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vunblr · 17 days ago

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Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Dark content: Sexual Assault Wounds(Bucky) tried to make it as vague as possible but, there are mentioned. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence.

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic includes fluff, smut, and the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow.

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions.

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans, the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could.

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

Next Chapter ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader

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starless-nightz · 2 months ago

Text

Remember me

note -> ACT 3 SPOILERS!!! I am NOT okay!

parts -> part one | [part two]

pairing -> Jinx X fem! reader, platonic! Isha X fem! reader

summary -> You will always remember them.

warnings -> mentions of death.

content includes -> angst, death, suicidal thoughts, Vi and Ekko appear.

Life with Jinx and Isha felt perfect in a way you never thought possible.

The three of you spent most of your days hidden away in your workshop or Jinxs lair because of her wanted status. But you never minded it. If anything, you cherished the quiet moments the three of you shared.

Your days together were filled with laughter and creativity—tinkering with inventions, sketching out wild ideas, and playing games that felt like they belonged in a world far kinder than Zaun.

On rare occasions, you’d venture out into the Undercity together, blending into its chaos and finding moments of joy in its grim corners.

And at night, when everything settled, you’d find yourself lying between them. Isha’s small frame curled up beside Jinx, and Jinx’s breath soft, her head laying on your shoulder.

You’d look at them, the two people who had somehow become your entire world, and feel a warmth in your chest.

In those moments, you let yourself believe it could last. That the three of you could stay like this forever—safe, whole, and happy.

But Zaun isn't a place for dreams.

And you were wrong.

You were so, so wrong.

————

It all happened so fast.

In one moment you were fighting alongside Jinx and in the next Isha was running towards Vander, Jinxs gun held tightly in her small hands.

You knew what she was going to do as she put two more hextech gemstones in the gun, and Jinx knew it very well too.

You two tried to get to her, calling out her name, trying to stop her from doing it, but you two were stopped by Vi, pulling you both back as you two despreatly called for the little girl.

The only thing you could do in that moment was watch as Isha shot a finger gun at you two before firing the real gun upwards, closing her eyes, feeling at peace knowing she was protecting you two.

And your world slowly started shattering into tiny pieces.

————

You knew you couldn't do anything.

You know you couldn't save her.

Jinx has already accepted her fate a long time ago, she wasn't scared of death and she made peace with it.

"Always with you sis." Jinx said as Vi tried to pull her up. Jinx quickly removed the hextech gemstone from Vis gauntlets, making them power off and letting Jinx go.

Jinx looked at you with a small smile on her face as she started fallling. You screamed her name as you watched her fall before an explosion went off.

And in that moment your whole world shattered into tiny pieces.

————

"Is there anything so undoing as a family?" you whispered, your words barely audible over the soft hum of Piltover below.

Your knees were brought up close to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them as your fingers absently traced the jagged edges of the bomb's shattered metal head of the bomb that had taken her life.

Vi and Ekko sat beside you in silence, their gazes fixed on the distant glow of the city. Neither of them said a word, and you couldn't bring yourself to fill the void.

They didn't know you well, not really; just a shared face in their grief, a faint reflection of their own shattered hearts. But in this moment, words didn't matter.

Each one of you had lost the most significant person in your life that day. A single point of light went out in a way that no amount of tears, anger, or revenge would ever balance.

Jinx was gone.

And nothing would ever bring her back.

————

You knew your couldn't bring Jinx and Isha back, you know that the hole in your heart will never disappear.

You stood in Jinxs destroyed lair, holding onto one of her explosions as you looked down into the abyss.

You didn't want to live anymore, there was no reason for you to be alive. The only two people that made your life worth living for were gone, and you couldn't bring them back.

You wanted to end your life.

But before you could leap from the ledge a voice stopped you, making your ears perk up.

"Whatcha doing, toots?"

#jinx #jinx x reader #isha #isha x reader #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane league of legends x reader #arcane league of legends

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nemesyaaa · 4 months ago

Text

from the sea // pirate!rafe cameron x mermaid!reader

summary ; he was the too scary captain of the ship, and you were the too gorgeous mermaid of the sea. you were on his way, he was on your territory.

but mostly, you were not allowed to go on the surface alone since your mother's death because of dangerous and killer men like him. so when you unfollowed the rules of your father, you faced the consequences.

genre ; fantasy blurb. siren x captain dynamic.

warnings ; fantasy story ? possession. rafe has whip scars/and one eye. fear enthousiast. slight of violence. reader is a mermaid with tail. light gun play mentions and using. smut. gaslighting. dubcon. no shells on breasts reader. webbed fingers. lust as a sin.

author's note ; it's a 3k words. no songs inspiration for this one. i just wanted to make a fantasy au.

you were that kind of beauty that aspired to make all men go crazy over you, and it was for this reason that you had taken so many pirates adrift, to their bodies to their ships. you were beautiful and indeed the bewitching and seductive creature that legends and tales spoke of, but you were also the dangerous monster that the captains with monstrous scars on their faces and marks on skin who had survived your man-eating canines were whispering about in the back of a tavern to overly curious and drunk sailors.

you were the wife of all the gods but above all, those who defended their oceans. but only since your mother's death, your father firmly forbade you from going to the surface, either alone or accompanied. you were forbidden by the all-powerful sovereign of the seas. and his law was indisputable because he was the king and the monarchy. one day as his daughter, you will also be the head of the kingdom, and hold the power as him, even if you're not interested in it.

but like all girls your age, you had trouble listening to your father. no, you had this innocent and blind thirst to chase men. and, you had never had an incident before, so what could stop you ? you only had to slip into the clear waves, and let your magical and fairy body disappear through the eddies of the water which made your flowing silhouette as fast and shiny as a shooting star. the feeling of diving into the soft waves that play hide and seek with your sparkling and enchanted tail while the water gently embraced your mermaid skin was always the best.

you were the only dazzling thing of the perfect blue. the sweet and salty waves kissing your nakedness and long mermaid tail illuminated with colorful reflections ran alongside the rest of your bared chest in the flapping of a fin. you looked nothing like a fish that fishermen wanted to eat, but you looked like an underwater creature that captains wanted to capture.

one stormy evening, you decided it was time to go to the surface. you needed to break the rules to survive. with all the youth and rebellion of your free will, you had left the abyssal depths to face the dangerous world.

the sea was raging, and the waves were decidedly uncontrollable and violent. the shadow of a boat disturbed by the marshy assault of the storm on the waves wavered from one end to the other. that meant you were going to be able to have fun. you could also hear from here the agitation of the crew, the fear and the tension building. you easily spotted the captain because he was much taller and broader, the one who didn't frown a single eyebrow, and who remained calm as if it was the storm that should be feared. his voice shouted orders that you couldn't hear because of the raging sounds of the hard weather. he had a parrot on his right shoulder, and bangs stuck to the sweat of his forehead lightly sweeping his face. he looked delicious, you licked your bottom lip, flicking your mermaid tail to move.

you barely lifted your head out of the water in a crashing entry, emerging from the water by sending your hair flying back, a splash of water falling noisily into the waves and attracting the attention of the sailors above of the boat.

“ captain, captain, look !! there’s a siren ! ” said a sailor who pointed a finger toward you.

“ she's gorgeous ! ” replied another.

“ those tits…”

“ stop being horny, that creature can kill you. i don't pay all of you to do all the work so everybody on the ship move his fucking ass before i throw you all on that storm. am i clear ? and if i don't hear a yes right now, i will let that siren eat every single piece of yours. . ” warned the captain with a deep and somber tone.

“ captain yes, yes captain. ” echoed all the sailor voices.

“ man, you can't say that when you have a fucking boner while looking at her. ” commented a sailor.

“ shut your mouth, barry. it's not her at all. ”

“ do you think i'm dumb to think it's one of the men on the ship ? come on, you can lie with that mouth but that hard dick in your pants betrays you. don’t worry, nobody is immune to tits, especially when they're wet as a fucking pussy.”

“ mind your business. ”

“ as you want, captain. ”

a smile appeared on your soppy lips, as you disappeared again into the tormented waves. you had surrounded the ship, swimming only around the boat. you loved it when everyone was fascinated by you, catching with their eyes all your flawless moves as a show.

water being your domain and your home, you took the initiative to do some twirls by immersing your entire body in the water to bring out only your tail as you leaped to the surface with some back flips and observing your audience. you stood on an icy rock, resting your webbed and manicured fingers against the stone.

“ someone is gonna fucking do his work here ? ” shouted the captain. he was actually running out of patience because of his crew being so attracted by the siren. “are you all dumb on purpose ? this is exactly what she wants, to get all of your attention, and kill you. ”

“ captain accept there is nothing you can do. that woman is too stunning. ” cutted one man, literally drooling over his huge beard, giving up his activity for you.

“ do you think she cares about you ? you're just a prey for her. but right, this is not my problem. you can leave my ship and die. ”

once comfortable on the rock, , you begin to open your mouth to sing a sweet song that would bring them as well as this storm to their doom. your voice was just a trap to lure men.

you had no shells on your breasts as the tales loved to tell. actually, you were completely naked from the top, water running down your chest to your mermaid glowing tail. your skin was still cold and damp, like your eyes. but it shone through the moon, and the white pearls on your body lit up every inch of your flesh like stars. you were of a beauty that had thrown more than one sailor into the water. you were in the image of no god, no man, no woman, you were the angel of the sea. you had a throne in every wave, a kingdom wherever you swam.

your hair fell deliberately on your shoulders, and your angelic voice currently pierced all the foam. the storm was raging, and you appeared as their savior, a halo of light projecting above you to cover your superb figure. you were beautiful and unrealistic like a work of art.

when you weren't expecting it, one of the men you had guessed to be the captain had lowered a boat. he was certainly tall and imposing, a long coat covering his entire frame, and immense leather boots with roughly tied laces on his feets as he approached you. he had a pistol stuck in his glistening and leathery belt, and above all an eye patch over his face. you took a look at the cross scar hidden in his shirt of which you only saw the scary top of the burned mark of the probably iron.

he rowed up to you, until you felt his scent replacing the salty smell of the sea. you quickly understood that there was nothing like the other men you had managed to charm. not unlike the others, this man seemed to be able to corrupt anyone, men and women, humans and mermaids alike.

he placed his boat near the rock to look at you more closely.

“didn’t your father warn you not to come near men like me? i’m sure he did gorgeous, i bet you’re just not smart enough to listen to him. ”

you backed away but he put his gun on the tip of your tail to stand you still, making you shake. “y’know what that means? I’m in charge here. ”

“let me go!” you responded, waving your tail limply, but he pushed his finger against the trigger of his gun to scare you.

"you'll leave when i decide. so stand still because from now, all your rules are made by me. ”

“you should fear my father, he will kill you.” you replied.

he laughed in a mocking tone, and moved closer to you with a smirk. “you could kill me too though, couldn’t you mermaid ? but look at you, shaking like prey ready to die by my hand.”

“are you going to kill me?”

“ is this a question or a wish ? or maybe a dirty mermaid fantasy ? ”

“i don’t want to die.”

“If that pretty mouth can sing like it does then it can beg too, don’t you think? If you want me to spare you, you’re gonna have to be a bit more convincing.”

he lowered his gaze towards your glossy and watery body, his weapon buried in the flesh of your stomach, before slightly moving up to your breasts, your nipples arching against the gun. you shivered at the contact of the metal against your skin.

he slid the gun up to your throat, pushing the barrel against your vocal cords. you coughed, and placed a hand around his.

he had sworn "oh fuck...legends don't tell all the things siren can do to a man…"

your webbed fingers, surrounded by tiny fins, had found their effect on him. you looked so sweet and innocent, but you were a creature who knew how to be machiavellian so he had to keep an eye on you.

“you don’t want to die?” he asked, repeating your words.

rafe was not a man of morals, he made fun of laws and conventions. and above all, why would he deprive himself when a beautiful mermaid was willing to do whatever he wanted just to be spared.

you were desperate, and frighteningly attractive. rafe would be lying if he said it didn't stimulate him. his cock was clearly hard and painfully stretched against the leather of his pants, forming a bulge just below his belt. and it was starting to be so uncomfortable. he only wanted one thing, it was to fill your soppy mouth surrounded by divine dripping lips until he felt your throat tighten around his dick, because his girth prevented the air from passing into your cavity.

oh yes rafe cameron was cruel. he wanted you to die, but in a completely different way.

and what he wanted, he got. he was a captain admired and respected by all and who had a high reputation both on the seas and on land. he was rich and miserly. he had as much money as he had girls.

he pulled down his pants, freeing his thick length to reveal it before your eyes. you'd be lying if you said you'd seen one before. It was the first time you saw something that big, it was terrifying. you didn't even know what this sailor wanted you to do with it so you looked at him with curious and desperate eyes.

oh that innocence burning in your gaze had shot a charge through rafe's body and his cock had twitched, letting precum drop on your face and the blood inside him completely heated.

"open your mouth...yes, like that. show me your tongue, i'll help you, gonna tell you how to do it.”

he had thrust himself into your mouth before giving you instructions, telling you how to make him feel good, while his dick found a way to your throat. you were even wetter inside than a real woman and it felt perfect and insane. you started to suck him, your lips vibrating around his throbbing girth that stuffed you real quick.his tip was slightly salty from the precum dripping from it that you had swallowed, making the ship captain above you groan.

pushed by his grunts and his tight grip through your hair, you pumped him faster because you were starting to understand how it worked. he never tired of your lips that foamed, and fully encircling his cock which as you licked got bigger and bigger, your naked tummy spiraling as the growing feeling.

with one hand, he had plunged himself completely into you, your head completely trapped between his firm fingers, and your nose buried in his pelvis. you gagged on him, a spurt of drool coming out of your mouth when he pulled out, as you gurgled strongly . your saliva hung from his glistening tip down the length of his hardened dick, all the way to his heavy balls.

he re-positioned himself inside you, his massive dick now dripping inside your soaked mouth as you continued to suck and lick with the fear knotting in your stomach of being killed. but you could feel that his body was relaxed, his muscles were loose, and you could hear every deep sound of pleasure coming from his lips.

he was both fascinated and over the moon, because your wetted tongue twirling around his hot cock was perfect. oh if he could have fucked you, he would have. he couldn't help but fantasize about how he would have fucked you on this rock, his large hands on your tits caged them like bra and pressing them against his thick fingers that would easily crushed them.

he also loved how your throat was so capricious, clenching around him while your tongue hungrily brushed his entire growing bulge. the feeling was intense, and you could hear his breaths become harsh.

that's what he liked about corruption, you were too good for him, a creature blessed by all the gods who had nothing to do with a mortal as rich as him, because you were too divine , too wonderful but at that moment, you were in the same rank. you were at his mercy.

you placed your wet hands on his hips, leaving trails of water on his body and impressive marks of whip that left scars on his skin. rafe could have sworn it was the gentlest touch in the world. the tiny fins around your fingers, tracing the straight line of his waist, down to his firm ass as you sucked him to death, drove him so crazy with your long soaked tongue that made him gasp.

and even if he was not a believer, he was convinced that heaven could not be so wonderful.

a few minutes later, his dick had convulsed around your mouth, and you felt large hot streams filling your throat down to your tummy. you swallowed, and he smiled before stroking your hair gently.

“ good job, little mermaid. don’t you deserve a reward for that ?”

you didn’t really know what that meant but you nodded.

he had taken a long pearl necklace from his pocket. “turn around. let me help you. ”

and you complied. he had hung the expensive and luxurious jewel around your neck, the length of which was so long that he had to make several turns until a hundred white pearls covered the entirety of your bust, dangling around your handsome tits.

“do you know what that means?”

you moved your head to say no, and he responded. “that now you belong to me. you’re my prized possession. you need to understand that now you can't leave. without me. ”

he had found a treasure and he was going to keep it. after all, he was a pirate, he stole everything the ocean had. and sirens were not an exception to the rules.

“i want to see my father.”

“mermaid, you are mine, and mine only.” he responded while caressing your soppy cheek. “ you don't need your dad anymore, just me. ”

you lifted your gaze to meet the most beautiful blue eyes you ever met. he was handsome as the devil, and you couldn’t deny it. but you were a mermaid, you belonged to the ocean, not to a man.

you tried to run away but he stopped you by placing his leather boot on your mermaid tail with a smirk, before leaning forward to grab you by the throat, your upper body was arched, his biceps caged your vocal cords tightly, his thick fingers pushed further in your mouth to forced you to behave, your drool dripping over your hanged jaw.

“what did I tell you about making silly moves, huh? behave, unless you want to die. you know what’ll happen if you act up? what you did earlier, with that pretty mouth, we’re gonna do it again. except this time instead of my cock, it’ll be my gun and if you stop, I shoot. And I know you don’t want that, right?”

" no…”

“ yea ? better to be alive. ”

you nodded. because it was true.

"now i have my men waiting for me. but don't worry, you're coming with me.”

“ that's a kidnapping — ”

“ do you think i care ? because listen to me, i don't fucking care. do you know what it means ? that you can pout, cry, scream, whatever tantrum you want to shout, it will not change anything. ”

you shivered when his hands stroked your shoulders, the icy metal of his silver rings brushing your skin. “ don't you want to be cherished ? see that world ? look up, because it can be yours. ”

“ you're not afraid that i can eat you ? ”

“ didn't you see my scars ? i fear nothing, even if you dig those canines in my skin, you will be the only one to be scared of what i can do to you. because babe, be mean to me, i dare you to, and i will be meaner. ”

“ where are your scars coming from, they're huge. and it's not sirens. ”

“oh, it’s a horrible story for a little mermaid like you. stick to your fairytales. so are you gonna come with me willingly or do we have to do things the hard way?”

“ sound like a trap. ”

“ sound like you're smart. ” he mocked.

“ i'm gonna follow you. but don't be too happy, my dad will find you before sunrise. so you're soon a dead man. ”

“ such a mean baby, already wishing that i'm dead. but careful, don't make me correct that mouth myself. it's not the kind of thing you will like. ”

“ because there is a good thing you can do with my mouth ? ” you were curious.

you turned your gaze toward him, and he lifted a brow, not believing your words. “ mermaid, you never kissed a man ? ”

“ show me what kissing is. ”

“ Why would I kiss the mouth that curses me ? ”

“ Should i ask those men on the ship? ”

because of his possessive side, categorically refusing to share you with his crew full of grotesque men, he had leaned down to grab your jaw and press his lips against yours.the feeling was so strange, but your mermaid tail was waving on the cold stone. “seems like you enjoy being kissed. ” he said, as his tongue swirled with yours. “ want to be kissed endlessly ? yea ? then don't make me repeat myself and move that fucking tail to the ship. ”

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the-kr8tor · 23 days ago

Text

Red Firefly

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.9k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, Noxian! Reader, historian! Reader, part 2 of ink and bedrock, CW death mention, CW food mention, TW panic attack, CW, violence. Arcane spoilers, arcane characters appearance.

Ekko Masterlist

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Part 1 <<< Part 2 >>> Part 3

The wooden spoon almost cracks under your grip. Splitting sounds of wood falling into deaf ears even when your knuckles shake above the sweetened icing. Your memory betrays you, the cold of the apartment Caitlyn graciously lets you borrow seeps into your threadbare sleep clothes, frost biting into your innards, clawing around your hands and up to your throat like rose thorns.

You're back there again, home, where blood spilled on the streets is a welcome sight to behold like grass growing in between the pavement. Where cracked knuckles can be seen on every citizen, purple skin weighing down their eyes, crimson swimming in their irises. Home. Where you always belonged. Where he belonged. Until the darkened slithering roses caught up to him, crawling all over the freezing room you both called home. Or was it just his home? You were always out fighting for home because that's what they taught you since birth. Always out screaming and thriving amongst bloodied swords and gunpowder itching into your nose. But not him, he was inside his study, reading, learning. Always the better one between you two. Always the kinder one. All soft palms with bitten cuticles from a nervous tick he never shook off. Warm eyes that remind you of your mother, and a soft smile that your father never showed anyone except that one time you first took hold of a gun.

He was the best version of you. Rounded around the edges, no jagged line that bares its teeth whenever one gets too close. He's not you.

Until they stopped him. Black spindly vines wrapped around him, thorns pricking his skin, spilling the same blood running through your veins. Then suddenly, the chill stops, and his muffled screams subsides, leaving the rumbling tone of your cracked heart beating amidst the dark. It should've been you, your mind always screamed. But he was the best out there, ambitious, cunning. And that got him pulled into the thorns.

So you fought, killed, maimed, in hopes that they'll take you too. That they'll find you worthy enough to be taken into their piercing embrace that smells of roses and warm iron. And yet, it wasn't enough. Even when you stood atop bodies of both comrades and enemies. It wasn't enough. You were not good enough to see him again. Even if it was just a glimpse of those eyes, even if they're lifeless now, even if the light hasn't glistened in them. Even if it means you would be joining him in the rose scented abyss. You'd be happy enough to be wrapped in the same thorns, to meet your end just as he did.

The sound of the beeping oven brings you back to the present. The past fading away as you slowly unfurl your palm off from the wooden spoon seeing the indents it has left on your skin. You open the warm oven, its heat searing away the remnants of the memory. Smoke wafts over your face, pulling you into its warmth.

You sigh, leaving it open as you crouch down, bathing in its warmth. A reprieve from the frost that still clings to your lashes and the pads of your fingers. The double yellow light inside the oven blinks at you, like an owl watching you in the night. It yanks you back into place, reminding you of where you are.

