#thin brick veneer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ahqkas · 5 months ago

Text

“HOLDING YOU, HOLDING ME — dick grayson.

PAIRING! dick grayson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! he wasn’t just a man in a mask—he was nightwing, gotham’s acrobatic vigilante, a name whispered in both fear and admiration depending on who you asked. and now here he was, slumped on your couch, bleeding out like any ordinary man who’d bitten off more than he could chew

WORD COUNT! 4.7k

WARNINGS / TAGS! wounds and patching up, mention of blood, light cursing + lmk

NOTES! i’ll never let go of this scenario bc no matter how many times i read or write it i know i’ll eat it up ,, header below belongs to @/v6que

THE SOUND OF SHUFFLING OUTSIDE YOUR BEDROOM WINDOW PIERCED THROUGH THE FRAGILE BARRIER BETWEEN SLEEP AND WAKEFULNESS, pulling you abruptly from the fog of dreams. Your heart stuttered, then raced, its rhythm a drumbeat in your ears as your senses stirred to full alertness. The muffled sounds of Gotham’s unrest—honking car horns, distant sirens wailing through the streets, and the occasional shout ricocheting off brick walls—were nothing new. It was the soundtrack of the city, a reminder that safety here was a fleeting illusion. But this sound was different. It wasn’t part of the distant chaos. It was near. Uncomfortably near.

You lay motionless, cocooned in the warmth of your blankets, as a cold tendril of unease slithered down your spine. The shuffle came again, a strained, uneven drag that was too heavy, too deliberate to be dismissed as the wind or the misstep of a stray animal. The hairs on your arms stood on end, your body responding to a primal warning long before your mind could catch up. A knot of tension coiled in your stomach, tightening with each beat of silence that followed.

Your breath hitched as your ears strained, every creak of the old apartment building suddenly amplified. The sound of your neighbors moving around above you had ceased hours ago, and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen now felt deafening in comparison. Even the street noise below seemed to recede, swallowed by the weight of whatever lurked just beyond the thin pane of glass separating your room from the outside world.

Another shuffle—closer now—was accompanied by the faint scrape of something against the windowsill. A metallic sound? Your mind raced through possibilities, each one darker than the last, as your muscles tensed involuntarily. Instinct told you to stay still, to let the darkness cloak you, but adrenaline screamed at you to move, to act, to do something. The only thing louder than the pounding of your heart was the oppressive silence that followed the noise, stretching thin like a thread about to snap.

Then, a low groan shattered the quiet like a rock through glass—rough, ragged, and undeniably human. Your breath hitched, a shaky inhale catching in your throat as the sound sent a white-hot jolt of adrenaline through your veins. This wasn’t the screech of metal caught in a storm or the hollow clatter of a stray cat tipping over trash cans in the alley below. No, this was something else—someone else. And they were hurt.

Before you could fully process it, the groan was followed by another noise: a faint, rhythmic creak, unmistakable in its familiarity. Metal shifting and bending under weight, groaning as it protested movement along the fire escape just outside your window. It was a sound you had heard a hundred times before, but never like this—never in the dead of night, never accompanied by the guttural rasp of pain. It dragged a sharp, cold edge of dread across your mind, slicing through the thin veneer of safety you’d wrapped yourself in.

You sat up slowly, the mattress beneath you groaning in protest despite your careful movements. The noise seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet, and you froze, lips pressed together as if even the sound of your breathing might give you away.

Your eyes darted toward the window, the one barrier between you and the unknown outside. The curtains hung limply, a thin barrier of fabric that diffused the faint glow of streetlights below but revealed nothing of the shapes or movements beyond. Your pulse thundered in your ears as your mind raced. Every instinct screamed at you to stay still, to melt into the shadows and feign ignorance, to bury yourself under the covers and hope the moment passed.

But there was something else—a treacherous, gnawing pull of curiosity that refused to let you stay frozen. It dragged at you, a siren call that tugged against the fear coiled in your gut. Against all logic, you leaned forward, heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might leap from your chest. The cool air of the room kissed your skin, each shallow breath catching against the weight of the silence as you crept closer, unable to ignore the magnetic pull of whatever—or whoever—waited on the other side of that fragile pane of glass.

You froze just steps away from the curtain, your hand outstretched but trembling in the stillness of the room. Your fingers hovered mere inches from the fabric, the rough texture brushing your skin as you hesitated. The air felt heavier here, charged with the kind of tension that made your chest tighten and your breathing shallow. Each breath you took was deliberate, measured, the faint rush of air between your lips almost too loud against the suffocating quiet. Every nerve in your body begged you to turn back, to crawl under the covers and pretend none of this was happening.

But then another sound broke the stillness—a groan, sharper this time, tinged with desperation. It wasn’t the deep, detached groan of exhaustion but something raw, visceral, and undeniably human. The sound struck you like a slap, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. Whoever was out there wasn’t loitering or trying to scare you. They were hurt. And badly.

