#simper scribbles

[simping-on-the-daily]

Claws, Katanas, Compassion and Ketamine

Summary: You were the link between Vanessa and Wade during their breakup. They get back together, creating the perfect triangle. And then Wolverine shows up too, because you totally live in a suite apartment that can fit everyone.

Notes: God I love poly, mutant!reader, gn!reader, I wrote this in one day and thirty minutes last night and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be obvious

Warnings: Gets real suggestive near the end but it's a fade to black, typical Deadpool content, from swearing to sex, reader does drugs and is very unhinged Wade’s just worse, not betaread we die like Worstie’s X-Men

The three of you ‘broke up’ in your shitty but homey apartment. Vanessa knew that her death caused Wade to try and kill himself numerous times, and dying shook her up a bit. After being rejected by the Avengers, Wade spent too much time hating himself and wondering where he went wrong, unintentionally neglecting his relationship with both of you

You were the red rope, the link, the buckle on the belt, it seemed. Shit got messy, Wade assumed too fast, but Vanessa wanted to be with you and you still loved Wade, vice versa. Vanessa tried to work stuff out herself, moving out, you stayed at the apartment, and Wade went to live with Blind Al again. You video chatted and texted everyday, and did your darndest to be by both sides.

Vanessa called you one day. She'd gotten the therapy, she said. Wanted to get back with Wade, try again at the least. You encouraged her to try and ask at Wade's surprise party, an extra present to add to the love in the late mutant’s life. Vanessa blew you kisses through the computer, and you mimicked catching them and placing the kisses on your cheek.

Then Wade got kidnapped, and came back two days later, claiming to have saved your entire universe, with some extra company.

“You must think saving the world's sexy, huh, Vanny?” You joked to Vanessa, lightly elbowing her after she and Wade made the promise attempted to try again over his second birthday dinner.

“Shut up and kiss me.” Vanessa put a finger to your chin in jest, and you accepted, embracing her with a gentle kiss to the lips.

“Already getting on it without me?” Wade interrupted, a metaphorical eyebrow raised in light-hearted query, poking in from the room you were in. Your response was simply to blow a kiss, which Wade quickly grabbed and pressed his hand against his cheek, swooning like a teenage girl. Vanessa simply giggled, and dragged you both back to join the party.

You all moved into Blind Al's apartment, in truth because you wanted to take Blind Al's coke. Wade said you couldn't, however, because that was the one thing Feige said they couldn't do. “What a pussy.” You grumbled, throwing the stash back into the floor where it belonged. And then Mary Puppins pissed on your leg, because apparently the nicest Deadpool hadn't potty trained his dog for some reason. Dick.

Oh, and the motherfucking Wolverine was here for some reason.

“Disney's gonna make him keep at this until he's 90, so we gotta give the senior citizen a house otherwise we'll get canceled for elderly abuse.” Wade 'explained’ to you in a whisper, and you nodded intently like you understood. Logan gave a middle finger in response.

He existed, that was for sure. You found him napping in the cupboard once because apparently Logan thought he was too good for the floor. He minded his business, staying out of the way. You accidentally caught him showering with the sweet smelling pink soap Wade and Vanessa shared and good god, those man’s abs were carved by Michalangelo. Fucking beautiful.

You, Wade and Vanessa sat down one night, Logan out at the bar that was full of football obsessed lunatics. And at the same time, you all spoke.

“I need that werewolf cock in me.”

“My god you guys, we need to get Peanut into bed with us, have you seen him?”

“We shouldn’t let him fourth wheel us, ask if he wants to be included.”

Vanessa glared at you both. You shrugged, while Wade did his best to look innocent.

The timing could’ve been worse, with you offering the deal with a Logan who was nearly hungover. Wade on the sofa like ‘one of those French girls’, Vanessa wore a casual hoodie with those really short shorts, and you were snorting heroin. Vanessa explained everything, and you’re pretty sure you hallucinated cartoon birdies as you spoke. Turns out, Wade did the same thing too, once. 

Logan accepted anyway, so he knew what he was going to get himself into.

Eventually, you grew to accept that Logan was a weasel, not a werewolf (which is so much cooler), and that you liked seeing him smile. Made you feel good, especially when he smiled because you were running his hands through his hair.

Like some fucked up hivemind, Vanessa and Wade shared your feelings too. However, unlike last time, Logan was the one who ‘confessed’, when the dude straight up purred in contentment when you tried to sit him down at your shitty table and well, you didn’t need to do much to gather the context as to why.

You and Logan shared the ‘Good’s Cabinet’, containing your most precious drugs and Logan’s more costly drinks, both saved for the most special occasions. You offered to take him to different bars that weren’t full of football frat-bros, and both of you found a new enjoyment in clubbing.

You would wear your best jewelry and drip, while Logan would wear an oversized jacket over his ‘wife beater’ shirt, worn over his Wolverine suit. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.

“They asked for no pickles,” He hovered above you like your evil shadow clone, the worker at the front desk sweating on their head and probably under the collar.

“Haha, reference.” You jokingly poked Logan’s chest, before turning to the employee. “Don’t mind him. Never worked a day of retail in his life, doesn’t get the struggle.”

“Fuck you.” Logan added compulsory, though with the vitriol of a man whose moments of swearing have entirely lost their impact. You did get a new meal, no pickles included, so maybe the guard dog privileges are necessary.

Wade and you would often go out to the park on weekends, chilling on a bench as you gave your very persuasive remarks on all the cars Wade would sell on his job. He’d challenge you to get more ridiculous, and you'd do so with a wink and excessive references to sex.

“Get the boss to add truck nuts to all your autobots,” You suggested as you and Wade both got ice cream cones from the greatest truck of all time. “Would add some blitz to your bis, yaknow?”

“You wanna have a fivesome with our Honda Odyssey?”

“Give the objectums something good.” You shrugged, and Wade responded with a look to the audience, cosplaying as a bunch of trees in Discount Central Park.

Vanessa liked to drag you shopping, and you were content watching her search for the perfume bottles with the most ornate casing. God, she was so pretty, her hair put into that messy bun and casual dress.

“This bitch is ugly.” Vanessa said, holding up a silver bottle with a diamond bottletop. You heard a crunch, and tears quickly welled up in your eyes.

“Oh, so sorry sweetie, I wasn’t talking about you-” Vanessa held up her hands and shook them in a panic, putting the bottle back.

“It’s not that,” Your voice was barely a whisper. “I think I stepped on a ladybug.”

Vanessa looked down at the red flakes on the floor near your foot. “Sweetheart, that was an M&M.”

“Oh.” You stood there in silence for a few seconds, before turning back to Vanessa in the unnatural, freakish sort of way. “You getting anything from here?”

Vanessa smiled. “I think we should have an early lunch.” And you grinned too, as she rushed you over to the food court.

Your nights were chill nights, all four of you curled up on the bed, Mary Puppins curled beside Wade’s leg as he kept changing his position every few minutes. You would braid Vanessa’s hair as she scrolled through her phone, and Logan would lie down and accept head pats and bellyrubs with a content purr. Apparently weasels can do that.

Movie nights were great, too. Logan always got the best popcorn and you all had your designated seats. With a combination of heroin and ketamine you called ‘ketarin’, you snacked on your stash while you were all forced to share two bottles of Pepsi.

“Try it, babes,” You gestured your bucket of drugs towards Wade and Logan, the former sitting on the weasel’s lap as he tried to get comfy. “You’ll be able to smell sounds and taste colors. Stereotypical, I know, but life changing.”

Logan glared at you. “Get this fucker off me and I’ll consider it.”

“Wade, get off, I want Logan to taste my ketarin.”

The mercenary huffed in exaggeration, arms crossed. “No can do, sugar tits. Peanut here needs to learn his lesson.”

“What lesson?” You huffed. “Anyways, I forgive Logan, now get off I need him to try it.”

“He was a very bad boy today, and you know this, Y/N.” Logan rolled his eyes.

“Get off him, Wade.” Vanessa spoke in that stern voice, and even though it was not directed to you, your collar was getting hot already. “We’ll sort it out later tonight, mkay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wade gave a mocking salute before getting off of Logan with a grumble.

“She’ll be making ya say that seriously later, you know?” You raised an eyebrow at the mercenary, who made a heart symbol with his hands as he winked.

You thrust your special bucket towards the huge, jacked man (hehe), his demands met. Logan sighed before digging his hands in, and shoved it down his mouth.

“I prefer corn starch.”

“You fucking take that back, you little slutty shitter-”

You would’ve beaten him to a pulp for disrespecting your recipe, but Vanessa gave a mock cough, getting you, him and Wade to look at her. “Legally Blonde or Die Hard?”

“It’s August, the fuck are we suggesting Die Hard for?” You huffed, arms crossed, snatching your ketarin back.

“Yeah, too early for festive cheer, sweetcheeks. And I can’t miss out on international girlboss Ms. Woods, who do you take me for?”

“Die Hard is barely a Christmas movie,” Logan scoffed, but didn’t oppose when Vanessa selected Legally Blonde with the remote.

You all relaxed, in your own fucked up way. You and Vanessa arm-wrestled over who got to have a sip of Pepsi (she won, you were trying to hold your bucket in the other hand). Wade’s commentary was louder then the movie, causing Logan to punch him, and Wade let out a murmur of ‘harder, mummy’. You snickered at Logan’s look of repulsion and confusion, looking over to Vanessa, who was most likely the mummy in question. Unfortunately for Logan, she was going onto the balcony to let Mary Puppins piss, so he looked at you.

“Something something we’ll deal with you later, something something what would Elle Woods think?”

Wade seemed to think Elle Woods thought badly of him, standing upright and flopped onto his seat. You put your hands through Logan’s hair, watching him relax from your movement, before yelping when Vanessa came back and accidentally sat down on your hand.

“Shit, so sorry.” Vanessa gave a quick kiss to your hand, and you dramatically swooned as you watched Elle Woods be a girlboss.

“Forgiven, honeybuns, for I could never be mad at such an exquisite princess, who’s hair was made from silk that Willy Wonka once commissioned-”

“Shove your Shakespeare-ass monologues up your ass and get a room.”

Blind Al spoke up, and all four of you turned to see her standing behind you, having just come home.

“This is our room, Al,” Wade countered. “We rented it fair and square while you played poker with all the other little old ladies like you.”

“You’re early.” Logan noted, holding onto a bottle as he turned back to the television.

“Wilson’s clients took a car on a joyride and crashed into the club. Drunk on that high, I reckon.”

“Were they driving with the truck nuts?”

“How the fuck would I know, stupid?”

“Ah.” You hung your head in exaggerated shame, before Al grabbed the wall and let it guide her towards her room.

“Your clients?” You asked Wade with a raised eyebrow after she was gone.

“Karen, Kenny and Twinkletoes.” He ‘answered’. “Now, back to our regular scheduled program of Elle Woo-......and the movie’s over.”

Logan snorted, and Wade gasped, turning to face him. “I’ll have you know that it was a sacrifice I made, I tell you! I gave it all up!”

“You’d give anything up for a cornchip,” Logan shot back, but Vanessa gave a loud clap that stopped the conversation. You placed your empty bucket in the sink halfheartedly before turning to your girlfriend.

“Back to bed. We’ve got some behavior to correct.” Vanessa commanded, heading to your shared room.

“Yes, mummy.” Wade answered in his most ‘uwu’ voice, leading you to groan and Logan to shove him lightly as he followed Vanessa.

“A bit too early on the petnames, buddy.”

Wade stuck his tongue at you, and you flipped the bird before following Logan, who was following Vanessa, and Wade then followed you like some fucked up, freakish line of baby ducks crossing the road.

And you would change none of it.

[teafiend]

I feel it, the pull to the dark side 🖤🖤🖤 (😅🤣😂😆 🫣🫢🥵🤭)

[chock-and-bates]

hiiiii! i saw someone send in a scenario they imagined for "roar of the fire" and realised i wanted to get my two cents in as well lol. if like, there was a plot to poison max and charles found out about it, and it was backed by former supporters of ferrari or something, how would he deal with the dilemma? how is he feeling? because i imagine he won't abandon the man that's dicking him down on the regular and also giving him some measure of power, but i also imagine that it won't be easy for him to just let go of his past especially if he's not like, in love with him yet.

you sent me on a little 1.4k word adventure today, anon.

there actually is a scene somewhat similar to this situation in the outline, but it's quite spoilery, so i wrote a little side story instead :)

roar of the fire ficlet under the cut. (rated t)

It’s a seemingly dull day in court when Charles receives the unexpected guest.

He’s lounging in the corner of the Great Hall, playing a game of chess with Ollie while Lando drapes himself on the chair next to him, moaning about how bored he is. It’s tedious, as is the way Lord Russell is glaring at Charles from across the hall, standing at attention near where Max sits on the throne, who is looking quite bored himself as he listens to yet another dispute between Sir Alonso and Sir Lawson. 

Lord Russell should be glad Charles excused himself, he thought to himself as he captured Ollie’s rook. If he was a part of the discussions he would be tempted to tell Max he should just stick the knights in the stocks and only release them when they’ve resolved their endless feud themselves. George would be sure to love that-

“Oh, who do we have here,” Lando’s sudden purr breaks Charles out of his musings, and he looks up to see a surprisingly familiar face.

“Lord Giovinazzi and his lovely wife would like to say hello,” Lando continues, sitting up to primp himself as the lord and his lady approach.

Antonio Giovinazzi and Charles had known each other for years, growing up together in Ferrari’s court until he left some years ago when he married the eldest daughter of a Sauber duke, inheriting some land in the process.

Charles frowns slightly as they come closer, fighting back the usual shame that rises when someone from his past sees him in his new life…

But Antonio keeps his face neutral, the perfect lord as he and his wife offer their congratulations on his marriage and his coronation, with his wife simpering over Charles’ jewels while Lando shamelessly flirts with the both of them.

There is nothing untowards, nothing to arise Sir Albon’s concern where he watches from his spot behind Charles and his lords, nothing for Lando to go gossiping about, nothing to draw Max’s ire as he repeatedly glances over at them.

But when Antonio takes his hand before giving a low bow to bid goodbye, Charles quickly understands the facade when he feels the lord slip a small scroll of parchment into his fingers.

Clever man.

Charles keeps his own mask on, giving no indication that anything has transpired as the couple takes their leave and Charles discreetly slips the scroll up his sleeve.

* * *

A few hours later, when he finally has time for himself, Charles is frozen, still as a statue as he stares at the small message in his hand.

There are only a few hurried sentences scribbled onto the small paper, but it is more than enough.

It is well known the hatred you carry for your brutal husband. Lord Giovinazzi, Lord Zhou, and Lord Fuoco would like to offer you deliverance. With your help, we can slip wolf’s bane to the lion, and seize on the chaos that follows.

You could save Ferrari, Il Predestinato. Fulfill the prophecy.

Send someone you trust to the North Tower at midnight for instructions.

A plot… a plot to poison the king.

Charles re-reads the short message again and again and again, stumbling to a chair as he feels his knees go weak.

The three lords are already in the castle for the banquet in four days’ time. All three are former members of the Ferrari Court, ones who clearly have ambitions to return. Charles knows them, worked with them, fought with them-

And now they ask him to help them poison his husband, and they do so by invoking the fucking prophecy.

Save Ferrari…

Head spinning, Charles tries to think clearly, but it’s useless. His head is a maelstrom of screaming thoughts and images flashing by:

He could return home- Ferrari betrayed him- Blood on his hands- Ollie would go to the Tower at midnight, no questions- Giovinazzi’s blank face- Charles and Fuoco swimming in the sea as children- Chaos at court, screams and accusations- Sitting on Ferrari’s throne- Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal- Zhou and him in the training yard- Sitting on Red Bull’s throne- He could burn for this- Seeing his family once more- A destroyed countryside- Everyone would be suspicious- Sebastian’s proud smile- Lord Horner’s angry glare- His crown, heavy on his head- The prophecy- Crying out as his face is pushed into the sheets, Max pounding into him from behind- Max chasing him through the halls- Max’s gentle hand on his face- Their blades clashing- A tight grip on his waist- Max’s cruel laugh- His husband’s face while he slept…

Without even coming to a conscious decision, Charles' body makes up his mind for him, springing to his feet and racing to throw open his chamber doors.

