#patchwork device

[classicalsqueak]

Using Patchwork Devices in Fortnite Creative, but want to transpose? Try adding a Note Progressor.

This video is about the Note Progressor Patchwork Device in Fortnite Creative, alongside some music theory. I also transcribed and played through all of the presets on the piano.

To download the PDFs from this video: https://ko-fi.com/s/4a9fbdec27

More tutorial videos:

Note Sequencers, Simple Build (Bach Prelude in C): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CYX63DIMHY

Part 2 (update): https://youtu.be/dwEklAySBqU?si=EuOpEzgzNJ4Z6ZxX

Map Codes:

Patchwork Bach Prelude (my map!): 1015-9049-0160

https://www.fortnite.com/@classicalsqueak/1015-9049-0160

Tutorial maps listed by Fortnite:

Patchwork Music Gallery Island: 5806-7083-7937

Patchwork Club: 6730-0905-0185

For more videos: YouTube (classicalsqueak) / Video Index

For more sheet music: Ko-fi (classicalsqueak) or SMP* (published by Ylan Chu)

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; you finally make the trip to the pack’s new home. long-simmering tensions flare—an uneasy reunion forged by guarded stares and clipped words. the pack gathers, and the stage is set for a decision long overdue.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The late afternoon sun cast a golden light on the bustling streets, painting your town in warmth that rivaled the magic thrumming beneath its cobblestones. For a moment, you paused outside the manor gates, looking out over what had once been a small, closed-off place—and feeling a flicker of pride at how it had grown.

Witches, humans, fae, and others mingled in the market, their voices melding into a lively hum. Vendors sold rune-etched wares beside digital devices. A pair of teenagers—one with a tiny draconic tail flicking behind her, the other with mundane but bright eyes—laughed, sharing a snack as they scrolled through their phones. Each step away from your home brought a new sight: a newly opened café with both magical potions and regular coffees on the menu; a tinkerer’s stall that mixed mechanical drones with small hexes for self-maintenance; an elder witch demonstrating a subtle warding technique to a group of wide-eyed humans.

The harmony here wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was real. 

Every patchwork compromise, every lingering tension, had led to these small but precious moments of cooperation. You felt a quiet contentment, the sort that made you wish you could linger in town just a bit longer, soaking in the sense of possibility in the air.

But your journey lay beyond, away from the light and bustle, into the edges of the town where the land grew silent and the roads wound into the horizon. With each turn, your surroundings thinned—fewer homes, fewer shops, until the last sign of the town was a modest bakery perched at the corner of a gravel path.

Despite your success—or perhaps because of it—your chest tightened, the pull of unfinished business gnawing at you. They’re waiting teased the back of your mind. 

You tried to quell the swirl of dread, focusing instead on the farmland rolling out before you, the neat fences and carefully tended rows of crops. The open skies felt both liberating and too big. As you moved on, the farmland gave way to patches of woodland, the trees shifting in the wind as though whispering secrets you couldn’t quite catch.

Here, on the outskirts, it felt as though you’d crossed a threshold from warmth and cooperation into a more primal hush—like stepping into the maw of a waiting beast.

You swallowed, your footsteps echoing on a lonely road. Sybil wasn’t here with you—she remained at the manor, still recovering from her vaccines, leaving you to face this trek alone. Odd, how so little distance can shift the entire mood, you mused.

A turn in the path brought you to a slight rise, and beyond it, you spotted a house—larger than expected, set back against the treeline. Part of you wanted to curse how fitting it was: enough land to roam, to run, to hide secrets if they chose.

As you took another step, you felt the first brush of wards—magic lines carefully laid into the earth, likely Gaz’s doing. A prickle of energy crawled along your skin, not overtly hostile but undeniably watchful. You couldn’t deny the sense of finality as you passed beyond them. Well, now they know I’m here. The quiet rustle of the wind through the trees seemed to mock your tension.

At last, you emerged from the narrow lane into the clearing that housed their home. For a moment, you just stood there, heart racing in your ears, mind drifting back to the lively scenes in town—that was your domain. But here, on the outskirts, the hush was thick enough to choke you, and the memory of your differences with the pack weighed heavily.

“No more running,” you muttered under your breath, forcing your legs forward until you reached the porch steps. The boards creaked underfoot, and you let out a slow exhale, smoothing a hand down your clothes as though it might settle the roil in your gut.

With a steadying inhale, you raised a hand and knocked. Firm, resolute—no hesitation allowed. The sound echoed in the stillness, and in that moment, the hush of the surrounding fields felt like the tense pause before a storm.

They’re here, you’re here, and there’s no turning back.

.

.

.

John blinked once, then twice. He hadn’t expected it to be you—not yet, anyway. 

Of course, part of him had known this moment was coming, had braced himself for the inevitable. But when he actually pulled the door open and found you standing on the threshold… it still hit like a solid punch to the gut.

You stood there, framed by the dim evening light. At first glance, he noticed the obvious changes: different clothes, maybe a slightly altered haircut, a new aura of confidence that hadn’t been there the last time you’d faced each other. But the longer he looked, the more the subtle details came into focus.

Your eyes were guarded. Every line of your posture was coiled tight, a testament to the anger and apprehension warring beneath your veneer of composure. Yet there was a flicker of something else—fear, perhaps, though not the kind that made people cower. No, you were more like an animal backed into a corner—angry and ready to snap if provoked.

It stung to see you like this, to sense that wariness pinned firmly on him—on them all. But after everything, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

He swallowed. “...You look… different,” he heard himself say, the words stumbling out before he could filter them. Not exactly a graceful greeting.

You didn’t move, didn’t invite yourself in, didn’t speak right away. Your gaze flicked past him, scanning the interior as though checking for threats. A tense, loaded silence fell over the space between you.

John took that moment to really drink in your presence—the shifting set of your jaw, the slight tension in your shoulders. Every corner of your appearance seemed touched by change. Time and circumstance had carved new edges into your expression, worn away traces of softness he remembered all too well.

“Right,” he muttered, taking half a step back. His heart thundered, each beat a reminder of the countless nights he’d replayed in his mind, wondering if and how he’d ever fix what he’d broken. “Well… guess you’d better come in,” he managed, voice a touch gruff.

He waited, hands absently clenching at his sides, bracing himself for whatever came next. Because in your eyes, that guarded storm said it all:

No matter the changes—no matter the growth—this confrontation would be far from simple. And if there was any path to peace, it was through the thorns of the past.

Gaz practically bustled into view the moment John stepped back, his eyes filled with that same mixture of nerves and eager concern that made him look, for all the world, like a worried hen clucking after her chick. He made a point of keeping his hands to himself, though, not even placing a guiding touch on your shoulder as he ushered you inside. It hurt him, you could see it in the fleeting twist of his lips—he was the tactile one, the one who was always patting backs or ruffling hair when times were good. But he held back, glancing at you for permission he never quite asked.

“Let’s, uh… let’s sit down,” he said, voice low and careful, as if you might bolt at any sudden movement. And though every muscle in your body felt tight and ready to spring, you allowed yourself to be shepherded deeper into their new home.

It was different from the one you remembered—larger and more open, with smooth, polished floors and enough space for the pack to move around without crowding each other. You took in the furniture, the subdued colors, the careful arrangement of wards carved into wooden beams, half-hidden by decorative trim. Gone were the scratches on the walls, the battered couch, and the faint smell of old regrets.

You and John ended up in what must have been the living area, a modest arrangement of chairs around a low table. You eyed him warily as he settled opposite you, shoulders rigid with tension and eyes flicking to you every few seconds, as though half expecting you to vanish. Or explode.

The last time you’d been under the same roof as them… it had been disastrous. The memory tugged at your gut, threatened to churn up all that raw fury you’d tried so hard to bury.

Gaz offered a comforting smile—small, genuine—and then hurried off, presumably to fetch your favorite drink. The gesture stung more than it soothed, a reminder of how intimately they knew you, how they’d once used that knowledge to weave themselves into your life without you even noticing.

So you sat there, your spine tight, gaze flicking around the room in silence. A single lamp glowed from a side table, casting warm light onto a rug that might’ve been brand new. The place still felt like them somehow, but neater, more carefully composed—like they’d forced themselves to tame the chaos.

John cleared his throat, the sound abrupt in the hush. You didn’t meet his eyes, not yet. Instead, you let yourself breathe, taking in the dull hum of your own pulse, trying to keep your temper at bay.

When Gaz returned, he held a simple glass mug, the steam curling from its rim. He set it gently on the table beside you, then stepped back like he’d just approached a skittish animal.

“Figured you’d want that,” he said quietly, not quite managing his usual, easy grin. “No sugar, right? That’s… how you’ve always liked it.”

Your heart pinched at the memory. “Thank you,” you managed, voice stiff but not unkind.

Then silence again.

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting its heat seep into your skin, while John shifted, a hand heavily scratching at his neatly trimmed beard. Everything in your stance, his stance, read caution.

You took a careful sip of your drink, inhaling the familiar aroma. Despite everything, it warmed you in ways you hated to admit.

Gaz hovered nearby, clearly aching to offer more comfort but too afraid to breach the fragile boundary you’d set. Johnny sat in silence, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes darting between you and the mug, like he was trying to figure out the right words to say.

John sucked in a breath, about to speak, when a sudden clatter came from deeper in the house. A second later, the back door slammed open, and Soap all but exploded into the living area, voice already echoing off the walls.

“I knew I smelled ye!” he hollered, his accent rolling with excitement. “Thought I’d lost my bloody mind, but there ye are, trouble!”

You startled in your seat, gaze darting from Price to the commotion Soap caused as he barreled in. Gaz, standing off to the side, nearly dropped the spoon he’d been holding, while Price went rigid, clearly not expecting such a loud entrance in the middle of a tense moment.

Your heart thudded once, hard, as Soap stormed forward, his mohawk back and wilder than you remembered and his blue eyes lit with an odd mixture of disbelief and elation. He looked ready to fling himself at you —until he truly took you in.

That’s when he froze. Utterly and entirely.

Soap just stared at you, chest heaving as though he’d sprinted a mile. His eyes, so vibrant with relief and excitement, carried a hint of something else: uncertainty. Because while he might be thrilled to see you, there was no denying the deep rift that’d cracked everything wide open the last time you stood under one roof.

Then another figure stepped into view behind him, and your pulse kicked up again. Simon —towering, masked, and stoic—placed a large, gloved hand on Soap’s shoulder. The sound of it landing was solid, as was the weight of his calm presence.

“Boots,” Ghost said tersely, voice low and gritty. “Mud.”

Soap blinked, jolting out of his shock. “Eh? Oh—!” He glanced down at the mud clinging to his soles, guilt flitting across his features. “Right, right. Let me just—” With a clumsy shuffle, he shoved the boots off, half-flinging them into a corner. A faint flush crept up his neck as he turned back to face you, mohawk quivering with pent-up energy.

Ghost stood behind him, posture squared. Even through the mask, you felt the intensity of his gaze. A flicker of something shone through his otherwise stoic bearing as he briefly inclined his head in greeting.

Now they were all here. The tension pressed in, thick and unsettling—like the long moment before thunder shakes the sky.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. This wasn’t going to be easy, not by a long shot. Everything about Johnny—his frantic entrance, his wide, bright eyes—reminded you of just how different things used to be… and how much had changed since then.

Price cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the group for a moment. He looked from you to Soap, brow furrowing. “Well,” he said mildly, tension lacing his voice. “Seems we’ve got ourselves a full house.”You nodded stiffly, lips pressed into a thin line.

Full house indeed.

divider credit

[thewitchblue]

Recluse, Part Two: The Society

You woke up on a medical cott in a cave. You tried to remember how you got there or what happened. This didn't look like the medical unit at the Society HQ. You looked around and noticed the location you are in.

With a groan, you started to sit up only to realise you couldn't. You had metal pinning you down. You heard Venom growl,

"These assholes are dead when you tear off this metal pinning you."

You pursed your lips. First, you needed to find something to use as an escape. Unfortunately, the part of the cave you were put in seemed to be mostly empty. Nothing within grasp or range of your webs.

At least you still had your teleportation methods to escape. You asked for your device to look like a ring. Boring, unassuming. It was designed to look cheap, but it was the most complex device that you made.

You sighed as you took a look around. Nobody was around, thankfully, but you needed an escape route.

What the fuck did the Batfam do to you while you were unconscious? Where are you? It doesn't matter. You can teleport back home and someone will be there to fix the sedative and send antidotes to add to the database.

You stretched, which ripped the metal cuffs on your limbs easily. You sat up and began tugging at the metal around your midsection, but you found it wasn't as easy to break.

You tugged at the lock that's in place with a frown. It was melded together, crudely, at that. It seemed like the welder panicked when they melded the metal together. You remember vaguely waking up to see blurred figures standing over you with a disapproving gentleman in the background, who was incredibly disappointed in your captors. You sighed. Maybe you could portal the medical cott to escape, if the metal wouldn't budge.

"How are you feeling?"

You heard a voice asked. Your eyes snapped to see a child in front of you. His expression was hard, but his eyes seemed almost soft. You could feel more than one pair of eyes, so you sarcastically replied,

"Like your chicken friend just hit me with a train."

You picked up the pattern. You'd be stupid not to. The dark, dingy cave would only fit Batman and this is his little sidekick. You do a bit of research for each universe before going to the universe so you are prepared for whatever. They are his patchwork family. You could see it all so clearly because you have that patchwork family. You watched all your actual family members die, but the Society became your family. You hijacked Miles's family when you are in his universe. You became a "distant cousin from a different country" when you are with Miles's family.

"I'm sorry. Drake tripped."

You rolled your eyes at the weak excuse. With an uncapped needle in his hand? Unlikely. However, now that you had someone close... maybe you could use Robin to your advantage. Your eyes scanned his suit before landing on his utility belt. An idea, a hope, began to form.

You quickly webbed Robin's utility belt and pulled it to you. The belt clicked off his waist at your tug, and you thanked the universe for not ripping the cloth.

There's surely something in the belt to aid your escape. You grinned when you found a means to escape. A small bomb that you recognise was graverobbed off Harry'suitcases corpse. Finally success!

You strapped the bomb to your welded metal. Thankfully, there was no release latch on this type of bomb so there was nothing Robin could do about it. Robin's eyes widened, but he had no choice but to flee. You used a smoke bomb just as the bomb exploded.

You stumbled in pain as bits of metal flew across the room. Yeah, you definitely broke your hips and likely had some metal embedded in you. Whatever. It will all heal in time. You needed to get home.

You used your ring just in time for Robin to tackle you into the portal.

You quickly shut the portal before more followed. You squirmed under his iron grasp while you fall on the cold hardwood floor of the HQ. Pain rams through you as your hips slam to the floor. Robin's grasp was the only thing grounding you to consciousness, so you draw him closer in your arms. Your arms were weakened, so you couldn't fight nearly as hard as you could when someone took Robin away.

You vaguely heard Miguel screaming at you and watch Robin get taken away, overwhelmed by the sheer number of spider people surrounding him and ready to take on a 12 year old boy.

"Miguel, I think they are hurt."

You don't see who spoke, but you nodded and gestured to your lower body before collapsing. Your bones felt like they were vibrating and your muscles felt like liquorice when it was being pulled.

Miguel cursed loudly but gently picked you up and carried you to medbay, where Robin was getting checked for injuries as well. He was put on soft restraints, likely because of him fighting to return to your side, but you barely noticed.

The doctors and nurses cursed when they saw you and ran. If you were more lucid, you'd see the guilty look on Robin's face. Unfortunately for him, all his trackers in his utility belt items were destroyed by the bomb and damaged beyond repair.

"You are so fucking lucky you have an insane healing factor. You would have died!"

One of the doctor's scolded at you. Your hearing was coming back and your bones, now set, were healing perfectly fine. You scoff. With folded arms, you bitterly reply,

"I'd rather die than be a prisoner."

The staff all quieted at that. They knew you were imprisoned at your home universe, but they don't know the extent of the torture. Only Miguel knew and he's been particularly protective ever since he discovered you.

"I'm sorry. We were worried sick. Miguel, especially. He wanted to go out to get you, but your trackers were disabled. We feared the worst."

You nodded with a sigh. You felt a rib snap into place as the action and cursed loudly in Spanish.

You should have known to do that fight while invisible. You could have. You didn't have to expose yourself, but you felt like goblin would have done more damage to civilians if you were invisible. He needed a target to focus his energy on, and you were happy to be that target if it meant the civilians (and the heroes) were safer.

"You are never going back to that universe."

Miguel said coldly. His red eyes lingered on you as his eyes scanned your already healed body and then counted the metal shards removed from your body. Over one hundred shards were removed. You immediately countered while gesturing to Damian,

"I can't just kidnap a child! I have to bring him back."

Miguel borderline growled,

"Then we'll get someone else to bring him back. You are staying here."

You sighed. You knew he'd be pissed, but you weren't prepared for his calm anger. He's normally the explosive type, but he's deadly calm this time. This was a command, not a request or a demand.

"You can't keep me locked here! I have to go back and right my wrongs. Who would I be if I didn't at least return the child?"

He hissed as he approached,

"A smart one! You are banned from that universe. I will be altering your device to remove that universe."

You pursed your lips. You had to right your wrongs. At all cost.

"I'm bringing him back. I don't have to interact with anyone, just throw him back to the universe."

Miguel shook his head. He should have expected you to be the noble one and return the child personally. He said sternly,

"If you must go, I'm going with you and you are bringing your webs."

You bit your lip but relented. At least you'd be returning the child.

"And I'm implanting more trackers and embedding your ring to your finger. We're engaged. You can't just walk away like that and not expect me to panic."

A doctor pipped up with a nervous chuckle,

"It's true. It was like trying to calm down a tiger. It was impossible until you stumbled in."

You huffed an amused laugh and kissed his hand.

"I'm safe, corazón mío (my heart)."

He nodded but bit his lip with his fangs. You could see the anxiety in his still cooling red eyes.

"Lo siento (I'm sorry). I... I can't lose you. Me destruiría. (It would destroy me)."

You smiled softly at him as you took his hand. You love him deeply. You asked,

"What are we going to do with the child in the meantime? We can't imprison him with the rest of the anomalies."

Miguel said a bit playfully,

"We can always keep him as our kid."

You know he was only half-joking. He wants a kid with you, and Damian's the perfect candidate. You have to keep the child close either way. You eyed the boy strapped to the bed next to you. You considered it for a moment before you admitted,

"I don't want him to be cursed like us."

Miguel sighed, but the child seemed to perk up. He seemed to like the idea of you becoming his family and who was Miguel to deny you?

"I can handle myself in a fight, alwalid."

He was already calling you his parent. Your gaze softened as you walk to his bedside. You took his hand in yours and asked,

"You want to be with us? What about your father?"

He shrugged as best he could while trapped. You eyed the restraints before your gaze turned back to Damian. He said plainly,

"I lived without him before. I can live without him now."

You frowned and looked at Miguel, who also shrugged. He seemed to have a long conversation with you through just a look before finally saying,

"It's your call. We always wanted children, but I'll admit I'm worried about the history."

You sighed and turned your attention back to the little Robin. You carefully undo his restraints and eyed him warily for a moment. You knew you could take him in. You have the space at home and the perfect partner to aid you. Miguel says,

"If we adopt you, we have to do it by the book. We can't just kidnap you. Your dad will tear the multiverse apart to find you again."

