Her character crashed into a wall, and she muttered under her breath, “not great.”

“Hey, you’re doing better than I did my first time,” Scott said. “It’s all about practice.”

Alexandria managed a small smile. “I guess that makes sense.”

Jubilee, who had been watching from the side, chimed in. “Want some tips? I’ve been playing this game forever. I can show you how to use items better.”

“That’d be great,” Alexandria said, looking over at her.

Jubilee leaned in and started explaining strategies for using power-ups and avoiding obstacles. “Just remember to use your items strategically. Don’t waste them.”

Alexandria tried to follow the advice, and gradually, she started to get the hang of it. She wasn’t winning, but she wasn’t crashing as much either.

After a few rounds, Kitty noticed that Alexandria was starting to look more comfortable. “You’re doing awesome! See? I knew you’d catch on.”

Alexandria chuckled. “Thanks. It’s actually kind of fun.”

“Glad to hear it!” Kitty said. “It’s always nice to introduce someone new to something we enjoy.”

Kurt looked up from his spot on the floor, “how about we take a break and get some snacks?”

Bobby, who sat next to him agreed, “ice cream anyone?”

Everyone got up from their spots and went to the kitchen. Scott and Jean stood up from the couch as Kitty got up from the floor.

“What’s ice cream?” Alexandria asked, what she thought was a completely innocent question.

“You’ve never had ice cream?” Scott exclaimed. “Well, I think we have to rectify that.” He led the way into the kitchen, the three of them following. “We can have everyone choose their favorite ice cream and you can choose your favorite.”

“Like an ice cream showdown?” Jean questioned.

Kitty perked up, “hell yeah!” She high-fived Scott.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Scott said.

Alexandria followed, her curiosity piqued. As they entered the kitchen, she glanced around, taking in the array of snacks and ingredients on the counter. It wasn’t like any kitchen she was used to; it was more like a small, bustling cafeteria.

Scott grabbed a few tubs of ice cream from the freezer. “Alright, here’s the deal. We’ve got a lot of different ice creams. Everyone picks their favorite, and we’ll have an ice cream showdown.”

Jean pointed to the tubs. “I’m going with chocolate. Can’t go wrong with that.”

Kitty grinned. “I’ll take cookies and cream. Classic choice.”

Bobby looked at the tubs thoughtfully. “I’m going for strawberry. Can’t resist the fruitiness.”

Kurt shrugged. “I’ll try vanilla. Simple but solid.”

Everyone else followed suit, until they all had a tub of ice cream in front of them. They each placed a scoop into a bowl so Alexandria could try.

Alexandria stared at the array of ice cream bowls lined up on the counter, each one offering a different flavor. She picked up a spoon and hesitantly dipped it into the chocolate ice cream, taking a small bite. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“This is… really good,” she said, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

Scott grinned. “Told you. Ice cream is a game changer.”

Kitty handed her a bowl of cookies and cream. “Try this one. It’s my favorite.”

Alexandria took a bite, and her smile grew. “This is amazing. I didn’t realize dessert could be so… delightful.”

Bobby passed her a bowl of strawberry. “That’s what makes ice cream great. There’s a flavor for everyone.”

Jean watched Alexandria’s reaction with a pleased expression. “Glad you’re enjoying it. It’s one of those simple pleasures in life.”

Alexandria nodded, savoring the flavors. “I think I understand now. Food can be more than just sustenance.”

“Exactly,” Kurt said, taking a scoop of vanilla for himself. “It’s about enjoyment, and sharing it with others makes it even better.”

Jubilee, who had been waiting for Alexandria to finish, finally got her turn. “Here’s a tip: mix flavors. You might find a new favorite combo.”

Alexandria raised an eyebrow. “Mix them?”

“Yep,” Kitty said. “It’s like creating your own custom ice cream experience.”

Alexandria shrugged and scooped a bit of each flavor into her bowl. She took a bite of the mixed flavors and nodded in approval. “Not bad. I can see why people get excited about this.”

Scott, noticing the look of genuine enjoyment on Alexandria’s face, clapped her on the back. “Welcome to the world of ice cream. But before you are completely welcomed you have to try my favorite…” he moved a mint tub closer to Alexandria, “mint chocolate chip.”

The group groaned and booed Scott, with Kitty and Ben threatening to melt it and throw it in the trash.

“Seriously, Scott?” Kitty said, pretending to gag. “Mint chocolate chip? It’s like you’re trying to ruin everything we’ve got going here.”

“Hey, mint chocolate chip has its merits,” Scott defended, holding the tub protectively.

“Maybe if you want your breath to smell like toothpaste,” Ben added, sticking his tongue out dramatically.

Alexandria looked at the tub of mint chocolate chip with curiosity. “Why is this flavor so controversial?”

Jubilee snickered. “It’s a love-it-or-hate-it kind of deal. Personally, I’m with the haters.”

Scott gave her a mock frown. “You all are missing out. Mint chocolate chip is a classic.” He turned to look at Alexandria, “come on, try it. Don’t listen to them it’s great.”

She slowly grabbed a spoonful of the ice cream, a bright mint color with small chocolate chunks before putting it in her mouth.

Alexandria grimaced almost immediately, muttering a “fuck you,” in Russian before coughing.

Jean laughed and patted a pouting Scott on the back, “too bad dude. Your outnumbered, everyone else hates it.”

Alexandria swallowed the ice cream, “Scott, that was the worst American food I’ve had so far.” She shook her head, “I feel like I swallowed a tube of toothpaste.”

As Alexandria grimaced from the mint chocolate chip ice cream, the group erupted in laughter. Alexandria even found herself smiling and laughing along, something she hadn’t done… at all.

Scott, despite his disappointment, chuckled and shook his head. “Alright, alright, maybe it’s not for everyone. But hey, at least you gave it a shot.”

Kitty, still laughing, nudged Alexandria. “See? It’s not so bad to try new things. You might not like everything, but that’s part of the fun.”

---

December

“You want me to take her on a mission?” Logan asked, following Charles down the hall of the bunker.

“A simple reconnaissance mission, yes.” Charles responded. “She’s done well in the Danger Room scenarios and has yet to get below a 98% average on her training.”

“I’m not a babysitter, Chuck.” Logan said roughly.

“Whoo, someone’s grumpy.” Ororo added, her tone light but with a hint of amusement.

Logan shot her a sidelong glance. “I’m not grumpy. I’m just not thrilled about this mission.”

Charles, who rolled beside them with his usual calm demeanor, didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a simple task, Logan. Just gathering intel. No combat involved. Besides, Alexandria needs more real-world experience.”

“Yeah, and I need to go on vacation,” Logan grumbled, crossing his arms. “Why not have her tag along with someone else?”

“Because I trust you to keep an eye on her. You’ve shown you can handle more than just brute force. And Alexandria could use someone with your… particular skill set.”

Ororo raised an eyebrow at Charles’ words. “Particular skill set? Or are you just trying to pawn off a job?”

“Both,” Logan muttered an answer for Charles, though there was a begrudging hint of agreement in his voice. “Fine. When’s this thing supposed to go down?”

“Tomorrow morning. Meet me in the briefing room at 0900,” Charles said, turning towards the door of the bunker’s command center. “And try to be patient with Alexandria. She’s new to this world and still finding her footing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan said, waving him off as he walked away. “Just keep in mind I’m not here to be her mentor. I’m here to make sure she doesn’t get herself killed.”

Ororo smiled, knowing that despite his rough exterior, Logan did have a protective streak. “She’ll be fine, Logan. She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Everyone’s tough until they’re not,” Logan retorted, heading down the corridor.

---

Later that day, Alexandria was in the Danger Room, her focus intense as she worked through another training simulation. The room was set up like a dense forest, with obstacles and targets scattered throughout. Her movements were swift and precise, a testament to her rigorous HYDRA training. Still, there was a noticeable improvement in her demeanor; she wasn’t as cold or distant as she once was, though her interactions remained guarded.

Logan watched from the observation deck, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure what to make of her—she was a mix of everything he didn’t want to deal with, but he’d give her a shot.

After the simulation ended, Alexandria stepped out, her face flushed with exertion. She was greeted by Logan’s steely gaze.

“You’re coming with me tomorrow. We’re doing a reconnaissance mission,” Logan said bluntly.

Alexandria raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “And you’re the one leading this mission?”

“Yeah. I don’t sugarcoat things, and I don’t babysit. So don’t expect any hand-holding.”

She crossed her arms, mimicking his stance. “You do realize I’ve gone on missions of my own, right? Since I was 10. I was HYDRA’s most decorated assassin. Had more kills than the Winter Soldier.”

Logan studied Alexandria with a steely gaze, his expression unreadable as she mirrored his stance. “I get that you’ve got a history,” he said gruffly, “but here, you follow orders and you don’t mess up. Got it?”

Alexandria’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve done more than my share of reconnaissance missions. I understand the importance of not making mistakes.”

Logan grunted. “Yeah? Well, we’ll see how it goes. Don’t think for a second you’re going to impress me by talking up your resume. I’ve seen more than my fair share of ‘decorated’ agents who couldn’t handle the reality of a mission.”

“Your confidence is noted,” Alexandria replied, her tone cool. “Is there anything specific I should prepare for?”

Logan shrugged. “We’re scouting an old facility. Nothing too crazy—just gathering intel. The fewer surprises, the better.”

“Understood,” Alexandria said, her expression softening just a touch. “I’ll be ready.”

Logan nodded, clearly not one for small talk. “Good. I’ll meet you in the briefing room at 0900 tomorrow. Be sharp.”

With that, Logan turned on his heel and headed for the exit. Alexandria watched him go, her mind already racing with thoughts of the upcoming mission.

---

The next morning, Alexandria stood in the briefing room, her usual expression of calm determination firmly in place. Logan arrived a few minutes later, carrying a folder of mission details and maps. He glanced at Alexandria, who was already seated and ready.

“Alright,” Logan said, setting the folder down on the table. “Here’s the rundown. The facility we’re going to was used for research, but it’s been abandoned for a while. We’re looking for any signs of recent activity and any useful intel we can find. Simple enough.”

Alexandria nodded. “Do we have any specifics on what we might encounter?”

“Just the basics,” Logan replied. “Might be some security systems still operational, but nothing that should be too much trouble. Your telekinesis should help with any obstacles.”

“Understood,” Alexandria said, her voice steady. “And what about local security? Any chance of encountering people?”

“Possible, but not likely,” Logan said. “Most of the security would be automated. Keep your senses sharp and be prepared for anything.”

“Got it,” Alexandria said. “When are we heading out?”

“Soon as we’re done here,” Logan said. “Any questions before we start?”

Alexandria shook her head. “No. I’m ready.”

“Good,” Logan said. “Let’s get moving.”

---

The two of them made their way to the Blackbird, the X-Mansion’s sleek jet, and after a short flight, they arrived at the outskirts of the old facility. It was a large, crumbling building surrounded by overgrown vegetation. The air was thick with the smell of decay.

Logan and Alexandria approached cautiously. “Stay alert,” Logan said, scanning the area with a practiced eye. “This place could be booby-trapped.”

Alexandria nodded and focused her senses, her telekinesis subtly scanning the immediate area for any hidden dangers. “Nothing immediate,” she said quietly. “But I wouldn’t let my guard down.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment and led the way inside. The interior of the facility was dark and musty, with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through broken windows. The air was cold and stale.

They moved through the corridors with purpose, Logan’s steps heavy and purposeful while Alexandria’s were light and silent. They reached a large, metal door at the end of a hallway. Logan examined it carefully, then turned to Alexandria.

“Think you can get this open?” he asked, nodding at the door.

Alexandria stepped forward and extended her hand, her telekinesis working to manipulate the locking mechanism. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dimly lit room filled with old computer equipment and filing cabinets.

“Looks like a control room,” Logan said. “Check for anything useful.”

Alexandria moved through the room with practiced efficiency, her eyes scanning the room as she began to sift through the papers and files. Logan kept watch, his attention divided between Alexandria and the dark corners of the room.

After a few minutes, Alexandria found a set of folders that looked promising. “These might have something,” she said, holding them up for Logan to see.

Logan walked over and took the folders from her, flipping through them quickly. “These are reports on various experiments. Looks like they were testing something significant here. This might be worth taking back.”

“Agreed,” Alexandria said, glancing at the documents. “Anything else we need to find?”

“Not for now,” Logan said. “Let’s head back and get these analyzed. We’ll follow up if anything else- ”

A clatter from the far side of the building cut Logan off before screams and gunshots echoed through the abandoned facility. Logan's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing as he and Alexandria moved swiftly toward the source of the noise.

“Stay close,” Logan muttered, his tone rough. Alexandria nodded, her senses already on high alert. The gunshots grew louder, mingling with shouted questions and the occasional burst of laughter.

The pair reached a doorway partially obscured by rubble. Through the gaps, they could see a figure moving with unsettling fluidity, a red and black suit clearly visible. The figure was none other than Wade Wilson, more commonly known as Deadpool.

“Seriously?” Logan growled under his breath. “Wade!”

He turned to face the two of them, “ah!” His hands went to his face, “honey badger! It’s so good to see you and… whoever you are. Must not be fun, right? Constant grunting and berating. I don’t envy you.”

Alexandria blinked in response. It almost seemed like he was saying whatever came into his head. But she had to admit, she liked his bluntness.

“Get the hell out of here.” Logan ordered Wade.

He tsked in response, “no can do. Interrogating.” Wade waved his gun in the air.

Alexandria's eyes widened as she saw the gold-plated Glock 34 in Wade's hand. She blinked, momentarily thrown by the absurdity of it. But also because it was a really good gun. "Is that a gold-plated Glock 34?"

Wade, still waving the gun around with casual nonchalance, grinned at her. "Bingo! I see you know your weapons. Who knew? I bet you also know the difference between a tuxedo and a tracksuit. Bet you’re great at parties!"

Logan, clearly irritated by Wade's antics, rolled his eyes. "Wade, we don't have time for your nonsense. We’re here on a mission, not to watch you play dress-up with your shiny toys."

Wade sighed dramatically. "Oh, Logan, always so serious. But fine, fine. If you want me to play the bad guy, I’ll just be the bad guy. These guys were having a lovely chat about their old employer's dirty little secrets."

"Yeah, about that," Logan said, his voice low and dangerous. "You need to leave. Now."

Wade looked genuinely thoughtful, scratching his chin beneath his mask. "Hmmm. I could, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’m just about to find out where the real secrets are hidden. Care to join the party?"

Alexandria glanced at Logan, who looked like he was about to explode. She was having fun. She liked this guy- quite a lot actually if he was able to get Logan to respond like this.

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Wade, we’re not here for your nonsense. We’re here on a mission. You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Wade looked genuinely surprised, though his mask did an excellent job of hiding any real emotion. “Complicated? I’m just having some fun! These guys were talking about some interesting stuff, but they’re not very chatty. Maybe you’ll have better luck.” He waved vaguely at the group of people tied up in the corner.

Alexandria, feeling slightly more at ease now that Wade’s antics had taken the edge off, scanned the room. “What were they saying?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Wade shrugged, his nonchalance never wavering. “Oh, you know, just the usual—plots, plans, schemes. Nothing too exciting. But I bet if you dig a little deeper, you might find something fun.”

Logan grunted. “We’ve already got what we need. We’re leaving.” He turned to Alexandria. “Let’s go.”

Alexandria hesitated, glancing between Logan and Wade. “Maybe we should check to see if there’s anything else of value. This place seems like it has more to offer.”

Wade’s eyes lit up behind his mask. “Now that’s the spirit! You know, I like you. You’ve got some guts. I bet you and I would get along famously. Maybe you can join me for a chimichanga sometime.”

“What’s… that? A chim…” Alexandria trailed off.

Wade gasped, “you don’t know what a chimichanga is?” He looked over at Logan, “what are you going over there! Depriving children of one of the greatest joys of humanity.” He looked back over at Alexandria, “other than this Glock 34, of course.”

Alexandria grinned, “Can I shoot it?”

Wade’s eyes widened as Alexandria’s question sunk in. “You want to shoot it? Oh, pale and mysterious, you have just become my new favorite person!”

Logan, who had been standing with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, glared at Wade. “Wade, enough. We’re not here to play around. We need to finish this mission and get out.”

Wade pouted dramatically. “Aw, come on, Logan. Let the lady have some fun! Besides, I’m just about to reveal the big secret they were keeping.” He gestured to the group of tied-up individuals who were now staring at them with a mix of fear and relief.

Logan let out an exasperated sigh. “Wade, we’ve got what we need. Let’s just wrap this up and get back.”

“Fine, fine,” Wade said with a dramatic sigh. “But you’re missing out. I’ve got a whole plan for how we’re going to—”

“Wade,” Logan cut him off. “Just stop. We’re leaving. Now.”

They continued arguing, with Wade mostly enjoying making Logan angry as Alexandria went into their minds. One of them was daydreaming, letting her see what he was picturing.

Three men went up to the Blackbird and placed small remote explosives on parts of the ship. They were all masked, but one of them held the remote with a single button and his finger pressed to his ear.

The man dreaming was fearful, occasionally looking upwards at different corners of the ceiling. She followed his gaze to see faint red blinking lights in various edges of the ceiling.

“…fondling Colossus’s large metal balls before I would ever think about that.” Wade finished.

“You dick for brains, wannabe- ”

“Guys.” Alexandria said, but Logan continued.

“-piece of- ”

“Don’t you dare!” Wade exclaimed.

“-sh- ”

“Guys!” Alexandria exclaimed, her voice sharp and urgent. She pointed towards the ceiling where one of the small explosives was attached, the red light blinking faster and faster. “We need to get out of here.”

Logan's head snapped around, his eyes immediately locking onto the blinking light. His expression turned from irritation to intense focus. “What the hell?” he growled. “Wade!”

Wade, who had been in the middle of a dramatic monologue about how he’d never use a chimichanga as a weapon, suddenly seemed to register the seriousness of the situation. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes widening as he saw the explosives.

“Oh, fuck,” Wade muttered, his usual flippant demeanor momentarily dropping. “I guess we’re not in a fun, happy place anymore, huh?”

Logan didn’t bother with a response. He grabbed Alexandria’s arm and started pulling her towards the exit. “Move it! We’re not sticking around for this.”

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God,” Alexandria caught the beginning of one of the guy’s Wade had tied up. He was praying in Russian.

The guy grabbed a black device with a red button, “have mercy on me, a sinner.” He pressed the button, the detonators in the building and on the Blackbird exploding.

The entire facility caught in flames, walls and ceilings breaking down almost instantaneously. The force of the explosions separated the three of them.

But Logan didn’t get the best of luck, because he heard Wade’s coughing right next to him. “Boy, oh boy. Haven’t been thrown around like that in a looong time,” Wade’s voice echoed through the smoke. Logan groaned, recognizing it immediately.

Logan pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He spotted Wade stumbling through the smoke, coughing and mumbling something about chimichangas. Logan shook his head in frustration. “Wade! Are you trying to get us all killed?”

Wade looked at Logan with wide, slightly dazed eyes. “What? Oh, hey there, Logan! I was just about to- ” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he realized the gravity of the situation. “Whoa, did things just get hotter, or is it just me?”

“Shut up and get moving,” Logan snapped, trying to get a grip on the situation. “We need to find Alexandria and get out of here.”

Wade nodded, a serious expression briefly crossing his face before he resumed his usual flippant demeanor. “Right, right. Save the day, get out alive, all that jazz.”

Logan scanned the area, straining to locate Alexandria amid the smoke and wreckage. “Alexandria!” he shouted, hoping she was nearby. His voice was barely audible over the cacophony of collapsing debris and roaring flames.

Alexandria blinked her eyes, the smoke slightly burning them and her lungs. She stood up noticing a rather large metal rod in her shoulder. She pulled it out with a grunt, dropping the rod to the ground.

All around her was flames and debris until she heard gunshots coming straight for her. She ducked for cover behind a large piece of concrete before glancing up.

A large group of gunmen in all black outfits, including a baklava, with rifles. “Damn it.” She muttered in Russian.

Alexandria’s mind raced. She needed to get out of here and find Logan. Her telekinesis picked up several pieces of debris, hurling them towards the advancing gunmen. They scattered, their shouts blending with the roar of the fire.

Using her telekinesis again, she brought the metal rod that was in her shoulder and huffed, partial excitement, partial wariness. But fuck, she loved fighting. And those rifles they had looked particularly expensive, and maybe even military grade.

She jumped out from the concrete and kicked in one guys knee, before using him as a human shield and taking his rifle. Alexandria threw the rifle at another guys head, before stabbing another one in the chest with the rod and pulling it out.

There were 10 more left and one of them happened to shoot her in the thigh. She continued on, moving onto that guy next, kicking his head into the concrete wall while grabbing his pistol, shooting it at the heads of 2 other men.

Seven more left.

Using her telekinesis, she picked up two small pieces of the broken concrete and smashed it against two guys heads before punching another man in the chest and kicking out his legs, finishing it with one shot to the forehead.

Four more left.

She glanced around quickly, taking stock of her surroundings. The facility was in ruins, flames licking at the edges of the debris, and the smoke was thick, making it harder to see. The gunmen, still advancing cautiously, were clearly outnumbered and outmatched. Alexandria’s telekinesis had already proven effective, and she was ready to finish this.

One of the remaining gunmen took a shot at her, but she dodged, using her telekinesis to deflect the bullet with a burst of force. She moved swiftly, taking down the nearest gunman with a well-placed kick to the chest, sending him crashing into a heap of rubble.