“Alex! Get me Sir Riccardio. Now.”

* * *

Hours later, Charles sits in his window sill, staring up at the moon and trying not to think about all that has happened today.

Until the doors to his chamber slam open, the dramatics tearing Charles away from the night sky and his meditation.

Max strides into the bedchamber, looking a little… frenzied. His clothes are askew, as though he rushed here, and there’s a wild look on his face that makes Charles’ stomach swoop.

“Daniel told me,” Max says breathlessly, heading towards Charles with a purpose.

Scowling, Charles quickly turns away, looking back to the moon, “And what did you do to them?”

“They’re in the dungeons, choking on the wolf’s bane they meant for me.”

His eyes fall shut, a flare of pain passing through him at the thought of his old Ferrari men dying in the dark dungeons. Gritting his teeth, he tries to push the thoughts away.

Surprisingly, his husband’s hands on him help the matters along, as Max insistently tugs him down off the sill despite Charles' indignant protests, wrapping him up tightly in his arms.

“You saved my life,” Max sounds utterly awed.

Squirming against his hold, Charles glowers, refusing to look at him, “Hardly. It was clearly a sloppy excuse of a plot. They never would have succeeded.”

“You don’t know that,” his husband’s hand comes up to his cheek, firmly turning Charles' head to face him, to see what he would rather avoid. Those blue eyes are burn into his, a wonderstruck look glinting in his expression, “Why did you give the note to Daniel? Why did you not at least wait to see if they would succeed?”

Pinned in place by his husband’s arms and gaze both, Charles feels something rabid trying to break out of his chest, the confusing emotions of the past few hours overcoming him.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he snarls at Max, “I did it because I could not stand the thought of some half-rate former Ferrari idiots tossing the realm into chaos.”

“Is that so,” Max breathes, leaning closer, his eyes drifting down to Charles' lips.

“Obviously.” 

“I don’t think I believe you, sweeting.”

Before Charles can retort, Max’s mouth crushes down onto him in a hungry, relentless kiss. Caught up in a daze as his mouth is claimed, Charles only vaguely realizes Max is forcing him backwards until his back is suddenly flat against his bed, his husband quickly and eagerly climbing on top of him.

“Let me thank you anyway,” Max says, straddling Charles as he quickly begins undressing himself, stripping off his belt and doublet as Charles watches, “No matter the reason- you still may have saved my life.”

“You’re impossible,” Charles snaps at his husband, even as his gaze travels along the skin that is being revealed. As Max is preoccupied with unlacing his breeches, Charles’ hand drifts up, thoughtlessly, to trace one of his husband’s many scars, the one on his chest that is much too close to his heart, courtesy of Sir Hamilton during the Mercedes War. 

Charles touches the mark with a frown, telling himself he only did so because it was a shame it had not been fatal.

Max pulls his hand away from his chest, raising it to his face to lay a soft kiss against his palm.

The tenderness jerks something inside of him, vicious and hot, and Charles pulls his hand away, only to fist it in his husband's hair to yank him down on top of him, ignoring Max’s pained grunt. He pulls their mouths back together in another kiss, rough and biting.

“I’m the only one who gets to kill you,” Charles hisses into his mouth, punctuating the statement with a sharp nip to Max’s lower lip, “Me. I’m the one who will take your life.”

It’s a ridiculous statement. If Charles ever killed the king it would be akin to signing his own death warrant, surrounded as he was in the lion’s den. Still, he says it, something underlying in the words ringing true… 

It makes Max moan, and he kisses his wife again as his hands fumble between them, grasping Charles night gown and tearing-

“I completely agree.”

[syrupfog]

Zoro wakes up to the scratchy feeling of a note beneath his haramaki. 

“Cook’s name is Sanji. 

You fight every day. He hates you. He knows your favorite foods. You loved him. 

Hanahaki got bad again. You took the pill. 

No. of times this has happened: [a number of scribbles] 11”

The note looks like it’s been through the ringer, crumpled and bloodied. Zoro reads it, folds it up, and sticks it back in his haramaki. He assumes he’ll need it again.

The cook— Sanji— is hard to get along with. He yells at Zoro, fights with Zoro, complains about Zoro. He’s terrible. 

Living alongside him is like breathing. 

It feels so natural, slotting into place next to him. Zoro knows instantly why the disease keeps coming back. It’s hell.

Robin knows. Nami knows. Chopper doesn’t seem to, and if Usopp did then Sanji would. And Sanji doesn’t seem to know. 

Thank god Sanji doesn’t seem to know. 

It’s only a few weeks before Zoro’s coughing up petals again. Small and blue and fragile.

They’re on an island and it’s autumn and the town’s harvest festival is happening. There’s a cult or possibly just a really zealous group of farmers. Zoro doesn’t know; he got lost and ended up at an old woman’s cottage on the outskirts of town.

His theory circles back around to *cult* when he ends up prone on her floor after some apparently drugged mulled wine. She stands over him and rants about something or other— he doesn’t care what she has to say, he’s preoccupied with the way the drugs coursing through his system are making it hard to cough, and the flowers in his throat are sticking to his insides. 

It’s gross. He doesn’t cough them up so much as pukes them out. 

The old woman also thinks it’s gross. She kicks him, but she’s old. He doesn’t really feel it.

Anyway, it’s a whole thing. The problem is that the woman wants to drag him somewhere to be a sacrifice to the great pumpkin or something, but Zoro’s too heavy and she can’t move him. But when she opens the door to find a neighbour to help— 

Sanji’s there.

(Or, as Zoro has taken to calling him recently, Curly). 

(Nami told him after he started that he often ends up at that name). 

Sanji lays on the simpering to the old woman for all of about two minutes, asking if she’s seen some lost moss and then going on about her hair care. But eventually he does notice Zoro there on the floor behind her. 

Slipping around the woman, who seems to be somewhat at a loss, Sanji starts ranting to Zoro about how he shouldn’t drink so much if he’s going to puke it all up, and how he stinks now— and to be fair, Zoro’s shirt is covered in puke and wilted flower petals. But then Sanji starts pulling his shirt off of him while Zoro’s still struggling to get up, and as he does so, the note— The note slips out of his haramaki. 

And Zoro can’t grab it.

(He still can’t REALLY move, although he suspects that puking the flower petals did get some of the poison out). 

But he cant stop Sanji. His weak “fuck off, give that back” falls on deaf ears as Sanji unfolds it. Frowns at the state of it. Reads it. 

Fuck.

Then, fast as anything, Sanji stands up and punts Zoro hard enough that he flies across the room, hitting the far wall and sliding down to the floor with a grown. 

Awesome. Great. Good to know how Sanji feels.

He hears the click click of his dress shoes as Sanji hurries out. And then he’s alone with the old lady, who seems truly at a loss for what to do, but that’s okay. Zoro’s too busy coughing up whole branches to notice.

Zoro is retrieved by Robin and Usopp not too long after that. By the time they’re back at the ship he’s regained a fair amount of his mobility. Whatever was going on in town, Luffy took care of it. Or Usopp did, depending on who Zoro asked. 

It doesn’t matter.

Zoro coughs up petals and licks his wounds and starts searching for those pills. And probably it’s too early this time, but he just— 

He wants to forget this. 

He can’t find the pills, though, and he remembers too late that Sanji kept the note. He needs that.

But he’s a coward. He waits until everyone should be asleep before sneaking into the galley to see if he can find the note in the trash or something. 

He miscalculates, though, and runs straight into Sanji, smoking in the dark.

“Eleven times?” Sanji asks him, staring resolutely at the wall next to Zoro. 

“Apparently,” says Zoro. 

Sanji laughs. Humourlessly. “Can’t wait to make it a twelfth, can you?” 

“Listen,”growls Zoro. “It’s not my fault you read the fucking note. Just pretend you never found it.”

Sanji grits his teeth around his cigarette. “Is it that fucking horrible?” He asks. “The idea of having feelings for me is so fucking repulsive you’d rather rip me out of your life entirely?” 

Zoro goes to say something, but there are petals squirming their way up his throat.

He coughs, hacks, spits them into his palm. Delicate blue petals splattered with blood. “You asshole,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What, would you prefer I wallow in rejection and suffocate on a fucking plant? I don’t plan on dying here.”

Sanji goes still and quiet. 

“You hid the pills, right?” Zoro continues. “Give them back. I’m done here.” 

“No,” says Sanji. Quietly. “I— Moss, you can’t believe that.” 

“Who else would it have been?” 

“No, I mean— yeah okay, I threw your pills overboard. But that’s not—“ He swallows. “Zoro. You can’t possibly think I would reject you..?” 

Zoro scrunches up his face in confusion. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “You flirted with that old woman who drugged me. You’ll flirt with our literal enemy before even looking at me.” He blinks. “And then you threw me into a wall!” 

“I was caught off guard!” Sanji shrieks, jumping up. “Anyone would have done that after reading that note!” 

“THAT’S AN INSANE THING TO THINK!” 

“WELL MAYBE I’M A LITTLE INSANE RIGHT NOW.“ 

They’re suddenly at each others’ throats. Zoro grabs Sanji’s collar as Sanji grips his shoulders. He’s grimacing, face inches from Zoro’s, cigarette smashed on the floor. 

“You don’t get to DECIDE WHAT I THINK and then HURT YOURSELF OVER AND OVER AGAIN,” Sanji yells. 

“I’m FINE, COOK,” Zoro yells back. “I was HANDLING IT.”

And then Sanji smashes their faces together. 

It’s a terrible kiss. Someone’s nose is bleeding and Zoro thinks it’s his. He thinks Sanji’s broken it. 

Pulling back, Sanji says, “You didn’t have to handle it.” He pushes his forehead against Zoro’s. “That’s the fucking problem.”

Zoro purses his lips because his eyes are damp. “Shut up,” he says. “How was I supposed to know?” 

Sanji’s hands are still on his collar and he pulls Zoro impossibly closer. “Just. Don’t forget me again.” 

Zoro closes his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Eleven was enough.”

[bigolbigolguy]

We Just Translate.

Author's Note: Hey, y'all! I have not written any sort of fic since grade school and started this way later than I intended but I really wanted to be a part of this lovely little celebration. Thanks for looking!

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

Joe wished he could take his words and run them through a sieve. Pick out the best parts and piece them back together so that he could make David understand. He internally cursed himself whenever he opened his mouth to wax poetic and out spilled callousness. Sometimes he���d march right up to Webster with every intention of spilling his guts but at the first sight of David’s simpering smile he’d feel his belly burn. 

“Fuck you lookin’ at, Web?”

“Fucking nothing, Liebgott.”

Joe was head over fucking heels. David was tactful, David was decent, David was studying goddamn literature. Joe had no right to be sniffing around a man like that anymore than David had any right getting his writer’s hands bloody halfway across the world. In the relative peace of Haguenau, David would settle away from the men to chain-smoke and scribble in that dogeared notebook with his mouth lax and his brow furrowed while Joe practically chewed a hole in his own cheek trying not to ask him what the hell he was writing about anyway (and only halfway hoping it might be him). 

Sometimes they’d fall into step together, and David would offer him an obvious olive branch. He’d ask Joe about his family or his plans for after the war or his favorite issue of Dick Tracy. Joe’s mind would race and he’d try with every fiber of his being to gently take the conversational baton, answer in that cheeky sort of way he had spoken to the girls back home, but instead he’d snarl out a response so harsh that even the war-torn men next to them would avert their eyes. As usual, Webster would take a drag of his cigarette, shake his head, and sigh that sigh that drove Liebgott up a goddamn wall. 

“Just trying to make conversation, Lieb.”

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty fucking bad at it, Webster.”

At night, Joe would stare up at the ceiling and practice his German. He enjoyed translating in his head; it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the stray mortar shriek or the soft snores of David across the room. There was something about the severity of the language that made it easier for him to think up gentler words. Sleep would inevitably claim him before he had said all he wanted to say to Webster, even if it was just in the privacy of his own imagination. 

The next morning felt a little different for Joe, maybe it was the snow melting under a sun that felt warmer every day, maybe it was his stomach being full more often than not, maybe it was the fact that they’d both made it across that icy river relatively safe and relatively sound. At any rate, Joe never felt braver than he did at this moment, so he bit the bullet and grabbed David by the arm.

“Du bist nicht so schlimm, Web.”

“Danke, Lieb."

Things changed after that. Joe would whistle to himself during the day while dodging the pokes and prods of a teasing Grant. Whenever he’d catch David’s eye, they’d both grin, goofy and wide, learning to speak to one another without words. Joe felt his heart hammer and swell in a way it hadn’t since he’d first hopped out of a plane. Though this didn’t feel like plummeting to certain destruction, this felt like standing at the precipice of creation. 

Months down the line, after a bit of bitching, a lot of moaning, and a whole war ending, the day came for them to be shipped home. Joe had an address folded neatly in his pocket and hope beating in his chest. As the minutes ticked down, he craned his neck for a head of thick curls. Joe elbowed his way through the antsy crowd and made a beeline for David. He hauled him into a dark corner before pressing their smiles together, David’s laughter bright and adoring. 

“Ich liebe dich, David.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Joe.”

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

Author's note (again): I know the timeline is a little funky and it's a bit rushed but hope y'all enjoyed it! Happy Valentine's Day!!

"Du bist nicht so schlimm" = you're not that bad

"Ich liebe dich" = I love you

"Ich liebe dich merh" = I love you more

[wellamarke]

Unusual Customers

For Otter Day 2025! But, brilliantly, also for the Carolyn Month of May prompt of the same title. That’s called being economical that is 😎

Also on AO3

It’s absolutely a prank phone call. This much is obvious from the moment she picks up the phone. But since Arthur, Herc and Douglas are all in full view, in the portacabin, not hidden away somewhere doing a silly voice on the phone, Carolyn decides to play along with the caller to see which of them seems most obviously amused as it unfolds.

“They’ll be kept very calm, in their travel cages,” says the woman who’s calling herself Andrea Morris. It’s not Theresa, that much is clear. The voice is too mature to be Honour Richardson and Carolyn would be very surprised if Arthur’s current pony club girl possessed the brains to attempt this nonsense. “And they don’t carry any diseases that can be transferred to humans, even by bite - not that they’ll bite anyone - as I say, they’ll be kept very calm…”

“I see,” says Carolyn. “This does rather seem like something one would have arranged well in advance.”

“Oh, it was all completely sorted,” says Andrea, flustered. “But at the very last moment the charter firm we’d booked pulled out. They didn’t even give a reason.”

“And you are assuming the reason was not related to you asking them to fly with rabid otters on board.”

Carolyn surveys the occupants of the portacabin. Arthur looks extremely excited, but that’s practically his default, so it’s not suspicious. Douglas looks intrigued. Herc’s expression is a simper, because he has noticed her looking at him, so she rolls her eyes and returns her attention to the spluttering voice on the phone.

“They’re — they’re certainly not rabid!”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Carolyn rotates her desk chair to look up at the wall chart. May as well force it to the reveal. “The twentieth of March, you say?”

“If at all possible. We would be so grateful.”

“Mmm. What’s the conversion rate of gratitude to pounds sterling?”

“Well… we are a charity, so it’s not that money’s no object, but… we really really need to move them.”

Carolyn hums again, considering. “I think we may be able to help,” she says. “I will call you back with the details.”

‘Andrea Morris’ - if that is indeed her name - blusters through copious ‘thank yous’ and confirms that she can be reached on the same number later on, and when a pause eventually arrives, Carolyn takes the chance to say goodbye and hang up.

“So, then,” she looks around at the men, none of whom seem to betray themselves as the culprit. “What is this? Some anniversary of your piano removal day?”

Douglas considers. “That was in the summer, I think,” he says. “Did I overhear correctly - are we actually going to have otters on Gerti?”

“It seems so.”

Arthur looks ready to actually explode. “Brilliant!”

“What have otters got to do with pianos?” Herc asked from his corner.

“Oh, once Martin needed to get a piano to Wales except he’d hurt his ankle so me and Douglas did it with him. And we went to a place where a Saint was eaten by otters.”

Herc turns to his captain for confirmation.