Damian nodded. He's fine with that. He loved your strength and your resolve. Your sense of moral seemed strong, even if you are young and faced many tragedies. You nodded your agreement while softly smiling. You already were growing to love the child, but it's hard to tell if it's because of your strong desire for children or because of this child specifically. After all these years of wanting a child, one falls right into your lap. Damian tugged on your shirt lightly to get your attention.

"Alwalid, it might go better if only you go. He might find Miguel... hostile. The fangs and red eyes would make him falter in his decision for you to adopt me."

Miguel looked like he wanted to fight the claim but you gave Miguel a stern look and draw Damian into your arms.

"If you want this child, you have to let me go this one time."

Miguel looked Damian over, and Damian tried to look demure and loveable. After a long pause and another conversional look between you both, Miguel nodded.

"If you don't come back by tomorrow, estoy arrastrando tu culo de vuelta auqí por tus tobillos. (I'm dragging your ass back here by your ankles)."

You flashed a grin and nodded. You gave him a quick kiss and said,

"Te amo, mi corazón (I love you, my heart). I'll come back!"

Miguel grumbled but allowed you to enter the portal back to Damian's universe after a long kiss Damian had to look away from with a disgusted face.

Miguel didn't like the way Damian smirked as you entered the portal. Miguel shot Miles a quick text about it. It's his universe, after all. Maybe his spider sense is paranoid, or maybe his worry isn't unfounded.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for qwertynerd97 behind the cut; Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids.  (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Pa finishes closing up the barn doors and then beckons Kara after him, and she follows him into the house much earlier than they’d normally go inside. Kal is sitting on the sitting room rug playing with his stuffed Krypto, and Ma is flitting around the house and seems to be doing different chores from usual too. She’s collected an odd assortment of things on the table in the kitchen–a box of fat white wax cylinders and a bigger metal cylinder with a clear flat lens at one end but no accompanying lens to see through on the other, and a small square-shaped metal device with a metal spiral on top and a dial on its side, and also some strange-smelling metal cans sitting on the floor next to the “fridd”. There’s a few other things scattered around the kitchen and living room that Kara doesn’t recognize or know the purpose of, but she doesn’t really know what to think of any of them. 

They’re just, well–things.

Kara’s getting used to not knowing what things are. Getting used to the constant sense of disorientation, the confusion, the displacement; the feeling of everything always being alien. Nothing ever being familiar. Nothing ever feeling–

She’s getting used to all that. Yes. 

She doesn’t have a choice about it, because nothing will ever be familiar again. 

Nothing ever can be familiar again, because the only thing left of their “familiar” is her and Kal and some smashed wreckage and a few crystals. 

And Kal won’t even know the difference in the end, assuming he even knows the difference now.

He’s never cried for Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor the way she expected him to. Never . . . 

She’d thought he’d cry for them. Thought he’d be inconsolable without them. Thought the grief would come for him too, and the loss and frustration and need, and . . . 

She doesn’t even know if he cares they’re gone. 

He–cares, she tells herself; of course he cares. He . . . he must. 

( if he knows. if he understands. if he even REMEMBERS them, remembers ANYTHING, remembers– )

Kara makes herself smile for Kal as she crosses the living room and crouches down beside him to check on him. He’s playing with his stuffed Krypto, still, and a few of the set of painted wooden cubes that Ma and Pa like to stack for him and he likes to knock over are scattered around him, along with the soft little patchwork blanket Ma gave him. He seems happy, and unconcerned with anything else. He babbles at her and baps his Krypto against her face. She tries not to concentrate on the flat, toneless register his babbling keeps slipping into; the way he’s clearly imitating the aliens’ language more than he is Kryptonian. 

“Krippo! Krippo!” Kal announces excitedly, and Kara doesn’t concentrate on the missing notes in his voice. 

Or on his accent on the word “Krypto”, and how close it is to the way Ma and Pa say it. 

“Hi, Krypto,” she says, poking his soft stuffed nose gently in return. Kal giggles and baps her harder. 

“Krippo Krippo!” he says happily, and then–“Krippo pie!” 

He means he wants a snack, she knows. Kal’s started doing things like that; suggests “feeding” Krypto when he’s hungry or wants something to eat himself. “Krippo up” and “Krippo out” are both new additions to his vocabulary too. He uses words almost as much as he chimes, even, or even uses any other calls at all. 

She didn’t know he’d start talking so quickly. Just–after the first few words, he got to phrases much quicker than she expected, so simple sentences probably aren’t too far away either. Which–Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor are both–were both brilliant, obviously, so she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. Though she doesn’t really know how quickly most babies learn either, so maybe it’s not even as quick as it feels to her. 

Just–it feels so fast. He couldn’t talk at all when they got here. He’s taller than when they got here. Taller and broader and heavier and better at using his hands, and crawling better and better and even pulling himself up to standing against the furniture, sometimes. She’s seen him try to take steps with its support, even, though he hasn’t quite figured it out yet and she usually has to catch or steady him before he can fall. Even his hair’s grown a little, and it’s curling more and more. 

It’s . . . it’s been so much change in him, it feels like. So much change that Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor never saw, and never will. So much more change to come that they’ll never, ever know about. He never said a word to either of them. He never . . . never . . . 

Someday he’ll be grown enough they wouldn’t even recognize him if they saw him. If they could see him, she means. 

But they can’t, of course. 

Kara makes herself keep smiling for him and picks up a couple of the cubes to stack up for him too. They're brightly-colored, at least for this planet–almost nothing here seems to be quite as intensely saturated as anything back home was, and it’s all just as flat as the alien’s voices. There’s no iridescence to the whites, no texture or shimmer in the blacks, and all the other colors are just one or two-note hues at best. 

The little yellow sun’s light is as layered as a nebula, still holding little glimpses of its past bright white youth and already glimpses of its future powerful red maturity, but mostly just a thousand shades of swirling, burning yellow shining with eager purpose and promise and depth, but that’s the only thing. Everything else is just . . . flat. 

Sometimes it makes Kara feel like she isn’t even real. Like the aliens and their planet aren’t even real, and she’s dreaming all this in stasis as her ship chases Kal’s across the stars. 

Or she’s dreaming all this as their whole world burns down and falls apart and self-immolates in the last moments of her life, with no hope or chance at survival at all. 

She stacks another couple of cubes into a tower. Kal knocks it over with his Krypto, and laughs in delight as it falls apart. 

It doesn’t burn, but Kara can taste ash in her mouth anyway. 

[gt-zel]

(title TBD) winter and claus

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Chapter 1:

It had been a long night of work, and Winter had finally gotten every item on his list. Since his brother, Ryan, had left on a trip to visit their parents, Winter had to fend for himself. But you see, Winter didn't have a normal human job, anymore than he was a normal human teenager. Because he wasn't normal, or human. Winter was a borrower, a secret tiny subspecies of humans. No one knew how they had come to be, and as far as actual humans were concerned, they didn't exist at all. Borrowers, for those of you who don't know, are tiny people who stand about 3 inches in height. They “Borrow” from their stronger and bigger counterparts, without their consent. Yes, it could be called stealing, but is it really stealing if it never leaves the house? So anyway, these Borrowers usually reside in the walls, floorboards, or ceilings of human houses, and take little items that won't be missed. 

And that brings us back to Winter. As I'm sure you’ve already realized, Winter is one of these Borrowers. The 17 year old boy stood at a height of about 7.82 centimeters. His dark black curls were shaggy around his delicate complexion. He had bright silvery eyes that glittered when he was curious. The borrower had a tuft tipped tail which was soft, and very much sensitive to touch. His ears were pointed just enough to come off as faen. He wore a patchwork tunic and intentionally torn pants that his older brother always gave him trouble for. Winter thought of the tears as a fashion choice. 

The borrower sat on the sill of a window in one of the human’s rooms. He watched the sunrise, knowing he would need to head home soon to prevent being seen. But he brushed the thought away, the human always had an alarm that went off, and waited a long while before actually waking up. He wouldn't have to worry about being caught today. After all, he was a skilled borrower, trained by the best. 

Winter’s eyes caught on the papers on the human’s desk, curiosity perking him up. He had been taught to read at a young age by his parents, a borrower necessity for gathering the correct supplies. He hastily made his way over to the desk, clamoring up the tall side using his home-made grappling device. It was self engineered by him and his brother. A sort of pulley system to prevent the pains and risks of the usual borrower's fish hook. He launched the hook in the air with stunning precision, then attached the clamp to his harness belt and finally flipped the leaver which helped to propel him along the rope. The pulley system had been Ryan’s idea, since Winter had irregular fainting spells and needed a safe way to guarantee his borrowing trips would be successful. 

As Winter finally reached the top of the desk and unhooked the harness, leaving the pulley system intact on the edge of the desk for his trip back down. Winter curiously approached the humans papers, the night prior he had noticed the human writing ferociously and he grew more intrigued by the moment. His head tilted to the side, not unlike a curious puppy, as he stepped onto the writing that dwarfed him in size. He focused his eyes on reading each letter, making sentences. To Winter’s delight, the human had been writing a story of sorts. The borrower did not understand the majority of what the human was talking about in the story, a lot of numbers. But it appeared to be talking about a group of humans on a trip to a place called “California” in search of the rare item “gold.” As Winter read, he became more and more engrossed with the story. Winter was so engrossed in fact, that he had completely forgotten about the human who was supposed to be asleep behind him. It wasn't until it was too late that Winter realized the horror. 

As a floorboard creaked behind him, Winter spun around, eyes wide. His gaze landed on the human’s towering form, looming above. Before Winter could process the scene enough to run, a sickeningly massive hand shot out and curled itself tightly around the borrower's bony form. The sudden movement knocked the air out of WInters body. His delicate form finally caught up with the rush of pain. As the whole world shifted around him faster than he had ever experienced, Winter’s body seized with terror. Fear spiked within his disoriented form as two massive eyes the size of him focused, their dark blue mixed with flecks of shimmering gold looked with sick curiosity as they met Winter’s small form. 

Winter felt his throat close up as his heart thrummed in his ears, a loud ringing echoing through the room as the human alarm went off. Winter flinched and screwed his eyes shut at the piercing sound, his breathing becoming an erratic mix of strangled gasps and panicked chokes. His head swivels around, his pinned down arms desperately wishing to shield his tender ears from the sharp painful sound. He felt the world around him move at a nauseating speed, a loud booming voice echoed around him but was clouded by the borrower's panic and the loud ringing. Winter felt the already firm grip around him tighten. 

The loud piercing sound was quelled and zeals' eyes opened blearily.  Immediately his dizzy gaze dropped down to the startling height he was being held at. His eyes darted to the human, his cold stare, shapely face looking at the borrower scrutinizingly, his wispy blonde hair falling across his face delicately. As his lips moved to speak, Winter winced in pain, a sharp throbbing in his head as the human's bellowing voice became more clear to him.

“Tch-what the hell do we have here?” His voice was cold and sickeningly toned. The voice made WInter’s blood run cold with fear. Suddenly, the weight of the situation gripped him. He had been caught, not only that, the human looked as if he might just kill Winter there and then. 

Winter shrunk into himself, struggling helplessly in the pain inducing grip of the human. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his panic triggering a fight or flight sense, causing him to act without thinking. He sunk his teeth into the tip of the human’s finger, the only form of fight he was able to muster up. Unfortunately for Winter, this backfired and the human just squeezed tighter. Winter whimpered and shrunk into himself more, his lungs so compressed that he could barely breathe. 

“Ah! P-please” a pathetic whimper escaped his lips in pain, pleading to be let go. A sharp cry of desperation. He would definitely be severely bruised later. If there was going to be a later for Winter. 

The human's eyes widened a fraction, upon realizing the creature he had caught could speak. He loosened his grip on Winter enough for the borrower to be able to breathe. He needed to think cautiously.

“What are you?” the human asked in a cold tone. He tightened his grip on Winter just enough to be seen as a warning. 

But Winter couldn’t just answer humans. Revealing his species would jeopardize his family and all of the borrower kind. He had already fucked up once by speaking in the presance of the human, he wouldnt allow himself to break any more rules. 

“I-I don't have to tell you” Winter spat out, an obvious tremble in his voice as he tried to mask his fear with harsh words. 

The human scoffed at the words, looking down at the borrower coldly “oh really? Those are some bold words for someone smaller than my hand” he smirked devilishly down at the frightened borrower. 

Winter bit back a cry of fear, he felt his senses overwhelm, his vision blur. ‘Oh no’ the borrower thought in a panic ‘no no no no no not now!’ he felt his vision double and his head began to cloud over as he was visited by a fainting spell. He had been trying his best to not over exert himself for fear of this happening. 

He felt his head nod back as everything went black, his body collapsing under the stress of the situation. 

[lentiggine7]

The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

[inkbyme]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ My hero academia x reader inspired by jinx ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

2 | Blood & Gunpowder

⸻

“Some people build. Some people burn. I do both.”

⸻

Overhaul gave you a home.

Not in the warm, comforting sense—no, it was a home built of rules and discipline, of blood and precision. But it was still more than you’d ever had before.

And you thrived in it. You weren’t just a weapon anymore. You were an artist.

Each bomb, each gun, each carefully placed explosive was a masterpiece of destruction. You worked fast, hands twitching with excitement as you pieced together something lethal, something beautiful. The voices whispered suggestions, urging you on, laughing alongside you when something finally went boom.

Overhaul had no patience for your theatrics, but he tolerated them. After all, you got the job done. And that’s all that mattered.

The League of Villains entered your life in the worst way possible—by trying to kill Overhaul.

The attack came fast. Brutal. The League had their sights set on him, and you were caught in the crossfire.

You were supposed to be furious at the audacity of it. And you were.

Because Overhaul was yours. And nobody got to take what was yours.

You were fast—so fast that the blue flames barely licked your skin before you dodged, twisting through the air with ease. You felt alive, more alive than you had in weeks. A battle. A real one.

It was fun. But fun or not, you wouldn’t let them win.

“You move fast, huh?” The patchwork-looking one—Dabi—grinned, flicking another burst of fire toward you.

You dodged again, landing lightly on your feet. “You noticed! How sweet.”

Shigaraki was watching from the sidelines, scratching at his neck, eyes narrowing as he studied you. “We could use someone like her.”

Overhaul scoffed, stepping forward. “She’s not for sale.”

And that was all it took for your fingers to relax, for the tension in your chest to ease.

Overhaul wouldn’t let them take you, nor him.

You weren’t some stray they could pluck from the streets. You belonged here. The voices whispered their approval.

“Shame,” Shigaraki muttered, before signaling the League to retreat.

And just like that, they were gone.

After the attack, Overhaul was different.

His grip on you tightened—not physically, not in any way obvious, but you felt it in the way he watched you more carefully, the way his words became colder.

“You’re not like them,” he told you one night, as you pieced together another explosive device. “You’re controlled. Disciplined.”

The voices in your head laughed. You? Disciplined? Oh, that was rich.

But he meant it. And that was enough. Because if Overhaul saw something in you, if he trusted you—then it meant you belonged.

And wasn’t that all you had ever wanted?

The next time you saw Mirio, everything was different.

You weren’t a street rat anymore. You weren’t some nameless kid hiding in the alleys.

You were chaos wrapped in human skin.

And Mirio? He was still bright. Still golden. Still smiling, like the world hadn’t chewed him up and spit him out yet.

It almost made you sick. Almost.

“Hey,” he said, hands on his hips, as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a battlefield, smoke curling in the air around you. “You again.”

Your lips curled. “You remembered.”

“Hard to forget someone who almost blew up my friends.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny, but because the voices thought it was. “Oh, c’mon. That was barely an explosion.”

Mirio’s smile faltered, just for a second. “You don’t have to do this, y’know.”

Your fingers twitched. The voices quieted, just a little.

Something about him made them nervous.

Made you nervous.

“Yeah?” You cocked your head. “And what exactly am I supposed to do instead? Join you and play hero?”

He held your gaze, unflinching. “It’s better than being a villain.”

Your grip tightened on the detonator in your hand.

“Better,” you echoed.

Better than what? The streets? Starving? Being alone?

No.

You had Overhaul. You had a purpose.

Mirio didn’t know anything.

You scoffed, throwing a smoke bomb and disappearing into the haze. Because for the first time in a long time, something felt off.

And you weren’t ready to find out why.

Previous: Part One ; Next: Part Three

Let me know if you have any feedback or if there’s any warnings I need to put on my post, I also take any requests from all fandoms that I know of. I hope you enjoyed reading this!

[bloodlessbelmounte]

Eternity Will Bring You Near - Chapter 3

Masterlist

Summary:

Wade understood that Logan was from a world where Alpha, Beta and Omega were everyday terms, not exclusive to red-pilled incel fuckheads who kept inventing new performative male genders. Wade would’ve been classified as a Beta. Logan, however, was an Alpha - Wade’s read enough fanfiction and yaoi manga to know what that means. Though it doesn’t explain why Logan keeps sniffing him.

Pairing: Alpha!Worst Wolverine/Deadpool Genre: A/B/O, Smut, Domestic-ish Warnings: A/B/O Dynamics, Blood, Lots of Logan Biting, Blow Job, Rut, Anal Sex, Multiple Positions, Anal Fingering

Beginning Note: I had not realised I didn't post chapter 3 on here whoops. Unbeta'd as usual so sorry for any mistakes.

Cross posted to AO3

Logan sat on his bed, tossing a little spherical gadget from one hand to the other in consideration. Wade had somehow strong armed Hank into making the zone isolation device. He shuddered at the thought of what kind of blackmail the merc had on Beast. It had been finished in time for the patchwork family to move into a rather spacious four bed apartment. And it had come in handy a few times already as Wade was making full use of having privacy and an en-suite. Though despite all their… activities Wade had still been apprehensive about going all the way. Logan wasn’t surprised he was intimidated so they took things at his pace. He wished that he had all the time in the world to break Wade in, however, he could feel the restless itch under his skin.

Rut was approaching.

He had completely lost track of it. Of course, he had no suppressants to deal with it because, as he’s come to know through living with the merc, Wade’s executive dysfunction was atrocious. He had no one but himself to blame for leaving the task up to the ADHD asshole. Which left him in his current predicament – how to deal with it. He didn’t want Wade to feel obligated to help him. It wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park for the man. So what did that leave him with? Shut himself in the spare room with this device and try to wait it out with herculean restraint? Didn’t seem feasible with how Wade’s sweet scent had been a lot stronger lately, less of an undercurrent and more of the main note. It was like he was perpetually horny or something. Should Logan find a cabin in the woods somewhere so he’s away from temptation? Who knew what trouble Wade would land himself in with his absence. Either way, booking the time off work on such short notice was going to be a nightmare.

Logan stood with a growl, features set in a scowl, and placed the device back in it’s stand on top of Wade’s bedside table. It’s not on his due to the amount of desk lamps that had been victim to his nightmares (and sometimes orgasms, folks. Peanut has claws when he’s very happy too but you already knew that). There wouldn’t be a replacement for the gadget so it remained on Wade’s side. He had about three days to get this shit figured out if his usual cycle was to be accounted for. Jesus, he was going to have to discuss it with Wade, wasn’t he? He needed a smoke.

He left the bedroom and made his way to the fire escape outside the hallway window. He wasn’t allowed to smoke inside the apartment building so he had set up a little smoking area out there. Fuck walking up to the roof every time he needed a cig. Which was more frequent since Wade replaced all the alcohol in their home with Dr Pepper, a drink that seemed to be his new addiction after he cut out cocaine for “our darling daughters’ sakes”. Althea had also been cut off as collateral, the poor woman was experiencing withdrawal the likes he’d never seen before. He picked a cigar from the box which was situated on the window ledge, lit it and took a drag.