The realization sent a shiver rippling through you, but it didn’t stop your fingers from clutching the edge of the curtain. Slowly, cautiously, you pulled it back just enough to peek outside. The cold air from the window seeped through the thin glass, and you instinctively leaned closer, the warmth of your breath fogging the pane as you strained to see into the darkness. For a moment, there was nothing—only shadows twisting in the faint orange glow of the streetlights below, the occasional shimmer of metal catching the dim light. The fire escape stretched out before you like a skeletal bridge to nowhere, its emptiness pressing against your mounting fear.

Then, your eyes adjusted, and the shadows shifted, revealing a figure slumped against the railing. Your stomach twisted painfully at the sight, the breath caught in your throat as you tried to process what you were seeing. A man—larger than you expected, broad-shouldered despite the way his frame sagged—leaned heavily on the railing, his head tipped forward as if even the act of holding it up was too much. His chest rose and fell in uneven, labored breaths, each one visible in the faint puff of condensation against the night air.

His clothes—or was it some kind of suit?—clung to him, dark and soaked in places you didn’t want to think about too closely. The material melted into the blackness of the night, making it hard to tell where he ended and the shadows began. But there was no mistaking the weight of his posture, the way his hands gripped the railing with what little strength he had left, or the crimson stain trailing down the side of his body, catching the faintest glimmer of light. The sight of it turned your unease into something deeper, something colder.

“Shit,” you muttered, the word slipping out before you could stop it, sharp and quiet in the tense air. Your pulse quickened, adrenaline washing over you like a crashing wave as the reality of the situation sank in. Whoever this man was, he needed help—and fast. The knot of fear in your chest twisted tighter, but it was overwhelmed by something more immediate: the urge to act. Your hands trembled as you reached for the window, the cool glass biting against your fingertips as you slid it open. The icy air hit you instantly, sharp and unforgiving, stealing the warmth from your skin and making you gasp.

You leaned out into the night, the cold biting your cheeks and tangling in your hair as you peered down at the figure slumped against the railing. “Hey,” you called, your voice low but urgent, carrying just enough to cut through the silence. Your breath puffed out in faint clouds as you spoke, dissipating into the darkness between you. “Are you okay?” The words felt hollow as they left your mouth, even as they pressed against the lump of anxiety in your throat. Of course, he wasn’t okay—one look at him made that painfully obvious.

For a long, agonizing moment, the only response was the faint whistle of wind cutting through the metal of the fire escape. He didn’t move, his frame slouched in a way that made your chest tighten, the weight of his injuries pulling him down like gravity itself was working against him. Just as panic began to creep in—had he passed out? Was he even breathing?—he shifted, the motion slow and labored, as though even the act of turning his head was a monumental effort.

The faint light from the street below caught on his face—or rather, what was covering it. A mask. Sleek and dark, it reflected just enough light to reveal the harsh contours of his features, obscuring everything but the intensity of his movements. His head lolled slightly, and for a moment, you thought he might collapse entirely, the strength draining out of him like water slipping through a sieve. But then, with an audible effort, he rasped out, “Not really.”

The sound of his voice hit you like a gut punch—low, rough, and laced with pain. Each word dragged out of him felt like a struggle, and the exhaustion clinging to his tone was impossible to ignore. It was the voice of someone on the edge, hanging by a thread. You swallowed hard, your breath catching as you watched him shift again, the barest movement of his hand gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Well, no kidding,” you muttered, more out of reflex than anything, the dry sarcasm slipping past your lips before you could stop it. But the sharp edge of your tone faltered as your gaze darted to his injuries. Blood—thick, dark, and all too real—streaked his side, dripping in sluggish rivulets down his torn clothes. You swallowed hard, fighting the rising wave of panic threatening to claw its way up your throat. “Can you… uh, climb inside?” your voice was softer now, but still tinged with urgency.

He hesitated, his shoulders stiffening, and for a fleeting moment, he looked more like a cornered animal than an injured man. His hand gripped the railing tighter, the tension in his posture radiating defensiveness even as he swayed slightly, his balance precarious. “I don’t want to—” he began, his words rasping out low and hesitant, as if he were weighing the consequences of accepting help against the risks of staying put.

“You’re bleeding on my fire escape,” you interrupted, crossing your arms to disguise the nervous tremor in your hands. “I’m not asking. Get in here before someone sees you.” You tried to keep your voice steady, firm, even as your heart hammered against your ribs. You weren’t sure where the sudden boldness had come from—maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the sheer absurdity of the situation—but you refused to back down. If he didn’t move soon, you weren’t sure he’d be able to at all.

For a split second, you thought he might argue, but then his lips twitched ever so slightly, a faint ghost of a smirk flickering across his face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the grim set of his jaw as he shifted, bracing himself. With a pained grunt, he pushed off the railing, his movements slow and deliberate, every step looking like it might be his last. His knees buckled slightly as he approached the window, and instinctively, you stepped closer, your arms uncrossing as you reached out without thinking.