The remaining three gunmen hesitated, clearly shaken by the ease with which Alexandria had dispatched their comrades. One of them tried to call for reinforcements, but Alexandria didn’t give him the chance. She hurled a piece of debris at him, knocking the radio from his hand.

Another gunman took aim at Alexandria, but she was faster. She grabbed a chunk of metal from the ground with her telekinesis and sent it flying at him, knocking him off balance. She followed up with a powerful kick, sending him sprawling.

Two left.

The last two gunmen exchanged nervous glances. They were cornered, and Alexandria could see the fear in their eyes. She didn’t give them time to regroup. Using her telekinesis, she lifted a large piece of concrete and threw it at them, forcing them to take cover behind a nearby wall.

The gunmen’s attempts to return fire were futile as Alexandria’s telekinesis cleared the debris away from them with practiced precision. She moved in quickly, her movements fluid and decisive. She disarmed one of the gunmen and knocked him out with a swift punch to the jaw. The final gunman, now alone and panicked, tried to make a run for it.

Alexandria wasn’t having any of it. She used her telekinesis to create a barrier of debris in his path, cutting off his escape. He stumbled and fell, and Alexandria was on him in an instant. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up to face her.

“Who do you work for?” she demanded in Russian, her voice cold and fierce. When he didn’t respond she punched his jaw twice, knocking out his molars. “No cyanide pill, no suicide. Who do you work for?”

The man, unable to withstand her pressure and the pain from her earlier blows, stammered out a response. “I—I don’t know much. We were just hired for a job!”

“Who hired you?” Alexandria pressed, her voice gaining an edge of menace. She tightened her grip on his collar, making sure he understood she meant business.

“I don’t know, lady! You’re crazy.”

She gave a grin, almost looking crazed to the man, “good.” A sharp pain went through her abdomen as she looked down, seeing a knife from him. “You bitch. I thought we were getting along.”

Alexandria pulled the knife out and kicked him in the crotch, sending him to the ground. She straddled his body and held the knife to his throat while looking in his jacket pockets.

She found a card and pulled it out. It read ‘Voron’, a secret service of hitman that HYDRA tended to use for bigger operations.

“Did HYDRA hire you?” She asked. He shook his head in response. “I know a lot of ways to torture you. 50 of them include this knife.” Alexandria twirled it around in her hand. “12 of them include the fire just a few steps ahead, and 8 of them include concrete.”

Logan walked through the broken halls, fire licking at him and Wade who tagged behind. “You know she could be dead.” Wade said, as Logan turned to face him was a strong glare. “Just saying. But you’re probably right, she seems like she can handle herself. She has a really cool accent too. Is it Ukrainian? Or- ”

“Shut up,” Logan said, cutting off Wade’s incessant chatter. His irritation was palpable as he pushed through the thick smoke and debris.

Wade, ever unfazed by Logan's gruffness, just grinned wider. “Okay, okay. I’ll be quiet. For now.” He followed behind Logan, his steps exaggeratedly silent, as if he were tiptoeing through a field of landmines.

Logan’s focus was intense as he navigated the rubble, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of Alexandria. The chaos of the collapsing facility made it difficult to keep track of her, and the smoke was thick and stinging his eyes.

The sound of more explosions and falling debris echoed around them. Logan’s frustration grew; the entire situation was turning into a bigger mess than he had anticipated. He had hoped this mission would be straightforward—just a simple reconnaissance to gather intel. Instead, it had turned into a full-blown crisis with Wade and a bunch of explosive devices thrown into the mix.

“Alexandria!” Logan shouted again, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “Where are you?”

Wade, who had been scanning the area with mild curiosity, suddenly perked up when they both heard a loud scream and a roaring fire. “Just a guess, but I’m assuming wherever that scream came from.”

Logan, who had been pushing through the debris and smoke, gave Wadel a sharp look. “I don’t need your commentary right now. Let’s find Alexandria before things get worse.”

Wade’s grin widened, though he followed Logan’s lead with surprising seriousness. “Okay, okay. No more jokes. But I’m still rooting for you guys!”

Logan didn’t respond, his focus locked on navigating the wreckage and finding Alexandria. The smoke was thick, and the heat from the fires was oppressive. Logan shouted Alexandria’s name again, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “Alexandria! Answer if you can hear me!”

The flames roared louder, and the facility was crumbling around them. Logan and Wade continued through the chaos, moving with purpose despite the increasing danger. Logan’s irritation was palpable, his usual gruff demeanor heightened by the urgency of the situation.

As they rounded a corner, the smoke began to clear slightly, revealing the source of the commotion. Alexandra dusted off her blood-covered hands as she threw the knife to the ground.

“Oh. Hello.” she said calmly.

Wade’s eyes widened under his mask, “Jesus, you look like a mess girl. A good shower will do you some good.” He chuckled, “but blood takes a while to come off your skin, trust me.”

Alexandria wiped her hands on her pants, trying to remove the blood but only smearing it further. Her eyes were cold but there was a faint trace of a smirk on her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm given the chaos around her.

Logan walked up, his expression a mix of frustration and relief. “Are you alright?” he asked gruffly, trying to push through his annoyance at the situation. “You’re not seriously hurt, are you?”

Alexandria looked at him with an almost dismissive air, though there was a hint of gratitude in her eyes. “Just a few cuts and bruises. I’ll be fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Logan nodded, his eyes scanning the wreckage for any sign of additional threats. “Alright, let’s get out of here. The place is coming down fast.”

Wade, still grinning, was hopping from foot to foot like a kid in a candy store. “Oh, I love a good rescue mission! But before we go, how about a quick debriefing? You know, for old times’ sake?”

Logan shot him a look that could freeze fire. “Wade, save it for later. We need to move.”

Wade’s grin didn’t waver. “Fine, fine. But I’m going to need a ride in that fancy jet of yours. I’ve got a new chimichanga recipe to try, and you guys look like you could use some culinary inspiration.”

“The jet? It’s destroyed.” Alexandria spoke casually.

“What?” Logan growled.

“Yeah, that’s what I was trying to say before the building went ‘kaboom.’ But you both were too busy arguing.” Alexandria's tone was dry, almost indifferent, as she leaned against a partially collapsed wall, her eyes fixed on the two men. Logan stared at her, his eyes narrowing in disbelief, while Wade's eyes widened under his mask.

“You're telling me the jet is gone?” Logan growled, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. His frustration was palpable, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. This was supposed to be a simple mission, and now it had turned into a complete disaster.

“Not gone. More like… scattered.” Alexandria replied, wiping a smear of blood from her cheek, hoping she didn’t add more to her face. Her voice was calm, almost eerily so, given the chaos surrounding them.

Wade clapped his hands together, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “Well, isn’t this just the most fun we’ve had all day? No jet, no ride home, and now we’re stuck in the middle of a burning building. This is going to be one hell of a story!”

Logan shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Wade, if you don’t shut up right now, I’ll give you something to really laugh about.”

Wade raised his hands in mock surrender, his tone playful. “Okay, okay, Mr. Grumpy Pants. But let’s be honest here, this is a bit of a pickle, isn’t it? How do you plan on getting out of this one?”

Logan ignored Wade's comment, his mind racing as he assessed their situation. The building was crumbling around them, the fire spreading rapidly through the structure. The smoke was thick, choking, and the heat was becoming unbearable. With the jet destroyed, their options were severely limited.

He turned to Alexandria, his tone gruff. “Can you sense anyone else in the building? Any survivors?”

Alexandria closed her eyes briefly, reaching out with her powers. She searched the remaining pockets of the building for any sign of life, sifting through the chaos of debris and flames. After a few moments, she opened her eyes and shook her head. “No one else. Just us and a lot of dead bodies.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment, his jaw tightening. “Alright, we’re getting out of here. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“Lead the way, fearless leader,” Wade quipped, following closely behind Logan as he started to move through the wreckage.

Logan ignored him, focusing on finding the safest route out. They navigated the burning building, dodging falling debris and pushing through the thick smoke. Alexandria moved with a quiet confidence, her senses on high alert as she followed Logan’s lead.

As they approached a large gap in the wall that had been blown open by the explosions, Logan paused, scanning the area. Beyond the opening was the outside world, the cold night air mingling with the heat from the flames. The ground outside was littered with debris, but it was their only way out.

“Stay close,” Logan instructed, his voice rough as he led them through the gap and into the open air. The contrast between the cold night and the inferno inside the building was stark, the cool breeze a welcome relief after the suffocating heat.

Wade stretched dramatically as they emerged from the wreckage, taking in the scene with a gleeful grin. “Ah, freedom! It smells like victory, with just a hint of burning debris. I think we’re making memories here, folks!”

Logan shot him a withering look but didn’t respond. His attention was focused on the remains of the Blackbird, now a smoldering heap of metal scattered across the ground. The explosion had obliterated the jet, leaving nothing but twisted wreckage in its wake.

“Damn it,” Logan muttered under his breath. His mind raced with the implications of their situation. Without the jet, they were stranded with no immediate way to get back to the mansion or contact the others.

“We’re a bit stranded, aren’t we?” Wade commented, his tone cheerful despite the dire circumstances.

“There’s a pickup truck right over there.” Logan gestured to a white beat-up truck with rust on the hood. Before Wade could speak Logan spoke again, “you’re not driving.”

“Aw, man!” Wade exclaimed, his voice dripping with exaggerated disappointment. “And here I was all ready to show off my impeccable driving skills. What’s the matter? Afraid of a little off-road adventure?”

Logan shot him a glare that could freeze water. “Not afraid. Just not stupid. I’ve seen what you call ‘driving.’”

Wade put his hands on his hips, striking a dramatic pose. “Well, aren’t we the stern taskmaster today. I’ll have you know I’m a certified road warrior. But fine, you drive. I’ll just sit here and look pretty.”

Logan didn’t bother responding. He moved swiftly towards the beat-up truck, his mind already racing through their options. Alexandria followed, her calm demeanor contrasting sharply with the chaos that had just unfolded. Despite her usual indifference, she couldn’t help but notice the irony of the situation: a gruff Wolverine, an irreverent Deadpool, and a demolished jet—her new reality.

As Logan approached the truck, he noticed the keys hanging from the ignition. “Guess they weren’t expecting company,” he muttered, looking over at Wade. “You can play with the radio, but don’t touch anything else.”

Wade nodded his head gave a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain! I’ll keep my hands to myself and my eyes on the road.”

Logan shook his head, barely containing his frustration. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the truck. The engine roared to life, and he maneuvered it carefully around the debris field, his attention divided between the road ahead and the smoldering wreckage of the Blackbird.

Alexandria, still wiping blood from her hands, took a seat in the middle of the backseat, her eyes scanning the surrounding area. The adrenaline from the fight was fading, leaving a dull ache in her muscles and a cold sense of urgency. She glanced at Wade, who was fiddling with the radio and humming off-key.

She glanced down at her abdomen, the blood leaking slower, but still steadily. The good thing was, it was hard to differentiate her blood from the blood of the others, making it difficult to tell if she was bleeding herself.

Wade continued to fiddle with the radio. The upbeat pop music blaring from the speakers seemed wildly out of place given the circumstances. He was humming along loudly, apparently in his own little world. Logan kept his eyes on the road, his expression a mixture of irritation and concentration.

“So,” Wade said, breaking the silence. “How about we get some names and backgrounds on these guys next time before we go full assault mode? A little intel never hurt anyone.”

Logan grunted in response, his eyes flickering briefly to the rearview mirror to check Alexandria’s condition. She looked like she was in pain, but she wasn’t complaining—typical.

Wade continued, oblivious to Logan’s irritation. “And speaking of names, how about we talk about you? Never got a chance to ask. Where you from? What’s your story?”

Alexandria kept her gaze fixed out the window, “I’m from Russia. The Avengers took me from HYDRA when they destroyed one of their bases a few months ago.”

Alexandria kept her gaze fixed out the window, trying to focus on anything other than the pain radiating from her wounds. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the aches in her shoulder, thigh, and abdomen were becoming impossible to ignore. The silence in the truck was thick, broken only by the occasional crackle of debris under the tires and the upbeat pop music that Wade had left on the radio.

“Russia, huh?” Wade finally said, glancing back at her. “Cold winters, colder people. I can see how HYDRA would be right at home there. So, what’s your deal? How’d they get their claws into you?”

Alexandria’s eyes flicked to him for a brief moment before returning to the window. “They killed my parents and older brother in front of me when I was three then took me in.” She sat up straighter, “turn the radio up.”

“And I snuck in through the garden gate

Every night that summer just to seal my fate

And I screamed for whatever it’s worth

‘I love you,’ ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?

He looks up grinning like a devil”

She leaned forward slightly, “can’t we just drive to the mansion?” Alexandria asked Logan.

“No. We can’t. New York is almost 13 hours away from here.”

“Chert voz'mi.” She mumbled. She wasn’t expecting Michigan to be that far away from New York. The flight coming was only an hour and a half. A drive from here was only slightly shorter than a drive from Moscow to Warsaw.

As the truck rumbled over the uneven terrain, Alexandria’s eyes remained fixed on the passing landscape, her mind trying to push through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The rhythmic thumping of the tires against the road did little to soothe the throbbing in her shoulder, thigh, and abdomen. Each bump in the road sent jolts of discomfort through her, and she clenched her jaw to keep from making any noise.

Wade’s incessant chatter continued in the background, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere. He seemed to take delight in every turn and bump, his playful commentary a constant presence.

“So, tell me, Alexandria,” Wade said, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “You’ve got these awesome powers and a dark, mysterious past. What’s your favorite way to use them? Manipulating dreams? Throwing stuff around?”

Alexandria’s gaze remained on the window, her voice flat. “I don’t have favorites.”

Wade raised an eyebrow. “Really? No favorite way to mess with people’s minds or toss things around? I’d think with powers like yours, you’d have some fun stories.”

She gave a slight shrug, though it was more of a wince due to her wounds. “There was this one time I was sent to a farm close by Kenozero. This guy was supposed to be working for HYDRA but went off the grid. He had started to experiment on animals like tigers, lions, and coyotes.”

“He did the most on this one female tiger, but none of them could fight back because of a shock collar on all of them. All I did was take off the collar on Sasha and she ate him whole. You could even hear him screaming for a few seconds when his head was inside her.” Alexandria smiled fondly.

Wade looked between Logan and Alexandria before speaking, “that’s what I’m talking about! That’s a cool story! See, this is what bedtime stories are made of. Kids need to hear about tigers eating bad guys—straight up Jurassic Park meets National Geographic with a dash of HYDRA madness. You’re like a walking R-rated fairytale.”

Alexandria’s smirk faded slightly as she glanced at Wade, her expression returning to its usual stoic demeanor. “It wasn’t about fun. It was about completing the mission,” she replied flatly, her voice devoid of the enthusiasm Wade seemed to be looking for.

Wade, never one to be deterred, just nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Sure, sure, mission accomplished, and all that. But you can’t tell me you didn’t get a little bit of satisfaction from seeing that guy get what he deserved.”

Alexandria didn’t respond, her gaze drifting back to the window. The cold landscape outside was a stark contrast to the warmth inside the truck, but it did nothing to soothe the throbbing pain from her wounds. She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn’t aggravate her injuries.

Logan, catching the subtle movement, grunted. “You’re bleeding all over the backseat,” he muttered, not unkindly, but with the gruff concern that was characteristic of him.

“I’m fine,” Alexandria replied, her tone clipped. The truth was, she wasn’t fine, but admitting that wasn’t something she was accustomed to. She had been trained to endure pain, to push through it, and she wasn’t about to start complaining now.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching her reflection. “Fine or not, those wounds need attention. We’ll stop somewhere and patch you up before you pass out.”

“Like a motel?” Wade chimed in, his voice dripping with amusement. “We could do the whole ‘nurse Logan’ thing. I’d pay to see that.”

Logan shot Wade a look that could’ve melted steel. “If you keep talking, I’ll give you something to really scream about.”

Wade put his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just trying to lighten the mood here. We’re on a road trip, after all. Might as well make it fun.”

Alexandria shifted again, the discomfort in her abdomen intensifying. She didn’t want to admit it, but Logan was right—she needed to do something about her wounds before they became a bigger problem. The last thing she wanted was to pass out from blood loss in front of these two.

“We should keep moving,” she said, trying to sound as unaffected as possible. “Stopping isn’t an option.”

Logan grunted again, clearly not convinced. “We’re stopping. You’re not in any condition to make decisions right now.”

Alexandria’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. She knew he was right, even if she hated admitting it. The pain in her abdomen was becoming harder to ignore, and every bump in the road sent sharp jolts through her body. She pressed a hand against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding, but it was a losing battle.

Wade, sensing the tension, decided to change the subject. “So, Logan, got any good stories? You know, from back in the day when you were all ‘lone wolf’ and whatnot?”

Logan shot him a sideways glance, clearly not in the mood for chit-chat. “No.”

Wade pouted dramatically. “Aw, come on! I bet you’ve got some wild tales. Maybe a bar brawl or two? A tussle with some bad guys? Or maybe a romantic escapade?”

“Shut up, Wade,” Logan growled, his patience wearing thin.

Alexandria, despite her pain, couldn’t help but smirk slightly at the exchange. There was something almost amusing about Wade’s relentless banter and Logan’s gruff refusal to engage. It was like watching a dog trying to catch its own tail—endlessly entertaining and equally pointless.

After a few more minutes of silence, Logan finally spoke again. “There’s a town up ahead. We’ll stop there and get you patched up.”

Alexandria didn’t protest this time. She knew she didn’t have much of a choice. The pain was becoming unbearable, and she was starting to feel lightheaded. She leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes and trying to focus on her breathing.

Wade, sensing the shift in mood, decided to dial back his usual antics. “Hey, don’t worry,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time. Then it’s back to kicking ass and taking names.”

Alexandria didn’t respond, her mind too foggy to come up with a snarky reply. The pain was overwhelming her, and she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness. She tried to fight it, but it was a losing battle.

Logan noticed her slumping in the backseat and cursed under his breath. “Damn it,” he muttered, glancing at Wade. “Keep her awake.”

Wade immediately turned in his seat, his usual playful demeanor replaced by genuine concern. “Hey, hey, no sleeping on the job! Come on, stay with us.”

Alexandria’s eyes fluttered open, but it was clear she was struggling. Her vision was blurry, and her head felt like it was filled with cotton. She tried to focus on Wade’s voice, but it was like trying to hold onto a wisp of smoke.

“Stay with me, okay?” Wade continued, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’re almost there. Just a little longer.”

Logan pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the truck speeding through the darkened landscape. He knew they didn’t have much time. Alexandria’s wounds were serious, and if they didn’t stop the bleeding soon, she wouldn’t make it.

As they neared the small town, Logan spotted a rundown motel on the outskirts. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. He pulled into the parking lot, the truck skidding to a halt. Without wasting any time, he jumped out and opened the back door, reaching in to help Alexandria out.

Wade was already out of the truck, opening the motel door with a flourish. “Welcome to your five-star accommodations!” he announced, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

Logan ignored him, his focus solely on getting Alexandria inside. She was barely conscious, her body limp in his arms as he carried her into the room. He laid her down on the bed, quickly assessing her wounds.

“Damn it, she’s lost a lot of blood,” Logan muttered, his hands moving with practiced precision as he worked to stop the bleeding. “Wade, grab the first aid kit from the truck.”

Wade didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted back to the truck and returned with the kit, handing it to Logan. “Here you go, Doc. Think you can patch her up?”

Logan didn’t answer, already working to clean and bandage the wounds. His hands were steady, his movements efficient and methodical. He had done this more times than he could count, and each time it never got any easier.

Alexandria winced as Logan applied pressure to the wound on her abdomen, her eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. “You… don’t have to…” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Shut up,” Logan growled, not unkindly. “Just stay still.”

Wade hovered nearby, uncharacteristically quiet as he watched Logan work. He wasn’t used to seeing Logan like this—so focused, so determined. It was a side of him that Wade rarely got to see, and it was clear that Logan cared more than he let on.

After what felt like an eternity, Logan finally finished bandaging Alexandria’s wounds. He sat back, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That should hold for now,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

She glanced between Wade who stood leaning against the wall, his mask now off eating a bag of peanuts he must’ve found somewhere, and Logan who was in front of her.

Alexandria sat up on the lumpy bed, “you sure we can’t leave now? I feel fine.”

Logan shot Alexandria a look that was more irritated than concerned. "You’re not fine, kid. You just bled all over the backseat and nearly passed out. Sit your ass down."

Alexandria frowned but didn’t argue further. She leaned back against the lumpy pillows, her hand absently touching the fresh bandages. The motel room was dingy, the wallpaper peeling and the smell of stale cigarettes lingering in the air. It wasn’t exactly the X-Mansion, but it was better than bleeding out on the side of the road.

Wade tossed another peanut into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "You know, she’s got a point, Logan. We can’t stay here forever. The motel’s got that ‘murder scene in a bad horror movie’ vibe, and I’m not sticking around to see if there’s a sequel."

Logan ignored him, his attention on Alexandria. "We’re not moving until you’ve had some rest. You’re not going to do anyone any good if you collapse halfway through the drive."

Alexandria sighed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. She wasn’t used to this—being taken care of, being told to rest. She had spent her life fighting, surviving, pushing through the pain. The idea of sitting still while others worried about her was foreign, uncomfortable.

But she also couldn’t sleep, not without the mind blocker that Hank made her to keep out other people’s dreams. “I can’t.” She said looking over to Logan. “I don’t have my mind blocker. No mind blocker, no sleep.”

“You don’t need that thing to sleep,” he said gruffly. “Just close your eyes and rest.”