Laura was currently attending evening classes at one of the local high-schools as the girl didn’t exactly get a formal education. The older mutant had wanted to send her to Westchester as a day student but Wade adamantly disagreed. He wouldn’t open up as to why but Laura had also agreed not going was for the best. The two of them shared conversations in Spanish which frustrated Logan to no end because they knew he didn’t understand the language. Those two knew something he didn’t and the scent of unease from them whenever it was bought up really perturbed him.

Wade should be home any minute now. As improbable as it seemed to Logan, the merc could in fact hold down a nine-to-five job as much as he seemed to loathe the dealership. Speak of the devil, the jangling of keys being slid into the lock alerted Logan to his… partner’s(?) return. He could smell Wade’s sweetness over the cigar smoke despite the distance. Something had got the man going it seemed. A bloodied Wade strutted through into the apartment, his clothes all askew but a triumphant smile on his face. At least the blood didn’t smell like his. So whatever happened, Wade hadn’t been the one to get hurt. The older mutant couldn’t help the fond quirk of his lips at that realisation. When he spotted Logan out through the window, he sauntered over and ambled through. Wade took the cigar from between his lips and gave him a quick peck, taking a drag before placing it right where it belonged.

“How was your shift at the workshop?” Wade asked, leaning against the side rail.

“Still have clients confusing me with Howlett,” Logan grunted in response, “Doesn’t help that I’m still not used to being called James-”

“Or that your name badge on those cute oversized overalls of yours says Logan,” Wade interrupted with a teasing grin.

Logan rolled his eyes and waved his hand from Wade’s head downwards, “What’s with the blood?”

“Came across some fuckheads trying to kidnap some boy. No older than elementary school age I’d wager. Lucky for him, I always have Baby Knife on me. Unlucky for them though. One has his organs spilling in some alleyway now dying slowly, the others had a much quicker end.” Wade unsheathed Baby Knife from God knows where and started stabbing and slicing at thin air as he spoke. He seemed… happy. Excited even. Logan hadn’t seen so much life in Wade (outside the bedroom) since he resumed work. It looked good on him. “I think I might quit the dealership and go back to mercenary work. For the right price and only those who are deserving, of course.”

“Anything to get y’to stop wearing that God awful toupee,” Logan taunted, reaching to pluck the staples out of Wade’s scalp to remove the affront to his eyes. “How soon can y’quit?”

“It’s a hair system you insensitive cunt. Because the author is British I can get away with saying that. And its courtesy to give two weeks notice, but when have I ever cared about corporate bureaucracy bullshit. I can quit tomorrow.” Wade shrugged.

“Good… good. There’s, uh, something I need to talk to y’about-”

“If you’re breaking up with me you could have told me before I kissed you.”

“What? No. I’m not breaking up with y’moron. I’m going to be going into Rut soon. Usually lasts about a week, was thinking of shutting myself away for that time. I need y’to be on y’best behaviour.”

Wade cocked his head to the side, would-be-brows furrowed and a tinge of bitter bewilderment wafting over, “Wouldn’t… wouldn’t you want me to join you?”

Logan heaved a sigh, took his cigar in one hand and rubbed his face with the other, “Yes I would like y’to join me. But I know y’not mentally ready for what that entails and I don’t want y’to feel pressured.”

“But I’ve been getting specialist training from a Wolvie who has exceedingly talented fingers. I’m ready.” Wade waggled his brows at the older man.

“Ready for a week straight of getting y’ass railed?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Actually do. That’ll really get me in the mood.”

“There’d be little to no breaks except for food, water and bathroom.” Logan warned.

“Honey Badger, for my mug to resemble a shaved ballsack I had to be tortured – while terminally ill – for a month straight. Got pressure washed while buck naked; used as a punching bag by a big buff bitch with super strength, electrocuted, held under some sort of oily shit repeatedly, sealed in an ice bath until my lips turned purple and the coup de gras: locked in an oxygen deprivation tank over the course of two days where I was bought to the point of suffocation again and again but never given the sweet reprieve of unconsciousness.” Wade mimed out his experiences, seemingly not noticing Logan’s very concerned look. “If that didn’t prepare me for a week of fucking a sexy Alpha, then that fight in the Odyssey certainly did.”

Wade’s ability to casually trauma dump as a joke would never cease taking Logan by surprise. Sure, he had heard some people deal with it through humour but to that extent? No that didn’t seem normal.

“It’ll be intense but Jesus fuck, I’m not going to torture y’, Wilson.”

“Oh, last name that means you’re serious. Look I was just trying to say I can take anything you give me.” Wade bought his hand up to rest on Logan’s bicep, squeezing gently to try and comfort.

Logan growled, “Are y’sure it’s what you want?”

“Yes! How many ways can I say it? The author is running out! Give Belmounte (read: Belmont) a break and just accept my company already. I’m ready to graduate to the danger cucumber.”

Logan couldn’t help but laugh at Wade’s ridiculous euphemism, slouching back against the rails and blowing smoke, “Fine, I need to get a few things sorted out first but we’ll be heading off in three days.”

“Heading off? But we have the Sound Bubble-inator.” He made a round shape with his hands.

“My instincts will be running wild. I’d rather not risk anyone getting caught in the cross fire.”

Wade’s mouth dropped into an ‘O’ as he nodded. In a rare case, the younger man opted to not continue that path of conversation. Instead he chose to prattle on about his day at work and how he was very close to convincing Peter to just give them a Honda Odyssey. They passed the cigar between them, Logan grunting every now and again at points to show he was still listening. Once the cigar was finished, the remains were stubbed out and flicked off into the trash below.

They climbed back into the apartment. Logan got started on making dinner while Wade joined Althea on the sofa who had been listening to the radio. Sure, Wade had the ability to cook, in fact he was a pretty good one but Logan’s instincts were nagging him to provide and show off desirable skills. Something that he hadn’t experienced in a while, not since… The alcohol and suppressants had done their job in numbing him and now he was sans both.

Alright alright alright, my turn! We’ve spent one-thousand-and-sixty-three words on Logan’s introspection. I’m trying not to be offended by the fact you started without me. I’ll put that down to poor decision making due to your illness. Time to give the people what they paid for in souls as well as blood and virgin sacrifices – me.

Wade, I know asking you not to be sassy is a lot for you, but please my brain is barely functioning. Let me write.

Ah, my bad. Take your time. Let those meds fuel you.

Thank you.

That evening, Wade sent Peter a text:

[Yo Sugar Bear, I’m gonna be quitting tomorrow. Think you could swing me that Honda as a leaving prezzie?]

[Going back to the suit? Always knew you would.]

Oh you should have seen the look on his manager’s face when he handed them a used napkin with ‘I QUIT’ scribbled in Neon Pink crayon with unicorns doodled around it. He had skipped out of that office as they shouted for him to come back. Peter had almost handed his notice in too but Wade had argued he needed the steady income if he was going to sustain a relationship with his wife and B-15. Yeah, a lot of people forgot Peter was married in the second Deadpool film. And that he was a bee keeper. Shame on you for forgetting. Anyway, Wade left DriveMax in a brand new second-hand Honda Odyssey that day. Just in time for Logan’s little get away he was planning.

The following days were a hectic blur of making sure everything would be okay in their absence. A large scale shop was done to make sure Laura, Blind Al and Mary Puppins would have enough food and the basics of other household necessities. Vanessa had agreed to check in on the girls in the evenings. A walking schedule was devised for Mary as well as a shit duty rota. And the packing! My God, trying to get a moment away from Logan so he could pack some secret surprises into his Hello Kitty duffle bag was an unexpected challenge.

The afternoon before Logan’s rut was predicted to start, the older man had corralled Wade out the door with a hurried farewells to the apartment’s other occupants. Apparently they would be driving through the afternoon and into the late evening to whatever location Logan had planned; who had called his boss that morning claiming a family emergency and that he would be out of town for just over a week whilst things get sorted. Small businesses like independent mechanic workshops can be hit or miss about things like sickness and emergencies, luckily for them – this one was a hit. And so into the Honda they went, with Logan driving of course, on a journey to some mysterious place where they hopefully won’t be disturbed. RIP to whatever poor soul stumbled upon them if Logan had decided on camping.

Eight hours.

Eight fucking hours of being sat in that car.

Obviously there were pit-stops to piss and eat but by Marvel Jesus, Wade could not stand long car journeys. You saw how he was in the Void. Imagine that but worse. He couldn’t keep still for the life of him. However, Logan had seemingly planned for this as he took the first traffic light as an opportunity to reach over and open the passenger glove compartment and hand Wade a Nintendo Switch. So the old dog did know about modern tech. Though arguably some might not consider the Switch to be ‘modern’ as it was now eight years old. Outdated in today’s world of extreme consumerism. Anyway, he must have stashed it in there the night before, which would explain why Wade had not been able to find it. But with it being just a Switch and not an OLED (God he hated half step releases, they reeked of money grabbing) the battery only lasted about four hours before it died. That was why he was ever so glad for smartphones and their doom scrolling time sinks.

Another hour and a half later, he was genuinely surprised when Canadian boarder patrol asked for their passports. Wade had turned to Logan in shock, jaw hanging open and eyes wide.

“Your taking us back to the motherland?” Wade squealed. Fucking squealed like a girl excited to receive flowers on prom night.

The fucker just gave him a crocked smile and handed their Canadian passports over to the officer who had been staring at the merc. Which didn’t go unnoticed by the pair.

“Do you often stare at injured veterans?” Wade reprimanded, glaring at the officer who quickly looked over their passports and handed them back.

“S-sorry, sir. W-welcome back,” the man stuttered with a salute before stepping back to let them through.

“Asshole,” Logan muttered, as he drove by. His hand reached for Wade’s thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. It remained for the rest of the journey unless Logan had to change gears.

It would be another two and a half hours until Logan pulled up in front of a lone rustic looking log cabin surrounded by golden woodland that occupied one of the shorelines of Lac Chapleau in Quebec. It was dark outside, almost pitch black. Stepping out of the car, the autumn chill greeted him as Wade stretched and joints popped in satisfying release from being cooped up for so long. Mid back stretch, he was distracted by the sheer beauty of the sky as his spine bowed backwards. How long had it been since he had last seen the stars? Had he ever even seen the glory of the Milky Way before? Like iridescent glitter and metallic purple watercolour on black card framing the full moon. Or Van Gogh’s Starry Night. This must have been what the skies looked like back then. Wade turned to look out onto the calm waters of the lake, a mirror reflecting the star-field above.

Putting those Poetry modules you did in uni to good use I see.

Well, Prose Poetry was my highest marked piece and I was the only one in my class who tackled it after the lecturer said it was hard.

Finally! Some confidence from you.

“Y’okay, Bub? You’ve been staring at the lake all quiet while I’ve unloaded the car.” Logan asked, concern lacing his voice as he place a hand on Wade’s shoulder.

“I was considering skinny dipping in it with you. But that’s too much like the lead up to Edward and Bella’s first sexy time in Breaking Dawn part one.” The merc’s nose scrunched up in distaste. No way was he ever going to replicate that dumpster fire.

Logan turned Wade to face him, scowling utterly confused, “The fuck are y’on about?”

“You know, the Twilight Saga? Team Edward vs Team Jacob? The pentalogy of sparkly vampire films? Teenage girls fantasising about Robert Pattinson and his airbrushed abs that caused him body dysmorphia?” Logan stared at him, still scowling but eyes blank. Not even a hint of recognition in those caramel pools of his. “Come on, it started off as a book series dreamt up by a sexually repressed mormon woman and was really popular in the late naughties early tens.”

“Never heard of it. If it was that popular the girls would have told me about it.” Logan deadpanned.

Oh. Yeah. He would have been at the mansion then. So if Kitty, Rogue or Jubilee didn’t watch it then-

“Holy shit! Your universe doesn’t have Twilight! Maybe that’s where your timeline started to go tits up. Either Stephanie Meyer got the dicking down of her life before she could have wet vampire dreams about Henry Cavil or she was hit by a bus.”

Logan rolled his eyes and walked past Wade towards the lake, shrugging off his leather jacket and pulling his t-shirt over his head. When he realised the younger man wasn’t following him, he glanced over his shoulder at him.

“We doing this or what, Princess?”

Wade was quick to follow suit, stripping off as he jogged after Logan, stumbling when he tried to hurriedly fling off his shoes and shuck his bottoms. Logan, on the other hand, was in no such rush by the looks of it. He took his time to remove the layers that covered his lower half to create a tantalising trail to the water’s edge, where he stood waiting for his companion in all his naked glory, haloed by moonlight. God what a sight. Wade swore he would never get used to it. Sure he had been down bad for Logan’s rippling cumgutter abs but this, with his hard angles mellowed out into soft curves – nourished and flourishing like well maintained garden – nothing could compare. These past few months had certainly been kind to the older mutant and Wade was certainly appreciating the view as his cock twitched in interest.

Wade blinked a couple times and shook his head, now was not the time to get distracted. Stupid unmedicated ADHD. Once he joined Logan, they waded (hehe) into the lake. Wade yelped at the initial caress of nippy freshwater, the brisk autumn night air doing nothing to help him acclimate and everything to send his balls rocketing upwards into himself. Logan chuckled and dragged Wade further into the water with a playful smile until they were chest deep.

Wade shuddered as his body heat was leached out, teeth chattering. “O-o-okay, thi-this wwwwasn’t my f-f-finest idea.”

Logan – that furry fuck – seemed utterly unbothered by the water’s lack of warmth. Probably a part of his mutation.

He drew Wade into him, wrapping his arms around the other’s slim waist as they faced each other, “What’s the matter Darlin’, water too cold? A little hypothermia won’t kill y’.”

Wade plastered himself to Logan, trying to absorb his warmth and eliminate any space that would prevent that, “I-it’d k-k-kill the mmmmood.”

Logan hummed in agreement which Wade felt vibrate in his chest, nuzzling a textured scarred cheek with his nose, “We can’t have that now, can we?”

Not waiting for a response, comparably fervid lips captured Wade’s frigid ones. The was no urgency behind it as Logan’s hands travelled, caressing and coaxing warmth wherever they lingered. Wade’s fingers weaved and tangled into Logan’s hair, which had also grown out a bit to create extra fluffy tufts he loved to tug. Especially in these situations. Hands on his thighs lifted him, making him squeal and wrap his legs around Logan to settle on his hips. He could feel Lil Logan already at half mast against his ass. Ever the tease, Wade ground against him. Logan growled in response and nipped at his lower lip, his hands travelled upwards to cup and squeeze Wade’s rump. Wade laved at the seam of Logan’s mouth, seeking and gaining entry with a breathy whine.

And then they were moving, the inky waters receding as Logan sauntered out from it’s depths. Wade broke away, panting for breath. His hands flew to Logan’s shoulders, nails biting into the skin there and he clung to him. Moans spilled from his lips as every stride caused his cock to rub deliciously against the other man’s stomach and Logan’s now fully hardened member to thrust into the cleft of his ass. He buried his face in Logan’s neck, mouth watering at the scent of pine trees, cigars, sandalwood and something musky that was distinctly him. Maybe it was sharing a room or just how much time Wade spent trying to be as close as possible to the older mutant but it had become unmistakable – Wade could smell him. And he liked it. It gave him the warm fuzzies. Fuck, it made him feel safe. Like Logan was home. Wade mouthed at Logan’s throat, tongue catching the sweat forming there, he felt Logan’s grip on him tighten and his pleased rumble.

The door clicked open and slammed shut behind them, wet feet padding against hardwood floors until Logan reached his destination. He sat at the foot of the bed, hands coming to rest at Wade’s hips. Wade unwrapped his legs from around the Alpha to comfortably cage him between them instead.

“Lean back for me, Princess. Let me get a good look at y’.” Logan murmured into his ear, an involuntary shiver ran down Wade’s spine.

Wade immediately braced himself on Logan’s thighs, back arching slighting to put his chest on display like he had done many times before now to the point it was almost instinctual. Heat spread up his neck and into his cheeks. Wade bit back any self depreciating comments and the need to hide himself, already knowing that doing so would have him over Logan’s lap with stinging ass cheeks and a denied release. And as much as Wade loved those moments, he did not have the patience for it at that moment.

“That’s my good boy.” Logan purred appreciatively, eyes roving over the offering before him.

Pre leaked from Wade’s tip like a broken faucet at the praise. One of Logan’s hands traced a path up from his hip to his chest to thumb over a hardened nipple. Wade jolted at the sensation because somehow Logan had actually trained his nipples into being more sensitive and he swore they had gotten a little bigger too. That fucker must’ve had some sort of healing factor override cheat code or something. Wade hadn’t realised his eyes had fallen shut until a sudden heat enveloped his other nipple and he keened at Logan’s tongue flicking over the nub. And when those fangs scraped over the delicate skin there, Wade rutted desperately against him.

“Fuck. Logan. Need you. Hurry the fuck up.” Wade moaned wantonly.

The Alpha grumbled but acquiesced to the demand with a tap to Wade’s thigh. Wade shuffled off him and watched as Logan got up and unzipped a backpack to search through it. Once he had located what he wanted – lube – he returned to the bed but settled closer to the headboard.

“C’mere, Bubba.”

Wade crawled up the bed and sat on his knees beside Logan who sat back slightly reclined, “How do you want me?”

Logan gave him a crooked grin and manhandled the slightly taller man into position over him, scarred cock level with his face, “Right here.”

Without waiting for Wade’s response, Logan lapped up the trail of precum that was still leaking from Wade’s tip.

“Oh fuck!” Wade cried out, bucking forward and grasping onto the headboard. “Give a gal some warning, Honey Badger.”

Logan chortled and continued to lave at Wade’s dick, tracing scars and veins alike as it twitched under his attentions. Logan’s tongue had a roughness to it that most people probably wouldn’t like. But Wade wasn’t most people and that wet muscle had a way of catching on places that had him gasping and whimpering like a bitch. The only warning Logan gave him before swallowing his length was a lap at his slit, then his tongue flattened and he was taking him down to the base. The wooden bed frame protested under Wade’s grip as he fought the urge to thrust into the inviting heat. Logan hummed in approval as he set to work bobbing his head and Wade cussed, moaning and shuddering, as the sensation went right through him.

A slick finger circled Wade’s rim before slowly pushing in and began thrusting. Wade stiffened, torn between trying to stay still, rutting into the heavenly wet warmth of Logan’s mouth or grinding back into the finger working him open. Make that fingers as a second one soon joined the first and started scissoring him open. This bit always stung slightly but Wade was a sucker for a bit of pain with his pleasure. As if sensing his thoughts, Logan lightly bit down on the cock in his mouth, fangs digging in and drawing droplets of blood that made Wade mewl while Logan groan beneath him. It wasn’t much longer till he was loose enough for a third finger to slip in. Wade hissed at the intrusion which melted into a moan when Logan struck his prostate with targetted precision.

“Holy shit, there! Right there!”

Logan smiled around his cock, never once missing the sensitive bundle once he had found it. And with that, Wade’s restraint crumbled, his hips rocking back onto the Alpha’s thick fingers and forwards into his throat. Logan choked around him at the unexpected motion. The sudden tightening had Wade right on the precipice of climax, heat roiling low in his stomach. Once. Twice. Thr- Wade choked back a sob as the hand on his hip swiftly gripped his cock like a vice, the heat of Logan’s mouth removed in favour of sucking marks into the diverts of his abs.

“Not yet. Y’d been doing so well. Y’ll cum on my cock like a good little Omega.” Logan growled out, voice low and rough, “I want y’to ride me while I can still be nice.”