“More or less,” says Douglas. “Ottery St Mary. Little place in Wales. Admittedly I might have embellished the origins of the name for Arthur’s entertainment. I’ve since found out there actually is a patron Saint of Otters, but it’s not Mary.”

“Oh?”

“Cuthbert, apparently.”

Carolyn tunes around from the wall chart she’s been scribbling on. “That’s who we’re flying.”

“WHAT? We’re flying a Saint?!”

“Well, no. But the sanctuary who just phoned me, they’re called St Cuthbert’s Otter Rehabilitation.”

“Brilliant!”

“Well then,” says Douglas. “We surely can’t risk angering a Saint.”

“Wow, I wish Martin was here for this,” Arthur enthuses. Then he casts a guilty look at Herc. “Sorry Herc. It’s brilliant having you flying with us. But Martin was really funny about otters coming on the plane.”

“Yes, he practically went into paroxysms, even though it was completely hypothetical. Or so we thought! How many otters are we having, Carolyn?”

“I hope it’s a hundred!”

“About twenty, I think. Or just under. She wasn’t sure about one of them. It might be in too delicate a condition to move.”

“Wow! I can definitely imagine twenty otters.”

“Or nineteen otters,” Herc amends.

“Nineteen?”

“Your mother just said one might not be coming.”

“Oh. Yes, nineteen.”

“Times really have changed since Martin was here,” Douglas quips. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice, but Carolyn catches his eye and grins.

“Can we put it on the group chat?” says Arthur, already unlocking his phone. “Martin won’t believe it!”

“If you can possibly help yourself, Arthur, it would be much funnier if we wait until we can send photographic proof,” Douglas suggests. “And especially if we can make one of the otters look dangerously close to entering the flight deck.”

“They’ll be in cages,” Carolyn points out.

“That’s fine. We’ll pop a cage right outside the door and have Arthur knocking on the otter’s behalf.”

“On the otter’s WHAT?”

“For the otter. Knocking on the flight deck door because the otter can’t.”

“Oh, right.”

“I can’t believe this isn’t a practical joke,” says Carolyn, her suspicions having died back into mere puzzlement. She turns back to finish what she’d been writing. “Of all the planes in all the world, these otters have chosen the one whose crew have been preparing hypothetically for… how many years?”

“I dread to think.”

“Well, I’d better phone the sanctuary back and say they’re on for next Thursday.”

“Hooray!”

Carolyn steals a glance over at Herc, who still looks slightly bemused, but happy. If excitement is Arthur’s default, this is more or less his, these days. She busies herself with the phone again before he notices her looking, and doesn’t care that Douglas already has.

[itzsana-kiddingmenow]

𝙩𝙤𝙥 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙠:

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨: 1.4k

𝙖/𝙣: weeee

𝙩/𝙬: raspberries, rough tickles

𝒍𝒆𝒆: seungmin, chan, minho, jeongin

𝙡𝙚𝙧: seungmin, chan, minho, jeongin

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @someone-who-loves-kpop-saranghae @jeonginsdiary @leeknowstan33 @v--143 @wereallgonnadieonedaybutnottoday @inkytornpagess @lajanaa @a-wild-seungberry @channieissocute125 @soap143 @seungsluvv @skznccmlee @moony-9 @sunny-117

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞? 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐛s🖤

“I CALL TOP BUNK!!” Seungmin screeched the second he registered the twin bunk beds in their resident villa. 

“Hey, that’s so unfair!” Chan called from behind him, a frown on his face. Jeongin grumbled as Minho jogged past the eldest and flung his bag onto the other top bunk. 

Innie and Chan exchanged glances; evil twin smirks on their faces as they planned with their eyes. 

Meanwhile, the kitten and the puppy were internally cheering at the idea of snatching the top bunks from the disgruntled maknae and hyung. 

“Hey—you two, off.” Came Chan’s stern voice. Minho stuck his tongue out and Seungmin copied him. 

“Let’s just talk.” Jeongin smiled, an eerie, mysterious grin that sent shivers up Minnie’s spine. 

The two got off of the bed, just for both the maknae and the hyung to grab Minho’s body and drag him to the floor, albeit a little difficult with the kitten’s struggling. 

“Oho, you’re not going anywhere…” Chan threatened, using one arm to pin Minho’s arms lazily to his chest, his other hand deep cutting under Min’s shirt and plunging a singular finger into his belly button. 

Poor Minho screeched immediately, loud laughter pouring from him as he kicked out behind Chan’s back. 

Minho blushed a deep red as Jeongin simpered down at him teasingly. “You ready, hyung?~”

He didn’t even wait for the kitten to answer before his fingers were digging harshly into the older’s tummy. 

All of their laughter blended together, a perfect harmony of happy snorts and a plethora of cute squeals and giggles. 

“NOHOHO Ihihinnieee PLEHEHEAHA!!” Minho griped, a wide smile on his face. 

Chan teasingly moved his fingers to the kitten’s ribs, digging in harshly. 

“CHAAAAHAAHAN!! NOHOHO PLEHEHEASE NOHOHOHO!!” Minho went weak with laughter, propelling his feet in the air as Chan counted his ribs provokingly. 

“IHIHINNIEEEE!!” The second eldest screamed when Jeongin moved to his armpits, scribbling in with a fervor. 

“What is it, hm? You’re laughing so cutely but you can’t escape…” Jeongin squeezed his hands around Minho’s wrists just to remind the dancer of his inevitable punishment. 

“YOUHUHUUURE SOHOHO MEHEHEHEAN!!” Poor Min squeaked, twisting around fruitlessly. “PLEHEHEHEASE TAHAHAHAKE THEHEM OHOHOHOFF!!” He referred to Jeongin’s tickling fingers. 

“Mmm…you sound so cute though! Maybe I’ll keep going a little while more…” Innie decided. Minho whimpered at that, eyes pleading as his face burned in humiliation. He was really getting pinned and wrecked by the maknae.  How embarrassing. 

Chan decided to move, starting to tickle the boy’s ribs again. 

“HYUHUHUHUNG!! PLEHEHEHEASE—NO—DOHONT STAHAHART AGAAIINNN!!” Minho whined through high-pitched hysterics as Chan frowned, shaking his head and restarting on the kitten’s ribs, grabbing one at a time and vibrating it, playing with the bone, something poor Minho absolutely couldn’t take. “STAHAHAHAHAAA!!”

“Sensitive little ribs, are they?” Chan mused, a small smile on his face as he continued to wreck the poor cat to oblivion. 

“YEHEHEHEHA!! NOHOW LET GOHOHO!!”

“No~”

That little shit. Minho glared at him, though it was a little difficult considering Chan’s fingers wouldn’t let him stop laughing. 

In a last-ditch attempt to piss the lers off, Minho took a deep breath and sealed his lips, cheeks flushing pink as he tried to hold in his laughter. 

It was working. They was visibly frustrated and kept digging deeper into the kitten’s torso, trying to prompt Minnie into laughing.  

Finally, Seungmin threw the younger’s shirt up and took a deep breath himself, and Minho’s eyes widened moments before Mong’s lips attached to his belly button. 

The veins in his neck strained as he whimpered through his teeth, Min kicked around, finally giving in the minute the puppy blew a loud raspberry into his side. 

“PFFT—HAAAHAHAHAAA!! NOHOHO PLEASE IHIHIM SOHOHOHOHORRYYY!!” Minho pleaded, a wide smile on his face as he grew weaker to the relentless tickling. 

Raspberry after raspberry after raspberry. 

Minho’s laughter had silenced, and he was thrashing around crazily, Jeongin’s fingers continuing to vibrate deeper and deeper into his v-line, Chan’s hands shaking his rib cage and raspberries making him wheeze, letting out a high-pitched squeal that sent butterflies into the lers’ stomach. 

“Okay okay, he might die.” Innie smiled down as Minho’s eyes formed crescents, unfiltered joy on his face as he beamed in laughter. 

However, the second the maknae had let him go, he was pinned. “Ohhh, shit.”

Min raised his eyebrows. “You think you can tickle me and just get away with it? I only let one person do that.”

“We all know you have a soft spot for Lix, hyung.” Jeongin rolled his eyes, making Minho scoff. 

“You’re just asking for it, little brat.” He pinned Jeongin’s arms out to the side, leaning in and blowing a buzzing raspberry directly onto Innie’s neck. 

“AGH!! HYUHUHUNG NOHOHO!!” Jeongin squealed, happily kicking his feet and laughing his cute, crinkly laugh. 

Minho only continued, melting Jeongin into a pile of laughter as Chan and Seungmin scrambled over to help, the leader picking to scribble his fingers up under the maknae’s shirt, while the puppy grabbed one ankle and tickled up the arch of Innie’s foot. 

Jeongin screamed, the tickly feelings blended together and left him a puddle of hysterics on the floor as he frantically drummed his feet and was weakened to Minho’s raspberries. 

“NOHOHO!! No—plehease Chahannie noho…” The maknae panted when Chan’s fingers stopped underneath his armpits. He squeaked when they received a poke. 

“Okay, heeeere we go!” Channie announced with a grin, digging into them with a “dudududu” sound effect. 

Jeongin squealed, twisting as loud cackles bubbled out of him. 

“NOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHEHERE!!” He wheezed. “PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

The hyung’s only continued their tickly movements until Jeongin’s laughter had silenced, only gasps of air were heard. 

Meanwhile, Chan had let go of the maknae, and Jeongin was panting, strength returning to his body slowly. 

The second Chan tried to stand up, a piercing war cry echoed through the room, courtesy of Jeongin, and he startled. Minho successfully grabbed his arms and pulled him into his lap, with Channie squealing and everything. 

Min wrapped his legs around Chan‘s thigh, handing one arm to each of the maknaes to take. 

“Wait—Min please…I’m sorry.” Chan tried to explain. Minho nodded mockingly. “Bad I forgive you. But you still deserve this, so it’s happening.”

He stretched out Channie’s torso, fingers poised above the eldest’s tummy. 

“Urghh…” Chan shut his eyes from the anticipation, peeking every few seconds. 

Minho kept them there for a few minutes before suddenly descending his hands onto Chris’s hypersensitive upper body.  

Jeongin and Seungmin handled one of his arms, tickling under it until Channie squealed, while Minho got to work. 

Digging into his ribs, scribbling along his chest, counting his abs, Minho did everything he could think of to possible torment their poor leader. 

And how’s Chan reacting to this, you ask? He was not okay. Loud screams and laughter poured from him, his eyes crinkling up in the familiar way it did when he laughed far too much. 

“M-MIHIHHIHINN!!” He pleaded. “IIHHIHITS TOOHO MUHUHUHUCH AHAAHAHAAAAHHAA!!” 

Minho could tell the leader was exhausted from their trip, but refused to sleep anyway. Perhaps this was a way they could tire him out. 

“We’ll stop when you promise to sleep tonight.” Jeongin voiced Minho’s thoughts. 

“BUHUHUT SLEEHEHEEP IS SO BOHOHOHORING!!” Chan squeaked, but only regretting it when the fingers dig deeper into his torso. 

“OKAHAHAHAY!! OKAY OKAY FIHHIHIHINE!! IHILL SLEHEHEHEHEEEP!!��

Finally, the fingers stopped. “Good job, hyung.” Minho murmured, gently caressing Channie’s face to remove all traces of tears. 

“Mmmhmhm...” Came Channie’s reply. 

“Wait. Someone here hasn’t gotten wrecked.” Jeongin noticed Seungmin sneakily trying to leave the room, and immediately grabbed his ankle. 

“We haven’t gotten you yet, have we?”

Seungmin screamed and tried to run, just to get pulled down back onto his soon to be lers’ laps. 

Hands crashed onto his body, some attacking his upper torso while others attacked his thighs. Minnie was thrashing immediately, deep laughter pouring helplessly from his lips. 

“OHOHOHO NOHOHOHO PLEHEHEASEE!!” He squealed, a desperate attempt to satiate their need for his laughter. It didn’t work. 

“Cutie~ Smile for us, baby.” Chan cooed, digging deeper into the puppy’s armpits. 

Mong cackled breathlessly, the hands never let up, only keeping him in his constant hysterics as he twisted and squirmed beneath their grasp.

Minho teasingly dipped a finger into the puppy’s belly button, Seungmin following by throwing his head back and laughing, howled screams pouring from him. 

“STAHAHAHAHAAGHH!!” He wailed before his laughter cut out fully, tears dripping down his cheeks in his mirth. 

After a few very ticklish kisses, the boys laid on the floor, panting and smiling. 

Who got the top bunk in the end, you ask? Well, after everything had happened, they had decided to nap with Lixie and Sungie, only more cackles fueling their ler moods as Jisung screamed with laughter, cheeks red and wet, five pairs of hands wiggling all over his body…

@ksitb

yes the last sentence flustered me wdym

[werepuppy-steve]

april fic rec

a monthly rec list to help me handle my tbr

<- march fic rec ❀ more fic recs ❀ my ao3

jake from state farm - T, complete @matchingbatbites

tags: modern au, cheating (not between steddie), getting together, valentines day

After a moment the ringing stops, and a voice says "Hello?" "Uh, hi, is this Steve?" "It is, who is this?" "It's Eddie, Jake's roommate? I got your number from him." Well, from his phone when he'd left it unattended one day, but Steve doesn't need to know the details. "I really, really hate to be making this call, especially the day before Valentine's, but uh. Jake is cheating on you."

wrong number - G, complete @steddiealltheway

tags: modern au, texting, getting together, friends to lovers

Steve waits a few more minutes before he makes his way out of the house and goes to his own. Once he gets into his room, he pulls out the piece of paper and types it into his contacts - after messing up the password and struggling to find his contacts. Steve: So not a serial killer I hope? There’s instantly some typing back that worries Steve. Shouldn’t Robin be distracted by her date? Robin: Not a serial killer but you might be… who is this? You intrigue me. Not Robin. Steve’s heart races as he looks at the scrap of paper. Damn scribbled mess.

Baby, It's Cold Outside - T, complete @steviewashere

tags: established relationship, nightmares, ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff

He was blissfully asleep in bed when a sudden cold shock to his back awoke him. Steve yelped, “Jesus!” And turned around to see who had snuck into his house this early in the morning (it’s only nine) and came face to face with his boyfriend, Eddie. “Eds, what the fuck? Hello? Hi? What happened to those? Christ.”

Am I The Asshole? - N/A, 5.6k, complete cairparavels

tags: modern au, AITA, getting together, autistic eddie, misunderstandings, fuck chad all my homies hate chad

Eddie hates his best friend’s new boyfriend and believes it is proof that he is homophobic. He takes to reddit to find out.

We could plant a house, we could build a tree - E, 3.7k, complete what_about_the_fish

tags: breeding kink, established relationship, feminization

When Eddie's dirty mouth stumbles into an interesting kink that makes Steve moan, they have to explore it further. A messy smut filled ride through Steve's breeding kink.

Come on Baby, Eat the Rich - E, 4.2k, complete nativity_in_black

tags: mild exhibitionism, daddy kink, feminization, dom/sub

“Eddie, we can’t- you know how they are. Just a bunch of rich snobs who think they own the place. What if we get caught?”, he worried aloud, trying to keep his voice steady as Eddie smoothed his hands along Steve’s waist. “Mm,”, Eddie hummed in thought, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Clicking his tongue, he looked back up at Steve, “Guess we’ll just have to be quiet, then. What do you say, baby?”

Come Back To Me - T, 3.8k, complete @beetlesandstarss

tags: major/temporary character death, grief/mourning, angst with a happy ending

“Where— uh. Where are you gonna bury him?” Eddie asks. “We’ve got… We’ve got some of his stuff. A box. We thought maybe…” “That’s a fine idea, son,” Steve’s grandpa says. And then, “Next to his parents seems the most fitting.” And— oh. Oh, God. No. Steve’s parents are— Are they dead too? (Or, Steve dies. And then he comes back.)

Hazy Shade - T, 5k, complete weird_witchcraft

tags: season 2 compliant, canon divergence, eddie gets involved earlier

Eddie stumbles into Merrill’s farm late at night on Sunday, November 4th, 1984 and runs into the last person he’d expect to see: Steve Harrington.