Alexandria shook her head, her frustration evident. “You don’t understand. I’ll end up in someone else’s dreams- or worse, they’ll end up in mine.”

Wade, still leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow. “Dream-weaving, huh? That’s gotta make for some interesting nights. But seriously, you can’t keep running on empty. Even superheroes need their beauty sleep.”

“Not really a superhero,” Alexandria muttered.

Logan’s gaze narrowed, his tone firm. “You’re bleeding through those bandages and can barely keep your eyes open. You need rest.”

“Is there a store nearby?” Wade interrupted, tossing the empty peanut bag aside. “Maybe we can find something to knock her out. You know, something strong enough to keep her from dream-hopping.”

Logan glared at Wade, then looked back at Alexandria. “We’re not drugging her.”

She leaned forward, “that’s a good idea. Although I suppose there are no strong sedatives around like HYDRA used. But 3 bottles of melatonin will do.”

Logan shook his head, clearly exasperated but also a little concerned. “Melatonin? Three bottles? You’re not serious.”

Alexandria shrugged, wincing as the movement tugged at her shoulder wound. “I don’t need much. Just enough to keep me under without letting the dreams in. HYDRA used to give us something stronger, but I’ll make do.”

Wade piped up from the corner, his interest piqued. “Sounds like a plan! I could run to the nearest store and grab some, no problem. Maybe pick up some snacks while I’m at it. What do you guys want? Twizzlers? Doritos? Those little chocolate-covered pretzels?”

Logan glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re not running off to the store. We’re not drugging her with a ridiculous amount of melatonin either. We’ll figure something else out.”

Alexandria’s frustration was growing. She wasn’t used to this—people debating over what was best for her, trying to take care of her. It felt alien and uncomfortable, and she didn’t like it one bit. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “I can’t just sleep like normal people. The dreams- they’re not always mine. I can’t control it without the blocker.”

Logan’s expression softened just a fraction, a rare moment of understanding in his usually gruff demeanor. “We’re not at the mansion, and we don’t have Hank’s fancy gadget, so we’ll have to improvise. You’re not getting loaded up on pills. You need real rest, not a drugged coma.”

Alexandria’s gaze was unwavering, her resolve clear despite the pain that etched lines into her pale face. “And how do you suggest I do that?” she challenged, her voice quiet but laced with a sharp edge. “I can’t just turn it off, Logan. My powers don’t work that way.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t good with words, especially when it came to things as complicated as what Alexandria was dealing with. But he knew enough about suffering through nightmares, both literal and metaphorical, to understand a fraction of her struggle.

His own healing factor had its perks, but it didn’t shield him from the horrors that played out in his mind when he finally allowed himself to sleep. And the idea of being trapped in someone else’s nightmares? That was something he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

“We’ll figure something out,” he finally said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “But we’re not drugging you into oblivion. Not gonna happen.”

Alexandria sighed, leaning her head back against the headboard. The pain in her shoulder, thigh, and abdomen was relentless, a constant reminder of how vulnerable she was right now. Vulnerability wasn’t something she was used to; it didn’t sit well with her, not one bit.

She was a soldier, trained to push through pain, to ignore her body’s weaknesses, but she was also practical. She knew when she was beaten, and right now, she was on the losing side.

“Fine,” she muttered, closing her eyes briefly as a wave of dizziness washed over her. “But don’t blame me when I end up in your dreams. Or you end up in mine.”

Wade, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange, perked up at the mention of dream-walking. “Ooh, that could be fun! Imagine the possibilities- Logan’s dreams are probably a mix of violent bar fights, wild animal chases, and maybe, just maybe, a tender moment or two where he hugs a puppy.”

Logan shot him a withering glare that could have sent lesser men running for cover. “Shut up, Wade. I’m not in the mood for your crap.”

Wade just grinned, unphased by Logan’s usual brand of hostility. “I’m just saying, if she ends up in your dreams, we might finally get to see the softer side of you. You know, the one that secretly enjoys long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners.”

Logan’s patience was wearing thinner by the second. “You keep talking, and I’ll show you the softer side of my fist.”

“Alright, alright, I get it- no beach walks for you,” Wade conceded, though the grin never left his face. He turned his attention back to Alexandria, his tone becoming somewhat more serious. “Look, kid, I know it’s not easy, but we’ve got to play the hand we’re dealt. You’re hurt, you’re exhausted, and you need rest. If the dreams come, they come. We’ll deal with it when we get there. Right now, you need to sleep.”

Alexandria opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. She knew they were right—Wade, in his own twisted way, and Logan, with his gruff sense of responsibility. But knowing didn’t make it any easier to accept. She had spent so long relying on her own strength, on her own ability to control her powers, that the idea of surrendering to something as mundane as sleep without her usual safeguards felt like admitting defeat.

With a heavy sigh, Alexandria finally nodded. “Alright,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll try.”

Logan nodded in return, his expression softening just a fraction. “Good. That’s all we can ask.”

Wade, never one to miss an opportunity to lighten the mood, clapped his hands together. “Well, now that we’ve got that sorted, how about a bedtime story? Something to lull you into sweet dreams. I’ve got this great one about a mercenary who- ”

“Wade,” Logan interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Shut up.”

Wade pouted, but there was no real bite behind it. “Fine, fine. No bedtime story. But if you need a lullaby, you know where to find me.”

Alexandria couldn’t help but smirk, despite the pain and exhaustion weighing her down. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured, her eyes already starting to drift closed.

Logan stood from the edge of the bed, giving her one last, assessing look before turning to Wade. “Keep an eye on her,” he said quietly, though his voice held the same edge of command it always did. “If she starts to dream-walk, you wake me up. Understood?”

Wade gave a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain. I’ll keep watch like a hawk.”

Logan grunted in response, then headed for the door. “I’ll be outside. Don’t do anything stupid.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Wade settled into the rickety chair in the corner of the room, his usual playful demeanor giving way to something quieter, more introspective. He watched as Alexandria’s breathing evened out, her body finally succumbing to the exhaustion that had been pulling at her for hours.

For a moment, he considered all the things he could do—draw a mustache on her face, take a selfie with her, or maybe even give her a gentle nudge to see if she’d end up in his dreams. But he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he just sat there, watching over her like some twisted guardian angel, the usual chaos of his mind taking a backseat to something that almost resembled concern.

---

“You cannot enter until you learn your lesson.” The woman said slowly in Russian. “Your actions have consequences, child.”

“I did nothing wrong!” A young Alexandria cried out.

“You tried to help another prisoner. That's irresponsible.” The woman said, who was a head scientist at HYDRA. The same one that she first saw when she was brought to HYDRA.

The woman had thrown Alexandria out into the cold, snowy Russian terrain. They had a small field outside that was rarely used for recreation. HYDRA wasn’t kind. Instead, it was used as punishment. All Alexandria had was the thin grey prisoner outfit with thin socks that were already drenched with the freezing snow.

A tear fell down Alexandria’s cheek, almost immediately stinging her cheek due to the freezing temperature.

“Thirty hours, Alexandria. If you haven't learned your lesson by then... then the punishment will be even worse.” The woman closed the heavy metal door to inside the base, leaving Alexandria outside in the cold with no food or protection from the heavy snowstorm.

---

Wade was still in the chair, his head lolling to the side as he snored softly. The room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the air conditioner, and Logan closing the door.

He woke up shaking his head, “wow, what a weird dream. They were speaking some other language I didn’t understand.”

Logan took a swig of a whiskey bottle he found, glancing at Alexandria. “You dumb fuck. They were speaking Russian, weren’t they?”

Wade looked at her sleeping form as well, “oh- yeah, I guess that makes sense. That dream was so realistic. I could almost feel the cold.”

Logan shook his head at Wade in annoyance and took a seat at the edge of the bed, close by Alexandria’s feet.

“Help me.” She mumbled in Russian, turning on her side.

Logan’s brow furrowed as he watched Alexandria shift in her sleep, the words escaping her lips like a distant echo. He took another swig from his whiskey bottle, the bitter liquid doing little to numb the unease creeping up his spine. Alexandria’s sleep had been fitful, her dreams casting shadows that seemed almost tangible, even in her unconscious state.

Wade frowned, looking at Logan. “You think she’s dreaming about something bad?”

Logan took another pull from the bottle, his eyes never leaving Alexandria. “Yeah. It’s probably not a pleasant memory.” He paused, letting the silence hang in the air. “She’s got a lot of those.”

Wade shifted in his seat, trying to make sense of the fragments of the dream. “I could almost feel the snow. It was like I was there, seeing through her eyes.”

Logan grunted in agreement, though his attention was on Alexandria’s face, twisted in an expression of pain even in sleep. “Dreams can be powerful like that. Especially for someone like her.”

---

She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had been out here. Her fingers were already numb and burning, and her wet clothes didn’t help her either.

There was no materials to create a fire, all of it wet from the constant downpour of snow.

For a while, she had banged on the metal door until her knuckles bled. Then she gave up, and sat under an old weight rack that covered part of her body.

Alexandria looked around past the gated fence, part of her hoping, wishing, and even praying like mama and papa did.

But no one came, not after her cries for help and her apologies to the impenetrable metal door.

She wanted to follow mama, papa, and Mikhail to the afterlife, but before she could close her eyes and surrender, the metal door opened.

---

By the time she opened her eyes, it was already early morning. The sun painted a faint orange hue into the room, but not bright enough to keep Wade awake, who was sleeping in the chair.

Logan wasn’t in the room, but she could smell the faint bitterness of some sort of alcohol. The dream, or memory, had made her cold, so without thinking she grabbed Logan’s leather jacket that was on the TV stand and put it on.

It was much bigger than her, she was somewhat taller than average, but still quite skinny thanks to the malnourishment she sustained at HYDRA.

Alexandria opened the motel door and walked outside, shutting it quietly behind her. She saw Logan by the truck, the hood popped open.

“Figured you’d be up early,” Alexandria said, her voice rough from sleep and the remnants of her dream. She wrapped Logan’s oversized leather jacket tighter around her thin frame. The cold made the pain from her wounds more pronounced, but she tried to ignore it.

Logan glanced up from the engine, his expression inscrutable. “What’re you doing out here? Thought you’d be getting some more sleep.”

“I was cold,” she said simply. “And I couldn’t stay in there.”

Logan grunted, his eyes shifting from Alexandria to the engine. “Ain’t exactly the Ritz in here. What’s got you up?”

Alexandria looked away, trying to shake off the remnants of her dream. “Bad dreams.”

Logan’s gaze softened for a moment before he returned his attention to the truck. “You should talk to someone about that. Dreams like that don’t just go away on their own.”

“Not much point,” Alexandria said. “Memories have a hard time fading away.” She shrugged, before putting her elbows on the truck and her chin on her fist. “And Wade was snoring. Hard to fall back asleep even if I wanted to.”

As the sun continued its slow climb into the sky, Alexandria tried to shake off the remnants of her dream. The pain from her wounds was a constant companion, but she managed to ignore it, focusing instead on the task of getting through the day. She glanced back at the motel, where Wade was still snoozing, oblivious to the early morning exchange.

“Hey,” Logan said, breaking the silence. “You want some coffee or something? There’s a diner down the road.”

Alexandria considered it for a moment. “Sure. I could use something warm.” She shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn’t aggravate her wounds. “Just… don’t expect me to be chatty.”

Logan gave her a rare, almost encouraging nod. “No worries. Just figured you could use a break from the cold. And maybe get a decent meal in you.”

She gestured to the motel room, “we don’t have to bring him, do we?”

Logan opened the driver’s seat, “fuck no. But he’ll probably show up out of nowhere anyways. Get in.” She opened the door when he glanced at her, “and close the jacket, your shirt’s covered in blood.”

Alexandria glanced down and realized that the shirt she was still in was covered in old, dried blood. She zipped the jacket and hopped into the truck.

The truck rumbled to life, and Logan threw a casual glance in Alexandria's direction. "You okay? Anything else you need before we head out?"

Alexandria shook her head, her voice still rough from sleep. "No, I’m fine. Just... trying to get warm."

Logan nodded and pulled the truck onto the road. The early morning sun cast a pale light over the landscape, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the lingering effects of the cold that had settled into Alexandria’s body. The two of them drove in silence for a while, the only sound being the low hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires.

"Dreams are a bitch," Logan finally said, breaking the silence. "You want to talk about what happened?"

Alexandria shifted uncomfortably, her wounds throbbing slightly with each movement. "Not really. Just... a bad memory."

Logan grunted in acknowledgment, eyes focused on the road ahead. "Yeah, well, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Just remember, there’s a difference between ignoring it and dealing with it."

She didn’t respond, instead staring out the window at the passing scenery. Her thoughts were still tangled up in the remnants of her dream, the icy cold of her past blending with the present discomfort.

A few minutes later, Logan pulled into a small diner that looked like it hadn’t seen a lot of business in recent years. The sign outside advertised ‘Hot Coffee & Fresh Breakfast’, a welcome promise after the cold of the morning.

As they walked into the diner, Alexandria tried to adjust the oversized jacket, her movements stiff and cautious. The warmth of the diner was a relief, but it also made her more aware of the pain from her injuries. Logan led the way to a booth in the corner and slid into one side, gesturing for Alexandria to sit across from him.

“And I’m not buying you that sugary coffee drink you like.” Logan said, looking over the menu.

She peaked her head out from hers, a slight pout forming, “why not?”

Logan glanced up from his menu, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You can get that sugary crap on your own time. We’re here to eat, not to indulge your sweet tooth."

Alexandria raised an eyebrow, her pout deepening. "It’s just coffee, Logan. It’s not like I’m asking for dessert.”

“Dessert’s probably not a great idea either,” Logan said gruffly. “Not with your current condition. Stick to something simple.”

“Fine,” Alexandria grumbled, flipping through the menu with a practiced disinterest. She was getting a sugary coffee, no matter what he said. Although they didn’t have an iced white chocolate mocha, so she was going to have to settle for something else.

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, approached their table. “Good morning, folks. What can I get you?”

Logan gave his order- eggs and bacon, a black coffee- and then turned to Alexandria.

“I’ll have the double stack of pancakes and a caramel frappe,” Alexandria said with a small, defiant smile, looking up at the waitress.

Logan shot her a disapproving look as the waitress nodded and jotted down the orders before heading off to the kitchen. Logan settled back into his booth, his eyes flicking between Alexandria and the window, clearly lost in thought. Alexandria, meanwhile, tried to ignore the dull throb of her injuries, focusing instead on the warmth that was slowly seeping into her bones.

Logan’s eyes softened slightly as he studied her. “You sure you don’t want to talk about that dream? Could help get it off your chest.”

Alexandria didn’t show any signs of response, choosing to stare out the window. She had never told anyone about what happened to her at HYDRA, although to be far she had only been at the school for a few months.

When she spoke, Logan was shocked but kept his expression neutral. “When I was nine, there was a new kid brought in. He was around 5 years old, didn’t speak Russian and only a little English. He reminded me of myself when I was first brought there.”

“I had been there for 6 years at that point, and the boy wasn’t used to the little bit of porridge they would give us for the day. So, I would give mine to him. They found out after 3 days and said that I was disobeying them and they had to punish me for it. The woman threw me out into the recreational field that was never used and kept me out there for thirty hours. In that part of Russia, it snows heavily and is almost always below freezing.”

Alexandria stared down at the sleeve of Logan's leather jacket, her voice low but tinged with a raw edge. “When they brought me back inside, they had one more punishment for me. They ended up killing that boy in front of me all because I had given him my food.”

The words hung heavy in the air, their gravity settling over the booth. Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, just took a long sip of his black coffee. Alexandria’s gaze remained fixed on the jacket as if it could offer some kind of solace or escape from the memories she had just shared.

The waitress returned with their breakfast, setting down a stack of pancakes and a caramel frappe in front of Alexandria, and a plate of eggs and bacon for Logan. Alexandria barely acknowledged the food, her attention still drifting through her painful recollections. Logan glanced at the pancakes with a look of mild disapproval but said nothing.

The conversation had shifted, but the silence between them was filled with the unspoken weight of Alexandria's revelation. Logan’s usual gruff exterior softened just enough to show a flicker of concern. He took another sip of his coffee, staring out the window as if searching for the right words.

“Shit, Alexandria,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “That’s rough. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Alexandria shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, though the pain in her eyes betrayed her. “It’s not about what I deserved. It’s what happened. I don’t expect anyone to understand, or care.”

Logan gave her a pointed look. “I get it more than you might think. Doesn’t mean you’ve gotta keep it all bottled up. Sometimes talking helps, even if it doesn’t fix things.”

She looked at him, her gaze steady. “I’m not good at talking. I’m better at... handling things on my own.”

Logan grunted, pushing his plate aside as he finished his coffee. “Handling things on your own can work, but sometimes it’s better to let someone in. Helps to lighten the load, even if just a little.”

Alexandria took a sip of her frappe, the sweetness of it a stark contrast to the bitterness of her memories. “You’re making it sound like you’ve got experience in this department.”

Logan’s eyes met hers, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say I’ve seen my fair share of shit. Doesn’t make it easier, but sometimes it helps to talk about it, even if it’s just to get it out.”

She mulled over his words, her fingers tracing patterns on the table. “Maybe. But right now, I just want to focus on getting better. Deal with the stuff that’s actually in front of me.”

“Fair enough,” Logan said, his tone softening slightly. “Just remember, you don’t have to go through it alone. We’re here. You’ve got people who care, even if you don’t always see it.”

Alexandria nodded slowly, her gaze returning to the window. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

They ate in silence, the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of conversations around them filling the gaps between their words. Logan's attention was split between his meal and the occasional glance at Alexandria, who was lost in her own thoughts.

The doorbell dinged as another person entered. Wade, who was still suited up, came to stand by the table, “you geriatric fucker.” He pointed at Logan before putting a hand on Alexandria’s uninjured shoulder, bringing her closer to him. “You’re poisoning the child’s mind.” He covered her eyes with his hand, “this fucker clearly has no niceness in a single one of his shiny metal bones.”

Logan sipped his coffee in response and Alexandria moved Wade’s hand away from her face.

Wade plopped down next to Logan, grinning as if he’d just pulled off a grand prank. “So, did you two have a heart-to-heart while I was snoozing?”

Alexandria shot him a tired look, her fingers still wrapped around her caramel frappe. “Not exactly a heart-to-heart. Just... talking.”

Wade raised an eyebrow, his grin fading as he noticed the subdued mood around the table. “You’re not exactly glowing. What’s eating you?”

Alexandria shrugged, her eyes drifting back to the window. “Just... old memories. Nothing new.”

Wade’s expression softened, but he still couldn’t resist a jab. “Ah, the classic ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ move. Well, at least you’ve got pancakes now. Nothing like syrup to make everything a little better.”

Logan grunted, focusing on his meal. “It’s not always that simple, Wade.”

Wade shot a curious glance at Logan. “Oh, are we getting deep now? Didn’t think you were into that kind of thing.”

Logan glared at Wade, clearly annoyed. “I’m not. Just saying there’s more to it than stuffing your face with food.”

Wade looked at Alexandria and gestured to Logan, “honey badger here was raised on boiled potatoes and chowder.”

“Fuck off, mouth.” Logan responded.

Wade continued, “see, this geriatric man here has a lot of tricks up his sleeve on how to turn nice, kind, young children into mean ones. Doesn’t help that’s he’s older than the state of Michigan itself.”

Logan grunted, clearly irritated. “Shut up, Wade. You’ve got a real talent for pissing me off.”

Wade’s grin didn’t waver. “Hey, I’m just here to lighten the mood. Can’t have you grumbling all the time.”

Alexandria took a sip of her caramel frappe, trying to ignore the banter. Her wounds throbbed under the bandages Logan had applied, a constant reminder of her recent ordeal. The warmth of the diner was comforting, but it didn’t do much to ease the pain or the memories that had surfaced.

But having Wade around wasn’t that bad.

Not at all.

helloo wade wilson! i tried writing him to the best of my abilities but he's a very hard character to write. and (spoiler alert) he doesn't appear anymore in this series, but might make some in the later parts!

[juneknight]

Good Day

kink: hybristophilia

jake lockley/f!reader

About this: this one is a little special, as most sex takes place off screen. This version of Jake and his reader are due two sequels. ;)

*

Jake wakes you up with a kiss on the neck and the prettiest six words a girl could ever hope to hear: 

Nice day to rob a bank. 

It’s 1960 and summer in the Midwest, which means hot as hell. Jake’s car doesn’t have any AC, but neither of you mind. Sweat slicks on your arms and the metal door of the Fury scalds you whenever you try to rest your arm on the windowsill, but who fucking cares? Because it’s a great day to rob a bank!

Both of you had been watching the bag of bills in the trunk dwindle and dwindle as you crawled across the midwest. Every time you stopped at a gas station or a motel or a cheap little shop to buy supplies, you’d give him a glance, once that said: ‘is it time, J?’ But Jake’s face could be cooler than a glass of icy water, giving nothing away. You hadn’t known this was coming until an hour ago when he kissed you, rolled you over, and nailed you into the mattress. 

Jake knows you like surprises. 

“I don’t want no distractions this time,” he says around his cigarette. His hands are restless on the wheel, but you know it’s not nerves. If Jake’s robbed one bank, he’s robbed a thousand. No, this is adrenalin. It’s excitement. Jake’s got that cool face, but deep down you know how much this gets his blood running—just as much as it gets yours. 