Someone call a plumber because as if his cock couldn’t get any wetter, Wade swore to god he felt his hole become slicker around Logan’s fingers like he was an actual Omega. But that wasn’t possible so it was probably just his imagination.

“Fuck- Sure. Yeah. Get comfy then. Gonna rock your world, old man.”

Logan pulled his fingers out to swat his ass. Again, Wade clambered off him to let him reposition. When he was led down and settled, Wade grabbed the lube, squirting a liberal amount into his hand. He threw his leg over Logan and reached his lubed hand beneath him to spread it onto Logan’s neglected dick. It twitched in his grip as Logan groaned at the contact. Wade gave him a few quick pumps to watch him squirm and make sure he was all slicked up then lined him up with his hole. He knew he had it right when he felt the bulbous tip catch his rim. Slowly, Wade sunk down onto Logan’s length, breath catching in his throat at the burning stretch. No amount of fingering could ever have truly prepared him for just how thick Logan was. Beneath him, Logan had gone rigid, jaw clenched tight and white-knuckling the sheets as it was his turn to show restraint, to let Wade set the pace. His pupils were blown wide, eyes never leaving from where they were connected. Low grunts and groans escaping him with every shallow thrust Wade made to work his way down.

“Logan, please I need- please you have to-” Wade whined, desperately needing something to take the edge of.

Logan understood what Wade was trying to say. He spat into his hand and wrapped it around Wade’s cock, thumbing at the slit to spread the precum there. Wade moaned softly and Logan seemed to take that as the okay to do two things. First, to start stroking Wade’s cock in time with his rocking. Second, to bend his knees so his feet were flat on the bed so he could better angle his hips. Wade choked out a cry as Logan’s cock rubbed against his prostate.

“Jesus! H-how are you s-so good at finding the on switch?”

Logan huffed out a laugh, “When you been around for two hundred years, you learn a thing or two.”

The duel sensations were pleasurably distracting enough that Wade was able to take in more and more with each roll of his hips. And when his ass became flush with Logan’s thighs he stilled. Fuck he was so full. Taking a moment to catch his breathe and get used to the feeling of an actual dick being inside him. He could feel Logan warm and twitching. Very different from the solid, cold, unyielding silicone of a strap. Logan’s hand fell away from Wade’s cock to fist the sheets again.

“Fuck, Princess, y’re so fucking tight.” Logan grunted.

“Am I tight or is your monster cock just stretching me to capacity?” Wade giggled.

Logan’s hands flew up to Wade’s waist, gripping it tightly as he bucked up beneath him punching a breathy ah from him.

“Fuckin’ hell. Don’t- Don’t laugh when I’m in y’.”

Wade leant forwards, bracing his hands on Logan’s pecs to experimentally roll his hips again. Both men groaned at the sensation. Didn’t burn any more, just a tolerable sting. Easily ignored if Logan’s cock kept abusing his prostate like that. With that in mind, Wade began to bounce on the cock impaling him in earnest. Wanton mewls and keening whines tumbled from Wade’s lips, each cant of his hips sending ripples of bliss up his spine and into his cock that slapped against his stomach with every motion. Logan looked tortured beneath him, still trying not to move, his eyes squeezed shut and his head kicked back, exposing a rather appetising vein in his neck.

The problem of being a first time dick rider was the lack of endurance. You see, riding uses different leg muscles to ploughing, or at the very least uses them differently. Wade’s thighs were already throbbing and sore from exertion. But he couldn’t throw in the towel yet. He switched between bouncing, rolling and swivelling his hips, drawing a symphony of groans, grunts and growls from the man beneath him. Felt his nails break the skin where he clutched at him. How much longer would it take for his resolve to break?

“Not much of an hahAlpha are ya? Just laying there mhm taking what I give you,” Wade taunted, chest heaving.

Logan’s eyes snapped open, glaring at the man currently literally and metaphorically riding his dick. He snarled as he batted Wade’s arms off him, sending him tumbling into him. He hastily rolled them over, pinning Wade beneath him and hooking one of his legs over his shoulder. Thank fuck this was a Queen size bed.

“Y’asked for it y’fuckin brat,” Logan warned.

He pulled out until just the tip remained then thrust back into the hilt, Wade arched his back trying to meet him thrust for thrust. God it was so worth teasing him and he was thankful for his flexibility as it meant he could pull Logan down into a heated kiss whilst being bent in half. Each of Logan’s ruts was met with a buck from Wade, falling into a rhythm that had them panting into each others mouths. A particularly hard thrust had Wade clawing at his back, heat pooling low in his gut yet again. He tried to reach between them to jerk himself off but his hand was slapped away.

“PleasePleasePlease let me hah cum. Need to cum. Fuck!” Wade begged.

Logan smirked down at him not stopping or slowing, “What did I say?” he demanded.

“To- hng to be a good Omega and c- ah cum on your cock,” Wade responded weakly, yelping when Logan tweaked one of his nipples.

“So what are y’gonna do?”

“B-be good and ah cum on my Alpha’s-”

Logan’s eyes glazed over, nostrils flaring as he suddenly bore down on him, sinking his teeth into the meat of Wade’s neck. Wade screamed as he came, pain and pleasure dancing through his veins to creating an intoxicatingly raw delirium. Tears running unbidden as his body writhed. Logan clamped down harder, growling as he seemed to enter a frenzy, setting a brutal pace that would’ve been sure to break anyone else. Oversensitivity was fast making itself known to Wade, his hole clenching around Logan’s cock with each pass of his prostate.

“C’mon Pean-uh-t, cum inside me. Knock me up with ah whole litter of Wolvies.”

That did it. Logan stilled above him, cock buried deep and shooting into him in spurts. Every now and then Logan would go to pull out only to push back in, more warmth covering his insides. How much could he fucking cum? And Christ on a bike, this was without knotting. Eventually, Logan released him from between his jaws and let his leg slide off his shoulder. Wade idly played with his hair as he waited for the Alpha to calm down.

“So, my Honey Badger has a thing for breeding ey? I’ll keep that in mind.”

Logan heaved a sigh and finally rolled off him, “You stay here, I’m gonna grab our clothes then get something to clean you up with.”

He made his way off the bed and towards the door.

“I thought you said there’d be no breaks.”

Logan shot him a grin, “Oh we’re just getting started, Princess. The real fun begins tomorrow.”

Finally! We arrived at PoundTown via the penetration express! I’d like to thank everyone who made this possible: The virgins who were sacrificed, the souls that were sold, Satan, my mum-

And I’m feeling better. Only took me like nearly twenty days to write this between illness and being back at work T^T

There, there dear author. You’re nearly done with this chapter.

What do you mean “nearly done”? I’m done here. Nothing more to add to this one.

Oh hell no. You can’t write about Peanut being in rut and not even show us the actual rut!

Fine. You actually made a good point there. Time skip.

Day three of Logan’s rut was interesting. See Wade thought it’d be a waste to be in such a scenic location and not fuck outdoors and under the stars. There was just one problem: a Peanut in rut was a nonverbal Peanut reduced to growling, grunting and purring. Yes, purring. So he couldn’t exactly discuss the idea with the other mutant. Which left him one option. As Logan lay sated on blood and cum stained sheets, Wade grabbed his duffle bag slunk off into the bathroom. Buried near the bottom was the little surprise he put together. Lingerie he had made to resemble his suit – complete with an altered mask which had an accessible mouth hole. Even some stylish chunky heeled boots. He slid the garments on as quickly as possible, he only had a limited amount of time before Logan would try to pin him down again, which was something he was counting on. ‘Geared’ up, Wade mentally went over his plan.

This was going to be fun.

Wade crept out of the bathroom and towards one of the windows, praying to all that was holy that he would successfully get his head start. He held his breathe as he pushed up a window, willing it to remain silent. But the window was a traitorous thing, squeaking in protest as it reached the top to alert Logan’s super hearing. Logan, who was now sat up, hackles raised and on guard for a possible intruder. Seeing that it was only Wade, the somewhat feral Alpha paused, head cocking to the side as he assessed the other man and his choice of clothing. Wade shot him a playful grin and a wave before diving out the window and high tailing it into the surrounding woodland. He dodged and weaved between trees, leapt over roots, logs and shrubbery alike. He had to get as far as possible before-

A roar came from the cabin he had left behind inciting birds to take flight and any other animals in the area to flee. Was that a moose he could see galloping away? Wade’s heart pounded in his chest, he could hear the crackling of dead leaves under foot and sounds of Logan giving chase. His danger boner was raging at the thought of being hunted like prey. He could just make out an ideal clearing for what the Brits called dogging when he was tackled into a tree. There, caging him in, was a naked annoyed growly Logan with fangs bared. Fuck that’s hot. But Wade was here to get fucked, not disembowelled. To placate him, Wade tilted his head to the side exposing the length of his neck.

“Just wanted some fresh air, Wolvie. Not trying to leave. Don’t worry.”

Logan leaned in and nosed at the offered flesh, breathing in deeply before giving a low rumbling purr. His hands landed on scarred thighs, hoisting them up around his waist then travelled back up them to pull Wade’s panties to the side. Wade’s breathe hitched as Logan’s cock slid home inside him, still stretched and full of cum from their previous romp. But it seemed all was not forgiven as Logan tightly gripped his hips and with a snikt released his claws into the poor tree behind them, barely missing Wade himself. If Wade had been caged in before, now he was imprisoned with no escape.

The merc slung his arms around Logan’s neck and let his head fall back against the tree trunk. Logan fucked up into him at a dizzying pace, drawing curses and moans that were cut short as the Alpha took full advantage of the mouth hole to seal his mouth shut with his own. The bark dug into his back, pricking his skin and creating welts across its length as Logan used what little leeway he had to pull Wade down to meet his thrusts. Wade’s legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his ass to encourage him impossibly closer. Logan angled his hips in just the way Wade was quickly learning to love, the way that had him hammering his on switch till he was a drooling teary mess.

Wade might not have been a natural bottom when this relationship started, but he sure as hell was now.

Oh you cock/clit tease! You’re ending the chapter there?!

Unlike you, I’m not a fictional character and I need to sleep since I have work in the morning.

[classicalsqueak]

Using Patchwork Devices in Fortnite Creative, but want to transpose? Try adding a Note Progressor.

This video is about the Note Progressor Patchwork Device in Fortnite Creative, alongside some music theory. I also transcribed and played through all of the presets on the piano.

To download the PDFs from this video: https://ko-fi.com/s/4a9fbdec27

More tutorial videos:

Note Sequencers, Simple Build (Bach Prelude in C): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CYX63DIMHY

Part 2 (update): https://youtu.be/dwEklAySBqU?si=EuOpEzgzNJ4Z6ZxX

Map Codes:

Patchwork Bach Prelude (my map!): 1015-9049-0160

https://www.fortnite.com/@classicalsqueak/1015-9049-0160

Tutorial maps listed by Fortnite:

Patchwork Music Gallery Island: 5806-7083-7937

Patchwork Club: 6730-0905-0185

For more videos: YouTube (classicalsqueak) / Video Index

For more sheet music: Ko-fi (classicalsqueak) or SMP* (published by Ylan Chu)

[tacticaldiary]

Hey there! Love your stuff! I was just reading some of your work for our favorite Scotsman and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to feed me more.

Picture this, Soap and Reader have been a thing since like forever. On the “Alone” mission or something, reader goes on a rampage to find her sweet sweet Johnny.

A Still Beating Heart

Pairing: Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"Like hell I was leaving you." Clicking her tongue, she shifts her focus on his wound that's bleeding through the hasty patchwork. "Not letting you bleed out now."

"You gonna kiss it better, hen?" A poor attempt at a joke.

"I'll kiss you all you want once we're safe."

A/N: This turned out way longer than I expected-

Masterlist

Rain obscures her vision as she runs, the image of Johnny hitting the ground after being shot playing over and over again in a dreadful loop.

He got away. He's gotten away. He's alright.

She chants it in her head over and over whilst navigating the winding streets of Las Almas.

"Watch it." Ghost barks yanking her to the side roughly when she almost crashes head-first into a crumbling brick wall. "Get your head on straight, Sergeant." Muted anger coats his words as he spits them out.

She grits her teeth in response, taking a second to survey her surroundings. They've stopped in an alleyway a good chunk of the way into the town. There's no doubt that Graves would be on their heels, they couldn't afford to stop for long.

Leaving two deadly soldiers who are witnesses wouldn't be a risk he'd take.

Three. She reminds herself with a fierce determination. Three soldiers.

How dare he. How fucking dare Graves turn around and betray them like he hadn't been their brother in arms for the last few weeks. The fact that he'd turned on them without remorse, shot her boyfriend without batting an eye was unforgivable.

Rage, hot and fierce scalds the blood running through her veins. Her mind is a storm of conflict, a desperate chant of Johnny's name on repeat. Between the anger, there's the blinding worry that accompanies it. It had all happened so fast she didn't get a chance to see where exactly he got shot, just that he'd fallen with a pained grunt, then Ghost was shouting at him to go.

Part of her rages Ghost him as well, for the way he'd roughly stopped her from lunging into the open to get to Johnny. It's not justified. Ghost had done his job as Lieutenant, had gotten them both and Johnny out of there in time.

Just barely in time.

While Ghost ventures farther into the alley, she clicks on her radio, switching through different channels. "Transmitting in the blind, does anyone copy?" She says into the device, frustrated when there's no answer, she flicks through the channels again and-

A raspy cough, a weak, familiar Scottish drawl.

She switches to it immediately, bringing the radio up to her mouth. "Johnny? I read you." The relief is palpable in her voice, a creature that settles with its claws still out. "What's your location?" She holds her tongue and her questions upon hearing heavy, raspy breaths from the other side. "Johnny?"

"Aye. 'S good to hear your voice." He manages. "I'm in...at the corner of a street. Edge of the town somewhere." There's a grunt from the other end, the rustling of gear and clothing as he sits up. "Is Ghost there?"

"Affirm." Her eyes snap to the man as he talks through his own radio. "There's a Church north side of the city. We'll recon there." His scouting must have resulted in something, then. It's a good plan, she'll admit. A structure with a solid vantage point gated off and less likely to be surrounded with its many exit points. Smart.

"Copy." Johnny's short response makes her frown.

"Can you make it?" She presses him. The short beat of silence has her heart sinking.

"'Course I can." He laughs but it's hollow. "Don't worry your pretty head about it. You'll see me in no time."

"Get moving, Soap." Ghost shuts down the conversation tightly, peering into one of the cracked open doors that lead into what looks like a clothing store. "Stay on my six," He tells her. "It's a straight path there, but we don't have a count on-"

"I'm going fetch him." Ghost exhales slowly, not turning around. "You and I both know he's lost an unknown amount of blood. I'm not risking losing him to that motherfucker." She snarls.

"You don't have his location."

"I'll scour the outskirts until I find him. You provide overwatch from the church. I will find him."

The fire in her eyes, the tight-strung posture...Ghost has little doubt that she would. They meet eyes, but she doesn't back down for a second, daring him to order her otherwise.

Finally after what seems like ages, he jerks his head behind him in silent, begrudging approval. "Thirty minutes, Sergeant."

"I'll only need ten."

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tucked behind the counter of a grocery store, Soap clenches his jaw as footsteps pass through the window above him. This entire situation was a shit show.

The sting of betrayal was almost as painful as the insistent throbbing on his shoulder. He's already sure the bullet is lodged in there from the quick once-over he gave himself. Admittedly, it had taken him longer than he expected to get his bearings. Judging by the puddle of blood he woke up in, he'd already lost a good amount of blood before he'd roughly packed the still gushing wound.

Guerrilla warfare was bloody and made something vile crawl through Soap's veins. Every time he ties together rope and metal to pry open a door, or fashions a bomb out of a mousetrap, he can't help but think of the bodies he'd encountered on his path to the church. Children, women, men...nobody was spared by those fuckers.

It was vile, a kind of justice he didn't enlist to take part in. The very thing he's sworn to protect people against...

Soap is snapped out of his thoughts by Ghost's voice. They'd had some back and forth whilst they were moving, and Soap knows it's partly to keep him alert and present. Underneath Ghost's rough words, there was always a twinge of worry lacing his tone only someone familiar with the exact lilt of his mannerisms would pick up.

Once the footsteps recede, Soap groans quietly, pushing himself up to his feet with help from the wall. His legs protest, his arms ache and a deep exhaustion infects his mind, begs him to sit down for a few minutes and let go.

In an attempt to shake off the thoughts, he takes a deep breath and reaches for his radio to hear the one voice that always makes him snap to attention.

Soap's been thanking whoever was up there that she'd ended up safe with Ghost. It didn't ease his worry but it soothed it into something more bearable. She wasn't incapable by any means, but even the strongest person benefitted by someone equally capable by their side.

God, he hopes he reaches the church before he collapses.

Swaying suddenly, Soap curses under his breath and reaches to grab the counter to steady himself. In his haste, his arm crashes against a vase, sending it crashing to the ground.

The noise is accompanied by the yells of Shadows outside the store. Soap barely has time to curse himself out and make a lunge for the stairs before the soldier from before peers into the store, rifle at the ready.

Gunfire rains down on him, grazing his arm when he presses himself behind a brick pillar for cover.

Fuck. Fuck.

Sweat beads down his back as he struggles to keep himself upright, shaky fingers patting down his pocket for the knife he'd yanked out of a soldier's head an hour ago...has it been an hour? He doesn't know anymore.

Cautious steps approach him, his heart pounding against his chest as adrenaline pushes itself through his system.

It was strike now or get struck down. The element of surprise was the only advantage he had. His shoulder aches like a bitch but he sucks it up and tightens his grip around his knife.

It all happens at the same time.

Soap lunges out of his hiding spot, weapon raised as much as the fuzz around his vision will let him.

And he watches as someone else tackles the Shadow to the ground.

Soap stops in his tracks, tensing at the vicious way she slits the man's throat. Familiar hair, a body he's mapped out with his hands and mouth over and over again.

Her gaze snaps up to meet his, a shock down his spine.

"For someone so loud, you're good at staying hidden." She huffs, wiping the blood off of her cheek.

No. No, she couldn't be here. She was supposed to be with Ghost, not roaming the streets crawling with Shadows for...

For him.

The thought warms him from the inside out despite the situation. Who the hell is he kidding? He would have done the exact same thing for her.

The moment her hands touch his arms, all the energy seems to snap out of him. Johnny's knees give out, her hands barely catching him to lower him gently to the ground.

"Shit, Johnny?" Panic laces her voice. A hand slick with blood cups his cheek, slaps it gently to prompt his eyes to flutter open. "You gotta stay awake, okay baby? Come on." She doesn't relent until he listens, a hazy gaze focused on her.

"Ya shouldn't be here." He rasps out.

"Like hell I was leaving you." Clicking her tongue, she shifts her focus on his wound, bleeding through the hasty patchwork. "Not letting you bleed out now."

"You gonna kiss it better, hen?" A poor attempt at a joke.

"I'll kiss you all you want once we're safe." Hooking his uninjured arm over her shoulder, she helps her stand. Her heart clenches at the pained groan he tries to muffle. It's good that she had the sense to come back for him.

She doesn't want to think what might have happened if she'd been a second too late.

"That a promise?"

"A threat." She corrects as they stumble towards the backdoor. The weak snort she gets in response is more than enough to loosen the knot in her chest an inch.

Soap's laugh dies in his throat when they hit the streets.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He mumbles, looking around at the roads bathed in crimson.

Bodies and bodies of Shadows lay scattered around almost every alleyway they hobble through. Peeks through to the main roads show the same results. Black masked figures slumped over, limbs twisted and odd angles, necks slit open brutally.