“Piltover,” you say to yourself, voice feeling heavy from its prolonged idleness. “I'm in an apartment in Piltover. I'm here for…” your sharp breath strikes into your lungs. Fingers closing and opening around itself, fists shaking before letting go and doing the ritual all over again. “Work. Research, study, interview, write.” The smell of the freshly baked cookies wafts across your nose, steadying you in place. “Piltover, work, research, study, interview, write.” The words spill from your lips like a mantra.

“Cookies.” You close your eyes, shutting it tight before opening it again, doing the same thing with your shaking fists. “I'm making cookies.” Finally, the feeling of the ground underneath your feet feels solid. The air no longer knocks the oxygen from your lungs. It's steady. And you don't smell the roses anymore.

The past crawls back into the very far end of your mind. A persistent gnawing that you've managed to keep it in its place for years. You've come to terms that it'll always be there, like the lives you've taken. Balled up into the corner, claws bared, ready to take a pound of your own flesh. You'll survive despite the weight, you'll live in spite of it. And you'll fight, not to atone for your sins, you fight so it never happens to someone again.

—

Gold and blue confetti flutters overhead, cheers roaring all around you as you stand on the bridge of progress. It's no longer empty, its grey steel still towers over you, but this time it's accompanied by colourful streamers, and the rousing sound of a jovial band rising above the howling breeze and its occasional metallic creek.

The sides of the once empty bridge that connects Zaun and Piltover are now full of shops. No longer does it bear its dark history, no cracks left in the cement where a bullet hit, or red stained asphalt underneath your feet. It may not have the same marks that's been there for generations, the council may try to cover the devastation the bridge witnessed— but the people still know about it, they carry it on their backs, a heavy pack filled with grief. Their history will forever be etched in their blood.

Despite it all, they try to live in the moment. The owners and employees stand happily beside their spaces, all smiles with hope shining in their eyes. You notice that they both consist of people from Zaun and Piltover working together in harmony. Both sides are willing to toss aside their bigotry for a better future. The crowd awaits the grand reopening, people from both sides of the bridge mingle among each other, no longer at each other's throats. Reconciliation is prevalent, of course some people are still doubtful about the other side, but more and more of them slowly get used to the unity that's now present in the former warring cities.

Everyday you walk around you see more Zaunites walking into Piltover, and people from Piltover strolling around the shops in Zaun. Ridding oneself of prejudice is hard and takes time, but day by day, it becomes easier to conquer with some help from the very people they used to snide at. It brings you hope for the future of Piltover and Zaun.

But the very man who should be there to witness the leap into further unity isn't there to witness it. You stand on your tip toe to scan the crowd for the familiar head of white hair. Alas, you don't even see a glimpse of him. Even Scar, his right hand man you've come to know is there with his kid perched on his broad shoulder. His son notices you, whispering to his father and perhaps mentioning you, the weird lady who's always at the hideout interviewing people because their leader always has an excuse to miss your appointment with him.

Ekko always seems to fall in between your fingers, it's either he has an emergency somewhere, or he's busy with fixing up something. There's always somewhere he needs to be or something to do. You're starting to think that he's avoiding you and your questioning. Well he is, but you're determined to get his side of the story, even if it's the last thing you'll ever do.

You're not leaving Piltover with a half baked story to tell.

Scar meets with your eyes, nodding curtly at you in greeting. You nod back, smiling all friendly to him before he returns his attention towards the speech. To no one's surprise, Scar himself isn't opening up to you for an interview, you guess he's a closed book just like a certain leader of the firelights.

The place is packed with people, children wave around streamers, their eyes are wide, and grins prevalent on each of their excited faces. You can barely see the mark the war left on the bridge, there's only hope and joy here. Smiling, you match the crowd's happiness despite what transpired to you earlier. But behind those faces, you sense their heavy gazes on you, narrowed eyes roaming around your crimson clad form. Their whispers stab your ears, their sneers pushing you down. But you won't let them. They can snide all they want, you won't leave until you've achieved what you came here to accomplish.

Sevika stands to the side, right next to the podium where council member Shoola stands at the helm. The gold mask glimmers in the sun, all smiles and what you always call the ‘politician posture.’ Back straight, arms moving around for emphasis on their speech, aura oozing confidence, and a body language that screams power.

Sevika scans the crowd with her dark eyes, always looking out for danger. Shoola Might be the one at the helm, but Sevika is the one who's more daunting, exuding power without looking at her people under her nose and through golden prejudiced shades like a couple of councilors you've met. To you though, she looks uncomfortable standing above the crowd by how she's switching her weight over and over on each of her feet. And how she's been inhaling in shallow movements but subtle enough that it's almost impossible to see. You can't help but smile at the thought of her being nervous on stage.

Vi and Caitlyn stand amidst the crowd, smiling softly amongst themselves. Vi’s pink hair is unmistakable, so is her affection towards the former enforcer. Walking through the crowd as politely as you can without bumping into anyone, you make your way towards the couple. The bag filled with tins full of cookies is held to your chest to prevent it from spilling out into the audience as council member Shoola talks about the past and what she hopes for the future for both cities that are now connected together. You should be listening just in case you need it for your research, but you're too occupied with trying not to get hit by someone's elbow or accidentally smack someone's face with your bag of goodies. You'll just settle with asking councilor Shoola for a copy of their speech instead.

Vi and Caitlyn hears you before they see you. The loud clanging of your tin boxes has their attention on the source immediately, their ever alert eyes relaxes when they see your familiar face smiling at them.

“Fancy seeing you two here.”

“We live here, spark.” Caitlyn chuckles at Vi’s joke, eye patch crinkling as she smiles. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out there knocking on people's doors?”

“You two live right on the bridge?” You jokingly say, earning no laughter from the neutral faced couple. Your smile wavers a bit, chuckling nervously until they both crack a teasing smile. With a roll of your eyes and relief mixed in, you stand awkwardly by their side. “I’m about to go to Ekko's, but I gotta cross the bridge to get there y'know.”

“Should've come here earlier, avoid all of the pomp and circumstance.” Caitlyn flicks her eye at you, returning her attention towards the podium, where the councilor is urging Sevika to talk. But with a simple grunt and shake of her head she remains in place and the councilor has to continue her speech, fumbling a bit from the sudden derailment. You smile at Sevika, she notices you in the crowd, nodding in acknowledgement.

“I was busy with baking.” Vi’s eyes lit up from your words. “And I kind of forgot about the event.” You mutter under your breath, earning a side glance from both of them.

Vi has her arm around Cait’s shoulder, chin resting atop it as she ignores the speech. “Is Ekko still not talking to you, spark?”

“Yeah, but it's completely understandable.” You've gotten used to the nickname, some people have even adapted to calling you that too. But that doesn't mean you're starting to like the said nickname. “They don't call me patience back home for nothing.”

Violet smirks, glancing sideways at Caitlyn before nudging you with her boot. “Uh huh,” she clicks her tongue, “don't try to change your nickname now that it's taken root in everyone.”

She saw through your ruse.

Sighing, you tilt your head back with a groan. “Is it too late to yank the root out?”

Her chuckles rise above the sound of the speech, earning a few glances from other people. “Nope, spark, that's your name now.” You shake your head with a smile at her teasing. “About Ekko, I can always talk to him for you? Get him to finally take that interview so you can go home early.”

“Trying to get rid of the poor girl already, Vi?” Caitlyn answers for you, it's the exact words you were just about to let out. Minus the ‘poor girl’ part.

Vi smiles, flicking Caitlyn's ear fondly. “I didn't mean that, cupcake. I'm just saying that she might be missing home by now. People who miss her.” She meets with your eyes. “You've got people missing you back home right? It's not just your old professor waiting for you all scrunched up in her leather chair?”

“How'd you know she has an old leather chair she always sits on?”

“You're deflecting, spark.” She twists around Caitlyn to move in between the two of you, her arm weighing heavy on your shoulders and the young Kiramman’s.

“I'm in no hurry, Vi. There was one time our research took us a year and a half to finish—”

“Deflecting with a capital D.” Vi shakes you as Caitlyn listens in. “We pour our heart and soul to you and you can't even tell us if you've got someone back home?”

“She's just nosy, you don't have to tell her.” Caitlyn sighs, arms crossed over her chest as she pretends to be uninterested in your life back in Noxus.

“Please,” Vi snorts, wiggling Caitlyn in place with her other arm perched on the former enforcer's shoulder. “I *know you're just as interested in knowing, cupcake.”

Caitlyn raises a brow, eye narrowing at Vi, who's probably regretting her words. You decide to save her.

“I have no one other than my professor.” Your sudden remark has their attention fully on you. “And it's fine. I've gotten used to it, life on the road doesn't give me much time to find someone. And whenever I'm home I'm either writing or studying with my mentor.” Your chest feels heavy. You're already aware of what they're about to ask next, so you beat them to it. “As for family…” you inhale sharply just as when the trumpets and the drums play a jovial tune, signaling the end of the speech and the grand opening of the bridge.

“This is the start of progress between both cities! A hope that connects us together!” Councilor Shoola says, cutting off a large golden ribbon just behind her. The crowd roars into an applause as more confetti pops out from above, raining down on everyone.

Vi and Caitlyn took their eyes off you for only a second when they watched the ribbon cutting, but once they turned back towards you, you were already gone.

“Shouldn't have pushed her.” Caitlyn says in a sing song lilt, grinning at Vi with her hand placed on her hip.

Vi feigns an offended gasp, “you asked me to ask her!” Grabbing Cait by her waist, she embraces her.

Hearing their giggles fading behind as you walk away has you smiling softly to yourself. But the way you grip onto your bag says a different story.

—

You walk towards Zaun with your mind saying the same words you uttered this morning over and over again. The breeze flutters your lashes, there's no more smog or the grey ebbing out beneath your feet unlike what you were told by pilties before you went down to Zaun. There's more sunlight bathing the lanes, it's refreshing, especially to its citizens who can now take a deep breath without worrying.

You've been walking the same route for an entire week now. It's the same faces walking past you, the same ivy covered walls, the same purple eyes that follow you as you walk past her painted face. Sometimes you wonder if the stories you've heard about her were as accurate as they told you. Memory is a fickle thing, love and hatred tends to warp the memory of a person.

You always stop by the last drop and Vander's statue just to see the progress they're making on the renovation. Machines grate against your ears as sparks fly from the roof someone's mending together. You've learned that Vander used to run the place years ago, it's poetic you think, that even now he's overseeing the place.

As you pause by his statue for a minute, the same single blue flower left by his solid foot remains there. You've noticed that it's always fresh, never wilting beside him.

“It's a peony.” You almost jump in place at the sudden voice.

Holding onto your heaving chest, you look down at the source. “Hello?”

Her pierced ear flicks, eyes shining under the morning sun. “You're the noxian everyone's been talking about, huh?” Her various colourful accessories click against each other whenever she moves.

“Yeah,” you bend down slightly to give her your hand in greeting. “I'm Y/N.”

She shakes your hand, fingers small enough to only wrap around your two fingers. “Babette. Sorry for the scare, honey, you looked like you're about to set the thing on fire from how hard you were staring at the flower.”

“Are you the one leaving them here every day?”

“No,” she stops you from asking with a stern finger lifted up in front of her. “And I don't know either.”

You nod as the cogs in your scholarly brain turns. “You look like you've been living here all your life, can I interview you?”

“You calling me old?” Her eyes narrow at you, and you're already forming apologies in your head. She clicks her tongue, “I'm free next week if you give me a whole tin of those cookies.”

Relieved, you grab what she wanted, giving it to her without protest. Ekko just has to settle with less cookies. “Deal.”

The tin looks big in her hands. “Look for The Vyx, you can't miss it.”

“Isn't that—”

“It is.” She smiles, puffing her chest out. “Afternoon, don't be late.”

“I—I won't.”

With a wave goodbye, she walks away with a dozen or so of your sugar cookies in hand.

Scratching the back of your head, you can't say that what transpired was the weirdest thing that happened to you here. There's never a dull moment in both Piltover and the undercity.

—

The gentle breeze welcomes you back as you enter the not so secret hideout. There are less people today since most of them are checking out the new bridge and its new establishments. But a few people stayed, taking advantage of the space as children run amok, needing you to dodge them with some effort.

“Woah!” A red headed girl almost collides into your legs. “Careful!” She answers with her tongue sticking out playfully at you before running away behind the gingko tree where a large mural has countless faces painted on it. You see it in all its glory now that it's daylight.

You've come to know who's who on it, even then, there's still more people on there that you'll never come to know. Right near the middle has Ekko's likeness painted on it, together with Benzo and Vander's face. You've always wondered why he's placed right next to the people they've lost over the years. You know why Vi is there, but not him. You still haven't asked Ekko about it, and when you asked the other firelights, they just shrug at you, telling you that you should ask the man himself. You figured that they don't know the real answer either, that Ekko gives them the same reply.

With a glance at the foot of the mural, where portraits, toys, drawings, and personal things of the deceased are placed; you decide that today is the day you get to ask Ekko about it. If he even talks to you today that is. So with you taking another tin box of cookies from your bag, you place it right next to a pair of goggles with its colours fading from the environment. You stay there for a minute in silence, eyes scanning every face before closing them in respect.

You walk away, footsteps weighing heavy, air briefly smelling of roses.

—

After a week of practice with the elevator up to the tree house, you feel like you've become an expert at handling it. You tried to ask a firelight to teach you how to use a hoverboard, but even with a bribe they just laughed and refused to teach you. So you had to settle with the elevator or the stairs to go up like some land loving peasant. One day you'll ride on a hoverboard, but for now, you have the behemoth task to get Ekko to open up.

You knock with the signature rhythm you always do. One short knock followed by three sharp knocks consecutively, it's a surefire way to tell him that it's you without yelling through the door.

“Go away.”

Or a surefire way to immediately identify you and get rid of you within a span of a half second.

“You sure? I bought cookies.” You shake the bag in your hand, hoping the sound is enticing for him.

Silence follows, and you start to think that he's actually considering letting you in because of the biscuits.

“Go away.”

You huff, “come on, Ekko, please? Vi says that she'll come down here and annoy you until you start talking to me so please can you at least let me in? I won't even interview you! I can just stay inside!” There's still silence inside the room. “It looks like it's about to rain.” A flat out lie on your part, it's the sunniest day in the undercity with sunlight shining in between the large gingko leaves.

Then you hear it, a slight shuffle of feet then a metal lock sliding open. He doesn't open the door for you, instead, you hear his fading footsteps and the creak of a stool sliding back.

Smiling victoriously, you grab the doorknob, twisting it as you peek inside the dark room. Save for the lamp sitting on his table at the far end of the wall, it's completely dark inside. The smell of sizzling metal has you wrinkling your nose.

“I'm coming in.” You wiggle yourself inside to lessen the light from entering his abode lest he sees through your half baked lie. “Morning, Ekko.”

He doesn't even grunt in greeting.

You notice that he's sitting in the same position you left him yesterday. You've managed to get inside after telling him that the children are after you and your magic pen again. Which they were, so technically not a lie. Whenever you can't convince him to let you inside, you spend your time with his people. Either interviewing them or just hanging around them. Most of them welcomed you with open arms, some were a bit apprehensive at first, but after a while they've become accustomed to you and your noxian self.

Your footsteps are measured as you cross the small distance. You've learned your lesson after accidentally stepping on a stray fan blade that sent you tumbling down on the floor. Ekko did help you up on your feet, but he continued to ignore you for the rest of the time you were inside.

“I hope you like sugar cookies. I saved you a batch after someone talked me into giving them a whole box. We missed you during the ceremony. Sevika looked like she was about to run home during the speech. She does not like the stage.” You're met with silence as you slide the opened tin of cookies on his cluttered table, you see a plate of untouched meal. You figured that it's not breakfast from how the mashed potatoes are starting to grow its own potato sprout, it's been there since last night. He hasn't eaten before or after that. “Do you want me to get you breakfast from the mess hall?”

He flicks his eyes towards the firefly shaped cookies with its green and blue icing painstakingly decorated on it. His jaw tightens, the dark circles under his eyes seem to weigh him down. The oversized jacket he has on makes him smaller in your vision. His hair looks like he has tied it numerous times without checking it in the mirror. Cheeks greasy, shining under the lamp light. You guess it's oil from the contraption on his desk.

“Is this how you make people talk to you?”

“It usually works.” You shrug, taking the plate of musty dinner. “I'm going to get you breakfast. And maybe something for me too.” You mutter the last sentence under your breath.

“I didn't ask you to.” He says without sparing you a glance.

“Well I want to.” Shrugging, you watch him continue to work on a piece of machinery, seeing how his hand trembles from fatigue. “And, no one wants the boy savior to collapse from starvation do we? What would that look like when they find me, a noxian, looking down at your limp body?”

He scrunches his nose. “They might kill you.”

“Exactly.” You nod, grinning from ear to ear. “You look like a sunny side up guy.”

“Omelette.” He says once you make it to the door.

“Oh a fancy way of having eggs. I heard you loud and clear, bossman.” You mock a salute at him even though he won't see it.

—

You come back to Ekko's treehouse and workshop with two plates of cheese and onion omelettes placed on each of your hands. When you told the firelights cook that it was for Ekko, he immediately gave you the biggest portion and even cooked it fresh just for him. He was kind enough to give you a piece, even telling you that you can't switch out the plates and he *will know. You couldn't tell if it was a threat or not by how he pointed a spatula at you when he said it.

Pushing the door open with your foot, you find Ekko in the same place. All scrunched up in his seat, his familiar jacket is placed on the back of it as sparks fly around him. When you first heard of him as the ‘boy savior’, you always knew that he's still carrying the weight on his shoulders. You've seen it in most survivors, sometimes it's guilt that weighs them down, sometimes it's grief. But it's always sorrow that accompanies it. And even anger.

“You're staring.” He utters above the sound of crackling metal. His head cranes over his shoulder briefly, his thick goggles obscuring his eyes from you. “Either give me the food or leave.”

“Can't, sorry.” You cross the small distance towards him. “I promised Jericho that I'll make sure you eat it.”

He groans, yanking off his goggles as you try to make room for his plate on the table. You notice your cookies inside the tin are almost completely gone. The corner of your lips tick upwards, eyes shining happily under the warm light of his lamp.

Ekko notices, side eyeing you in reply and snatching his plate from you. He takes your plate with the smaller portion, and you immediately exchange it with his plate lest you suffer the wrath of his cook. He gives you a look, brow raised and frowning.

“He said the bigger portion is yours.” You jut your lower lip, shrugging as he narrows his eyes further. “Look I'm not gonna risk it, okay? The guy's huge.”

“I thought you noxians can fight your way out of anything.” Ekko stabs his fork into the steaming omelette, the runny egg drips from his fork as he takes a bite.

“Oh I can, I just prefer not to fight over an omelette.” Hopping up on the table, you sit down with the plate placed on your lap, you eat beside him. He gives you another look. “What? You don't have another chair in here. It's either here or your bed.” You gesture with your head towards the neat bed in the corner of the room. “And I'm sure you don't want me eating on your bed.”

He grunts in reply, continuing to eat. You see the slight permanent grimace he has, how his brows knit together as if he's expecting a punch, and how his shoulders tense instead of relaxing. It's as if he notices the muscle straining under the weight he thinks is the world being hurled over his shoulders.

“Are you happy?” You blurt out. But you don't regret it.

He blinks, fork pausing halfway. “Are you?”

You shrug, eyes meeting with his own. “I'm perfectly happy where I am. Took a while, but I think I made it.”

He hums in reply, “sure.”

“What, you don't think I'm happy or you think that you're happy?”

“I'm... content. Is this part of your interview? You said you weren't gonna ask questions.”

You take a bite of your omelette to avoid his question. “Just curious, it was off the record by the way. You can be happy too y’know.” He stays quiet after that, eyes downturned towards his plate.

You two continue to eat silently, forks scraping against plates. The tension from before slowly ebbs away, leaving a comfortable quietness permeating between the both of you.

Once you finish your breakfast, he's already trying to get you out by pulling the goggles over his head again. A clear sign that sparks will be flying again and he wouldn't care if you get hit by a stray spark or two.

But when he pushes the on button on his soldering machine, it's the one that's sparking. Ekko huffs in his seat, pulling up the goggles and opening the mechanism as it puffs out grey smoke. Hot metal and eggs, lovely.

Taking the one remaining firefly cookie you made, you continue to perch on his table whilst he side eyes you every minute to check if your presence is still there. You chew loudly on the cookie to irk him further. As much as you need to write down his story, you won't back down on his stubbornness. Mel chose you for a reason, and you promised to not disappoint her and the whole council.

“I've always wondered.” You munch annoyingly, earning a scowl from him. “I saw your face painted on the mural. Were you somehow brought back to life?”

Ekko slowly turns his head towards you, for a second you think that he's about to answer you but he only takes a screwdriver that was right next to your thigh.

“It makes me think that you were gone for a long time, presumed dead, that's why you're there. Other than that, you were kidnapped, and then presumed dead.” You pause, tilting your head with a sly smile. His eye twitches at your annoyance. “All of my ideas are of you being presumed dead. Or you've mastered the magic of resurrection.”

“Still not going to answer your fucking questions.” He twists the screwdriver steadily and a bit angrily.

You press on.

“You should see the bridge sometime, it looks amazing. There's shops everywhere, I even got a Piltover and Zaun unity keychain there.” Your finger loops around the keychain where it's hooked on your satchel's zipper, showing the metal design to him.