“I didn’t mean to distract you,” you say primly, thinking about the last gig you both had pulled. It’s a bold faced lie. You had gotten down on your knees in the vault, put your hands behind your head and whipped up some fake tears as you begged him, Please don’t kill me, mister, I have a husband I need to go home to! Jake had just been spilling down your throat when you both heard the sirens wailing. It was a good thing Jake had outran the pigs before, or else you both might be sitting in separate jail cells. 

“Like hell you didn’t,” says Jake with a scowl. His hand reaches for your thigh, gripping it firmly. You let him up your skirt, and he sighs smoke when he finds out you aren’t wearing any panties. He mutters: “You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Doesn’t seem like a nice day to die,” you giggle. 

“No day is a good day to die, baby,” he says. “Every man’s gotta suck it up and bite the bullet eventually.”

But you were right—today wasn’t that day. By the time you both are burning rubber to get away, you have twelve thousand dollars in the trunk. You’d left all the pretty little bank tellers (and the bank president) trussed up like pigs in the vault. The cops could let them out. You and Jake had somewhere else to be! 

He pulls off abruptly into a road that goes from paved to gravel and gravel to dirt, puts you on the burning hood of the Plymouth, flips up your skirt and eats your pussy until you’re crying. It’s a great day for eating pussy—always is.

[sgt-scottymoreau]

Beginning of the end, End of the beginning - CIAJ

Summary: A few years after the first kaiju came throught the Breach, more breaches appeared throught out the world focing almost each nations to make their own line of defense. In England, 4 SAS soldiers decided to join the Jaeger program. Throught hardship and derermination they built themselves a reputation and are known the TF-141. Camille, or Scotty to her friends, is freshly new arrived J-tech at the Plymouth Shatterdome. She has no trouble blending in the new crowd and make friends easily, even with the Rangers. But there might be something more going on between her, Soap and Ghost. Life is about to change for all of them, not in a way they expect.

Warning: None

Words: 4.2k // AO3 // Masterlist

A/N: Welcome to my new AU of an AU where I get to be a huuuuge nerd about Pacific Rim because, this my favorite movie of all time! This will be a multiple chapters project. I don't know how long or how it will evolve, but it will be fun to find out. Here is some more info I have about it before I started to write if you are curious. Althought some might change as I write as the post was sort a draft, take it with a grain of salt :)

Feet hanging down, she looked at the jaeger's core from a distance. It was always a sight to be seen. Although the Mark-4 didn't have the same feelings as the nuclear core of a Mark-3, Scotty was still in love with it. A quick glance at her watch, she had half an hour before her shift would start. She grabbed a piece of food from her tray and kept eating in silence. Or as much silence the maintenance area provided with the drilling, metal clinking, shafts and other mechanical engines roared in a harmonized cacophony. 

Scotty had been transferred to the Plymouth Shatterdome six months ago. They needed extra hands and she proposed herself. After all that happened almost a year prior, she needed a change of everything. A new place to sort of start anew. At her arrival, she was assigned to Bravo Tanker, one of the two Jaegers of the TF-141. 

TF-141 was composed of 4 ex-SAS members who joined the Jaeger Program a few years back. Johnathan “John” Price had been the oldest member as he was part of few people who piloted Mark-1. Lucky enough he didn’t for long before moving to Mark-2 who were slightly safer and didn’t leave terrible health consequences on his body.

Simon Riley, mostly referred to as Ghost by many, was a rather mysterious pilot. His academics, results and training were very honorable and an example to many. One of the best pilots. However the mystery around laid in the fact that the man would always be wearing a balaclava for a reason no one knew. He kept his past a secret to everyone and was a man of few words in his free time. He wasn’t cold or asocial per se, but he kept some interaction to minimum. But once you knew him, you would be surprised that he had a sense of humor and quite enjoyed his little army jokes.

Kyle Garrick, nicknamed Gaz by Price quote “he doesn’t talk much”, wingman of the ex-captain, he had a great tactical mind who often proved to be a great asset during deployment, he also had very good academic records. He held the record for the longest simulation training; twelve hours. Stable and came out feeling perfectly fine.  He had a quick reaction time and would find solutions to many problems in a few seconds. He was reliable and someone you rather liked as a friend than an enemy. 

John MacTavish, alias Soap, a name he got from his time in the military, was the fairly newer member. Always eager to jump in the cockpit to defeat the Kaijus. But his playful demeanor is only the tip of this iceberg. Under his optimistic charm was also a tactical man who knows his explosives and weapons like the back of his hands. He learned a few tricks from the J-Techs on how to fix small issues on the Jaegers if needed. 

Price and Gaz were pilots of Bravo Brawler, a Jaeger made to fight in a close combat ranger, but was also armed with four missiles, two in each arms for distance. Soap and Ghost, Bravo Tanker, Jaeger build to endure hard blows and take repeated hits. Which means a very high maintenance mega weapon sadly. 

On her first time at the Shatterdome, she quickly blended in with the crew. Two weeks later, the chief engineer took her under his wings as an assistant. He was impressed by her knowledge and there was a little something that felt that she knew more about Jaegers than she let know. Although she was very capable of fixing any part of the mecha, Scotty was assigned to the Conn-Pod or cockpit. Again, she surprisingly had a very good knowledge of everything that happened there. Being a J-Tech, Scotty never really expected to befriend pilots, it felt like an honor. For a while, she admired the TF-141 from afar, or close in her case when she would help them suit up or briefly pass them as she entered the cockpit for maintenance after their deployment, never really pushing herself to get to know them better. Until her third week at her new home. 

She was elbow deep in grease, trying to fix one of the enormous ankle joints till she heard someone clearing his throat in the back. Hands still inside the construction, Scotty looked over her shoulder to see who it was. Mohawk and bright blue eyes stared at her with a smile. It was Soap. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m just looking.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the metal, eyes looking inside the opening. 

She stared at him a little longer before shrugging it off. “What would a Ranger do down here with the mechanics?”

“Learning. Is that bad? Never heard the other complain before.” 

“Not at all.” She chuckled. “How much do you know about this big girl? For a Mark-5 she is impressive, don't you think?”

“Aye. Very smooth riding if I compare it to the Mark-4, but not by much, and a not so different interface. Definitely better than Mark-3.”

Scotty finally loosened the bolt she was working on, almost the size of her head, and turned to face him. “Someone seems to know his jaegers. That’s interesting. Ever been in a Mark-3? You don’t strike me like someone who did.”

“Are you saying I’m old, bonnie?” He scoffed. “I did, in during my training. They feel so clunky once you try a newer model.” And this is how their friendship started. Nerding over Jaegers, then went out to talk about what they did before the program. 

Eventually, after a few days Soap invited her to sit with the rest of the team. Scotty was a little surprised by the invitation and honestly wasn’t too sure about it. She was so used to eating with her crew. Not that sitting next to the pilots was anything special, in the cafeteria you took the first seat you could find. It was talking with them and being so friendly that she wasn’t too sure; she didn’t want to look like she was privileged. It was some friends who pushed her to accept because honestly, it was obvious. They had seen her talking for hours with Soap, also opening up more to Ghost. It was more than just the regular crew and check up talks nowadays. She did accept the offer and was thrown under the spotlight by Soap who introduced her more informally to Price and Gaz. Because of his background, Scotty felt like she wouldn’t never be as friendly as she was with the Scotman towards Price. An old captain deserved more respect, but it wouldn’t stop her to warm up and tease the man along with Gaz. Gaz had been easy to befriend just like Soap. Being around the same age was actually an advantage. That and he was a nice person in general. It was nice to have some deep conversation of all and nothing during calmer moments. Just like now.

Gaz took a seat next to her, his tray in hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.” Scotty moved slightly to the side, although there was enough space for ten people around them. “Aren’t you and Price supposed to train?”

“Finished. I swear he really wanted to push the limits today, I’m done and hungry.” 

She glanced at her watch again. Another ten minutes. Her eyes trailed to her own tray, half full. She grabbed whatever dessert was proposed, some strange sweet thing that resembled cake, but didn’t have inviting colors. Yet it tasted good. She handed him her left over. “You need more than I do. Make sure you have enough energy.”

He laughed at her remark, yet appreciated the extra ratio. They kept talking for a little longer till they sat in silence, enjoying the calmness. Her time was up and she had to leave to start her shift. 

Her shift was assigned to the Conn-Pod today. Last Bravo Tanker’s deployment had been a little rough. A very hard blow to the head left some damage to the moving system. On the report, it was said that the left leg remained stuck for two minutes. It didn’t sound long, but in the middle of a fight against a twenty-five thousand tonnes monster, it was an eternity. Ghost and Soap were able to unjam it, but to say they didn’t feel fear for a hot second would be a lie. Toolbox at her feet, Scotty engaged the safe switch and jumped in the movement center, wiggling a little between the pipes and gears to reach the troublemaker. Her eyes looked one more time at the tablet. She analyzed the graphics and waves. The malfunction was definitely mechanical in origin as there was no misalignment registered from the pilots. Their neural handshake was almost perfect the whole time, even after the damaging blow and the panic that followed. They remained in control without flinching. It read the most beautiful thing. It brought back some memories, memories that she quickly pushed away and focused on her task ahead. It took five minutes to find the culprit; a rode had broken off from the walking mechanism and lodged itself between gears. From the look of it, it eventually broke off under the pressure, releasing the jammed leg. Not without damage. They would have to install a new rod and change two gears. That should take a whole shift or two, if they didn’t have the pieces yet. It will be a long night.

It was five in the morning when her head hit the pillow. Every muscle was painful and sore. The mattress was so soft and welcome. At least, this would be her last night shift for a few weeks and today was her day off. As usual, she would sleep a few hours before going on with the day. Maybe nap later depending on how tired she was. 

Her alarm bipped around ten. With a groan, Scotty woke up and jumped in the shower. She didn’t stay long to ratio the water, but long enough to wake her up and give an appeased sensation to her body. She grabbed her phone, quickly looked through her messages. Some quick replies to her family, more technical answers to her colleagues who need another refresher on what had been done last night and where they should pick up. Mindlessly walking towards the hangar bay, always looking on her phone when she bumped into someone. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be.” Ghost replied unphased. “You shouldn’t look at your phone while walking though.” 

“I was almost done really.” She shoved the device in her pocket. Soap popped behind Ghost.

“Where are you going like that, sweetheart?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that, sunshine. Well I’m off for today, I was thinking of going into town. Get some fresh air. What’s your plan?” 

Ghost brushed off the casual flirting of these two. They had been at it for a few weeks now and he didn’t mind. “Training. As usual.”

“Tanker will be under heavy repair for another day at least. If anything happens, you won’t be able to deploy yet.” Scotty informed them.

“That’s why I was thinking after our workout, maybe we could all go out for a drink? Price and Gaz were up for it.” Soap smiled. “What about you?”

“Sounds good, count me in!”

The shatterdome being a few kilometers away from any big cities made the small town that was nearby thrive with all the workers. While the main base provided lodging and food to everyone, the town did provide the recreational aspect allowing the hard workers some possibility to unwind. Despite the Kaijus’s attacks, the civilians went on with the regular days. They became part of the routine. People would still go to work, go out with friends, do their grocery shopping, take a drink at the table outside the cafe as if nothing was going on. Of course when the alert rang across the land, they would all run to the nearest bunker and wait till the Jaegers took down the beast. For now, they could enjoy one of the rarest sunny days in a long time. Scotty wandered around without a goal. All she needed was to be out of the overcrowded building. Hear other sounds than drilling, welding, clanking. The birds, the kids' laughter, the car, the casual discussion of strangers. A change of scenery. A little after noon, she stopped in a restaurant to grab some food and then went on to walk along the coast. 

There, it was truly calm. Only the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Sat in the sand, she allowed herself to close her eyes and let this moment last for as long as she could handle it. The breeze was soft today. Scotty shifted her position to lay down and look at the sky before closing her eyes again. It wasn’t the best idea but…

She woke up to the sounds of seagulls fighting somewhere. Half a mind present, her watch showed five. She must have slept for a good two hours! Her phone buzzed. It was Gaz saying they were on their way to their regular pub. They should be in town in half an hour. She decided to make her way there. She dusted off the sand on her clothes and returned to the center of the town. The sun was slowly setting in the distance, painting the sky in a bright orange blue color. Reflecting on the water that slowly disappears as she makes her way through the small street between the buildings. If at first she had been a little intimidated by forming a friendship with the TF-141, now she actually appreciated their time together. It brought back good old memories.

This was the seventh day of her day shift schedule and it was coming to an end. Not her best day in terms of repair. Bravo Tanker had been a breeze to fix recently thanks to the very little visit from kaijus. Bravo Brawler was a whole other story. A lot of the pieces needed to fix her had been late on the delivery and the Marshal wanted her fixed since yesterday. Didn’t like the idea to have one less Jaeger operational in case of. Their Shatterdome was yes the main base of the well known TF-141, but also three other Jaegers. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the ability to operate with one less team. But out of the three, two were new hence why he would rather send more experienced pilots with them than face the monsters alone. Because of this, Scotty had been pulling extra hours on fixing Price and Gaz’s jaeger. Help that was well appreciated by the crew who was being pushed in the back all the time. A quick chat with the person in charge of the night shift to explain what still had to be done and Scotty was on her way to her quarters. She could feel the sweat and grease sticking on her skin. She wanted a shower, now! However on her way there, she made a little detour to the Kwoon Combat Room. 

As she walked toward it, she caught the noise of a familiar training. Someone was there. Maybe she could just look a little. Hidden by the corner, she leaned to see who it was. Ghost and Soap were in the middle of the mat, readying their stance from what looked to be another round. She watched as they began. Just for a minute or two she told herself. 

Scotty didn’t mean to peek for so long. Neither peek in general. But watching them dance on the training mat, the sounds of the wooden poles knocking on each other, the soft silence except for a few grunt here and there, it reminded her of her pilot days. Drifting with someone was the most intimate thing of all, something beyond anything else. It had nothing to do with the romance or things you would keep behind closed doors. Being drift compatible wasn’t about this. It was about letting someone inside your head, share their memories, let them see your memories. All your secrets are bare to them to see. You had to trust your co-pilot more than anyone else. A wave of sorrow passed through her body as she was reminded of her previous partner. How they had such a strong connection, how she could still feel his fear when he died, how his last words were to his wife and kids. It broke her to be the one to tell them and not him. Yet as she cited his words, his voice echoed in her mind. This was the reason she wasn’t able to drift after that. She tried, but the memory was too strong, no matter how hard she tried to keep it out, it crawled back. She was always out of alignment with other pilots to the point that she simply gave up. Not wanting to stop helping against the Kaijus, she took a job as J-Tech and eventually landed where she was now. It was for the best that she didn’t know if she would ever let someone else in her head ever again. 

It was obvious that Ghost and Soap were a good match. Her eyes could follow each of their attacks and parry with ease and it was easy to see that they knew each other well. She had also seen Price and Gaz training, it was the same. However there was something a little more about the pilots of Bravo Tanker. A detail she caught as easy as their fighting style. They had something going on between the two of them. That didn’t stop her from letting her eyes linger on their muscles. Who knew that a tank top and sweatpants would be so sexy. They were both a sight for sore eyes. Her cheeks turned into a soft pink as she caught herself thinking of that. 

The room became very silent. Scotty realized that they had done their training and were looking at her. A wide smile on Soap’s face and she swore maybe on Ghost but it was hard to see behind his balaclava. “Enjoying the show?” The Scotsman laughed. 

“Oh hm me? No! I mean yes. But not how you think!” She stumbled on her words. 

“Relax, we won’t eat you.” Ghost shook his head. 

As much as they were all up to keep going with the conversation, the alarm went off. A sound they knew too well. A kaiju had crossed the Breach. Ghost and Soap didn’t waste a second and hastened to the Drivesuit Room. Brawler still being under maintenance, they were the only available at the moment to support the other teams. 

It took them less than twenty minutes between the suit up and being waist high in the water. One advantage of Plymouth Shatterdome was that it was enough on the coast, Jaegers could directly walk in the ocean, they didn’t have to wait to be dropped far away by helicopters. “What now, Ghost?” 

“We wait.” The Brit contacted the other team to know their status. They were in the area also waiting for any sign of Kaiju approaching. Both Jaegers’s radar bipped steadily. They hated these moments. Standing still, being a perfect target for surprise attack. The LOCCENT kept updating them on the possible location of the threat. It was moving fast, coming South-East of their position one moment and then full East, back to South. Then West! Whatever this Kaiju was doing it was all over the place. They looked in all directions hoping to visually see something that radar had not picked up, in vain. The water remained calm. 

“I don’t like that, Simon. Why is it moving so-” Soap was interrupted when their comms was flooded by the other team. They had a visual two klicks away from them. The water was slowly rising while advancing. It was their target! The Jaeger reacted fast, running towards it ready to attack. But as soon as they were in range to punch it, it slipped away quickly. The old Mark-3 was a little slower to respond to the pilots change of position; they didn’t have time to react to the clawed hand that pierce through the water behind them. It clenched, ripping all the back’s plates. The pain receptors connected to their suits send a signal so strong they surprised themselves to still be conscious. However, damage had been done. 

“Bravo Tanker we are done! All systems are not responding! What the fuck! We need back up!”

“On our way! Stay put!” Ghost acknowledged. He lifted his right leg, starting to run in unison with Soap and the mecha eventually responded to the speed they wanted. They wouldn’t let the monster attack a second time. At the same time, Ghost and Soap locked the right arm to punch the creature. Their Jaeger reacted accordingly, landing a powerful blow at the top of its head. The Kaiju wailed before being engulfed under the water. They punched it a second time. On the third, the beast dodged by swimming away, its tail hitting the leg of the Jaeger. They didn’t flinch. Bravo Tanker was ready to chase it, but revised their plan when they saw the wake it made as it swam back in their direction with a lot of speed. They braced themselves for the attack, well aware of what to expect. The claws screeched on the metal, automatically the two pilots were met with a jolting pain on the chest. Nothing they couldn’t handle.They shook it off repositioning themselves to return the favor. 

‘‘Hull is badly damaged, but still holding!’’ Soap shouted, dismissing the alerts that popped on the screen.

‘‘LOCCENT we need back up! I don’t know what this bastard is made of, but it is shredding us!’’ Ghost demanded on the comms.

At the Shatterdome, the Marshal weighed his options. He could send another Jaeger or two, but the more, the longer it would get for them to reach their allies. Could Tanker hold till then? However this Kaiju rendered one of his mecha inoperative with just one slash and his most resilient Jaeger was already fighting. ‘‘Tanker hold, help is coming. … Brawler, I want a fast deployment!’’

Bravo Tanker dodged another attack by a few meters. To last till back up, they used the blade weapons. With them they had been able to hurt the beast, but quickly it destroyed one of them. This fight was straining the pilots, physically and mentally. ‘‘I swear when Price shows up.’’ Ghost groaned. He could feel the sweat rolling down his forehead, his suit more sticky than usual.

‘‘What will you do when we show up?’’ The ex-captain voice came through the open channel. ‘‘Take a breath, we will handle it for now!’’

Bravo Brawler was being carried by helicopters. Price ordered them to release the cable who dropped them right on top of the Kaiju. The beast was crushed back into the water, wiggled its way out and went for its first attack on the newer opponent. Ghost and Soap only took a minute breather; the bastard was tough and they couldn’t let it win. Two against one was the upper hand they needed. Something the beast realized quickly and decided to hide underwater for surprise attacks. Thanks to their radar, both Jaegers avoided them. It began to circle them. Suddenly jumped on Tanker jaw open ready to take a bite. The fang pierced the Conn-Pod not so easily, but with a secured anchor, its claw dug deep in the chest and neck’s connector. The pilots were flooded by alarms blaring, pain in their whole body and view of the monster’s mouth. Its maw closed further onto the head, bending and crushing the metal. The mechanism which normally held the pilot in place was heavily damaged on Soap’s side. As Price and Gaz closed the distance to remove the beast, Soap was disengaged from the lock system and in the heat of being tossed in all directions, he was sent flying up and down, landing then in the back of the cockpit where the door was. Ghost didn’t have the time to realize what happened. All he felt was the sudden overload of pressure on his brain as he was now the only pilot in control of the mecha. It made him feel dizzy, his movements slowed as he raised his arm to grab the Kaiju and throw it away. With Brawler's help, he was free. Gaz refused to waste another second. He engaged the missile and fired two of them. An option they only want to use as a last resort. The beast was already damaged; this should be enough. Indeed the Kaiju went down in one last screech. 

Sure that everything was cleared, Ghost disconnected his side as well before the load would kill him. With a heavy breath, he gave a quick sitrep of their situation, to which the LOCCENT replied they will have a medical team right away. Ghost scrambled through the damaged cockpit and found Soap lay, unconscious. His helmet was broken, blood tainting the suit and floor. ‘‘Soap? … Johnny!’’ He checked his vital signs; they were steady but very weak. He needed help now!

[constantlyquestioningg]

on the next trainnnnnn very full

on the train!!!!

[askwhatsforlunch]

Hot Cross Buns and Butter Pudding

I collared two of Ava's Nan's delicious hot cross buns and an egg before leaving Ngāmotu New Plymouth yesterday, so I could bake this decadent Hot Cross Buns and Butter Pudding for breakfast today. A more-ish treat made even more delectable by eating it in bed! Happy Easter!!!

Ingredients (serves 2):

2 day-old (or coulple-of-days-old) Hot Cross Buns

2 tablespoons butter, softened

1/2 cup sour cream

4 teaspoons caster sugar

1/2 teaspoon Homemade Vanilla Extract

1 large egg

30 grams/1 ounce good quality dark chocolate (I used Whittaker's Marlborough Sea Salt Caramel and Saffron Dark Chocolate)

Lightly butter a oven-proof dish.