“I’ve got it,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. He was trying to sound strong, but the unsteadiness in his steps betrayed him. As he climbed through the window, the effort took its toll. He leaned heavily against the window frame, his large frame towering over yours even as his weight pressed into you for support. The sudden closeness made you freeze for a moment, the sheer size difference between you starkly apparent as his broad shoulders filled the small space of your window.

You adjusted quickly, hands instinctively reaching to steady him despite your earlier hesitation. One hand brushed against his arm, and you couldn’t help but notice how solid he felt beneath your touch, even through the bloodied material of his suit. He shifted his weight against you slightly, just enough to steady himself, and the subtle press of his shoulder against yours was enough to make you acutely aware of how much he was relying on you in that moment.

“Easy,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as he finally made it through the window and into your apartment. You stepped back to give him space, resisting the urge to grab his arm again as he straightened with a wince. His movements were slow and deliberate, every motion screaming of pain, but he managed to stay on his feet. For now.

“Couch,” the word tumbled out before you could think too hard about what came next. You gestured toward the battered, threadbare piece of furniture across the room, its cushions sagging from years of use. It wasn’t much, but it was better than your window frame—or worse, the fire escape he’d just been bleeding all over.

He gave a faint nod, the motion sluggish as he shuffled forward, his hand bracing against the wall for balance. Each step looked like a battle he was barely winning, and just as he reached the couch, his knees seemed to give out entirely. He dropped onto it with a heavy exhale, the springs creaking loudly in protest. His head tipped back against the cushion, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, you stood frozen, your back still pressed against the window as your mind worked to catch up with what had just happened. The sharp contrast of his dark figure against the warm glow of your living room lights made the scene feel surreal, like something out of a movie. But the blood—thick and vividly red against the black fabric of his suit—was all too real.

And now, in the full light of the room, you could finally see him clearly. The sleek black material clinging to him wasn’t just any clothing—it was a suit, one that seemed designed to meld with the shadows. Faint blue lines traced down his sides in sharp, angular patterns, adding a faintly futuristic edge to his appearance. But it wasn’t the design that held your attention—it was the bird emblazoned across his chest, unmistakable in its shape even beneath the layers of grime and blood.

Nightwing.

The name hit you like a freight train, an unspoken expletive rushing to the tip of your tongue as you took another step forward. Nightwing is in my apartment. The realization made your knees feel unsteady, and you clutched the back of a nearby chair for balance. He wasn’t just a man in a mask—he was Nightwing, Gotham’s acrobatic vigilante, a name whispered in both fear and admiration depending on who you asked. And now here he was, slumped on your couch, bleeding out like any ordinary man who’d bitten off more than he could chew.

Your gaze dropped back to the gash across his chest, the jagged tear in his suit exposing the angry, raw wound beneath. Blood was soaking through the material, dark and relentless, and the sheer amount of it sent a chill racing down your spine. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the rising tide of panic. This was happening. This was real.

And if you didn’t act fast, he wasn’t going to make it.

“I’ll get some supplies,” you said, your voice sharper now, cutting through the haze of disbelief. Each step felt heavy, your heart pounding like a drum in your ears as you yanked open the cabinet under the sink. The first aid kit sat buried behind a clutter of forgotten toiletries, its edges dusty and worn, but it would have to do. You grabbed it along with a few clean towels, their soft cotton contrasting starkly with the chaos unfolding in your living room.

When you returned, your stomach twisted at the sight of him. He’d slumped further into the couch, his broad shoulders sagging into the cushions as if gravity were trying to pull him under. His head tipped back against the worn upholstery, exposing the pale curve of his neck. The steady rise and fall of his chest—though strained—was the only reassurance he was still alive.

“Don’t pass out,” you said, dropping to your knees beside him and setting the first aid kit on the coffee table with a clatter. The firm edge to your voice was betrayed by the slight tremor in your hands as you unfurled one of the towels. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you forced your tone to remain steady. You couldn’t let him see the full weight of your panic—not when he already looked like he was barely holding himself together.

At your words, he cracked one eye open, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering in his gaze despite the shadows of pain etched across his face. “Not planning to,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, each word dragging out like it cost him more than he could afford. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was enough to make you pause.

Who the hell manages to look smug while bleeding out on someone’s couch?

But the glimmer faded as quickly as it appeared, his body sagging further against the cushions. You pressed your lips together, swallowing the sarcastic retort building in your throat. There wasn’t time for quips or questions—only action. You unfolded a towel, your fingers brushing against the warm stickiness of his blood as you pressed it gently against the gash across his chest. The sharp hiss that escaped his lips was like a jolt of electricity, and you found yourself murmuring, “Sorry,” even as you kept the pressure firm. His skin was warm beneath the blood and fabric.

You worked quickly, your hands steady despite the rising tide of nerves gnawing at your insides. The fabric around the wound had been torn beyond recognition, and you didn’t waste a second as you cut through the ruined material with swift, practiced motions. Each snip of the scissors felt like a small victory, as though you could fix this, like the clean cut would somehow make everything better. You pressed a towel to his side, feeling the heat of his blood seep through the fabric, the warmth of it sending a chill up your spine. He winced at the pressure, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t pull away. His muscles, tense and coiled under your hands, were the only indication that this wasn’t just a minor scrape. His breath came out in shallow gasps, but he didn’t make a sound of protest.

“You’re awfully calm for someone who just broke into my apartment,” you said, your voice forced to sound lighter than it felt. The words were meant to cover the nerves crawling up your throat, to push away the uncertainty gnawing at you. Humor—it was the only defense you had left in this absurd situation.

He let out a soft laugh, though it sounded more like a wheeze. It was rough and ragged, like even that small act of amusement took everything he had left. “Didn’t break in. Fire escape’s fair game,” he managed to rasp out, his eyes fluttering closed again as though the effort of speaking had drained him further.

For a moment, you stopped, just long enough to take in his words. Fair game, huh? You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, despite the situation. So this is how he justifies sneaking into random apartments in the middle of the night.

“Right,” you muttered, your voice dry, trying to ignore the sick feeling twisting in your gut. You could feel the heat of his skin under your fingertips, the way his body trembled slightly despite his attempt to stay composed. You glanced at his face, the mask still in place, but now that you were up close, you could see the way his eyes flickered with exhaustion and pain. It was like something human was trying to push through all the bravado.

But you had to focus. The towel in your hand was already damp from his blood, and you pressed harder, trying to staunch the bleeding as much as possible. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured my night going,” you muttered, though your tone softened a bit as you reached for the first aid kit. Every instinct in your body told you to move fast, but there was something about him, even in this state, that kept you grounded.

Maybe because I’m not sure whether you’re about to pass out or punch me in the face, you thought, but didn’t say. Instead, you reached for the antiseptic, uncapping it with more precision than you felt, and prepared yourself for whatever came next.

His lips twitched again, a ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was enough to make you wonder if he was trying to find some amusement in the chaos that had spilled into your living room. It didn't make sense—how someone could be this battered, this close to breaking, and still manage to show any semblance of humor. But there it was, a quiet resilience you couldn't quite place.

He didn’t respond at first, just watching you work. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, still tracked every movement of your hands, each shift of your body as you carefully cleaned and bandaged the wound on his side. There was something almost unnerving about how still he was, like a predator waiting for the right moment to move, but in the context of the situation, it made him seem more human. Vulnerable.

“You do this often?” you asked, your voice lighter than you felt. It was a simple enough question, but it served to break the silence between you, the quiet hum of the apartment making the space feel far too small. You didn’t look up at him immediately, but you could feel the weight of his gaze still on your face, intense and steady.

“Hmm?” he responded, the sound rough in his throat, as though the effort to form words had started to exhaust him.

“Get beaten to hell and crash on random fire escapes?” you pressed, glancing up at him as you secured the bandage around his chest. You tried to mask the faint bitterness in your tone with humor, the question rolling off your tongue more to distract yourself than anything else. This whole situation felt like something out of a bad dream, and you needed to ground yourself. Even if it meant making jokes about the absurdity of it all.

He let out a breath, his lips pressing together for a moment as he thought, the flicker of amusement still lingering in his eyes. “Only when I’m not at home,” he said softly, his voice rough, barely a whisper, but the sarcasm was clear. The way he said it—like he'd done this enough times to know exactly how it would go—made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this situation, and maybe it wouldn’t be the last.

You couldn’t help but huff out a soft laugh despite yourself, but it was more out of disbelief than humor. "That’s reassuring," you muttered, tightening the bandage with a firm pull. The night had turned stranger than you could’ve ever imagined, and all you could do was keep your hands steady as you finished the task, trying to ignore the fact that this was your reality now. For however long he was going to be here, this was your reality.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but wonder—what exactly had he been doing up there? Was it a routine mission gone wrong? Or was it something else, something far more dangerous than just a bad night on patrol?

But asking those questions, probing further, felt like it would unravel everything you were holding together. You were already way past the point of no return, anyway.

You leaned back on your heels, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly as you wiped your hands on one of the towels, the fabric already stained with his blood. The light in your apartment, dim as it was, highlighted the mess of the night: the empty first aid kit, the scattered towels, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. Everything felt heavier now—like the weight of what had happened wasn’t just about this bleeding stranger in front of you, but about you, too, suddenly pulled into something far more dangerous than you'd signed up for.

"You need stitches, but that’s the best I can do right now," you said, your voice softening as you turned back to him. "Try not to tear the bandages before you... I don’t know, get some actual medical attention?"

You were trying to stay light, trying to keep your tone steady, but the words felt hollow. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pushed himself up with a grunt, the movement slow and stiff, his pain clear despite the faint determination in his eyes. He steadied himself against the arm of the couch, looking like he might collapse at any moment, but there was something else there too—something that made you stop, heart fluttering painfully in your chest.

He offered you a faint smile, the expression almost shy despite the rough edges of the night, his eyes meeting yours in that quiet, unexpected way that made the room feel too small.

"Thanks. Really," he said, his voice rasping, but genuine.

For a moment, all the noise of the world outside your apartment seemed to fall away. The sirens in the distance, the occasional sound of traffic, even the distant hum of the refrigerator—it all blurred into nothing as you just stood there, staring at him. His gaze was soft, more tender than you would’ve expected from someone who’d just crashed through your window with blood dripping from their body. It wasn’t that it was romantic, per se—at least, that wasn’t what you expected it to feel like. But there was something in the way he looked at you, something that made your heart skip a beat, something you couldn’t explain.

He didn’t move, didn’t look away, and for a long moment, neither did you. There was something raw in the quiet between you, as though both of you were momentarily suspended in this small, messy space. His smile was faint, but it was real—a fragile thing, born of pain and gratitude. You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were, how the distance between you had narrowed while you weren’t paying attention.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand moved, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm—just a gentle brush of your fingertips against his skin. You told yourself it was nothing, just checking if he was steady, but even as you pulled away, there was a spark. A quiet acknowledgment that this was different. The way his eyes followed the movement of your hand, the way he hesitated before his next breath, made the space between you feel charged, like something unspoken was hovering in the air.

"You're welcome," you whispered back, voice quieter than before, tinged with something you couldn’t quite define. There was a flicker of something in his gaze, an understanding, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter. It was just the two of you in that small, dimly lit room, suspended in time, with everything else forgotten.

And just like that, you both broke the moment—him leaning back into the couch with a soft grunt, and you turning your attention back to the bandages, your pulse still racing in your ears. But the quiet connection lingered, a soft hum under everything else.

ADDITIONAL NOTE! if you like my work , please consider reblogging and / or commenting . thank you if you do 🤍

573 notes · View notes

maybe-im-dark · 2 months ago

Text

Kitty cat

The Team X base was quiet at this hour. Most of the others were in their rooms, catching a few hours of sleep or mindlessly passing the time between missions. But in the small, dimly lit room shared by the brothers, there was movement.

Not from Logan.

Logan lay on his cot, one arm draped over his face, pretending to sleep but listening. He had gotten used to the sounds Victor made—shifting, stretching, pacing like a caged beast. It was part of his nightly ritual. And it was always the same.

The bed frame creaked as Victor pushed himself off it, landing soundlessly on all fours, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he stretched. First the shoulders, then the spine, rolling each vertebra like a lazy jungle cat waking from a nap.

Logan cracked an eye open just enough to watch.

Victor prowled across the small space, bare feet silent against the concrete floor, knuckles barely brushing the ground. He moved differently like this—smoother, more natural, as if this was the way he was supposed to walk, and standing upright was just something he did for show.

"You ever just—walk like a normal goddamn person?" Logan grumbled, not bothering to move from his cot.

Victor grinned, flashing sharp teeth in the dim light. "I am walkin’ normal, Jimmy."

Logan groaned, throwing his arm over his face again. "Yeah? You gonna start drinkin’ from a bowl next?"

Victor didn’t answer. He just kept pacing, slow and deliberate, circling the room like he was stalking some unseen prey. His blue eyes flicked toward Logan, watching, waiting. Then, without warning, he leapt onto Logan’s bed in one smooth motion, landing on all fours right beside him.

Logan’s claws slid out instinctively. "Get the hell offa me, Vic!"

Victor, unbothered, merely smirked and flopped down on top of Logan like some oversized jungle cat, pressing his weight against him. Logan grunted as Victor’s elbow jabbed into his ribs.

"Jesus Christ, you’re worse than a damn dog—get off!"

"Dogs ain’t this big," Victor murmured, completely at ease. "You’re warm, Jimmy."

Logan growled low in his throat, "I will gut you where you lay."

Victor, ever the bastard, just rumbled an amused purr deep in his chest and sprawled further, making himself comfortable. Logan could feel the vibration against his ribs, the low, rolling sound vibrating up from Victor’s chest like a lion lounging after a hunt.

"You fuckin' purring?" Logan asked, appalled.

His brother just smirked against Logan’s shoulder, the deep rumble continuing.

Victor always moved differently when they were alone. He didn’t have to perform in front of the team. Didn’t have to act like a proper soldier for Stryker. In their room, when it was just him and Logan, he let go of that last, thin veneer of civility.

He had seen it before, the way Victor relaxed into his instincts when no one else was around. He wouldn’t even notice when he dropped to all fours, prowling the small space like a lion pacing its enclosure. It was as if standing up straight was something he only did for the sake of others, and the second he was alone, he went back to what was natural.

Sometimes, Victor would curl up in weird places—corners, on top of the table, once even on a stack of crates like some oversized housecat claiming the highest perch.

Logan never commented on it. What was the point? Victor was Victor.

But it was damn annoying.

Like when Victor sprawled across Logan’s cot, unbothered, taking up way more space than his oversized ass had any right to.

Logan shoved at him, trying to roll him off.

Victor didn’t move.

He shoved harder.

Victor flopped like a sack of bricks, letting out an exaggerated, rumbling sigh.

Logan finally kicked him, sending him tumbling off the bed with a grunt.

Victor lay there for a second, sprawled on the floor, then rolled onto his side, blinking up at Logan with lazy eyes.

"Y’know, Jimmy, you really gotta work on your hospitality."

"Hospitality my ass," Logan muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face. "I hate you."

Victor chuckled, prowling lazily to the other side of the room. He stretched again, pushing his claws into the floor with a satisfied groan before finally dropping onto his own bed again—on his stomach, limbs sprawled out, tailbone lifting slightly before settling.

Logan closed his eyes again, hoping for some peace.

Victor wasn’t done.

"Y’ever think about it, Jimmy?"

Logan cracked one eye open. "Think about what?"

"Walkin’ different."

Logan scoffed. "I walk just fine on two feet, thanks."

Victor hummed, noncommittal. "M’just sayin’. Might be faster."

Logan rolled his eyes. "The hell would I look like, runnin’ around on all fours like a goddamn dog?"

Victor grinned, fangs flashing in the dim light. "Like someone who ain’t fightin’ what he is."

Logan stared at him for a moment before scoffing, rolling onto his side. "You need to shut up and go the hell to sleep."

Victor let out another low, lazy purr before finally closing his eyes.

Logan listened to the sound for a moment—low, deep, rhythmic. Annoyingly comfortable.

He muttered a curse under his breath.

---

The morning was too damn early.

Logan had barely gotten any sleep, and it was all thanks to Victor, who had spent half the night prowling around like some oversized housecat before finally flopping onto his cot and purring himself to sleep like a damn contented lion.

Logan had tried ignoring it. He really had.

Didn’t work.

And now, in the pale morning light filtering through the cheap blinds of their barracks, Logan sat on the edge of his cot, rubbing the exhaustion out of his face while Victor—of course—slept like the dead. Sprawled out on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, the other tucked beneath his chin. His legs were bent slightly at the knees, feet twitching every now and then like a dog dreaming of chasing something. His breath came slow and steady, his short dark hair slightly curling at the ends, a faint rumbly sound still vibrating in his chest.

Logan scowled.

The asshole had no shame.

And that was exactly when the door slammed open.

"GOOD MORNING, PRINCESSES!"

Logan jerked his head up.

Wade.

There he stood, grinning ear to ear, hands on his hips, already bouncing with some unholy amount of morning energy that no human—or mutant—should have at this hour.

Logan groaned. "Wilson, get the hell outta here."

But Wade wasn’t listening. Oh, no.

Wade had already spotted Victor.

And his brain was currently breaking.

The mercenary froze in the doorway, blinking rapidly like his eyes were failing to process what he was seeing. Then—slowly, carefully—he reached up, grabbed the doorframe, and leaned in, squinting.

Victor, still fast asleep, remained oblivious.

Still curled up.

Still purring.

And that’s when Wade lost his goddamn mind.

"Oh. My. GOD."

Logan’s stomach dropped. Victor’s ears twitched. Wade screamed.

"LOOK AT THIS BIG, FLUFFY BASTARD!"

Logan barely had time to react before Wade bolted across the room. Like a missile. Straight for Victor.

"WHO’S A LITTLE KITTY CAT? YOU ARE! YES, YOU ARE!"

He dove.

Victor’s eyes shot open—just in time for Wade to land on him. Logan winced.

The explosion that followed was instantaneous.

A guttural, earth-shattering snarl erupted from Victor’s throat, so deep it practically rattled the walls. Wade, entirely unfazed, had already latched onto him, ruffling Victor’s hair and shaking him like a dog with a chew toy.

Victor roared, claws extending, eyes glowing, pure murderous intent radiating off of him.

But Wade wasn’t done. Not even close.

"OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU WERE JUST A BIG OL’ PUDDY TAT!"

Victor tried to fling him off—tried—but Wade was clinging like a limpet, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders.

"WADE, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"ADMIT IT, VICKY! YOU’RE A LITTLE KITTY CAT!"

Victor snarled, rolling onto his side, trying to crush Wade beneath him, but Wade just screeched with laughter, entirely unbothered.

"LOGAN, LOOK! HE’S A SNUGGLY BABY! I BET HE MAKES BISCUITS IN HIS SLEEP!"

Logan was watching all of this unfold with a deep, growing sense of amusement.

Victor was pissed.

Like, beyond pissed.

Like, "I’m-about-to-rip-your-spinal-cord-out-through-your-nostrils" pissed.

But Wade? Wade was having the time of his life.

Victor finally, finally managed to throw Wade off, flinging him halfway across the room, sending him crashing into Logan’s cot with enough force to knock it sideways.

For a second, everything was still.

Then Wade sat up. Grinning.

Victor loomed over him, shoulders rising and falling with each furious breath, claws out, looking every bit the apex predator he was.

Wade, still grinning like an idiot, meowed at him.

Logan slapped a hand over his face.

Victor lunged.

Wade ran.

The door slammed behind them, Wade’s laughter echoing down the hallway as Victor’s snarls followed close behind.

Logan, left in the wreckage of their destroyed room, exhaled heavily.

Then he muttered, "I need a drink."

And that was how Wade Wilson almost died at 6 AM on a Tuesday.

#wolverine #hugh jackman #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #ryan reynolds #xmen origins #victor creed #sabretooth #liev schreiber #fanfiction #fanart #artists on tumblr #victor just a kitty cat creed

88 notes · View notes

hell-drabbles · 5 months ago

Text

Gabriel 4

Summary: It's always fun to look down upon you. You, his newest conversion, his newest creation bound to the ground while he flies in the skies above. Today, you drag him from the sky, and pin him under yourself.

(The Satan ficlet has grown to over 1000 words so it's going to take a biiiit. Have this Gabriel thingy in the meantime, where Gabriel gets put in his place by the Angelified Companion.)

Angels never let their feet touch the ground, no matter where they may be. Be it home in Heaven, or in the war-torn Hell, it is only natural that creatures such as they leave the ground to those that were born to crawl upon it. The earth, the floor itself does not deserve to have an angels bare soles walk upon it, let alone their shoes.

But, you were human once, no? So it's only natural that you walk upon the ground, while Gabriel flew in the skies above. That, and he knows those wings of yours simply don't work. They're not made to carry your ever shifting weight.

"Be sure to clean yourself once you're done. Heaven does not welcome even a single pebble of this place."

And, of course, it is in Gabriel's nature to remind you. Because every response always brings a reaction. And that always brings a smile to his face.

But, today, you didn't say anything, clearly distracted by the chaotic laughter of angels, and the screams of the slain devils. Not even a shred of annoyance.

You looked to him, floating right above your head.

"Make sure you match the state of my shoes."

You closed your eyes, slowly breathed in, then grabbed his ankle.

"You don't get to speak." You made his face eat gravel with a simple tug of your arm. You made him touch the ground. You took the strength that he gifted you, and use it to drive him lower than yourself.

An angels place has always been in the skies, where God lives, bodies kept eternally pure until the day He finally comes back and they can be granted release.

And yet, here he is, mouth dirtied with devil-tainted gravel. Through the pain, through the cracked ribs and rushing blood muffling his hearing, Gabriel's body was singing. It was shivering not with anger, but with fear, with joy.

This was not your mindless self. No, you have become lucid, and every part of him clenched as your clear voice echoed in his brain.

Ah… you really have become an entertaining parasite to him, huh?

Gabriel reached behind him, grabbed a deformed wing from your ankle, and tore it off, because doing nothing would imply submission. And Gabriel does not submit.

A growl emerged from the bottom of your lungs, drowning out all his senses with just your sound. Your breath flowed over him, heated up his shoulders, his ears, "For that," one hand gently caressed his highest left wing, "I'm eating your wing."

He bit so deeply into his tongue, his mouth overflowed with blood.

"Don't," Gabriel spat out despite the pain of the cage and chastity belt digging into him, "don't you dare!"

You paused, and the weight of you shifted. Your body radiated a heat that Gabriel could never ignore. Your shadow consumed him and your knee was finally off his spine.

"I know you want this," you whispered, a thin veneer of a threat within your voice, and ice flowed through his veins, "Every day you love pissing me off until I want to tear everything around me, brick by brick, feather by feather." Your hand pressed against the base of his spine, and Gabriel jolted when your fingers sneaked right under his shirt and traced up his back, his body breaking out into a sweat, "You want me to hurt you? Then I will. I'll show everyone, angels and devils alike, exactly how you like to be torn apart."

And with one sweep of your arm, his shirt was torn to shreds. Before he could growl out a command, you stuffed his mouth with those fabric strips, rolled up into balls. You held his jaw, just so he's unable to spit it out.

"I said, you don't get to say shit." Saliva rolled past the gag and it smeared against his skin and your hand. "Good little angels get to sing. You get to choke on your own spit."

The disgusting wind of Hell dared to touch his clammy back, dared to ruffle through the purity of his white wings. Gabriel wanted to scream, but he despised the way his body froze as soon as you touched the base of his uppermost left wing. He hated the way he can feel himself become feverish, hated the way the lucidity of his brain clouded over in a drunken haze when your tongue licked up his spine.

And Gabriel has never hated himself more then when he choked out a moan when your teeth lightly scraped his wing.

You sunk in, and all he could do was scream. He has never known pain and ecstasy such as this.

#whb #what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad #hell-drabbles #hell-drabbles exclusive #drabble #gabriel #heaven #reader insert #embittered companion au

47 notes · View notes

multi-fandom-hoebag · 12 days ago

Text

The Last Light of Summer

(Haley x Farmer)

Summary: Haley never expected to love the farmer, but they were the only one who ever saw past her walls and stayed. In the quiet ache of illness and inevitable loss, she holds on as tightly as she can, watching helplessly as the person she built her heart around fades from her arms. Love, it turns out, isn’t enough to stop the end—but she stays until their last breath, because it’s all she has left to give.

TW: Grief, loss, major character death.

It had started so slowly that Haley, in her reckless optimism, had almost convinced herself it was nothing at all.

The farmer had always been tireless, rising with the dawn, hands thick with calluses and strength, shoulders tanned by the sun and streaked with the dust of their labor. They had seemed inexhaustible, an endless reservoir of energy and stubborn will, as if the earth itself had chosen them to nurture it. She had loved them for that — for their persistence, their quiet steadiness in a world that always felt too sharp and fast for her.

And for the way they had seen her.

Long before illness, long before frailty had crept into their bones, they had been the only one who ever truly looked past her polished veneer, past the pretty smiles and carefully arranged photographs and shallow conversations that never dared to dig too deep. While the others in town had dismissed her as vain, hollow, a spoiled girl clinging to beauty as if it were the only currency she possessed, the farmer had been patient, chipping away at her defenses not with force but with quiet, consistent care. They had found her in the hollow places where she had buried her fears and brushed the dust away gently, never once mocking the emptiness they uncovered.

She had hated them for it at first.

Then she had loved them for it with a ferocity that frightened her.

And now, she was losing them.

It began with little things — an ache in their joints that lingered longer than it should have, a shortness of breath after climbing the hill to the west field, a tiredness in their eyes that no amount of sleep seemed to erase. They had shrugged it off, had smiled that easy, infuriatingly calm smile and told her not to fuss, but she saw it. She saw it in the way they hesitated before lifting the heavy crates of produce, in the way their hands sometimes trembled when they thought she wasn’t looking.

When the diagnosis came, it did not come as a surprise, but that made it no easier to bear.

Haley had sat in the clinic beside them, her fingers laced tightly in theirs as Harvey delivered the words that stole the breath from her chest. Terminal.

No cure.

Time — measured in seasons, not years.

She had wanted to scream, to tear the walls down brick by brick and demand a different answer, a different fate, but all she could do was sit there, her nails digging into the farmer’s skin as if her grip alone could tether them to the earth. The farmer, ever calm, had only squeezed her hand in return, as if they were the one offering comfort when it should have been the other way around.

From that moment, the seasons seemed to pass too quickly, as if the sun itself was eager to outrun them.

Summer faded into autumn, and the farmer’s strength withered with the leaves. Tasks that had once been effortless now left them breathless and pale, and Haley found herself taking on more and more of the burden, her delicate hands blistering from work she had never thought herself capable of. She did it without complaint, though, because if she stopped, even for a moment, the weight of what was happening would crush her beneath its certainty.

She did it because she loved them.

Winter came early that year, harsh winds carving through the valley and rattling the windows of their home. The farmer, wrapped in blankets by the fire, grew thinner with each passing day, their skin pale beneath the flickering lamplight. Their voice, once so strong and steady, had grown soft, frayed at the edges like fabric worn thin by too much use. They spoke less, but when they did, their words were always for her — gentle reassurances, small jokes meant to coax a smile from her lips, quiet declarations of love that broke her heart anew each time they were spoken.

Haley tried to hold herself together, tried to be the pillar they needed, but there were nights when she slipped away to the far corner of the house, pressing her fists to her mouth to stifle the sobs that clawed their way up her throat. She could not let them see her break. She had promised herself that much.

But now, as she knelt beside their bed, her hands trembling as they cupped the farmer’s fragile face, she felt the cracks splitting wide open.

Their breathing had grown shallow, ragged, a thin thread fraying beneath the weight of the inevitable. Sweat beaded on their brow despite the cold, and their eyes, once so clear and full of quiet determination, flickered with a distant glaze, as though they were already slipping beyond her reach.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, raw from the tears she had shed in secret. “Please… just a little longer.”

The farmer’s lips parted, a faint smile ghosting across them as they looked at her, truly looked at her, with the same unwavering affection that had unraveled her defenses all those seasons ago. Their hand, thin and shaking, lifted from the blankets to brush her cheek, their thumb tracing the path of her tears with excruciating tenderness.

“I’m still here,” they breathed, their voice barely more than a sigh of wind through brittle leaves. “I’m here… Haley.”

Her name, spoken like a prayer, like a farewell wrapped in love and regret.

She held them tighter, as if she could anchor them to the earth with the strength of her embrace alone. She pressed her forehead to theirs, her tears spilling freely now, dampening their skin as she whispered every promise she could think of, every word of love she had ever wanted to say, every desperate plea for time she knew the universe would not grant her.

Their breath hitched once, twice, then faltered.

She felt it happen — the precise moment when their chest, so frail beneath her trembling hands, rose for the last time and did not fall again. She felt it like a thread snapping in her own chest, a sharp, unbearable absence where their life had once been, and as the silence closed in around her, she pressed her lips to their temple and held them as tightly as she could, as if by sheer force of will she could deny the truth settling over them like a final, merciless frost.

Outside, the wind moved through the bare branches of the orchard, rustling what few withered leaves remained, and within the quiet of the farmhouse, Haley wept for the love she had found too late to keep, and the life that had slipped from her arms as surely as the seasons slipped away from them both.

#stardew valley #sdv farmer #stardew valley farmer #stardew valley haley #sdv haley #haley x farmer #sdv fic #sdv

9 notes · View notes