Worth the Effort - T, 9k, complete @solarmorrigan

tags: post-s2, friends to lovers, eddie takes care of steve, sick fic, hurt/comfort

Eddie ambles up and drapes himself against Steve’s locker door, head tossed back and eyelashes fluttering wildly. “Oh, Steve,” he simpers, high and breathy, “aren’t you going to whisk me away for a whirlwind Valentine’s romance?” “I’d love to, but I’m pretty sure I have a stats test tomorrow,” Steve drawls, sending a sidelong smirk at Eddie. “Ugh. Romance is dead,” Eddie declares. - In which Eddie contends with his crush on Steve Harrington, learns what a migraine is, and gets a valentine, more or less in that order.

nice to meet you, where you been? - T, 3/3, complete @flowercrowngods

tags: modern au, tattoo artist steve, friends to lovers, ace steddie, transmasc eddie, i could scream forever about how lovely this fic is

When Eddie enters the tattoo parlour that Chrissy recommended to him, he doesn't know what'll hit him. Never in a million years would he have expected the pastel or the minimalistic decor or how really fucking polished everything about this place is. It's like an antithesis to Eddie's entire existence has been created with the makings of this shop. The absolute cherry on top is the man that walks into the room to greet him, though. Because there is no way that Steve Harrington, whom Eddie had the maddest crush on in high school, owns a tattoo shop. No way. Nuh-uh. Not dressed in pastel like he is. Eddie wants to hate it. But he doesn't account for how genuinely amazing Steve is, or how crushing on him is the easiest thing. Really, it's a losing game from the start.

Mutually Beneficial - E, 1.2k, complete @steddie-island | kintsugi_kid

tags: mean dom eddie, age difference, power imbalance, choking, bottom steve

It had started innocently enough, with Steve getting kicked out as soon as he’d graduated and with Eddie Munson, town outcast, advertising a room for rent and a kid who needed a sitter. Moving in would be mutually beneficial. It evolved into, “Pretty thing, you take care of me… and I’ll take care of you.” Really, how was Steve supposed to argue with that?

Love and Smoke - T, series, WIP @stevieschrodinger

tags: cottage witch steve, snake familiar eddie, fluff

She sighs, rolling over on the couch like Steve’s just committed a huge offense, “I just don’t understand why you're so against it.” “There are a lot of reasons why a familiar is a bad idea Robbie.” And because they’ve been over this what feels like a hundred times, Steve can list them easily, “it’ll be fur or feathers, so not only would they shed on my furniture, and I’ll have fur or whatever everywhere, you know I don’t do so well with bird dander. Makes me sniffly. They get separation anxiety, so they have to go with you everywhere. Not exactly going to be convenient if I pull a- a – dire wolf or something, and you want to go to the movies. And if I leave them home alone, it would be cruel.” “You might get something small and hairless! Like a- a frog!” Rob insists. Steve just rolls his eyes and huffs, “but I might not. So no. Also, a frog? Really?” Not that Steve has anything against frogs particularly, just...where the hell would it stay? The sink? “Steve!” “I said no Robbie, okay. I’m not lonely. I have my garden, my books, I have plenty to do. I see you at the weekend, I see plenty of people at Tuesday Market. I am fine.”

Can I Kiss You? - G, complete @transvampireboyfriend

tags: crushes, first kiss, fluff

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks, eyes glued to the side of Eddie’s face. Eddie is sitting on his couch and Steve is hanging out across from him, lounging on Wayne’s recliner. He gets to use it whenever Wayne’s at work, with his explicit permission and now priority, since Eddie was jealous enough to start a mock argument and Wayne took Steve’s side just to tease his nephew. So now Eddie has to give that place up whenever Steve’s over. Which, he almost always is, these days.

If Found, Return to Me - G, complete @steviewashere

tags: established relationship, couples t-shirts

He grips the hem of his shirt and tugs. Chin tucked into his neck so that he can read the text, which is bold and black and dark on the white background. ‘If found, return to Steve.’ Eddie groans. “Do we seriously have to wear these?” He whines.

fear the inky blackness of night - T, complete @griefabyss69

tags: post-s4, pre-steddie, steve getting over his fear of the dark

So when Eddie walks into his room, as he does, you know, like a person will just walk into the room he sleeps in, bed and dresser and guitars and all, he doesn’t expect there to just be… A fucking guy in there.

burgundy kiss - E, 6.5k, complete @hawkinsbnbg

tags: soulmates, modern au, dom/sub, under-negotiated kink, daddy kink, light breeding kink

Steve got Good boy inscribed on his butt, just on the right cheek. It would be funny if it was a tattoo Steve had gotten one time when he was too drunk and on a dare. Except it wasn't a tattoo. At all. Even though it kind of looked like one. In truth, it was the first word his soulmate would say to him.

Or, a meet-sexy story where Steve's soulmate is a man of culture.

dance with the devil - E, 2/?, WIP @sourw0lfs

tags: modern au, guardian angel eddie, monster steve, magic

The apartment is quiet around him, the only sound is the rush in his ears from the growing hangover, but it’s not so big he can’t find the owner. When he finally does, Steve actually throws up. If it weren’t for the smallest sliver of still clean blond hair amidst the sea of blood-clump strands, Steve wouldn’t even believe that the mangled corpse in front of him is the same guy as the night before. What the fuck happened? OR: The one where Steve turns 21 and his life turns upside down in the worst ways, complete with gaining the most obnoxious guardian angel known to man

go for it - T, 4.6k, complete @steveseddie | mseg_21

tags: flirting, getting together, pining, first kiss

Steve huffs. “What makes you so sure that you can convince me?” He asks with an arched eyebrow. “The kids have tried and failed and you know how relentless they are.” “Yeah, but I can be very persuasive.” He gestures at himself with a hand flourish. “You know, as a cult leader and all.” Steve hums. “Of course.” He leans his hip against the counter, only an inch away from Eddie’s thigh. “There’s gotta be something I can do to convince you,” Eddie says, moving his thigh until it touches Steve’s hip. “Something I can give you in exchange. To make it worth your while.” Steve’s eyes immediately dart down to Eddie’s lips. Eddie’s stomach swoops. There it is. or Eddie and Steve finally stop dancing around each other- too bad that the Hellfire Club is there to witness it

The Hawk - T, series, WIP @fastcardotmp3

tags: nancy wheeler centric, "the bear" au, multi pov, grief/mourning, character studies

A "The Bear" AU about the restaurant that falls into Nancy Wheeler's lap and the people that help her make it more than a burden. (Ensemble, Multi-POV)

the sweetest thing - E, 7/7, complete @cranberrymoons

tags: no nut november, established relationship, dom/sub undertones

It had started out simple enough between them, Eddie making some off-hand comment about Steve not being able to hold out for a whole month and Steve, ever unable to back down from a challenge, rising to the bait. “Whatever,” he’d said, rolling his eyes. “A month? Please.” He could do a month. Easy. He just hadn't counted on Eddie being – well. Himself. eddie goads steve into a No Nut November challenge; he never said anything about taking it easy on him

The Hole Story - E, series, complete @griefabyss69

tags: pre-relationship, fantasizing, slow burn, rimming

Steve wishes he hates the way he can't stop thinking about Eddie's tongue.

surface-level freak - E, 7k, complete @starryeyedjanai

tags: modern au, transmasc steve, werewolf eddie, human steve

Steve Harrington, Werewolf Fucker. He thinks he should be able to put that on his business card, but Robin says it's a little crass.

But My Heart Is Just A Little Boy - T, 2k, complete Atalia_Gold

tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, steve has dyscalculia

“Look, just carry on without me,” Steve muttered, and stood up quick enough that his chair scraped on the floor. “Steve -” Dustin started, but Steve was finished, striding towards the stairs and blinking back tears. He wasn’t going to cry in front of the kids, not over a fucking game, not over something his boyfriend loved so much. But they were coming faster than he could blink them back as he headed out of Mike’s stuffy basement and out to the driveway, the cold night air caressing his flushed face. This was supposed to have been a treat for Eddie. It was supposed to be fun, and Steve had ruined the night by being fucking stupid. ***** Steve wanted to surprise Eddie by joining in on D&D. Unfortunately, he's struggling with the math involved, and the kids aren't making it any easier.

Just a Shirt - T, 1k, complete @shares-a-vest

tags: established relationship, fluff, love confessions

Eddie makes Steve a customised Hellfire shirt, just for him.

The Taste of the Divine - E, 4.3k, complete tsmkeeler

tags: steddie as roommates, phone sex operator eddie, dom/sub, getting together

The exhale Steve was releasing staggered, and Eddie’s ears caught what sounded like Steve’s moan. The shuffling on the other side of the line reminded him he was on the clock and this was a good paying customer. He couldn’t just drop the line to handle Steve. He just needed to get him back in position and doing something, then he could get Steve out of there. He made a correcting noise. “On. Your. Knees.” Little brat thought he could do whatever he wanted for the pleasure. To Eddie’s surprise, Steve lowered to his knees. His chin tilted to his chest, hands on the tops of his thighs. He was sitting so pretty. What was stiff was now throbbing against the rough material of his dark jeans. “Yes, sir,” Steve replied breathily. Surely, Eddie was asleep and this was a night fantasy well beyond his best daydreams. There was no way. No fucking way. OR Steve and Eddie aren't only co-workers, they're roommates. While working his second job late at night, Eddie forgets to close the door and is pleasantly surprised by his roommates willingness to join him.

The Right Wrong Number - M, 8/8, complete @apomaro-mellow

tags: wrong number, getting together, phone sex, first meetings, modern au

Steve gets the wrong number and starts texting an interesting guy.

Kinktober 2023 - E, 19/19, complete @stevesjockstrap | deansdemondick

tags: kinktober, multiple pairings

Kinky Drabbles for October 😈

The End Of The Line - E, 6.4k, complete entanglednow

tags: post-s4, nightmares, (platonic) mutual masturbation, phone sex, feelings realization, fantasies, humor (like so much humor this fic made me laugh so hard)

Eddie knows better than to ignore a phone ringing in the middle of the night. After everything they've done for him the least he can do is be there for a friend in need.

Never Caught my Breath - E, 6.1k, complete @emchant3d

tags: established relationship, dom/sub, service dom eddie, role reversal (kind of), needy dom eddie, transmasc steve, daddy kink

“I know you had a long, long day,” he tells him, his touch tracing down, down, down, Eddie’s torso shivering beneath the ticklish drag of his hand, “so why don’t you just let me take care of you, huh? Does that sound nice?” “Yeah, baby,” Eddie says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah, that sounds real fuckin’ nice.” Eddie works too hard. Steve helps him relax.

You're the Missing Piece - E, 7.9k, complete brokenpromisesandhope

tags: modern au, established stancy, polyamory negotiations, 5+1, stoncy endgame, exhibitionism,my first stoncy read and it made me feel Emotions idk

5 times Steve, Nancy and Jonathan had sex without each other and one time they did it together.

[simping-on-the-daily]

how do i meet the strangest men (they always seem to find me)

Summary: The bizarre armageddon, (Weirdmaggedon, you once overheard Ford call it) is upon you and the town of Gravity Falls. Spared from the human throne, the mastermind behind all this wants to share you with him and the man you once called a friend.

Warnings: Yandere content, not beta read we die like Eycludia, swearing, gore, Inspired by suggestive material but not NSFW

Notes: Based on @/yandere--stuck's drabbles and posts!! Title is from Possibly in Michigan, Ford is feral in a cute way and a dog, Bill uses all pronouns and she is transfemme thank you very much,,,,

Gravity Falls was a weird place.

It wasn't a ghost town- everyone here was a lively character, from Manly Dan to Old Man McGucket to Tyler Cutebiker’s horrifying puma-panther shirt abomination to the mailman who wouldn't shut the fuck up about her divorce from two years ago. It's chaos was almost relaxing, and at some point, the gnomes and manotaurs became a breather compared to panicking over last minute Summerween decorations and Northwest’s limo causing seventeen traffic jams in the span of two minutes.

This? This was not fucking relaxing. And it wasn't because of the gaping open wound over your heart, thank you very much.

Even above the chaos, you still felt yourself stressed by the very thought of the town’s circumstances. Bears doing choir and coffee turning to decaf? Sure, why not. A reverse waterfall of what you're pretty sure is blood and the water tower becoming a cannibal? That wasn’t ‘normal’. Those should've been Hades most horrific punishments, Sisyphus and Tantalus style, but no. It was real. And all of it was caused by the fucker in the corner.

Said fucker was currently playing fetch in the floating pyramids ‘penthouse suite’, using your bloody heart as a ball and throwing it to the other side, clapping when Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines sprinted on all fours towards your still pumping organ. As he held it in his mouth, you felt a pain surge through your chest as his teeth dug through the layers, instinctively curling in on yourself.

“Good boy, Sixer! We’re making new records!” Bill patted Ford's head. Instead of fighting back, as he promised you and his family, Ford melted into the touch, gleeful smile on his face. Was Bud Gleeful dead? God, you hoped so. His shitty cars had no space in the apocalypse. A noise akin to purring was coming through Ford's vocal cords, and you knew that if Bill snapped his fingers and gave him a tail, it would be wagging so hard you'd get dizzy just from looking at it.

“Hey, sweetcheeks! Wanna give it a go?” Bill appeared in front of you, taking your hand off the human skin couch and placing your heart in it like mashed potatoes on a plate. The feeling of it felt gross, slimey in all the wrong ways. Bill intently waited, and you knew that despite his phrasing, it wasn't a question.

You still tried to postpone it, though. “Why not…..yours, this time?” You pointed towards the heart in your hands for clarification.

Bill laughed, hands reaching to where you assumed her stomach was as she chortled. “One day, honeypie! When your eyes won't explode and get in my eye. I like your gusto, though! I knew choosing you wasn't a mistake.”

You looked over to Ford, who was staring at you with lovestruck eyes, waiting for you to make the throw. God, that look was gonna fuck you up. With a sigh, you aimed back, elbow hitting the couch before you released and threw overhead.

You let out a pained whimper as you felt the agony of your heart hitting the roof with a strong thud. The moment it hit the ground, a few feet away from you, Ford scrambled to your heart, tripping on nothing as he ran towards you. With you on the couch and the scientist on his arms and knees, another surge went through your body as you realized how the scene would look from an outsider's point of view.

Bill gave a quick clap. “Impressive throw, snookums! We should go javelin throwing someday, just the two of us.”

You weren't focusing on him, though. All your attention was on Ford, and it felt like neither of you moved. You kept looking in his eyes despite trying to glance at anything else and god, there was a lot in this situation to get desolate or angry about, but damnit you couldn't be mad at Ford, you just couldn't.

For over thirty years, Ford's life revolved around Bill, whether she was Ford’s muse or mortal enemy. And being in a portal for thirty years? Of course Ford had some screws loose, twelve PHDs couldn't protect you from the natural mental decay that'd cause. To come back here, to think you're safe only for Bill to show her face and start the armageddon of shitposting? It wasn't surprising that Ford just……gave up.

Did he, though? Was Ford being mind controlled into this? Was he living in a reality where he wasn't on all fours with an ornate red collar choking him that had ‘good human’ written on the back? Was this the result of being human, of the brain being weird, like some sorta Russian Sleep Experiment or Yellow Wallpaper shenanigans? You didn't know, not really.

But you did know that you loved Ford, or at least cared for him enough to not put the blame on him. Both you and Bill know how he loved putting the pressure on all of his shoulders.

You gingerly placed your heart to the side, and cupped Ford's cheeks with your hands. Only then did you notice they were bloody, and you realized that there was gore nesting deep inside your fingernails with a mental sigh. Ford sunk into your touch, smiling such a happy smile and fuck you think your heart twitched.

“.....Good boy, Fordsy.” You settled on. “You're a good boy.”

You didn't know if it was Ford's tears of happiness or viscera from who knows where falling down your hands and dripping on your legs, but while yes, the sensation absolutely grossed you out, you didn't let go. Seeing Ford in this state was for a lack of better words, magnetic. It felt like a drug, an addiction you don't think your circumstances or Bill would allow you to be rid of.

But was that such a bad thing? Not when it was Stanford Pines who was giving you this exquisite rush?