Halve Hot Cross Buns and generously butter all sides. Arrange Hot Cross Buns halves into prepared dish.

In a small bowl, combine sour cream, caster sugar and Vanilla Extract. Stir until well-blended. Break in the egg and whisk until perfectly combined.

Pour cream and egg batter over the Hot Cross Buns in the dish. Allow to sit and soak for at least a couple of hours to overnight.

Preheat oven to 160°C/320°F.

Place the dish in the warm oven, and bake, for 45 minutes, at 160°C/320°F, until golden.

Break dark chocolate into small morsels.

Scatter dark chocolate morsels onto Hot Cross Buns and Butter Pudding just out of the oven. Enjoy immediately!

[lostlegendaerie]

Backyard Chickens: A Master Post

So you want your own little dinosaurs to eat your table scraps and make breakfast for you in the sunny months. Well! I am here to provide a quick starter to getting your own flock set up - and yes, for urban chickens as well.

Things to consider:

What can you have? Local laws usually dictate how many chickens can be kept per household/acre. Laws can vary by state and city. Look this up first. You can usually keep more bantams (miniature chickens) than their full-size cousins, and with chickens being so social I do recommend bantams for urban/suburban yards.

What weather will they be exposed to? Indoor chickens can generate a lot of dust, but small outdoor coops can be difficult to heat safely. Dual purpose breeds are usually more cold-hardy than layer varieties, and everybody likes fresh water and shade in the heat. Frozen water bottles left outside to thaw can keep birds cool, too.

What will eat them? I have had little losses to foxes, personally, and more to neighborhood dogs. Raccoons are nearly everywhere in North America and will tear open fences to eat your babies. (I would know. I've had to deal with the aftermath.) Rabbit hutches are a good starter for bantams, but a good coop made of wood and a yard made of hardware cloth or dog fence panels (and with netting on top for hawks/owls) will keep out most things. Weasels/mink will fit through gaps bigger than an inch, so be careful of that, too.

What do they need? Chickens love to scratch and forage (and some can fly short distances and modest heights) so if you're letting them on the lawn be prepared for them to eat it - no pesticides on that turf! At night, they prefer to sleep on perches/something with a bit of height to it and do best locked in their coop where other critters can't eat them. A place to nest and lay their eggs in their coop (otherwise they will find their own little secret place, God help you find it) and a place to dust-bathe (like chinchillas) to help keep mites and lice out of their feathers. They'll also need some grit and calcium - crushed oyster shell (or their own eggshells) will help.

Where can I get them? Many farm and feed stores like Tractor Supply Company will sell baby chicks during the spring, but if you're looking for specific bantams or unusual breeds I recommend checking out your State Fair or a Poultry Association show [American version located here] and check it out. They're free admission, generally, and almost every show has people who bring birds to sell. While the demographics tend to slant pretty "red" I have seen plenty of blue hair and pronouns at poultry shows. Facebook can also be a great resource.

How do I get everyone to get along? Chickens are notoriously territorial, with a vicious pecking order that make Mean Girls a documentary. Chickens who are raised from chicks together will get along best, but if you need to add more I would introduce two or more at a time (so the newbies have a friend) and put them in a nearby yard/cage for a few days until everyone has worked out their opinions through the bars of a cage. Some breeds are sweeter than others (buff orpington) and some are.... spicy (Plymouth rocks).

Saro's Personal Breed Recommendations

Dual Purpose (cold weather) - Black Australorps , Buff Orpington, New Hampshire Reds are all generally pretty good natured and calm. The platonic ideal of a chicken.

Layer breeds (warm weather) - Leghorns are the go-to, but I have a soft spot for Hamburg as well. And of course, who wouldn't love a chicken who lays dark brown (Marans) or green/blue (Ameraucauna) eggs?

Bantams - D'Anvers with their little beards are my all time favorite and have the biggest personalities in my experience, but Old English Game (even more zippity) and Black Sumatras (all black, even down to the skin, and shockingly calm in hand) are high on the list as well. And everyone loves the fluffy-faced Silkie or feather footed Cochin.

Hopefully this is enough to get you started! Feel free to send me questions or add on with a couple of your own tips (especially non-US people and those with indoor chickens). I've been raising them for eggs, pets, and for show since 2005, but I am always eager to learn.

[slutforstabbings-archive]

Clean Again

Deleted Chapter: RECKLESS read on AO3 | this weeks' real chapter | tumblr chapter index Reader's aggressive driving excites Corey more than it should. This is a chapter I wrote early on, before the plot was fully worked out. I wound up scrapping the camping trip idea which meant no driving through Atlanta, so this scene had to go, although I did carry over some elements and ideas into the chapters that replaced it. It's also one of the first sex scenes I wrote and has been minimally edited so... go easy on it. THIS CHAPTER CAN BE READ ALONE. If you're not caught up with Clean Again you can read as if it were a oneshot with no worries. 2,485 words contents/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, car sex, handjob, blow job, kinda subby Corey and dom Reader @rebel-blue @heartrot666 @cordelium @toxicanonymity @hersweetrevenge @futurewife @multifandom--mess @wolvesandvampires @ethanhoewke @yllcm

“Okay, so…” you say to Corey as you sit down at the dinner table next to him, two bottles and two forks in your hands. Corey has learned that this means you’re about to propose an activity to him. “The most exciting weekend of the year is coming up. Two weekends from now.”

He takes a fork and a bottle from you. “What happens on the most exciting  weekend?” he asks. He takes a bite of lo mein. 

“The annual Plymouth Records company camping trip. We close the store for a four day weekend and we all go to a campground in the mountains up by the Tennessee border.” You pat the table excitedly. Corey chews. He loves watching you get excited about things, but he knows you’re about to ask him to go on the trip. “I know you don’t like to go places you don’t have to, I know you don’t like big groups of people, but I just want you to know you’re welcome to come and I’ll miss you all weekend if you don’t.”

“You’ll miss me?” He asks. He tries to sound aloof, but hearing that from you means a lot to him. He misses you whenever you’re not together. Just staying in the living room while you shower and do your hair is hard for him sometimes, but he doesn’t want to hover over you too much. He thought maybe you’d miss him if he disappeared forever, but certainly not if you didn’t see him for just a couple days. Do you miss him during the week when he doesn’t stay the night?

“Yeah I’ll fucking miss you. Especially because everyone else is bringing their partners, I don’t wanna be the 15th wheel.” You laugh but your eyes beseech him.

“I’ll think about it,” he concedes. You give him The Smile. Fuck, he thinks, now I have to go.  

You keep smiling as you start eating, taking a victorious bite of an eggroll. Your gloating is insufferable and adorable. Like when you’re a sore winner at Scrabble. He loves losing to you at Scrabble, and he loves watching you right now. He just hopes against hope that none of your coworkers recognize him, that they don’t ask him too many questions and that they’re really as nice as you say they are. God help him if they’re rude to you in front of him. 

Although he agreed to go on the camping trip, he absolutely would not budge on carpooling. The only person going to be there besides you that he’s ever met before is Veronica, and the idea of starting the weekend trapped in such close quarters with strangers sounds horrible. Plus carpooling means depending on someone else when it’s time to leave. If something goes wrong he wants an exit strategy. You’d rather carpool, it’s part of the tradition. But Corey offers to pay for the gas, and him agreeing to come on the trip at all is such a big deal, you agree to drive without much convincing. 

In the gravel driveway of your apartment building, he gives your car a quick check up. Oil’s good, coolant’s good, could use a little more wiper fluid, but the wipers themselves look alright. All four tires have good air pressure. The thought of sabotaging something under the hood so the two of you can stay home has crossed his mind more than once, disconnecting a hose that could’ve feasibly come undone on its own, or replacing your battery with a dead one from the to-be-recycled pile at work. With some effort he resists the urge. This trip is important to you.

The two of you load the car up with rented camping gear and a massive cooler full of food, and leave early on Friday morning. It’s a beautiful clear day, unseasonably cool for May in the south. Corey doesn’t really remember what the drive through Georgia was like when he first hitched a ride here with that truck driver. He’s surprised how much of it is just endless expanses of nothing, communities barely big enough to be called towns, so far apart there are stretches of road with no exits for 10 miles. The highway is lined on either side with solar farms, bizarre billboards proclaiming Jesus to be alive “beyond a reasonable doubt” as if He’s on trial for it, towering trees choked with kudzu. When you make a pitstop the gas station is just two pumps that must be older than he is, and a decrepit building sporting ads for pizza and hotdogs, bleached nearly white by the sun. The graffiti in the bathroom is so many layers deep it feels like archeologists should be studying it. 

As the green mile markers tick down towards Atlanta, Corey notices something in you shift. You change the playlist coming through the new speakers he installed from quiet, bright indie music, to driving, chugging metal. You lean back in your seat and your eyes darken, your whole face taking on a more closed expression. Your already slightly leaden foot gets heavier, going from your usual 5 miles over the speed limit, to 10 over, to 15. He finds the change curious, until he realizes - you were preparing. Soon the flow of traffic around you is going just as fast. The speed limit on the signs decreases but no one on the highway around you seems to notice, all the cars collectively agreeing on 20 over as the standard speed. He watches in awe as the road rapidly widens, adding a third, a fourth, a sixth lane. 

You dart in and out of the center, never slowing much, overtaking semi trucks and cars with midwestern license plates. God, there’s a weirdly large number of Illinois plates on the road around here. Corey keeps his face turned towards you, partially because he’s captivated by watching you drive in this environment, and partially so he won’t make eye contact with any other drivers or passengers. People who might peer in your window and somehow recognize him through the darkness of the tint he’d so carefully applied.

Then suddenly, you slow almost to a stop. It’s impressive how smoothly you manage to break from 80 miles per hour all the way down to 3. The sea of cars that had been carrying you along at such a brisk pace has come to a crawl. You seek gaps in the traffic and pounce on them like a predator, aligning yourself into spaces tighter than parallel parking spots, sometimes actively forcing the cars behind to let you in. All the while keeping that same glowering expression, turning the music up everytime someone foils your plans or cuts you off, until the groove of the bass seems to replace Corey’s heart beat. 

He never imagined it could be sexy to watch someone drive in traffic. But it’s your huntress thing, all  your tiny daily acts of cunning and violence. You flick your turn signal on and off so casually, barely touching the steering wheel, laser focused but totally relaxed in this situation that would make so many other drivers nervous. He can’t help but reach across the console to put his hand on your thigh, feeling the muscles twitch as you switch rapidly between the pedals. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and smile. Heat floods his face and he feels himself harden. 

He needs you. He’s suffering so bad, but he can’t interrupt you. It occurs to him you might be showing off. He’s definitely… impressed. Finally the city falls away, and all the extra lanes with it. You almost go back to your default safe driving, but not quite. You stay just a little more reckless than normal. 

“Take the next exit,” he says. 

“We’re pretty close now. You can’t wait?” you say. He’s not sure if you’re pretending or if you really don’t know your peacocking worked on him. 

“No, I can’t wait.” His voice is low and urgent, and he digs his fingers into your thigh a little. He feels you tense up under his grip and he knows you understand him. 

You cross into the right lane and go down a corkscrewing exit ramp. At the bottom of the hill is a barren country road, state route something or other. You stay stopped at the stop sign for 10 full seconds to assess how much traffic is coming through. No cars go by, and none come to stop behind you. You go a little ways down the road until you see a gap in the woods along the shoulder, then back your car into the hole so it’s mostly obscured by the trees. 

“Backseat,” Corey says, already unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door as you put it in park. You leave the car on and get in the backseat with him.

As soon as your door is closed he’s on top of you. He pulls you close to him with his arms circled around your waist, rotating his hips and hooking his outside leg around both of yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth. You let him maul you for a second before pushing him away. He looks into your eyes, face pinched in confusion. You look back at him with an open, innocent expression. You don’t say anything, so he pulls you back in and resumes kissing you with abandon. After a beat you push him away again. He feels genuinely stung. He loosens his arms around your waist even more so he can see your whole face, searching for an answer. 

“Wha-?” He can’t even get one word of his question out before you’re straddling his lap, taking advantage of his confusion to catch him off guard. You lace your fingers with his on both hands, and pin them next to his shoulders against the upholstery. “Oh…” he breathes out. 

You give him The Smile . You’ve never looked more radiant, but there’s something subtly sinister about it too. Still smiling at him, you start to roll your hips, pressing down on his cock through his jeans. He whimpers. You press his hands into the seat harder. It hurts his bad shoulder, but he likes it. He struggles just a little against your restraint, trying to get close enough to your face to kiss you, but you lean back just enough that he can’t reach you. Corey knows he could overpower you if he tried, but he enjoys being trapped underneath you, even as he gets more and more desperate. You rock your hips against him ruthlessly. He grinds up into you involuntarily. 

After what feels like forever, you lean down to kiss him. The kiss is surprisingly chaste, closed and feather light. The contrast with the lewd way you’re rubbing on him drives him crazy.  

"Please," he says against your lips. He's not really sure what he's asking for, he just knows he needs . "Please, please, please." 

He might not know what he's asking for, but you do. You untangle your fingers from his. He keeps his hands where you'd held them while you reach down between the two of you to unbutton his pants. You stand halfway up off his lap and pull his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. You pull apart from him and look down to admire it. A big bead of precum seeps out of his slit. You wipe it away with your thumb, then press that thumb against his lips, smearing. He opens his mouth and tries to take you in, but you pull away. You lick what’s left of his wetness off of your skin, then you sweep your tongue over his plush top lip. You kiss him deeply, and he tastes the precum mixed with your saliva. He’s never sampled himself before. He feels a little twinge of shame for enjoying it so much, but it passes quickly. You wanted him to taste it, you must have wanted him to like it.

You sit back down on him and wrap your fingers around his shaft. He shudders. You stroke his cock, rotating your wrist as you move your arm up and down, tugging him in time with the music that still fills the car. He thrusts his hips up, fucking your hand like his life depends on it. You run your free hand through his hair, scratching his scalp at the crown of his head before sliding to the nape of his neck and closing a tight fist around a bundle of curls. You pull his head back so his throat is exposed. With your tongue wide and flat, you lick all the way up from his clavicle peeking out of his collar, over his chin to his bottom lip. He whines your name, over and over, like a mantra.

It doesn’t take long at all for him to get close. You sense it and put your lips right by his ear. Your breath makes him shiver, he loves when you whisper to him and it pushes him that much further along.

“If you make a mess, everyone’s gonna know what we were doing when we get to the campground.” He pictures himself getting out of the car, a big sticky stain on his shirt. Shaking hands with the owner of the record store and praying your boss doesn’t look down. He kind of loves the idea of everyone knowing you made him cum so recently, that he’s so helplessly yours. But he knows you love your job and he would never jeopardize that. 

“What should we - fuck - what should we do?” His voice cracks. 

“There’s only one way to make sure there’s absolutely no mess,” you tell him. He doesn’t bother asking what you mean. He knows you’re going to show him and he knows it’s going to destroy him. 

You slide off his lap sideways, landing on the seat next to him, and arrange yourself so you’re sitting on your knees, one hand still grasping and stroking his cock. You bend down over him and take the tip in your mouth. The soft wetness enveloping him feels incredible. He screws up his face, trying hard to last just a little longer. You slide down his length, taking him into your throat until your nose bumps against his thigh. Then, sucking hard, you slide slowly back up. That’s the last straw. With a long, high pitched moan that doesn’t even feel like his voice, he cums in your mouth. 

You swallow his load and keep sucking, overstimulating him until he paws at you, desperate for a break from the sensation. You release him with an audible pop,  licking your lips as you straighten up and make eye contact with him. 

“Oh my god,” he offers weakly. You smile and plant a sweet kiss on his forehead.  

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

LUCAS AS IN LUCAS BAKER!? IF HIM GOOD LORD THANK YOU THERE HAS BEEN A DROUGHT AND IM THIRSTY

Penny wasn't sure what she was doing with Lucas. 

What had initially been an unfortunate traffic collision - her being too shortsighted to see which lane she was in - had blossomed into a solid friendship. 

What kind of guy tried to pick up someone that put a dent in a fucking Plymouth? But after a couple of awkward phone calls to talk about insurance, Penny let Lucas come by her place to fix her fender. Free of charge, he'd said with a huge fucking grin that was somehow charming on what she'd thought at first to be a pretty creepy face. 

He took whatever she'd been baking in the oven that day as payment. Lemon scones? Penny couldn't remember, but she vividly remembered the text she got that night about how good they were and how much the compliment meant coming from someone so skinny and… borderline disagreeable.

'Your instructor is an asshole who don't know what he's talking about. These things are better than fried gold. I had to fight off fucking gators on my way home. Even them bastards know a good thing when they smell it.'

She might have developed this crush on him that night, blushing as she reread his text throughout the evening. It made her feel warm and fuzzy for a few hours after the fact. Lucas was just as awkward as he was unfiltered, and while he seemed like an asshole, he wasn't one to her, and that, too, made her feel pretty special. 

Plus, Lucas could eat like a one-man army, and even if she fucked up a new assignment or some weird recipe, he was always eager to eat it up. And he liked everything she made… which, given the few times Penny had burnt the goods, she knew couldn't have been true but appreciated the compliments either way. 

With the pizza ordered and the sofa jammed with a couple extra pillows, Penny transferred the hot cheesecake crescents over to the cooling rack, grinning when they barely deflated. 

"I am fucking majestic," she muttered, adding little shakes of sugar to the tops after they got a bit above room temperature, finishing off the whole thing with a couple sliced strawberries. 

She hadn't mentioned these bad boys to Lucas, hoping instead to see the look of delight on his face when he walked in and smelt them. With a nose like his, it wasn't any wonder he ate with it half the time. If it smelt good, he ate it, but before they got ruined in his gorge, she snapped pictures for her blog and licked up some sugar dust from her thumb. 

She was fawning over Lucas a bit, she realized. Fucking fawning. But there wasn't anyone else she knew that well in this town, and it was lonely, and Lucas seemed about as lonely as she was, so no harm, no foul… except Penny was starting to do the dumb girl thing her mother always told her about - about how if ya wanted to get into a man's heart, you had to start with his stomach. It was all pretty harmless at first, sort of unconscious, but Penny realized what she was doing a few weeks ago and shrugged, deciding the implication wasn't awful.

Unconsciously or otherwise, she'd been acting more like a potential girlfriend than a friend, minus all the sexy stuff. But something told her there were other ways to do that with Lucas that'd be more enjoyable than muffins and pies… or scones and daydreams under her sheets or in her bathtub.

Penny blushed, trying to ignore the self fucking she'd been up to that morning - Lucas on the brain.

He didn't say anything a friend wouldn't say. Lucas kept that male drive hidden behind bored expressions and shitty jokes, but it wasn't subtle when he broke face and checked out her breasts or backside. Nor was it infrequent enough to play off as just wandering-eye syndrome, a common affliction of all straight men. No, the looks said he'd probably jerked off to her at least once, which made her feel a little less weird about the fact that she'd started masturbating with him in mind.

She assumed the mutual attraction was making Penny do silly things like this - like baking extra treats she wasn't obligated to for school. She just wanted to see him happy, and the boy had a fucking mouth on him, and a tongue that could reach down and lick off anything sweet his lips had missed. 

The new shorts and v-neck sweater were another of those impress-Lucas-at-all-cost actions.

He liked the way she was put together, and maybe his interest and compliments and 'hanging out' was all an act just to get into her pants, but even with the eye fucks, Penny decided his attentions were genuine, which just made her more excited to get a rise out of him tonight. 

Lucas liked her, which was great because she really, really liked him, and while it wasn't implied outright. The fact that she'd invite him over to watch Netflix - literally said it in her text, along with food and 'chilling' - hopefully expressed her hopes for the evening. 

The last time they met up - when he fixed her disposal unit - Lucas kept doing this thing with his lips. They would purse up then spread out in a sly line whenever she handed him the tool he'd asked for, accompanying the trade-off with a snappy 'that's what she said' joke. 

Penny wanted to kiss him that day but bit her lip instead. 

Tonight she was going to test the waters herself and see if Lucas was into her or if his roaming eyes were just appreciative and nothing more. She'd had a few guy friends who were asexual and one she'd embarrassed herself in front of. Penny didn't want to make any assumptions… no matter how horny Lucas had been making her or how horny she assumed she was making him. 

When the pizza arrived before he did, she got impatient. 

Lucas answered her phone call on the third ring, sounding a little… off, maybe a bit breathless but intact. He wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere, so that was good. 

"Did you forget about me? She asked, laughing to cover up the fact that she'd thought he might have for a second. 

"Pfff, naw. Jus' hit some pissbags taking up the road like a couple ah' bitches holdin' hands. Like other people ain't got places to be, right?"

"You should have just mowed them down," she joked, listening to his verbal agreement as she plunked down on the sofa. The TV screen was frozen on the opening credits for 'Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers,' casting a sick blue glow amongst the buffet of croissants, pizza, chicken tenders, and soda. 

"Mother fuckers deserve worse 'an that."

"Yeah, you could keep them waiting on a Friday evening while the pastries they made go cold," she mused, picking up one of the fat, heavy delights with a smirk. Lucas made a cute little whine on the other end as a car horn went off. 

Inside her ear, Lucas growled like a man on a murder spree. The distant sound of tires squealing and another car horn blaring made her bite her tongue to not giggle at him. 

"Ah'll be there in two minutes! No, no, no! Thirty seconds, hehe'haha… ah' jus' ran the light at fifth street."