You're only met with silence and the sound of gears grating against each other. Or was that his teeth clenching down in irritation?

“I've been told that you seem to do everything perfectly for the first time.” You say as the machine puffs out smoke and fizzles out. “Well, not everything, I suppose.”

“I don't do anything without thinking about it.” He grips the screwdriver tightly, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, smudging the white face paint and transferring it on his glove. He notices your small smile at his answer. “Still not answering your questions.” Pointing the screwdriver at you, it only earns a grin from you instead of striking fear in your heart. It's hard to be menacing when you just scarfed down six cookies in one sitting. Sighing, he returns to his work instead of wasting his time on you, who clearly won't give up. “Go away, red.”

“Oh, a nickname!” You clap your hands together just to irk him some more.

“Not a nickname,” he debunks the insinuation that he's friends with you. “I forgot your name.”

“Well, that's impossible, it's unforgettable. And that was rude.” You point at him playfully, taking one last bite of the cookie.

“You're making my machines break by your mere voice alone.” He says in between clenched teeth. “Leave.” Gesturing towards the door with his head, you shrug, finally relenting now that you've made progress with him.

He'll be an open book for you in no time.

“I was about to leave anyway. Got an appointment with Sevika.” You hop off the table, taking your belongings and cleaning up the plates to bring with you. He still tries to fix his machine, brows furrowed and frowning deeply. Your teasing did not help him one bit. It's either that or his heavy eyes and lack of sleep are finally catching up to him. Without a second thought, you punch the machine. To your and Ekko's surprise, it cackles to life. Ekko looks at you as if you offended his mother. “I was guessing it needed something to be loosened up. You're welcome.”

“I had it.” Ekko's hand is placed atop it protectively. Glaring at you as you nonchalantly stare at him. You try not to grin at him.

“I know you did, get some sleep and maybe you'll catch what's wrong next time.” You start to leave, footsteps echoing as he stares daggers on your back. “The hideout can survive another day without the ice machine, firefly.” You chuckle to yourself, “see, I've got nicknames for you too, and I didn't have to forget your name.”

The door closes with a creak, leaving Ekko alone once again as stares at the spot you just left. Glancing at his bed, he shuts all his tools down, and slinks away towards the soft mattress. He'll never tell you that you were right. If he was well rested, he would've seen the mistake. As his eyes shut close, he wonders how you also know about handling machines. He drifts off with your pen sword rattling around in his mind.

—

The whole room feels stifling, dust fluttering around, and the scent of metal itching your nose. In those four metal walls, sits a circular table in the middle, free of any decorations, or any pomp and circumstance you saw on the bridge of progress. A single light flickers above the table, papers lying still as the two parties glower at each other.

Sevika has told you that the meeting locations change with every meeting to protect the information from getting out and into the hands of someone else with ill intentions. Despite the meetings under lock and key, Sevika holds a community talk every week so that the people in the undercity knows about all the progress in different matters regarding their city.

Ekko's jaw tightens as Sevika continues to explain what happened during the last council meeting she was in. His brown eyes swirl with tethered anger. Hopefully not at you as you sit on his left side a few seats away from him, writing away the typical scene between a council member and a pillar of Zaun.

This is how things get done here, under a single bulb of light in a room hidden underneath the city. It's not just Ekko or Sevika talking (sometimes arguing) down here, there are a few notable people from Zaun speaking their piece. But they know when to stop talking when the two are at each other's throats. They watch their bickering back and forth, mouths keeping mum as they bide their time.

Sevika sighs after her explanation, fingers pinching at the bridge of her nose. “We need to go through a lot of red tape just to pass it, Ekko.”

“Maybe you didn't try hard enough.” Ekko raises a brow, eye twitching in annoyance. “It's been six fucking months since we submitted the appeal, approving something like this shouldn't be so hard.”

“What the hell do you think I've been doing this whole time?” She scoffs in her seat, metal arm clanging against the table as she lays it on the surface. “I'm trying here, Ekko.”

“Try harder.” He says through gritted teeth. “There's still no clean water down in the south, it's been years. Add that shimmer’s still getting through the city, and we have no idea who's making and distributing it. This shouldn't be a fucking problem anymore, Sevika.”

“The council doesn't like it either.” She leans forward, eyes narrowed at Ekko. “But we have to be patient, the task force is doing all they can to find—”

“The fucking task force,” he clicks his tongue. “All they've done is falsely arrest our people, leaving the actual assholes to roam free. Just last week we got a handful of them trying to distribute.” Moving, he leaned further on the table, fist placed atop it as his eyes challenged Sevika. “Not to mention that the grey still lingers down in the mines near the south. There are kids there.”

“Don't you think I don't know that?” Her tone is sharp, eyes boring into Ekko. “You can't sic your firelights on them whenever you want to anymore. That's an enforcer’s job. The council doesn't like it when citizens take matters into their own hands.” She points at him. “Listen, I don't like enforcers either but establishing due process here would be for nothing if they don't get arrested properly—”

“You sound like them.” Ekko interrupts, chin raised high.

Sevika inhales sharply, sensing the tension in the air is at an all time high. The stories some zaunites have told you about her is a stark contrast to the woman sitting in front of you. Three years being a councilor and a leader has changed her.

“The people who were arrested were found not guilty. They got out a few days ago. And there’s a project that would bring clean water to the south. Same goes for the leaking grey.” She explains, tone softer but not less commanding. “It's being taken care of, you'd know that if you just take my goddamn invitation to come to a meeting.” She backs down, sitting back on her chair as it creaks under her. “We're not enemies anymore, Ekko. I'm doing all of this for Zaun too.”

Ekko scowls, eyes darting around the people in the room to calm himself down. His eyes stop when he sees you, as soon as he pauses at your form, he's already looking away when you glance at his frustrated face.

“Send me updates on the investigation. Every name, address, every single detail that passes through the task force's lips, I want them.” He sits back, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at Sevika under his scrutinized gaze. “And I want final say on the blueprints on the project.” Sevika opens her mouth to contest but Ekko's still not done. “I want to make sure that what they're doing will last for generations. I won't settle for half assed.”

The dark haired councilor chuckles under her breath. Eyes flicking at you as something passes by her eyes before staring at Ekko once again. “I'll make a council member out of you yet.”

Ekko scoffs, wordlessly conversing with Scar as he glances at his right hand man briefly. “If there's nothing else—” He begins to stand up, seemingly tired from the debacle but doesn't let it show.

“Looks like you've warmed up to her. She's not so bad huh?” Sevika says teasingly, index pointing at you under the single dim light. There's suddenly a dozen eyes cast on you.

It takes you a few seconds to come up with something. “See, Ekko, I'm not so bad.”

“What are you even doing here?” He scrunches his nose at you.

“Sevika invited me.” You smile, chest puffing out with pride.

Ekko looks at Sevika with a raised brow.

“The council told me to. And Vi asked nicely.” She shrugs.

“Hey, and here I thought you wanted me here.” You say with mock hurt as Ekko leaves the room together with his entourage. “Wait, hold on, Ekko! We have an appointment if you forgot!” Scampering away, you hastily gather your things as you try to follow behind him. Sevika chuckles at your fumbling as you leave.

Once he's out of the door, he hops on his hoverboard, already flying away. Leaving you in the dust once again.

“Little shit.” You curse, chest heaving after you bolted after him. Kicking a pebble with your foot, you begin the trek to the firelights hideout. Maybe this time he'll talk to you. (He didn't.)

—

The stifling council room has become a common sight for you. Its white dreary walls with its golden inlay and harsh light bearing down on you doesn't intimidate you anymore. It's starting to irk you as the council scrutinizes every word you've written in your draft that you've made enough copies for each of them.

Their eyes scan relentlessly at the pages, silence permeating the room as they flip through it. You feel eyes on you, making you stop from mindlessly picking at your nails. Looking up, you meet with a familiar pair of dark eyes.

Sevika tilts her head, nodding subtly at you with a slanted smile as she flicks her eyes at your draft sitting in front of her. You have no idea if that's a good thing.

You furrow your brows at her, confused and wordlessly asking what she meant.

She raises a brow in return, smile remaining on her lips. Shrugging, Sevika points at herself then over to you as she shakes her head. That's not good.

Eyes widening, you avoid her gaze on you after that. You're trying to wrack your head from remembering if you've written something bad about her, but you come up with nothing. Slowly, you move your eyes towards her without craning your head only to meet with her amused dark eyes. Immediately looking away, you swear you heard her chuckle above the quiet of the council room.

Hopefully her ominous gesture before was just to rile you up in front of the whole council.

A thud echoes throughout the room, almost shaking the circular table. “Right, that's enough. We don't have all day to read poetry.” Sevika interrupts their reading time, palm placed on the table as the rest of the council members look at her with a scrunched up expression. “I think this is approved, yes?” She roams her eyes around the table. Slowly, the council members nod.

“Yes, but I think we're still missing someone's very important account of the events.” Council member Shoola elegantly closes her copy as she stares at you with a raised brow. “I've noticed that there's not a single word from him.”

You immediately know who she's talking about.

With a quiet sigh, you nod. “Ekko, and I'm working on it. He's a bit…apprehensive to talk to me.”

Sevika stifles a laugh whilst you feel like melting under the spotlight.

“Ms. Kiramman, isn't Violet a friend of his? Maybe she could persuade him to speak to our historian.” Shoola remarks to Caitlyn, who's looking tired in her chair as her eyes scan the last page.

“She is,” Cait replies and you subtly shake your head at her, trying to convey that you can try to do it yourself. She seems to notice as the corner of her lip ticks upwards. “I can ask her.”

“Good.” Councilor Shoola smiles as she places both hands on the table and returns her attention towards you. “You did good, everything is up to par.” Up to par?! “You're dismissed.”

Reigning in your annoyance, you nod at them politely before you turn away to leave. The second the door closes, you roll your eyes, groaning in the middle of the hallway. A vase in the corner catches your attention, and you want to indulge your frustration by throwing it across the room. But you don't, instead you march your way outside with more determination to have Ekko speak to you. Not a grunt or a tired “go away.” No, actual words that you can write in your book.

“I'll show them ‘up to par.’”

—

You come back to the hideout as usual, but earlier than before as you have grown accustomed to the winding paths in the lanes.

The sun feels warm on your skin as the early morning rays greet you. The tree stands tall, leaves swaying in the comforting breeze. Firelights are still waking up, bones creaking as they stretch, groaning as they wipe away last night's tiredness in the corner of their eyes. A couple of them wave groggily at you, and a few more make a face at your repeated appearance in their home.

As you continue to walk towards the growing familiarity of the large ginkgo tree, you hear a voice coming from somewhere. Another aspect that you've grown acquainted with in your ever shifting life.

“We don't have a lot of yeast left in stock so—”

“Morning, Ekko!” You wave at him, you've caught him during his morning patrol around the commune. He groans at the cheery tone of your voice this early in the morning. He wonders if you have some sort of extra strong noxian coffee. “Ready for our interview?”

“We'll talk later.” He tells the baker, his arms are bare, skin glistening as if he's basking in the glow of the sun. He ignores you completely as he quickly takes the hoverboard from his back and hops on it within a second.

“W–Wait, hold on!” You try to reason with him, this time with a pack of sour candies you bought on the bridge last night. Maybe he doesn't like sweets? That's your thinking anyways on why he's still not convinced to talk to you.

A puff of dust hits your face head on as he flies higher and higher into a big pipe sticking out of the wall.

“Come on!” You splutter out, coughing away and wiping the dirt away from your eyes as you lose to his power of flight again.

—

The next day you come back to Ekko's treehouse again, this time carrying two plates of breakfast to save you a trip. You greet him warmly, and he replies with a gruff grunt. Sitting on the edge of his work table is uncomfortable, so is the silence. So you fill it with the sound of you scribbling on your notebook, recounting all the interviews you had with an enforcer last night. And you pretend you're not glancing at his face every minute or so. Maybe he's also pretending you're not there too as he continues to work on a new device.

You sit and write, he fixes a machine and stays quiet— It's been like that for a few days, the sound of your pen scribbling on paper has become the norm for him. And you've grown accustomed to the sound of his quiet swearing when he accidentally nicks a wire. An entire week goes by, a whole seven days of sitting in silence with no words shared between each other. Eyes darting towards the concentration on his face, and with his hand silently shoo you away to get a screw driver that's near your thigh. You scooch away with reserve, your subtle smile lost on him when he doesn't realize that he's used to your presence. He's still ignoring you, yes, but he doesn't tell you to get out anymore.

A day or so goes by, and you're starting to speak to him again. They're not questions, if anything they're just random thoughts you have. Whether it's talking about a peculiar raven you saw on the way, or that you've ran out of sugar for your tea, you tell it to him. And again, he doesn't reply. Only either sighing or grunting. As per your promise and your own principle, you don't talk to him about the interviews you have with other people. You can't even tell him how people look up to him after what he supposedly sacrificed up on the hextech tower. With a sigh after talking about the progress of the last drop's renovation, you continue to write away in your notebook that has his name written all over it.

“Did you know that gingko trees are so ancient that the bugs that used to pollinate them are long dead? Even the creatures that used to eat their fruits are extinct. They've survived because of the wind and other factors. They survived through it all.”

Ekko blinks at your peculiar words, twisting around to stare at you blankly. You make a face, shrugging and going back to write in your notebook as if you didn't just tell him something offbeat, and probably something that he felt through his bones.

“Just thought it was cool. Kind of poetic, hm—?” Looking up at him, you find that he has turned away from you once again.

You don't hate him, in truth you love annoying him and seeing how he reacts whenever you push his buttons. He's a friend to you, even though he doesn't see you as his friend, or even an acquaintance. You've been told years ago that's how you usually show your affections. You guess they were right.

—

Another day comes by, another day of talking to yourself. This time, a packet of sugar greets you above a wooden chair placed on his left. It's further away from him, but now at least you don't have to sit on his desk like some paper weight. You smile, tamping down a victorious chuckle as you sit down and tell him about what happened last night when you were running around the undercity looking for a former chem baron henchman. You notice his shoulder stiffen at the name, so you made sure to tell him that it went alright, that the man was just an accountant back then. Ekko seems to go back to his usual self after that.

—

Hours of sitting on an old rickety chair has your back aching, you groan after another day of one sided conversation. Back cracking as you stand up and stretch your lower back as if you have the back of an eighty year old.

“I'm going downstairs, do you need something from the mess hall?” You say whilst you roll your shoulders around. To your surprise, Ekko turns around in his seat.

His eyes weigh heavy with dark circles marring under those seemingly golden eyes of his that glow under the yellow light of his lamp. “You’re not going to give up are you?”

“Nope.” You pop the letter ‘p’ with emphasis. “Trust me, Ekko, if I leave here with an incomplete story, my professor will replace me. And she's ten times more annoying and determined than I am.” Your own joke brings an ache in your chest.

“I'm used to annoying professors.” He scrunches his nose.

“So I've been told.” Shrugging, you leave the room.

You come back up a few minutes later with two cups of water, seeing that he needs it since all the cups laying next to him have been empty since you first arrived. To your shock, the wooden chair you've been sitting on for the past few days has been replaced with a patchwork armchair. You have no idea how it got up here so fast without you seeing it be lugged around by Ekko. You're sure that it didn't suddenly pop out of thin air whilst you were gone.

As you place the cup of water on his table, you give him a genuine fond smile. “And here I thought you weren't paying attention.” Laughing, you're in awe of him. “You're a miracle worker, Ekko.”

He glances at you, side eyeing you as he grabs the cup, its contents sloshing to the sides as he tries to gulp it all down in one go.

Taking it as a competition, you don't let him win, chugging the cool water alongside him while the two of you watch each other and race to finish the whole glass.

The simultaneous thump of the cups being placed down has you grinning from ear to ear. “Looks like it's a tie.”

Ekko frowns, turning his chair around to wordlessly go back to work.

“I'll win the next one.” You go and test out your new chair, and you swear you heard him whisper a, “no, you won't.” That has you covering your mouth to tamp down your laughter.

—

You come back to the treehouse one day to find Ekko sleeping soundly on his desk. Face tucked atop his arms, foot twitching, and cheek scrunched up as he frowns even in his sleep. His twists are loose, free from his usual style as it falls over his face. Oil is smudged on his cheek, face paint transferred onto his arm, and you immediately retract your hand away from wiping it.

To let him finally sleep, you do a double take when a breeze comes by through the open window he has left open. So you turn back around, grabbing his familiar jacket from the bed to drape it over his shoulders. The jacket smells faintly of metal and mint. Careful not to wake him, he inhales deeply when your hand accidentally grazes against his cheek.

Ekko’s frown deepens, and you think that you've woken him up. You freeze up in place, hands held up in surrender. You're already forming apologies in your head, he opens his lips, a name spilling out.

“Powder?”

You blink, waiting for him to open his eyes but he remains asleep on his desk, dreaming of something better. You hope it's something better.

Inaudibly making your way towards the window, you shut it close silently but your thoughts are far from silent. Besides Ekko's name being frequent in your notes and in the numerous interviews you've done, there are two that are more frequent. She's an enigma to you, a shadow looming over you, a story untold when everyone who actually knew her is either dead or won't talk about her. Even her own sister doesn't truly know her. If Ekko won't talk about her, either one of her— you think it's time to get to know her better.

With a quick look at your watch, you leave the firelights hideout in favour of dredging the past under the rubble that stretches underground.

People lie, and minds fade away, but the memories left in the walls and their footprints don't.

—

Ekko's perceptive, terrifyingly so. After the war, his eyes always honed in on details unlike before. Even prior to the war he has always been quite observant, but not like this. Always looking out for danger from the smallest of things. So when you start coming in late, he notices. Then he sees your red jacket finely dusted with a coat of dust, and how you cough against the crook of your elbow.

He knows where you've been.

“Sorry,” you clear your throat. “I feel a cold coming.”

“It's because of all the sweets you've been having.”

You smile, finally having Ekko speak to you. It's a jab, still, it's going in a good direction. “The children like it, you can't blame me for having a few.” Your hands pause from sketching the side of his face, legs placed on the arm of the chair.

“It's your bribe.”

“Please, I've already asked the children about their side. They keep hounding me for sweets, and I like making it for them.” He hums, shaking his head before returning his attention towards his pile of paperwork. “How about you?”

“What about me?” Ekko hates doing paperwork but he soon realized that nothing will get done in Zaun without a single signature on a piece of document. He places his head on his fist, back turned away from you, but the way he shifts his weight towards you says that he's all ears.

“You've eaten those bribes yourself, when are you telling me your side of the story?”

“When your professor gets here.”

You snort, smiling when you get his jawline right on your scribbles that you call a drawing. “That's mean, firefly.” He groans at the nickname you bestowed upon him. You're taking a page right out of Vi’s book just to irk him. “You want a little old lady to travel miles away just so you could tell her the exact same thing you can tell me?”

“That's not what I meant—” the sudden beeping from your watch interrupts him.

Hopping off your seat, you take your belongings and place it in your satchel.

Ekko's brows pinch together, moving in his seat to look at you over his shoulder. “Where are you going?” He checks the ticking clock right next to his table, seeing that you're still hours away from your usual exit.

“Missing me already, firefly?” Your lips curl into a smirk as you tug your bag over your shoulder. He huffs in reply. “Don't worry, I'll be back again to annoy you since this is Madam Babette’s last meeting with me. I have to see her about her establishment.”

“You can just tell me if your sponsors aren't paying you well enough.” He says, still occupied with paperwork, smirk hidden away from you.

“Ha ha.” You mock a laugh, sauntering towards him. “Why, you're gonna raise some funds for me, saviour? Someday you're gonna have to pay me back for those sweets.” Hip against his table, you drape your arm over the back of his chair, head tilting down to stare at him through your teasing eyes.

“And here I thought you gave me those out of the goodness of your heart, noxian.” He levels with you, back straightening as he meets with your eyes. Your face is a mere few inches away from his own, but he's not backing down.

A moment passes by between you, the air growing with tension. Taut and ready to snap. It’s either you bite his head off first or he beats you to it with his teeth munching down on your frontal lobe.

You see yourself in his eyes, your dust laden hair, the bags under your eyes, and your tired skin— it makes you back down. Insecurity making its way to your chest. This job has taken a toll on you, and you know that he has noticed it. How could he not when he has been seeing you everyday for months. You can't ignore how attractive he is, you figured before that it'll fade away in time, but you've grown attached to those eyes of his.

“My academic sponsors are actually quite generous, thank you very much.” Huffing, you move away and walk up to the door, leaving him in the room once again. He smiles, staring at the door you just left in.

He was right, you lost this time around.

—

The walls are lined with pink velvet, sheer red curtains falling over the windowless walls. The Madame's office is all plush and smooth, chairs covered in silk, ceiling covered in shiny crystals that seem like it's falling down like dew drops. The air even smells sweeter inside, fresh flowers left on every surface of the room, as if a florist went through the whole place and randomly put vases filled with flowers in every corner.

You feel out of place, your laced up boots are a direct contrast to the fluffy rug underneath your feet. Perhaps you should've worn your heels? You blame Ekko's treehouse for needing you to trudge up and down its stairs since the elevator broke down a few days ago.

You place the tin of chocolates on the crystal table, sitting it beside some odd shaped vase that you've been meaning to ask Babette about. Or maybe it's a pitcher since there's no flowers in it? Either way, it perplexes you.

As your hand glides all over the silk couch you're sitting on, the beaded curtains part and reveals the madame of the infamous Vyx.

“Your Miguel was hounding me again.” You smile gently at the acquaintance turned friend.

“Hello to you too.” Babette rolls her eyes then walks over to the couch adjacent to your seat, hopping up and sitting cross legged as usual. “It's because he has never seen a pretty noxian.” Her eyes twinkle with playfulness.

“Hi.” You chuckle out. “Well, he clearly hasn't seen Mel Medarda yet.”

“He wasn't too pushy?” She asks with genuine concern. “I hate to punish the big guy.”

“No, he was once again asking if I'm free for coffee.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“‘What’s coffee? We don't have that in Noxus.’” You say truthfully, mocking how you said the blatant lie to Miguel, earning a hearty laugh from the woman.

The beaded curtains part once again, revealing a lithe man with a wolf mask hiding half his face as he saunters inside, and his alabaster hair shining under the twinkling iridescent lights. His hands are full with a tray of teapot and teacups clattering against each other. Even with his face obscured, you can tell that he's handsome underneath it. When he gives you a polite smile, your heart skips a beat. Clearing your throat, you pretend to act nonchalant in front of Babette.

“Where were we?” She smiles knowingly, eyes darting towards the tea being poured into your cup, and towards the way you're trying to avoid the man's eyes. She sometimes reminds you of your professor.

Inhaling, you gather your professionalism. “You were telling me all the improvements you've done to the Vyx now that it's under your management.” She hums, nodding along as she sips at her tea. “You've told me about the present and your wishes for the future. Can you please tell me about the past if you're willing?” You put sugar in your cup, mixing the tea and then blowing at the warmth.

Babette gestures for the man to stand outside the room, which he immediately complies with a curt nod.

“Will you?” She raises a brow, ear ticking upwards as she questions you.

“Will I what?”

“Answer if I asked about your past?” Now she definitely reminds you of your old professor. You suddenly feel like crying.

You inhale, trying to even out your breathing, fist tightening around the teacup. “I guess not.” Slowly unfurling your fingers around the handle, you gently place the cup back on the table lest you break it. “I'm not asking just to pick and prod at your past, I want to know what life was like back here before the war, before…. everything else happened. I'm sorry if I offended you.”

“You’re a rose with thorns.” Your heart thumps loudly. “That's what I guess about your past anyway.”

“A rose with thorns,” you whisper the exact words he said to you years ago, it was his face saying it, but not his voice. “They only take blood from those who try to steal from them.”

Babette chuckles and sips her drink. “Or someone who has experienced hurt and was forced to grow thorns.”

You take your teacup once again, eyes downcast at the swirling pool of auburn. You've forgotten how people like her are perceptive, with a keen eye in judging people. With that, she has succeeded at her profession.

After a beat of silence, and the crystals above shine rainbow light on the porcelain cup, you take a breath. “Why did you agree to this interview in the first place?” Your words are laced with suspicion.

“This will be published all over right?” You nod. “Simple, free advertising. Make sure you mention me and my place by name, sweetheart.” Your eyes roam all over her face, trying to decipher if it's a lie or not. Your pen weighs heavy in your hand.

She drinks her tea, eyeing you over her cup. You can't read her if she has any ill will against you, or if she has an ulterior motive.

So you continue on and do your job. You guess you just have to be extra vigilant, knowing that she deals in secrets.

“My past.” Babette finally speaks, “dealt with the wrong hand like every other zaunite out there. The only difference is that I bore it on my chest. I used it like armour to survive.”

You scribble her words in your notebook, now noticing how your hand trembles around your gilded pen.

“Oh, are these your cookies?” She must've noticed the tension in the air now that she's trying to lighten the mood. You nod, pushing the container over to her as she smiles at you.

“I gotta hand it to you noxians, you know how to make all the sweet things.” Grabbing a flower shaped cookie, she munches happily as crumbs fall down on the shaggy rug.

“I'm starting to think that you're stretching our appointments because of the sweets I bring.”

“That and the good company.” Smiling, she pushes the tin of cookies at you, wordlessly apologizing, or that's what you think anyway.

The session goes on like normal. She told you that she wasn't anywhere near Piltover when the war happened as she decided to get on the blimp out of the city before it all went down. Somewhere in the conversation, Ekko came up. Which Babette smiles at the name of.

“A good kid.” She says, and you softly smile. “Never seen him anywhere near here nor I want to see him here. I knew of him when he was just a kid, y'know. He was rambunctious, always riding that damn cycle of his with Ji— his friend and riling up every enforcer they come across.” She chortles at the memory. “Him and Benzo were a pair.”

“What does that mean?” You ask, circling Benzo’s name in your notebook.

“Both geniuses, good at anything that ticks.” She sighs. “They could've done something good if the circumstances were different. He's raised well in my opinion.”

“How about his friend? You mentioned her, the blue haired one.”

She sighs, taking the teapot and refilling her cup. “I'm kind of tired, sweetheart.”

You nod, shutting your notes closed as she pours you one last cup of tea before you go back to Ekko's. “I understand, maybe a story for next time then.”

“Maybe next time, and bring more of these.” With a clink of her cup with yours in a small toast, she points at the cookies with a grin.

—

Leaving the Vyx has your mind rolling with thoughts of the past and the present. The air seems to smell like a combination of old roses and mint.

Your footsteps echo throughout the barren alleyway of the lanes, concrete walls closing in on you as your heart thuds against your chest, ears ringing with a muffled hiss. Eyes cast down at your boots, you hug yourself tight, fists curled around your coat in an iron grip. The same words you've uttered since your last attack falls from your lips like a prayer. Tone soft and desperate above the wind.

The mere mention of your past and what Babette called you single handedly ruined your day. You're contemplating whether you should go back to the firelight hideout or go home instead. But you promised Ekko that you'll be back, so you'll go back. Maybe the walk on the way there will calm you down.

The harsh sickening thwack over your head makes the decision for you as your vision goes dark.

—

Ekko suddenly feels something is amiss. Like a buzzing around his head, or an itch he can't relieve. He looks at the pile of paperwork on his table that's slowly getting smaller with every hour that goes by. That's not peculiar at all, hence why he's looking around the room, finding nothing is out of place. His bed is neat, the window is open with the birds chirping away outside. Laughter filters upwards to the treehouse, and the sun beams down upon him and the beloved tree.

Everything is normal enough, so why does he feel like something's missing?

Checking the ticking clock, finding that it's half past four o’clock already, his attention immediately turns towards the empty armchair sitting a few ways behind him. He blinks and realizes what's missing. You.

His brows furrowed together, there's no quiet scribbling, no sudden questions thrown at him. And none of the crumpled up look you have whenever you can't find the right word. Twisting around in his seat, he goes back to his work with you knocking on the back of his mind.

You've become such a staple to his daily life these past few months that being alone is a thing of the past for him. Your presence was always there, sometimes quiet, a nice reprieve to his chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. And sometimes you're talkative to no end, a voice that he has gotten so used to that he can recognize your tone and the usual words you always seem to use. ‘Using said is so overdone,’ you said, all the while using it every paragraph or so. Or a comforting, ‘you should eat something, Ekko.’ He'll never admit to sneaking a peek at your notes, nor to actually listening to you. Your voice has been a welcoming lilt against the awful silence that occasionally plague his mind.

So when you told him you'll be back, he knows you'll be back to annoy him further or to use the quiet in the treehouse to do work. He knows you'll be back because you always came back. It's a fact for him now, just like all the morbidly macabre facts you suddenly sprouted on him at nine am in the morning.

Where in the world are you?

Ekko realizes that he hasn't read a single word since he noticed the lack of presence. The pen in his hand has been frozen for four minutes now, hand sitting idle atop the pile of papers just waiting for his signature.

The clock ticks, and the birds still sing outside, but you're still nowhere to be seen— the door suddenly opens, and the sigh of relief he let out would have you teasing him.

“Thought you finally gave up.” He says, acting casual amidst the internal turmoil he just had.

“Expecting someone else?” Scar's voice jolts him in his seat, immediately twisting to look at his right hand man.

Scar raises a questioning brow at Ekko, who's already bolting out of seat to get his hoverboard.

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pickingupmymercedes · 9 months ago

Text

I want South - Lewis Hamilton (NSFW)

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: unprotected sexual activities, (p in v), oral sex

Also, wrap it before you tap it

wordcount: +2K

a/n: That top, those arms, THAT CHEST. Blame Lewis and his ability to get me horny.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER, -18 DO NOT INTERACT.

______________________________________________________________

The rhythmic clatter of her keyboard barely registered as Y/N navigated the labyrinthine spreadsheet on her laptop. Hours had melted away since Lewis had disappeared into the steamy confines of the bathroom, a hasty "Good luck with the media" thrown over her shoulder. Between the complex financial reports and the incessant ping of emails, she hadn't even noticed him leave.

Reaching a dead end, she leaned back in her chair, stretching out her neck. A quick scroll through Instagram was supposed to be a five-minute break, a mental breather before diving back into the work abyss. But instead, her breath caught in her throat as her feed exploded with photos. Lewis. In a tank top, but not just any tank top, mind you, but a ridiculously glittery low cut one that seemed determined to defy all laws of physics and hold onto what little fabric remained.

The offending garment offered more real estate to his sculpted arms and chest than it did to any semblance of modesty.

Oh, the audacity of that man. Knowing full well the chaos he could unleash with a single outfit choice, he'd strolled into the paddock like a bronzed Adonis on display. A playful desire to ruffle his feathers bubbled up, even if he was likely neck-deep in an engineer's meeting. Picking up her phone, she crafted the first text.

Y/N: "I want to go south."

A beat. Then another. Finally, a reply popped up on the screen.

Lewis: "What are you even talking about?"

She smirked. Clearly, her cryptic opener didn't land, so time to up the ante.

Y/N: "Your compass, baby. I want south."

There. A hint. A playful nudge in the direction of his, shall we say, exposed assets. Silence again. Maybe the meeting was more intense than she thought. Or maybe – just maybe – Lewis was finally catching on.

Lewis: "Are you stalking me on social media?"

A triumphant grin stretched across her face. He finally saw it. The news articles, the fan reactions, the absolute frenzy his outfit had caused.

Y/N: "Tits out Thursday?" she sent, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. "Or is it guns out all week?"

Another, longer pause this time. The anticipation was delicious, she was having way too much fun with that. Finally, his response arrived.

Lewis: "Wth with people not behaving on main?!"

Y/N: "At least Derik put something on you that covers the nipples. This time."

Suddenly, her phone buzzed violently. Not a text, but a video call. She answered with a raised eyebrow, ready for the fire Lewis was sure to unleash. But instead, the screen showed a face flushed, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

"You're in serious trouble" he said, his voice low and almost husky.

"Oh, am I?" she countered, meeting his gaze with a smirk.

He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound that sent shivers down her spine. "When I get back to the hotel, prepare for a south-bound exploration"

The line went dead, leaving her hot under her shirt and a flurry of butterflies in her stomach.

Y/N eventually managed to refocus on her work, the playful banter with Lewis now a pleasant distraction lingering in her mind. But as the clock ticked on, the anticipation of his return began to build.

It was a couple of hours later when the door to their hotel suite swung open, and Lewis stepped in, now wearing a Mercedes shirt and the infamous top in hand. He leaned against the wall, clearing his throat until she looked at him, his gaze intense.

"Hello, miss explorer” he let out with a low voice, holding out the top that had cause do much distraction.

Y/N made a show of looking down at one of his t-shirts she had been wearing since the morning, no bras or shorts under, taking if off and leaving her in only lace panties. With a playful smirk and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she threw the shirt on the bed and sauntered confidently towards him to retrieve the tank. “Thank you, Eric, I’d say” her voice full with amusement

As she took the top from his hand, she noticed how uncomfortable he seemed in his pants, a smirk playing on her lips. She enjoyed the teasing, reveling in the power she held over him in this moment. Putting on the tank, the piece of clothing hung dangerously low on her frame, the strings that were meant to be all the way to her shoulders acting as covers to her nipples. She could feel his gaze burning into her, and she savored every moment of it.

He swallowed hard at the sight, his eyes darkening with desire as she stood before him, clad only in the top and lace panties. The tension between them crackled in the air, a silent challenge passing between them as they locked eyes.

As Lewis closed the distance between them, Y/N could feel the tension in the air thickening. With each step he took closer to her the more he seemed to tower over her frame, even if they were almost the same size.

His eyes gleamed with amusement at her feistiness, but there was something more, something primal and undeniable simmering beneath the surface. She met his gaze through her lashes, a coy smile playing on her lips as she watched him approach.

His hand reached out, fingers grazing her cheek gently, sending shivers down her spine. Y/N's breath hitched as she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

Lewis tilted her chin up with a feather-light touch, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her heart race. There was a silent question hanging between them, a wordless invitation that neither of them could ignore.

Unable to resist any longer, he closed the remaining distance between them, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss. It was like fire and ice colliding, a whirlwind of passion and desire consuming them both.

Y/N melted into him, her hands finding their way to his neck as she deepened the kiss, losing herself in the intoxicating taste of him. There was no room for restraint now, no need for words as Lewis lifted her effortlessly, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

As he laid her down on the bed, a last lingering kiss was exchanged before he stepped back, his gaze dark with desire as he pushed his shirt off, revealing the toned muscles of his chest.

Her fingers went straight to undo his belt and push his pants and underwear down, eager to feel his skin against hers. But he seemed in a hurry for no reason, his movements frantic and impatient.

"Hey," Y/N murmured softly, her voice a gentle reminder of the moment they shared. "Let me savor this."

He paused, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of longing and anticipation, he breathed, his voice husky with desire. "I can't get enough of you."

A tender smile graced her lips as she reached out to trace the compass tattoo on his chest, a silent reminder of her first text that afternoon. "I still want South, you know…" she whispered, her touch feather-light against his skin.

His breath hitched at her touch, a shiver running down his spine. "How could I forget?" he murmured; his voice laced with desire. Her fingers continued to trace the intricate lines of the compass tattoo on his chest, each featherlike touch sending a shiver of anticipation through his body.

Lewis sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her gently into his lap, their bodies fitting together. She was straddling him and had full access to his tattooed chest. He leaned back slightly, allowing her to explore every inch of the inked design with her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers.

"South, huh?" he replied, his voice husky with desire. " I'm more than willing to be your guide."

In her inner thigh she could feel his already semi hard dick, slightly jerking each time she moaned mid kiss into Lewis’ mouth. His fingers sent butterflies into her stomach each time he grabbed at her skin, almost as if he was searched for something to ground him to earth.

Unable to resist the pull of their desires any longer, her hands slid down his chest, reaching for his cock, but she stopped short when she heard him moan. "Okay there, champ?" she teased, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

His hands immediately went to her covered pussy, covering her whole pelvis as his gaze held hers, desire burning in his eyes. "More than okay," he replied, his voice husky and low.

She chuckled softly, her fingers trailing lightly along his jawline as she leaned in to place a tender kiss on his lips. "I don’t think I could wait much longer" she murmured against his mouth, her breath mingling with his in the intimate space between them.

Y/n didn’t have to repeat for Lewis to pull her lace lingerie to the side and pull her up on his laps, brushing his tips a few times in her sleek, mixing hers to his own “No need for lube” his smile beaming with pride as he reveled in the fact, he could always get her there, even with almost no foreplay.

“Gloating then, are we?!” one of her hands came to wrap around his in his dick, signaling that she was more than ready and willing to take control. He let her, wrapping his fingers in her hips and paying his full attention on her face, waiting to see it contort with pleasure as she sunk into his hard member.

Her walls enveloped him tightly, her moans sending his own body into overdrive. She stopped and steadied herself halfway through, her controlled breathing a stark contrast to her beating heart. He caressed the skin between her hips and ass to sooth her, his touch gentle and reassuring.

Her head fell to the side as she resumed the descend until their thighs touched and her clit hit his pelvic bone “Gosh, you always make me so full”, she gasped, her voice a mixture of pleasure and desire.

He matched her rhythm with slow, deliberate thrusts upwards, his movements syncing perfectly with hers as they moved together in a dance of passion and desire. With each thrust, he felt her walls clench around him, her moans growing louder everything his dick brushed past that sweet spot.

Just as he felt her walls start to flutter around him, he reached for her clit, his touch sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body. With one angled thrust, she shattered, her body convulsing with pleasure as she reached her climax, her moans filling the room as he pulled himself up and held her convulsing legs, savoring the feeling of her release still buried inside her.

As Y/N came back from her high, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks, she felt a sense of contentment wash over her. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself lying on her back on the plush covers and pillows, Lewis's face inches from hers, his member still buried deep inside her.

"Hi," he murmured, his voice husky with a sweetly sick smile playing on his lips. With a swift movement, he pulled his top down from her body, exposing her breasts from the straps on both sides, and gave each of them a tender kiss.

Just as she thought he would linger in this moment of tenderness; his eyes grew dark again. Without warning, he started to hammer into her, his movements urgent and frenzied. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she surrendered to him.

His hands held her legs up, allowing him to penetrate her even deeper, his thrusts driving her wild with ecstasy, her nails finding in his chest the place to sink and ground her.

As Lewis picked up the pace, the rhythm of their bodies melded into one, each thrust driving them closer to the edge. A thin layer of sweat coated their skin, aiding the glide of his body on hers as they moved together.

As he approached his release, his movements became more urgent, more desperate, his need for release evident in every grunt. When she felt him start to falter, his thrusts losing their rhythm, his hands reached for her ass, pulling them apart to allow impossibly deeper access to her.

With each thrust, his tip hit her cervix, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her hands inadvertently reaching for his ass to try and make him thrust deeper, her senses overwhelmed by the intensity of their movements.

And just as she thought she couldn't take any more, she came undone, her body convulsing with pleasure as waves of ecstasy washed over her again. Lewis wasn't far behind, his own release tearing through him with a force that left him breathless.

But as he spilled himself into her, filling her with his semen, they both heard a knock at the door, pulling them both out of their frenzies.

Y/N couldn't help but giggle as Lewis huffed with annoyance, his face flushed with exertion as he glanced towards the door, a mixture of frustration and desire evident in his eyes as he shouted, still deep inside her, that they needed another hour to get ready.

The knocking persisted, growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment, until finally, Lewis reluctantly pulled himself away from her, his body still tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure. With a muttered curse, he made his way to the door, his movements slightly unsteady as he attempted to compose himself and hide his lower part with a towel he grabbed going for the door

Y/N watched him, now propped up on her elbow on the bed, a playful smirk playing on her lips as she reveled in the sight of him, disheveled and breathless, his desire for her still evident in every line of his body.

As Lewis opened the door to reveal Daniel standing on the other side, a sheepish grin on his face, she couldn't help but laugh as Daniel’s brain processed the state of the room and Y/n wearing the glittery top on the bed, a gasp coming from his throat before he muttered "Right, another hour then?! Make it two.” Already on his way to his own room, hands on his eyes and Lewis closing the door.

“I think we could have some fun with that extra hour” his eyes darkening again as he approached her on the bed, his fingers finding his seed now seeping out of her pussy.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1

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tobbesdiscordkitten · 2 months ago

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Guns N’ Roses Fic: Joyride

Summary: You and Axl take a long car ride together, along the winding country roads, hoping it'll cool down his grouchy mood. When that doesn't work, you decide to cuddle with him. This exacerbates the whole situation, causing Axl to take his frustrations out on you, to the point where you use your safe word. Requested by anon.

Characters: Axl Rose and (female) reader.

Pairing(s): Axl Rose/female reader, Axl Rose/ reader.

Rating: Explicit, 21+

Word Count: 3,186

Warnings: Cussing, physical altercation, childhood trauma, fingering, anal penetration, humiliation, degradation, oral sex, water sports, and cutting.

A/N: This is considered dark fiction. Please, DO NOT read if a physically rough Axl isn't your cup of tea. If it is, I hope you enjoy!

It was a cold October day. The wind rustled through the trees, forcing red, orange, and yellow leaves to fall on the ground like snow.

You sat in the passengers seat of Axl’s car, watching the scenery unfold in front of your peripheral vision. Then your eyes wandered over to Axl where he kept his focus on the road, not daring to look at you, while gripping the steering wheel tightly and clenching his jaw. He was vexed. You did notice a slight shift of tension fuming in the air this morning, but weren’t able to pinpoint what caused his irritation.

Unlike Axl’s usual days, he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, in a fowl mood, not bothering to say “good morning,” or greet you with a sweet, tender kiss. During breakfast, he ignored your presence by pretending to be lost in thought as he idly picked at his scrambled eggs with a fork like a picky child. When you asked what was bothering him he let the silence fill your ears of his vacant troubles. It stumped you. He was never this quiet. He always ranted and cursed on and on about what made him furious. Was he angry at one of his bandmates? Did you do something wrong? Did he have a bad dream? Were you the one who induced a nightmare on his behalf? So many questions swarmed your head, yet, none of them were answered.

You didn’t notice any behavioral changes last night. He came home from the studio, ate dinner with you, chatted, shared a bottle of wine, and went to bed. Maybe he drank too much and was experiencing a mild hangover? Or maybe he stored away his problems to be dealt with the next day? You couldn’t be for certain.

“Babe,” your voice cut through the quietness like a knife. “Talk to me.”

A few seconds passed before Axl muttered a reply. “‘Bout what?”

You shrugged. “About you. What’s got you so upset?”

You could see the gears turning in his head as he thought of a response, or perhaps a lie. “Nothing. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It’s none of your damn business anyway,” he grumbled.

“I want to make it my business.” You insisted playfully, showing your pearly white teeth in hopes it would lighten his mood.

Unfortunately, Axl never broke eye contact from the road. He exhaled a huff through his nostrils and repositioned his hands on the wheel.

“You’re not mad at me, are you…?” It felt like you were treading on thin ice. You didn’t want to annoy Axl by bombarding him with questions, but you also wanted to know who, or what, pissed him off, and help him cope. It tore you apart whenever you saw him fighting his own demons alone. You wanted to remind him that he didn’t have to battle any of his hardships by himself. You were there by his side and were willing to help, no matter the circumstances. Even if it meant getting scorched by the flames.

“Just drop it,” he cautioned.

You were beginning to feel the ice crack below your feet. One more word and you could plunge into the deep, cold, dark abyss. Leaning back in the seat, you watched the green hills and cattle roll past. If he was shut off from words, maybe physical affection might help warm his heart, you thought.

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling his body stiffen at the contact. “Shh, shh.” Your delicate, slim fingers traced over his Celtic cross tattoo, rubbing small circles on the skull version of himself. You loved cuddling him and feeling the heat radiate off his body into yours. It felt comforting.

Axl grunted and shoved you away from his shoulder with such force that your head thumped into the window. “Ow! What the fuck?!” You yelled, covering your head where it throbbed.

“Don’t fuckin’ try me!” He warned.

You were shocked your head didn’t break through the glass, or at least crack the pane. You stared at him and saw no lines of remorse etched into his features. If he wanted to be rough and take it out on you, fine. But you weren’t gonna allow his temper to bring you down to his level. Two opposite attractions could play at this game. Your only hope was to win over his gentle side.

Unbuckling your seat belt, you launched yourself at Axl by wrapping your arms around the side of his neck, and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Within an instant, you felt his jaw unclench, causing your lips to sink further into his smooth skin. Your eyes widened in surprise and were convinced you solved his problems. All he needed was a simple kiss to make his issues disappear!

However, within another beat of a second, Axl slammed on the breaks, swerving across the road, as the car shrieked to a halt. You clung onto him for dear life as you tried not to get catapulted out the windshield. Once he put the car in park, he peeled your arms away, grabbed you by the shoulders, and threw you over the backseat of the car. Landing on your back, the air was knocked from your lungs, and the next thing you saw was Axl climbing over the seats, pinning you down with his body.

“Wanna fuck with me, huh? You stupid bitch!” He taunted, slapping you across the face. “Fine. Then get fucked by me.” Forcing your body over, he hoisted your ass in the air, stripping your waist of your skirt and panties. You could feel his hardened erection, through the seam of his jeans, press into your butt.

Knowing he would ram into you without providing any saliva as lube, you tried scurrying away. But Axl used his hands to hold your hips in place. You weren’t prepared to experience this type of punishment. “Axl, wait-“

“Shut the fuck up.” He undid his leather belt, unzipped his pants, and freed his cock. Axl hovered over your backside, using both his thumb and index finger to pinch your clit. You jolted at the intense sensation.

“This is what you get for not listening to me,” he growled into your ear.

“I-I’m sorry-“

“Yeah? You should be.” Letting go of your clit and repositioning his hips against your ass, he sheathed his cock into your cunt, making you wince at the rawness. Axl held your upper body down, pushing your face into the leather seat, as he sucked on his middle finger to slide it up your ass.

You scrunched your face together and whined against the seat, muffling your cries. You hated anal penetration.

When you were a child, your parents gave you enemas to soften your stool, but that backfired, and resulted in you screaming at the top of your lungs while thrashing on the floor until it was over. From that day forward you always questioned how others found anal sex pleasurable. It made you cringe every time one of your friends talked about their own experiences.

But here you were, as an adult, laying face down, but instead of an enema, it was Axl’s finger. Luckily, his finger was slim so it didn’t hurt as much. However, if it was his cock, then it’d be crossing the line.

Axl slowly pumped his finger in and out of your hole, feeling the way your pussy clenched around his cock like a glove every time his finger slipped in and out. He managed to fill you up on both sides and remind you who was in charge.

Axl noted how quiet you became, minus the subtle whimpering, and tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nodded, not wanting your ass to feel invaded like this ever again.

“Are you lying?”

You immediately shook your head. “N-no!”

“You sure?” He licked his lips and pulled both his finger and cock out, making you feel empty.

“If you’re lying, babygirl…” Axl teased the tip of his cock near the rim of your butthole, pushing it in a little.

“No, stop!” Before he could continue and slide his dick in, you remembered your safe word - the one you used for bedroom activities. “Nightrain! Nightrain! Nightrain!”

Axl stopped, furrowing his eyebrows together. “What?”

“Nightrain. Please, Axl…don’t do this.” You were worried the safe word wouldn’t apply to punishments like this, but he was also overstepping your boundary, and you needed him to stop before it escalated any further. “I’ll be a good girl for you, okay? I promise.” You begged your heart out, hoping he could be convinced. “I’ll drop it and pretend nothing happened.”

Upon hearing those words, he leaned his face closer to yours while his warm breath tickled your ear, making you quiver. “Damn right nothing happened. If you don’t want my dick up your ass then do me a favor.”

You sniffled. “Anything.”

“Take off the rest of your clothes.”

You hesitated at the request but complied. You took off your blouse and unclasped your bra.

A small smirk formed across Axl’s lips. “Good girl. Now, step outside.”

Your heart began beating rapidly in your chest. You peered through the window and found no other cars occupying the road. You exhaled a sigh of relief and stepped out onto the asphalt, covering both breasts with your hands. The outside bore a sharp breeze, making your entire body shiver, and form goosebumps. If any passerby’s saw you, you were sure it would make your temperature rise.

Axl got out of the car, opened the trunk, and motioned you to come closer. You gulped and did so at your own pace, dragging our feet to postpone the forbidding dread that sank into your stomach.

“Get in,” he ordered.

“…Axl-“

He snapped his fingers. “Get in. Or do you want my cock up your ass?”

“Neither!”

He stepped forward, his face a few inches from yours. “You don’t have much of a choice. If I were you, I’d do it this way,” he advised.

You pouted. This wasn’t fair, it was embarrassing. Why couldn’t he just bend you over his knee, tan your ass with a spanking, and drive home like all his other punishments? Why was he trying something new? The bastard…

“How come?”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s part of your punishment, baby.” He sensed your unease which made him feel a little guilty. He never meant to take things too far, but whenever he did, it seemed impossible to retrace his steps and start over from square one again. “Look, I know you’re scared, but don’t be. I ain’t gonna hurt you, or crash the car, or plunge it into a river.”

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips. That made you feel a tiny bit better but you still held your doubts. You lied down in the trunk, curling into a ball to stave off the coldness.

Axl went into the car, retrieved his leather jacket from the front seat, and came back to drape it over your nude figure. “Better?”

“Yeah…”

“Count some sheep, honey. You’ll be out of there before you know it.” He closed the trunk and drove off.

You huddled yourself underneath his jacket while imagining a cloud of sheep jumping over your head. “One…two…three…” Not only did it help keep your mind occupied, but it also made you feel less claustrophobic.

The rattling of the car acted as white noise. Your body gently swayed left and right whenever Axl took a turn. He was careful not to turn the car too sharply because he knew your body could accidentally get bruised. He figured he crossed a line with you and regretted it. It was difficult to control his actions whenever his anger overpowered him. It’s like his body was on autopilot and he’s forced to watch, through a red lens, all the horrific things he’s doing to you until his rage dissipated. He wanted to make it up to you, and he knew the perfect way to do it while keeping you fooled that it was still a punishment.

Once you counted 200 sheep you felt the car come to a halt, hearing the front door open. Rock music was playing in the background while you heard distant chatter. Were you at a dive bar? In a parking lot somewhere? You couldn’t tell. Suddenly, you felt Axl - or at least you hoped it was him - get back in the car, shut the door, and drive away from whatever place you two stopped at. Another question rang through your mind…and it wouldn’t stop nagging at your conscious. What did Axl buy?

Minutes later, Axl opened up the trunk, revealing your figure before his lust-hungry eyes. You squinted, allowing your eyes to adjust to the natural glow of the sunset while noticing you weren’t at the house, parked in the driveway. Instead…you were at a vacant park. No parents or their children were around the playground area. It was empty. It almost looked abandoned. From a faint distance, you could see rust on the metal monkey bars. The place was definitely worn down by weather and everybody who touched it.

You looked at Axl as he sat down next to you, pulling away his leather jacket from your body. “It’s cold-“

“I know it’s cold, baby. Your punishment is almost over,” he reassured.

Rubbing you hands over your arms to create friction, you asked, “What else do I have to do?”

“Nothing. Just lay there and close your eyes.”

This made you suspicious. “You’re not gonna do anything, are you…?”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he repeated. “I think you might enjoy it. Lay back and close your eyes for me.”

Since when were punishments supposed to be enjoyable? You decided not to waste anymore time, mostly because it was cold and you didn’t want to get frostbites, you laid down and closed your eyes.

“Good girl,” he praised.

You heard the rustling of plastic. Axl was taking something out of a plastic bag. Wherever he stopped the car at, he bought something to use on you, or against you. You hoped the latter wasn’t the case. Was it a vibrator? A whip? A paddle? A gag? You weren’t sure. But you were gonna find out.

Suddenly, without warning, you felt a cold trickle of liquid cascade across your chest, flowing over your breasts, and down your pubic bone. “What the-“ You opened your eyes and saw Axl pouring a bottle of champagne over you. “Axe! What are you doing?!”

“Keep your eyes closed!”

“I’m freezing!” You protested, closing your eyes again. This certainly wasn’t the type of punishment you had in mind.

“Aww, is the little girl cold?” Axl sneered, setting the bottle of champagne down on the grass. “Here. Let daddy help warm you up.”

You felt Axl hover above you, the same way he did in the car earlier, and latched his lips onto the mound of your breast, licking away the champagne. Upon feeling his heated breath on you, your eyes widened, causing your lips to release a surprised gasp.

He pulled away and placed his mouth on your other breast, cleaning away the alcoholic nectar. “Mmm~”

“Augh, Axe…” You moaned.

After releasing your other boob, he used his tongue to lick a trail down your body, tasting the sweet, bubbly champagne on your skin. He kept traveling down until he reached your pubic mound. Reaching for the champagne again, he tilted the bottle downward, allowing the liquid to hit your clit, similar to how a showerhead would.

Your breathing increased as you bucked your hips against the champagne stream, stimulating your clit. Axl noticed your eagerness and tilted the bottle upward, taking a quick swig for himself, before throwing the bottle on the grassy knoll. “This pussy’s gonna taste fantastic.”

“Mmff…it’s all yours, cowboy.”

“Damn right it’s all mine.” Setting your legs onto his shoulders, Axl inched closer to your cunt until you felt his hot breath waft over your swollen clit. He dove in, licking up and down your slit at a gradual pace, causing your eyes to roll back into your head.

“Fuuuuck…”

The sweetness of the champagne combined with your own slick juices created a perfect flavor that Axl couldn’t deny. He could drink it forever and get wasted on it. He suctioned his lips around your clit, sucking on the perked bud, making you squirm and squeal beneath him as his eyes bore into your twisted facial features.

Axl flicked his tongue over your clit, adding pressure on the sensitive gem to heighten your buildup while swirling his tongue clockwise, then counter clockwise, around it.

"Oh my god!" You shrieked, bucking your hips against his mouth which caused his nose to make contact with your clit. "I'm close, so close...."

Axl used his final seconds to remove his mouth from your clit and replace it with his thumb, stroking the nub effortlessly until you came undone.

You arched your back, screaming his name, and scraping your nails on the bed of the trunk while your toes curled from the orgasmic bliss.

Axl repositioned himself again to collect the stream of hot nectar that flowed from your cunt onto his sharp tongue, gulping away your cream.

Your body fell limp. A dark shade of crimson colored the palette of your flushed cheeks. You haven't came that hard in a long time. You sort of forgot it was even possible to experience such an orgasm...until Axl reminded you tonight.

Looking up at the sky, you saw stars, not from being dazed, but from space, as the small specks of white light shined down on the two of you. You were so entranced by the beauty of it, you forgot Axl was even sucking away your cum like a leech. You didn't feel him remove himself or anything. But you did hear a bottle break in the distance, and then you felt a glass shard cut into your inner thigh, breaking your focus from the night sky. "Ah! Fuck!"

After Axl saw the blood oozing out of the mark, he cleaned your fresh wound with his tongue, causing you to flinch at the sudden pain.

"What the hell was that for?!"

He grinned. "It's a reminder for you not to misbehave again."

You were baffled by his words. "Trust me. I won't misbehave ever again."

"In case you do, look into the mirror and remember this cut. Though, if it does slip your mind, I won't show you any mercy next time, capisce?"

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, daddy. But I'm confused. Was this my punishment...?"

Axl sighed, cupping the side of your face with the palm of his hand, and stroking your cheek, the same cheek he had slapped. "It was a reward for surviving your punishment in my trunk."

It dawned on you. Your punishment was either the trunk or having him ram his dick inside your ass unforgivingly. He allowed you to have a choice - unlike the previous punishments - and it appeared you made the right decision with this one. "Oh, charming."

He smiled and kissed your bruised cheek. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “C’mon. Let’s go home and get you cleaned up.” He carried you, bridal-style, to the passengers side and drove off into the night.

The safe word saved you. Hopefully it could save you again on another night?

Taglist:

Side-note: if anybody wants to be added on my taglist for certain eras/characters, let me know!

#axl rose #axl gnr #guns n roses #guns n’ roses #axl rose x reader #cine writes

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dietmountaindewb8by · 1 year ago

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Chapter One

Into the Abyss

warnings: five just being kinda crazy, herb not being as nice a guy as you might assume

please tell me if you’d like to be tagged ❗️ ❗️

tag list: @lv9su ; @groovydazephantom

Five was very loud when he wanted to be, he realized as he walked through the winding halls of The Commission, watching his employees cower and duck their heads into their files or pretend to fix their clothes.

None of that mattered then, however. He reached into his pocket for that very familiar key that he had used every single day he had been in The Commission. The key to the Infinite Switchboard.

Just so he could see your face again, even for a moment. Maybe even find you if he could.

Sometimes he would come across old memories and dive into them. Oh, how beautiful you were. How you smiled and how you laughed and how you were always so kind. To him and to everyone.

His beautiful, beautiful girl. An angel among demons that crawled beneath her feet–he was a demon that would crawl beneath her feet anyway. A devil cast to the deepest pits of hell searching for that which could bring him salvation, if only for a moment.

Five Hargreeves wanted nothing more than to hold you to his chest, to tuck you into his arms safe and sound and never let you out again. Because his arms were where you belonged–where you still do belong. They were wide open for the ghost of you, gates to a rotting manor that only welcomed its original owner.

You could rip his heart from his chest and he would forgive you in a heartbeat.

The door creaked open and he quickly locked it behind him. The only other person with a key was Herb, and he wouldn’t dare disturb the owner of the Commission in his incredibly important research.

Even if that research wasn’t important to the company, per se. It was important to him. And if it was important to him then surely the world would fall apart if it wasn’t completed.

I would tear it apart if I couldn’t reach this at the very least, he thought, sitting down in the very same chair he did every day, flipping on the switch that reintroduced him to his sins, to what he needed to do.

Your smiling face greeted him, and for a second–just as always–he smiled back. He turned a dial beneath his right finger, looking back to the dreaded day he lost you.

November 22, 1963 was a day to behold, that was for sure. It was brighter than usual, not one cloud lingering in the sky and the sun blared down upon the mild Texas landscape.

His gun was aimed for where the president would ride by as you sat beside him, picking at the grass.

“Be careful, Sweetheart,” he said, and you looked up at him for a moment, eyes void. “You’ll ruin your sundress.”

“I think the sundress is the least of our worries today, Five.”

He sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

Five minutes later amidst the chaos that was taking place on the other side of the fence, he took your hand and brought it to his lips before diving through the hole he had ripped in the time-space continuum.

And then you were gone, stolen from him by the cruel fingers of time.

Five jumped when a knock on the door sounded, his fingers flying to the knife he had stuffed in his pocket at all times.

“Mr. Hargreeves?” Herb called. “Sir?”

Five sighed, dropping his knife before gliding the chair over to the door, unlocking it. “Come in, Herb.”

Herb stepped in through the door before staring at the mess that had become the Infinite Switchboard. Papers were scattered everywhere–some with half-drawn faces, others with numbers and symbols he could only begin to understand. And then there was Five; clean shaven as always, but his eyes held something either dead or dangerously alive.

Either way, he knew there was nothing but trouble to be had with Five Hargreeves.

Nothing but trouble.

“Mr. Hargreeves,” Herb said, watching Five return to his pages, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Herb.”

Herb’s eyes flicked to the screen, to you. You in the yellow sundress. You who had cried in Dot’s arms one too many times to count.

You who had successfully escaped Five Hargreeves and fallen into a new hell.

“Trying to find her, Sir?” Herb said with a chuckle.

Five’s jaw ticked before he turned to the smaller man. “You have something to say, Herb? Something funny?”

“Nothing at all, Sir.” He shrugged, before taking a shaky step away from the man. “Just that you’ve been looking so hard and her files have been with us all along.”

Five’s heart jumped. He dove for Herb, taking him by the lapel of his jacket and pulling him up to eye level.

“Herb,” he said sweetly. “Old friend. Tell me where the fuck those files are.”

Herb gulped. “We have them all. We watch them on Friday nights. They’re quite entertaining–I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“I want them. I want them all–and whenever a new one comes in, I want that too. I’ll decide if they’re entertaining or not.”

“Of course,” Herb whispered before being thrown to the ground, scampering out of the room as soon as he could.

And for the first time in a long time, Five smiled.

#yandere five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #yandere five #dark five #dark five hargreeves #yandere tua #yandere the umbrella academy #dark tua #dark umbrella academy #yandere umbrella academy #yandere #five x you #five hargreeves #five x reader #dark the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy x reader

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blushstories · 5 months ago

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you almost drown on a run | joel miller x reader, hurt/comfort, slight angst

joel’s been quiet since the bloater. you’d never seen one before, but it was clear that he had. passing you molotovs to throw and igniting pipe bombs himself, you tried to ensure a continuous onslaught of fire towards the bloater.

and it was going down — once you ran out of bombs, you pulled out your shotgun. gathering that fire was its biggest weakness, you loaded it with incendiary shells and gripped the gun tightly. fighting against the recoil was hard, and your finger was slipping against the trigger. the bloater’s attention was on you, and after yanking an acrid pustule from its body towards joel, who dives to the side, it begins to charge.

a few shells slip through your fingers as they click into the gun. you snap it shut and fire all of them into the bloater, which is closing the distance between you by the second. your vision tunnels, and you hear joel yell something. the bloater’s hand reaches out but you fall prone to the floor, crawling between its legs and hauling yourself to your feet and sprinting heavily away. there’s a clattering, a bang, and the ground shakes mightily beneath you. you stumble into the mud. the bloater groans earthily, and there’s a puffing hiss as you roll onto your back.

pushing yourself up on your elbows, you watch the green cloud ascend over the bloater. you’re hoping that means it’s died. joel bounds over to you, boots clicking on the sidewalk as he throws his gun over his shoulder.

“get up, c’mon,” he says with urgency, a little breathless. he grasps your hand and with his other pulls you up by your forearm. as you stand, you watch over his shoulder as runner after runner, clicker after stalker emerges from around the corner. you understand his rush as you turn on your heel. he guides you with a hand on your lower back until you’re both sprinting away, low on ammo, low on energy.

joel shouts for you to keep up as you vault through broken windows of empty houses, crunching broken glass underneath your shoes. you duck through somebody’s musty abandoned garage, and slip out again through their back door, and the horde behind you thins out with each corner you slip through.

you keep your eyes at the back of joel’s head, and he leads you past the end of the street, but the road has been destroyed. a large crack has divided it horizontally, and over time it has eroded into a nearby lake. the water has found its own equilibrium in the pit the size of a house, and there’s not much time to think of a clever way to cross it, because there’s a runner catching up to you.

joel points to a fallen tree covering the expanse of the new pond, and you join him to climb it. the nooks in the trunk are sturdy footholds, and the damp bark is soft between your fingers. he speedily balances his way along, and you’re too focused on keeping your feet from slipping so when the runner throws its arms around you, all you can do is shout before you’re plunged into the icy water.

it swallows you whole as you try to wrestle with the runner, reaching into your pocket for your knife. it’s squirming like it’s been set on fire, but you drive the blade into its neck. kicking off of the runner, you break the surface and gulp down the ambrosia-laced oxygen, momentarily soothing the searing pain in your lungs. the water crashes against your ears as you sink again, unwrapping yourself from the runner; your fingertips are numb, though, and your grip almost nonexistent.

the runner’s body catches on something, and you’re yanked downwards by its grip on you. you’re suspended in the dark abyss, desperately trying to prevent any water entering your body; you’ve just stabbed an infected, after all. you kick at it again, and push yourself away, only for something to catch at your calf. it’s sharp, and you can’t pull your leg away. you think its broken skin, but you can’t be sure.

you fold forwards, running your fingers down your leg and tracing it to find something metal. your jeans have been ripped and caught in it due to the force of your escape. you can’t see anything, and you’re trying to pull. you only get resistance and an aching throb in your calf, and a bubbling scream from your lungs.

a particularly sharp tug causes you to exhale too much, and precious air escapes you. you’re slapping a hand over your mouth and hoping, praying, silently screaming for joel to realise you’re not coming back up again. it’s suffocating, and you can’t hold your breath anymore and your breath has exploded and your lungs are flooding and you’re choking without air and you’re floating away.

there’s a thunderous roll of water somewhere above you, and a few moments later there’s support under your arms and a realisation that you’re not moving. you don’t remember the ripping pain that accompanied the jolt of your leg as it was unhooked from an old metal pipe. nor do you remember the desperate race to the surface of the water, and how joel gasps for air himself before he drags you to the side, dragging you across aged tarmac until youre clear of the water, blood starting to pool around your leg. but it's the way your chest doesn't rise and fall that concerns him.

he breathes your name shakily, tapping your chin up and watching water droplets roll off your face.

“christ.” he lifts your chin and starts pushing his own breath into your mouth. once, he waits. twice. his own breath catches in his throat. he tries again, harder this time, and his hearing is foggy.

he glances down your body; “gotta wake up, c’mon,” he’s talking to himself. he leans down again, fills his lungs and pushes the air through, and water fills his mouth. you’re coughing and he’s spitting out water while helping you lean over, emptying your lungs.

even though water is leaving your lungs you’re choking, new air evicts it but you’re gasping and clawing at your throat, coughing so violently that it’s like shards of glass are scratching your throat.

when you’re finally done, you suck in a clear as crystal breath of air, and joel’s smoothing your hair away from your face and looking giddy with relief.

“almost lost me there,” you poke, voice scratchy. a shiver rolls through you.

“not on my watch,” he strokes your cheek lovingly and helps you up.

your leg aches, prompting you to look, “oh my god, joel.”

he follows your gaze and his eyebrows furrow. he takes a quick as flash inhale; “they’ll sort you right out at home. you’ll be fine, okay. gonna get you there.” he takes off his overshirt and rolls it lengthways. then, he wraps it around the gaping slash in your calf and tightens it harshly, apologising when you yelp in pain. he slips his previously abandoned pack on and swoops you into his arms tightly, taking the winding alleyways home to avoid any further encounters. his grip never falters.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel the last of us #joel tlou #the last of us x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal

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howlsofbloodhounds · 18 days ago

Note

So it's implied that occasionally Color and Killer save AUs at some point, yes? Or something of that nature, maybe alongside the Abyss Team or Epic and Delta.

But imagine Killer doesn't give a fuck about that at first, and while he would offer an assist if Color ever asked for it, his heart isn't really in it as much as he wishes it was. He has no faith in himself as anything close to a hero or even a decent person. He'd much rather sit in their house and rot away like Dust wanted to in his timeline.

However, it would be a hilarious immediate switch in tone and motivation if there were animals directly involved in these missions, and this progress could happen at the same time Killer is getting used to the Abyss Team, Epic, and Delta. I imagine that aside from Color, he warms up to Epic the quickest cause that guy is the most laid back of them all despite the tricks he pulls on him at night (callback to Epic's gaslighting as payback for Delta getting bullied).

Killer could outright refuse to accompany them on a rescue mission and while Color accepts that no problem, Epic's like "but bruh, they got kitties over there!" And Killer would turn around so fucking fast and lean back into the doorway like "...they do?"

"Yeah, bruh! They got a cat island in this universe, they're everywhere!"

Killer changes his mind like the flip of a switch and follows Color out, and Delta looks at Epic, annoyed beyond reason.

"How come he takes that from you and not me?"

"Dunno bruh... I gave him cheetos once?"

Yeah, in the comic where Killer confronts Nightmare he mentions helping AUs behind Nightmare’s back, and in a drawing or ask where someone asked Rahafwabas to draw something, she drew killer (in Stage 1) telling color a pun giving him a finger gun after they just got done “fighting some bad guys.” (Color was so done with Killer’s shit in the picture bro 🙏 💀)

Now I’m imagining Killer’s head on a swivel and turning so fast at the mention of a cat island there’s a loud crack and Color’s deeply concerned that something snapped 😔.

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answer2jeff · 8 days ago

Text

beneath the ashes //

a carmen berzatto x reader series.

chapter 0, prologue.

warnings : 18+!!!! drug abuse, suicide, smoking, uncomfortable and gut-wrenching situations, familial trauma, mentions of domestic violence, angst, carmen is cold and judgmental, Richie serves as a father figure and Claire is not a romantic interest.

word count: 1.6k

⁠disclaimer : if you can't understand the complexity and true excruciating nature of these topics outside of internet fiction, that's YOUR problem. writing about these things IS romanticizing them and i do understand that. i don't advise reading this fic if you're a recovering addict or are triggered by drug abuse, or literally anything else mentioned. reader in this fic is a complicated, messy, but deeply kind human being. reader is not in active addiction!!!!

addicts are not monsters. this is FICTION.

also, this series js going to take a LONG time to finish. real ones will stick around 💔💯

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Street lights, rain, more rain, ashes.

Ashes, ashes, ashes. The ones on the street wet with precipitation that slowly dissolve. The ones scattered on the tongue of your shoes, and the ones accumulating underneath your fingernails and coating your breath in a thick, sickly film of burnt tobacco. Your jaw is shaking. You're absolutely sick with shame. If you could bottle up this feeling and sell it for just a measly 25 cents a pop, you'd be in the islands right now. A margarita in hand, your skin supple and tanned. But no, you're back here at Mikey's place. Actually, you're not even in his place. You're out in the moist cold, sitting here on the porch, your ass numbing from the hard wood and your jeans soaking up the mucky rainwater. This time, you've been thrown out. Mikey can't keep you here forever. He has to get better, even if that means doing it without you. It didn't matter he'd taken you in last year. You're no longer a "kid." You're "a fucking mess." The sun is gone, and a part of you has left with it. Crumbs of powdery Xanax hide in the ridges of your teeth. Your 3rd cigarette trembles in your boney fingers. His final straw was when you told him his dope was better for him than you ever will be. The way you talked about yourself angered him to no end, and it wasn't because he cared. A victim, he saw you as. A coward, he took you for. Mikey has a family to impress. You know he'll go back to hiding the drain of heroin all of his money flows down to in just a few days. He can't accept it. He has to get better, right? Mikey wants out, and you can't wait to get in even deeper.

It's been 16 days since then. Faces of grieving siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins cloud your mind...but one of them is missing. That one particular makes you feel an unfamiliar sensation of guilt. Carmen. Mikey is dead and Carmen isn't here. Denial clouds your judgment. There was no possible way Mikey could really be dead and Carmen isn't here, right? He's the only one who knows that you were the last person Mikey called before his body was found with his gun in hand on February 22nd, 2022. His phone and wallet were left untouched on the bridge. It's February 24th now. How quickly funerals occur has always bothered you. The tension headache that wraps around your forehead and trails to the back of your skull has put unbearable weight on your sinuses. Your nose is bleeding, and your once soft hands are growing calluses from your nails digging into the flesh of your palms every time you wish you could drag Micheal Berzatto out of the goddamn ground yourself. The abyss of silence as you sit alone in a continuous row of the pew is broken by the scratch of Sugar clearing her throat, that will soon close with disbelief that her older brother is lifeless beside her. Her hands shake as she grounds herself on the podium. There's a small piece of white copy paper in her hand. She glances from the hidden words to the microphone. Seconds pass and she says nothing. Instead, she gags from feeling so utterly abandoned she could projectile vomit all over the podium. You can't bare to watch. With closed eyes, you let the world unravel before you.

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Richie wipes the dried drool of sleep from the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb, his facial hair absorbing most of the crusted saliva. His lanky arm supports his body weight against the door frame. Of course, instead of inviting you in, he keeps you in the cold morning dew. You've been standing here, your shoes scuffing over the doormat and your hair slowly getting frizzier from the humidity since 7:15. It's now 7:45, and all you've talked about is Richie's new life plan. He's really turning around. Y'know—he doesn't smell like a thrift store anymore. His breath is minty, but still has that twinge of tobacco. He finally says something so far underneath his raspy voice that you nearly missed it as you yawned with a hand over your mouth.

"I think you should come to friends and family night."

The invitation makes you nervous. You wonder if Carmen has changed at all, because you sure have. After all, you're sober now. Your eyes are no longer sunken in with grief and longing for acceptance outside of what substances gave you. You can actually fucking think now. The brain fog has cleared.

"Yeah?" you tilt your head, Richie nodding in response. He reaches for a pack of camels from his back pocket. He shuffles a cigarette from the pack, holding it between two dry fingers, giving you the 'you want?' look. Richie hasn't offered you a smoke since the day he found out you were using. It was, coincidentally, the day you decided to get sober. Which just so happened to be hours before Mikey's death. Nonetheless, you nodded. It feels nice to not be treated like a little girl in a candy store who can't be reasoned with, let alone control herself. While nicotine wasn't the drug that controlled every aspect of your life for nearly 3 years—it still felt wrong to Richie.

Lovingly, he attempts to light it for you, fumbling with the guard of the lighter. The constant clicking sound. Fuck, it fills you with dread. Finally the cigarette is set aflame.

"Okay, I'll see you then."

"You're gonna love it, kid."

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While you're sitting at the glossy marble table watching bubbles of carbonated alcohol rise to the mid section of the glass, Carmen is pacing. He pretends he can sees the faces of the dozens of people waiting on their meal. They're angry. They're dissatisfied. It's no surprise to him that he is in fact projecting, and no one is angrier than Carmen Berzatto in this very moment. Sydney is a close second. She's no longer willing to babysit him, she says. Richie is a fool. Fak is a klutz. None of this is new. Oh, how receptive this has all become. You're with friends who don't know a thing about you, your appetite has disappeared, and you picture Richie keeping roll as you hear his voice through the frosted glass. Carmen shouts as he walks through the doors into the kitchen, the air so thick with flavor and heat he could choke. It's almost unintelligible. No one else seems to notice but you.

"Fuck!" He roars, but he's drowned in the sound of kitchen clogs squeaking and fires caramelizing food. For a minute, he's thankful no one can hear him. That is until he arrives with a bottle of Rosé your table ordered from Richie moments before. Carmen knows he's being watched, sure. This is his restaurant. Claire-Bear, the girl who's been like his little sister since middle school, is staring with worried eyes as her boyfriend talks her ear off about his software job. She'd rather be cooked alive than listen to another wave of his voice. Needless to say, he moves past her swiftly. The closer he gets to your table the faster your heart beats against your tight chest. Finally, he sees you. His mouth gapes open just a few centimeters, his grip on the bottle barely loosening. Eyebrows all around the table are raising with excitement, and yours are still drawn together in worry.

"Good evening guys, uh—here is the bottle of La Belle—best of 2022, actually. Who's up for a first taste?" Carmen asks the table, secretly hoping you'll volunteer.

As if your friends can read his mind, Diane tilts your head your direction.

"Sure," you croak. "Hit me."

Carmen's tattooed hand unscrews the cap. The peachy pink wine slugs out like a waterfall from the lid, stopping just so you get a few drops of the liquid gold. His eyes are glued to the glass, but you watch him intently through the whole affair. He's oddly beautiful. With curls that have grown too long and his blue eyes have only filled with more determination, it hurts to look away. And yet, he is worried that if his eyes meet yours, you could somehow disappear.

But again, you just can't look away.

By the time his head rises again to hand you the glass, your eyes are already gleaming with wonder and questions. His heart fucking aches with not a clue in the world as to why. You haven't spoken in months. Maybe this is an apology. Not that he felt that you deserved one, no. It would just lift it from his thoughts. But he's lying. Of course you deserved to hear the words "I'm sorry." His own mind races with ideas of you, hating you. Hating what you dragged Mikey into, hating how easily you hid it, hating how much he wished he could reverse time and just fucking be there for him. For you. You always felt so close and yet so, so far away from Carmen. So detached, just like him.

You're aware that he's watching you now. You look tired. Carefully, you swish the wine around, soaking in the aromatic scent before you give it a taste. Of course, the Rosé is delicious. You blink slowly, nodding in approval.

"It's perfect."

"I'm glad," Carmen smiles.

The tension grows stronger. Finally, he looks away to Diane, Kyler, and Sophie. Not because he wants to be of hospitality, but because he just can't bare to feel this way any longer.

You place your orders with a heavy heart. Carmen walks away for the last time that night, and you're once again worried you may never see him again, the way you worried all those years ago.

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#ugh i know this isn't much but it's just the prologue to the series!#carmen berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #richie jerimovich #carmen berzatto series #carmen berzatto x you #mikey berzatto #sugar berzatto #carmen x reader angst #beneath the ashes #series

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broidobe · 1 month ago

Text

𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫

requested! thank you divacakes! (divacakes is a weird nickname i call literally everyone lol)

☾a night of unspoken longing between you and izzy finally erupts into an electric, passionate connection, forever changing the bond you’ve carefully built☽

☾warnings: smut, tension☽

⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist

you saunter into the dimly lit dressing room, your curves hugged by the tight leather pants and band tee, your raven hair a tangled mess from the night's performance. izzy looks up from his guitar, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. you exchange a slow, sultry smile, the air thick with unspoken tension.

as you move closer, the smell of sweat and smoke clings to you both, a potent reminder of the wild night you've just had on stage. izzy's been drawn to your fire for what feels like an eternity. but despite the sparks that fly whenever you're near, you've both been too afraid to make a move, fearing that giving in to your desires might ruin the friendship you've built over countless nights of music and mayhem.

izzy's eyes never leave yours as you plop down beside him on the couch, your thighs touching, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. you can feel the heat emanating from him, sense the hunger that's been growing between you for so long. but you both just sit there, frozen in a sea of unspoken longing, the only sound the distant hum of the venue's music and the heavy breathing that seems to be getting louder by the second.

your schedules are crazy, a whirlwind of tour dates and recording sessions that leave you both exhausted and craving more. but even when you do find a rare moment to yourselves, you hesitate, unsure of how to bridge the gap between friendship and something more. it's as if you're both waiting for the other to make the first move, to shatter the fragile glass that's holding you back.

as you sit there, the tension between you builds, a living, breathing thing that pulses with every beat of your heart. you can feel izzy's eyes on you, burning with a desire that's getting harder to ignore. you turn to him, your lips parting, inviting him to take a chance, to see where this wild, reckless passion might take you. but he just looks at you, his gaze drinking you in, his face a mask of restraint.

for a moment, you just stare at each other, the world around you melting away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a sea of what-ifs. then, without a word, izzy stands up, his movements fluid, his eyes never leaving yours. he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. "we should get going," he says, his voice low, husky, "we've got an early flight tomorrow."

you nod, feeling a pang of disappointment, but you know he's right. you've got a show to get to, a crowd to wow, and a reputation to uphold. as you stand up, izzy's hand lingers on your skin, a fleeting touch that sets your soul on fire. you know that sooner or later, you'll have to confront the desire that's been simmering between you, to see where this crazy, all-consuming passion might take you. but for now, you'll just have to keep on dancing around the flames, teasing each other with glimpses of what could be, if only you'd take the leap.

as you stand up, izzy's hand falls away from your cheek, but the touch still lingers, a ghostly sensation that refuses to fade. you feel a shiver run down your spine as you meet his gaze, the air between you crackling with tension. for a moment, you just stare at each other, the world around you melting away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a sea of unspoken desire.

you can see the hunger in izzy's eyes, the way his pupils seem to darken, his irises burning with a fierce inner fire. you know that look, that feeling, because you're experiencing it too - a primal, all-consuming passion that threatens to overwhelm you both. it's as if you're standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the abyss, wondering what lies below, but too afraid to take the leap.

izzy's hands grasp your hips, pulling you closer as his lips crash down on yours. the kiss is fierce, passionate, and all-consuming, leaving you breathless and wanting more. you feel his tongue dance across yours, sending shivers down your spine as his fingers dig deeper into your skin.

as you deepen the kiss, your hands roam across his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. you tug at the fabric, pulling it free from his pants, and slide your hands underneath, tracing the lines of his abs. izzy's groan vibrates against your lips, sending a thrill through your body.

you break apart, gasping for air, as izzy's hands move to the hem of your shirt. he pulls it up, exposing your skin to the cool air, and leans in, his lips tracing the curve of your neck. you feel a shiver run down your spine as his teeth graze your earlobe, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

izzy's hands move to the waistband of your pants, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric to tease the edge of your underwear. you feel a rush of anticipation as he pulls the pants down, exposing you to the air. his lips move to the curve of your hip, tracing the line of your thigh, and you feel yourself melt into his touch.

as he moves lower, his tongue tracing the line of your pussy, you feel yourself come alive. the sensation is intense, overwhelming, and you're unable to hold back the moan that builds in your throat. izzy's hands grasp your hips, holding you in place, as his tongue dances across your clit, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body.

you feel yourself build towards a climax, the tension coiling inside you like a spring. izzy's touch is expert, knowing exactly where to apply the pressure, and you're unable to hold back as the orgasm crashes through you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

as you cum, izzy's lips move back to yours, his kiss gentle, soothing. you feel a sense of calm wash over you, a sense of satisfaction, as you realize that you've finally given in to the desire that's been building between you. the tension is gone, replaced by a sense of connection, of intimacy, and you know that nothing will ever be the same again.

#broidobe #guns and roses #izzy stradlin #izzy stradlin x reader #izzy stradlin fanfiction #izzy gnr #guns n roses fanfic #guns n roses

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thatdeadaquarius · 1 year ago

Note

Okay so-- i was reading some sagau posts and came across this one where the reader was an army vet and my brain just Did Its Thing--

So now I'm here to inflict this on to you--

Would guns be considered as catalysts. And would they only do Phys Damage.

Me reading this ask:

😶 😐 🤨 🧐 🧐 😰 🥲 😭😭😭 💀

STOP YOU'VE INFLICTED ME WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL DMG FROM THIS ASK 😭

(Also srry took so long to respond, when i didnt realize how short this was/was just sitting over here 😓)

^ For the sake of gun imagery being a lot/maybe staff might hate me for it,

we'll put this gay shit instead (i almost mispelled to "gay shot" lmao)

☆

Sun: Army Veteran Reader, Gender neutral Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: SHORT Headcanons

Stars: everybody bc i think itd be funny

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: gun stuff, mild violence, mild cursing & Trigger Warnings: Gun fun everywhere

THIS ASK HAS ME GIGGLING TO MYSELF LIKE A MANIAC

You're out here having a whole gun they let you take for off-base

And u ofc have a license so u can conceal carry

(idk how non-american gun laws work, but tbh ours are so fucked idk how they work here either, just that an army guy i knew once could have his gun when he got back home)

And ofc ur just paranoid enough (more like it just makes u feel safe)

That when u get yoinked into a portal to a silly little brightly colored gacha game fantasy world, the gun comes with 💀

Id like to add in my silly little "ur in a video game, so video game rules" AU version of genshin so:

The only other gun (ish) wielder (Mika) has unlimited bolts

Sooo I'd think your gun would be the same jfc lol

NO BC YOUD SCARE THE ACTUAL SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE IN UR VICINITY IN A BATTLE

BC GUNSHOTS ARE A DIFFERENT TYPE OF LOUD

When u first stumble into abyss monsters/hostile creatures of the realm, u nearly scare off a Lawlachurl bc every shot's like thunder to these bitches😭

So not only the monsters but the vision holders think u fucking summoned lightning

OMG THE BULLETS ARE SO FAST THEYD PROBABLY NOT SEE IT

ESP BC DISTRACTED BY GUNSHOT LOUDNESS

SO U AIM THIS LITTLE BLACK CROSSBOW (???) AND THINGS JUST DIE (OR GET RIDDLED WITH HOLES) WITH NO CLEAR ARROW STICKING OUT

STOPP- you're becoming a witchy god or smth to all of Teyvat bc it just looks like hella high level magic atp to them LMAOOO

Rumors of you get out of hand and say u just point or snap ur fingers and things get wounded/just die on the spot 💀

Oh another difference between Teyvatians seeing ur gun vs. crossbow (what they know)

Is that guns are wayyyy more destructive

Like an arrow would get shot but it'd bounce off of things like rock or wood or metal, maybe dent a little depending on how close

But a bullet goes thru that shit so easy, and leaves a whole little explosion behind, once again depending on range

(I once saw a Mythbusters episode? of them proving bullets would definitely go thru car doors, like movies lied to u, this is why drive-bys acc work like for gangs)

Lmao, the image of you in like full armor with a Teyvat made automatic gun after showing it to blacksmiths

Makes u just more convincing as a god, esp bc military training

(Ppl like Gorou and Kokomi begging for military tactics/training ur world has done)

...

....Ok.

I'll address it.

But only so u dont think im stupid later.

Yes, the Fatui have guns.

No, this not the same as having a glock LMAO

End of story.

(Also, urs runs on bullets, whereas the Fatui rely on magic/delusions to power theirs, plus they dont seem as fast or destructive as urs, more "explosions aimed at you" than real bullets)

Which,,, u leave the managing of ppl copying ur gun to ppl like the Qixing or smth, but make sure to give them advice on good gun laws if teyvat accidentally revolutionizes bc of ur advanced gun that anybody can wield (non-vision users)

Thats the best ive got abt that

Oh, also enjoy being praised as a War god now.

☆

... dammit i had smth i was gonna tell u guys-

Uh what tf was it, it was important

Next post is the Eldritch God Oneshot! Look out for it :) !!

☆

Safe Travels Kid,

💀♒️

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

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hwaightme · 11 months ago

Text

Feel alive

(masterlist) (taglist)

🌑 pairing: strictland!seonghwa x gn!singer!reader 🌑 genre: fluff, angst, dystopian, sci-fi, noir, music, lovers to enemies to lovers 🌑 summary: after escaping the confines of prestige academy you find yourself singing at 'morpheus' - an underground bar and club for strictland outcasts. except this reality, too, crumbles before you. your fate is again in the hands of the same man, and you are forced to ask yourself: what does it mean to 'feel alive'? 🌑 wordcount: 9.5k total 🌑 warnings/tags: semi-edited, authoritarian regime (strictland/z/universe z), lore-inspired, guns/gunshots, implied attack on club, implied violence, crime, alcohol/drinking, implied organised criminal networks, discussions about death/murder/execution, nihilism/existentialism, 'bout as dark as the diary entries, long lost lovers, starcrossed, hope, blue bird, jazz, uprisings 🌑 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🌑 a/n: noir hwa, ateez synthwave song quartet, and lore ponderings. hope you enjoyed <3 any notes, reblogs, comments, asks are always welcome! much love!

The lights dimmed, and it was as if the jazz bar never existed in the first place. The worn seats occupied by drunks who liked to pretend they had taste, sofas in the far corner reserved for big shots and well-established scum with pretty young accessories on either arm, the bar that sold everything under the rays of the dying sun and evil moon, it all disappeared with the dawn of the spotlight falling upon your alluring silhouette. A simple, yet elegant sleek black dress with a hint of shimmer that graced your curves seemed to shine in the glimmering illumination. The delicate silver accessories were stars in the hypnotising sky, the allure of an unreachable universe becoming overwhelming as your hands glided over the length of the microphone to find purchase on the stand. The music, starting from a low rumble, was an echo of the abyss surrounding you, manifested only at the softest inhale. After what could have been the drums and trumpet, or could have been the heavens announcing the beautiful singer’s presence finished their spontaneous introduction, Seonghwa had the pleasure of forgetting his purpose, at least for as long as the song lasted. He could drift into a sultry paradise, seduced by what had to be a siren’s call, and regard the customers of the Morpheus bar with something less than loathing.

As soon as he cleared the last of the russet coloured drink he had ordered in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar, shutting his eyes momentarily to focus on the warmth of the alcohol running down his throat, Seonghwa found the fingers of his right hand softly drumming out the song in accompaniment, each digit hitting one note, another, again and again. Back in the day, it had not been often that his visits to the bar occurred at the same time as the one and only Y/N’s performances, but when they did, he swore he could see the smog clear and tomorrow become a certainty. The music consumed him whole and even though he knew down to the second when the magic would be extinguished, a part of him still retained the hope that the spell would never be broken. Not when the only encore he could guarantee for himself was another torturous raid on an establishment such as this one, or another feverish witch hunt for those who had regained their ability to feel and to think freely. All in the name of a faceless leader who even Seonghwa himself had only met a handful of times despite being in a high ranking position of Guardian Inspector - above the standard white-clad machines, above the so-called officials clad in military uniform, he was in charge of ‘keeping civil hands clean’. At what cost? Perhaps his own emotions were the price.

The dark-haired man caught himself wondering how many people in this bar could enjoy themselves to the fullest. How many of these poor unfortunate souls that succumbed to the rush for easy money and easy love were true followers of hedonism, and were spending their days in an enviable bliss? Biting his lower lip, Seonghwa regarded his surroundings with a subtle scorn. He was well aware that he was to blame for it all too; The regime, to retain the ultimate, unwavering control over the citizens, even those who wholeheartedly believed they were well-hidden from the authoritarian judgement, was a supplier of one of the many pleasures after all - toying with people's weakness before the formidable seven sins only to lead them into full submission. The Strictland government, despite propagating ‘human emotion being a disease’ had anything anyone could ever desire, and Seonghwa was one of the many agents to guarantee long term partnerships, addiction to the illusion of a better life, and most importantly, stability and security for the people who had taken him in all that time ago when no one else would, and had given him a chance.

While he was the bringer of demise, the counter of profits drenched in crushing dread and the hand of twisted and subjective justice, at the same time, Seonghwa believed that it gave him all the more right to judge the society he was a part of. After all, he was not the one being fooled. Inevitably, his glimmering orbs settled back on the singer’s gently swaying form as they broke into the chorus, and nearly shuddered as your gaze, from languid, half-lidded but oh so appealing eyes, met his, only for a split second but it was as if hellfire itself embraced him and greeted him like an old lover. Each lyric - a personal address as you moved along at a sensual pace, the song smoother than the most expensive silk. He smirked to himself as he caught his ponderings accelerating uncontrollably, attempting to squash them under a sober, calculating fist. You were no fool either. An entertainer, measuring out each attack like a venomous serpent, not threatened, seeking fun in the reveal of vulnerability of your listeners - each one believed that you existed for them and them alone, and in the hypnotic state added bill after bill to their already hefty tips in the hopes that at least some would reach you, and you would give them that beautiful smile, maybe something more. Truly, a shame that the owner of Morpheus owed the regime a lot more than all the tips, so-called donations and what, compared to the rest of the money, was "honest" earnings all combined. The Captain of the Inspectors in charge of this little project had gotten a little too nice as of late, at least that was what Seonghwa had concluded, but it was not him who was going to pay for it, naturally.

Twisting his head, Seonghwa took note of the familiar faces that appeared at the entrance to Morpheus to join the rest of the Inspectors that were posing as regular customers, cleverly dispersed among the filth that reeked of dependence. Of course, dependence on what the regime was selling. There was no other way about it. Nodding the two men a curt hello, Seonghwa let his eyes trace back a swift path to the magnificent performance. He paid attention to how your dainty earrings glinted even in the lowered light, and how, with every subtle movement, he could see the gorgeous dress tighten just a little around your body. You were so out of place in this scene, an angel in the darkest pits of hell, a little bird struggling against the wiring of a cage, curling inwards, growing smaller until the last flutter of the wings. As he was caught up in admiring your beautiful style, grace, and listening to your sweet, warm tone, one of the two newcomers, a fellow brother in governmental salvation to Seonghwa, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and occupied the seat beside him.

“As flashy as ever, Woo. Might as well tattoo ‘trouble’ on your forehead,” he motioned towards his not so inconspicuous suit that made him look more like a mafioso rather than an average joe. Seonghwa had to admit, however, that the outfit looked too damn good on him, but this was going to be just one of those things he was to take to his grave. The man did not need his ego fed any more than what the ladies he finds as company for the less busy nights not hounded by the lower ranking Guardians provide.

“I’d carve a pretty smile on that face. Not even a hello?”

“Hi San,” Seonghwa deadpanned, looking past his friend who he noted had tied his hair into a low ponytail, and right at the other half of his duo. Wooyoung and San, two peas in a pod, and probably the last people one would ever wish to see if they were in trouble with any of the Inspectors.

“Aren’t you mean today… what, pretty star over there didn’t give you attention?” Wooyoung retorted with a smirk creeping onto his lips. With a raise of an eyebrow and a shake of the head, Seonghwa dismissed any thoughts of peace that he had been imagining, settling back to regular business.

Rolling his shoulders back, he let the scene come and envelop him. It was no coincidence that so many of the Inspectors had gathered, especially with Wooyoung and San now closing in the arrivals. It did not take a genius to guess that Captain had changed his terms, and this was no longer going to be an ordinary shakeout for money or customary information gathering from the owner of Morpheus. The owner had stalled for far too long, had strayed from ‘good practices’ of a loyal rat, and it was time to set an example for others. Disease was the human emotion, and this bar was a breeding ground for thought crime, was it not?. Lowly, lonely creatures who gathered here were all examples of where society had gone astray from the perfect vision Z had put forward, at least… most were. Those who had forgotten the meaning of feeling despite having regained the ability, those, to Seonghwa, were the true vermin. He regarded the few gathered who were most definitely not meant to be part of this story. A middle aged, haggard man with flushed cheeks and what had to be his fifth glass of the cheapest liquor on the menu. Some bigshot from another town who he recalled some of the Inspectors in charge of patrolling the area identifying this morning - no ties, no money, just a lot of ambition that was to amount to nothing. A few lowlives here and there who were faceless, in shades of grey. All not meant to be here, and yet by some stroke of fate, here they were to remain. Finally, he drifted back to the main act, still at the centre of the stage, the sole luminance among the tainted - those who had no hope in making Seonghwa feel anything but numbness. You were the only one working here. Earning your meagre pay - he had discreetly checked the bar’s balance books when the old man behind the counter was too distracted to care for a person of his kind strolling into his office that was concealed in a dark corridor. It was shameful how you were still in this far less than grand establishment, sharing your angelic vocals, despite obviously not having any compensation nor appreciation of your efforts. Perhaps the moments on stage were the only time when you felt alive; the thought would not leave Seonghwa. After much investigation playing pretend, he was confident in his conclusion: you had not changed.

You were on the tattered poster plastered up outside - the one and only, shows every Friday night. Perceive and behold the spectacular ethereal being as you sang songs that spun threads out of a spectator’s very soul, blood trickling from the cracks in their shattered form turning to gold. You sang their… his pain, promised him his glory, soothed and comforted him. Seonghwa was well aware that you were the sole reason that he had shifted his visits to Morpheus to this particular day of the week and monitored the illegal location so closely, otherwise, your face would never grace his corrupt, bleak vision. You did not deserve to go with the rest. When breaking free, one was not supposed to fall into another trap, and yet, here you were. You were not meant to be here, littering the ground that you stood on as the last of the gunpowder would settle on your perfect skin, your long, alluring eyelashes. The onyx-haired man felt a shift within himself as he mused the outcome of the unspoken plans - by the way in which Wooyoung leaned back onto the counter, a grin dancing on his features and by the way San was acting particularly kindhearted to the lonely staff who was rushing about, struggling to keep up with the visitors’ habits, he knew that tonight, they were not planning on hearing any cries for mercy. They were here to complete a mission for a higher purpose. And that mission was far from the sweet music which he had loved his whole life, and finally found again.

“They’re not supposed to be here.” he mumbled, his voice obscured by yours, echoing across and elevating to a sensual culmination.

“Aren’t we all? We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Think of them as a sculpture or something if it makes things easier,” Wooyoung took out a rolled up bill to put between his lips - a habit that he had formed after a few too many hits on the back of his head by San, an interesting approach to make a man quit smoking. He called it ‘smoking capitalism’, earning quite a few chuckles from the Inspectors, Seonghwa included.

“So say someone’s going to scope the ring to clean it up a bit, would you let them hit our favourite auntie?” he asked, referring to the friendly cleaner who was probably the only one in the entire city who did not bat an eye at the violent matches that Wooyoung managed under the wraps for the regime, instead cooing over the fighters he brokered for and giving the men an extra helping of her home-cooked delicacies. In many ways, she was a mother figure for the Guardian Inspectors, despite her being at risk, every day, of being taken to the Red Humans should one of them be in a ‘different kind of mood’ on an arbitrary morning.

“Definitely not. But this singer. Who are they to you?”

“A pawn.”

“A pawn?”

“Mhm. I can pawn them in for rewards.”

“Suppose they are pretty enough, if that’s what you’re thinking of…”

“Goodness, take the pimp out of the bordello but can’t take the bordello out of the pimp. That business was shut a while back for you, no?” with a groan, Seonghwa retaliated at Wooyoung’s rather out of pocket suggestions. Over the many years of serving Z in not so ethical ways, the man had tried on a few too many hats and seen a few too many hats to retain even a sliver of compassion towards anyone except those closest. It was understandable. Odd, but understandable.

“Kidding. But for real though, what’s the use?” Wooyoung bit down on the bill softly, gaze following San who had moved towards a couple of underlings that had gathered in a booth off to the side, towards the far corner of the bar. Clearly, he was checking if they had read the room.

“Say, isn’t it Captain’s niece’s birthday soon? We don’t exactly have a musical act to hand since…” Seonghwa trailed off, knowing that Wooyoung knew what incident he was referring to, involving an accusatory phrase, a short temper and a very professional shot from a sniper rifle from the boss’s office window into the temple of a figure that was storming away from one of the many Inspector accommodations. Another one to fertilise the soil with.

“Smart. I’ll give it to ya. If you sort the business out before showtime, pretty thing’s all yours.” Wooyoung responded, patting his side where, underneath his shirt, Seonghwa knew was a holstered pistol. Pushing himself away from the counter he stood up, adjusting his long, leather coat and glove. It was not that he had a particular preference, but ever since entering the new life upon being pardoned for feeling, a life where he had to say found a home, he could not help but wish to always look just that little bit more put together, even if only to appear loyal.

“Cheers. I’ll get them a nice candle-lit dinner to soften them up and then inform Cap’,” sounding purposefully sarcastic, Seonghwa mumbled under his nose, well aware that this was not a method that had ever been in use. One glower and curt phrase had always been enough - the rest was simply the heart’s doing masked by odd humour.

“Awh, look at you, how sweet and lovely. What a darling,” Wooyoung teased, sending Seonghwa a wink. The music was fading away, the last notes landing on his ears, marking every moment.

“One more word and you’ll be the main course.” with his index finger he poked the centre of his fellow Inspector’s chest in threat, maintaining a cold expression.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to be roasting out here tonight, so make it hot with pretty thing.”

“Filth,” the taller man spat, knowing that attempting to counter his friend was nearly impossible - out of all the people he knew only Captain could fully round him in, and even then Wooyoung had a smile on his face, much to Seonghwa’s confusion.

“It’s not me who is with the heart eyes.”

“I just saw an opportunity,” playing with the leather piece that buttoned up to protect his neck, he eyed you, waiting for you to finish. Unknown to you, you did not have much time left before your very life would be placed on a scale and thoughtlessly pushed to lose against the weight of usual Strictland business. Such was the violent, catastrophic illusion of order, such was the structure that had been Seonghwa’s twisted saving grace. He was going to be doing you a favour by taking you away, won’t he? Either way, you would be out of work, and he was helping you with a little job search from one of the highest payers - chivalrous and kind hearted, that was who he was. How else could the Inspectors form any partnerships and feast on forbidden fruit otherwise? Who was he kidding - a soul like you was not meant for a life like this. But he had to try. He needed time to think.

“Sure. Sure. An opportunity to grab the gorgeous star for yourself.”

“Oh shut up will you?” snapping, Seonghwa were desperately trying to cut the conversation short, seeing the window for him to make a beeline for the edge of the stage, towards which you promptly setting off after finishing your set, and receiving a dismal lack of applause - what else would he expect from the crowd gathered in Morpheus? Especially when the stench of iron and the final judgement was mere minutes away from materialising.

“You know that’s not my style.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be good. Hope you did not block my mustang,” throwing one last comment behind him, the solemn man was off, only barely catching Wooyoung’s half-hearted response.

“Have I ever…”

The mission was simple. Since he was dismissed from the less than pleasant task of wiping out the bar, considering that two more senior Inspectors had made their appearance and were clearly more in the know of what was brewing, Seonghwa had only a couple of minutes before all freedom would cease to exist. And then, no heaven could bestow mercy upon neither him, nor the beauty he had come here to save for no logical reason, instead relying on some hazy version of hope and nostalgia. He had parked his ink black ride around the block - out of sight for unwanted eyes, and perfectly positioned for getaways just like this. If you could catch the Inspector’s drift, that was. One could only pray that the dazzler on stage was just as dazzling when it came to reading between the lines. He had perhaps even less than the estimated time to explain himself before Wooyoung and San would call the owner over to get the real evening show started. Time was ticking along with the skyrocketing pace of his heart as he stopped you on your tracks with a slightly outstretched leg, only to move forward and cast a shadow over you.

It was difficult to remain level-headed when, even at such proximity, in the normally less than flattering lighting, you were nothing short of a deity. Something out of fairy tales, stories of royalty or angels in kingdoms far far away, those that were not supposed to exist. But here was one, staring right into his eyes with your beautiful expressive orbs, as deep as the history that Seonghwa had raced here to try and reignite. A universe in your irises, an all-consuming black hole in your pupils, beckoning Seonghwa, leading him into a stupor before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, bringing himself out of the momentary trance by force. Time was not on his side, and he knew that it would never be unless he kept on running.

“Lovely song, that was.”

“Indeed. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is one of my favourites. Did you enjoy the performance?” Your speaking voice was different, of course, but nonetheless struck that stunning familiar chord within Seonghwa, one that should never see the light of day if he were to remain how he had to be. It was terrifying, how he was ready to let go of his resurrected image as an Inspector for a chance to turn the past into the present.

You were polite. The features of your alluring face were hinting at a genuine interest, an appreciation of every movement, every breath you were taking. Though, in Seonghwa’s own line of work, particularly in the stage of undercover investigation, this was simply the usual. Show a smile, bat the eyelashes, make business, disappear. Genuine interest was an artform, but even if you were indeed expressing it in the way with which he was familiar, it felt so natural that he almost wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe this daydream who had come to change the colours of his occasional Fridays, his hunts for those straying from what Z had deemed ‘right’, leaving glimmers of memory to last him through the weeks when he had to be numb to life itself until he could come and see you again. It did not mean much to you, most likely. You were strangers in your respective new lives, and had Captain not made the decision to teach the owner of Morpheus a lethal lesson, you would have remained that way. Drifting together for a few hours, remaining distant, and drifting apart again. A forever flowing story that was to rekindle a starcrossed ‘once upon a time’ but never have that sought after resolution. A dream that reminded Seonghwa of why his unlikely survival was a blessing. As your eyes revealed a hopefulness, a plea for praise, Seonghwa gave you a soft smile.

“Of course.”

“I look forward to seeing you, you know.”

“O-oh?” Seonghwa could barely contain his surprise, the previously cool demeanour cracking into a raised eyebrow. Could you remember?

“Yes! You always sit at the bar, second stool from the left. And order… what is it… a brandy, right?”

He would be lying if he were to say he was not surprised by your suddenly chipper attitude. Almost like you were a kid who entered a candy shop for the first time to see all of your favourite treats, you excitedly revealed to Seonghwa your observations. While it was endearing to see, the shuffling behind him, along with the idea that he was not the only one intently observing left the Inspector with a sense of unease, nearly throwing him off from the initial goal that motivated him to brave talking to you in the first place.

“In…deed?”

The singer, who was previously an astounding yet distant figure captivating all who cared to look even once, rapidly transitioned into someone who he almost found endearing, the keeper of far too many qualities that cemented the rightness of his decision. You were not meant to be here, he repeated to himself. Mutters around the bar were getting louder, and as the rest of the musicians filed out of the main hall and crammed into a tiny room off to the side, in Seonghwa’s peripherals he noted San’s steady, seemingly innocent amble between the scuffed round tables and equally unpleasantly antique chairs.

“You are the only one who listens, so, how could I not notice? Actually, I wanted to talk to you properly, or at least say thank you but didn’t want to impose.”

As much as he wanted to sink into the warmth of your words and allow you to recognise him on your own accord, the rippling commotion that was finally rearing its ugly head spurred him on and struck his heart with an icy, calculating mace. He had a minute tops, knowing Wooyoung’s love for never counting down to zero before beginning.

“Well, let’s talk. Outside,” The black-clad man tried to walk off, aiming for the dark corridor at the end of which was the fire exit, but when you did not move, rolled his eyes.

“I was thinking I could buy you a drink-”

“Cute. Another time though,” seeing the tinge of disappointment in your gaze was new, and entirely unexpected, but gave Seonghwa plenty of leeway to sway you into following him, “since you watched me enough, I bet you can guess who I am. Or, what I do for work. Right?”

A steely glare, leaving nothing open to interpretation. For additional evidence, he demonstratively adjusted his coat, loosening the belt he had tied around his waist to reveal a leather holster, discreet, gun always within reach. Attentive to detail as ever, you took note of the inconspicuous design of the pistol before he let it disappear once again under the fabric - in this city, there were few who had access to any form of weaponry, the items being so highly regulated by the government that it was nearly impossible to purchase or get licensing. Your mind began to list off options; Seonghwa clearly was neither a standard Android Guardian due to the lack of mandatory uniform, nor a scruffy criminal whom you had gotten used to over the time that had passed, nor part of the police force, nor a Class 2 Prestige Academy student. It only left an answer that shook you to the core. Of course, it was not that you did not hold the assumption in your heart. As a matter of fact, you had previously assumed that you were used to greeting people from different walks of life, all gathered in the same place, at the same time for what you wanted to believe was a ‘good time’. That was what drove you to live the life that you were living. Exist in this space, despite your pay and your security almost always not being enough, but you would give even that up if that meant you could keep your freedom.

Seonghwa was effortlessly graceful, determined in every step and gesture, not a single movement wasted. In a sense, it was as if he had purposefully learned and memorised the most efficient adjustments of the body, letting himself metamorphose into a lithe, agile animal. It was terrific, and terrifying, how at any moment he could pounce, and you would never know when until it was too late. For this hint of a reason, you decided to follow the man’s unspoken command, only whispering an airy inquiry after the other musicians, which he coldly dismissed:

“You need a better band anyways.”

---

The gravity of the situation only began to settle in when the biting breeze outside of the stuffy bar hit you, seeking opportunity to tousle your locks. The strands that had managed to fall over your face were trembling, the only sign revealing your suppressed distress as the last of Morpheus's dusk-like illumination was shut from your vision with a confident slam. Your eyes widened as you watched the Inspector, or in other words, your personal grim reaper, flip a lock on the door - previously thought to be inaccessible to anyone except the owner, done so masterfully as though he were the one who had installed it in the first place. An exit, a saving grace for innocents inside, turned into a dead end - more symbolic than one would ever initially assume. He trailed up the length of his arm stopping for a moment at the material that covered his shoulder, listening to leather hit leather. Seonghwa could only find calculated resolve within himself. This was the usual for him, and that after weighing all the options, he had logically come to the conclusion that the demise of the people inside was indeed the most attractive option.

As you heard the first shot resound inside of Morpheus, you shuddered, but did not dare stop following the man in the trench coat as he strode on ahead, hands remaining in his pockets. To any onlooker it would seem that he was relaxed as ever, out for a late night walk in a neighbourhood he knew better than he knew himself. Breath in, breath out; you were trying to remind yourself of the simple act, focusing harder than you had ever done during your performances. Imagining your diaphragm stretching, letting the lungs take in as much air as possible and-

Another shot. Breath knocked from you, balance off kilter, you desperately wanted to run. Anywhere. Maybe you should have stayed, not picked up on the subtle offer of your life being spared. In that way you would not have to live with the guilt of not having said anything to your fellow bandmates, not having said thank you to the owner for… what was there to thank anyone for? Out of habit, you lifted a hand to brush over your ear, echoes of the time when you had first felt emotion rippling across your body, making you shiver. You were all fools misled by hope for a brighter tomorrow in a world that was permanently overcast. Where did this running lead you? Where did your wistful song guide you? Back into the arms of the apocalypse - broad-shouldered with hair the colour of ink, the last thing you would see before disappearing for good. At least you should thank your former so-called colleagues for the information about the common demise. Tears welled up in your eyes as you obeyed the lean man’s orders and practically toppled into the black vehicle parked by the Morpheus, a lonesome yelp masked by the gunfire and indecipherable orders.

You had no idea where he was taking you, and you did not dare ask. The man reminded you of all you had been trained to avoid in your new life, a threat, a weapon, a soldier. His gloved right hand remained resting beside the gearshift, while his left coldly gripped the steering wheel. Not a single one of his muscles appeared to be relaxed, and not a single movement had a semblance to anything natural. An automaton in the driver’s seat, you wanted to feel comforted by the idea that you were the only one truly human in the car, for the idea that someone as brutal as a Guardian Inspector could be conscious or decisive was too strong of an agony.

At the same time, in the moments where the Inspector turned his head to check the surroundings, you noted something familiar. He dashed past the blue, purple and aquamarine signs that lined the streets of the district you had learned to love, himself turning into a painting. Be it in the angles that formulated his stern face, or in the elegance that he was unable to conceal, the past crawled out of a long-forgotten cavern in your psyche and gnawed at your nerves, just out of reach of realisation. Perhaps in another time, you had known him. Perhaps in one of the banned art pieces, you had seen him. At the same time, this could not be the first Guardian Inspector you had encountered - they were all similar enough in demeanour, so what was another face? Equally as entitled, above the law. Above a runaway like you. You were vermin. The enemy. A traitor to the Academy, to Strictland, to Z himself. Or so you were told. The only thing that could be different about this Inspector, was that he could be your last.

A sharp stabbing sensation spread from your temples and what had to be through your skull, jabbing into bone and into the cerebellum. Nauseous, you shut your eyes and clutched your head in a futile attempt to seek some form of relief. The car roared, and a sudden stench of rubber and concrete penetrated through every crevice, choking your senses and making you taste the acrid pollution. One turn, another, your organs were being jolted back and forth as the monstrous engine urged on by none other than the embodiment of oblivion dragged the car across eternal misery of long-abandoned districts.

“Oh goodness…” a feeble whisper left your lips. You reached out to grab hold of the door handle, peering at the grooves to find at least something to focus on. His vision was swimming in your eyes, etchings of your surroundings morphing into repressed memories.

A boy marching beside you to class, head held at the angle commanded to all academy students. A young man, dressed in all white with black locks parted in the middle. A solemn stare, unreadable, though not fully blank as it should be. But at the same time, how could you, another student of Prestige, detect that something was not quite right? Since when could you feel? You lifted your head cautiously to try peeking at the Inspector again, but he was frozen. Only the abrupt tightening of his gloved hand around the steering wheel and a determined turn reminded you that he was not quite an automaton.

“I must be dreaming…” you blinked away a teary blur, and clenched onto your dress for the remainder of the journey, feverishly recounting whatever lyrics you could. Your little safe haven, your precious prayers to the arts - truth which you had discovered after abandoning everything you could have been.

Your hand moved on instinct to the side of your head, feeling for what once had been the hub of your consciousness. A chip that made you feel right at home, heartless, but with a purpose. Forty years of education, an eternity to serve something greater than you; clear goals, a mission for your generation and many that would come after you. Hand in hand, you were soldiers of a catastrophically closed-minded society; at the time, however, you could not be ‘happier’. Or rather, more numb. Because you did not know of negative nor positive, you could not experience either, and so remained in a stable equilibrium, just as the superpower of this forlorn land had instructed. Disease was the human emotion. You were ‘healthy’. Until that boy appeared in your life, and revealed himself to you.

Bright-eyed, hopeful, excited. So unlike anyone. And against better judgement, you let the inklings of curiosity drip over your heart, and the beginnings of affection take flight. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, a smile brighter than the sun, a soothing mellifluous voice, vowing to you that you could build another life together. A life much more beautiful than one constructed with deception and hollow propaganda. What could a little tap of a breaker do to you? Apparently, it could change your destiny.

As you massaged your temples, you locked gazes with the man in front of you, but met the boy from your past in the mirror. That same worry, knotted eyebrows, concern and care so evident you could touch it if your fingers grazed his cheek. You could not move, even when he turned back to the road, and continued to stare at the rear view mirror in the hopes of seeing your daydream again. You had to be wrong. This had to be you hallucinating. You must be just… afraid. Out of your mind. And so you were recalling one of the few times when you thought the world could do you no harm.

“Get out,” a command. As cold as steel. The engine was still roaring in your ears, despite the surroundings having gone dead silent.

A click. The doors unlocked. You could run if you wanted to. Though you were fully aware that the action would shorten your lifespan to a mere few seconds. You remained seated, gaze falling onto your lap, and listened to the painful succession of sounds that led the man to open your door, and roughly grab your upper arm.

“I said, get out,” you followed him like a rag doll, knowing that any attempts to resist would put you into even more danger. At the same time, even though the Inspector was obviously attempting to instil terror and a twisted respect for him, he could not face you. Consciously he made an effort to barely raise his lashes, thus keeping his scrutiny concealed. Reading through his hesitation was easy enough.

He could not keep his hand on you for a second longer after you stood up straight, darting away as though you were an open flame. The man cleared his throat and locked the car, before gesturing towards an abandoned building that loomed over the gravelly opening where you had completed your journey. Comically, it reminded you of Prestige, even though the latter was of much larger proportions and possessed a more unique shape. Perhaps it was the fact that this block, what used to be an apartment building, was crumbling, made you think of the academy’s inner workings. Rotting away. The cogs in the machine tearing each other apart.

This might be your end or your beginning, you were not sure which one. With an astounding loyalty, you let yourself be guided into the long-forgotten cement fortress, up exposed stairs with metal railings, past walls left bare, illuminated by an exposed moonlight, laying down a carpet of silver. It was oddly easy to think that life was beautiful when it was likely going to be taken away from you. The walk was silent, and the longer it lasted, the more at peace you felt. The odd step rang out and echoed like the gunshots you had heard, so surreal that you could barely believe it. It must have been a joke. Fireworks, or someone just being a little boisterous. Morpheus had seen so many colours of Z’s regime, it could not disappear now… oh who were you kidding. It was done for. You little version of an escape. Your space to feel.

As you made sneaky glances at the Inspector to your right, who not so ceremoniously had loosened his coat’s belt once more to have easy access to his gun, you could not help but think of the boy. You had followed his advice, made a run for it while he had been taken away by the Red Humans. Two youngsters who betrayed the regime. But who was truly free? The one who had been exterminated, or the one who had to live in fear, but at least felt the ruthless emotion?

The enigmatic man slowed down, and so did you. He made a turn, so did you, acting as his shadow. You were certain that you were probably breathing at the same rate. An empty hallway, lined with equally empty rooms and destroyed apartments. From a humble abode to rubble, you could see the horrific vistas of the district, and the drop to the cold ground below. No wall, no security, no certainty. It was only you and your fate in the form of a man who seemed to possess too much of a likeness to the keeper of your fragile adoration.

The Inspector walked in front and turned to face you. You froze, burning under his scrutiny. Eyes like scalding cold ice, assessing you, condemning you. Your best listener, now listening to your terrified heart. For what could be the last time, you felt alive. As the man reached into his pocket, you prepared for the worst, however, he only motioned with his head for you to follow him. Confused, you obeyed, finding yourself in a more secluded corner of the floor, one which had remotely retained the appearance of an actual room. Stuck in the same few seconds, there were no further commands from the Inspector, causing your mind to wander, and lips to move on their own accord:

“I should not be here.”

“Neither should I,” he deadpanned, though his choice of words was unsettling. Wasn’t he on a mission?

“I should be dead,” you persisted.

“I should have more blood on my hands.”

A pause. You were in shock, pointlessly clinging onto your own upper arms, stuck in a false embrace. Like prey that had been cornered, you were beyond the point of trusting survival instincts. You simply wanted for the interaction, or dare you say, interrogation, to be over, so you could be given away to the Red Humans, to whatever the afterlife had to offer, in peace. If you were to be melted, then so be it. If your departure were to be short and sweet, so be it. But a little question in your head still remained, a persistent worm which you decided to unleash given your hopeless circumstances:

“Then why-”

“It is pointless to ask when there is no answer,” the man answered coldly, not sparing you a glance as he picked at a filthy off-white tulle which covered a blown out window - now just a frame, with his gloved hand, glaring at the pitiful greyness outside the abandoned building before wiping the hand off with a handkerchief produced out of the pocket into which he had stuffed his hand.

A few steps separated you, but you knew better than to try and make a run for it – the man was armed, and you assumed that the gun you spotted was not the only weapon in his arsenal. He was menacing, unpredictable, and very dangerous. Alongside that, as much as you hated to admit, but the Inspectors were nothing short of extraordinary when it came to their expertise and training. Unlike Android Guardians, they were the leading forces, capable of high-risk decision making and unparalleled critical thinking. If you were to try to describe them, you always ended up thinking of chess. That was what they were playing whenever they were out in the field.

In fact, it was for this exact reason that you were concerned about this Inspector’s behaviour – it was out of line. Inefficient. Sub-optimal. You wondered if this was a new strategy or there was a higher plan; there were so many possibilities that your head could start spinning. You dug your fingers into rapidly cooling flesh, waking yourself up from the distressed rumination. What was the Inspector going to do to you? You had followed his demands so far, and weren’t putting up a fight - what more could he want?

He was unreadable. Gestures unpredictable, expression stoic, he regarded you with an air of superiority characteristic of people from his class. Serpent-like and calculating eyes, regal nose, facial structure reminiscent of a statue, plush perfectly shaped lips – all were a nod to his upbringing, you bet. He did not feel real. Reminiscent of automatons that the regime sometimes used in place of regular Guardians during high-volume riots, he was what one would call the ‘ideal specimen’. Down to the strand of wavy hair that fell on his face, he was a beautiful painting of your worst nightmare. Life had been unkind to you, you decided. It only showed you something prettier than the night lights when it was the last thing you would see.

The man stepped towards you, and your eyelids slammed shut automatically. You did not wish to see your death. The sound of leather against leather, the tied coat belt, the creaking of ancient rotten wood planks under lacquered ankle boots. He must be getting ready to end you. Were you too high profile to be lying with the other bodies in the club? Were you more dangerous in the Inspector’s view, being a singer, or as one could say a ‘spreader’ of inappropriate entertainment. Was this treason? Terrorism? You were not sure – the sentence changed more than the weather. But were you an enemy? With confidence, you had to answer with a Yes. Having escaped the regime, and according to those who had helped you regain some parts of your past self, having had a part in the uprising within Prestige Academy, you were the worst kind of citizen of Strictland. Disobedient, unchanging, and influential. You were waiting for the cocking of a pistol, for cool metal to hit your head, and for the world to go even darker as you collapsed on to the floorboards. The man had to be taking out his gun. He must have taken you away from the raid to be particularly ruthless. A sadist? Maybe. You had no time to judge.

You felt the fabric of your shimmering dress under your fingertips, and imagined you were preparing for a show of a lifetime. You counted your inhales and exhales like you would do before a performance, and conjured an audience in your mind. More rustling, another step. He, that boy, no, young man, was in the audience. Still in the Prestige Academy uniform, but the chip was long gone. He was giving you an encouraging smile eager to hear what you had achieved in your time away from the academy. Leather caressed your hand and you flinched, comforted only by how cautious the action was. Hand turned to raise your palm to the omniscient skies, your illusions combined with reality - what was Seonghwa to give to you?

Funny, how in critical moments, the mind could give you what you had longed to forget. Seonghwa. His name tasted sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. A fine wine, dizzying, addictive. A handsome, talented student who had the future ahead of him, only to throw it away for the taste of something more ‘real’ in his eyes. Something cold was being pressed into your palm, reminiscent of a large bullet or a device your fingers could remember before your mind. Your eyes shot open and were met with a dream and a nightmare. Finally, it hit you. Behind the Inspector’s facade, a mask crafted by years of experience and brutality, was the same boy, who, just like now, pressed a breaker into your palm.

“Wake up.”

Your gaze fell to the intricate metal handiwork, spotting the carving of an ‘A’ contained in a circle right at the base. The taste of anarchy, an uprising, revolution, a hope for something better flowing through a tragic story you two had written. At last, it had a resolution, and you were more than content with who was holding the lethal pen. You stared at the breaker. The very thing that brought you out of an eternal somnolence, submission to a regime. You had woken up then, and never could sleep.

“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer… the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…” you lifted your head once more, staring into Seonghwa’s softened eyes. He had matured, his features having become siren-like, dangerous, seductive. Befitting his character. You smiled sadly, “...or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing end them?” He remained quiet, as if he was the one waiting for you to decide your own destiny, “Shakespeare. Hamlet. Ever read it? Or do they not let you?”

“I-” he cleared his throat, concealing a pang of nervousness, “I am familiar with his work.”

“Mm, isn’t that a criminal offence?”

“What is?”

“Reading work exploring human emotion… sounds like treason to me.”

“Reading does not imply sympathising.”

“But you do.”

Again, a heavy pause. Seonghwa rocked from one foot to another one time, another - an old habit? Or an attempt to convince you that he was at least a fraction the same?

“I… I do not,” before you could scowl, he continued, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once’. I am more partial to this way of thinking.”

“Ah, the irony of it all.”

Your hand formed a fist around the device, and you kept on searching for fragments of the man you loved inside of the new Seonghwa before you. In flashes, you spotted glimmers of gold, feeble hints for something that could be concealed in the depths of his soul.

“So, are you going to make me a valiant person?”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that what you were supposed to be doing?” feeling a little more brave, you taunted him, wishing to see what his limit was. Whether he was lying to you just to set you at ease and make his job easier. So he could see one final sense of betrayal in your pupils.

“We are already dead, Y/N.”

---

Music. A universal language. The biggest risk for a community that someone wanted to silence. So you hummed one song after another, head leaning against Seonghwa’s shoulder as you sat on the concrete floor, in the corner of the room that was barely holding itself together. Bathed in silver light, you shared with him the luxury of reminiscing, mourned what had been lost only to have the feeling be replaced by a budding desire to wish upon anything at all.

Seonghwa might have lied to many of the Inspectors, and was in danger of facing a fate worse than extermination, but at least he did not lie to you. And because he did not lie to you, you were here; you were real. He could have the pleasure of having you beside him, wrapped up in his leather coat; your dress was not exactly ‘inhospitable conditions’ material, as pretty and befitting as it was. You were refusing to let go of the breaker as though it was the tether to a more sunny past, not that Seonghwa would ever dare pry it out of your hands. So long as you could keep singing for him forever. Even when music were to cease existing, and when the sky would fall down, he would still hear your voice. How many times had he visited Morpheus in secret, outside of his official inspections and scouting missions? How quickly had he transferred into a field role just for the chance to find you? How had he managed to remain alive even though his sentence had been supposedly set in stone, and he was still feeling? With each question, the answer grew blurrier and blurrier, until it no longer existed. Perhaps this was a manifestation of destiny. You were supposed to meet again after so much turmoil, so you did. Curious.

“What song do you like?” your voice, sleepy, serene, cut through his ruminations. Seonghwa looked down and to his side, meeting a gentle gaze.

“What song do you want to sing?”

“Mm, no that’s not an answer,” you snaked your hands around his arm and pulled him closer.

“But I like everything you sing. Because you sing it.”

“Sweet, but I’m at a loss.”

“Then let’s be quiet. Together. For as long as we can.”

“There’s not too long left, is there?”

Your question was rhetorical. Both you and Seonghwa were aware of it. Time in Strictland was not governed by the individual but by an unforgiving system. A person, or perhaps a symbol, holding the clock with an iron grip and making the hands fly faster and faster until a second was an impossible measure. Involuntarily, he sighed, causing wisps of steam to escape his lips and rise to the exposed armature of the floor above. With cooling temperatures came the cooling heart, and it was difficult to tell what it was that you loved. What was it that made you feel alive?

“You know, they gave me a choice,” Seonghwa began. There was no reason why he should be telling you about what had happened to him, but the sombre atmosphere seemed to bode well for a confession. You did not interrupt, choosing to remain passive, resigned, “either die for what I believe in, or admit I was wrong.”

“Funny how they gave you a choice,” the infamous ‘they’. The Guardians, the regime, the enemy. Now turned into a friend. Interesting how life changed.

“Definitely was not what I expected.”

“You sure they didn’t say ‘sike’ at any point and you just got lucky?”

“I don’t think they can miss,” a simple, but sharp fact. You bit your lower lip, “...anyways. You can probably guess what I chose to do. The only caveat is that I admitted I was wrong… for a different thing.”

“Do tell.”

“I was wrong for putting you in danger, Y/N.”

“Nothing we could do about that. We were two fools in love.”

Seonghwa detangled himself from you, only to grasp your free hand in his, place the other on your thigh and meet you face to face. Misty-eyed, his rationality was growing frantic, and you knew that at any moment he could snap, and only the clearing night knew what would happen then.

“But I was the one to jolt you out of a peaceful existence. I was selfish-” After years of doubting himself, sinking into a destructive illusion where he would march alongside others like a machine, he was breathing. Much to his regret, it was a sensation far too sweet and heavenly, worth every revolution and rebellion.

“I don’t regret it.”

“...What?”

“I would put this thing to my head time and time again if I had to,” you raised the breaker to eye level, attempting to get at least a smile or a chuckle out of Seonghwa. Much to your dismay, it did the opposite. You would be lying if you were to proclaim you were euphoric.

“I- I’m… Y/N I’m so sorry…” you shook your head and pulled him in, until his exhales and inhales were tickling your neck. Hunched over you like a black-clad shield, Seonghwa was unmoving. Eyes darting down, you spotted that he had taken the pistol out of the holster, and upon a second glance to where he had been sitting, you noted its lonely presence, tucked away with debris and gravel.

“You are alive. And clearly still care enough to remember me. That’s your apology. And your punishment,” in a soothing gesture, you ran your fingers through his hair, cautiously at first, then turning your ministrations continuous, measured out when Seonghwa sat back down on the concrete, only this time nuzzled into you.

“Sorry…” he forced out, choking up.

The moon counted down the time while lazily passing over the building. You were at a crossroads. In haste, Seonghwa had told you of the opportunity to serve the Guardian Inspectors, being a private entertainer of sorts, but he knew you would refuse. Fast. Becoming one’s own enemy was the one thing you would not follow Seonghwa into doing. And that is why he admired you. You were strong. You were truly alive. A bird soaring in the skies in spite of the risks of being hunted, being shot. Simply for the feeling of the wind under your wings, to be closer to the stars and to sing your song loud and clear, every note a celestial blessing.

“Blue bird…”

“Hm?”

“I think I have an idea… if you are willing to go into hiding, that is.”

“Planning uprisings are we?”

“Oh they’ve been long in the works, my love. It is part of my job to close my eyes when necessary, and when convenient.”

“Are you about to be wrong again?”

“Maybe. Or very, very right. Depends on how the song sounds to you.”

---

Walking down the corridors of the headquarters, hands behind his back and appearance pristine, Seonghwa was nothing short of a model Inspector. Low ranking employees cowered before him and bowed, while his immediate colleague Wooyoung smirked, attempting to hook any information out.

“So… where'd the pretty star go?”

Silently, Seonghwa handed him a slip recording the disposal of an ‘unnamed entity’.

“ Oh… well that’s harsh. What did they do, reject you?”

“Apparently once gone so far astray, one cannot be changed. I had to do what was best for the regime.”

“Such an example for others. Wow. Almost too good to be true, Park. Well, I’ll be reporting that the extermination and cleanup of Morpheus was successful.”

“You do that.”

While Wooyoung turned the corner, Seonghwa continued to walk straight down the metal corridor, eyes locked onto the very end. Morpheus was no longer, indeed. But your song was still ringing in his ears, and no doubt, there would be a time when it would resound over the many speakers planted all across Strictland.

Blue skies smiling at me

Nothing but blue skies do I see

Bluebirds singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds all day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you're in love, my how they fly

Blue days, all of them gone

Nothing but blue skies from now on

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