“Hit the nail right on the head, babe!” Bill interjected, and with a quick snap of their fingers, they were now sitting in your lap. Your hands were taken off of Ford's face and wrapped around the triangle in some sort of hesitant hug. “He is a good boy, isn't he? And you are, too!”

With a gush of wind and a yelp from you, your heart was dragged back into your body, the hole in your body closing. You clutched your sides suddenly, insides now fucking freezing. This wasn't your organ, anymore, not really, it felt like an intruder in your meatsuit, the same way worms made nests in apples and that one unlucky time a fly flew into your ear during a picnic with you, Mabel and Dipper and the ensuing panic that came.

Dipper and Mabel, your stomach lurched with a freezing shiver. 'Let them and Stan be alright,' you prayed. A glimpse from the corner of your eyes caught a dash of pink from the bubble outside, and you felt goosebumps crawl up all your limbs like centipedes with human feet. 'Let them and Stan be alright.' you repeated with a plead.

“Gonna be honest, doll-eyes, I didn't get what Ford saw that was so special about you,” Bill mentioned with a flippant hand gesture, and though you knew you shouldn't give ten shits about what she thought about you, you still felt like shit regardless, like you were in the wrong. Did Ford feel like this too?

“But then I saw you in action, and boy oh boy, I almost turned pink by the sight of it!” Bill's arms were outstretched in a V shape, getting off your flap and floating up to your head. “And then it hit me.” They slapped themselves, and the sight of their pupil going in circles like they were dizzy was honestly sort of humorous, in a really fucked up way.

“You're the perfect middle line between me and Sixer!” She explained, stretching a limb to run it through Ford's hair, who snuggled your leg deeper in response. When did that happen? “And with us by your side, you could be a whole new extreme! Everyone likes a Mystery Trio, and we’ll be the best one this dimension could ever know! Ed, Edd and Eddy will eat their hearts upon seeing us!”

He cupped your face, just like you did with Ford. “You got potential, and me and this cute puppy here got the key, I just know it!” Their eye became a mouth, and as Bill interlocked his hands together, they placed a chaste kiss to your cheek and a more passionate on your lips and god fucking dammit, you hated the way your face flushed and how you felt Ford nuzzle your knee.

Your body only responded by scratching Ford's chin, and he responded with a squeal you could've never imagined him make until now. “Is…..is he gonna be like this, forever?”

Bill spined, an exaggerated way of shaking the head she doesn't have. “Sixer’s just as fun when he's a puppy just as when he's playing interdimensional chess with me! Which reminds me, we gotta introduce you to it sometime, we’d have a blast.” A snap of her fingers caused Ford to fall to the ground more than he already was, and you quickly heard content snores coming from him.

“It's a blessing as much as it is a burden for him. Every good pet human needs a break sometimes, and the best way to do that is to make the 'pet' part of our deal even more literal! No equations or worries in his pretty brain, all he needs to care about is pleasing the both of us!” Bill explained, summoning a cane and pointing to nothing like they were a teacher with a nonexistent blackboard.

“Both of us?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Pet human’s a good look for you, sweetheart! Pretty puppy? Not so much. Besides, I know how excited you got knowing what he'd do for you!”

“I think you're purposefully misinterpreting the context.” Trying to defend yourself, your outstretched arms hit a hard part of the human couch, and you instinctively clutched your hand in pain.

“I'm rarely wrong, honey! But being wrong to you? I could get behind that!” Bill adjusted his tie before giving you a quick forehead kiss. “When we get the kids and Oyster too, we can all be a big happy family! Like I've always wanted!”

‘Please let them be alright,’ you prayed for a final time, focusing on that instead of worrying about the unsettling look in Bill’s eye. Running your hands through Ford's hair, your heart sunk once more upon knowing how wrong this would look from an outside perspective.

You were worried that after a while, it would feel right.

[bluemoon1331]

I really said "psych!" to myself when I thought I was completely focusing on OMPaRS. Instead, here is what is most definitely a one-shot piece for Incorrigible Scribbles.

Some suggestive dialogue and actions ahead. Also lots of blood.

A blooming symbol of love and devotion throughout the many eons. Rich as blood, white as snow, innocence and beauty wrapped in silky petals that catch the eye in a rainbow of colors.

---*---

A rose.

But for every meaning, there is something lurking beneath it. Thorns and vines that creep and crawl, ensnare and trap. False promises and a dagger hidden behind one's back. Such a cliche it is, but you cannot deny them to be among your favorite flora.

Twirling a dark green stem, adorning near blackened spikes, you muse the burgundy flower in your grasp. An errant thing that had thought to trip you in your waltz through your garden. Shadows drape thickly from the shadowing spire above while you bring yourself to carelessly toss it aside, forsaking it to wither and die. Silly thing. There is only space for one master of the unexpected here.

Speaking of...

"Sun," you casually address the air. In a slicing breeze, so subtle, yet easily caught by you, a lithe form apparates beside you. His bright hues are twinged by a smidgen of brass, voided pearlescent orbs drinking you in, a wide, fang-toothed grin displaying his exuberance. White gloves clench together tightly against his sternum, covered by lush copper fabric, a billowing shirt layered with a flaxen vest, tucked into crisp tawny dress pants. 

His rays twirl upon beholding your visage. "Yes, mistress?" he greets cheerfully, beaming enough to shame his namesake.

"Tell me, how long has it been this time?" you inquire lightly, attentive to your flowerbeds, your fingers trailing their plush inhabitants, on proud display at the crux of their lives. You have no need to specify what you mean. Sun already knows. For as rambunctious as he is, one of his little ticks is his imbecile attention to detail. 

"One thousand years, three months, nine days, sixteen hours," Sun recites immediately. Your lips curl into a soft smile. Perfect, just what you wanted to hear. Never did they fail you, even when it seemed like they had. Always part of your grand schemes.

"Hm, very well," you mutter aloud, search through your blossoms ceasing. Delicately, you grip another stem. This one is attached to a fiery orange chrysanthemum. Pleased at the dazzling bloom, you twist your gaze upward to regard your lone estate, a stone brick castle buried deeper than any mortal man would dare tread. 

"We shall gather," you command.

At once Sun clings to you, hands at your waist and neck, a plea slipping from his gleaming teeth. "Might I be the one to go, oh please, my mistress?"

You hum amusement to his simpering, burrowed into the back of your neck, no doubt craving a variety of things, even if his main objective is going out to have fun. You reflect on it, eying the plant in your hold. You let his anticipation build before dashing it.

"Not this time, my spark. Perhaps the next, if I am feeling so generous," you decline, smiling all the while. You catch the whine in his throat, digging deeper against your skin, but he agonizingly relents, if just to sulk.

"Yes, mistress," he concedes, trailing akin to a kicked puppy on the path inside. Darkened hallways, lit by scant, low burning torches provide a soothingly eerie atmosphere, corralling you past vacant rooms dripping in cobwebs and nothingness. You move through the labyrinthian structure with practiced elegance and finesse, entering a grand throne room. Vaulted, cathedral like ceilings soar above you, a kaleidoscope of blackened stained glass windows forming parallel rows to your favorite lounging spot, high aloft cracked ebony and gold marble steps. 

A multitude of glowing eyes affix to your leisurely gait as you approach. To the far right, blazing red dots are offset by swirling white and scarlet, the other a ruby pentagram. Short, off the shoulder cloaks, frayed and torn at the edges, aid in distinguishing the twins, the one hosting the whirlpooling maroon and ivory lilting down his right side, while the other has theirs on the left. Loose button ups, one black, the opposing wine red, hang loosely over equally disregarded matching inky slacks.

To their left, a behemoth figure, no less thin than any of his family, but bearing over them all. Silvery and dark, sharp edges glinting deadliness in the dim illumination. Emblazoned pauldrons fit him cleanly, paired by braces on his forearms and legs, over conforming navy blue leather. Chain mail flows to his shoulders from the metallic sheet pinned atop his dome, refracting pinprick vermilion in an obsidian void.

Standing at the stair's very base, rustic orange is split by pure midnight, protruding rays burnt umber on the edges. Marigold irises study you, narrowed in thought. Black buckles latch secure an umber shirt, lined by amber threads. His pressed pants, satin, host the same at their hems. Silky charcoal gloves cover wickedly tipped fingers, curled inward at his side. From his shoulders, inside drenched in a shade to put a cardinal to shame, while the outside flares akin to fire, is a cape secured by copper chains and a brass sun tinted black at the rays' rims.

Hovering a few feet off, cream and indigo sever the next inhabitant's visage, honeyed rays framing the family's signature crescent facial designs. Striped clothes, plum with sliver ivory chiffon bands between, ripple down his frame, loose and light, the ends of sleeves and pants fashioned into small spikes that ring his wrists and ankles. A nightcap, silvery white stars stitched amid twilight blue and lined by soft pearlescent fabric, drapes to his shoulder, topped by a little yellow bell.

Bringing up the final of the sun-themed members, tangerine is halved by burnt penny, distracted brilliant saffron eyes complimented by his matching rays. He carries himself far less refined, a simple tawny tunic and russet pants scattered by pockets. Worn leather gloves attest to him tinkering before your summons, and you amusedly contemplate what he might present you next.

The last two are a spot of varying shades of blue among the shadowy space. One is nearer your height, painted in more icy and turquoise hues. Much like the sky on a clear summer's day, their eyes gleam brightly, a depth someone lesser might get lost to. Puffs and frills proudly bolster his slightly stockier shape, an arctic hood with a lengthy tail attached to his top's billowing folds. A luna moth charm has been attached to it, fluttering and shimmering at every tiny movement.

Clinging to the back, the final brother keeps his cobalt and cerulean appearance partially concealed beneath a powdery teal veil, cascading to a point on the left side of his face, attached to a cobweb halo crowning him. Moonlit silver orbs remain pensive, a leather-bound book clutched in sapphire claws. His sleeves and pants flare open in petal-like design, stormy gray fiber fading to stony blue, a comfortable fit which always gave him the notion of an incoming tempest, a beautiful sight, in your not-so-humble opinion.

It was always so exhilarating, having them so ready to jump into action at a mere word or snap of your fingers. Ascending to your throne, you seat yourself onto royal purple cushions that would no doubt have many a ruler jealous with their softness. Poised, unreadable smile lifting your lips, your gaze leisurely sweeps the assembly.

"I believe the time has come for the next story, my dear attendants," you declare near off-handedly. There is an obvious shift among many, an eagerness or irritation at long last relieved. "They have had their silly little millennia of peace, and I think I have just the wake up call our newest toy will require."

Lifting the chrysanthemum, you spare it no care when you crush it in your palm. The velvet bloom tearing and ripping at your harshness brings you no small amount of joy, feeling it morph as it bleeds water and tears. It elongates, petals compressing inward, hardening until all that is left in your hand is a vividly orange pen.

Bringing it down for examination, you chuckle faintly. "Loyalty and stubbornness. A righteous pride, so fueled by bitterness. Mesminax, Penatax, Eclipse, let us go give this hero the push they need, hm? Remmos, I will inquire of you in the library later. Klycis, do be sure to water the garden for me afterward. The grounds will hunger for it."

"It shall...be done," Klycis vows, raspy and deep from where he looms on high. Not that you needed the assurance. Still, you won't ignore the devotion.

"Very good, my faithful hound," you coo, offering him a pet along the chin via a raised arm. He melts into your touch as if a man starving, rumbling a purring content until you abruptly slip away. The arrow of disappointment that strikes him only makes you titter. "There will be more time for our fun later. There has been plenty of it this past thousand years, after all."

"There's never enough, when it comes to you," a bold, high voice declares, Lunar appearing beside you, kneeling at your feet. "Mistress, let me come with. I will ensure they learn a lesson they'll never forget."

Your smile widens, giggling behind a hand, which you lower to cup his chin. "Silly boy. Jealousy is such an endearing look on you, but it will not get you your way, not this time. There are violent examples to be made, not tricks to be pulled."

He huffs, yet withdraws. You smirk, tapping a finger along the armrest. "Patience, my prism. You know your day will come. For now, a meager village awaits."

You unfurl from the throne, the red twins skittering around you excitedly, flashing shark-like fangs. Eclipse climbs the steps as you raise the pen, releasing glittering lines of carnelian, sparking flaming edges. The air fizzes and wavers, and the crimson-drenched pair are the first to dash through the portal.

Eclipse arrives next to you, analyzing your creation. You indulge him, waiting with a jovial leer. Ever calculating, always looking for the chink in your armor, to understand you and your capabilities. His games are indeed the most amusing among the brothers. 

And you would never pass up the chance to poke at his power struggle. Your hand presents itself, an expectant gesture. He appraises it from his periphery, rolling his bright pupils and slipping his over yours to escort you past the fiery gate.

On the other side, you linger at the border of a large, swaying wheat field. Beyond, quaint thatch and stone homes pop up a short distance from a lake's shore.

Mesminax and Penatax barely restrain themselves already, hungry eyes watching your arrival. All is silent and dark, stars scattered in the void above you, a clawed moon failing to provide a source of light.

"Have them gather in the center," you murmur instruction, twirling your hand in Eclipse's hold to expose your wrist. He hums amicably, bringing your flesh to his mouth before his fangs find purchase in your skin. You do not flinch, instead exhaling a relaxed breath. You can see his aura shift, hazy and uncaring, into a lavender of pleasure and energy, ringing his pupils in muted radiance.

He eases free, satisfaction shining in his eyes. Turning, he approaches the village mutely. A thin black fog begins to roll from under the folds of his cape, closed around his person. It seeps through the streets swiftly, and you catch the gleam of his marigold pupils wreathed by violet strands of misty stygian.

Slowly, people emerge from their homes, unnervingly quiet as they congregate around Eclipse, expressions blank. Your observe faces, searching for distinction. You grin loosely when you find it. "The young one with auburn hair," you mark lowly. Behind you, the twins' excitement ramps up. "Release."

In a blink, the residents start to stir. There is evident confusion, neighbors glancing at each other for answers. Apprehension swells near the front, some realizing the vampire among them and flinching back. There is no real time to react, though.

Like the hounds of Hell, Mesminax and Penatax descend.

Chaos is truly beautiful to witness every time, no matter how close or far you are. The musical symphony of yelling and screaming. Splashing of rich red liquids and pounding feet that do not get far. It does not take long for fire to blaze, some poor fool's attempt to burn your feral beasts. Throughout it all, you trace the girl's path, strolling closer as if it was any other day.

Clearing a town this size is mere child's play for the blood crazed twins. Scuttling creatures and shards of hardened scarlet disintegrate as the carnage dwindles, pooling into a flood of garnet liquid and guts that paints your shoes red, which you ultimately ignore.

Among the bodies, Mesminax and Penatax clearly ride their high, voraciously consuming gallon after gallon of blood. Not a speck of them is not drenched, and you coo at the sight of their fervor. It snaps them to attention, briefly, cupping either brothers' cheeks proudly. "You did so well. Be sure to save some for the garden, but otherwise, you deserve your treat. Not any other drop wasted."

Their zealous gazes delight you, adoration oozing from every inch. "Yes, mistress," Mesminax growls happily, diving back into his feasting. Penatax loiters for your contact just a smidge longer, but cannot resist the call and smell of the feast around him. Reluctantly, with a near whimper, he tears himself free and rejoins his twin.

Eclipse wanders over, impassive to the slaughter, if anything, slightly put off by the mess. "Will that be all?" he grumbles.

Your arms fold behind you, surveying the twins dining, your head tilting in a slight dip to the side. "For now. Klycis will still require some of this, but otherwise, there is only one last thing of import."

Abruptly, your focus snatches to your right, and you catch the eye of the remaining villager. The adolescent drops back, horror and terror brimming past their rims in salty tears, skin stained by maroon. You can tell Eclipse has followed your line of sight, and you both hushly stare her down. Minutely, your grin curves, and you spot the ignition of fight or flight. She scrambles away, darting out of view behind a smoldering house.

"Hm. Perhaps there is something you can do, if you are still bored, my thorn. You might give her a little extra scare. Just enough to ensure she collapses before her return," you suggest. Eclipse debates the worthwhile of such an action. He is never one to be delegated to a singular menial task, though. Playing mind games with the young hero will satiate him, for now. You both already know this.