"Uh… " Penny straightened up, springing from her sofa towards the window by the door. She peeked through her blinds, cutting the aluminum blades with two fingers and a wide eye. The dude was crazy, she thought, hearing his mad cackles through the phone until she could hear them through the meat of her home and the rumble of his Plymouth. 

"Damn, Lucas… you're unstoppable."

"Don't ah' know it, baby," he hounded into her ear, sounding much like he had that day before he'd seen her come out of her car. That rage-filled tone was, at one, joyous and malicious.

Penny fucked herself to the memory of that tone the other night, and it took an ass load of willpower to get the blush off her cheeks by the time he was jogging up to her door, nearly sprinting. He was already stuffing his phone back in his pocket, but when she opened the door, she still had her own held up to her ear - still just a bit startled and admittedly curious as to who he ran off the side of the road just to get here a few minutes early.

Lucas slapped his heels on her doorstep, grinning under his dark hood like a monster straight outta the swamp. It might be that Lucas' monster man persona sorta triggered some of her more… seedy intentions because honestly, right then - as he threw her a toothy grin and wedged his way into her house - she wanted him to throw her over his shoulder and toss her on her bed.

"Man! Don' let my Mama know you can cook so fucking good… pretty sure it'll break 'er heart."

Penny swallowed thickly, inhaling a dense cloud of male musk and something sharp like pine cologne. The idea of Lucas spriting on smelly stuff made her smile. He made a throaty sound of pleasure and made a straight beeline for the couch, throwing down on the edge of the sofa so he could stuff a croissant into his mouth. Yeah, the boy could eat - that was for sure.

After locking the door, Penny made her way to the sofa with an extra sway, but Lucas was too focused on the pastries she'd baked to look. So much for cockblocking herself, she thought. "So… did you kill anyone on your way in? Should I be on the lookout for cops? - disgruntled drivers, maybe?"

"Naw, jus' cut a few fucks off," he mumbled, downing a whole pastry and chasing it with a swig of soda. He caught her eye as she sat down, and it took nearly everything not to smirk when his gaze dipped down to her breasts and the deep line of cleavage. Someone with breasts as large as her own couldn't get away with anything lower than a crew cut without some bust poking through, but this wasn't like the times she'd gone around unintentionally showing skin - this top was meant to show off some tit… and she had more than enough of those. A blessing and a curse, but more often than not, a curse. 

Penny took a deep breath, feeling her skin dimple around the neckline, and reached for a slice of pizza.

"Good! 'Cause I heard this movie really sucks, so I don't wanna miss a second of it," she told him, flashing him a tender grin before hitting play and stuffing some food in her mouth. It didn't escape her notice that he'd started blushing - started sneering at himself shortly after while trying to watch the credits in the same head tilt as he did her tits. The apparent dilemma he faced - her breasts or the film - was making her stomach do backflips. Give her any other guy ogling her assets, and she'd have been insulted, but there was something about Lucas finding her physically appealing that worked for her.

Even when she first met him, Lucas stuck her as a guy hard to please. The fact that he was showing appreciation, trying to angle his hips, so the semi under his jeans wasn't evident, was flattering. Also, it was the reaction she wanted out of him.

[elamimax]

Excerpt time!

Have the chapter opener to Flipping Out, a coming of age crime thriller that takes place over 15 years. It follows six kids who, with the help of a mysterious, magic coin that allows someone to change their shape, figure out their identity, sexuality, gender, and the world in general, and just happen to steal a lot of money doing it. The protagonist is a hopelessly bisexual trans genderfuck, and the other characters all have their own stuff going on :)

Four heists, four major periods in their lives, and they're all messy. Enjoy!

“I hate New Jersey.”

“You know, a year ago I would’ve told you you were exaggerating,” Jack said, “but I gotta give it to you, New Jersey fucking blows.” He ignored the people honking at him. Fuck this road, fuck this jug handle bullshit, fuck these people. “Why do New Yorkers even keep coming here? There’s nothing here.”

“Hey, don’t disrespect the wonderful toll roads, Jacks,” Lisa said, her legs up on the dashboard.

“Turnpike,” Jack corrected her, mumbling to himself as he navigated the kind of traffic that could turn a lesser man into a slasher villain. “It’s called a Turnpike.”

“Did you know that Gotham is supposed to be in New Jersey?” Lisa said as she retrieved a slice of pizza. They were supposed to wait until they got back to the others but sometimes the stack of boxes at your feet just smells too good to resist. 

“Wait, like Batman?” Jack said as he turned onto the road to the trailer park. 

“Yeah. Gotham’s in New Jersey, and Metropolis is in Delaware.”

“How do you even know that?”

“It’s because I’m so cool and sexy,” Lisa said as she kicked the door open and tumbled outside with the grace of a newborn foal, only barely managing to land on her feet, then scooped up the pizza boxes. “Come on, these are gonna get cold.”

The trailer park near Plymouth, New Jersey was a hole; the kind of hole people fall into when a  society is built like a latrine. It was a place where you got a lot of yelling at night, and you didn’t walk around barefoot. All things considered, it was one of the nicest places Lisa had ever lived. It took two cookouts and a grocery run to really convince the neighbors that the six of them weren’t here to party and ruin things for everyone, but that only made sense. 

She had expected the people here to suck. She had expected a lot more guns and shouting husbands and possibly significantly more nefarious drug dealing, but she’d come to realize that that image all came from television and, well, you can’t trust what they say on there either, so you might as well trust the fact that the neighbor who doesn’t talk to you did go out of his way to find you the only part your broken engine was missing and that the guy asking for cash might just need it to eat. Communities on the edge, in the hole, between the floorboards, they got like that, sometimes.

The whole thing is a good 40k words long at the moment, and can be read on Patreon but if you wanna read it without paying for it (who can blame you, we're all broke down here) the first five chapters have been uploaded for free here, with no requirements for making an account or stuff like that :)

Anyway, that's all from me today, enjoy!

[primatechnosynthpop]

Ok ok you know the nkotr roleswap au that Kris came up with and then I thought about it like 10× as much as she ever did because I'm fucking insane. If you don't know about it this should roughly inform you. Anyway uhhh here's the roleswap verse romantic comedy episode

--New Roles on the Swap: Romantic Irony--

They were supposed to meet at a hipster bar downtown. Max had been there before, but only to hang around outside it and beat people up. Those stupid hipsters always had so much money to spend on cold brew and overpriced donuts--they made easy targets. But you wouldn't catch him actually eating at a sissy place like that.

Well. Not until tonight, apparently. Because the stupid studio told him to. Hopefully the guy he was meeting would at least be cute.

"Well now, Maximilian!" Mitch had proclaimed a few hours prior upon reading their latest message from the studio. "It seems the studio has decided that even a mongrel like you should get a chance at love. They want us to film a romantic comedy webisode where you get to go on a date..."

"Date?" Daxter Flaxter had immediately balked at the prospect. "Nuh-uh! No girlz allowed!"

Mitch cut him off with a tut-tut noise and a wag of his finger: "...With a boy."

A sitcom ooh! sound effect played in the background. Daxter's reaction didn't change, though. He made a face and mimed spitting up something gross; Max laughed at the comedic display, the surrounding circumstance immediately forgotten.

"Nah, you two have fun, but I'm not taking part in this," Daxter said with a shake of his head as he headed for the door. "No romance for Daxter! I'm out!"

Now, standing outside the restaurant scuffing the stupid stuffy shoes Mitch had forced him into against the dirty pavement, Max wished he'd opted out of this one too. Yeah, the studio asked him to do it and all, but couldn't they have found somebody else? This whole thing stunk, and he hadn't even met his date yet.

He caught a snippet of conversation from a young couple strolling past with their arms linked and smarmy grins on their faces. Max grimaced and stuck his tongue out at them. Then the guy pulled out a ring, and the sour expression flipped to an eager sneer. Boy, talk about easy targets! Max was just about to march over and threaten them into handing the ring over when an unfamiliar hand tapped his shoulder. Max turned, instinctively baring his teeth, to see a guy around his age with shoulder-length brown hair and glasses wearing a baseball cap and a short-sleeved suit.

"So," the strange guy greeted him in a disinterested tone, "Are you my quote- 'date'- unquote?"

"Nah, I'm just here to make a movie for plymouth rock studios." Then Max remembered what kind of movie they were making, and he snapped his fingers. "Hey, wait a second... maybe I am your date. Are you Spencer?"

But this couldn't be him, right? Spencer was supposed to be cute, not some four-eyes. To his disappointment, the guy nodded.

"Ch'yeah, bro." Spencer stuck his hands in his pockets and gestured vaguely toward the restaurant. "So, you wanna go inside, or should we do more of an avante-garde, experimental date where we just, like, exist adjacent to each other or whatever?"

"Nahh, that sounds like a waste of time," Max decided. "Let's eat. But you're paying."

***

It was pretty dark in the bar, with a few tacky neon signs being the only sources of light. That made it a little easier to sit across from Spencer, but it didn't make listening to him talk any better. Max rolled his eyes and squirmed in discomfort while his date babbled on about whatever his dumb hipster job was and all the stupid bands he'd seen. He only tuned back in when Spencer snapped his fingers in his face several times in quick succession.

"Uh, hello?" Spencer huffed. "I was asking what kind of music you listen to."

Max stared blankly at Spencer for several seconds, jaw dangling partway open. Then he blinked, and suddenly remembered the communicator wristwatch he was wearing. Yeah, that's right, Mitch had promised to help him out with this stuff...

He raised his arm to talk into the watch, only to remember that his friend had stuffed him into a dumb frilly suit beforehand and it covered his wrist. Suddenly flustered, Max scrambled off the barstool he was perched on, knocking it over with a loud clatter in the process. Everyone else in the hipster bar turned to stare at him. His face flushed and he scowled at the onlookers, but Spencer was quick to make a dismissive gesture at the crowd.

"Chillax, broskis, he's with me." Then, lowering his voice and turning back to Max: "What's the deal? You're not, like, ditching me, right?"

"Nah, I just gotta take a piss. Be right back."

With that he scrambled off to the bathroom, where he whipped out the communicator watch. An image of Mitch flickered onto the screen. It looked like he was in a warehouse somewhere exploiting a bunch of factory workers, but Max didn't care about that.

"Hey, Dollarton, I need your help. What kind of music do I listen to?"

"You? You don't listen to anything besides that dreadful rap and heavy metal," Mitch sniffed. "But don't tell your date that, or he'll think you're a degenerate. Tell him you listen to opera or something with a modicum of sophistication."

"Opera? What, you want him to think I'm gay or something?"

Mitch's brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to say something, but one of the workers he was exploiting spoke up in the background just then and he cut himself off with a sigh. "Oh, never mind. Just tell him whatever you think he wants to hear. That's how I win over all my boyfriends."

So, when Max re-seated himself across from Spencer, the first thing he said was "Yeah, I don't really listen to anything. I've got better things to do."

Spencer raised his eyebrows, and though his eyes remained half-lidded, he sounded impressed. "No music? Woah, that's like uber-niche. Here I was worried you'd listen to, like, mainstream pop or something," he added, slumping back in his seat in clear relief.

"Naww, pop music blows," Max said, making a face. "All that perky autotuned junk about love and partying... I just wanna stuff all those singers in a locker and keep 'em there until they starve. That'd show 'em."

Spencer laughed out loud at that, though he quickly buried it in a fake cough and adopted a more detached amusement. Max's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Hey, when this guy smiled suddenly he looked a lot cuter, what was up with that?

"That is literally so true." Spencer rolled his eyes and waved his hand in a you know gesture. "And then these quote- 'alternative'- unquote artists will cross over into the mainstream, and it's like, ugh, I can't believe I ever thought they were cool."

Max couldn't relate to that, but he nodded his head and snickered along anyway. Spencer looked a lot more relaxed now, and... yeah. That was good. If they did a good job on this date they'd probably get paid more by the studio.

He recalled a tip Mitch gave him a couple hours ago, when he was helping him get ready. "Believe it or not, I do have some amount of faith in you," Mitch had said as he ran a comb through Max's tangled and matted hair. "You hardly have to be a gentleman to act like one, and you do have a sort of brutish charm, in the animalistic sense."

"Heh, yep." It was only a few seconds later that Max had cocked his head with a scowl as his friend's words sunk in. "Wait, animalistic?"

Without bothering to follow up on that comment, Mitch had straightened Max's collar for him and, looking him dead in the eyes, added sternly: "Oh, and Maximilian, do try to compliment him. Men like that, you know."

Now, looking his date up and down in the dingy lighting, Max struggled to dredge up a compliment. What could he say that would make a guy like him?

"Hey, Spencer... nice suit." Encouraged by the way Spencer glanced up at him, looking almost startled by the words, Max sneered and went on: "Did your mom buy it for you?"

An odd look passed over Spencer's face, and he hesitantly shook his head. "Nah, bro. This isn't even a real suit, 'cause I figured that'd be too conformist." He tugged at his collar, and for the first time Max realized that his date was actually wearing a t-shirt designed to look like a suit and tie. "It's ironic, natch."

"Ironic? What's that supposed to mean?" Max demanded, narrowing his eyes. The word felt funny in his mouth, like some foreign language something. "You keep talking like that and I'm gonna shove you in a locker."

He realized his mistake when Spencer, already no longer smiling, lowered his head with a sigh and gave him a reproachful look. Max gulped, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Ah, crud. This wasn't going well. At this rate the studio wasn't even gonna pay him, and they promised they'd pay him next time he did good on a webisode!

Muttering an excuse under his breath, Max pushed himself away from the table, only to tip precariously backward on the wobbly barstool. He windmilled his arms with a yelp. Just before he could fall, Spencer darted forward and grabbed the stool, holding it in place. Doing so put his hand right between Max's legs; the two stared at each other for a few seconds, thick with awkward tension, until Max jumped down and made his second hasty getaway of the night.

This time there was a dull rabble in the background of Mitch's setting when he answered his communicator, and it looked like some of the workers in the warehouse were sharpening weapons. Mitch, too, seemed a little more on edge.

"Yes? What is it this time?"

"He doesn't like me," Max whined, trying to keep his voice low as he crouched in the dingy bathroom stall. "What do I do?"

"Ah, what indeed. Of course you can't just bribe him into more dates the way I would." Mitch paused, rubbing his chin in contemplation. "Perhaps you can win him over with your traditional masculinity--your knack for beating people up, for one. That's one skill that myself and Daxter are rather lacking in."

"Yeahhh, good point. I'll try that."

When he got back to the table, Spencer was texting on one of those little internet gadgets dweebs used. While he was looking down at the device, Max flicked his fingers against Spencer's nose. Spencer jerked back, hands flying up to clutch his nose with an indignant yelp. Max snickered as he took his seat.

"Hah. Got you."

"Bro, that was so not..." Spencer trailed off, eyes widening, as his gaze swept over the hand responsible for knocking his dumb nerd glasses askew (he was kinda cute with them crooked like that, not that Max even noticed or cared!) "Wait, are those real missing fingers?"

"Huh? Yeah." Remembering what Mitch had said about his masculinity, Max held up both hands to show off the bandaged stumps where a few of his digits used to be. "Lost 'em in a fight. Cool, huh?"

Spencer grimaced. "Nah, bro, physical fights are totally lame. I only fight with people on Myspace and Tumblr."

Max, unsure of what to say to that, opened his mouth and pointed to the gaps inside. "I got some teeth knocked out, too."

They were saved from any further conversation by a waiter showing up with their food. Max wasted no time grabbing a handful of bacon and stuffing it into his mouth, while Spencer stopped to snap some photos of his kale sriracha salad before he even popped open the lid of the mason jar it was served in. Heh, you snooze you lose, Max thought as he reached across the table to swipe some onion rings off Spencer's plate while he was too busy taking pictures to guard his meal.

Spencer raised his head to give him a cold glare. Just like that, the hot and juicy food turned to ash between Max's teeth. Crap. He doesn't like that. With the slow methodical movements of someone disarming a bomb, Max stretched his jaw open and reached inside to pull out the half-chewed mess of fried onion and place it back atop Spencer's plate. This did not improve things.

Ah, man, this sucked. He needed Mitch's help again. Ducking under the table to hide from Spencer's reproachful glare, Max pulled his communicator watch out and tried to call Mitch again. This time he got a busy signal--no response. Yeah, typical Dollarton, always betraying him.

(Unbeknownst to Max, at about that time Mitch was crouched under a desk in the warehouse as his peasants revolted, trying desperately and failing to get ahold of Daxter for help. Daxter, meanwhile, ignored his own communicator going off and carried on whistling a bluesy melody from a video game while he fed spoonfuls of gatorade to his most prized anime figurine.)

"Hey, that wristwatch is bitchin'," Spencer interjected. "Is that, like, an underground brand or what?"

"Eh-heh-heh-heh, yup." Max smirked and puffed out his chest in self-satisfaction. "Me and Daxter Flaxter and Mitch Dollarton are the only ones who've got 'em."

Spencer recoiled with a cringe when he mentioned Mitch. "Pssh, bro, the Dollartons are like the richest family in Massachusetts. They're all total posers. Why are you hanging out with one of them?"

"Eh, well, it's not like I like him or anything..." That was kind of a lie--he did like Mitch, though he wasn't sure why--but man, he sure could be annoying sometimes. "It's cause we make movies together. You ever hear about, uh, New Kids on the Rock?"

Spencer nodded, eyes lighting up in recognition. "Oh yeah, natch. A bunch of my mutuals are into it, and they've been telling me to check it out, but I wasn't sure because it kinda has the vibe of something that might get big. I mean, I can always say I liked it before it was cool, but that only does so much for my cred since posers lie about liking stuff before it was cool all the time..." He trailed off from his rambling with a shrug, but Max noted with satisfaction that he was smiling again in that barely-managing-to-be-disaffected way. "But web shows are the new television anyway, so I guess I'll check it out."

They lapsed into silence for a while, eating their food. When the evening was winding down, Max reached over and tugged on Spencer's arm.

"C'mon, we better bust this joint before they try and take our money."

"Nah, bro, it's chill," Spencer assured him with a dismissive wave. "The people here know me; they always give me a discount."

Max squirmed, shooting a glance over his hunched shoulder at a waiter walking nearby. "Are you sure? Mitch says he's not lending me money anymore after last time..."

"For realsies, I've got it." Spencer shot him a smirk as he pulled out a wallet. "But hey, if you wanna pay me back so bad, how about you walk me home?"

***

Spencer, it turned out, lived in an old colonial-style house just down the block from the fabled Plymouth Rock (which, of course, was constructed to honour the film studio of the same name). While Max was leading him up the driveway, their arms proudly linked, Spencer suddenly stopped. Max shot his date a puzzled glance. What, he wasn't pissed at him again, was he? Yeesh, at this rate the studio was never gonna give Max his paycheck!

But rather than glowering, Spencer was blushing. He moved his hand down from the crook of Max's arm to slide their hands together.

"Hey, listen, about your fingers... it's sick, bro."

Max tilted his head. He couldn't be sure, but the way he said it sounded like a compliment. Sure enough, Spencer went on:

"I guess I was just weirded out because I'm, like, not really into the punk scene? But if you think about it, it's actually a really radical statement against mainstream expectations. I mean, why should the man tell us how many teeth or fingers we should have, or whatever?" Spencer picked at the frayed bandages on Max's hand as he said this, sending a thrilling shudder down Max's spine. "And body modification is already a thing, so maybe getting fingers removed will be the next big trend in, like, 20XX or whenever. And if that happens then you'll be a total legend for doing it before it was cool."

"Heh, yeah," Max agreed, even though he didn't really get what Spencer was going on about. Then, grabbing Spencer's hand and holding it up to his mouth: "Hey, if you wanna lose a finger, I can bite it off for you right now. Maybe we can even sew it onto my hand, like a keepsake. Eh-heh-heh-heh."

Spencer's face grew bright pink and he rapidly shook his head. "N-nah, bro, that... it's cool. Another time, y'know?"

"Yeahhh," Max said, a grin slowly spreading over his face as he let his date's hand go. "Another time, 'cause we're gonna go on more dates. Nice."

With that, they said goodbye at the door, and Spencer went inside. Max let out a cry of victory the second the door closed behind him.

"YES! Take that, Mitch, and Daxter, and the studio! You bozos didn't think I could go on a date, but I did it, and now you hafta gimme a paycheck!"

***

So yeah last nite was fun, I mean he's totes cray & kinda ugly but if u think abt it that actually makes dating him better bc it's, like, going against normie standards or whatevs <3

Lounging on his bed that morning with his vape pen dangling halfway out of his mouth, Spencer scrolled through his camera roll for a photo to append to his latest blog post. He'd taken a couple during the date without Max noticing, but they weren't really from flattering angles... he finally selected one of Max with his head cocked like a stray dog, with a little piece of bacon sticking out from between his lips. Spencer chuckled lightly at the detail, but catching it led to him staring at those lips for a few seconds longer than necessary, and... oh man. His heart pounded in his chest like the predictable beat of the pop songs he and Max had bonded over hating. He, like, liked this guy. Unironically.

No sooner had he finished making the post than his dad barged into his room, unannounced as always. Spencer sat up with a beleaguered sigh and took his headphones off to address John Smith.

"Um, knock much?"

"I did knock, you foolish boy, you just didn't hear me over your music," the old pilgrim said with an accusatory finger jab. "Now tell me, who dares trespass in our driveway?"

"Geez, Dad, chillax. It's probably just a..." He trailed off, mind and heart alike racing when he realized. "Oh, dip, that'd be Max!"