"Had some fun getting to me, did ya?"

There's no response from her but a shrug.

There's no sorrow or remorse for what she had to do to get to him. A mantra of his name playing through her head, the desperation of getting to him and the rage of the situation mixed together had made each swipe of her knife, each broken bone easy.

She's painted the town red.

Johnny. She needed to get to Johnny and whoever was standing in her way had met their demise by viscous hands and an unforgiving sentence.

"I'm surprised you made it that far on your own." Keeping him talking was important. "Graves will face hell for what he's done." They duck into a street, the church in plain view.

"It's a bleedin' a war crime." Soap says. "Makes me want to commit a few of my own." His voice dips down to a growl. She shares the same sentiment.

"Amen." She mumbles back, peering out into the courtyard in front of them. A couple of figures patrol the area, breaking off of each other to peer behind parked vehicles and doors to different shops.

"Four hostiles in our path." A grimace. She gently lowers him down against the stone wall. "Stay here while I clear our path... not that you can go anywhere, actually."

Soap seems displeased about her going off on her own, but he knows that he's more of a liability than an advantage in a situation where stealth is valued. "Take 'em quietly."

"Copy." Her bloody knife spins in her hand. "Be right back, baby." Pressing a kiss to his temple, she slips out of the alley.

Johnny breathes out a shaky sigh, and lets his head hit the stone behind him. Itchy and restless from being able to do nothing, he loathes feeling so...useless. He's confident in her, how could anyone not be? But that doesn't quell the need to shield her from everything he can spare her from.

She was fiery and bright, everything he'd always wanted. She came into his life as a force to be reckoned with, butting heads with him and throwing insults back at his face as easily as he uttered them to her.

Love had hit him hard.

Stuck in his head, his eyes flutter shut against his wishes as he thinks. Just for moment, he tells himself. Just until she gets back.

Just a second of rest wouldn't hurt, right?

Somewhere in the depth of his mind, he knows that letting himself fall unconscious was the worst possible case in this scenario, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. The blood loss makes him tired and lethargic and before long he's fallen into the inky depth of sleep.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It had all gone to shit.

Three of the four guards she'd taken down quickly. It had been almost easy how fast and quiet they went down, gurgling on their own blood as her knife slid across the chinks in their armour, the skin of their necks.

The third guard had been a little too trigger-happy, though. A twitch of his finger while he was choking had set his gun going off with a bang, a bullet embedded into one of the cars nearby.

It had been enough to alert every goddamn person in the vicinity.

She's glad she left Johnny behind, at least his position wasn't compromised.

Just as the street started filling up, her radio had crackled to life, Ghost barking that the church had been compromised and overrun, ordering them to meet him at the end of the street to secure a vehicle.

She was already there, all she had to do was keep her position and stop the Shadows from flanking her until Ghost got there.

"Copy." She mutters into the radio, setting up the rifle she'd swiped from one of the corpses over the hood of the cars she's ducked behind. "Eyes on a possible vehicle." She relays over comms upon setting sight on a blue truck close to her, relatively unscratched. Firing off round after round, the soldiers drop like flies. The armoured ones are a little tougher to deal with, and need a more precise aim but she manages somehow.

She curses under her breath as more of the pour from the stores and alleys into the streets.

Just a little longer. Ghost was almost here, then they could secure a vehicle, grab Johnny and get the fuck out of here.

Wrecking carnage in his path, Ghost emerges from behind a barrier after what seems like an hour, and together the both of them climb into the truck she informed him of. "Stop by the far alley and I'll haul Soap inside so we can get the hell out of here." She grunts, firing off shots from the back of the truck as Ghost starts the ignition.

She gets an affirmative and they're on their way, ducking at the sound of gunfire and barked orders following them.

She jumps out of the truck and runs into the alley where she left him. "Time to go Johnny, come-..." She halts in her tracks, into a dead stop at the scene in front of her.

Blood splatters the wall behind his shoulder, the wound aggravated and bleeding through the improvised bandaging in rivers of red down his arm. He's...he's pale, shallow gasps of breaths that are barely there making his chest move in movements too small to be healthy.

Ghost yells at her to make it quick, and it's her Lieutenant's voice that brings her crashing back to reality. Swallowing back her panic, she hoists Johnny up and drags him into the back of the truck, yelling at Ghost to move as she lays him down as still as possible.

Bullets ping off of the metal, but all she can focus on is pressing her hands to Soap's wound. She leans in close to feel him puffing out short gasps of air.

Still breathing, she tells herself as Ghost makes a sharp turn. He's alive, he's breathing, he's here, he's not dead. Alive, alive, still alive.

With hands shaky, she pulls out a proper roll of gauze from her vest, the emergency first aid pouch she carries is worth its weight in gold.

"Don't you fucking die on me, baby." She whispers, voice cracking. "It's not allowed." She wipes the worst of the wound with disinfectant before packing the hole with fresh gauze.

There was so much blood pooling beneath him in that alley...and how much had he lost before that?

He needed a medic, and fast. She wouldn't lose him. Not him.

Not her Johnny.

Not the person that could coax a smile out of her even if she was in the foulest of moods. Not Johnny, who always seemed to know what she needed, what made her feel better. Not the love of her life who she'd seen a life out of the military with.

Please, not him.

Time flies by and soon, Ghost pulls over in front of a safehouse. When he exits the driver's seat and comes round the back to asses the situation, his heart sinks as he finds her curled up over Soap, lips pressed to his forehead as she whispers to him, her hand carding through his dirty hair as if he might wake up to feel it.

"Let's get him inside." He says, tone oddly sombre. If he notices how wet her eyes are, he doesn't comment on it, merely helps her carry him in silence.                                   · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rudy had been a godsend. His safe house had been packed with supplies much more useful to Soap. He'd taken one look at Soap, at her wrecked and frantic state, and taken over. Ordering her and Ghost to start studying the maps to the facility they planned to break into, he started his own inspection of Soap.

She can't focus.

The maps mean nothing to her. The lines, the marks, the circles. It was meaningless gibberish to her when her boyfriend was-

"He'll pull through." She blinks back into the present at Ghost's gruff voice, head snapping up to meet his gaze.

"He better." A shaky inhale.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

When Rudy comes back to inform them that Soap is stable, her legs nearly buckle under her with a wave of relief. She pushes past him immediately to seek her boyfriend out, and finds him laying on one of the old cots pushed to the corner.

She takes a seat on the floor next to him, resting her head against the mattress. "You're an asshole." She mumbles after a second. "Scared the shit out of me, you know that?"

He probably can't hear her, but it doesn't stop her frayed nerves from talking. Her hand finds his and she squeezes it gently trying to bring some of her warmth into his cold skin. Sighing, she presses his hand to her forehead, shifting her grip so her fingers rested on his pulse.

Each steady beat loosens the knot in her chest, reassures her that he is alive.

Would he wake up soon? Would he wake up at all? The latter thought is quickly chased away, because there was no choice. Johnny had to wake up, he had to.

A world without him simply wasn't one worth having.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her back aches.

Forehead pressed into the mattress right by his waist, it's the first thing she registers as she's roused from where she'd dozed off. Blinking sluggishly, she groans as she feels a hand carding through her hair.

Just the right pressure, the feeling so familiar and warm and soothing-

Her eyes widen and she snaps up straight to meet a pair of tired but amused blue eyes studying her. Johnny's sitting up right in front of her, looking down at her in that soft way he always did.

"Rise and shine." He rasps out, and she almost sobs at the sound. Pushing herself to her feet, she wraps her arms around him the best she can without injuring him. "Easy." He winces at being jostled but holds her just as tight.

"Thought you were gone." She chokes out, trembling. "I thought-"

"I'm right here, bonnie." He whispers into her hair. "Right with ya. Gonna take more than that to do me in, right?"

She laughs wetly into his shoulder, as he runs a hand up and down her back as if she was the one who needed comforting.

Pulling herself together was a more difficult task than clearing the streets of Las Almas. Every time she thinks she's calmed down, she remembers how still and cold Johnny had been and she spirals all over again.

He clicks his tongue and manoeuvres them gently so he's laying down with her on his chest, careful to avoid his good arm. Her head is pressed against the centre of his chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat a balm against the rising and falling cycle of panic and grief she's stuck in.

Alive, alive, alive. Still alive.

Once her breathing evens out into something relatively stable, she tries to speak again. "Don't scare me like that again."

He hums. "I'll do better next time." A tired smile grows on his face as she pinches his side.

Alive.

He was still alive.

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(3/09/2023)

[slaymybreathaway]

WASTELAND, BABY! [prologue]

Masterlist

Chapter List

[Word Count: 762]

July 30th 1994 ○ Neville's Bedroom

___________________________________

It was 11pm when Neville Longbottom heard a tapping sound on his bedroom window.

He was sitting ontop of his patchwork bed covers, in his pyjamas, reading a muggle book that he had found in an old bookshop near his house earlier that day.

At first he took no notice of the noise, it was often that branches hit against his window whenever the wind blew a certain way. However, when these 'branches' started making a squawking noise, he turned his attention away from the book in his hands.

The boy walked over to his window, where he saw a white barn owl sitting on the outside windowsill. The bird looked up at him, an ivory envelope held in it's beak. Neville opened his window slowly, trying his best not to scare the owl away.

"Thanks mate," he spoke, taking the envelope from the bird and watched as it flew away into the dark summer night.

He shut his window before turning the envelope over in his hands. It was thick and felt like it had something  rectangular inside of it.

The address on the front was written in a neat-but-slanted way, which he recognised almost immediately to be the handwriting of Y/n Finnigan. Neville smiled, letting the excitement show on his face.

Y/n and Neville had known each other since their first year at Hogwarts. She was his friend, Seamus's twin sister so naturally, he was friends with her also.

The odd thing was, that over the summer months, Neville found himself feeling a strange buzz of happiness whenever she sent him a letter. It even got to the point where every letter that wasn't from her seemed unimportant.

He couldn't quite explain what he felt or why he felt it. So instead, he just put it down to the lonely-ness of Summer.

The front and the back of the envelope was covered with small doodles of stars and balloons. The smile on Neville's face, somehow, grew wider at the thought of her taking the time to draw them on, individually.

The boy opened the envelope just above the green wax seal on the back and out fell both a letter and a casette tape. He picked up the letter and started to read:

------------

Dear Nev,

Happy Birthday!!! I was going to give you your present on the train to school but I just couldn't wait. I hope you like the mixtape (it's for the walkman, by the way)

See you soon,

Y/n

(PS. Tell your granny that I was asking for her)

------------

After reading it a few times, Neville took the box out from under his bed that contained all of the letters she had sent over the past two months and placed the new one on top. He slid the box far enough under his bed that it couldn't be seen by anyone that walked into his room.

The boy rifled through the drawer in his bedside locker until he found what he was looking for, his walkman. When he bought the muggle device, he didn't realise that the music wasn't included so he couldn't use it... until now.

When he looked at the tape closely, he could see that it was labeled on either side with ☆Neville's Mixtape☆ written in red marker. He opened the walkman and carfully placed the tape in before putting the headphones on and pressing the "play" button.

The boy turned off the light and lay in his bed, pulling the covers up to his shoulders as he heard the acoustic guitar play softly through the opening bars of the first song on the tape.

He couldn't help but imagine where Y/n was the first time she heard this song. Did it come on in the radio in her Dad's car? Or did she find the album that this song belonged to in a dusty old casette shop and waited until later that day to listen to it, when she was lying in bed. Just like he was doing right now. He smiled at the thought

A male voice sang softly the lyric:

"All the fear and the fire of the end of the world.

Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl,"

Neville swore that he would remember those words forever beacause it was in that moment that he finally realised what that buzz of happiness was.

The was falling in love with her...

And man, did he feel the fear and the fire of the end of the world.

_____________________

[merylstreepsworld]

Personal Tech Support

Pairing: Donna Sheridan x Fem!reader

Summary: You upgrade a few items around the island. Making Donna have to relearn technology.

Word count: 993

You've always been the tech-savvy one in your relationship with Donna. From the moment you first met, it was clear that while she had the charm, creativity, and charisma to run her small hotel on the Greek island of Kalokairi, she was a bit challenged when it came to modern technology. You, on the other hand, had a knack for all things electronic and mechanical. So, when you decided to surprise Donna by upgrading a few things around her hotel, you knew it would make her life easier, even if it did come with some comical challenges.

The hotel, though full of character and history, had its fair share of quirks. The plumbing was ancient, the electrical wiring was a patchwork of DIY solutions, and the Wi-Fi, well, it was more of a "Wi-Maybe." You couldn't stand to see your girlfriend struggle with these everyday issues, so you set out to modernize the place without compromising its rustic charm.

One of your first projects was installing a brand-new espresso machine in the hotel's café. You figured it would be a hit with the tourists who frequented the place. The sleek, stainless steel beast looked like it belonged in a spaceship compared to the old, sputtering coffee maker it replaced.

The morning after you installed it, Donna stood in front of the new espresso machine, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Love, how does this contraption work again?" she asked, casting you an adorable, bewildered look. You chuckled, walking over to her. "Darling, I've shown you this at least five times. You press this button for a regular espresso, this one for a cappuccino, and this one for a latte."

Donna blinked at the array of buttons. "But which one makes a regular coffee?"

You couldn't help but grin. "The one that says 'espresso,' Donna. It's the first button."

She nodded, clearly trying to remember. "Right, the 'ex-press-oh.' Got it."

You watched as she carefully pressed the button, and the machine whirred to life, making all sorts of futuristic noises. Espresso poured into the cup, and Donna beamed triumphantly as if she'd just solved a complex puzzle. You couldn't contain your laughter. "Don't worry, love," you said, ruffling her hair affectionately. "You'll get the hang of it."

Over the next few days, you introduced more upgrades. You replaced the old landline phone with a sleek, cordless model. You set up a modern sound system in the hotel's courtyard for music during the evening gatherings. You even convinced Donna to ditch the ancient cash register in favor of a user-friendly tablet-based point-of-sale system. With each new addition, Donna's confusion seemed to grow. She'd call you over for help, even when you were just in the next room. "Sweetie, can you come here? I can't get the music to play."

You'd sigh with faux exasperation, setting down whatever you were doing to assist her. "Donna, remember the app? You just select the playlist and press play."

"I know, I know," she'd reply, rolling her eyes at her own forgetfulness. "But it's all so...fiddly."

As much as you teased her about it, you couldn't deny the joy of watching her adapt to these newfangled devices. It was endearing to see her navigate the touch screen of the tablet POS system with determined concentration, making transactions for guests with a sense of accomplishment.

One evening, as you both sat on the terrace overlooking the azure sea, Donna sipped a glass of wine and turned to you with a mischievous glint in her eye. "You know," she began, "I think you're secretly enjoying being my personal tech support." You chuckled, tracing circles on her hand. "Well, it does give me the chance to hold you close and whisper sweet nothings in your ear."

She laughed, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. "You do have a point there."

As the summer days passed, Donna's tech anxiety began to wane. She'd proudly tell you about how she had successfully made a latte without any assistance, or how she'd mastered the art of Bluetooth pairing for the speakers. She even dared to experiment with the espresso machine, trying her hand at creating intricate latte art.

One morning, you walked into the café to find her diligently working behind the counter. She held up a cup with a heart-shaped design in the foam. "Look at this, my love!" she exclaimed. "I made a heart!" You couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "That's fantastic, Donna! You're becoming a pro."

But just as you thought her tech-related troubles were a thing of the past, a new challenge emerged. You had upgraded the hotel's Wi-Fi, and while it was now faster and more reliable, Donna couldn't quite grasp the concept of network names and passwords.

"Darling," she called from the reception desk, "what's the code for the Wee-Fee again?"

You sighed, resigning yourself to another round of explanations. "It's Wi-Fi, Donna. And the password is 'KalokairiSunshine.'"

"Right, right," she replied with a nod, jotting it down on a piece of paper. You couldn't resist teasing her. "Donna, I've told you the password at least ten times. It's 'KalokairiSunshine,' like our beautiful island."

She laughed, folding her arms and giving you an impish look. "Well, maybe I just enjoy hearing you say it, my tech genius."

You shook your head in mock exasperation, but deep down, you cherished these moments. Donna's quirks, her playful nature, and her ability to embrace change, even if it came with a learning curve, were all part of what made her so special to you.

As the sun set over Kalokairi, casting a warm, golden glow across the hotel, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the chance to be Donna's partner in both love and technology. In your eyes, she was the heart and soul of the hotel, and you were more than happy to be the one who helped her keep it running, one espresso at a time.

[simplyghosting]

Cherished Emery

Written for @inklings-challenge. Definitely out of my comfort zone, but I gave it my best go, even if it wasn't quite what I expected.

—— It was an early spring day and a lingering chill breezed past worn checkered curtains and swirled around the feet of the couple settled in the small living room.

“You’ll see, my dear! I’ll have it all solved!” Ernest crowed as he scrabbled and grabbed for another tool from the box sitting amidst the soot spilling from the fireplace before hurrying back to his work desk by the south window. “I’ll find the root of why my grandfather lost his fortune so that I can obtain my rightful inheritance and we shall be rich! No more cooking on that old, temperamental stove! A new dress for you and a new suit for me! Why, I can get you the wedding ring that you deserve!”

Emery smiled softly from the simple, wooden rocker where she sat mending, placing her latest project down to turn the plain silver band around her finger. “I’m happy with my wedding band, Ernest. I treasure it as much as I would any other ring for the memory of our vows.”

“But you deserve more!” Ernest insisted as he took a small ball-peen hammer and began tapping at a sheet of metal. “Something engraved! Something set with precious stones! Anything you would want, my dear! Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires! Any or all!” A strap of leather was pulled out and a punch tool clicked away. “A new home! One employed with a cook and a maid!”

“Oh, do you not like my cooking that we would need a cook?” Emery asked in a lightly teasing voice.

“No! I love your food!” Ernest turned his head around hastily before turning back to his work. “I just wanted you to be able to relax and enjoy yourself instead of slaving over that wretched stove.”

Emery hummed reassuringly, “It is work, but I enjoy cooking. I like to see what I can come up with and it makes me happy to enjoy what I make with you.”

Ernest huffed in acquiescence, “Maybe just the maid then. To help you.” He tacked on quickly.

“That would be nice, I suppose.” A beat. “Someone to help me fix that drafty sill of the window maybe?”

Ernest paused once the words registered and then huffed again at the subtle reprimand. “I know you wanted that fixed last winter-“

“-Last fall, dear.”

“-But this plan will work and as soon as it is done you won’t need to worry about that anymore. We’ll simply buy a new home that doesn’t need any of these endless repairs.”

Emery sighed softly before focusing back on the sock she was darning. It had several patches already put in place so much so that the original material could hardly be distinguished. She picked up her needle and continued on. “Are you going to be finished with your project soon?”

The sound of rivets being tapped into place filled the room.

“Ernest?”

“Hm? Oh, oh! Yes, yes, I think with just a few more finishing touches I should be able to depart today.”

“That’s certainly soon.” She paused, then tilted her head, hovering her needle over the patchwork sock, “but… is it safe? It hasn’t been tested before.”

“I’ve made all the calculations needed.” He answered, eyes focused on checking the alignment of some impossibly small gears in the heart of the apparatus. “I’ll be able to safely pass through time via the portal generated by the device with no harm to myself. Worry not, my love, all our troubles shall be far behind us soon.”

“Alright.” she breathed. “Will you be gone long?”

“It may take several tries back and forth to find the culprit, chasing down dominoes to catch a butterfly, may even be multiple butterflies.” He grunted as he wound a cable into a tighter spiral. “The investigative process can’t be measured exactly, you see.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Still, do you have any sort of estimate?”

“Maybe a few days with some luck. Maybe a few weeks to a couple of months. I won’t know more until I actually get there.”

“You’ll be leaving today then?”

A gear popped further into place and with a sharp click the device began to softly whirr. “Yes, the sooner the better.” He pulled the device off the table with a grunt and pulled it over his back, strapping bands connected to it across his chest, adjusting the leather buckles so that it was fitted, and then began adjusting some dials embedded in a cuff connected to his wrist. “The sooner we get to it, the sooner our lives will start!”

“Do you know where you will be?”

“I should land outside the location where my grandfather’s mill was first constructed. I don’t know the exact time he arrived there, but the old letters my grandmother saved said he should be in the area in the time I’m to arrive, so for that it’s only a matter of time for me to encounter him and find the reason for all of this mess.”

“I see. Is there anything you need for your journey? I can make you a lunch before you go.”

“No need.” Ernest said, grabbing his coat thrown over a peg by the door. “I know there was an orchard not too far from the mill, so I’ll be able to grab a meal from there. My great-uncle used to speak of them giving meals and even board to those willing to do some work, so I’ll manage in that regard.”

“You’ll be staying there overnight?”

“I’ll come back as often as I can. If I have a strong lead, I may need to work overnight to follow it. May even have to trail some people. Never know.” He explained, adjusting the sleeves of the coat to hide the controls on the cuff.

Emery rose from her seat and came to stand in front of Ernest, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Alright. Please, be safe and come back soon.” She brushed the lapels of his coat lightly before resting her hands on them. “I married you for richer or for poorer. Don’t feel that you have to do this if you’re looking for my happiness. I’ve already found it.” She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t need anymore than that.”

Ernest softened his eyes before kissing his wife and embracing her. “But you deserve it.” The couple lingered like that for a moment in silence save for the machine’s soft hum, before Ernest pulled away and gave her a beatific smile.

Emery smiled softly back and stepped back. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“My dear Emery, just you wait I shall have all our financial woes resolved!” And with that Ernest flicked a switch near his breast pocket and vanished with a ripple as a stone dropped into a still pond, leaving an even stiller room.

—

The air warped with a low hum and like someone stepping from behind a panel of tulle, Ernest reappeared from the air. “My dear! I’ve found my grandfather! It only took a day of searching but luckily he wasn’t far from the mill grounds!”

Emery looked up surprised from where she kneeled before the fireplace, face smeared with soot from her efforts to scrub the brick clean. “Ernest?” She rose and made a futile attempt to dust herself off. “You’re back? A- a day?”

“Yes!” He ran over and grasped her arms before pecking her lips which resulted in a soot smear on his nose. “It’s such good luck!”

“A day?” She breathed.

Ernest nodded excitedly. “Yes! A day! Considering I didn’t know his routine or exact whereabouts yet it was marvelous luck to spot him inside the local general store. Of course, I didn’t interact and only followed for a bit to get a better idea of his regular path and-“

“Ernest, my love.” Emery spoke with a look of quiet horror. “You’ve been gone for a week.”

“I- oh.” The elated expression slowly dropped from his face. “A week?”

“A week.” She whispered tearfully. “I didn’t expect you to be gone for so long.”

“A week.” He mumbled to himself. “There must be some kind of time dilation. I expected some kind of difference in time flow between present and past, but I didn’t think that it would be that great.”

“Ernest…” She clung to his coat. “I don’t know that this is right.”

“Yes, yes, need to account for that. Adjust the dials for a second iteration.” Ernest patted her hands absently and started pulling away to fiddle with something on the control cuff.

Emery looked up with wide eyes. “You’re going back?”

“I’ll jump ahead a bit to shorten the time now that I have a more precise idea of my grandfather’s old haunts. With the luck I’ve had so far, it shouldn’t be too much longer.” He placated, not looking up from a spinning dial.

“I… mm… alright. I’ll… be waiting for you.”

Ernest grabbed a paper and pen from his work desk and shoved them in his coat pocket before striding up to Emery to place a kiss on her cheek. “Worry not my love! I know what I’m doing.” And he took a step back, flicked a switch on the cuff, and vanished.

——

When Ernest next returned, he found Emery sitting in her rocker hemming the frayed edge of a checkered curtain and rushed over to kiss her cheek. “A new lead, my love! I’ve found where the deed is kept for the land of the mill and it’s soon to be founded! I should be able to skip forward a bit now that I know the men involved.”

Emery looked up at him, surprised, “Ernest. How long were you gone?”

“Just a few days. Really good luck again!” He strided to his desk to grab a box of small gears and a screwdriver. “It’s been fantastic and- oh! The groves are lovely the time of year there. I think you’d love it.”

“A few days… it’s almost been two weeks.”

“Mm? Oh, the time dilation difference. It can’t be helped much I’m afraid. I’ll be as fast as I can, but really it shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Ernest, please, if you’re doing this for me, I don’t need anymore than what we already have and you. I miss you.”

“Emery, don’t worry,” He said dropping the tools into a pocket. “I’ll be back soon with more good news!” and smiled as he flicked a switch and disappeared.

“I’ll… be waiting.”

—

The next time Ernest stepped out of the past and greeted Emery, he found her sitting in the rocker again working in between two baskets full of clothes. “Where did all of that come from?”

Emery didn’t look up, focused for the moment on a stitch. “I’ve started working with the women from the local church to help the community by doing some mending for them. It’s mostly charity, but sometimes small donations are given as a thank you or aid to those who volunteer. It’s been a nice routine.”

Ernest went back to his desk to pick up a thin curved tool. “If you like it then that’s all well, I suppose. You don’t need to do that for coin though. I’ve found a new lead with the mill workers and found a group that I’m convinced had it out for my grandfather and caused some of the later business failings.”

“It’s been almost three months, Ernest. I don’t want to wear away at our savings too much.”

“Three? Hm. Well, still, shouldn’t be much longer.” He came over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll get to the bottom of it and return,” and promptly vanished with a flick and a whirr.

—— “A new lead! Multiple points of interest as it turns out. The workers and some shady merchants involved. Took a bit to track the merchants down.” Ernest popped back in and scrabbled in his toolbox for a moment before pulling out a coil of wire. “It’s all going so very well! Such good luck, I can’t believe it!” And popped just as quickly back out as Emery brushed back a wisp of greying hair.

——

The next Ernest returned with news of a new lead, Emery sat knitting a blanket.

“My hands have been getting too sore with detail work.” She explained, working in the glow of the lamplight. “I’ve been making blankets and winter-wear for the people at the church. A few kind boys often come down on the colder days to pick up anything I’ve made so that I don’t need to make the trek over. Spring will be soon, but it’s still chilly and warmth is needed.”

——

A few more returns met with Emery working and waiting each time, and Ernest’s quick departures just the same, before he last arrived to find an empty room and where Emery had always sat in her place was a folded knit blanket with an envelope resting on top. “I think I’ve found the last piece, Emery! Emery? Hello?” The house was small and a quick search revealed no sign of Emery. He was just about to investigate the letter when a knock sounded at the door. Visitors were rare and he was not surprised not to recognize the woman who stood at the door. “Hello. Who are you?”

“Ah! Good afternoon! I’m surprised to see someone here. I often stop by at least once a week and let myself in to do my usual check, but always knock just in case, which seems to be rewarded this time. Are you Emery’s husband?”

“I… yes. I’m Ernest, her husband. If you’re looking for her though, she’s not here at the moment.”

The lady’s eyes became pained and her smile strained. “No, no I wouldn’t expect her to be. She asked me to stop by regularly regardless of her presence. Have you found a letter by chance?”

“A letter? There’s an unopened one on the chair, but I haven’t touched it. Did she leave it and the blanket for you?”

“Ah, no, no they’re not for me, Emery left them for you. Mr. Ernest, I would suggest you read that letter, and… perhaps sit down for it.”

“The letter is for me? How do you know that? Who exactly are you?” Ernest quizzed.

“I’m an old friend of Emery’s from the church she volunteered for. She served for a good many years- a joy to have- always a kind word and good quality work from her. She spoke of you often, always kindly, always kindly.” She added with assurance. “She mentioned you needing to be away for work- overseas merchant or something, yes?- and worried about your health, if you were warm for the winter and that sort of thing, though it seems she needn’t have been, as much as a spring chicken you look. The other ladies and I worried about her being alone for long times, but she wanted to make sure to be able to catch you on your short returns so she wouldn’t stay with any of us for long, bless her- what was your question? Ah! Right! Emery told me about the letter and instructed me to check in to see that you received it. Now that you’ve returned from your travels, I’m glad to have been able to likewise return a long-standing favor to her. Now, I do have to be off. I have to run to pick up my youngest grandchild. I pray you have a good day, sir.” And with that she hurried off, and Ernest had shut the door before he realized he hadn’t even gotten her name.

“A letter for me?” Ernest slowly walked over to the old rocker, now coated in a layer of dust before lifting the envelope. It was a bit yellowed with age and had Emery’s twisting scrawl on the front of it, a little wobbly at the ends, but still distinctly hers, clearly addressing the letter to himself. He removed the blanket from the chair and sat down before draping the plush, green material atop his lap. He took a small knife from his coat pocket and opened the top of the envelope, pulling out the letter and began to read as a spring breeze snuck past a crack in the sill of a window framed by worn checkered curtains.

[illumins]

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚: Don't Throw A Book At Your Crush.

Physical pain is a curious thing; it's like a thick fog that rolls in, smothering all other worries. Even my concern for Mark becomes muted under the dull throb of the bruise on my cheek. By the time we get back to our small townhouse in Graystone—a quiet, unassuming city that rarely ever sees the kind of chaos that unfolded today—I'm almost grateful for the distraction the pain provides.

As soon as the door shuts behind us, my dad launches into a barrage of questions. "Liya, what were you thinking running back inside like that?" His voice pitches with every query, a crescendo of concern that fills the cramped living room. "How did you get this bruise? And really, are you—," he pauses, searching for the right words, "—are you sure you're okay, not just physically but...?" His question about my sanity hangs between us, an unfinished bridge.

I shrug off his last question with a half-smile, trying to ease his worry. "I'm okay, Dad, really."

He nods, though his eyes say he's far from convinced. Running a hand through his already disheveled hair—a trait I've inherited—he continues, "Well, the parents from Daylight Academy were informed there'd be two days off school because of the accident."

That's his subtle way of saying I'm grounded without using the word. He knows I understand, but he softens the decree by adding, "How about we order from Pizza Paradise? Extra cheese, your favorite." Pizza Paradise is our go-to on nights when cooking feels like a chore too cumbersome to undertake. It's a small, local spot that claims their secret sauce recipe came straight from an Italian nonna—unlikely, but it's delicious enough that we've never bothered to doubt it.

Despite the casual suggestion, I know it’s his way of making sure I don't run off if I feel the urge. Any other teenager might bristle at such overt surveillance, but this is Dad, and his actions stem more from fear than anger at my recklessness. After losing Mom, it's just been the two of us, navigating our grief and now this new, unexpected threat.

I nod, sinking into our old, worn couch that's as much a patchwork of history as we are—a collection of moments stitched together, fraying at the edges but still holding. "Sounds perfect," I reply, letting the familiarity of the routine soothe the both of us.

Our townhouse is small, the rooms a little too lived-in, cluttered with memories that crowd the shelves and walls. Photos of Mom smile down at us from frames that line the mantelpiece, her eyes following us with a quiet permanence. The coffee table is a battlefield of old magazines, school books, and several remotes that never seem to control the devices they're supposed to. It's a comfortable chaos, one that wraps around you like a well-worn blanket.

As Dad dials the number for Pizza Paradise, I tuck my legs under me and glance around the living room. The green wallpaper, chosen by Mom because it reminded her of the springtime parks she loved, peels at the corners, slightly showing the worn out beige beneath it. Outside, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows that creep across the floor, dark tendrils that stretch like fingers.

As the room darkens with the fading light, the shadows from the setting sun stretch longer across the floor, like dark rivers flooding the plains of our worn carpet. I'm chewing gum, staring blankly at the TV that's playing a rerun of some sitcom we used to watch together, but I'm not laughing. Not tonight. My mind wanders, tracing the paths of what could have happened today. I keep coming back to Mark—was he safe? How had Spiderman managed to reach him amid the chaos?

"Dad's talking, Liya." His voice breaks through my reverie, more gentle than reproachful."Dad's talking, Liya." His voice breaks through my reverie, more gentle than reproachful.

"Huh?" I startle, snapping back to the room filled with the musty scent of old books and faintly, the citrus of our used-up air freshener.

"College, honey. Have you given it any more thought?" Dad's eyes are kind, the crinkles at their corners deepening with his concern.

College. Right. I press my lips together, feeling the weight of the question like the textbooks on our cluttered coffee table. "I... haven't decided yet," I admit, the words tasting of uncertainty and the mint gum I've been chewing on too long.

He opens his mouth, probably to offer reassurance or maybe to encourage me to think about futures I'm too preoccupied to imagine right now, but the sharp ring of the doorbell cuts him off.

"I'll get it," I say quickly, a little too eagerly, seizing the chance to escape from the conversation. Rising from the couch, I cross the room, each step a deliberate delay of the inevitable discussion. As I pull open the door, the cool evening air brushes against my face, bringing a momentary relief. The pizza delivery guy hands over the warm boxes, and just like that, the normalcy of a family dinner snaps back into place, leaving my concerns about Mark lingering silently between the shadows and the fading light.

I lay sprawled across the couch, too stuffed to move, with an ice pack numbing my cheek—a battle scar from earlier when I got a little too animated telling Dad about Mark's impossible escapes. Dad's already lost to sleep, his snores a soft echo in the dimly lit living room where the glow of the TV flickers, casting ghostly light across his relaxed features.

We're halfway through some action movie that Dad picked, more explosions than plot, and my mind's only half on the screen. The rest is upstairs, in that unspoken worry about noises that shouldn't be there.

Then, it comes—a thud from upstairs. My heart skips. Not the movie. Not Dad. I sit up, listening harder. Another thump, like something—or someone—had bumped against a wall. Dad doesn't stir; just another log added to his symphony of snuffles and murmurs.

Carefully, I set the ice pack down on the coffee table, right beside the greasy remains of our pepperoni pizza, the cardboard box stained with oil spots. The cool metal of the pack clinks lightly against the wood, a small, crisp sound in the otherwise muffled room.

I rise, my movements slow, fluid, trying not to disturb the precarious peace of Dad's slumber. As I pass by our cluttered bookshelf, my fingers brush against the spines of hardcovers and paperbacks jammed too tightly together. I hesitate, then snatch up a heavy, hardbound copy of Sherlock Holmes—more weapon than literature in this moment.

Each step on the stairs creaks under my weight, a reluctant betrayal as I make my way up. My breath feels too loud in my ears, my heart a drumbeat I'm certain could wake Dad. But he sleeps on, oblivious and out of reach.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretches out, dimly lit by the nightlight plugged in near the bathroom. Three doors: Mom and Dad's room, mine, and the bathroom between them. The thuds had stopped, replaced now by a stifling silence, the kind that presses in on your ears when you strain to hear anything at all.

I grip the book tighter, feeling the edges bite into my palm, and I inch toward my door, each breath a ragged whisper. The door is ajar—had I left it like that? My mind races, but I can't remember.

The floorboard just outside my room groans under my tentative step, and I freeze, every nerve ending screaming alert. I wait, one, two, three heartbeats. Nothing more. Slowly, I push the door, the hinges whimpering softly. The familiar mess of my room comes into view—the posters on the walls, the pile of clothes on a chair, the window slightly open, curtains fluttering like a soft breath.

My heart stutters as the curtains flutter, teasing glimpses of a figure too familiar and yet impossibly real perched right outside my window. Spider-Man. Right here. It’s like seeing a myth in motion, but before rational thought can take hold, my nerves do—a silly, knee-jerk reaction. My grip on the Sherlock Holmes book tightens, and without a thought, it’s sailing through the air towards him.

He turns, an almost lazy, fluid motion, and catches the book with an ease that defies gravity and reason. The moment stretches out, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and the surprise that has me frozen in place.

I slap both hands over my mouth, my eyes wide. Embarrassment heats my cheeks more than any slap could. I’m mortified, standing there gawking at him through the gap in the window, my makeshift weapon now in his hands. The room feels smaller somehow, or maybe I just wish I could shrink away from the absurdity of my own actions.

Spider-Man seems to hesitate, then, with a sheepish raise of his hand, he mirrors an apology. His movements are awkward, almost human beneath the mask. He steps closer to the window, the soft thud of his boots on the ledge a stark contrast to the silent tension. He extends the book back to me, his gesture careful, almost respectful of the bizarre sanctity of this moment.

I lower my hands slowly, brushing back strands of loose hair that’d escaped. Leaning against the window frame, I manage a shaky laugh, my voice a whisper of sound that barely carries. "I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—just scared, you know?"

He nods, the motion sharp against the backdrop of my fluttering curtains. "It’s okay. Really." His voice is muffled by the mask, but the warmth is there, an unexpected comfort.

I reach out, taking the book back, my fingers brushing against his. For a moment, the world doesn’t extend beyond this strange, shared space between a hero and a girl too quick to throw her literature.

"Thanks," I murmur, words lost to the wind as he backs away with another awkward wave, disappearing the way only a hero can. I’m left there, leaning on the sill, the night air cool against my flushed face, and no words to describe the surreal heartbeat of this night.

I shuffle aside, making room, a silent invitation hanging between us. He only shakes his head, his posture relaxed as he settles onto the edge of my window, one leg casually swinging inside my room. The book in my hand feels suddenly pointless, so I toss it onto my bed, the thud it makes oddly satisfying against the silence.

I just watch him for a moment, the surreal nature of Spider-Man sitting in my window making my thoughts scatter like marbles on a tilted floor. What do you even say to a superhero? Especially when your first instinct had been to throw a book at him. My mind races through a dozen started sentences, none of them feeling right.

Thankfully, he breaks the silence first, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. His voice is calm, almost casual. "Mark got home safe, by the way."

The relief that washes over me is immediate and overwhelming, loosening the tight knot of worry that had been lodged in my chest since the afternoon. "Oh, thank God," I breathe out, leaning a little closer, as if drawn by the gravity of his words. "I've been so worried. How did you...?" My voice trails off, curiosity piqued but unsure how to phrase the million questions I have.

He just gives a small, knowing smile, the kind that tells me he's used to the awe and the inquiries but still finds them mildly amusing. "It’s all in a day’s work, really."

As I step closer, the lamppost outside throws a harsh glare around him, framing him like some sort of celestial being caught in a mundane world. I extend my hand out—half-wanting to check if he's as real as he seems, half-regretting how awkward it feels to shake hands with a superhero. But he grasps it firmly, and the reality of his grip brings a sense of solidity to the moment.

"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He nods, and there's a brief, comfortable silence as he releases my hand. Then, his head tilts slightly, and I feel the weight of his gaze, even behind the mask. "Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice laced with a concern that seems too genuine for someone who deals with far bigger problems than a bruised cheek.

"What?" I blink, confused for a second, then my hand flies to my face, touching the tender skin of my right cheek where the ice had numbed the pain. The coolness has faded, leaving a dull throb in its place. "Oh, um, it's bearable," I admit, trying to downplay the discomfort. "Nothing that time can’t heal."

He nods again, understanding, or at least pretending to. There’s a quiet acknowledgment in his posture, a readiness to listen that makes the room—the whole world—feel safer, just for a moment.

He points at my cheek, his gesture a little clumsy. "Still, I'm sorry about that."

I wave it off, trying to ease the weight of the moment. "It's not a big deal, really. I'm just glad you were there to stop those desks from hitting me. That would’ve been a lot worse."

We fall into an easy rhythm of conversation, the tension unspooling slightly with each shared word. But then, a thought hits me, sudden and sharp. "Wait," I interrupt, squinting slightly in suspicion. "How did you even know where I live?"

He hesitates, his body language shifting, the confidence slipping for a moment. "Uh, I have my ways. It's part of the job, you know, making sure everyone’s safe," he stammers, clearly caught off guard by the question.

I raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "So, you’re a stalker?"

He jumps up to his full height on the windowsill, defensive but playful. "No, no, it’s not like that!"

I can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up freely. He seems so much like a regular guy sometimes, maybe even someone who could be in my class, not just the superhero from the news. "Okay, okay, I believe you. But seriously, why come here now?"

He settles back down, though he stays perched on the edge of the sill. "I just wanted to check on you, make sure that bruise was the worst of it," he admits, his tone earnest.

We fall into a quiet kind of silence, the kind that feels comfortable rather than awkward. I nod, still a bit dazed by his reason for showing up. It's strange, thinking a superhero would take the time to check on someone like me. I mean, what does a day in the life of a superhero even look like? But I shrug off the wonder of it all, figuring it’s just one of those things I’ll never fully understand.

Minutes tick by, the only sound is the distant hum of the city and the occasional car passing below. Then he breaks the silence again, his voice serious this time. "You shouldn't have run into the building, though. It was reckless." He pauses, glancing at me with a hint of admiration. "But brave."

I roll my eyes but can't suppress a smile. "Yeah, I know. Probably wasn't the smartest move." I agree, thinking back to the chaos of today, the heat of the moment pushing me forward.

He looks over his shoulder suddenly, as if hearing something I can’t, his body tensing like he’s ready to spring into action. "I have to go," he says, and there’s a slight urgency in his tone now.

"Yeah," I respond, feeling a twinge of disappointment as I step back to give him space. I watch him swing out of my window, graceful and almost otherworldly. His figure cuts through the cool night air, and within moments, he's just a fleeting shadow against the city lights, disappearing into the fabric of the night.

I wake up to the muted light of an overcast Tuesday, the kind of day where the sky seems to weigh heavy, pressing down on the world below. School has been canceled since the accident, a relief and a curse all at once. My father, ever practical, decides that today will not be wasted. He leaves a list of errands for me on the kitchen counter, a mix of mundane tasks meant to keep me occupied and out of trouble.

Standing there, I lean out just a bit, catching the last glimpse of him, the echo of our conversation lingering in the now silent room. I pull back, the window frame cold against my hands, and I can't help but feel a mix of awe and a tiny sting of loneliness as I slide the window shut.

-

The first task is to pick up groceries from the local market. I pull on my favorite hoodie, its soft fabric a comfort against the lingering chill in the air. As I step outside, the city hums around me, a symphony of distant engines, murmuring voices, and the occasional blare of a horn. I make my way down the sidewalk, my sneakers slapping against the damp concrete. The air smells faintly of rain, a promise of showers to come later.

The market is bustling with activity, despite the somber mood that seems to hang over the city. Inside, the aisles are a flurry of movement, people darting around, filling their carts with the essentials. I navigate through the crowd, methodically checking off items from my father's list. Apples, milk, bread, a box of his favorite cereal. Each item is a small victory, a piece of normalcy in an otherwise disrupted week.

My next stop is the dry cleaner's. The bell above the door jingles as I enter, the familiar scent of starch and fabric softener hitting my nose. Mr. Lee, the elderly owner, greets me with a nod, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. We exchange a few words about the weather and the state of the neighborhood, his voice carrying the weight of years spent in the same place, witnessing the ebb and flow of life around him. I hand over the ticket, and he disappears into the back, emerging moments later with my father's freshly pressed suits. The hangers clink softly together as I take them, the fabric cool and smooth under my fingers.

My errands continue in a steady rhythm. I stop by the post office to mail a letter, the sterile smell of paper and ink filling the small space. The clerk behind the counter barely looks up as I slide the envelope through the slot. Outside, the clouds have grown darker, the threat of rain more imminent. I quicken my pace, eager to finish my tasks before the skies open up.

As I turn the corner onto my street, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from my father. "Let's watch a movie tonight. How about 'Starship Dreams'?" The thought of a quiet evening in, lost in the escapism of a film, brings a smile to my face. But the message doesn’t end there. "Could you pick up some sweets from Sweet Haven on your way back?"

Sweet Haven is a small, family-owned candy store a few blocks from our apartment. Its pastel-painted facade stands out against the drab gray of the surrounding buildings, a cheerful beacon on a dreary day. As I push open the door, a tiny bell rings, announcing my arrival. The interior is a whimsical explosion of color and sugary scents, jars of candies lining the shelves, each one more enticing than the last.

I take my time, wandering through the store, the wooden floorboards creaking softly underfoot. My eyes linger on the vibrant displays of gummies, chocolates, and caramels, each piece a work of art. The shopkeeper, a kind woman with a warm smile, offers me a sample of their latest creation, a piece of lavender-infused white chocolate. It melts on my tongue, a delicate blend of flavors that leaves me wanting more.

As I approach the checkout counter, my eyes are still dancing with the vibrant colors and sugary delights surrounding me. The assortment of candies I’ve chosen feels like a small treasure trove, each piece a promise of sweet escapism. I place the bag on the counter, and the shopkeeper rings up my purchase with the same warm smile she greeted me with. Her hands move deftly, wrapping each item with care, as if each candy were a precious gem.

Just as I’m about to leave Sweet Haven, I catch a glimpse of something through the large front window. Across the street, bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, is my favorite bookstore, "The Literary Nook." Its warm, inviting light spills out onto the sidewalk, creating a cozy oasis amidst the gray cityscape. The fairy lights twinkle like stars, framing the large windows that offer a peek into a world of books and stories.

I hesitate, clutching the bag of candy. My father's errands are still on my mind, and I know he wouldn't be pleased if I took too long. He’s been more protective since the accident, his concern often feeling like a heavy, unspoken presence between us. But as I gaze at the bookstore, the thought of exploring its shelves, finding a new escape within its walls, is too tempting to resist.

"He’s not upset," I remind myself, "just worried." The distinction feels important. I take a deep breath, convincing myself that a quick visit wouldn’t hurt. He probably won’t even notice if I take a few extra minutes. With that thought in mind, I step out of Sweet Haven and make my way across the street, the rain a gentle drizzle now, barely more than a mist.

The Literary Nook is even more enchanting up close. The smell of old paper and ink greets me as I push open the door, the little bell above jingling softly. Inside, it’s a labyrinth of wooden shelves, each one overflowing with books. Comfortable chairs are scattered throughout, inviting customers to sit and lose themselves in a story. The soft light from the fairy lights, combined with the warm glow of table lamps, creates a magical, almost ethereal atmosphere.

I wander through the aisles, each step on the creaky wooden floorboards echoing softly in the quiet space. The sense of peace here is profound, the outside world slipping away with each passing second. I make my way towards the manga section, my heart quickening with anticipation. The shelves are well-stocked, each title a doorway to another world. As my fingers brush against the spines of the books, I spot it – the latest volume of my favorite series, "Celestial Warriors."

My breath catches in my throat as I reach for it, the cover art vibrant and dynamic, promising new adventures within its pages. I flip it open, the familiar characters and storylines drawing me in instantly. The excitement bubbles up inside me, a giddy thrill that makes me forget everything else for a moment.

Just then, a voice behind me says, "I love that series too." It’s a voice I know well, one that I’ve heard in both quiet moments and chaotic ones. I turn around, my heart pounding, and there he is – Mark. His face is slightly bruised, a reminder of recent events, but his eyes are bright and warm. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pushed back to reveal his tousled hair, and jeans that are just a bit too long, the cuffs frayed from dragging on the ground. He looks both rugged and approachable, his presence a mix of strength and softness.

I nod at Mark, my throat suddenly dry. The only words that manage to escape my lips are, "You're alive." As soon as I say them, I mentally slap myself. What a stupid thing to say. It sounds as if I’m surprised he survived, and maybe I am, but not in a way that sounds good out loud. His brow furrows in confusion, but he nods, his expression softening as he processes my awkward statement.

Desperately trying to salvage the situation, I stammer, "I mean, I’m happy you’re alive." My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I want to disappear into the pages of the book in my hands.

Mark’s smile returns, and he chuckles softly. "I’m happy I’m alive too," he replies, his tone light and teasing. The tension in my chest loosens just a little, but then he continues, "Jaemin told me you ran inside the school looking for me."

Before he can finish his sentence, the wave of embarrassment crashes over me again, and without thinking, I thrust the manga volume at him. "Here, have it!" I blurt out, the words tumbling out in a rush. He catches the book easily, his reflexes quick despite the surprise.

I curse myself silently, feeling the heat rise in my face. Not only had I revealed my weird crush on him in the most awkward way possible, but now I had literally thrown a book at him. My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of mortification and panic, and I can’t bear to look him in the eye.

Mark looks at the manga in his hands, then back at me, a mixture of amusement and confusion on his face. I can’t read his thoughts, but I’m certain he’s thinking how strange and awkward I am. The realization is like a punch to the gut, and I know I have to get out of here before I make things even worse.

Turning abruptly, I avoid his gaze and make a beeline for the back of the store. The Literary Nook has a little area in the back, an alleyway transformed into a cozy nook with benches and fairy lights, perfect for reading on pleasant days. It’s my only escape route now.

The narrow pathway between the shelves feels like a gauntlet, each step echoing my frantic thoughts. I can feel Mark’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare look back. My feet carry me swiftly to the back door, my pulse racing in my ears. As I push open the door, the cool air hits my face, a welcome contrast to the heat of my embarrassment.

The alley is quiet, the fairy lights casting a gentle glow on the rustic benches and potted plants. It’s a haven of calm, but my heart is still hammering. I sink onto one of the benches, trying to steady my breathing, my mind replaying the scene over and over. I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could rewind time and erase the past few minutes.

I sit there, my face buried in my hands, the cool air mingling with the warmth of my embarrassment. The alley is usually a refuge, but now it feels like a spotlight, highlighting my awkwardness in painful detail. I replay the scene in my mind, each moment more cringe-worthy than the last. The gentle patter of rain starts, a soft drizzle that I barely notice through the fog of my emotions.

Then I hear the door creak open behind me, and my heart skips a beat. I don’t need to look to know it’s Mark. I feel a mix of dread and anticipation as his footsteps approach, each one louder in the silence of the alley. I can’t fathom why he would follow me, what he could possibly say after my clumsy exit.

He stops in front of me, and I look up, my eyes meeting his. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only concern. He reaches past my head, and I flinch slightly, unsure of his intention. But then I feel the gentle tug as he pulls the hood of my hoodie over my head, shielding me from the rain. It’s only then that I realize my hair and shoulders are damp, the cool droplets mingling with the heat of my flushed cheeks.

Mark's gesture is so simple, yet so unexpectedly kind, that it leaves me momentarily speechless. He steps back, and his mouth moves, words spilling out, but they don’t register. I’m still reeling from the sudden shift, from the awkwardness of moments ago to this quiet, almost tender interaction. My mind struggles to catch up, to process the fact that he’s here, that he cares enough to follow me.

He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, and I snap back to reality. "What?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with the remnants of my earlier panic. It’s the only word I can manage, the only thing that breaks through the haze of my thoughts.

Mark repeats himself, his voice patient and calm, "I said, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay." There’s genuine concern in his tone, a softness that catches me off guard. He sits on the bench next to me, keeping a respectful distance, but close enough that I can feel his presence, solid and reassuring.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The rain continues its gentle descent, the fairy lights casting a warm glow on the scene, turning the alley into a surreal, almost dreamlike space. It feels like we’re in a world apart, a moment suspended in time.

"I’m okay," I finally manage to say, though my voice is still shaky. "I just... I didn’t know what to say back there. I’m sorry for throwing the book at you."

Mark laughs softly, the sound a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves. "Don’t worry about it," he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I’ve had worse things thrown at me. And besides, it’s a good book. I’m glad we both like it."

His words ease some of the tension in my chest, and I find myself smiling, the knot of embarrassment slowly unwinding. The rain continues to fall, a steady rhythm that seems to mirror the calming of my thoughts. We sit there in silence for a moment, the city’s distant hum a backdrop to our quiet conversation.

The silence between us is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of rain and the distant hum of the city. I find myself relaxing, the earlier embarrassment fading away, replaced by a sense of calm. Mark’s presence is unexpectedly reassuring, his laughter still echoing softly in my mind.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I pull it out and see a message from my dad. My heart sinks as I read the text: "Where are you? Everything okay?" I glance at the time and realize I’ve been gone longer than I intended.

"Shoot," I mutter under my breath, the knot of anxiety returning. I quickly type a reply, "I’m fine, just got caught up at the bookstore. Heading home now." I hit send and tuck my phone away, feeling the weight of responsibility settle back on my shoulders.

"I have to go," I say to Mark, my voice tinged with regret. Standing up, I fumble for the right words, trying to make my exit without seeming too abrupt. "Thanks for, um, coming after me. And for the hood," I add, tugging it slightly to emphasize my point.

As I turn to leave, Mark’s voice stops me in my tracks. "Liya," he says, and the sound of my name from his lips catches me off guard. It’s the first time I’ve heard him say it, and the way he says it makes my heart skip a beat. I try to keep my composure, not wanting to appear too flustered.

"Yeah?" I respond, my voice a little higher than I intended.

He smiles, a warm, genuine smile that makes my chest feel lighter. "Take care, okay? See you around."

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything coherent. "You too," I manage to mumble, before turning and heading toward the exit of the alley. My feet move quickly, the rain now a gentle mist around me. I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, and I force myself not to look back, even though every part of me wants to.

The alley leads me back to the main street, where the city seems to have taken on a softer, quieter tone under the blanket of rain. My mind is a whirl of thoughts and emotions, replaying the scene in the alley over and over. I replay the way Mark said my name, the kindness in his eyes, the unexpected ease of our conversation.

As I walk, I can’t help but smile, despite the lingering embarrassment. Maybe I’ll speak to him again at school, maybe not. But for now, I focus on getting home, my father’s message a reminder of the world outside this small, magical moment.

[valy-gc]

Chapter 6

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

-VI-

Old Farm

You take a step forward, your gaze landing on the structure before you. It’s a house—or at least, it must have been, long ago. The dilapidated Victorian-style building looms in eerie silence, a testament to time’s relentless march. Its two stories lean slightly, as though bowing under the weight of decay. Weathered wood siding, faded to a patchwork of greys and browns, clings stubbornly to the frame. The porch sags precariously, its railings missing in places, and shards of glass glint like jagged teeth in the broken windows. Above it all, a turret rises with an air of faded grandeur, its shingles peeling and curling like the scales of a dying beast. Overgrown vegetation encroaches from every angle, vines snaking up the walls and weeds bursting through cracks in the stone path.

You glance at Solon, standing beside you with his usual composed demeanor. This… this is where he’s brought you?

It’s barely 200 meters from the main building, yet it feels like stepping into another world entirely. Fibble’s voice cuts through your thoughts, grumbling from his perch on your shoulder.

“Charming. Truly. Does the school provide tetanus shots as part of orientation?”

Solon’s expression tightens, and he gestures vaguely at the house.

“With a little magic, it will be livable again,” he says, clearly trying to sound reassuring. He pulls a sleek device from his pocket and waves it at you. “I’ve already sent a message to the staff group chat for assistance.”

You glance at the object in his hand. It’s a sleek, rectangular device crafted from a blend of enchanted metals and polished glass, faintly glowing with runic etchings along its edges. It looks suspiciously like a modern smartphone, albeit more ornate. He calls it an Arcane RelicTab, and though he appears confident in its effectiveness, you notice his grimace.

“Most of them are likely already in the staff dorm at this hour,” he admits, tucking the device back into his pocket.

You’re about to ask why there’s an actual house sitting on school grounds when Fibble, ever the embodiment of tact, beats you to it.

“Let me guess,” he says, stretching his wings. “It’s haunted. Or maybe you keep the misbehaving students here?”

Solon sighs heavily. “It was the school’s farm,” he explains. “A long time ago. It provided fresh ingredients for the kitchens, but students and staff complained about the smell. The farm was relocated far from the main building, and this house has been abandoned ever since.”

You glance around, noting the forest encroaching on the property and the faint outlines of what might have once been fields.

“The school grounds are enormous,” Solon continues. “They could rival a city. Each dorm has its own parcel of land and the school ground provide them a large space with forests, fields, and even stables near the new farm. The farm manager lives on-site year-round to care for the animals, even during vacations, so they usually bring their family to live with them, this is why they needed a full house.” He pauses. “The current manager lives alone though.”

“You bet I am.”

As if summoned, a figure approaches from the treeline. They stride confidently toward you, their bright red hair looking like feathers catching the fading light like a flame. When they step into view, you’re struck by their striking appearance. Amber eyes meet yours with an intensity that feels almost piercing. Their ears are composed of yellow and turquoise feathers, and a set of small, vibrant wings—red and yellow—rest on their back. The long, shimmering tail feathers of a rooster sway behind them, the dark turquoise hues catching the light like polished metal.

Noticing your astonishment, the newcomer chuckles. “Never seen a Rooster Beastman before?”

You shake your head slowly, managing to mutter that you don’t even know what a Beastman is. Their laugh deepens, warm and hearty, and they glance at Solon, who steps in to explain.

“Our new student here is from another world,” Solon says, his tone tinged with weariness.

He begins recounting the events of the Resonance Ceremony, also recording himself on his Arcane RelicTab as he speaks to send the explanation to the others. You’re not sure whether to feel grateful or embarrassed by the attention.

When Solon finishes, the Beastman’s expression softens.

“You’ve had quite a day,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m Rustan Featherstone, the farm manager—or, as some call me, the Master of Cultivation. My resonance is with the Little Red Hen.”

His gaze sharpens slightly, and he adds, “If you need anything, just ask. But don’t get used to relying on others. Everyone here pulls their weight.”

You nod, unsure how to respond. Fibble, on the other hand, flaps his wings indignantly.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be sure to get my own feed,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Not that it matters—caring for me is supposed to be that human’s job anyway. I didn’t ask to be stuck with this arrangement, but here we are.” He glares at you pointedly, as though the entire situation is your fault.

Rustan’s amber eyes narrow, and the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “Good to hear,” he says simply, before turning to inspect the house.

Solon suddenly speaks up, breaking the momentary silence. “By the way,” he begins, pulling something from his pocket. “I’ve been curious—what’s money like in your world?”

He holds out a small copper piece and a bill. The copper coin gleams faintly, and the bill is a mix of ornate designs and magical sigils, with a figure in the center, a man with a refined and composed demeanor. He have a clean-shaven face, a high forehead, and prominent features, framed by a long, flowing wig that were fashionable in the 17th century, curled and reaching his shoulders.

“The piece is one Scriptos, the bill is a 100, Scriptos is what we use here.”

You glance at them and shake your head, indicating you don’t recognize the currency at all. Solon sighs and tucks them back into his pocket.

“Well, for starters, I’ll cover anything you need. But if you have to stay here for a while you might want to make some money of your own.”

He gestures vaguely toward the surrounding area. “You can work on the farm, at the shop, or in the cafeteria. There’s always something to do.”

You nod again, agreeing with the idea of working to earn your keep. Solon offers a reassuring smile.

“It’s just temporary,” he says. “Until I find anything about worlds travelling and a way to send you back. For now, you can consider this place like your home.”

You glance at the dilapidated house again, the sinking feeling in your stomach growing. This place is going to take more than a little magic to feel like home.

Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

I described the house from this image: (searched "old house" on google, it come from the free stock image site "freepik")

[sephirothsplaything]

DNA| Sec.80 high power-chapter 8

a/n: we've made it all. Lock in and pay attention cuz there's a lot of words here! This one goes out to all you Aemond wives! From here on out he's going to be a problem.

CW: mentions of sexual happenings but nothing super explicit

anyways<3

word count:3397(its worth it trust me)

below is a little gif I made with the edit version of Rhaella!

The halls of the Red Keep were something Rhaella was beginning to grow accustomed to.

The bustle of lords and handmaids alike filled the castle with traffic. Rhaella waltzed by, easily ignored by others.

Rhaenys had left Rhaella to her own devices, seeking out conversation with the king, possibly for the last time.

“I should let the guards seize you, after what you did to me.” A voice snided.

Turning around, Rhaella was faced with Aegon. 

How unpleasent.

“I’m shocked you aren’t drunk at this hour, cousin,” Rhaella said. 

It was mid-noon at the time of her arrival. From what she’d heard, Aegon was typically in a drunken stupor come morning.

Aegon laughed at her words, taking the liberty of stepping closer.

Far too close for Rhaella’s comfort.

“I assume you’re looking for my brother?” Aegon questioned. Rhaella averted her eyes at his gaze. He never failed to make her uncomfortable, even after all this time.

But Rhaella refused to make this known, she took a step forward in earnest.

“I’m looking for your sister, actually,” Rhaella said. This did little to alleviate the smug expression that seemed to be burned onto Aegon’s face.

“Where might she be?’ 

Aegon rolled his eyes, accompanied by a groan. Rhaella had already grown tired of his presence.

“ Am I my sister’s keeper?” Aegon said.

“One would think you’d care to know the doings of your wife,” Rhaella said.

Aegon grimaced at the use of the word.

“You may have my brother pussy drunk,” Aegon said, a slight slur noticeable.

Perhaps his drunkenness had finally seeped in.

“But I will not have you speak to me anyhow,” Aegon said.

Rhaella’s lips pursed slightly in annoyance. Disgusted would be the defining word for how she felt towards Aegon, but never fearful.

Fearful of what? His drunkard breath? Perhaps.

“I will speak to you however I please. “ Rhaella said. And with that, she walked down the halls.

Aegon could go pass out in a brothel for all she cared.

Arriving at one of the rooms, there sat Helaena’s son, Jaehaerys. The young boy was too occupied by his playthings to notice Rhaella’s footsteps.

She took a moment to observe Jaehaerys, the boy was only six years of age. Rhaella recalled holding his frail body at the time of his birth. It felt strange to hold a babe. She did not relish the feeling.

“Where is your mother, little one?” Rhaella asked softly. Jaehaerys looked up from his toys briefly before continuing.

“In her room, I think.” His little voice spoke. Rhaella thought about brushing the boy’s hair with her hand, as her mother used to do to her.

Rhaella decided against it. She made her way to  Helaena’s quarters. The door was slightly ajar so she refrained from knocking.

“Cousin?” Rhaella called to Helaena. 

Helaena looked up from her patchwork to see her beloved cousin. A warm smile spread onto her face, cheeks rose in color.

“Rhaella!” Helaena ushered her to come sit. Rhaella obliged her cousin, taking the seat next to her.

“Another embroidery?” Rhaella asked, eyeing the handiwork of her cousin. 

Helaena hummed in confirmation. “It’s a spider.” 

“I never had the patience for such things,” Rhaella said. She was one for histories and lectures from the maesters and septas. Rhaena was the one who excelled in sewing, arts, and music,

“It isn’t all that hard, just practice,” Helaena said. The two cousins fell into a silence familiar only to them. Rhaella watched Helaena work diligently.

“Ah!” Helaena exclaimed suddenly. Rhaella slightly jumped in surprise.

“It will be your name day in a weeks time.” Helaena said. In truth, Rhaella scarcely remembered herself. She had not celebrated the day since the death of her mother.

Rhaella watched as Helaena swiftly moved across the room, grabbing a garment into her hands.

“I had this made for you,” Helaena said enthusiastically.

Rhaella unfolded the garment. It was a dress. Rich purple silk, with gold embellishments stitched into the bust of the dress. The sleeves were long and elegant.

It was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen.

“Helaena...this is beautiful,” Rhaella said finally.

“I recall purple being your favorite color,” Helaena said eagerly. Only her sweet cousin would remember such a thing.

“ I did the gold bits myself, I know you prefer simple gowns,” Helaena said.

“Thank you Helaena, truly.. this is.” Rhaella was not sure how to place her gratitude.

Helaena smiled anyway. She knew Rhaella was thankful, it was more than enough for her.

“When Princess Rhaenyra is queen, I shall move into the Red Keep for you.” Rhaella decided. Originally, Rhaella had half a mind to sail back to Pentos after the princess ascended the throne.

Jace and Luke would marry Baela and Rhaena, her father would become king consort; There would be no place for her any longer.

But no more. She would not abandon her cousin to the predator that was her husband.

Helaena’s eyes glossed over with emotion. Rhaella felt compelled to continue, feeling uncharacteristically soft at the moment.

“ If I am there, Aegon wouldn’t dare to touch you.” Rhaella convicted sternly. 

Helaena shrunk back slightly.

“There is a beast beneath the boards,” Helaena muttered.

Rhaella sighed. She supposed her cousin had not outgrown the bouts of incoherent musings.

“I hope to never marry, much less to a man like that,” Rhaella said, moving along.

Helaena glanced at Rhaella in confusion.

“You do not wish for a husband?” Helaena asked.

Rhaella shrugged. “There is no lord in the realm that would suit me.” She said.

Helaena smiled slightly. “No lord, perhaps a prince?”

Rhaella felt her brown cheeks grow warm. She understood the implication.

“I wouldn’t marry Aemond, I know him far too well,” Rhaella said.

Helaena hummed in thought.

“Is it not preferred to be bound to one that understands you?” Helaena asked. 

For the first time, Rhaella had no answer. No profound thoughts or complex answers.

It was not a matter of understanding. It was her fear of being so known by him.

“He is not the same,” Rhaella said.

Helaena’s eyes softened. “ He still cares for you, if you’d only allow it.”

If she only allowed it. Perhaps, no harm could come from allowing such a thing.

There was no use fighting the issue any longer.

Rhaella abruptly stood, mind made up. No more games. No more control. She’d release it all.

“I’ll be seeing you, Helaena.” 

Rhaella rushed out the door, Helaena’s gift in hand. 

She had not the faintest clue as to what she intended to do when she saw him.

It was not like her to confess her feelings. And Rhaella knew Aemond was the same.

The same as her.

Rhaella found herself in the library. The crux of all this bother.

And Aemond was there. Naturally, she knew he would be.

Rhaella approched with caution. Aemond found refuge in the couch‘s velvet seats, book in hand.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Rhaella said. Aemond did not break from the pages of his book; He did not need to. The sounds of her voice did more than enough.

“Desperate to see me, I gather?” Aemond said. Rhaella’s hands suddenly became slick with sweat.

The enormity of her desire disgusted her.

“Believe what you’d like,” Rhaella said. She took a seat by him, peering at the book that contained his attention.

Aemond couldn’t fight the half-smirk on his face. Even in her admission, she managed to remain so haughty.

“It has only been a weeks time, yet you’ve found yourself at the Red Keep once more,” Aemond said.

“I did not come here for you, cousin,” Rhaella said. However, she would be lying if the prospect of seeing him again wasn’t half motivation for accompanying her grandmother.

Aemond hummed in response, clear disbelief. 

“I was at Driftmark, my grandmother wished to visit your father and brought me along,” Rhaella said. She couldn’t be too honest, it was far too embarrassing.

“And here I thought it was my letter that brought you here,” Aemond said.

Rhaella looked up from her lap in surprise.

“You actually wrote to me?” 

Aemond placed his book to the side, amusement all too apparent.

“That was your demand, was it not?” Aemond reminded. 

Rhaella briefly recalled her words from before. She was hardly serious at the time.

“It must’ve arrived after I left,” Rhaella said.

Aemond looked at the dress in Rhaella’s lap, his hand brushed over the silk.

“Where’s this from?” He asked.

“Early name day gift, from your sister,” Rhaella said.

“In a weeks time, was it?” Aemond said. 

Rhaella could hardly contain her girlish smile. Even after all this time, it was as if they had never left the Weirwood tree.

“In truth, I’m shocked you remember,” Rhaella said, deciding against expressing her excitement.

Aemond chuckled at Rhaella’s shock.

“As I recall, there was a time when you’d never let me forget the fact.” He said.

Aemond was older than Rhaella by a year and one. As children, Rhaella maintained that seniority meant nothing, as she’d always know more.

“ I shall be ten and eight years of age, same as you,” Rhaella said.

“Then I suppose I owe you a gift as well,” Aemond said.

The two maintained eye contact for what felt like a fortnight. Rhaella felt herself growing warm at the implication. She doubted she’d have the restraint to stop him this time.

Abruptly, Aemond stood up. 

“ Come on then,” Aemond said.

Eager as she felt, Rhaella took her time in following Aemond out of the door.

They walked into the courtyards, passing by the doors.

Criston Cole, the queen’s sworn protector, stood on guard.

The buzz that Rhaella had been feeling was muted in an instant. She reverted to her ladyship state, hands folded in front of her and a bored expression on her face.

“My Prince.” Cole greeted. His eyes shifted to Rhaella with an unreadable expression. Rhaella did not have to think too hard as to who Cole would rush to report after the fact.

“Are you going somewhere?” Criston Cole asked again, completely disregarding Rhaella. 

And she was thankful for it. Rhaella feared she’d be unable to control her tongue if provoked.

“I’ll be taking Vhagar, no need to follow,” Aemond said.

Rhaella supposed that was her gift. 

Ser Criston bowed again, leaving them to continue.

Approaching the valleys, Rhaella made her discomfort known.

“I don’t like him.” She said. 

“Ser Criston is an honorable man,” Aemond said. Rhaella rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps your version of honor is skewed,” Rhaella said.

Aemond didn’t grace Rhaella with a response.

Vhagar came into view. Her enormous body rose and fell as she softly slumbered. Rhaella paused as Aemond approached the dragon.

How long had it been since she had seen Vhagar? Since her mother’s funeral maybe.

Flurries of memories hit Rhaella at once. Her late mother had loved Vhagar with her entire being. Their bond was truly special. As a proximate, Rhaella had grown to care for the dragon as well.

When she was younger, Vhagar had always been especially soft with her. Laena had taken care to introduce baby Rhaella to Vhagar.

But that was years ago. And Vhagar had grown with a new rider.

“Well?” Aemond called out. “Get on.”

Rhaella was not so arrogant as to hold onto past memories regarding Vhagar. She was practically a stranger to the dragon.

Carefully, Rhaella made her way to the dragon, who had since woken at the appearance of her rider.

“Gaomagon ao gibigon issa?” Rhaella spoke in a gentle voice. ‘Do you remember me?’

Vhagar groaned slightly, fixing her gaze on Rhaella. Despite her fear, Rhaella stood her ground. Vhagar was her favorite after all.

“Lykiri,Vhagar,” Rhaella said. Her hand eased its way to brush the dragon’s nose, an act she had done many times as a child.

The act must’ve brought a memory back for the beast as well. Vhagar nestled into the touch. 

Rhaella fought the tears forming in her eyes. Vhagar remembered her mother. Remembered her.

“Sȳz riña.” ‘good girl’ Rhaella praised. She took the liberty of using both hands to rub the scales of Vhagar all over.

“How have you been, old girl.” Rhaella cooed. “Has this one been treating you well?”

Aemond had been silent in the exchange. It was a nice moment, although he couldn’t fight the envy. Vhagar had nearly burnt him when he had first met her.

“Show off,” Aemond said simply. His hand reached out to Rhaella.

“Your jealously is known, cousin,” Rhaella said. Grabbing his hand, Rhaella was pulled onto the back of Vhagar in one fluid motion.

Aemond’s hand lingered on Rhaella’s waist for a moment before grabbing the reins.

Rhaella’s arms wrapped themselves around Aemond’s waist, admittedly hastily.

The action did not escape Aemond’s notice.

“You seem eager, my lady,” Aemond said, teasing.

Rhaella scrunched her nose at the unnecessary formality. She delivered a sharp pinch to his side.

“I have no desire to plummet to my death,” Rhaella responded, opting to ignore his tone.

Yes. She was all too eager.

Aemond took Vhagar up towards the evening skies. The wind whipped all about them, loose wisps of curls moved along Rhaella’s forehead.

Rhaella’s careful violet eyes observed the way Aemond moved in front of her. His grip on the reigns were tight as he directed Vhagar through the air.

Her mother had always used a looser grip when she mounted Vhagar. Perhaps it was a difference in bonds.

Rhaella leaned forward, chest pressing up against Aemond’s strong back.

“Where are you taking me?” Rhaella asked. Her voice carried straight to the proximity of Aemond’s ear.

“You’ll see,” Aemond responded simply. Unbeknownst to Rhaella, Aemond’s lack of words was a result of his carefully hidden flustered state.

Rhaella looked down at the passing scenery, not recognizing any of it.

“What?” Rhaella said. “Do you intend on holding me for ransom?”

Aemond couldn’t help but laugh. “If that’s what you’d like,”

Soon after, Vhagar landed in the tall grass, the vast sea in view.

Jumping down, Aemond reached up to carry Rhaella.

“I’m quite capable of getting down myself,” Rhaella said, causing Aemond to roll his eyes.

“Perhaps I should let you fall to the ground then?” Aemond said.

Rhaella glanced down at the grass. It was a way down from the massive dragon.

“Fine.” Rhaella shifted her weight as Aemond held her waist, carrying her down, causing her dress to hike up slightly.

Somehow, shame was not an emotion she found herself with. They had been in much more compromising positions previously.

Aemond did not release his grip and Rhaella couldn’t find it in herself to pull away.

“Nervous?” Rhaella asked.

“ Is that your intention?” Aemond responded.

So quick-witted, he was. One of the many things Rhaella enjoyed.

Pulling away, Rhaella sat herself on the grass. Aemond followed suit.

“Your father doesn’t have much time left,” Rhaella said. It was the first thing that came to mind.

“I suppose,” Aemond said, tone flat.

Rhaella turned to him, curiosity peaked.

“You will not mourn him?” Rhaella asked.

Aemond’s thoughts mingled together. He supposed there would be no harm to be honest.

“He was no father to me, just a spineless king,” Aemond said 

Rhaella hummed. She understood.

“My father holds many things above me, I think,” Rhaella said.

Aemond’s hand found Rhaella’s in the grass, fingers brushing the top of her hand.

“He is feared in the realm,” Aemond said.

Rhaella scoffed. Daemon was the Rouge prince to all,but the Rouge father to her and her sisters.

“You admire him,” Rhaella said. There was no room for suggestion.

“Maybe I wish to be respected,” Aemond said.

Rhaella raised an eyebrow at that. She knew Aemond to long for something that affirmed his place in the realm. And she was the same.

“You wish to be a king,” Rhaella stated.

Aemond tilted his head at the statement. It was as if she was in his mind.

“You do not think I would make a good one?” Aemond said.

In truth, Rhaella did not. There was a growing darkness around Aemond that she couldn’t place. Given the opportunity for war, Rhaella was sure that Aemond would throw himself into it.

“In the way I’d make a good queen.” Rhaella scoffed. 

“We would bring stability to the seven kingdoms, together,” Aemond said.

Rhaella smiled. The grin grew larger and larger until she could no longer contain her amusement, laughing loudly.

“I didn’t know you’ve taken up jests.” She said.

Aemond smiled slightly. He was serious. It escaped Rhaella’s notice.

Rhaella fell back into the grass. 

“The princess will make a fine queen I think,” Rhaella said, after a while.

Aemond had no response. Perhaps he didn’t agree.

Instead, he took in the sight of Rhaella. The silver-white curls of her hair cut through the grass. Her eyes were closed, withholding those all-knowing eyes he cared for so.

Rhaella’s face was rather gentle when relaxed, one could compare her to a fawn. She scowled far too often for one to take notice.

“Rhaella,” Aemond said. His tone was calm. He had already made peace with what he was allowing himself to feel.

Rhaella sat up in response, directing her attention. 

Then he kissed her. Like a man starved. The lengths of his repression no longer held weight.

And Rhaella responded. They did not need to confess what others might. It was known between them. As it was, the way it always would be.

Aemond’s body pushed Rhaella back into the grass as they continued. Somewhere along the way, the fitted corset on Rhaella’s body came loose.

The intensity of it all, there was nothing Rhaella could compare it to. Her lips found his once more, the ambiance of the surrounding area blocked out.

It was only when Aemond slid a hand underneath her undergarments did she slightly came to.

Maidenhood be dammed. It was a long time coming anyhow.

The two lay out in the grass, garments half covering their nakedness—Rhaella’s once neat braid and been reduced to messy frays. Aemond was no better, his hair was uniquely wild.

It was late into the hour of the wolf. Rhaella sat up slowly. Her fingers tangled into her hair, letting all the curls loose.

Aemond retrieved his clothing in silence however there was a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Rhaella was his.

“We should go, lest they send out the king’s guards,” Rhaella said. 

Aemond hummed in agreement. He noticed that Rhaellas corset was loose. He pulled her back slightly, quick fingers lacing the backing up.

“Where’d you learn that?” Rhaella said.

“Helaena,” Aemond responded. 

The pair mounted Vhagar once more. This time, Rhaella’s arms wrapped around the whole of Aemond, chin resting on his shoulder.

She couldn't deny it. Happiness had consumed her, nonchalant as she tried to be.

She need not the pact of marriage. Aemond could betroth anyone and she would not care. They’d now be tied forevermore.

They arrived back in Kingslanding. Entering the Red Keep once more, they were reluctant to part ways.

“That was an interesting gift,” Rhaella said, mirth in her voice.

“It crossed my mind to get you jewelry of some sort, but I recall you not caring much for it,” Aemond said.

“My prince?” A voice called down the hall. Ser Criston Cole. He seemed to appear anywhere she was these days.

Aemond’s hands moved away from hers. She did not protest. Their situation was...not ideal for public knowledge. 

“There is something I must speak with you about..now,” Cole said. There was clear urgency on his face.

Aemond turned back to Rhaella, she wouldn’t be remiss to see the slight apologetic look on his face.

“I’m coming,” Aemond responded to Cole.

Rhaella became all too aware of the empty halls. 

“Ser Criston?” Rhaella spoke. Criston Cole turned to face her. His expression was that of pure judgment. Suddenly, Rhaella felt rather self-conscious.

“Have you seen the Princess Rhaenys?” Rhaella asked.

“No,” Cole said, rather bluntly.

Aemond and Cole walked off to discuss matters unknown to Rhaella.

Rhaella carried herself back to her quarters, stripping down completely save for her underdress.

In the quiet moments between her drifting in and out of consciousness. Rhaella resolved that she would return to Driftmark on the morrow with her grandmother.

And with that, Rhaella lay limp in sleep.