And just like that, you and the twins are departed of his company. There is no doubt he'll make his own way back, after he is done.

Whirling around, you note how red splatters across dirt and walls, yet no longer pools on the earth. They have obviously yearned to gorge themselves, and already leave mere traces behind. Certainly there will be plenty to scar your hero though.

Seeking their presence, you acknowledge each sibling holding buckets in opposing claws. Perfect.

"Well, well, you two truly are on your best behavior tonight, aren't you? How sweet. Do not fret, you will get an extra reward for remembering. When you have left those with Klycis and I have spoken to Remmos, you know where to meet me," you croon. Your caress glides across exposed chests, and you both feel and see the synchronized shudders that rattle them.

With that, you abandon the desolate village, leaving nothing but the smell of iron and smoke on the wind.

[pixies-and-poets]

hi bramble! i decided to write something for you i hope this isnt a jumpscare because its LONG (i didnt mean to make it so long sobs) but i hope you like it! 😄

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Woodrow sat in his ragged arm chair at the… rather messy, cluttered desk in his own room. Having it been so late, a small candle was lit for some lighting, along with some scents to roam the room’s aroma. The candle was scented much like Pumpkin Space, a favorite scent of the poet’s.

Woodrow repeated his writing process over and over; there would be about a sentence written, then it’d be scribbled out. He couldn’t get himself to think.. Only one thing was on his mind, more than his own passion. He didn’t understand the thoughts and feelings that refused to let him write, but…

He could only think of him. His curly, grey-ish white hair , his shiny, navy blue eyes, her beautiful off-white fur… However, his thoughts would also lead to somewhere else. The poet thought of his muse’s lips, his smile, his fangs… He longed for this.. musician he called his muse, to the point that he couldn’t even question if they were true or not.

The ghost would always light up his day, always bringing joyfulness into it. He would whisper sweet nothings into Woodrow’s ears, calling the poet his “un porte bonheur,” or his “mon cherì.” Prima would always know how to make him blush, and he’d even make the poet quite flustered. Sometimes it was.. Overwhelming.. But, in a good way. Woodrow couldn’t get enough of him.

The poet’s hands, along with his entire being, trembled lightly as he was lost in his thoughts. He’d feel his cheeks begin to heat up more, almost as if he was catching a fever… But, he wasn’t. He was so lost in his own thoughts, that he couldn’t even move to check. He was dumbfounded by his own thoughts, that he didn’t even notice his own trembling.

This man…

The poet sighed heavily, laying back in his chair. His head fell down in his hands. Should he really be thinking of him like this? … or at all? Woodrow would feel his face heat up more and more, unable to distract himself from the fantasy he had for the musician.

“.. I must write… It’s the only way to get this… infatuation out of my head..” He would shakily grab his quil, and sat up. He would begin to write a poem, then two, then three. Even then, it wasn’t enough. Woodrow would end up falling asleep later at his own desk, but in the early hours of the afternoon, he went to his couch to get better sleep.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A knock could be heard at the door, but not by the slumbering poet… Instead, by Jinx. The cloud would awake from its own ‘sleep,’ only to be greeted by a rather familiar figure.

“Tristan, are you home?” the Phantom asked, gently knocking on the door of Woodrow’s home. His brows furrowed as he heard no answer, only worry growing as he wondered where the poet had gone to. He’d feel something bump into his shoulder lightly, turning his head to met with a tiny cloud.

“Oh, Jinx!” The musician exclaimed cheerfuly, “Do you know where Tristan is?”

The cloud would respond with a low thunder noise in response, opening the door to the poet’s home. The scent of Pumpkin Spice would roam across the household, something that Phantom would note. He’d follow the cloud to Woodrow’s bedroom door, Jinx cracking the door gently so it wouldn’t make much noise.

“Tristan, dear?-“ Phantom would cut himself off as he was met with the sight of his muse sleeping. Woodrow laid on his messy, tattered bed fast asleep, his breathing quiet yet heavy. He was deep in his own slumber, even if he’d forgotten to take his regular clothing off to put on appropriate nightwear. He was even wearing his glasses, but they were still sliding off of his face as usual.

Phantom would simper softly at the sight, carefully taking the poet’s glasses off of his face and placing them on the desk that was beside his bed. He’d blow out the burning Pumpkin Spice candle that filled the aroma with its scent, and cracked the curtains in his muse’s room so no sunlight could bother him.

Though, out of curiosity, he would look at the writing on most of the pages that were messily piled on his muse’s desk, reading some all the way through. Many of the pages seemed to have been scribbled out, making it uneligeble to read. But, one poem caught his eye the most.

”White hair cascades down,

blue eyes shimmer like the sea,

a man pure as the flakes of cold.

Fur as white as the clouds,

he moves with grace and wit,

a sight to behold, i must admit.

In his gentle gaze,

stories of ages untold,

a soul, pure and rare.

A white-haired marvel,

a vision of purity,

a man, divine grace.”

Many more words and sentences were scribbled out the more he read, and he’d feel his own face heat up. Could his muse be writing of him? Oh, how lucky he felt. He knew the poet thought of his art as a nuisance, as it always caused his and others’ luck to turn for the worst. Seeing his muse starting to write again, especially for him, made him feel a bit fuzzy inside.

Phantom was happy to see the poet writing again. In fact, it excited him. However, he didn’t expect his muse to be writing of him. He’d turn his head to look back at his slumbering writer and smiled.

“Oh, mon poète chanceux, you’re too gentil..” He softly caressed Woodrow’s cheek, and kissed it gently. To his surprise, the poet flinched at the kiss, and slowly opened his eyes, but only a little.

“Tom.. What are you doing in my home?” Woodrow asked, his voice slightly hoarse from just waking up.

“I’m sorry, darling, I was just wondering if you were safe. You missed our little date at the bridge, my love..”

“Oh..” The poet rose up slowly from his slumber, staring into his muse’s eyes. He noticed Phantom still holding onto some papers, and gulped nervously.

“I-I see you.. Found my poetry…”

“Oh, yes!” Phantom’s ears perked in response, and he glanced down at the papers, then back at Woodrow.

“.. H-How much did you��?”

“Most if it…”

“A-Ah..” Woodrow began to tense up, feeling rather embarrased and terrified. What if the musician hated them? What if he hated HIM? What if-

“I’m utterly grateful to have been the one to bring your motivation back!” The poet would be snapped out his thoughts as his muse responded. He felt a hand rest under his chin, tilting it up towards the musician’s own face.

“Tristan, dear,” Phantom simpered softly, “I see your infatuation. You’re not very… Good.. At hiding it, I’ll admit.” He chuckled softly, placing another sweet kiss to the poet’s cheek. Woodrow felt his face flush red, thankful that his glasses hid most of his expression and emotion.

Phantom’s paw cupped the poet’s cheek as he smiled, making eye contact with hin through his glasses. “I adore your admiration for me, its wonderful..”

I really need you to know how much this meant to me. Because, well, last night I actually went to bed really early (for a "nap" that ended up being like three hours) because I was having one of those Bad Mental Days- sometimes everything in my brain gets so overwhelming that the only way I can get through it is to go to sleep, if I can. To turn my brain off for a while.

Then I woke up at like midnight and saw this, and read it all- I really almost cried, because I had been going through a time of self-loathing, and to see this beautiful and lengthy piece, specifically including some of my headcanons, all written out in my inbox in the hopes and faith I will like it and share it, I really just, OK I actually did cry!!!

This is so lovely and I will treasure it forever!! I LOVE IT LIKE THESE TWO POETS LOVE EACH OTHER And the craziest thing is how relatable it was to my specific experience at the moment - having to go rest because you're overwhelmed, falling asleep in your clothes... And, not being able to work on art/writing because your feelings and emotions are too powerful (even if they're the feelings and emotions about the very thing you're trying to convey- the thoughts are bigger than the depictions you can give them)... well, I've thought about this a lot, and from what I've read Woodrow's character was initially born from a place of humor (what if there was a poet who made bad things happen?) but, like all the Wardens and Heroes, was ultimately made to be a nuanced and loveable and admirable character. And yet of all the game's many characters, he ended up being a huge fan favorite, particularly on the self-confessed gay autistic artist website, I can't POSSIBLY imagine why that would be ;) I really can't imagine that the devs and creative team realized they were creating a character that would resonate so, so deeply with so many of us out there, when they initially hatched the idea of the disaster poet, but they really created someone special who brings a lot of us together, and that's one reason I'm so very grateful for Sparks of Hope and this fandom. And for Phandrow in particular because it's all about Woodrow being loved and cared for and having a wonderful outlet for his passions.

...OK but one more thing, I was half awake when I first read this so at first, I misinterpreted Jinx as not being the one to HEAR the knock first, but rather that it was the one knocking (to check on its companion?). Of course I realized what was going on by the next paragraph, but this was the split second mental image I got

[viadangelo]

Addio D'Angelo's. 28th January 2024

[ parental death tw ]

A summary: Via's parents pass a week apart in California. She inherits the LA restaurant alongside her inheritance. She sells D'Angelo's to a property developer on the Hollywood strip. After some time spent with realtors in New York, and some business planning, she purchases Westside Theatre.

-

It's like reading a novel; it feels immersive, but a part of one's mind always knows that the words inciting hours of hallucinations, are fictitious. Entire lives are compiled into a few words at the top of taxation forms, and those with the pen in their hand are vampires exsanguinating the last droplets of memory from a person passed.

Via's glad to be the one with teeth here.

Dotted lines, forgotten legacies and shattered dreams are all welcomed to live and die in this room too.

There's no trick though, and the words are real. She translates it simply as: Sara and Paolo are gone. Via's signing her name, almost without consideration for the Italian's rolling in their graves. If they knew her plans; to sever her ties to LA, and allow her parents life's work be offered on a platter to the highest offer.

She has fond memories of youth in D'Angelo's. Running between tables and being doted on by regulars, and family friends. Eating pasta she did not appreciate then, but would if she cooked more than once a month. But Via has a (perhaps) broken part of her that lacks sentiment, and nostalgia comes and goes. Via's not thought about amatriciana, vitello tonnato, or iconic carbonara's that D'Angelo's become renown for in years. Decades, even.

She isn't thinking about it when she slides papers back, and speaks frankly with suits, and those telling her she's welcome to take some time before she finalises with state governments. Via has just enough respect for the situation to not laugh in their faces. The pen she is using, she takes. Pocketing it in one swift motion.

When she thanks them behind a painted smile (she tells herself, it's solemn) she's not performing for them, so it's nothing more than a simper.

As she leaves, Via's already making calls.

Somehow, it's relief to step out into the city air, because she's about to reopen doors; widen the horizons and forge the last act in her own legacy.

Giovanni, she knows, has entitlement to partial inheritance, but he's missing; unaccounted for, apparently. No address to pin him down, and if Via were kinder and less cynical she might not believe he too had long passed, and were in a gutter somewhere, to be forgotten. They'd figure it out, someday.

-

Italian's death day seems worlds away when Via has seen more paperwork, and contracts than she ever had when she were travelling the states, working in various theatres, and show businesses. A new world that now, she's settling into. D'Angelo's belonged to a shmuck wanting to gentrify the strip. Have at it, she'd said when the same stolen pen signed, and scribbled it away.

Negotiating with the bank for Westside, had required something a bit more than Via possessed. A business mind was one thing, but writing up business strategies, and presenting it had taken more than just herself. It had taken time, and conversations, more contracts. She'd had enough contacts to make it work, and enough of a bank balance to make it work, when it almost hadn't. Roping in more than enough benefactors, and performers to kickstart, and reinvent D'Angelo's old legacy, and solidify her own (maybe no longer dreaming of the walk of fame) in New York.

Westside Theatre, is all her.

And Via knows the grand re-opening, will be magical.

[sleekervae]

So Good [0.5]

Masterlist

A/N: Happy Monday! How we all holding up before the holidays?

Warnings: none, spoilers for Yoü & I

Two weeks into the tour, Catch the Caper had already blitzed through the western part of Europe, gracing audiences night after night in packed venues. Whether it was intimate smaller settings or grand arenas, the days seemed to never end, and the nights even more so. Prior to this, the band had spent nearly four years as opening acts for other groups, but looking back, they now chuckled at how comparatively relaxed those times felt. Sleep remained elusive, with hours scattered between late nights and the constant struggle of jet lag. Just as they started to settle into one time zone, it was time to hop on another flight within Europe. The relentless schedule was undeniably challenging, yet this time, the band members were seasoned veterans of the tour, and their camaraderie had grown even stronger.

Their hotel in Belgium had a beautiful breakfast spread in the dining hall; scrambled eggs, sausages, fresh cut fruits and -- of course, some of the most spectacular waffles the girls had ever had. However, Kimberly didn't feel very hungry this morning. She attributed it to jet lag, possibly exacerbated by the mere three or four hours of sleep she managed to get earlier, not to mention the drinks the girls had enjoyed before. Nevertheless, it was hard to ignore the subtle trembling of her leg as it rested against the side of her chair, or how her eyes darted occasionally to her phone screen whenever it flickered beside her plate.

She glanced ahead at Chloe, endeared to watch the drummer wolf down what was likely her third waffle of the morning. Beside her Maria was half asleep in her chair while Charlotte had her pen and notebook out, scribbling furiously as though she was cramming for a school term paper. The last time she saw Charlotte so immersed in that notebook, she had been piecing together the words that would eventually lead to their current platinum album.

Pretty much done with her plate, Kimberly called out to the drummer, "Hey, Chloe..." she held up her plate for her, offering her what was left, "Here,"

Chloe glanced up between bites, scrambling as she too lifted up her plate and clinked the edge with Kimberly's. The other two girls watched the pair with curiosity while the bassist glowered at her friend.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Cheers," Chloe replied.

Kimberly nearly burst out laughing, "Girl, take the bacon," she simpered. Charlotte snorted and Maria shook her head as Chloe laughed sheepishly.

"I thought you wanted to cheers plates!" she said.

"The last time we cheered plates we were in the tenth grade, celebrating our passing the regents exams," Kimberly replied.

"Yeah, we couldn't cheers with soda because they took away the vending machines," Charlotte reminisced.

"Because Max Popkin was dumb enough to think tying a string to a coin and yanking it out like a yo-yo was fool-proof," Chloe chuckled.

Kimberly shook her head, "Certainly wasn't laughing when they had to call EMTs when the gears caught the string,"

Charlotte grimaced, "And he nearly lost his finger from lack of blood flow... I know," she groaned.

"It always takes one idiot to ruin it for the rest of us," Chloe replied, glancing over at the guitarist, "Right Maria?" she nudged her when she noticed how quiet she'd been, "Maria?" she glowered however when she realized Maria had fallen asleep, "What -- is she serious?"

"Oh, leave her alone," Charlotte replied, nudging her under the table, "She's jet lagged,"

"She's not jet lagged, she's just never been a morning person," Kimberly chuckled, reaching over to jostle her, "Maria, c'mon. You can sleep on the plane,"

Maria gave a semblance of a grumble back, a least the girls knew she was on the brink of consciousness.

Out of nowhere, Kimberly's phone vibrated, and her gaze swiftly shifted to the screen. Her heart sank, though, as she realized it was just a Twitter notification.

"You expecting a call?" Charlotte asked.

"Darius was supposed to call before his shift at the club," Kimberly replied, her tone laced with dejection.

"Maybe he forgot?" Chloe suggested, "Is that a forgivable offence? Absolutely not, which is why when he remembers to call you give him the whole 'oh that's okay dear' schpiel and post the sexiest thirst trap you can muster,"

Charlotte glowered at her, "And what exactly does that achieve?" she asked.

"A little thing I like to call long-distance guilt," Chloe replied smugly.

Between them Maria suddenly grumbled, "Que pendejo," she didn't make haste to move from her seat nor open her eyes.

"Oh, so she is awake!" Chloe gawked.

Maria popped an eye open, "Well, how am I supposed to sleep with you three bullshitting about yo-yos and slacker boyfriends?"

Kimberly rolled her eyes, "C'mon, Maria. You know he's not a slacker," she replied.

"Not in all departments, just in the department where he suddenly forgets to call you four nights in a row after he promised he would. You've only been gone two weeks, and he's slipping already?" she pointed out, crossing her arms and shutting her eyes and she tried to tuck in again. One thing that bothered Kimberly was Maria's knack for delivering the truth in a way that could be a bit too blunt to swallow. Nonetheless, more often than not, Maria's bluntness carried a valid point, and it was no different this time.

Charlotte shook her arm, "No -- c'mon! You can sleep on the plane!" she urged, much to Maria's chagrin. She then turned to Kimberly, "Kim, why don't you just call Darius?"

"I did yesterday. We had a five minute conversation before he had to rush off to his class and all we talked about was meal prep planning," she huffed, "And he promised he'd call me later before his shift, which if you reverse eight hours should've been about fifteen minutes ago!"

Chloe scoffed, "Shall I grab a collar and bone to match his dog house?" she asked.

"Maybe he really is just swamped?" Charlotte interjected, trying to play devil's advocate, "I mean, he works two jobs and he's putting himself through college! He's not exactly whacking stones with sticks,"

Maria glanced knowingly at the mousy brunette, "And two summers ago, Melody Catana wasn't meddling in our band's private dynamics; do I have that correct?"

Charlotte glowered back, "Okay, that's not the same thing,"

"The hell it wasn't: there was a massive breach of trust," Maria said.

"Maria," Kimberly finally called out, "It's fine. I know how busy Darius was even before we left, I shouldn't be expecting so much out of him,"

Chloe raised a brow, "Girl, you're starting to sound as wimpy as 2015-Charlotte,"

"Hey!" Charlotte snapped back.

"She has a point, Lottie," Maria interjected, "We wouldn't dare let you accept Ben's complacency for standards, so why shouldn't we do the same for Kimberly?" she was referring to Charlotte's previous boyfriend from three years ago, a period in which none of them looked fondly upon.

"It's okay, you guys," Kimberly assured them, deciding to tuck her phone into her pocket, "I'll try calling him when we get to Vienna,"

"No, don't," Charlotte decided then, "They're right. You called him yesterday, he blew you off. So, if he said he would, then he should be calling you back,"

Chloe beamed from across the table, "I knew we did a bang-up job on you," she said. Charlotte simpered back as she sipped her tea.

Maria reached across the table for Kimberly's hand, giving her a gentle squeeze, "You know we're not saying this to make you feel bad, right? We know you deserve to be treated like the queen you fucking are," she assured her, "And I hate seeing you tie yourself into knots every time that phone goes off,"

Kimberly nodded back, the concern in her friends' eyes so clear, but she knew they didn't need to be worried. Or so... that was what she told herself in the moment, "It's okay. I promise you guys, I'm fine. I'd probably feel better if I got more than four hours of sleep, but you know..."

"We can sleep on the plane," Charlotte assured them.

"Are we sure we should be?" Chloe asked, continuing to cut her waffle into pieces, "Apparently forcing yourself to stay awake on long flights helps you readjust to the new time zone,"

"We're not flying to Tanzania," Charlotte replied, "Vienna's a puddle jump away. Where did you get that?"

"I read it somewhere," Chloe replied simply.

Kimberly glowered at the drummer, "You read it somewhere? Was it the same author of all your phony phrase books that we ended up burning?" she asked.

Maria chuckled as she sipped her coffee "Oh, come on, Kim! Those phrase books were friggin' gold! Remember how 'Hello, how are you?' translated to 'Watch out for the dancing moles' in Italy?"

Charlotte grinned, nodding in agreement, "Yeah, and 'Where is the restroom?' somehow became 'Your aunt rides a unicycle' in German,"

Kimberly snorted back, "My favourite is still 'Thank you for the delicious shirts' in Japanese,"

The other two laughed in unison as Chloe slumped in her seat, shaking her head begrudgingly as she at her waffles, "Shaddup..."

Namjoon sat with his back to the cold wood of the bench, the soft breeze cascading across his as he listened to the speakers in his ears. He stayed relatively anonymous all bundled up in his coat and hat, small groups of people passing by without so much as giving him a second glance. Seoul was cloudy and fairly cold that morning and work load was relatively light today, so when his phone rang just as he grabbed his breakfast he didn't hesitate to answer it. They'd been on the phone for about half an hour now.

He hummed as he crumpled the wrapper from his egg sandwich, hearing Kimberly's simper ring in his ears, "Was that good?"

"Friggin' delicious," he nodded, feeling a little ridiculous because of course she couldn't see him, "What did you have for dinner?"

Kimberly meanwhile was sitting on the small terrace of her Viennese hotel room, the nightlife echoing close beneath her as the time approached 1am. The show tonight had gone by in a blur, and despite her fatigue, she still found it difficult to fall asleep.

"Veal schnitzel with mashed potatoes and veggies. It's funny, I don't ever really eat veal when I'm home, but when I'm in Europe... " she replied with a laugh.

"That sounds amazing," he awed, "Yeah, I don't know what it is about the meat in Europe but it just... it tastes better,"

"Probably all those deep rolling hills... and butter and salt," she yawned back. The show tonight had gone by in a blur, and despite her fatigue, Kimberly still found it difficult to fall asleep. There was no problem for Maria of course as she slept as soundly as a log in the room.

Namjoon grinned to himself, "Do you wanna' go to sleep?"

"No, no! I'm okay," she assured him, "I wanna' hear about your day,"

"My day hasn't started yet," he chuckled. His voice was soft and quiet and she could pick out the faint blares of passing traffic and external conversations mixed with the hollering of the night's horizon.

"Okay then, tell me what you plan to do today," she decided.

Namjoon counted off the list of to-dos he had to look forward to, studio time, dance rehearsals, an evening workout to blow off some steam and hoping to have some personal time to focus on his album, "The mixing's almost done, and I'm meeting with my artist tomorrow for the final draft of the cover," she could hear his nails tapping across his screen, probably flitting through his schedule.

Her curiosity wandered further as she could only imagine what he could've been spinning in his studio, "Am I still on the mailing list?" she asked, her voice teetering jokingly.

"Are you kidding? You're top of the list, Kimberly," he replied, dimples poking into the sides of his cheeks as he smiled.

"I'm honoured," she awed.

"You're coming to Korea in April, right?"

"End of April, yeah,"

"Well, maybe I'll have enough finished to give you a little preview?"

She laughed bashfully, the sound erupting through his headphones in a way that made Namjoon's heart flutter, "You don't have to do that, Joon,"

"Why? You're no good at keeping secrets?" he cocked a brow as he teased her.

She scoffed back, "On the contrary: I'm very secretive. I used to massacre the others whenever we played Mafia,"

"Mafia?"

"Yeah, you know the party game...?" she tried to muster the words to explain coherently, "One or two people are the quote-on-quote Mafia who kill the villagers at night, and the villagers have to figure out who the Mafia is before they're all killed,"

"Oh, right, right! Well in that case, we have nothing to worry about," he chuckled back.

"Speaking of April, are you still coming to our show?" she asked.

Namjoon tsked back, "You haven't invited me,"

"What?" she chuckled with bemusement.

"You said you were coming to Seoul, that was all," he replied.

"I thought my manager forwarded the details to yours?"

"She did. But you never explicitly invited me,"

Kimberly smiled at his teasing tone, shaking her head to herself as the realization dawned on her, "Kim Namjoon, you are cordially invited to Catch the Caper's show in Seoul this April," she announced, already able to picture his pursing lips as he smirked.

"I'll check my calendar," he replied.

"Well, don't let me twist your arm or anything," she simpered.

He laughed off her comment, shivering and pulling his jacket tighter as the breeze drifted over the river. Namjoon couldn't wait for the seasons to change, longing for the weather's warmth to arrive and unveil the delicate hues of cherry blossoms in vibrant pinks and reds. Spring symbolized the prospect of reuniting with Kimberly—an opportunity to engage in meaningful conversations, savor moments together, bask in her contagious energy and intellect. He was ready to embrace the idea that if friendship was the extent of what he could have, he would cherish it wholeheartedly.

Kimberly yawned into her fist, the trail of her waining voice floated through the speaker, "You want to go to bed?" Namjoon asked her.

"I guess I should," she sighed, "Amsterdam's tomorrow, and I can't be looking like a demon that crawled out from under the pits of hell,"

"What're you talking about, Kim?" he chuckled back, "You look great without even trying," She could tell he was being genuine in his words but nevertheless, his comment made her laugh.

"You might disagree if you saw me right now," she simpered back.

"I highly doubt that," he replied, his tone confident and soothing.

"I'll talk to you later, Joon," she hummed, "Have a good day,"

"And you get a good sleep. I'll talk to you later,"

With a grin, Namjoon concluded the call with a brief yet sweet goodbye, his heart pulsating with anticipation as April drew closer. He pondered whether he'd be ready to meet her again, if he could resist dissecting every intricate detail about her, and if he could prevent himself from falling even deeper for her.

Separately, Kimberly lingered on the terrace after the call had ended, hesitating to retreat indoors. Uncertainty lingered about, her deep, dark eyes fixed on the empty expanse of the horizon, her heart heavy. She had long acknowledged her fondness for talking with Namjoon, relishing every fragment of him that remained hidden from the world's prying gaze. However, amidst this connection, doubts crept in; she questioned whether she was exploiting him as a captivating distraction, compensating for the attention lacking in her relationship with Darius. Waves of guilt crashed over her, reminding her she should have known better — acknowledging the challenges of long distance and erratic schedules in any relationship she pursued within her rock-n-roll lifestyle. Yet, did that imply being disregarded altogether? And why was someone from an entirely different continent displaying more enthusiasm to converse with her than her own boyfriend?

[tobacconist]

ELEMENT REPORD(s)

collated.

from the weather hermit:-

TRACEE HENGE

-

element repord six-two-two. poo, POO! hot levels: -6 cow angle: 9 theres a cloud-clash: temporary two-to-fourteen, six-to-three gull warning: oh! field weather: 6 simper me with churning rain, ksh! ksh! stop.

-

element repord for the 24th of lull. warnings of severe droop in knool parish, waxing at 15 and 2, and waning at lights out. bang! bang! bang! possibility of dog-shake (eugh!), with puddle displacement, and backsplash: 3 WARNING: not good for mrs chinnermans hatchday dance (shame!) a heavy front! settling in for the night, despite bad moon-shapes. (oh) blowing it rough in brownlap for the wet meadow raking contest! a glove-graph of the island shows fingerless fleecey, with occasional handrub. aaaand blowthrough! blanket thickness: 2, with occasional sheets rising in the vest.

-

element repord for foursday the 18th of leafmoss. dunderhatch today, if youre planning to take part in the moss jump at the hoof&hedge hut. and hairsieves for girls. wafting. klesh later, so avoid deliberate stamping in the upper parishes. good news for spatter fans! level: 8-9 all nightly. smoothing to a dripple, with sheep-crouch: 4 by sunclimb. down in the lower parishes: cloud-goo wafting. ah, wafting, ah! ah! moistly mostly, then to edgy; with A CHANCE OF MERRIMENT. heeheehee followed by a deep depression in kraw.

-

element repord for threesday the 14th of phew. "words in me mouf! make me seem gud wevver!" - but i know its not real. thunder. BLEUARH! OOH! dirty shocker. HAIL! ah! ouch! woof woof bang. WHAT THE PHEFF'S THAT!? oh, its just up. AHAHA! bah! out!

-

element repord for the 24th of wilter. over in newhaw, ugh, terrible conditions for the fun fungus walk setting off from bobs mould hut at seven and three this nightly. and bring a stick! moOoO~ a real cow freezer in the south. (hueah!) a quick look at the weather-veins: there are cramps in the calves, ankles enlarged; dirty toes. heh...

-

element repord for threesday the 14th of phew. at seven and two today, warnings from the mellt office: OUCH! with occasional OOH! AH! and ROOFSLATES! with the ability to fry an egg! (no poaching) moving on to two to tutu, to two too to two two to two, too? to, uh, tomorrows picture: mainly light crayon, moving to a heavy felt pen in the south, AHHH! scribbles rising. wind at soft levels: softly, softly. possibilty of electric dogstorm, woof woof bang bang woof woof bang bang bang. dank gussets at dawn...

-

USE ME! USE ME! (but only for weather purposes) softly, softly my cormorant. kuru-kuru-kuru~ tether my merkintroy with seedless doubt (?) crunchy biscuit for breakfast... baaaaaaaad. reddly-bick houpsto, reddly-bick houpsto, tiddly-bits ahoy; cluttering the basset pipes. ouegh grooming the cloud-horse! (oof) and now trying to ride it. clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop

-

element repord for foursday the 10th of bloom. visibility is low today, especially in the upper parishes. you can see two clogs on a chair at about the distance of 8 cats (10 cats if theyre kittens) theres no crunch, in the atmosphere biscuits. its down from a slight droop two, too, to to a dirty curve, reducing to a soggy pulp overnight. if, like me, youre heading down to the sale at lucys lingerie and booty-boutique:- MAKE SURE YOURE WEARING FOG-GOGGLES. and loose elasticated panties. (hohoy!) brisk walks, end with a nose-breaker, mainly on a door; with pain and bruises rising.

[nosenipped]

continued from ❪    𐔌 ❄️  ˛  ˚    ❫ / @delvena． ្

𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞  𝐨𝐟  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭  𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲  𝐡𝐚𝐝  𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬  𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧  𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞      ━━━━        dust  motes  drifting  like  old  snowflakes,     the  air  hushed  as  if  the  very  stones  of  arendelle’s  foundation  held  their  breath  for  every  page  turned.     jack  had  moved  through  it  like  a  wisp,     light—footed   ﹠   quiet  as  snowfall,    until    (…)     crack  !      ━━━━        a  ribbon  of  ice  lashed  out  with  startled  force,     striking  the  wall  just  inches  from  where  he  stood.

they  blinked,     momentarily  stunned,     then  let  out  a  low  whistle,     tilting  his  staff  to  inspect  the  shimmering  splinter  now  adorning  the  stone  like  a  frozen  blossom.         ❛   nice  aim,   ❜         he  offered,     a  simper  mischief  bountiful.         ❛   though,     i  prefer  my  welcomes  with  slightly  less  structural  damage.   ❜         the  snow  in  his  hair  gave  a  little  shimmer,     stirred  by  the  low  chuckle  that  followed.     he  leaned  on  his  staff  with  all  the  easy  grace  of  a  boy  who'd  made  trickery  his  profession   ﹠   weather  his  crown,    entirely  unfazed  by  her  scolding.

❛   oh  come  on,   ❜      he  said,     tone  all  mock  innocence  as  he  twirled  the  book  in  his  hands  just  out  of  her  reach,         ❛  can  you  really  blame  me  ?     you  get  so  serious  when  you're  reading      ━━━━        i  had  to  break  the  spell  somehow.     and  besides    (…)   ❜         here,     his  grin  sharpened  into  something  more  teasing,         ❛   (…)     what  kind  of  folklore  guardian  wouldn't  drop  in  to  deliver  a  tale  or  two  ?   this  one  practically  had  your  name  scribbled  between  the  lines.  ❜         but  even  as  he  japed,     his  gaze  softened  when  he  saw  the  way  her  fingers  clutched  the  book      ━━━━        tight  at  first,     then  looser,     more  contemplative.     faer  posture  spoke  before  her  words  did,    the  subtle  tension  of  someone  who  recognized  too  much  in  a  story  meant  to  be  fiction.

as  she  murmured  the  name  from  the  page,    dronningen  av  kulde  og  frost,     he  tilted  his  head,     the  glow  in  his  eyes  dimming  just  a  little      ━━━━        not  out  of  guilt,     but  understanding.         ❛   yeah   (…)   ❜          he  said,  voice  dropping  into  something  gentler,         ❛   i  figured  you'd  say  that.     but  even  ancient  myths  start  somewhere.     maybe  some  weren’t  born  in  malice      ━━━━        maybe  they  were  written  in  it.     twisted  over  time.   ❜         he  watched  her  close  the  book,     watched  the  flicker  of  conflict  dance  in  her  expression  like  a  shadow  cast  by  firelight.    he  didn’t  press  them.     frost  knew  better  than  most  how  myths  could  mirror  fears,    how  names  could  carry  the  echo  of  choices  not  yet  made.

floes  drift  heavenward,     following  dust  spirals  as  if  watching  ghosts.         ❛   in  russia,     they  called  me  morozko.   the  old  winter  god,   sometimes  gentle,     yes      ━━━━        but  sometimes,    a  bringer  of  death.     a  spirit  who  tested  hearts  and  froze  the  unworthy  in  their  sleep.     they  told  tales  of  me  arriving  with  the  crunch  of  snow   ﹠   the  rattle  of  bones.   ❜              those  words  burned,     poison  pierced  into  flesh.     their  gaze  wavers,     remembrances  of  hands  stained  in  dark  ichor,     landscapes  left  silent  in  the  wake  of  frost's  merciless  sweep,     every  breath  of  winter  an  echo  of  what  had  already  been  lost.

his  voice  darkened,     just  a  touch      ━━━━        not  heavy,     but  ancient,     snow  adrift  an  old  battlefield.         ❛   and  the  norse  ?   ❜         he  gave  a  wry  chuckle.        ❛   to  them,   i  might’ve  been  a  jotunn.     one  of  the  frost  giants.     a  symbol  of  the  chaos  that  would  swallow  gods  at  ragnarök.     the  biting  wind  that  crept  under  doors  when  you  weren't  watching.   ❜         he  looked  back  to  her,     floes  bright   ﹠   distant  all  at  once,     galaxies  caught  in  hoarfrost.        ❛   y'  give  some  morons  a  pen  ‘n  paper,   and  they  start  slappin’  their  own  insecurities  into  words.   ❜

he  leaned  forward  slightly,     his  breath  fogging  in  the  space  between  them.        ❛   but  we’re  not  monsters.     not  myths  twisted  by  fear.    you  have  your  crown.     i  have  my  staff.     and  we  walk  the  line  between  legend   ﹠   truth.    that’s  somethin'  no  story  can  fully  capture.   ❜

a  smile  curved  again  at  his  mouth,  this  time  touched  with  real  warmth.        ❛   if  the  world  wants  to  call  us  cautionary  tales,    let  it.     we’ll  write  our  own  footnotes.     maybe  even  our  own  endings.   ❜         he  stepped  back  into  a  lazy  drift  of  frost,     arms  wide  as  if  to  take  in  the  hush  and  the  cold   ﹠   the  pages  still  unwritten.        ❛   and  who  knows  ?   ❜         he  added,     with  a  wink.        ❛   maybe  next  time,     you  can  be  the  one  who  sneaks  up  on  me,     but  i'll  probably be  in  the  middle  of  terrifyin'  a  sleepin'  group  of  kids  while  i'm  at  it.   ❜

[simping-on-the-daily]

Some Kind of Angry Beaver

Summary: The Wolverine’s massacre has made you lose everything. Your friends are dead, you’ve left home, and the world’s hatred for mutants grows worse. You promise to yourself you’d have a few words to him if you meet again, and you do, at one of the shady bars where you both grieve your losses.

Notes: Reader is a mutant and was with Wolverine for a brief time, very very brief implications of sub!Logan. Not romantic anymore, and yes the title is from ERB deal with it. Worstie is a lot more sad and pathetic since this is early post!slaughter, gender neutral reader, not beta read we die like this universe’s X-Men, I wrote this in a day and it’s absolutely gonna show

Warnings: Logan killed some of Reader’s friends in his rampage, story is based on grief and death, mutant racism, Logan tries to kill himself but he comes back dw, and a whole lotta swearing

Before you met him, you had no clue what a wolverine was.

You’d barely heard of it, having skipped over it in some animal documentary to focus on more interesting animals, like sharks and alpacas. When you passed by a bar with a few cage fights, you heard the name Wolverine for the first time. When looking at the man’s body, admittedly luscious hair with canines and claws, you had assumed a wolverine was some type of dog or cat, before nailing it down to a wolf. Wolverine, wolf, they just added some more syllables to make a difference.

“It’s a weasel.” The man who you now knew was called Logan answered curtly upon your question, looking away from the bed which smelled of steamy intimacy from last night, and thus, turning away from you, who was on the other side, putting your clothes back on.

“That doesn’t seem very threatening,” You quipped back, putting your shirt on. “The fuck’s a weasel gonna do to the lucky guy?”

Logan gave a quick grunt. “They should be more worried about what I’d do to them.”

“If you can avoid their little collars, that is. Fucking bastards and their dampeners.” You said with a sarcastic sigh. The Senate was trying to make them more commonplace, and though the clapback was fierce, you were still a bit wary.

He gave a quick hmph, and that was that.

You stayed together for a few months. It was unforgettable, to say the least. Watching that man squirm under your touch was an accomplishment for the ages, and the moment you made tears come out of his eyes you did a little victory dance in your brain. You bought him dogtags and things you thought he might’ve liked, while he defended your honor in your ring, beating the shit out of anyone who dared to shittalk you.

“You shouldn’t have, sweetie,” You jokingly answered, upon noticing that his knuckles were still dripping red after passing by a beaten guy carried by his friends, making small comments about how dumb he was. You noticed some scars subtly close in, and turned away, pretending you saw nothing. “His ego can’t take another hit.”

“Can yours?” He answered, and your only response was a pinch of his cheek.

Of course, it didn’t last. Nothing bad happened, you simply just went in other directions. Logan kept hopping between different clubs with cage fights, and you settled in a small town and made a life there. You never forgot how it felt to touch him, but you’d seen him in action. Dude could do just fine.

You got a job, and got your own group of people. Majority of them were human, but like hell if that mattered. You shared good drinks of booze together and you cared for them. Brittney gave birth to a child, and god that kid was the cutest, fattest little fucker you’d ever seen. A few years had passed since you’d met Logan, and by then you were content. Your abilities were accepted, you’d gotten your own little found family, and you comfortably nested yourself in the community.

Brittney and her new fiancé, Ken were going to NYC for a vacation, and trusted the rest of you with their child. For the best, you know now.

“The X-Men are dead. You should be staying here.” Charlie said, crossing his arms to the couple. He wasn’t exaggerating, the X-Men were dead. Their mansion was ransacked and their bodies were fucked. You remember holding in the urge to puke, as the censoring on the news was done horrible, all the guts and gore visible. Jayden didn’t, you remember, running to the toilet and letting out a combination of a vomit and sob.

“We can’t just cancel. I promise, we’ll be safe.” Ken said, though it was obvious he was nervous. “That money can’t just go down the drain, and we’ve shortened it to just two days.”

“The fuck’s the point on going a vacation, then?” You spoke up, eyebrows raised. Brittney looked at me, before back to her now crying baby, probably from all the arguments.

“I have a gun for a reason.” Ken shrugged, and you and Charlie died down. You knew you weren’t gonna win.

“Just….keep Hope safe, alright?” Brittney’s query ended the conversation, as you nodded before giving her a hug. Charlie left the premises, and later you’d see him in the casino, trying to drown out the worry you felt.

You should’ve pushed more. You should’ve tied them to a fucking chair, drugged them with some sleeping pills or whatever. Anything to prevent what happened. But you can’t turn back time, that wasn’t your mutant ability, and now your friends are dead.

So many people were dead.

You spent three days in lockdown. All from some….monster, indiscriminately slaughtering everyone in a path that couldn’t be determined. New York was fucked, Brittney and Ken were fucked. You saw their names on a list of casualties. Jayden wailed for the loss, and you let out a few tears yourself. This shouldn’t have happened, this shouldn’t ever have happened.

The three days ended, but it felt a lot more like an eternity of Hell. Your town wasn’t touched, but you still saw so much blood as you left your home. Nothing changed and yet it all changed. This didn’t feel like home, not anymore.

When the news told you the culprit of this massacre, you couldn’t resist the urge this time. You puked in your toilet, tears running down your face. Your friends were dead to someone who you knew, who’s cheeks you gently pecked. The hands that you once held were used to slaughter Brittney and Ken and so many innocent people. Logan had killed your friends, had killed you in a way.

The bodies were returned, and you cremated the couple at their funeral. You still had some tears to cry, face blank as you stared at their urns. That was your second last day in that town. Everyone hated you now, your mutant powers were despised once more after Logan fucked everything up. No-one looked at you normally anymore. Their gazes were full of hatred and prejudice and pity and god you fucking despised it. With the knowledge that Charlie adopted Hope and Jayden had absolutely run out of tears, you left, wiping your face as the downpour consumed you.

You passed by, traveling across without a goal. You became closely acquainted with the train and bus, and you once more learned to hide your powers, something that you never thought you’d have to do again. Any progress people might’ve been working on towards total acceptance went down the drain, organizations quickly scrambling to make speeches about how ‘one mutant shouldn’t define an entire race’. You would’ve agreed, but the carnage was massive and you still saw dried blood on some walls from the Wolverine’s rampage is you looked closely enough.

After it rained again, you sought refuge in one of the nearby bars. It smelled of shit of booze, and you took a seat near the front.

“Whatcha want?” The bartender asked, gruff in his voice noticeable, and you thought for a second, looking at all the glasses behind him.

“Second heaviest thing you got.” He nodded, and quickly poured some beer in a glass. You had him a note before drinking.

You comfortably fell in the routine, sitting in silence, all the other conversations providing ambiance to your casual misery. Then, like a lightning strike to a tree, it just had to end.

The door opened again. You didn’t care, but when all the conversation stopped, you looked up. You retched upon seeing the fucker’s face, and moved farther away from the door until you were on the opposite end of the counter.

Logan either didn’t notice or didn’t care, sitting at the counter. “Fuck off,” The bartender almost snarled. “We don’t want ya kind here.”

Logan pulled out a few coins. “Not a paying customer?” He spoke, as if he was ignorant to all the shit he pulled just a few weeks ago.

The bartender grunted, pouring him a glass of wine that was obviously cheap and old. The mutant accepted it anyway, taking a long sip. He shouldn’t be enjoying himself, you thought with disdain, he should’ve been rotting in Hell without a drop of drink and no flames to light up a cigar.

The ambiance stopped, no-one wanting to talk while the beast was around. For some fucking reason, you didn’t move from your seat, and so you were just a few meters away from the ex who took so much from you.

After five drinks, you had enough. You got up from your seat and left some change behind as a tip. A more conscious you wouldn’t have tipped someone who was likely a mutant racist, but you weren’t really thinking. You wanted out, you wanted away from the monster, you wanted away from that bloody wolf.

You walked a few steps away from the building when Logan came approaching you. You paused in place, perhaps by the audacity of his actions.

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widened, but you gave a small growl, turning them narrowed again. “For what?”

“I wronged you.” You always did need observational skills to become a good tracker.

“Their names,” You shot back with a snarl, “Were Brittney and Ken, and they were heading to New York. They did nothing to you. And you still killed them.”

“I did. I’m sorry.” He repeated, as if that would make it any better.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry!” You yelled out, pointing a finger towards the other mutant as you took a step forward. “You slaughtered my friends you fucking bastard! You lost your family, big whoop, what right does that give you to make mine too, you bloody prick?!”

You had thought about this type of scenario before. You wouldn’t give him a verbal beatdown, no, you were too classy for that. You’d say one sentence that would crush his resolve and leave him astounded as you walked away, knowing that your friends were at peace. But you were drunk and angry and your family was fucked over because of this one man, and so you went on, like a lion going overkill when it finally encountered their prey.

“I wish I never fucking met you! It’d be sooooo easier if you were just some psycho rando, but I fucked you! We slept in the same bed and I kissed you and god I fucking knew you. You were one of the X-Men, you were supposed to save the world, but all you do is make things worse!” You sobbed, dropping your hand to your side as they shook.

“And it’s god’s greatest wish that you die alone and scared, just like your fucking victims, but it’s also god’s little gift that you can’t die! And you just had to in-fucking-flict it upon all of us! All you do is make things worse for everyone, you ruined everyone’s life, you ruined my life, god fucking damnit!” You put your face into your hands and sobbed. You must’ve looked so pathetic, having this breakdown on the road in front of your murderous ex.

“I should’ve tried harder.” You murmured weakly to no-one in particular. “I should’ve stopped them. Shouldn't have relented when Charlie did. Should've done more……” Tears and hands muffled your voice. “But I didn't and now they're fucking dead.”

You finally looked up, and just like you, Logan's face was covered in tears. Good, you thought. Let him suffer.

“Should've been there for them.” You didn't expect him to talk. “Should've gotten off my ass and done something. And now they're ten feet under cuz’ I didn't.”

A stray sob escaped your throat again, looking at him, covered by rain and tears and now the moon was out. “Guess we both fucked up, huh?” You tried to smile, head tilted, with it only just looking broken and fake.

“They'd all be disappointed.” Logan confirmed somberly, as he thought back to Colossus and Professor X and Scott, all too aware of their hypothetical reactions if they knew of his actions.

“The X-Men were supposed to be heroes, weren't they?” You looked up at the stars, and held a hand up like you were trying to catch them. “But you were always the best at what you did, and what you did was never heroic. You told me yourself.” Answering your own question, your hand flopped to the side again. The stars didn't feel so luminescent, not right now.

Logan gave a small grunt, trying to wipe away his tears. “I know. I'll carry it for the rest of my life. It's what I deserve.”

“It's what you deserve.”

You spoke at the same time, before you gave a fake small chuckle. “God, you're fucking horrible.” You paused for a second, letting out another pretend giggle. “Thanks for telling me what a wolverine was, Logan. Cuz’ I know that you’re the fucking worst one.”

You lunged forwards and punched him in the cheek. It hurt like hell, and Logan didn't flinch, but fuck did it feel good.

“Fuck you, Logan. I hope you rot in Hell, you bitchin’ bastard.”

He only nodded, tears still cascading down his face as you stormed away and walked away, just like you did to your home.

You found yourself sitting on a bench, still raining and still wet from your encounter. Your ass was fucking freezing. Maybe you deserved it for being such a bad friend. You wouldn't be here if you had been there for Brittney and Ken. You had a lot of tears in your body, you realized, as you sobbed once more, grieving the loss of everything you once had. God, you hated beavers.

Logan hated himself too. That should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t. You were still just as empty and sad as you were this morning, just this time you were drenched and drunk. You looked up at the stars again, and though they were still just as dull as they were when you encountered Logan, you still gazed anyway. They were all you had left.

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

Logan rushed into the dump he called a home, a retch stuck in his throat as he frantically searched. Your words were repeating once more, becoming one with the fucked up chorus that was his mind, mocking him for even considering that you’d want him back. It was a passing thought that he immediately disregarded, but the voices milked it, acting as though he’d been pining over you for years.

He’d never forgotten you, you were important to him. But you moved on, and so did he, and he tried to shoot his shot with Jean. But Jean’s dead, and you weren’t, and you hated him. As you should, he didn’t blame you, he hated himself. And yet it somehow stung.

The cacophony roared with laughter at his turmoil, and he clutched his head, praying they’d get out. He couldn’t handle your voice, he couldn’t handle Jean’s voice he couldn’t handle Colossus’ voice he couldn’t handle Scott’s voice he couldn’t-

Finally, he found it. He snatched the gun that was hidden in the sofa, a desperate last resort who times like these, when they wouldn’t stop. His finger stroked the trigger almost tenderly before putting it to his head.

“You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

“Bro forgot he has a healing factor. Did all that killing make him braindead or what?”

“You don’t deserve to die. You deserve to live with this for the rest of your life.”

He knew that. He deserved all this pain, but Logan was never the paragon of morality. He was a selfish prick, who ruined everything he touched and yet he was the last one standing. But he wanted the voices to go, he wanted them to stop, and he wanted to stop crying because God it’s just been a dam breaking on his face since you yelled at him.

He was alone, and he was scared. Just like you wanted him to be. He embraced the trigger, and felt tranquil as the surge of bullets went through his brain.

It was only serene for a few minutes, but for Logan, the worst Wolverine who killed so many innocents, who ruined any chances of the world accepting mutants, who drunk so much it got his family killed and still drunk? Even a second of that serenity was a touch of heaven that Logan didn’t deserve.