John Smith's sunken eyes narrowed. "...Max?"

"Uh, ch'yeah. He's like my new boyfriend, or whatever," Spencer said with a deflective shrug as he slid off the bed and moved toward the door.

But to his annoyance, his father moved to block his exit, hand darting down to hover over the hilt of his sword.

"A new boyfriend? You'll have no such thing! I've told you before, Spencer Smith, it falls upon you to find a wife and carry on the pilgrim lineage before we go extinct!"

"But Da-ad, I--!"

His father silenced him with a flash of his blade. The ancient but still deadly strip of metal came to hover inches from Spencer's throat. Spencer gulped and took a step back. He always used to think John Smith was rad for having a sword, because pilgrims with muskets were so conformist, but the way his dad acted about Spencer's relationships was totally wack. And the decapitated look totally wasn't in right now, so he could only stand back and watch as his father slammed the door behind him and stormed off, no doubt to scare away the realest human connection Spencer had felt in months.

***

The small bouquet Max had stolen off a grandma's windowsill on the way over was pretty much squashed into mulch from how much he'd worried the flowers between his sweat-slicked palms. It felt like something similar was happening to his heart. Like some kinda giant had stuck its big ugly hand in his chest and was squeezing his heart to mush. Man, was that sappy or what?

He paused halfway up the driveway and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder to the decorative rock on the Smiths' front lawn. Mitch and Daxter peered out from behind it to give him a thumbs-up, although Mitch--who was already back in his usual stuffy clothes after getting bailed out from prison earlier that morning--looked a little less excited. Max tried to return his friends' encouraging gesture, but out of habit his hand accidentally raised in a middle-finger position instead.

The second he knocked on the door, it swung open with a bang. Max jumped back with a startled shout and ducked to avoid a sword being thrust in his direction by an older guy in weird pilgrim clothes.

"Get off my property, you miscreant," the guy holding the sword hissed. "You're not welcome here!"

"Suck it, geezer," Max sneered. "I ain't here for you. Where's Spencer?"

"Spencer? Why..." The pilgrim paused, visibly searching for words, until he broke into a wicked grin. "...Spencer's been dead for ten years!"

"Huh?" Max narrowed his eyes. "That's bull. I just went on a date with him last night."

He tried to shoulder past the pilgrim to get inside, but a slash of the sword against his cheek made him think better of it. He flinched, hand flying up to brush away a thin line of blood that sprung up in the sword's wake. The pilgrim lunged forward, hissing, to strike him again. Max let out a shout of startled indignation and backed off the porch in a haphazard stagger.

Once he was off the steps and out of range of that crazy guy's sword, he grabbed the nearest heavy object--the communicator watch on his wrist; fat lot of good that whole gimmick did for him--and chucked it as hard as he could at the pilgrim's stupid hat. Then he turned tail and bolted.

His friends intercepted him at the bottom of the driveway. Daxter gave him a good-natured smack on the back, grinning again now that the disruptive field of romance had been dispelled.

"Too bad!" he proclaimed cheerfully. "Looks like you won't be getting any action!"

"Don't be too downtrodden now, Maximilian," Mitch added, laying a hand on Max's arm when he hung his head. "Going on a date with a dead man? People have made fortunes off less remarkable stories."

"Yeah, but..."

Max trailed off, casting a forlorn glance back at the house. The pilgrim still lingered in the doorway, sword at the ready. Above him, the curtain of a second-story window rustled and pulled back for a moment. Max looked away again a second too soon to see the very much still living object of his interest waving at him.

He wouldn't be caught dead saying any mushy stuff out loud, but as Mitch and Daxter ushered him off back to their clubhouse to get the latest webisode edited and uploaded, Max made a silent promise to never forget the previous night.

***

Spencer was lying on his bed with his face buried halfway in the pillow, listening to a tragic indie song about doomed lovers dying together in an overly niche workplace accident, when his dad came back in. He turned his music down without taking his earbuds out and rolled over onto his side without getting up or fully meeting John Smith's gaze. He didn't want to see whatever look of self-satisfaction his father must have had just then.

"So is he, like, gonezo?"

It was a rhetorical question. Spencer had watched through the window as the three figures receded down the road until they vanished into the distance. But hey, may as well ask anyway, right? Rhetorical questions were like the new irony, or whatever. What-fucking-ever.

"Yes, he's gone."

"Great," Spencer muttered bitterly. "Quote- 'thanks'- unquote, Dad. And BTW, I'm using those quotes ironically to indicate sarcasm," he added in case the old geezer didn't get it.

"He even tried to defile me with this unsightly piece of modern technology," John Smith went on. "Bah! Away with it!"

He flung something towards Spencer, who sat up and caught it with instincts well-honed from countless close calls of dropping his phone. Then he turned and slammed the door with a huff, leaving Spencer once again alone in his melancholy.

Or maybe... not 100% alone. Turning the device over in his hands, Spencer's heart fluttered when he realized it was the very same totally bitchin' communicator Max had worn during the date. He experimentally punched in a combination of numbers on the keypad, and the device beeped out a chipper little ringtone. Moments later, a shaky image flickered onto the screen--not Max, but another guy with a backwards baseball cap.

"Woah, looks like you've got mail!" the strange guy on the screen remarked. "Well, I don't wanna talk to this guy, so heeere you go."

There were some fabric shuffling noises as the device was handed off, and then Max's face filled the screen. He immediately lit up upon seeing Spencer.

"Heyyy, you're not dead after all! I shoulda known."

"Ch'yeah, my dad is just stuck in colonial times. He's always trying to screw me over." Spencer paused, drumming his fingers on the watch's sturdy black plastic casing. He tried his best to seem casual as he said, "So, do you still wanna go out again sometime?"

Max grinned, and Spencer barely even shuddered at all the gaps in his teeth. "You're on. But next time Mitch is paying."

--End--

[xtruss]

Heywood on the family boat Wavewalker, near Vanuatu in the South Pacific, 1987. Photograph: Courtesy of Suzanne Heywood

‘Dad Said: We’re Going To Follow Captain Cook’: How An Endless Round-The-World Voyage Stole My Childhood

In 1976, Suzanne Heywood’s Father Decided to Take the Family on a Three-Year Sailing ‘Adventure’ – and Then Just Kept Going. It was a Journey into Fear, Isolation and Danger …

— By Suzanne Heywood | March 25th, 2023 | The Guardian USA

When we lived in England my days had a familiar rhythm. Each morning, my mother flung open the curtains in my room, and I tugged my school jumper over my head and pulled on my skirt before tumbling downstairs to eat cereal with my younger brother Jon. After school, we’d play on the swing in our garden, or crouch at the far end of the stream to watch dragonflies hovering above the gold-green surface.

I was used to this rhythm; I liked it and thought it would never change. Until one morning over breakfast, my father announced that we were going to sail around the world.

I paused, a spoonful of cornflakes halfway to my mouth.

“We’re going to follow Captain Cook,” Dad said. “After all, we share the captain’s surname, so who better to do it?” He picked up his cigarette and leaned back in his seat.

“Are you joking?” I asked.

Next to me, Jon watched Dad, his lips parted.

“Not at all,” said my father, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “I’m deadly serious.”

“But why?”

“Well, someone needs to mark the 200th anniversary of Cook’s third voyage, don’t they?” he said, raising his eyebrows at my mother.

“Of course they do, Gordon,” said Mum, returning his smile.

“I’ve told you kids about the captain,” said Dad, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “He was an incredible man. The people who were going to recreate his first and second voyages didn’t get their act together in time, so this is the last opportunity.”

“How long will we be gone?” I asked.

“Three years. By the time we get back, you’ll have seen more places than most people will visit in a lifetime. We’ll sail down to South America, then cross the Atlantic Ocean to South Africa and Australia. From there, it’s on to Hawaii and Russia.”

The clock was ticking on the wall. I looked out of the window at the empty swing. Dad had taken us sailing before, but this was different.

One evening later that summer, Dad announced that he’d found a boat. A few weeks afterwards, we went down to the Isle of Wight to inspect his find. He marched ahead at the boatyard. “You’re going to love her, I know you will,” he said, and I looked up to see an enormous boat with a long, curved bow, two masts and a raised deck at the stern.

The interior was unfinished, but bunks and cupboards were already taking shape, half-formed in the gloom.

After a while, I went up on to the aft deck to sit next to my father in the cockpit, watching him attach a compass to the binnacle, the wooden instrument stand in front of the ship’s wheel. “She’s called Wavewalker,” he said. “We were lucky – I was able to buy her because the man who was building her ran out of money.”

“Wavewalker,” I said, exploring the edges of the word. This boat would walk us over the waves, carrying us around the world and back again.

“But you’re so normal,” people often say when they find out about my childhood. And in some ways, I am. But, even if it’s not visible, my experience of spending a decade sailing 47,000 nautical miles on Wavewalker, equivalent to circumnavigating the globe twice, shaped who I am today.

The family waving goodbye, Plymouth, 1976. Photograph: Courtesy of Suzanne Heywood

I started thinking again about my past when my children were old enough to ask me about it. Did Dad really sail around the world because he wanted to honour Captain Cook? Why didn’t my parents, middle class and well educated themselves, worry about their children’s education or social isolation? Why was my relationship with my mother so difficult, particularly during my teenage years, and why didn’t my father try to help, when he must have seen how miserable I was?

My parents always claimed our time on Wavewalker was wonderful and told me I’d had a privileged upbringing. But this oft-repeated mantra conceals a much darker story. What I found, when I mustered enough courage to look back, was that many parts of my childhood were worse than I’d been willing to admit.

When I set sail from England with my parents, brother and three crew members in the summer of 1976, I was seven and thought the trip was going to be like an extended, exciting summer holiday. Once we’d settled into our ocean routines, Mum began giving Jon and me some schoolwork to do in the mornings, usually a maths or English worksheet. It was convenient that we were only a year apart in age, she said, since it meant she could teach us together. When I asked about other subjects, such as history, art or science, she said she wasn’t going to bother with those – if we were good at maths and English, everything else would sort itself out. Anyway, our voyage was like a massive geography field trip.

One day, about a week after leaving Gran Canaria, and a month after leaving England, a shadow appeared above the ocean’s southern rim. “I think it’s Ilha de Santo Antão in the Cape Verde islands,” said Dad, “which means we’re about 400 miles off the most westerly tip of Africa and halfway to Rio.”

Heywood with her parents Mary and Gordon and brother Jon. Photograph: Courtesy of Suzanne Heywood

The shadow darkened and gained substance, becoming a craggy rock lurking under a cloud, while the ocean filled with writhing jellyfish. The heat built until, one day, the breeze rotated through every direction and disappeared. “We’ve hit the doldrums,” said Dad when I went to stand beside him on the deck, gazing out at an ocean of thick honey. “They happen where the north and south trade winds meet. But that’s supposed to be a hundred miles south of here.”

We sat sweating under a blue bowl of sky for several days after that, each breath a gasp of heat that scorched the lungs. When the sun was up, I danced across the parched deck, searching for patches of shade, while Dad made a saltwater shower from a bucket punctured with holes that he hung in the rigging. At night, I slept on deck to escape the stifling air below, lying on my sleeping bag, and reaching up to grasp handfuls of the stars peppering the Milky Way.

After the wind returned, we saw a passenger ship ploughing its way towards us from South America. It came so close that I could see the people crowding its balconies and rails to wave, and when it swept past I saw its name etched on the stern: Brazilla.

“I wish we’d asked them for food,” I said, watching it go.

Dad laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

“There’s no fresh fruit left,” I said, giving him my sad look. “And I hate salt tablets.”

Salt was taking over my life. White tidemarks of it bloomed on my skin; my clothes and sleeping bag were sticky with it; and now I had to eat it as well, to stave off dehydration.

An artist’s impression of the interior of Wavewalker. Illustration: Camilla Ashforth

“Do you want to try some ship’s biscuits?” asked Dad, and when I nodded, he showed me where he’d hidden the tins under the step outside the main head, the name for the ship’s toilet.

“Do they have raisins in them?” I asked.

He shook his head and peered at my biscuit. “Oh, don’t worry about those: they’re only weevils. Tap it sharply on the table, and most of them will fall out and crawl away. The rest will give you useful protein.”

From South America, we sailed on to apartheid South Africa. We then set off across the notorious southern Indian Ocean towards Australia, this time with two inexperienced crew members on board, as my father had by then decided that he preferred to teach people how to sail himself. My father was a hero to me and, it seemed, to everyone else; and my mother was his glamorous, if somewhat unwilling, and unmaternal, accomplice.

On the first day of the new year, when we were partway across the Indian Ocean, I opened my eyes to a world I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home. I dragged myself from my bunk, taking care to avoid being hurled back against it when the boat veered the other way. The main cabin was deserted, so I huddled by the table, holding Teddy, my small brown bear, and wondered if anyone else was hungry. When my father came down, I wedged Teddy into the bookcase and followed him into the chartroom.

“How is it up there, Dad?” I asked. “Are the waves getting any better?”

He looked at me, his face expressionless. “No. They’re worse. They’re now over 50ft high. And the wind has changed direction to blow at storm force straight from the south pole.”

“Oh.” The hairs prickled on my neck.

He turned to lean over his chart. “It’s not good,” he said. He spoke the words quietly, as if to himself. Wavewalker’s quivering moments at the summit of each wave had become longer, and her plunges forward more extreme. Everything felt wet: my skin, my clothes, my hair, the floor and every surface I touched.

My fear felt physical – a cold lump I carried in my stomach. Every so often, if the wind wailed or our movement down a wave was particularly steep, my heart pounded and my legs felt weak.

Jon had joined me at the table by the time Mum struggled down the ladder in her oilskins several hours later. “Put on your lifejackets,” she said. “We’re going too fast. We must be prepared.”

I didn’t ask how a lifejacket would help us survive in an ocean full of gigantic, icy waves, and neither did Jon. There was little point in arguing, and, anyway, Mum was already halfway back up into the cockpit. When she returned later, Jon and I were sitting trussed up in our jackets by the table.

“Sue, come and help me make some food,” said Mum. “I need a can of corned beef.”

I nodded, gripping the countertop rail with one hand while unlatching a cupboard door with the other. The cabin tipped backwards. Wavewalker was climbing another watery mountain. This time the pause was endless. It felt as if time had been suspended, leaving us balanced on the head of a monstrous wave.

There was an explosion, and chunks of decking collapsed inwards above my head, followed by an avalanche of cold, grey water. As the boat lurched on to its side, my fingers let go and I was flung against the ceiling and back on to the galley wall. The air filled with screams, some of them mine.

“Icy Water Flooded into the Boat. ‘Do You Think We’re Going to Die?’ Jon Asked. ‘Probably,’ I Said”

Some time passed, though I don’t know how much. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor of the main cabin, half-covered in water and surrounded by pieces of crockery, sodden books and hunks of decking. Icy water, black, grey and foaming white, flooded in through a hole above me. Jagged beams hung down from the ceiling, and one side of the cabin bulged inwards.

Mum was near the ladder. She tilted her head back to shriek through the hatch: “We’re sinking, Gordon! There’s a hole in the deck, and she’s full of water.”

I couldn’t get up – my legs didn’t want to move, and all I wanted to do was sleep. Maybe I could rest here, I thought, the water a blanket around me.

When I opened my eyes again I was lying in one of the top bunks in the four-berth cabin. Below me, the floor was covered with water and bits of debris – books, cushions, pieces of wood. Wavewalker felt full and drunk, and each time she tilted, water poured in through the hatch in the ceiling.

“Stop crying,” said Jon. “You’ve been crying for ages.”

I saw him lying on the bottom bunk on the other side of the cabin. He was right. I was crying.

He was clutching a square biscuit tin.

“Want one?” he asked, holding it up.

“No.” I tried to shake my head, but the pain made me stop.

I was wet, everything around me was wet, and some of the wetness was red. I closed my eyes, exhausted by the pain in my head. Dad appeared. He leaned over my bunk, his eyes underlined with curved shadows, his cheeks and nose red and inflamed.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.” My voice was a whimper.

He touched my right forearm, and I glanced down to see that his forefinger was dyed crimson.

“Why didn’t you tell me how bad this was?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” I said, but really he hadn’t been there to tell.

“Do you think we’re going to die?” Jon asked after our parents had left.

“Probably,” I said, trying to put the lifejacket on without moving my head or touching the swelling above my eye. The lump seemed to be growing. It was taking me over, a foreign thing embedded in my head.

Somehow – miraculously – Dad managed to navigate us over the next few days to a tiny island in the middle of the Indian Ocean: Île Amsterdam. Even more miraculously, we were still afloat when we reached it, due largely to the continuous pumping done by our two crew members, and the tarpaulin and quick-setting cement Dad had spread across the huge hole in our deck.

We were greeted on Île Amsterdam by Commandant Ghozi, who told us he was leading a French scientific mission of 30 people there. He took me to be examined by a thin man in a white coat named Dr Senellart. “She has a broken nose, a fractured skull and there is blood trapped inside the swelling on her head,” he told my parents when we rejoined them in the waiting room.

I slipped my hand inside Dad’s. “What if we do nothing?” he asked.

The family having tea at the helm. Photograph: Courtesy of Suzanne Heywood

“The swelling is pressing down on the fracture. If we do nothing, Monsieur Capitaine, your daughter could end up with brain damage. We must cut into the wound.”

For weeks, my mother kept taking me back to the tiny medical building where I underwent multiple operations on my head without anaesthetic, lying alone on the hospital bed. After my seventh operation, I went to find Mum in the waiting room.

“It is finished, Madame,” said Dr Senellart, following me in. “These,” he said, pointing to the shadows under my eyes, “will go in time. Your daughter is very brave.”

“I Was Nine And We Had Been Travelling For Two Years and 223 Days. Our Trip Was Supposed To Finish. But Dad Had Other Ideas.”

Mum, Jon and I were eventually rescued from Île Amsterdam by a passing container ship, while Dad sailed on with our two crew members to Fremantle in Australia in the dangerously damaged Wavewalker.

After repairing Wavewalker, we sailed from Fremantle to Sydney, and then across to New Zealand before turning north-east to make our way up to Hawaii. By the time we arrived in Honolulu, I was nine and we had been travelling for two years and 223 days. This was the point at which our trip was supposed to finish. Captain Cook had been killed in Hawaii, and we’d arrived there just over 200 years after his death.

But, of course, Dad had other ideas.

In Hawaii, the months turned into years while Dad tried various schemes to raise money, including working in a boatyard, setting up an exhibition on our trip and asking for donations. My 12th birthday came around and I gave up counting the days in my diary. I was learning nothing and was going crazy with boredom, since my parents – for reasons I never understood – had decided not to send us to school.

One night my father came home and said that we needed a family conference. The discussion took place over a dinner of corned beef and cabbage, spiced up with Tabasco sauce.

“Well, we can’t stay in Hawaii for ever,” he said. “I think we have two options. We’ve finished our voyage, so we could go home through the Panama Canal.”

We all nodded.

“Or we could sail back down the Pacific.”

I felt sick. It was the first time that Dad had suggested we might not go back to England

“But if we did that,” I asked, “when would we go home?”

“What’s the hurry? Think of all the places we haven’t seen. We haven’t even been to Tahiti yet.”

I put my hand on the sofa’s red plastic cover. He was listing more destinations – Vanuatu, New Caledonia, Papua New Guinea. Mum was nodding and smiling.

He glanced at me. “That’s enough discussion, Sue. It’s time to vote.”

I slumped against the seat. Mum folded a sheet of paper into quarters, ripping it along the creases. She pushed the pieces across the table towards us.

Everyone scribbled on the slips, which went into Dad’s blue felt captain’s hat, a blue boat on a wooden ocean that held our future.

Dad unfolded the first vote.

Pacific

He smiled, and his hand dived back in. He spread out the second vote.

Home

I stared at the slips of paper, avoiding his eyes. No one said anything.

The third vote came out.

Pacific

I wanted to look at Jon, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the final slip of paper, which would determine everything. Dad smoothed it out.

Home

“Ah,” he said, “we have a draw.” He looked at Jon and me, and I sat up straight, ready to explain my choice.

My father glanced at Mum and knocked another cigarette out of the packet on the table. “What you kids must realise,” he said, leaning back and blowing out a mouthful of smoke, “is this isn’t a democracy, it’s a benevolent dictatorship. The captain always gets the casting vote.” He picked up his glass of rum and Coke and raised it towards us. “And I think we should go back down the Pacific.”

We set off again. After a brief classroom experience in Queensland, Australia, some months later, I registered with a correspondence school, but finding the space and time I needed to study on board Wavewalker became a huge battle. My parents had by then started bringing paying crew on to the boat – advertising our voyages as “whale and dolphin sighting expeditions”. This turned our boat into a floating hotel in which I was expected to cook and clean for several hours a day. In addition, after I reached puberty, my relationship with my mother had deteriorated and she often didn’t talk to me for weeks on end, instead only referring to me in the third person, as if I was not there.

“I Was Trapped On Wavewalker Against My Will, With Parents Who Didn’t Seem To Care How Unhappy I Was.”

For the next three years we circled the Pacific. We were hit by another cyclone, and saw places like Tanna Island in Vanuatu, with its live volcano, remote Tikopia Island in the Solomons, and Marovo Lagoon in the New Georgia Islands, with its swamps and wood carvings. Meanwhile, I kept trying to study, hiding inside a sail to work so no one could find me to ask me to do more chores, and sending lessons back to the school whenever we reached a port that had a post office. I was trapped on Wavewalker against my will, with parents who didn’t seem to care how isolated or unhappy I was. I had no obvious way to get away – I had no money and no longer remembered any of my relatives or friends back in England. But, somehow, I trusted that if I educated myself enough it would help me escape.

I was 16 – and had been on Wavewalker for almost nine years – when Dad announced we were going to New Zealand. A few days after arriving in Auckland, Dad told us that he’d applied for the role of marketing manager at Hamurana Park, a tourist attraction several hours’ drive away, near Rotorua in the centre of New Zealand’s North Island. I had a thousand questions. Why was he applying for it? Would we stop sailing if he got it? What would then happen to Wavewalker? To name just a few. But when I tried to ask them, Dad shook his head. “Stop badgering me, Sue – if I get offered the job, then I’ll decide what we do.”

He set off in a hire car early one morning for his interview, squashed into his only suit. Later that day, we went to the yacht club to await his call. Mum took it when it came. “He got the job,” she told Jon and me afterwards. “We’re going to apply for New Zealand residency. The park’s owners want your dad to live in Rotorua, so we’ll find a school for Jon there.”

“But what about me?”

She hesitated. “Well, if your dad gets residency, you’ll get it, too. So you’ll be able to go to university in Auckland. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

When my father returned, he declared that we would stay in Auckland for Christmas before moving the boat down to the coastal city of Tauranga to start our annual repairs. Wavewalker would then be put into storage when he started his job. I nodded at this news. I didn’t want to stay in a country where I had no friends, but staying in one place was better than sailing, and, in any case, I’d learned not to argue with Dad’s decisions.

A couple of months later, Dad announced another decision – Jon and I were going to live in Rotorua on our own, so that Jon could start going to a school there. I would continue to learn by post, Dad told me, and would be responsible for looking after Jon, who was by then 15. When Wavewalker was repaired, he would start his job and come to live with us, while Mum kept sailing Wavewalker with another skipper, to make more money from paying crew.

“So what do you think?” asked Dad, after we had accelerated up a final short, steep track near Lake Rotoiti, and parked alongside two wooden holiday huts, known locally as “baches”.

“Is this where we’re going to live?”

“Yes.”

“But where is Rotorua?”

“It’s about 40 minutes’ drive away. But it’s nice here – you’ll see.”

I followed Dad through the sliding door of the slightly larger bach. Inside was a small sitting room furnished with a sofa covered in a worn, mud-brown blanket. A pot-bellied stove faced it, its black paint fighting the rust creeping up its curved legs. A door led to a galley kitchen and, next to that, a small bathroom contained a twin-cylinder, top-loading washing machine that looked like it should be in a museum. The bach had one bedroom that I could use, and Jon was going to sleep in the second, smaller bach.

Heywood attempting to study while en route to Fiji, 1985. Photograph: Courtesy of Suzanne Heywood

Dad returned to Tauranga, and I settled into a routine. Each morning, Jon came into the main bach for breakfast and I asked about his plans for the day, though he rarely said much. After he left to catch the school bus, I tidied up and took my books out to study on the veranda overlooking the lake.

When I tired of working, I’d row the house’s small dinghy out on to the water, pull in the oars and let it drift. It was there, lying on my back watching the birds loop and glide, that I allowed my thoughts to unravel. Wavewalker. Her movement backwards and forwards through the ocean. The dampness, the closed wooden cabins. My parents caught up in their own needs. Salt. Waves. Diesel. Dust. Boredom. Loneliness. Fear.

In late April, Dad returned to the bach to declare another change of plan. The skipper he’d hoped would take charge of Wavewalker wasn’t up to the task. Instead, he was going to resign from his job and sail the boat himself.

“You’re leaving again?” I asked, my voice faltering.

“Yes.” He avoided my eyes.

“When will you be back?”

“Well, we’re only partway through the first of three charters, so not until November.”

That was seven months away.

“How am I going to pay for things, Dad?” I said, my voice catching.

He hesitated. “Don’t worry. I’ll set up a separate account for you to use. I won’t be able to put much in it, so you’ll need to be very frugal.” He sipped his tea. “There’s one other thing. I need you to manage the bookings for the boat. There are spaces left on the trips for this year, so you’ll have to run some more advertisements.”

“The Yellow Pages Lay Next To The Phone. Almost Without Thinking, I Picked It Up And Dialled The Number For Childline.”

“Don’t worry, Sue,” he said. “I’ll ring whenever we get to a major port. And our friend Pam will help you if you need it.”

“But Pam lives three hours away in Auckland, Dad,” I said, still trying not to cry.

He got up. “I think we’d better call it a night, don’t you? I need to pack in the morning – your mum’s anxious for me to get back.”

One afternoon a few weeks later, I sat watching a stain on the sofa morph through a succession of shapes – a dolphin, a sail flapping, a man with a crooked nose, a laughing witch. Jon had left for school hours before, and I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there. The Yellow Pages lay next to the phone. Almost without thinking, I picked it up, flicked through its pages and dialled the number for Childline.

“I don’t understand,” said the counsellor. “Where are your parents?”

“They’ve gone sailing.”

“When are they coming back?”

“November, I think,” I said, and the tears started.

I took a breath.

Then, in a rush: “I don’t know where they are. I don’t know when they’ll call again.”

“Are there any adults who can help you?”

“My parents have a friend called Pam, but she lives several hours away.

I caught my breath and kept answering the counsellor’s questions: “No, I’m not going to school. I sit here on my own all day, trying to teach myself.” My voice quavered.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Wavewalker. Photograph: Courtesy of Suzanne Heywood

“Not very well. I’m finding it hard to eat and I have a permanent headache.” I paused, trying to keep control. “As well as looking after my brother, I have to run my dad’s business.”

“Oh dear,” said the counsellor. She was trying to be helpful, but the hint of kindness in her words pushed me over the edge. “And … and … ” I said, tears running down my face, “and worst of all, I don’t want to be spending my time doing any of this. I need to be studying, or I won’t get into university.”

There was another pause. “None of this is your fault,” she said. “You’re coping with far more than is fair. I can’t change that, though I can be here if you need to talk.”

The counsellor did give me one piece of advice before the call ended:

“You can’t deal with this alone. If you try to, things will keep getting worse.”

The quiet engulfed me after I hung up the phone. I brought my legs up on to the sofa and buried my head between my knees.

More weeks passed. My call to Childline hadn’t changed my world, but it had allowed me to accept that it wasn’t my fault that I’d been left to look after my brother alone in New Zealand. It had also spurred me on to find a friend, a girl who lived on a caravan site nearby. But when winter arrived, a new worry started keeping me awake at night: my New Zealand visa was about to expire. I put on my smartest clothes – a T-shirt and denim skirt – and drove to Tauranga, where I was sent to wait in a long line in the immigration building. Some hours later, the man looked at my passport. “Where are your parents?”

“‘Where Are Your Parents?’ I Was Asked At Immigration. ‘Fiji?’ I Replied.”

“They’re away for a bit,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “But they’ll be back soon.”

The man’s frown deepened. My smile faded, and I felt small.

“Where exactly are your parents?”

“Fiji?”

He shook his head. “If they’re not in New Zealand, I can only extend your visa by two weeks. You’re a minor: you can’t stay here alone.”

Three days later, the phone went. Wavewalker had arrived in Fiji.

“Don’t worry,” said Dad, when I described my crisis, “I’ll come back.”

Suzanne Heywood, photographed earlier this month. Photograph: Amit Lennon/The Guardian

When my father turned up in New Zealand a few days later, we went back to the immigration department in Tauranga. This time, with him promising to stay and look after me in New Zealand, they agreed to extend my visa for four months until early October. It still didn’t get me to my final exams in November, but it at least got me closer.

Once again, Dad was in a hurry to leave, saying that Mum was waiting for him in Fiji and he had work to do on Wavewalker to get it ready to sail again.

More weeks passed. Somehow, I managed my loneliness and focused on the only thing that might help – studying as hard as I possibly could, staring at my books out on the wooden veranda. By doing this, I could make my way through each day without breaking down.

When October came, I went to the police station. “I only need a month’s extension to my visa this time,” I told the officer, while he thumbed through my passport.

He shook his head. “I can’t extend this any further unless you can show me an air ticket back to England.”

I went from the police station to the local travel agency, where another man hunted down flights. The cheapest option was a circuitous journey up to Japan and back down through Hong Kong that would cost $600.

“Are you sure there’s no cheaper ticket?” Dad asked, when at last he rang and I’d explained my predicament. “It’s a ridiculous price.”

I said nothing. I was clenching the phone so tight it hurt my hand.

“Well,” he said, after a long pause. “I guess I have no choice. I’ll move the money into the account.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, and, with three hours to go, I got the passport stamp I needed. I could stay in New Zealand until 10 days after my exams, but would then have to return to England after a decade away to face whatever waited for me there.

When my plane reached Tokyo, I stumbled out, carried along in a wave of travellers. I heard laughter and turned to see a girl looking at me. “You have a lot of luggage,” she said. “Let me help.”

By the time we reached the other end of the pristine terminal, we were laughing and almost crying over my absurdly heavy bags, and I’d discovered my new friend was called Hélène and would be sharing my next flight to Hong Kong.

“I’m going back to Paris to find a job and somewhere to live after a year of travelling in Australia,” she said. “What are you doing here on your own?”

It was a long story, but we had time. So I told her about Wavewalker, my childhood at sea, and my determination to escape and go to university. It was odd to talk about these things so far from where it had all happened.

“But what if you don’t get in?” she asked.

I shrugged, trying to ignore the ball of fear inside my stomach.

“I can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

“Because at last I’m free.”

• This is an edited extract from Wavewalker: Breaking Free by Suzanne Heywood, published by William Collins on 13 April.

[odinsblog]

@stabbysheep

If I may ask, where do you live?

I’ve lived in Floriduh for half of my adult life and I’m an avid beach goer, so I kinda sorta consider myself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of beaches. I’m wondering if maybe you’re stuck on the implied “nearby” part of my tags? We might have different definitions of what a restaurant that’s “nearby” means, but otherwise your statement confuses the hell out of me?

Obviously most, if not all, of the world famous beaches like Clearwater Beach, South Beach and Siesta Beach have places to eat literally within yards (meters if you’re from anywhere else but the US) away from the sand and surf, like maybe cross one street and you’re at the bar - IF they haven’t rented you an overpriced cabana and are bringing food and liquor directly to you on the beach.

But okay, maybe you think of those places as “tourist traps,” so of course they’re going to have restaurants nearby, right? But here in Florida, even the not-so-famous beaches have bars and restaurants close enough to the beaches that you could walk in to the establishment and still be dripping wet from getting out of the water. I’m talking about places like St. Pete Beach, Gulfport Beach, Lido Beach, and even Plymouth Beach in Massachusetts (shout out! to my hommies living in the 508 and 774 - Imma be back).

A beach without a restaurant, burger joint or a bar very close by sounds utterly foreign to me.

The only exception I can think of are beaches located at state parks, or similar type beaches, like maybe Sanibel Island or Fort DeSoto Beach — the draw for beaches like that is, they are supposed to be very secluded and far away from everything. And I dO enjoy visiting those beaches too. But other than that, yeah, our beaches here have been capitalism-ized for the restaurant industry and beachfront condo developers.

LOL, call me a bad anti-capitalist, but it’s actually one of the few things I really enjoy about going to the beach: it’s basically a completely self-contained day/evening out, or a complete date night, or whatever ever else you might want it to be - beach activities, food & drinks (often at 4 and 5-star restaurants), and if you time it just right, a fantastic view to a beautiful sunset or sunrise. Win, win, win. And don’t even get me started with the hotels that have near-Olympic size swimming pools, and the SWIMMING POOLS are within walking distance from the beach??! 🤯 Mannn please.

It’s like, do I get out of the pool and walk a few dozen yards to the beach, or do I get out of the pool and walk over to the bar? It’s feels hella opulent in its overkill, but I dO love tf out of it sometimes.

And the nearly universal mandatory casual dress code (shorts, flip flops or sandals, and a loud ass short sleeved shirt) is just the cherry on top.

Anyway, yeah, it looks damn fine but I’ll save the snacklebox for poolside events, and keep the restaurants & bars for the beaches. But that’s just me. It’s cool if anyone disagrees or whatnot. We all friends here, we aren’t a hive mind, right?

SN: I should stress that beaches can be miles and miles long, so I should point out that what I have described above may or may not always describe the entire beach; there might be parts that are far enough away from the beaten path that might not be as close to restaurants as other parts of the same beach.

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The Completely Unnecessary News Analysis

By Christopher Smart

Nov. 26, 2024

GIVE THANKS TO INDIANS WHO SAVED PILGRIMS' BACON

Thanksgiving Day is the time each year when we give thanks to the Native Americans who saved the Pilgrims' bacon. Yes, it was on the fateful, cold snowy day all those years ago when the Pilgrims were near starvation. Like a miracle the Indians appeared bearing turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. In return we stole their land. No good deed goes unpunished. But that's all history now and as the old saw goes: the winners get to write history. So we can laud our ancestors for braving the New World and forget the rest. Thanksgiving, of course, has changed since the Pilgrims washed up at Plymouth Rock. Now it's a time for friends and family to get together, eat a lot of carbs and turkey and get stoned on tryptophan, the amino acid that makes you feel dumb and happy. After pie, it's time to crawl onto the couch or Barcalounger and watch several games of exciting football and take that much awaited Thanksgiving nap. This year, there are many things for which we should be thankful. Top of the list is that Trump has been reelected president and will do all kinds of great things, like lower the price of eggs with tariffs. He'll make gasoline go back to $1.95. Inflation will go down so much that you'll be able to buy a beach house in Puerto Rico for almost nothing. Mostly, we should be thankful that Trump will usher in four years of love and compassion and understanding. Be thankful.

BRACING FOR 4 MORE YEARS

People who didn't vote for Donald Trump are scurrying about trying to find ways not to go insane. How could this happen — the Orange Monster coming to destroy everything — again. Yikes. Self-help books are flying out of Amazon.com, shrinks are putting in overtime, sales of Wild Turkey are way up and almost everyone is talking about Canada or Portugal. It's not too soon to escape. The Orange Monster's cabinet picks are already making Trump Haters crazy. Dog killer Kristi Noem for Homeland Security, Russian asset Tulsi Gabbard for National Intelligence, snake oil salesman Mehmet Oz for director of Medicare and Medicaid. On and on it goes like Stephen King's horror story, “The Shining.” Here's Johnny! What to do? Where to go? What to drink? Some have stopped watching the news. Some are enrolling in cooking classes. Others have done things like sign up for scuba lessons with the idea that being underwater will keep Trump World from invading their sore psyches that have been poisoned with nasty rubbish the Orange Monster uses like a weapon. They need a mental detox — perhaps an extended trip to India where they can rediscover the wonders of life. Or do what Timothy Leary suggested during the '60s and '70s: tune in, turn on and drop out. Or take up Bob Marley's quest: “Get up, stand up, don't give up the fight.”

WAKE UP — WOKE, WHATEVER IT IS, IS BAD, BAD, BAD

Woke is a bad thing. It's hard to define, but you know it when you see it. Republicans see it a lot. For example, we got a woke military and it has to get un-woke and quick, said Pete Hegseth, Trump's nominee for Secretary of Defense. It's like this: woke is for sissies and if there's one thing we don't need it's a sissy military. Women Marines in combat trenches. It has to stop. The few, the proud, the sissy Marines. It's a disgrace. And so Hegseth, a Fox & Friends host, is going to fix it. “I’m straight up just saying we should not have women in combat roles,” he said. That, of course, doesn't include women in hotel rooms fighting off unwanted advances. Hegsmith has been accused of sexual assault. No charges have been filed, but sex assault allegations in the Trump administration aren't necessarily a bad thing. The military isn't the only place that's woke, according to Republicans. There's education, Critical Race Theory, transgender athletes and basically anything on the Democrats immoral agenda. Here in Utah, we're fighting woke, too. Take DEI (diversity, equity, inclusion) programs for example. Gov. Cox cancelled them in state colleges and universities because they're evil and make white people feel bad. Cox also signed the legislature's “bathroom” bill so that trans people can't go to the toilet. Woke is bad and demonic Democrats are spreading it like a virus. Wake up America — don't get woke!

Post Script — That's a wrap for another festive week here at Smart Bomb where we keep track of government inefficiencies so you don't have to. Oh wait, the staff here at Smart Bomb no longer has to do that because Elon Musk, the world's richest man, is now in charge of government efficiency for Donald Trump when he assumes the reins at the White House. The Efficiency Czar will team with Georgia Rep. Majorie Taylor Greene to whittle the government down to size. And who better to join the Muskovites than Greene, who has demonstrated time and again her sophistication about such things as Jewish satellites and wildfires, the Monkeypox STD, government control of the weather and she has even been highly critical of Nancy Pelosi's Gazpacho Police. Policing soup just goes too far. Majorie and Elon, a tag-team for the ages. Musk, of course, knows a thing or two about efficiency, the South African snuck into the U.S. as an undocumented alien to earn his fortune. Some frowny faces wonder why a guy with hundreds of government contracts should be in charge of anything surrounding the federal budget. But hey, this the Trump era where making a buck from your government ties — like Trump and family did repeatedly in his first term — is OK if you say you are rooting out corruption in the swamp. What could be more efficient than that.

Well Wilson, the place may be going to hell but the holidays must go on. Otherwise, how could we have Black Friday and Cyber Monday and our dual celebrations of the Savior and capitalism. But as dark as things might appear we must carry on. So why don't you and the guys in the band take us out with a little something for all of Santa's little helpers who can force a smile no matter what:

As I walk through This wicked world Searchin' for light in the darkness of insanity. I ask myself Is all hope lost? Is there only pain and hatred, and misery? And each time I feel like this inside, There's one thing I wanna know: What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding? Ohhhh What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding? And as I walked on Through troubled times My spirit gets so downhearted sometimes So where are the strong And who are the trusted? And where is the harmony? Sweet harmony. 'Cause each time I feel it slippin' away, just makes me wanna cry. What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding? Ohhhh What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding? (Peace, Love & Understanding — Elvis Costello)

[theusaleaders]

10 Interesting Facts about Thanksgiving: How Well Do You Know the History and Traditions?

“Ever wondered about the Facts about Thanksgiving? Why is it celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November? What’s on the menu, and how has this tradition evolved over time? Dive into the intriguing history now!”

If you are curious about these questions, you are in the right  place! As we prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving this year, let’s take a moment to explore some fascinating fun facts about Thanksgiving. 

In this blog, we will take a look at everything you need to know about Thanksgiving Day, one of the most important and popular holidays in the United States.

So, let’s get started!

What is Thanksgiving and why it is celebrated and when and where?

Thanksgiving Day is a national holiday in the United States and Canada that celebrates the harvest and other blessings of the past year.

It is a time to express gratitude to God, family, friends, and the community for all the good things in life. It is also a time to enjoy a feast of traditional foods, such as turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and more.

Thanksgiving Day is celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November in the United States and on the second Monday of October in Canada.

The date of Thanksgiving varies from year to year, but it always falls between November 22 and November 28 in the United States and between October 8 and October 14 in Canada. The motto behind Thanksgiving is to give thanks for the bounty of nature and the generosity of others.

This year, Thanksgiving will fall on Nov 28th 2024, Thursday

History of Thanksgiving Day

Let’s dive into Thanksgiving history facts as we understand its history over time.

The history of Thanksgiving Day goes back to the early days of European colonization in North America.

The first Thanksgiving is widely believed to have taken place in 1621, when the Pilgrims, who had arrived in Plymouth, Massachusetts the previous year, shared a harvest feast with the Wampanoag Native Americans, who had helped them survive the harsh winter.

The feast lasted for three days and included deer, corn, shellfish, and wildfowl. However, this was not the first time that Europeans and Native Americans had celebrated the harvest together.

In fact, some historians argue that the first Thanksgiving in North America was actually held in 1565, when Spanish settlers in St. Augustine, Florida, shared a meal with the local Timucua people to mark their arrival and give thanks to God.

The tradition of Thanksgiving continued in various forms and dates throughout the colonies and states, but it was not until 1863 that President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national day of Thanksgiving to be observed on the last Thursday of November.

10 Facts about Thanksgiving Day

Here are 10 facts about Thanksgiving Day that you may find interesting and surprising. I have also provided the links from where I got the data for the facts.

The first Thanksgiving did not include turkey.

Although turkey is the centerpiece of most modern Thanksgiving tables, there is no evidence that the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag ate turkey at their feast.

The only meat that is mentioned in the historical accounts is venison, which the Wampanoag brought as a gift.

The Pilgrims may have also hunted wild fowl, such as ducks, geese, or swans, but not necessarily turkey. These are great facts about Thanksgiving to share at your next holiday gathering!

2. The first Thanksgiving was not a one-day event.

The feast that the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag shared in 1621 lasted for three days, according to the eyewitness account of Edward Winslow, one of the Pilgrim leaders. The celebration included not only eating, but also games, sports, and entertainment.

The Wampanoag demonstrated their skills in archery and running, while the Pilgrims showed off their muskets and cannons. The two groups also sang and danced together, and exchanged gifts and stories.

3. The first Thanksgiving in 1621 was not called Thanksgiving.

The Pilgrims and the Wampanoag did not use this term to describe their feast, which was more of a harvest celebration than a religious observance.

The word Thanksgiving was first used in 1623 when the Pilgrims held a day of prayer and fasting to thank God for ending a drought that threatened their crops.  These details are just a few interesting facts about Thanksgiving.

Click below mentioned link to check 10 Facts about Thanksgiving Day: