#-expressions... pretend its there. this is mirage

[mipexch]

oh to be a tired robot girl on a hot summer day

[snipersfucker]

An apology, but we all want to read how they are inside and possibly the Autobots lose control when what they have been imagining for so long happens (like Mirage / Bee / or Optimus) you made us addicted to you writing

there are special little places where yall can get help with your addiction!! im not the remedy!! (i bite the walls every single time i get a compliment) ALSO lets just pretend bees vocal cords werent ripped out to the point he couldn't moan like a slut :) dubcon:/

Bee was desperate.

The way your hips swayed when you walked, the way the soft tone of your voice echoed in the insides of his helm, the way you'd wrap your fragile fingers around his steering wheel and squeeze it ever so slightly in a playful manner—he needed you.

And one day, after spending countless nights on imagining you stretched out on his throbbing spike, your tits bouncing with every slap of his hips against your bare ass, he finally got the honour of actually seeing you underneath him, not just picturing it in his mind.

Bee was desperate for you, but he was also shy. Which meant that you had to initiate all the talks, all the touches, and all the kisses. However, when he finally understood that he had you exactly where he wanted you, and when he heard you vocalise your desire for him, he just couldn't stop himself.

The soft exchange of pecks on each others' lips turned into a heated make-out session, his glossa quickly asking for permission to slip into your mouth just so he could get a proper taste for the first time. His metal body began overheating as soon as he felt your body straddling his lap, your legs on both side of his hips. Your bold move made him only crave more of your touch, him barely able to restrain himself from just having his way with you, manhandling you until you'd beg for him to stop absolutely ruining you for the pleasure of you both.

And he wanted to continue making a mess with his lips on yours, especially when you were making so many sweet noises just for him... But he had to take things further, feeling like his spark might just explode if he didn't.

So he pulled away slowly, making eye contact with you for just a mere second, only to see the needy expression on your face, which gave him a silent permission to jump right into what he'd planned to do. His lips quickly found their place on the side of your neck, his servos landing on your hips, subconsciously pushing your core into his abdomen to create more friction between you.

He began licking, kissing, nibbling, and sucking the skin gently into his intake to create pretty bruises on your neck which would show anyone that you belonged to him.

Your breaths were getting heavier, much more chaotic, them hitching in your throat every time he paid special attention to a particularly sensitive spot. Your needy whimpers were mixing with the sound of his vents trying to stop him from overheating, his reaction to you making you want more of him than you already had.

And you didn't know you already had him whole. He was yours.

"Bee, please..." you whined, your eyes closed shut, hands on both of his shoulders with a strong grip which he didn't mind at all.

Your words made him transform the area under his abdomen, now a hard spike on full display, its length slapping against your stomach with every intense throb. He didn't stop taking care of your neck for even a second, every whimper and groan of desperation being muffled by your skin as he continuously planted wet kisses all the way down from your jaw to your collarbone.

He was growing impatient.

His spike touching you was sending constant pleasurable electric shocks down his bipedalism cord, his spark nearly exploding when you grinded against it with your clothed core.

The grip of his digits on your hips tightened, and you'd probably have endless bruises on your sweet, soft skin tomorrow, and this thought should've made him feel at least a tad bad but he adored knowing that he left something while doing such sinful things with you.

When you moved and brushed against his length again, he groaned in impatience, pulling away just to lift the hem of your loose shirt with his digit to signal to you that he needed it off. You made eye contact with him as you got rid of the piece of clothing on your upper half. But it wasn't enough for him—he had to have you naked against him, every inch of your warm, human skin against his hot, metal one.

Before his digit moved to the waistline of your pants, you were already unbuttoning and unzipping them, getting out of his lap just to be able to take them off fully alongside with your panties, them ending up somewhere on the floor, probably next to your shirt.

His optics immediately shot to your cunt, the temptation to put his spike inside you overwhelming his body. He didn't even wait patiently for you to get back onto his lap on your own, as soon as he stopped devouring the sight of you in front of him in just a bra, he immediately pulled you towards him with both servos on your hips again, placing you on his lap, exactly where you belonged at that moment.

Now your bare core was brushing against his spike, and he couldn't refrain himself from letting a couple of desperate noises roll off him glossa. You decided to undress fully for him, taking your bra off and tossing it onto the pile of long forgotten clothes. His optics could barely take in the view before his lips found themselves on your tits, his intake giving attention to both, switching from teasing, licking and kissing the left one to doing exactly the same to the right one. Your hardened nipples made it possible for him to gently bite them, making you buckle your hips and moan his name shamelessly, your own noises not allowing you to hear your thoughts, as if there was anything else on your mind other than how good Bee's glossa felt when it curled up on your nipple, it getting sucked into his intake.

The remains of self-control he could find within himself were slipping through his digits, the force of his touches increasing with every passing second. At the same time, he was also getting more and more intense reactions from you, your body craving more as it pressed against his.

Bee groaned, impatience getting the better of him, as he wrapped his arm around your fragile, human body, lifting you up with your chest still to his.

He moved fast like a starving man, placing you gently on the hard floor of the garage, its coldness radiating to your body, adding a completely new sensation. You arched your back, exposing your chest even more to him, hoping he'd put his mouth on your already swollen and sensitive nipples, but he seemed to have other plans when, without a heads-up, he grabbed the back of both your thighs, and lifted up your hips so that now the only body parts of yours making contact with the cement underneath you were your upper back and your head.

Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head as you bit your lip to stop yourself from whimpering at the absolutely sinful sight of Bee kneeling down and hovering over you, spreading your legs and holding them pressed to your chest for better access to your dripping cunt.

You felt the tip of his spike teasing your hole which has been clenching over nothing for the past couple of minutes, finally about to get what it needed the most. And then, with one swift motion, Bee slid into you, the wet sound of his length entering your core echoed against the walls of your head.

A loud moan escaped the depths of your throat, lips parted, eyes closed themselves shut before you could even stop them, wanting to watch as the robot began trying to bottom out inside your warm cunt, but unfortunately his spike was too big for you to take for now.

It felt good. The pain from being so suddenly stretched out around him mixed with the pleasure from his spike hitting all the sweet spots inside you with the very first thrust of his hips.

Bee felt as if he no longer had control over his own body, the feeling of you wrapped around him, your warm cunt so inviting to just ruin it without second thoughts. And he could find absolutely no strength within himself to stop the almost animalistic desire to make you his in every meaning of this word.

His optics were trained on your face for mere seconds before his gaze shifted to the place where your bodies connected, your cunt covered in your own slick, the hole visibly stretched out to take his spike, even if it was only a half of his full length.

The idea of pushing the entire thing in only made him groan, the images of the bulge in your lower stomach he'd create flashing in front of his optics.

He threw his head back when he felt you clench around him, the sensation too much to handle.

You knew he was about to begin pounding into you as if it was the only thing he was made to do, the expression on his face and the look he was giving you the entire time confirming it.

"Bee..." you whined his name, not being fully aware what that sweet tone of your voice was doing to him.

So he just positioned himself better, pressing your thighs harder to your chest, taking almost the entire length of his spike out of your begging cunt, only to slam into you and put even more of him inside you.

You couldn't even control the noises escaping you anymore, your head thrown back because of the overwhelming pleasure.

Bee has had enough of waiting, the memory of him sitting in the corner of this garage, his spike in his servo as he kept fisting himself, overloading onto the hard floor multiple times just to get some relief after having to watch you walk around in your damned little dresses, your hips innocently swaying, your tits deliciously bouncing with every step.

Before you could register it, the robot was destroying your needy cunt with aggressive pounding, feeling as if he able to put more and more inches inside you with every slam of his hips against your ass.

His speed and the way he could hit all the best spots, even though the tip of his spike was kissing your cervix, made you constantly moan out loud, as if the walls of the garage were soundproof.

He kept making noises as well, although his were much deeper, more frustrated, as if he was chasing something he was so closed to catch but right before getting it, it'd just slip away from him.

He thought of this moment for a long time, the pink transfluid painting his servos on many occasions as he was imagining you in this exact position underneath him, squirming in pleasure.

But then, he came up with an even better idea, his body immediately following through, without even analysing it. He stopped mercilessly pounding into you just to manhandle you on your stomach, lifting your backside by your hips, spreading your legs to allow him to penetrate your needy cunt even more deeply. He positioned himself over you, his spike yet again pressing against your core for just a second before finally entering you once more. He didn't even waste time on preparing you to take him, just like the first time he pushed his length inside your pussy.

Now he had the opportunity to properly grope and slap your ass as much as he pleased, his hips constantly hitting it with every hard thrust he'd make. Tears began forming in the corner of your eyes, the feeling of being so perfectly stuffed by his spike making you shudder, moan and squirm beneath him.

His movements were rapid and chaotic, but he never slowed down, only increasing his speed, making mental notes of the noises you were making while he was fucking you so good.

"Bee, 't hurts..." you whimpered weakly in-between your loud, slutty moans, him taking it as an encouragement to continue ruining your cunt which was now clenching around him more than ever before. His one servo went to the back of your head tilted to the side, his digits gently stroking your hair as if it was supposed to help ease the pain mixing with pleasure, while the other one was still on your hip, pulling your body towards him at the same time he was pushing at it, making your skins hit each other with even more force.

You told him it hurt you but he couldn't stop.

He felt himself getting closer and closer to overloading, the warmth of your cunt getting sweetly unbearable as his movements became more sloppy, yet still as hard as before.

"Fuck." Curses kept spilling from your sinful mouth, feeling his thick spike throb inside you, indicating that he was probably about to finish.

The discomfort and pain of his metal hips hitting your much softer backside were slowly becoming less and less noticeable as complete pleasure washed over you, making you a wet, moaning mess underneath him.

With his two servos on your hips, he increased the speed of his movements once more, chasing the so desired release.

"Bee, please..." you whined again, your tits bouncing with every thrust, your hardened nipples brushing against the rough floor, "Overload in me..."

Your words were enough to tip him over the edge. With only a few more harsh slams into your tight cunt, he felt himself spurting his thick transfluid into your cervix, multiple groans and whimpers leaving his intake as he did so. He kept fucking the pink liquid into your cunt, not wanting a single drop to escape.

You could still feel his hard, metal hips hitting your ass, all until you clenched around him so tightly, he swore he could overload again just from that sensation alone. You came all over his thick spike, moaning loudly, your body shaking with indescribable pleasure from both his rough pounding as well as the knowledge that his transfluid was deep inside you.

Bee didn't pull out instantly, his thrusts decreasing in speed and force with every passing second, trying to ride out the remains of his and yours overloads.

You were panting and the robot was most definitely overheating, his metal body much hotter in touch than ever before, now his chassis pressed against your back as he began planting gentle kisses to your hair, his vents not being able to catch up.

After a long time that didn't feel long enough for him, he decided to pull away and take his spike out of your core filled with his transfluid, practically begging him to just fuck it again. But now, that his lust for you was somehow taken care of, he could regain the control over his body, and allow you to rest after getting absolutely ruined by him.

You rolled over onto your back yourself, clenching your thighs together when you felt his pink juices flooding out of you, wanting to keep them there for as long as possible. He smiled at your attempts to keep him inside you, the desire growing in his optics once again.

Bee gently wrapped his servos around your bare, exhausted body, lifting you up to place you down on the sofa he was previously occupying with you in his lap. As soon as you felt the plush against the skin of your back, you pulled the robot in your direction with your hands on both sides of his helm, making him bend his body so that you could kiss him passionately for the last time that night, knowing that he was most likely about to leave you to take care of his Autobot duties. He obliged without complaining, ready to slide into you again right then and there. And how disappointed he was when you pulled away with a soft smile, exhaustion finally catching up to you...

The corner of his slips curled up as he looked around in search for something to put on you. An abandoned blanket sitting on a wooden chair since he could remember would do. Before you could even notice he left you alone on the sofa, he was back, covering you from the neck down quickly but still making sure your whole body was under the soft fabric.

"Prime needs you?" you asked in a weak tone, your voice now only confirming how tired you actually were.

Prime needed him but he needed you.

Bee only nodded, to which you responded softly, "I'll stay here." And before he could even give you any sort of a physical confirmation that he got that, you already closed your eyes with a content expression written all over your face.

He smirked to himself, the sweet feeling of finally achieving his goal washing over him, him practically having been able to live in his dreams for a moment. His smile only widened when he came to a realisation...

He finally managed to mark you as his.

don't know if i made it he-lost-control enough but i tried and that's what counts in my books. also, i made it an oneshot but if you wanted separate hcs for these characters ill be more than willing to write it

[theredofoctober]

BONUS MANNA CONTENT

Between writing chapters I may drop fragments of 'Little One's diaries regarding her captivity under Will and Hannibal. Chronologically out of order

Characters: Reader or Little One (OC)/Will Graham

TW: eating disorders, noncon, kidnapping

---

FUNERAL BELL

Diary,

I've forgotten what wind feels like, in here. The air is so still that I can almost see it, silver prisms cutting across everything like shattered glass. The wind, the rain, I hear it all the time, but what it felt like on my skin I don't remember, whatever's left of the sensation out of focus, like a mirage, like a dream.

I used to spend hours staring out of windows, waiting for appointments and difficult conversations to be over. Now it seems it's almost all I do, hopeless and forlorn. The leaves are maroon, and so many cleave to the branches still that it's like the world beyond Hannibal's house is holding a ragged breath, waiting for me to do something.

Waiting for me to do wrong.

I've grown superstitious, in this dark place, death place, this cenotaph of shadows. Every cobweb and shrouded corner is hungrier than I am, desperate for someone to throw its secrets to the light.

My fathers— they made me like this.

If they are men, and just men, then I'd fear to know anyone beyond these walls again in horror that they, too, might hide that sanguine appetite, not only to kill, but fuck and torment as they will, and anyone they want.

They didn't sleep with Abigail Hobbs, but tossed her between their affections like orcas toying with a stone-battered seal, tearing her to pieces in their ruinous embrace.

They tear and tear at me, too, but I don't die, will never die.

I've always believed that, in some way, my absence of eating made me immortal, cleansed me to such strengths that no ailment could touch me, no failure of organs, nor any symptom common to the things I did. Bed sores, losing my monthly blood, and all the bad temper I could summon failed to break me; even now, cold and logical before the desk my jailer brought for me, I'm sure my illness makes me special, blessed as the saints were that starved, as I do.

This struggle between me and the men— it makes all three of us feel so very much more alive, I see that now. But I resent the power they take from me, that they would quench the last fire I had to survive the nights I can't undo.

I use them, for what they will give me, which isn't much, unless I play their girl. It's getting easier, even without the drugs, to the point that when I hear that whimpering voice, and see the crumpled pantomime of my expression in a mirrored surface, I ask myself: am I just pretending, or is that me? Has that always been me, the fossil of my first self, dug forcefully to the surface?

I can't stop thinking about this afternoon, and what I did to purchase the rarity of a phone call to my parents. Hannibal will no longer allow it— I become too agitated, he says; he doesn't like me crying for others. He's possessive, like that, they both are. My pain is distilled in their bottles, to be savoured by its brewers alone.

Today I clambered onto Will's lap and offered myself for him to drink. I ground myself upon his desperation, watched veins rise upon his clenched fists as I made him hard under the malice of my motions. I tasted the malt of his sweat and the cologne on his pretty white neck as I kissed my way up to his red mouth.

"One," he said, grimly— he always says 'One', a grudging attempt at Dr Lecter's nickname for me. "What are you doing?"

"I want that call, Daddy," I whimpered, into his throat —the veins in it jump-jump-jumped; I wanted to crack them in my teeth like shells and watch him cool in waxen death in Dr Lecter's armchair. I wanted to cry in his shoulder like a princess orphaned by war. I wanted him to fill up the volcanic yawn of my hunger with his fingers and cock to pestle my grief.

"Hannibal said no, but I'll let you do anything," I said— traitor, fork-tongued liar. "I just want to hear their voices. Please, please, please—"

Will ran so hot beneath me I thought I'd made him ill with my affection. I think maybe I had. He wanted to fuck me until I wept; he wanted to put me to bed as though I was very small, and forget that he'd ever touched me, I could feel it.

"If he said no, then why are you asking me?" he asked, through gritted teeth, but I felt his hands on my waist, touching me so awkwardly, with so much needy want that suddenly I needed him inside me, just to squeeze my knuckles shut around that spare shred of power.

"Because you love me," I said, looking into the November waves of his soft eyes, "and I hate you. And you don't want me to hate you. So help me. Please. Please. Please."

I put my tongue into his slick mouth and he moaned so pathetically that I was in awe, for a moment, that he was my captor, and I was not his. But then he was ripping at his buckle like a monk fallen before God in his love of women, and I remembered that I was afraid of him— too late, as the perspiring moon flesh of his hands drew me apart, and he thrust his cock in me with my mouth still on his.

The pleasure— I wish I could pick it out like a knot, that I could put a pin through a doll of it and see it die. But I still feel it all, now, the shift of his pelvis up into mine, his shaking hands on the back of my neck, on my thighs, promise in every fumbled grasp.

I hated him, held back tears even as my middle gleamed with the dirt of him inside me.

"You can call home in the morning," he said, between kisses that will haunt me like the dead. "I'll convince Dr Lecter that you've earned it. And... I think you have."

I lay in his lap, afterwards, his seed warm within me, my face in his shirt, breathing him in, wishing the spores of his pale skin alone could kill me.

Galerina marginata, they call the Funeral Bell, a mushroom that poisons its eater. I'm starting to think that I'm like that, to Will and Hannibal; for every bite of me they dig, dig down into an earthen darkness.

I think I want to see how far they'll go.

[bigskydreaming]

Hi, I read your post about the 10 misconceptions concerning Dick Grayson…if you don’t mind, who was the person who sexually assaulted him the “first” time? You said he worked with them in a superhero/crimefighting capacity…I’m just asking because I’ve never heard of that & sometimes I do want to know canon instead of just fanon. It’s cool if you want to answer this privately (in case others feel uncomfortable with the topic). I know you probably have more important stuff to do, so if you just want to give me the name of the character & the arc, I can look up the rest.

Anyway, thanks for the informative post. Hope you’re well.

No worries! The character/event I was referring to prior to Tarantula was Mirage, a teammate on the New Teen Titans briefly, and there's a looooooot of fanon to wade through about this, much of which I don't personally agree with. Including (and in some cases especially) in regards to a lot of the fanon that uses this to woobify Dick at the express expense of Kory, which I personally hate. (It really needs to be talked about more that Kory is a sexual assault survivor herself, IMO).

Furthermore, there's a tendency fandoms in general have - which I hate - that thinks anti-rape activism looks like focusing explicitly just on the rapists and vilifying them while leaving their actual survivors to be treated as focal afterthoughts, all of which I find to be SUPREMELY counter productive. And there's not a lot of nuance paid to how both Mirage & Tarantula - much like Morrison's take on Talia - feeds into & perpetuates racist tropes like 'the exoticized predatory woman of color,' which leads to a lot of pro-Dick Grayson/'men can be raped too' sentiments being used just as a justification for writers & readers to have an excuse to write characters like Jason torturing and murdering women of color in the name of defending Dick's honor or whatever. And I really can't express how much I hate that either.

All of this is just to say......be very careful with fanon takes & interactions with BOTH the Tarantula and Mirage storylines, and please always be mindful of the lens through which you scrutinize these stories and takes on these stories.

I've written about both storylines and my takes on fanon tropes about them many times over the years (full disclosure, I'm a male rape survivor so my stances on this subject are very much biased and not remotely inclined to pretend otherwise, lol) and you can probably find a lot of posts about them by searching my blog for the relevant character names, but here's my big go-to post on the Mirage situation and fallout, in which I tried to back up all my viewpoints with canon sourcing. Its definitely long, but aimed at being as thorough as I could make it.

[pico-digital-studios]

Into, Across and Beyond! Cast: Barry the Quokka

Origin: The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog

"Nobody should have to die unfairly, right? I mean, you guys have got every right to intervene if it means lives are saved."

Barry is a young genderless quokka who made their debut in The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog (as a self-insert for the player), and is your simple everyday kid looking for lines of work to keep active.

During the visual novel released on April Fool's Day, Barry had signed up for a job as a worker on the Mirage Express. Their first day happened to be on the same day as their Amy Rose's birthday, AND the train conductor's last day on the job, so they were tasked with helping ensure everyone was all comfortable with the big trip.

As it happened, the theme for the birthday was a "murder mystery", where one person had to pretend to play dead, and everyone else had to go around figuring out who the "murderer" was. As it happened, this universe (Dimension CLUE-2023) was a sort of fusion universe, in that various OCs were also a part of things and enjoying their own time on the express.

Suddenly, the train sped up, knocking Barry, Tails and Amy into the storage cart, where they found Sonic lying on the floor. Amy immediately took this to assume that it was him being the "victim" for the game, but something about this concerned Barry. Something was clearly amiss.

So, for that time, Barry and Tails, the latter appointed as the detective for the job, got started with investigating the case. They did their best to ask high and low for clues as to what was going on, with fellow passengers offering tips where possible alongside any service they could provide to the crew.

Tails got to learn quite a bit about Barry during their time spent together; they were actually quite nervous due to it being their first day, and weren't used to getting compliments at all, which got Tails concerned that Barry might have self-esteem issues. He also learned that they have a thing for endless runner games, and when thinking about stuff, Barry visualises one with Sonic involved to get their brain in gear.

Despite how anxious they are, Barry also has a bit of mischievous side to them, willing to tell lies to get snacks from the Express, teasing Espio by baiting him into thinking they failed his quiz, or playfully scaring Tails from a wardrobe. They have a very strong belief that things are always hidden in the bins, which happens to be an extension of their belief in the importance of being dedicated and persistent.

After enough scouring and getting alibis, they finally figured out who the culprit was; Espio. He was actually ordered by someone to knock Sonic out cold with a tranquilliser dart, having only cheated on those orders. Sonic himself is back on his feet soon enough with a shocking revelation; the train is a Badnik! No, really.

The Mirage Express was a custom-engineered Badnik made by Eggman, which had its own life and was so saddened by the Conductor's upcoming retirement that it locked everyone in the train for delivery to the doctor, in the hopes that it and the Conductor would never have to grow apart.

Sonic, however, had a plan, getting himself, Tails and Amy out to face down the Express and knock it offline before it could reach its destination, while Barry worked with the Conductor to stop the train at its destination while reassuring it that he genuinely enjoyed their time together.

Once they got off safely, the Conductor was reunited with his wife and was really glad to see her again, whilst Sonic managed to get the birthday cake ready for Amy's true celebrations. As for Barry, they sincerely enjoyed the time they spent with Sonic and his friends, wanting to get to know them better now.

So after they resigned from their work, Barry was able to win millions in a lottery, using the funds to donate to charities and open their own local supermarket to support others. They even got to spend some time with the Conductor, his wife and kids during their vacation at Spagonia, and idolised Gadget as he told the kid about his endeavours in helping Sonic during the big war against Eggman.

During one point, Barry discovered some of Tails's research related to the wider multiverse, which could potentially mean more adventures to go on. It was during this investigation that they met Tekno for the first time, who had heard about their ongoing career and was proud of them for it.

Barry, having not met Tekno before, was pretty interested in what career she had, which gave her the chance to show them about the Quill Society and its mass acceptance for anyone from different backgrounds. They were so interested that they enrolled as a member of the crew, eager to lend a helping hand where needed with their new friends.

They were quick to make friends with OMT!Tails when they crossed paths in Many More Heroes, and even personally assisted in the investigation into what LM!Sonic was doing, leading him to realise that not all Sonics had an heroic flair about them. Even though this hit them quite hard, they still stayed strong, actively encouraging OMT!Tails to blow the news to EV!Sonic.

While they didn't participate in the big chase, they still contributed a lot by helping reveal this harrowing truth, and were commemorated for their efforts and their well-practiced detective work. They even actively rooted for OMT!Tails when he disembarked with SS!Amy to fight Crimtake and ruin the planned "canon event".

[meximango]

Day 18 - Hackneyed - Vaile + Bobby - PG

Summary: Vaile has a short encounter with Cahsi’s retainer.

Part 1/???

Vaile had never been in this residential district–or any other than Ishgard’s, if he was being honest. The kind of work he had been so used to did not lead him to safe, well-lit, nice-smelling places like these. When meeting up with an acquaintance (the word ‘friend’ was still strange to him, and he avoided using it if he could), they always met up in a city or at a dungeon site or on the road if they happened to bump into each other. 

The sight of all these houses made him feel like an intruder, even though he knew it was full of adventurer’s abodes, rather than normal civilians. Nobody was going to harass him or try to send him away unless he stepped over a line. Hells, Cahsi had told him plenty of people left their homes unlocked! Only a retainer to keep watch, with a book that visitors could sign to give their opinion on the owner’s interior decorating skills. Apparently, it was a form of relaxation for many, and a way for folks to show off their conquests (‘look at this great beast I slayed and mounted its wings on my wall! Gasp in awe!’) It felt like something from a children’s storybook, and he wasn’t sure if Cahsi was just fucking with him or if that was supposed to be considered normal. No way was he about to test if it was true by going into some stranger’s home and potentially getting caught in their homemade dungeon. Which is why he had to be sure the house he was setting out to find was actually Cahsi’s. 

This place was too quaint for the likes of someone like him, but he needed something from Cahsi, and she said she’d be at her home all weekend. So he’d bear through it. He was tough. He could handle wading through a domestic setting without his skin itching for a fight. Probably. (and if he thought about it too long, it’d bring him back to that brief year of happiness with Axel. The closest he ever got to a domestic life. No thanks, brain.) 

Cahsi had sent him a letter to him via moogle mail with the most awful, nonsensical map known to man explaining how to find her home, which he’d never been to and hadn’t planned on. But she was ‘too lazy to bother traveling somewhere to meet up, even if it were at a major aetheryle. Please Vaile, I just want one lazy weekend where I don’t have to dress up and put on my weapon. You come to me, or you can wait.’ 

So here he was. Sort of. He was close? He was in the correct general area, as far as he could tell, but all these districts looked exactly the same, and ‘it’s a carbuncle themed house, you can’t miss it’, did not help when there were a surprising number of people with colorful homes themed after the same creature. Cahsi didn’t seem to be wearing her linkpearl right now, as she wasn’t picking up. He sighed. Not worth the trouble for what he needed, maybe, but he’d already traveled… After another few minutes of aimless wandering and deliberation, he finally went to the nearest retainer bell and rang it until he could get someone to fetch Cahsi’s for him. 

When the familiar, stout figure arrived at the plaza, Vaile wasted no time: “Hey, you! Retainer. Where is she?” Upon noticing who it was asking, the retainer’s face went from a neutral expression to one of slight annoyance. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly know what you mean. Some manners would go a long way to start, boy.” “Just tell me!” “....” 

The lalafell in front of him pretended to examine and remove a speck of dust from his outfit, completely ignoring the reaper that towered over him. Hard to be cowed by a punk with a short fuse when you were already dead, after all. Not much phased Bobby, though he certainly could phase through plenty. Having been around for numerous calamities and no signs of returning to the afterlife, Bobby had gotten exceedingly good at controlling his physicality. He could be solid when needed to do his job, but most of the time he was invisible or a blue-tinged, see-through mirage like right now. It was a standoff Vaile wouldn’t win if he wanted an answer. “Fine. Hello. Nice weather we’re having, aren’t we. Now tell me where Cahsi is.” “Mmm? And what do we say? A magic word, perhaps?” “Oh for the love of–you insufferable mage. Please.” Vaile’s teeth were grit together so hard, he could nearly hear them creaking. His hand itched to reach for his weapon, useless as it’d be. Still, it could be fun to see a scythe swing through the man’s apparition. Would it flicker? “There, now was that really so difficult? Was that painful for you?” His tone dripped with condescension. “You are so lucky you’ve already left this plane, or I’d be breaking my promise of no bloodshed on the premises right about now–” “Tsk tsk, the youths these days are so hotheaded. You’d best work on yourself, lad, or I won’t allow you to see miss Theia anymore. She doesn’t need to associate with ruffians.” “And she doesn’t need a stuffy retainer like you choosing who she gets to see! Let her make her own decisions. She’s the one who invited me here.” Something changed in Bobby’s expression, the tiniest hint of approval in his eyes. “Hmm. You’re right, I suppose. She’s handled far worse and prickly than you. Very well then.It’s the home right across from the pool, one block down to your left. You can’t miss it. You’ll find her in the library with some guests–friends. I believe you know them. I do hope you’ve packed a bag?” “What? Why would I need a bag to talk to her?” “Why, for the sleepover, of course!” And with that, the retainer flickered into nothing, no doubt having had his fill of tomfoolery for the day. Good riddance! A sentiment shared by both.

Vaile quickly reached his destination, the sign in front confirming it was hers. Cahsi’s door was unlocked, and there was note waiting for him, telling him she’d be downstairs. Must be where the library is. As he approached the door leading to it, he heard muffles voices and laughter. Was he really about to intrude on a ‘sleepover’, and whatever that entailed? It was barely dinnertime! Better to get this over with, Vaile. Sooner you get in there, the sooner you can leave. As he opened the door, he heard a sentence that made him regret coming here and wishing Bobby had given him the wrong directions: “This has to be the most hackneyed sex pollen plot I’ve ever read, and don’t even get me started about the characterization!” Was it too late to turn around and pretend he was never here? Unfortunately, three faces turned toward him and exclaimed in greeting. “Vaile! You’re just in time. You have to join us!” He nearly felt his adrenaline spike as though he were about to enter battle. What the hells was he getting himself into…?

- To Be Continued… ? -

[yellowsweater-bluevest]

It's your mirror talking.

This is a fic based on a song by el cuarteto de Nos called, habla tu espejo. idk what it is tho.

It had no memories of not existed or of being created. Since its first moments of consciousness, the mirror had sat in the same spot it does now.

At some point, it seemed like its existence has directly tied to the inhibitor of the room. Steve Harrington. It had grown and seen Steve grow since he was a little kid. Having his same face, his same expressions, but with no feeling. When Steve was a little kid, they used to talk a lot. The mirror could never say anything, but Steve always knew. As Steve grew and changed, he stopped looking at it. But it never stopped looking at him.

It had been a long time since its seen anyone but Steve in that desolate room, so long he felt like his only friend. Even before, when Tommy and Carol came by, it was the only one that could be sincere. It could not lie, fake, or pretend.

For the longest time, it felt like the only one who could look at him directly into Steve's eyes, and be with him when he is alone.

Even when Steve puffs out his chest, and tries to conceal his emotions, it could always tell the truth. It could tell when he was in trouble, when he looked for it when he hid from it.

It had seen his rage turn to sadness, his love to heartbreak, his joy to hopelessness.

In Steve's eyes, it could see his exhaustion, in his mouth, the words he hung up on. It had seen the worst parts of him, and it was still there.

On various levels, it was Steve. It had his head with no memories, his body with no heart, his skin with his scars and moles but with empty stories.

It wishes, at times, that it could do more. Reach out to Steve and tell him what to do, what not to hide, and to ask for help. If only it could tell him not to brush off his sins, emotions, and pain under the rug, it could help. But it was not only Steve's reflection, it was also his shadow's.

There could be nothing else from it. there could be no acceptance, prejudices, or rejection. Even so, at times not even it would want to be in his arms.

It wished Steve would stop pretending it was not here. It is real. His change is real, he has changed and so has his body, now littered with scars and bruises. It is a mirror, not a mirage.

That is all it was at the end, there was no ideals, moral, or substance in it. Just a mirror, a mere reflection of what is really there. Never being able to know what is farther from the door, the window, or even beside it. There is no identity or credential.

It seemed like the only reason for its existence was for Steve to need it. To hide within it.

Except lately, there was no hiding. Steve had locked himself up for so long. Curling up on his bed, not letting anyone inside. It looked, hoping for someone to burst into his door and tell him what it always thought. It is losing hope.

At least, it was losing hope. Then an overly energetic girl burst through the door one day. A girl who looked at Steve directly into his eyes and listen to him. One that noticed the words still in his mouth, the tension on his shoulders, the pain hidden behind his confidence.

It was also her. An unlikely friend who could have stopped hanging around, but didn't. Someone who understands what is not said, but shown.

Robin Buckley, the platonic soulmate of Steve Harrington, had slowly become a constant presence in its reflection. There was something else in it, inside jokes and laughs and trust.

Then more joined the reflection too.

Dustin Henderson, with his wittiness and smarts. Lucas Sinclair, with his honesty. Max Mayfield, with her care hidden behind sarcastic remarks. El Hopper, with her curiosity and strength. Each of them seemed to hold a piece of a puzzle it never realized was incomplete. It could only hear from afar.

Slowly, Steve healed. He stopped avoiding its gaze. He looked directly at himself through the mirror, no longer turning a blind eye to what was in front of him.

Then he heard the words. "Long time no speak, dear mirror on my wall."

[almaqead]

"The Mirage." From Surah Al Anfal, "The Spoils."

Ramadan Day 26

Extreme weather, earthquakes, violent crimes, wars, plans for more wars, rampant terrorism, violent crimes, diseases, famines, thirst, and traffic james are rife. There are no discussions of hope just pointless arguments and constant distractions.

We have only this Account left behind by the Prophet Muhammad to remind us of other things. In the following section he discusses the proper use and distribution of wealth, a lesson mankind needs right about now: and kind of wealth is it? It is called discretion and it is not to be wasted.

8: 36-40:

Surely the disbelievers spend their wealth to hinder others from the Path of Allah. They will continue to spend to the point of regret. Then they will be defeated and the disbelievers will be driven into Hell,

so Allah may separate the evil from the good. He will pile up the evil ones all together and then cast them into Hell. They are the ˹true˺ losers.

Tell the disbelievers that if they desist, their past will be forgiven. But if they persist, then they have an example in those destroyed before them.

Fight against them until there is no more persecution—and ˹your˺ devotion will be entirely to Allah. But if they desist, then surely Allah is All-Seeing of what they do.

And if they do not comply, then know that Allah is your Protector. What an excellent Protector, and what an excellent Helper!

Commentary:

There simply must be a more powerful fight against the unbelievers. We are pretending and they are not. The world's supervisors are not doing their jobs. The world is not at peace, it is not performing as God said. Muhammad said if we are experiencing regret it is time to stop.

There must not be corruption on this world, there cannot be fighting, waste, abuse, poverty, or indiscretion. All who believe in God must make an Account of the authority of God in these matters and become the Helpers God knows we all need.

The Values in Gematria are:

v 36: They will continue to spend to the point of regret. The Value in Gematria is 12390 יבגטאֶפֶס‎, "You will wish you climbed up."

v. 37: So Allah can separate the evil from the good. The Value in Gematria is 7163, זאוג‎‎, "a pair."

v. 38: And tell the disbelievers if they persist they will be destroyed. The Value in Gematria is 9055, טאֶפֶסהה‎ ‎ , tapesha, "a conception, a comprehension."

v. 39: Fight against them. The Value in Gematria is 9686, טו‎חו‎, "find the range and clean it."

In order to understand what this means we have to change channels back to the Quran where the word "pairs" are found. Muhammad means there are pairs of opposites within every situation that are at odds with each other. The Gematria says to go up, which also means to "clean up" and finally, to commit to the path of Masjid. This is all expressed brilliantly in An Naba:

 1. What are they asking (one another)? 2. About the great news, (i.e. Islâmic Monotheism, the Qur'ân, which Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him)brought and the Day of Resurrection, etc.), 3. About which they are in disagreement. 4. Nay, they will come to know! 5. Nay, again, they will come to know! 6. Have We not made the earth as a bed, 7. And the mountains as pegs? 8. And We have created you in pairs (male and female, tall and short, good and bad, etc.). 9. And have made your sleep as a thing for rest. 10. And have made the night as a covering (through its darkness), 11. And have made the day for livelihood. 12. And We have built above you seven strong (heavens), 13. And have made (therein) a shinning lamp (sun). 14. And have sent down from the rainy clouds abundant water. 15. That We may produce therewith corn and vegetations, 16. And gardens of thick growth. 17. Verily, the Day of Decision is a fixed time, 18. The Day when the Trumpet will be blown, and you shall come forth in crowds (groups); 19. And the heaven shall be opened, and it will become as gates, 20. And the mountains shall be moved away from their places and they will be as if they were a mirage.

There cannot be pairs. As the Rab says about God, "He is Kedush [holy] so we must also be Kedush."

Man must begin behaving in a Godlike way- his conduct must improve and he must as moral, ethical, and as kind as Him:

v. 40 Know that Allah is your Protector. The Value in Gematria is 7996, ז‎טטו‎ zetto, "Sign on the line."

[divtanver]

Part One: No Time Left

The setting sun was sinking below the horizon, taking its warming light with it. A quick swipe of the wrench and another robot fell apart.

"I think that's it" Tails said, bending over and inhaling the missing oxygen.

"It looks like that" Sonic replied to him. "It turned out to be a good mess".

Littered with various metal junk and sparkling wires, the entrance to the city meant that the battle was over and none of the attackers could break through their defenses. The warm and mild summer wind blew away the remnants of sweat and enveloped with its freshness.

"It's getting dark" Looking at the approaching shadows from the clouds, the fox said. "It's time to go home, tomorrow we have a long day ahead of us".

"Yep, a good sleep definitely won't hurt me" The hedgehog said yawning.

Tails waved goodbye to him, but Sonic ran away so quickly that he didn't even pay attention to it. Lately, he has been running away more and more often, which is why his friend began to be suspicious of this, but tried not to give it away. This time the fox decided to follow where he was going to find out the reason, but could not keep up with him, and therefore decided to act more cunningly. Before his next disappearance, Tails, pretending that there was a problem with the communication device, embedded an inconspicuous tracker there and waited for the right moment to follow Sonic. The device stably tracked the target, but after a while it reported the cessation of movement and soon turned off. Tails hurried to the last known place, but found nothing there. He was already beginning to think that he had lost it, but somewhere on the very edge of peripheral vision he noticed a blue silhouette and, looking closely, recognized Sonic in it.

"Where are you running to anyway?" Fox mentally asked himself, trying to keep up with his friend.

The chase continued and, tired of the continuous running, Tails began to lag behind and lose sight of his friend. Because of his haste, he did not look at his feet, which caused him to stumble over a stone and fly face-first into the ground. Suddenly Sonic stopped near one of the bumps, looked around and, finding no one, took out an unknown device and then pressed the button. Tails, lying in the bushes, raised his head and saw how the earth erupted in front of his friend and formed the entrance to the tunnel, after which he went down there. Wasting no time, fox followed him, barely managing to slip inside before the passage closed behind him. There was no turning back.

"Why didn't he tell me where he was really going? What is this place? What is he hiding?" Asking himself a lot of questions, Tails slowly and quietly followed him hiding in the shadows.

Soon the tunnel was replaced by a corridor with several, judging by the interior, laboratory rooms containing some incomprehensible drawings, calculations and dates highlighted in red. Hedgehog kept walking. Two iron doors were visible in front, and behind them there was a large room with many different appliances and two heavy shutters, boxes and crates. There was someone inside, someone's figure was standing at the control panel. A small slap on the shoulder from the incoming Sonic made him flinch slightly, apparently carried away by his work, the unknown did not hear the sound of the doors opening, and he exhaled with relief, slowly turned around. It was Eggman.

"What?!" Tails rubbed his eyes hoping that it was a mirage, but the villain remained standing in his place.

"Scared?" The Sonic asked smiling, but seeing the worried expression on his interlocutor's face, his grin immediately disappeared. "How much time do we have?“.

"Judging by my calculations, a few weeks, no more" Villain answered him, rubbing his misted glasses.

"It was only a matter of time, we prepared as much as we could, we just have to prepare our resources and carefully watch where they appear" Hedgehog said, putting his hands on his waistband and pausing.

"I even prepared a speech" The evil genius said in a joking form. "Do you think it will work this time? Last time we were almost caught, Dusty almost died then, I barely pulled him out of the other world".

"It should work out, we have no other choice, besides, this time we have a trump card up our sleeve. By the way, how is he?".

"In a more or less normal condition, but his implants fail from time to time, so it will not be possible to integrate him into the local society. By the way, are you sure that no one knows about our joint affairs?".

"My partner obviously guesses something, on the way here I found a tracking device in my communicator" He held out his hand with a crushed tracker. "Tomorrow I will have to interrogate him, but still I don't think he will have enough time to find out something. Is there anything else important I should know about?".

"No, nothing... yet".

Okay, then I'm going back, otherwise soon others may also begin to have suspicions about my disappearance" Having said this, Sonic turned around and headed for the exit.

Tails, who was sitting behind one of the boxes, tried to crawl deeper into the darkness so as not to give himself away, but he touched something with his foot. The noise of an overturned object attracts unwanted attention. The hedgehog abruptly turned around and, narrowing his eyes, began to peer into the pile of boxes, trying to find the source of the noise created. Soon his puzzled face was replaced by a satisfied grin.

"You don't have to hide anymore, buddy" His voice tried not to betray emotions, but there were still notes of discontent in it.

Tails kicked the nearest box with all his might and it, pulling everything else with it, fell on Sonic with a crash, which gave him a few seconds to escape.

"Tails, stop!" A strangled voice came from under the pile "You misunderstood everything! Let me explain!".

"Where to run?! Where to hide?!" These questions were hitting on fox head like a hammer on an anvil.

The subconscious made a decision faster than the mind and he quickly ran towards one of the laboratory rooms, jumped over the table and quieted down. From the corridor came the sound of double footsteps, some slow and heavy, others fast and barely audible, which inexorably approached him.

"Don't hide, buddy, no one is going to hurt you! I just want to talk to you" A familiar voice came from the corridor, after which there was an unpleasant lull.

Suddenly, at the very edge of visibility, something flashed and the next second the Tails felt a sharp pain in his neck. He jumped away from the place of the attack and saw Sonic with a satisfied smile on his face. Touching his neck, he found a syringe stuck there and already empty.

"What did you inject me with?!" Tails asked in an excited voice, looking at the syringe, his vision was beginning to lose accuracy.

"Just a little sedative".

His legs went limp and, no longer able to hold his owner, knocked him to the ground, but a blurry figure abruptly moved and grabbed him and prevented a painful fall, turning it into a slow landing.

"Don't worry, buddy, no one's going to hurt you" Tails barely heard these words before finally falling into darkness.

...

...

...

Consciousness returned slowly, heavy eyelids did not allow opening the eyes, the legs did not feel the heaviness and the surface under them, breathing was a little difficult, the limbs did not respond to attempts to move them. A few minutes later, the ceiling lamp turned on, looking around, he realized that he was in a capsule filled with water, his face was covered with protective glasses and an oxygen mask, looking at the sides, he saw the same capsules in which Sonic and Eggman were, with the same masks, but in an unconscious state. At the end of the corridor, a loud creaking was heard, the sounds of footsteps became clearer, a figure covered with darkness stopped at the edge of the light and spoke.

"I'm sorry for having to do this to you, but it's a necessity, we can't let you tell others about it, we still have time to prepare before they arrive".

The unknown came to light. It was Sonic.

"I guess you have a lot of questions. I'll be honest with you, Eggman and I have been friends for many years. No, I am not a traitor or a villain, and he is not one either, we never set out to capture or destroy the planet, it was all just preparation for something much bigger and much more terrible than our staged performance. All these years we have been training and preparing the inhabitants of Mobius for a big war that will soon come to our doorstep, even many years ago it was clear that they would definitely come here as well as in all the past times before, all this was just a matter of time which is almost gone" He was silent for several minutes, giving Tails time to think about what he had heard.

"Perhaps you have already realized that he and I are not from your world, we have been fighting with them for a very long time, but so far without success, and every time we have to escape from the captured worlds and try again in others. This time the fate of yours will be decided. I have already explained to your friends in captivity the purpose of our stay here and now they are waiting in the wings, just like you. However, you will find out about this when the time comes, but in the meantime, have a rest, you're going to miss it soon".

He headed for the exit, a loud creaking was heard, the footsteps finally subsided, after a while the lamp went out and the corridor plunged into darkness, fatigue began to take hold of Tails and he himself did not notice how passed out.

...

...

...

A loud alarm woke him up, and a bright and flickering red light knocked out the remnants of sleep, an inscription appeared on his glass prison: "Protocol activated: Saboteur" after which the water level began to fall. His sensitivity and ability to move slowly returned to him, he took off the mask from his face and looked around. The neighboring capsules were empty, and in the middle of his own, the outline of a quadrangle began to appear, which soon split into two rectangles and in a second dispersed in different directions, opening access to the corridor. There was only one exit, it consisted of heavy shutters, they were ajar and led to a room with a control panel that he had already seen before, there was only one audio file on the monitor called "Play me". Tails turned it on, and his friend's voice filled the room. "If you're listening to this, it means they finally arrived and we had to leave the shelter, we took your Eggman and Sonic with us, they will be more useful on the front line, and yet in a direct combat we are barely able to resist them, but this is enough to distract their attention and the main forces, and this is where you gonna play your role: Since now the shelter is located deep behind enemy lines, you are required to get to their command center and destroy it, there is a crate behind you which contain things that will help in completing this task. And most importantly: Move only in the shadows or at night, be very careful, do not forget to use the devices and do not let them notice you, one glance will be enough for each of them to find out where you are. Don't let us down, buddy, a lot depends on you" The recording went off, leaving Tails alone with what he heard.

"Who are 'they', why me?" His questions risked going unanswered.

Turning around, he saw the said crate with the image of a cross, on which a lock was hanging, but it was not closed and did not prevent the opening in any way. The first thing that caught his eye was an object that looked like an exoskeleton, an inscription was engraved on its back: "Prototype of a heat-insulating and camouflage armor suit, model 14". On the forearm of the left hand there was a small PDA, one with a fire icon and the other with a blurred figure "The user is not detected" read the inscription on the monitor. Some kind of electric gun was fixed on the right hand, when the arm was straightened, it lit up blue, but there was no shot "The target was not detected," the computer reported. Anatomically, this armor perfectly fit Tails, as if it was made especially for him, when putting it on, Tails felt a slight tingling in the back of his head, after which the inscription lit up on the monitor: "Biometric data has been received, all body functions are normal, the active protection system is turned on". In addition, there was an unknown cube-shaped device in the crate, which, by pressing a red button with a fingerprint image, drew its blue, translucent and three times larger copy containing a first aid kit, a week's ration and several items that outwardly resemble explosives with a clockwork mechanism. Also on the bottom was his tablet, but in the once empty slot there was now some kind of card of unknown purpose, the launch of the device was successful and Tails tried to contact Sonic, but the inscription "Connection is impossible, artificial interference has been detected in the network" appeared on the screen, the next second a warning sign lit up "The source of interference is localized" the marker pointed to the nearest city.

"Apparently, in order to talk to Sonic 'live', I will have to deal with this" Tails said, attaching the cube to the side slot of the exoskeleton.

Checking if there was anything else that required his attention and making sure that there was nothing else, he headed for the tunnel leading to the surface. Behind him, due to lack of energy, the control panel turned off, stopping the operation of life support systems.

[uncease]

Resplendent and charming, the City of Liyue reflects the barefaced falsehoods of humankind: a gilded mirage obscuring the filth, the shit that comes with mere existence. Ming Zhe—naive, imperceptive Ming Zhe—believes the lie. The bustling streets, the enchanting nightlife, the exquisite food—even the simple pleasure of watching the sun set over the harbor as the water shimmers like pure gold—all of this, in their resounding splendor, has entombed him completely.

Slumbering beneath the horizon, the sun drains the world of its light, and in the dark ink that spills across the sky, stars appear and disappear as clouds drift overhead. Ming Zhe would be waxing poetic about the sight and its transcendental beauty, were he not preoccupied. He sits at the counter of Wanmin Restaurant, bent over a bowl of spicy noodles, chewing unhurriedly—yet all the more intently, as if, for a moment, all that exists in the world is himself and the noodles. (Of all the pleasures in the world, eating—he thinks—must be the highest among them). Inexplicably, he sustains this inane illusion, only until—

“Most of us end up going out the same way we came in—kicking and screaming. Most of us don’t have the strength—or the conviction. Most of us don’t want to face our fears.” An unfamiliar voice cuts through the membrane of Ming Zhe’s private world. He looks up from his noodles and realizes belatedly that he is no longer the only one at the counter, @hydce’s words still ringing in his ears.

The stranger—a woman—startles him, her striking demeanor and piercing gaze threatening to dissolve him like water with sugar. Though he should, Ming Zhe does not recognize her, but I do. The white mantle of her coat, the teal glint of her bracelet—privately, at the center of my mind, I smile. Ming Zhe inhales a mouthful of spicy noodles, gulping them down (how unbefitting of the lies he has spun about himself), and sniffles—his face turning red from the excess spice he’s consumed all at once—more than he can tolerate.

I spend time pretending, allowing him to recover. Setting down his chopsticks, Ming Zhe coughs into the precious silk of his billowing sleeve, sheepish and self-aware, suddenly reticent in the face of the woman’s scrutiny.

I wonder if she has recognized me, if she merely has her suspicions, or if her presence here and now simply means nothing at all—

“Really? When my uncle passed, he was mostly mumbling and barely moved at all… I always thought he was just an average man, but maybe I misjudged him?”

I let him pause. I let him steep in his own idiocy. Around us, the aureate and deceitful world performs its masquerade, indifferent to the script of our own.

“—Unless you meant it metaphorically… which, in hindsight, seems more likely…”

The woman’s name escapes him, but the Ministry of Civil Affairs floats to his mind. He stares at her with a briefly vapid and self-pitying expression, before it melts to a smile that reaches his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry—I’m making a fool of myself in front of Madam Civil Affairs. Please spare a favor and forget this blunder… Let me save face, just a little!”

His smile and its meekness linger in his voice. I slip away; I become him entirely.

“But may I ask—to what do I owe the pleasure?”

the fountain prompts / accepting.

[buttercup--bee]

Heavy Heart to Carry

Summary: Pretending everything is fine is much harder than it seems. 

Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Female!Reader

Warnings: Heavy Depictions of Trauma; Descriptions of Abuse; First Time Meetings; Dialogue Heavy; Minors DNI;

Main Masterlist ~ Series Masterlist ~ Ao3 ~ Playlist ~ Next

I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.

There's a monster in your bed. 

A creature devoid of compassion. It itches for comprehension of the unknown - what renders firing synapses to a halt. To re-awaken century old fears in the hopes of a collective remedy. That somehow, deep inside a human’s brain, the monster can scoop out what makes humanity primal in everything but genuine empathy. 

That instinct, basic as it is natural to be cruel, a liar, impassive in all things but self interest. The beast at your side, it swallows hope whole, and has become what it hates most. Or perhaps it’d always been like this? Devoted to a system it could not prove existed. Willing to cross lines meant for the sane all for a precious project. 

Yes, it’s a monster that holds you tight, curling his head at your shoulder. The same beast to have knelt on one knee, who had promised safety and deceived you into believing his devotion was for you alone. 

It’d been a beautiful mirage - elegant and propitious and above all else, arduous. He’d let you believe in him, in all he had to offer and more. 

But time has passed, and now you lay in your grave nestled in silk. He tightens his hold subconsciously, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your stomach and just above your rib cage. You’d push him away if you had the strength to. Would’ve wrenched yourself free and fled from this ornate cage of a house. 

Experimentation went on far longer than promised, however, and you ache in every possible sense of the word. Dreary, absent in mind and body; feeling as if you were drifting above your own body. Watching from afar as Jon encases you, buries you beneath heavy bones and sinew. 

An auspicious encounter that you are forced under day and night. He’s been getting soft, lucid amidst his own speculations and tests. Tears of frustration gather at the corner of your eyes - if you weren’t numb, if you could lift even a finger, you’d steal away into the night. 

Why were you condemned to this? What had you done in life that deserved such torment? It's not as if you were a bad person. You attended city council, donated to charity when possible, helped where needed - and you are given a life of cruelty in exchange. 

A great deal of you believes it's your fault. That you’ve done this to yourself. That you gave into devotion and allowed it to blind you from avid truths. 

And God, you’re tired. Exhausted of all your energy, breathing itself has become a strenuous effort. Vision blurring, warm tears lick at your cheeks, chapped lips cracking as you attempt to hold in the sobs. 

He claims to love you. Swears up and down his experiments are for your benefit. To extract your past, to come to terms with it all, to live a life without terror; it is a part of letting go, accepting horror and its place within your mind. That his merciless trials are a kindness, a definitive proclamation of adoration.

This wasn’t love.

You can’t love a man in the dark, nor can he express the same after what he’s done. What he’ll continue to do again and again and again. When it comes down to it, despite all the memories that you hold dear to your heart, his smile, laugh, the rough buzz of his throat when he’d embrace you, how he once looked to you as if you were the only person in the world - that man died. 

Survival isn’t enough anymore. Nor are your hopes that Jon might return to you. 

Eventually, you would have to think of something. A time when you weren’t incapable of simple motor skills. Bidding on your patience for the long haul seemed to be the only decision worth planning. 

Sucking in a deep breath, you hiss at the way it scratches your throat. 

Jon twitches, clinging to you further; a cage, a trap designed to deceive. You decide then that you can do this - that you have to. You’ve already spent two years doing so for him, you could manage twice as much for yourself. 

There is no such thing as choice in this matter. Only survival.

—-

To say Gordon is flabbergasted is an understatement. 

You meet his gaze easily, doing your best to act nonchalant about your return to work despite having been in the hospital only yesterday. 

There’d been a hasty sort of desperation when you’d been discharged. Your doctor suggested you remain on bed rest for another week, but you’d drown in your thoughts. Define miserable, and it still wouldn’t capture what you’d feel if left alone. 

Your only choice had been a simple one. Return to work and ignore all the guilt that had accumulated since witnessing the attack on Gothams public library, the way the dark knight had scowled at you; suspicion, anger, confusion, and what it meant. 

What now resides in Gotham. 

For good reason, of course, as it wouldn’t have been easy to be left to your own devices, let alone your mind. 

Work would captivate you enough to ensure you were properly taken care of. Empty mind means empty concern. Focusing on your job would be far more productive anyways; for the city and yourself. 

That didn’t mean everyone would understand, hence Gordon. His jaw slung open and eyes wide as saucers. 

“Ives, what the hell are you doing here?” said detective grates, confused and unashamed of his obvious chagrin.

“I wasn’t feeling that bad, I -“

Gordon shakes his head, “No, don’t give me an excuse. What you went through…” his brows furrow, frown encapsulating his features. “It was a lot, you should be resting.”

You give a noncommittal shrug, “It was my decision to come back - I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel okay.” 

He glared, and while it is tempered and soft, there is disappointment held there as well. You hold back the urge to roll your eyes, because of course a father of an eleven year old would look at you as such. 

A moment passes, and he sighs. “Fine, fine.” Reluctance etches itself deep inside his timbre, as it does his faltered frame.

Chancing a glance upwards, you capture his frown, the deep intonation of his doubt. It’s carved in the grooves of his features, the rigid lines of posture, and it fills the atmosphere with dread. 

A piece of you, knowing and clear, understands his worry. He is merely a human being concerned for another. That doesn’t ease the growing pit in your stomach, nor the lack of sympathy. Something you’ve conjured once escaping your prison. 

It was needed on the run, to be indifferent was to survive. No donating to the poor, asking for help, gracing those you didn’t know with a proffered hand. The allure of it didn’t outweigh the tragedy if caught. Even now, amidst your identity of a thousand lies, you cannot help but view the comely officer as a trial. 

You want to help, be of service, to be a friend and confidant of his. But that trait faded the longer you were in hiding. Any sort of commitment beyond work was destined for failure. Even if you got along, an acquaintance was all you could ever be. 

Gordon meant well. He always did, and you knew one day he would reach further into Gotham and clean what was left spoiled. Hell, you’d vote for him as commissioner if the damned mayor would focus a little more on the GCPD. 

Given the circumstance however, there is a halt in any elections, no matter how needed they are. The precinct is without a leader, a finger to point in the right direction, someone who can diminish the corrupt. But that doesn’t matter now, not with whom you assume to be wreaking havoc. 

And by God do you hope it isn’t him. That you are merely in the midst of a coincidence and everything will end for the better. 

Daunted, you hastily shut your laptop and crane your head until it hits the back of your chair. Gordon eyes your movement with interest, head tilted in an all too telling sign of worry. Any exclamations you’d given might have just been thrown out the proverbial window, and you both know it. 

Carefully, he takes a step towards you, another, as if approaching a wounded rabbit. It isn’t too far from the truth, as much as you hate to admit it. There are tears in your façade, the sort that ripple and carve a vicious path. How long does it take to hide those? To claim ignorance towards your own distress?

When he’s at your desk, he folds his arms, shrinking in size. You are aware of its objective. To bring you comfort, peace, even if the situation is uncomfortable.

“Why are you here?” he asks again. There is no anger there, nor frustration. Only doubt, retaliation that coats itself in definitive dismay. 

I don’t want to be alone, you think, if I’m alone I won’t breathe, I won’t move - I don’t want that - I don’t want the fear. 

You can't cave, to fall beneath his avid gaze. There is so much concern embedded in his dark eyes. The kind that should be reserved for family. It's warm and caring and you’ve missed that - yearned for any comfort that could be spared for you. A price you’ve paid for years and you’ve become soft and trusting. Something you can’t afford. 

There’s a resolve that consumes you then, it grips at your stomach like a vice. 

You can’t share anything, you won’t. It’s too dangerous. You’ve only known him for a short time, and you’ve let him get far too close to you. His actions prove as much. He has a wife, a little girl, and if Jon really is here - if he knows you’ve made more than acquaintances - you can’t imagine the outcome. 

He’s always been possessive of his experiments.

Perhaps that’s what has you standing, abrupt and agitated. Gordon doesn’t move, he stands his ground despite your glare.

“I’ve told you I’m fine,” gathering some manila folders into your arms, you nod his way, “if you don’t mind, I have to fax these to the mayor’s office.”

He can’t get a word in, for you're already out the door.

—-

Dusk is your least favorite time of day. A shift that consumes Gotham in despair. 

As if the city knows that when the moon rises before the satellite itself is humming, a barely visible glow shining through the storm and smog, that they become more than shadows. More than an addict, an orphan left to the streets, survivors left to fend for themselves.

These people transform into monsters - and you can’t blame them. They struggle day in and day out. Most of their crimes are petty, desperation clawing through a distorted lens. 

Of course, not all of them are cruel. Many hide as well, keep to themselves, as others cling to their bloodied armor of important names and titles. 

Once upon a time, it was Falcone that ruled Gotham. Now it’s Oswald Cobblepot (an eccentric name to say the least), an obviously not dead Maroni, and there are whispers of a man that goes by Black Mask (another crazy name). 

Innocent citizens either hide from those who have joined mobs and gangs alike, or integrate themselves for the promised security it offers. 

Sometimes, even then, you can’t claim any fault on their parts. Despair leads to extremities. 

If those at the top of the food chain actually bothered to give a damn, if they helped, Gotham could become a new city. A metropolis worth investing in. 

It physically pains you to pend on all that could be renewed if those assholes got themselves together and cared. 

It's apparent when displayed on a screen like yours. False smiles and provocative promises everyone knows won’t be kept. And while you might be working, you can multitask - despite being wrist deep in some poor man’s torso - you manage.

Mostly to look out for any signs of who you hope isn’t Jon. A week has passed and nothing has come up. Two parts grateful and one part fraught, you itch for more information. Not that you wish for more blood to be spilled. 

A piece of you wants him to simply show his face, even if that means he’s come to you. It's no coincidence that you’d been attacked in your own place of work - it was targeted. But it's possible that the assault on your person had been premeditated as a warning to the GCPD in general. You clutch to the hope that this monster is someone who might have read Jon’s work. One of those copy-cats you hear about every once in a while - who morph what was said into a far worse conclusion - perhaps even perfected the formula Jon couldn’t complete.

It’s unlikely, obvious and terrifying all at once. Your gut sinks, curdling as if there were a knife lacerating your insides; it does so until you're on the verge of abandoning your work in favor of breathing. 

You start when the door to your office bursts open, fingers flexing in an awful pinch against what you assume is the man's vertebrae. Wincing, you turn towards whomever decided knocking didn’t exist.

Gordon frowns, regret creasing at his brow. “Sorry,” he moves aside at the entrance, allowing another to enter - you freeze, throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

His apology goes in one ear and out the other, your attention focused solely on who has entered. 

Bruce Wayne. 

Only living heir to Gotham’s greatest dynasty, stands beside GCPD’s best detective. He smirks, and while practiced, it is still egomaniac. The sort of curl that grapples your person and dives deeper into the abyss without question. 

What you’ve seen of him on television is varied. Before the flood, the ‘enigmatic’ Bruce Wayne had been a recluse. An heir full of potential that kept to himself. Only after the tragedy the Riddler befell Gotham did he slip from the shadows and expose himself as someone worth keeping an eye on. Someone that may actually have the people's interest at heart. 

When you think of the man, you imagine a ghost of a child - unkempt hair, dark bruises beneath blank eyes, a frown indentured to its master - that is not who stands before you. Frankly, it isn’t what has been displayed for a little while. 

Prince of Gotham. Most eligible bachelor this side of America. His smirks says it all, and yet it is devoid of any interest. Merely curious, you think, bright iris’s scanning your work space with interest. 

He’s clean shaven, hair combed and gelled, and his suit fits him like a glove. Custom tailored no doubt. Hell, even his cologne wafts in with the demand to be seen.

You don’t even realize he’s come to stand before you, not until his large palm is held out in custom pleasantries. 

A moment passes; you twitch, then frantically cover the body beside you and pull your gloves clean off, slathering your hands in soap - and for fucks sake, why is his hand still out? 

You mutter apologies upon grievances, but the man merely taunts you with his smirk. One that has you rushing furthermore in desperation. 

Once you’re finished, you carefully take his hand in yours in a gentle shake. His is one of calluses and dry skin. To think someone as magnetic and powerful as him doesn’t even have a simple skin care routine almost makes you scoff, or laugh, you can’t tell. 

Bruce speaks before you do, deftly sweeping his hand back inside his trousers pocket.

“Detective Gordon says you're Gotham’s finest,” a curl pulls at the edge of his mouth, eyes twinkling brightly amidst the fluorescent lights, “at least when it comes to the dead.” 

Wearily, you glance towards Gordon, who gives a shrug. One that refuses to take fault. 

“That’s very kind of him.” You hum. 

Gordon sets a folder down then. It’s pristine and black, a W embroidered in gold sits centerfold, a spotlight amidst the papers on your desk despite its shade. 

Said detective twists it upright for your convenience, and says, “Mr. Wayne would like to take a look at our facility and…help.” His tone is unsure but hopeful. 

Help? Since when do the rich help? 

Though, you suppose this one has been putting effort into rebuilding Gotham, as well as opening positions within his firm to those on the streets or in dire need of help. Journalists rave over it, practically drooling over the man's newly open persona. 

It’s pretty hard to miss when it's plastered all over the city via magazines, newspapers, and jumbo screens. He’s doing so much, so often, it's hard to think of him as anything but genuine in his efforts. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shuffle towards your desk and lean against its edge. You open the folder and scan its contents. 

You skim over most of it, an intense need to finish quickly nipping at your heels. Were you supposed to sign it? The more pages you flipped through, the less space there was. No designated X, no blank space, only ink declaring offer after offer fills the document. 

Flickering your gaze upwards, you find Bruce is still staring. It isn’t nearly as intense as before, however it never wavers, and that's enough to have you avert your attention back to Gordon. 

“What am I -”

Gordon’s cell interrupts you, its high pitched ring smothering your voice. Even Mr. Wayne’s expression morphs into a grimace. Hastily, he answers, an apology gracing his ever grim features.

He agrees to whatever is being said on the other end, hangs up, and gives you a look that reeks of pity. Your stomach sinks. 

“I’m wanted at city hall,” he grouses something under his breath, rubs at his jaw, and adds “are you alright with finishing this up?” he waves vaguely between you and the man who’d found his way to your mess of a filing cabinet. 

Observing where the stray billionaire had wandered, you turn to Gordon and nod, “Sure, go on ahead.” 

When it's only the two of you left, a viable ache chisels at your stomach, hollow yet swollen. Nerve wracking energy pulses at your flesh, and you refuse to look at the only other body - living body, to be precise - in the room. 

With a sigh, you peer back down at the folder. Wayne Enterprises is laminated in a small, italicized font just below the lone W. 

Perhaps you should go through it again, to ensure you didn’t miss anything of importance. Or you could go over some files, wait for him to ask questions - if he speaks at all. His silence is uneasy, though you have to assume it's only you who feels like this. Most days perturb you, and they have always lacked a notorious billionaire until now. 

It couldn’t be him. It’s just you, only you. 

“Your cabinet is a mess.” 

The occupants' baritone shocks you from your stupor, your eyes flickering towards Mr. Wayne. You find that some have been pulled open, his discretion nonexistent. 

You have to bite your tongue to keep from berating him. Who looks through official files as if it were a library?

“Those aren’t for the public eye, Mr. Wayne.” 

He glances at the open drawers, shrugs, and says, “Bruce.”

“What?” 

“Just call me Bruce,” he stuffs the folders back inside and closes the cabinets, though his attention remains upon your person through his peripheral, “Mr. Wayne is far too formal for my tastes.”

Promptly, and without consideration, Bruce has returned to your desk. He positions himself at the other end of your desk, and yet he manages to make it feel as if he were in your personal space. Breathing down your neck, nagging and yanking at your never ending displeasure. 

You have to remind yourself he’s an appropriate distance away, and make an attempt at a complimentary smile. 

He doesn’t give one in return, narrowing his gaze with little effort, as if wishing for your smile to fade. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t last long.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re happy I’m here.”

You open your mouth to deny his claims, surprise coursing through your mind. 

He holds a hand up, “It’s fine,” rather than sounding annoyed or pompous, he appears genuine when he concludes, “you were in the middle of your job, and I interrupted. I apologize.”

Unknowing of how to respond, you merely nod. What do you do now? Are you supposed to show him around? All there is to show are corpses, the tools you use, and a cabinet he already rifled through. 

Which is highly illegal. Yet he must not have to worry about that. He could simply just pay his way out of the legal system. The real question is if he would? Is he the sort of man to ignore the law so easily, or does he actually abide by it? 

Given his recent actions, you have to ponder on the former. 

The silence is beginning to dig at you, and before you can think of it, you’re already speaking.

“Why are you helping?” there's no masking your suspicion, let alone twisting it around into something else. Your doubt is as plain as day and you can’t take it back. 

Bruce meets you head on; expecting such a question, his ice leaden hue coats itself in a mist, something indiscernible, intangible. 

His posture broadens, shoulders assuming a mass that had previously gone unnoticed. You realize, with hesitation, that he’s a lot bigger than he had let on.

“Why not?” 

It’s your turn to glower, folding your arms you straighten your figure as he had. “So what, you’re helping the GCPD out of the kindness of your heart?” 

“Something like that,” you don’t like that answer, its evident to even the most ignorant that it prickles, a thorn wiggling its way inside your conscience - he smirks again, because of course your suspicion has him bemused, “lets just say I’d rather have good people working to protect Gotham with my help, instead of giving a blind eye and allowing whoever wants to to do it for me.”

Good people. The term sticks with you, it clings like the last note of a song that’ll never leave your head. 

“You mean people like Cobblepot and Maroni?” 

Your lack of censoring seems to catch him off guard, but he nods anyway. 

“Yes, people like them.” Disgust plays at the edges of his rich voice, reviled and recognized all the same. 

You don’t know your co-workers well enough to defend them, let alone declare they’d never work for monsters. But you weren’t blind to the very simple fact, that given the chance, many would take the job happily.

It’s no secret that they pay well for their eyes and ears. Right now, the GCPD is the cleanest it's ever been since you arrived. Gordon always reminds you it was worse, once upon a time, and that you should always safeguard yourself. 

Hell, the only person you trust here is Gordon, and you suppose that's your fault. He’s the only one you’ve bothered to get to know. However, he’s also the only one here who went out of their  way to get you to speak up.

Curious, you prod further, “And you’re the person to do it?” 

“I would like to think so,” 

“Why’s that?” 

Resolve spills over his expression, any sign of playful intentions swept away in its oncoming storm. 

“I’m the only one in power who wants Detective Gordon as Commissioner.” 

Okay, you have to admit, you didn’t expect that. The revelation sheds a new light on the enigma that is Bruce Wayne. It doesn’t take an idiot to know who else he's referring to. Those who even reach the potential influence of Gotham's prince aren’t on top because they’re pure of heart. 

No, they’re omnipotent because they crush whoever gets in the way, and their riches are drowning in the blood of those they sacrifice just for a taste of power.

If Gordon were to become Commissioner, it would be that much harder to pursue the police force as a ‘free-for-all’ market. 

It’s difficult to hide your admiration, and you can’t steal your gaze from him, not this time. He holds it as he does the rest of Gotham; in the palm of his hand. 

“Do you dislike the idea?” he asks, quirking a brow. 

He can’t read minds, you remind yourself, and shake your head. 

“No, just…surprised.”

“I hope it’s because you're satisfied with my answer,” you’re a little taken aback when he admits this, and are diffident towards this unexpected behavior, “and not because you dislike the detective.” 

“No, no!” you immediately urge, “he’s a good man. I can’t think of anyone better suited for the job than him.” 

He smiles, this time it’s genuine, it catches you off guard. “Great minds think alike.” 

You sense it, the conversation coming to an end, and you fiddle with the hem of your jumper - a simple desperation for something to do. 

A beat passes, and when you think it really is over, he speaks once more. 

“May I ask a personal question?” 

Hesitation seems to be your forte today; you grasp for the right words, chest constricting in just the slightest tug. You can’t help but indulge the question, as unexpected as it is, you are a curious being down to your core. It can’t be helped. 

Nodding, you clasp your hands together. 

He looks relieved, you think, a soft composition smoothing over his stern features. 

“Why’d you move to Gotham?” your heart near skips a beat, “it’s no secret this city is a lost cause to many, so why here? Why risk exposing yourself to…its everyday atrocities?” 

Bruce Wayne's sincere curiosity strikes you as mildly inconvenient and absurd. You’re a coroner with absolutely no record in his eyes, no past, and little to no interaction with those who populate the city. Only until recently have you been so deeply involved in Gotham’s unique proceedings.

Without precedence, you retort, “How’d you know I moved here?” 

“Gordon mentioned it.” 

Why is it always him? Masking your disappointment under the guise of neutrality, you hum. 

Bruce waits patiently, much to your disdain. Apparently, this isn’t something he’ll drop. Absently, you wander to your chair and sit down. 

What were you supposed to say? ‘I’m hiding from my ex-husband and Gotham was the best place to do so’? 

You couldn’t admit that. Not to anyone. The less people who knew the better. You didn’t want to even think of what Jon might do if he found out you had ‘accomplices’. 

Settling on an absent lie, you purse your lips. 

“I had a difficult home life,” you exclaim, and it isn’t much of a lie, more so twisted than anything else, “Gotham was the furthest away, I guess.” 

Bruce nods to himself, pensive, and says, “I’m sorry.” 

You shrug, “There’s nothing to apologize for.” 

Before he can find a response, his phone rings. It’s a common jingle, nothing personalized. He answers immediately and steps away. He patiently listens to whoever he exchanges his name with, and hangs up seconds after. 

He beams in your direction, and somehow it appears far more relaxed.

“Duty calls,” he exclaims, “it was a pleasure making your acquaintance doctor Ives.”

You weren’t expecting direct acknowledgment towards your profession, as many in your field of work refuse to. Whether it’s because you’re a woman or someone who examines dead bodies, you don’t know. 

It’s nice to hear, and frankly, he was the last person you’d thought who would. 

Candid and open, you soften; a gentle simper gracing your person. 

“The pleasure is all mine.” 

With a slant of a nod, he leaves. Following his exit wafts a pinch of cedar and bergamot, and distinct notes of sandalwood. 

It’s pleasant. 

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[pirates-pirates-pirates]

The Captains Dead P3

Deuce gets his name at last! Chap 1 Chap 2

Ace x Deuce [one sided] Characters: Deuce, Ace, Marco SFW Word Count: 2,700

Chapter 3: Ignorance is bliss

“A doctor?”

He nodded, Ace laughed, holding his side as he did so, acting as if it was the funniest thing in the entire world. He could see tears forming in the corner of his companion's eyes as he punched the side of the rowboat, a guffaw that lasted longer than he could stand.

“What’s funny about that?” he snapped.

“I saw you about to faint back there! What sort of doctor can’t handle blood?” Ace took a breath, trying to gather air back into his lungs, his laughter had taken control of him.

He pursed his lips together, sitting on his side of the rowboat, balled up and tense whereas Ace was slouched, limbs spread out as he dangled his arms over the side of the boat, careful not to touch the salty ocean water.

“What about you? I thought stories of those touched by the devil were just that, stories. I’d never met someone with a devil’s power before.” He tried to move the conversation on, distracting from his rather, embarrassing backstory.

“Even before I got my powers I knew I wanted to be a pirate. But with my reputation, no one wanted to sail with me.” Ace shrugged, a brief flicker of hurt in his eyes that the other caught deciding against prying into the matter.

“I just got lucky.” Ace hummed bringing his finger up, pointing to him and pretending to fire a pistol, complete with a kapow sound with his mouth.

A flame flicked from his fingertip swaying in the early morning air. The way Ace’s flame danced had him caught in a trance. It was the most beautiful flame he’d ever seen, different from any fire he’d seen before. Maybe it was his bright personality that made the flame brighter.

“I heard you can’t swim, that the ocean hates people like you.”

“Yeah, that part’s real.” Ace brought his finger to his lips, blowing out the flame.

“Why a pirate then? If the entire ocean wishes to take you back to the devil himself, surely you should stay on land?” he drummed his fingertips on his knees, watching Ace as he sat up, leaning forward and peering at him from under his hat.

“You’d think that right? truth is, it makes people like me more determined. If the entire world hates us and the ocean wants us all dead then surely the answer is to keep living. Spite and desire run through us.”

“Us?”

“Pirates! Outcast and hated for who and what we are, add being a devil on top of that.” Ace shrugged his shoulders.

Ace was hard to read he’d decided. So many emotions flowed through him, every facial expression either honest to the core or a mirage of mirth and mischief that hid deep pain, hurt that scarred his heart.

One day – maybe – he would open up. But for now, he was content to just be in the presence of Ace. Another thing he’d noticed about him was he hated to be left in silence for too long, he ran from shadows and hid from demons that lurked in the shadows of his head. 

The need to talk, to be heard wasn’t rudeness, wasn’t an egotistical streak that ran a mile wide, no. He recognized it for what it was. Distraction.

“What's your name then?”

“Ah, well.” It was his turn to feel watched, to have his every movement analyzed as he glanced off to the side, watching the sun start to climb the sky, watching as the orb far off in the pastel-shaded horizon began its day.

“My name died when I left.”

“Oh, that’s dramatic like something out of a romance novel.” Ace said an airy sigh, a smile on his lips as he watched his companion.

“Well, I want to write a book about my adventures as a pirate..” he replied, his eyes still focused on the distance, ignoring the inquisitive eyes of Ace that focused solely on him.

“Writers need names.”

Oh he hated the matter-of-fact tone in Ace’s voice, he was right though, he knew that. He nodded his head in reply, playing with one of the buttons on his coat, fidgeting as he tried to battle his nerves, he hated that he could still be such an awkward person. He remembered his mother and father talking about him in hushed tones, hoping he would grow out of it.

“Hey, here, with me.” Ace clicked his fingers.

His vision came back into focus, brought back from vanishing into his head, the habit of disassociating and being swept up in his own lament was something he still struggled with. Turning to Ace he blinked a few times.

“Yes, your right, I just, haven’t thought of one yet…”

“Deuce.”

“I’m sorry what?” he asked squinting at Ace.

“Deuce, because it means two, and I’m Ace which means one.” Ace concluded with a nod of finality.

“Why am I number two?” he snorted, arms folded over his chest as he quirked a brow.

“I was the first member of my crew and your my second, makes sense right?”

He didn’t argue, he didn’t utter a word. The sun climbed higher in the morning sky and Deuce for once felt a calmness wash over him.

--

Deuce was thankful Ace had the forethought to pack a bag with supplies for when he literally jumped ship. Stale bread and stagnant water, the meal of champions. Getting to the next island had been easier than anticipated with the devil's power that flowed through Ace.

The rowing had been a strain on his arms, not used to hard work, he would never admit that to his captain. Ace had been the voice of reason, insisting they couldn’t use his power too close to an island, he didn’t want to get recognized for it, something that needed to be guarded closely, something only the two of them could know.

He’d told Deuce no one on the crew had even an inkling he was something more than a runty snot-nosed youth. He’d told them he couldn’t swim and that had been the end of it. They never even questioned the nights he’d have nightmares and set fire to his room at random intervals.

They’d assumed he had issues, something not right in the head and he’d enjoyed starting the fires in bouts of fever for a twisted amusement. Whatever kept them off his case, kept them thinking he was more devious than he was, something that would keep grabbing reaching hands away from him.

The reputation of a pyromaniac suited him better than the fodder of ill-intended desires of his peers. 

Ace looked around the town, bustling with life, people from all around the world ducking in and out of the stores, the streets heaving with traders, buyers, and sellers all alike.

Deuce had never seen such a spectacle in his life, his eyes wide as he was jostled and shoulder barged by those who didn’t have time for his bewildered wonderment as they went about their day trying to make coin, find the best deals, and of course, snatch an unwatched purse.

Ace found himself smiling as he watched Deuce stumble behind him, everything was new to his first mate. The closest thing Deuce had seen to this was the weekly market he would sneak off to see, that was how he got all his books about pirates and giants.

“Did you hear about the doctor that can cure anything?” a passerby asked, amazement in their voice.

Deuce turned to face Ace who was already looking at him, both intrigued with the offhanded comment said to another in passing gossip. Ace adjusted the bag on his shoulder as they walked ahead, the confidence he exuded versus the hunched and awkward posture of Deuce was noticeable, men would get out of Ace’s way whereas Deuce was growing weary of being barged each time someone passed.

“A doctor who cures anything huh?” Ace rubbed his chin.

“Could they be like…. You?”

“It has to be. I can’t explain it otherwise,” Ace shrugged in reply.

The deeper they got into the marketplace, sounds taking over, mingling and overwhelming senses, the smells of meat cooking over the open fires filling their noses. The yelling of trades and the merry jingles attached to passing horses flowed freely through the air as the two pirates walked.

“Yeah, he’s a miracle worker!” another comment caused Deuce’s attention to peek.

He nudged Ace and nodded his head to the woman carrying a basket of fresh vegetables who stood there with a man carrying a large stack of wood. Talking about the doctor with bustling excitement, gushing about the man in earnest. Chattering and clucking about the marvels this miracle man could perform.

Deuce was skeptical and refused to believe such a person existed, it had to be someone like Ace. He watched as Ace approached the two, bowing his head, tipping his hat, a charming smile on his face, eyes crinkled with fondness, the cheerful expression could charm death himself into forgiving him of all his trespasses.

“My dear, this doctor you mention, where could I find him?”

“Oh, I..” she was flustered, unable to tear her gaze from his boyish good looks, almost dropping the turnip she was passing to her companion. “W-well, he’s hard to miss, he wears bright colours, hair yellow like the sun, he doesn’t seem real.”

He sounds like a fraud Deuce thought to himself, hands in his pockets as he watched Ace work his magic with the stranger, the way she stared at Ace’s bare chest didn’t escape Deuce's notice, a pang of jealously bloomed in his chest, unsure why just another feeling he didn’t have control over. One of the many scrambling scurrying thoughts that occupied his constantly busy mind.

“I think he’s still by the fountain helping those in need.” The man finally speaks up.

“For free?” Deuce butted in, Ace giving him a look, wondering where he was going with his line of questioning.

“Nah, he’ll charge ya but it's worth it. He healed my arm completely!”

There it was – a charge, a fee – he was sure this doctor was nothing more than a conman. They headed in the direction pointed, a mumbled thanks as they weaved in and out of the crowd, Deuce following close behind Ace, people moving out his way.

Ace, amused that he was being used as a human shield just chuckled and picked up his pace, excited to see what this doctor had to offer, what sort of person was this miracle granter? He was brimming with excitement while his accomplice scowled in thought behind him.

“Doctor! I’ve had this bad knee for a week now, anything you can do for it?” a man with a leg bandaged, limping towards the clearing that had gathered a sizeable crowd asked, pleaded of the benevolent healer.

Deuce peered around Ace, seeing the scene unfold. The injured man leaned against the fountain, the rays of morning sunlight reflected off the water beautifully, a spray of water sprinkled behind the performance giving off an atmosphere that the audience drank up with giddy glee and naivety that was obvious to anyone with the impulse to fleece and to lie.

The doctor as the people called him was tall, lean, more muscle than a doctor should have in Deuce’s honest opinion. A crop of messy blond hair sat on an otherwise bald scalp,  reminiscent of a pineapple he thought, focusing his judgemental stare on him.

A purple shirt that stood out from everyone else's drab wear, a teal sash, golden belt looped haphazardly across his waist. Long legs in fitted trousers, no sign of a weapon at his side. That was what made Ace tilt his head, a man who was known to be a healer making money should surely be armed to the teeth and yet the blond stood there in his bright colourful finery.

“What a show-off, reminds me of a peacock.” Duece snorted, far less impressed with the fake than Ace was.

“Hmm are you saying he’s pretty? Because I think I agree.” Ace smirked when he heard a scoff and a snort.

They watched on as the doctor held out a pouch and jingled it, enticing the injured man to drop a fistful of coins into the growing collection, the clinking of a good amount of coin drawing attention. Closing the bag and attaching it to his waist once more the doctor wore a lopsided grin, his half-lidded eyes taking in the sight of his patient.

“I don’t trust him, he looks full of himself,” Deuce mumbled, a whine in his voice as tugged at Ace’s arm, trying to pull him away from the crowd, suddenly regretting his desire to check out the boastful claims.

 Ace stifled his laugh, amused at how much Duece had decided on a whim he hated the stranger with the gift. The blond leaned down, his hands grasping the injury, everyone leaned in, bated breaths, preparing to witness a miracle. Blue – beautiful blue – glowed from his hands.

Fire? That had Ace’s attention, Deuce knew it, that was someone with a devil's power. He tsked at the knowledge. So he was selling his power? Making money from his curse? Was he jealous, impressed, or astounded in the sheer cheek of it? 

He could tell Ace was impressed, the fact the blue flames were similar to his power had the smile on his face growing, his eyes following the doctor's hands with rapt attention.

Shimmering sapphire flames licked across the injury, the man being healed closed his eyes, letting out a sigh as the cooling sensation eclipsed the pain, chasing it away and leaving nothing but relief.

“How does that feel yoi?” the blond asked, lifting his hands from the other.

“I- I don’t feel pain! You did it! You cured me!” the once injured man clapped his hands together, the look of admiration on his face as tears welled up, he grabbed the blond's hands and kissed them, sobbing his thanks over and over, others clapping and cheering.

Oh, he could have thrown up how ridiculous these people eating from his hand, lambs to the slaughter, idiots joining the cult of the damned. Deuce shook his head once more, why were all these people so taken with him? He blinked in disbelief when Ace started to clap, joining in the applause with vigor.

“Fuck sake, you too?”

“Aw come on, I know we know the reason he can do that but it’s still such a good power, right?”

A roll of his eyes and another shake of his head, blue locks swaying with the motion, he was glad Ace at least saw the blond for what he was, and that wasn’t a fucking God. He was a devil just like the rest cursed to never grace the pirate's graveyard.

The doctor bowed, a lazy smile that Deuce took as pure unbridled self-confidence, he excused himself, claiming he was tired and needed to rest his gift so he could heal the masses tomorrow. Deuce wished he could through a stone at him. Knock him down a peg.

“Let's get something to eat, I think you need it.” Ace said, slinging his arm around Deuce's shoulder pulling him down, pressing his cheek against his, the close contact sending fire through the Deuce,  blush returning to his face.

“How did you get money?” Deuce mumbled the question as he side-eyed Ace.

“I staged a mutiny, do you think I’m the sort of person who’d withstand stealing to get by?” he chuckled and slapped Deuce on the back, dropping his arm and sauntering ahead.

Ace could say those things all he liked, he could pretend he did everything for his own gain, but Deuce could read him like a book, he could tell the troubled thoughts that plagued him, how guilt in his actions would dog him down. He could see the smile a little less bright, less vivid in the colours of his usual joy when he recalled those he’d stepped on to get where he was.

Guilt.Deuce had a feeling Ace was someone who felt guilt at every turn, guilt for the past, for his name, for just being. Maybe he wasn’t the only complete mess out of them.

[angelatmidnight1]

Give Me A Reason (part 3)

Happy Friday! This is a part of the ‘reasons why a Legend would tickle you’ headcanon that I got a while ago. This one features Seer and Wattson. The Wattson ones are gonna be very similar to the general tickle headcanon I made for her, but that’s okay. I hope you like these. 🙂

Seer

Obi finds beauty in all facets of life, especially in the strange and unusual. 

But, he also appreciates the simpler things in life.

The sound of birds chirping in the morning, the hum of people in a crowded shopping center, and…

Laughter. It's like music, and each one has its own unique quality to it.

To him, laughter is an expression of the heart and soul.

He’s seen firsthand that laughter makes the heart soar.

So when he hears you cackle at Mirage’s really clever, but really lame pun, he offers a genuine compliment.

“Your laughter is exquisite, my friend. Like the call of a songbird.”

If you’re shy about your laugh, expect compliments and encouragement to embrace its cadence.

If you’re not, he will mention that he hopes to hear more of it.

Either way, you should expect to laugh more in his presence.

Seer is a master in theatrics; everything from the way he moves to what he wears is captivating.

So, if he catches you looking at him, he’ll smile and beckon for you to come closer.

“Enjoying the view? I suspect that you would like it even more up close.”

If you look away from him, even for a second, he’ll create a single micro drone butterfly to flutter by your neck.

When you flinch and look at him, he’ll give you a knowing smirk.

“Biko, keep watching. I do my best work with a captive audience.”

If he is dancing, he’ll extend a hand and ask you to join.

Don’t worry about having two left feet; Obi is a patient teacher.

“You move beautifully. I just wonder if we can get you to smile, somehow…”

That’s when the realization kicks in, but Obi has already pulled you against him, so he can feel your beating heart.

His tickles are gentle, but precise.

And just like an artist, he switches up his style, ranging anywhere from kneading to poking.

He’s a tease through and through, but he’ll whisper them in your ear.

“Ah, there is it. The finishing piece.”

He’ll pretend to be confused when he finds a really ticklish spot.

“Not here? Why not, my friend? You make the most wonderful sounds when I stroke here.”

Drawing is another passion of his, and the human body is the best canvas.

He’s more than happy to draw on anyone, but he offers this to you on a regular basis.

I wonder why?

He uses all mediums, but he especially likes paint and fine point markers.

He’ll tut and put a hand out to steady you as you squeal and laugh.

“Hold still, my friend. I am almost finished.”

But, that’s the third time he’s said that, and those gentle touches really tickle.

And he’s 100% aware of it.

Wattson

“My squad is my family.” Natalie is the pure embodiment of this statement.

Inside the games, she will fight with her whole being.

But once they’re over, she looks at the Legends as her extended family.

A family that laughs together stays together, right?

Puns are her specialty, but they’re not her only weapon.

Imagine lounging in the dropship, watching a funny movie, when Natalie turns towards you with a mischievous glint in her eye. 

“Hey (Y/N)~. Are you ticklish?”

If you say no, be prepared to prove it and get punished for lying. 

If you say yes, get ready to laugh. 

If you don’t say anything?

“Hm, I think you’re short circuiting. Here, let me help!”

Any response you choose will result in you laughing a lot. 

Natalie is a very playful ler and is the bonafide tickle monster of the Outlands.

Seriously, none of the Legends are safe from her.

You’re even more likely to get tickled if you’re quiet and/or shy.

Nat just wants to be there for others just like the Legends were there for her, and the best way is tickling them silly laughing and bonding after games.

“Did you know that laughter is the best medicine? I’m no doctor, but I’d say you could use more than haha-lf a dosage. Get it?”

Nat loves a chase; how’re you gonna run from the daughter of the man who designed the entire ring?

“Where’re you going, mon ami? You can’t hide! I know these areas like the back of my hand.”

She’s not fast like Octane, but she’s strategic; she’ll chase you into places where there’s no way out. 

Then, she’ll pretend to feel bad for you as she approaches with wiggling fingers. 

“Aw, (Y/N). I believe you’re trapped, non?”

She’ll have the biggest, cheekiest grin on her face as she backs you into a corner. 

“Natalie, don’t do this…”

Her hands would stop literally centimeters away from you, and she’d cock her head to the side.

“Who’s Natalie? That isn’t my name. I’m the ....”

Wait for it.

“TICKLE MONSTER!”

Nat’s stronger than she looks and can most likely keep you pinned down on her own. 

But she isn’t above using static electricity to keep you in place. 

She goes to town on her victims, but she keeps it fun. 

She’ll be so happy if she can get a squeal or a snort out of you. 

And chances are, she can. 

She’ll tease you six ways to Sunday.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle!”

“Your laugh is so cute!”

“Hey, what tickles more? This, or this? …I can’t understand you, speak clearly!”

Every now and then, she’ll have an evil streak.

If you ever say her puns are subpar, you’re in big trouble.

You’ll be crying laughing by the time she’s done.

When she’s done, she’ll let you know that she’s still your friend by hugging you tight.

“Okay, I forgive you, (Y/N). That’s what friends are for.”

[ichorai]

the golden daggers ; j.yh

pairing ; enemy!yunho x princet!reader

summary ; in which your kingdom is destroyed, and you come across a soldier from the enemy realm in the forest.

words ; 1.7k

warnings / includes ; mentions of death and weapons but nothing graphic, yunho being a lil shit but also being a softie </3

a/n ; here's my second drabble for @ficscafe's royalty drabble event !! fyi for those who don't know, princet is a gender-neutral term for prince / princess ! i might be turning this into a full-fledged fic, who knows 👀 special thanks to @minghaofilm and @subways-stuff and @gyukult for reading through and tolerating my onslaught of frustrated rambles <33

The brisk morning air whistled past you, brushing against your skin in a wintry kiss. With muted footsteps, you stepped over the forest foliage, gentle and cautious. You lifted your sleek wooden longbow, keeping the feather-tipped arrow nocked. Just in case.

In times like this, you couldn’t be more careful. There could be traps anywhere.

Your kingdom had only just collapsed yesterday. To be quite frank, you had no idea what you were going to do. Where was a royal princet to go once everything you knew burned to the ground?

The memory of smoke and flames still played vividly in your mind, a staggering mirage of harsh ambers and furious carmines and sooty blacks. The smell of death had filled your nostrils, slowly seeping into you, wrapping its grimy dark fingers around your heart as you sobbed over what you lost.

Death had poisoned you, and you just barely managed to pull away before it could see you choke.

That was last night. Today was going to be different. You had nothing left to lose now.

“Your Highness,” a voice rumbled from behind a nearby tree. With your heart thudding angrily against your ribcage, you swiveled around on your heels, watching the man stride out of the shadows with open arms. “Though, just how high could a princet be without their kingdom, hm?”

This man, evidently, was a soldier of your kingdom’s worst rivals. You could tell by the glimmering silver medallion he bore on his jacket, their intricate insignia etched precariously into the metal. Wars were fought for centuries, and thousands of battles found your nation victorious and proudly arrogant. Until… well, until last night.

You wouldn’t be surprised if you were the last survivor of your kingdom.

Without giving it a second thought, your pinched fingers let go of the arrow’s feather-tip end. It sailed through the short distance between the two of you with a resounding hiss, slicing through the air like a hot knife through butter.

A tumultuous concoction of apprehension and awe roiled about you as you watched the man pull two gold-encrusted daggers out of their scabbards, side-stepping at lightning speed and cutting down your arrow as if it were paper.

You paused for just a millisecond, before reaching behind for your quiver, grappling for another arrow. What a fool you were, thinking you could beat him in a game of speed. In just a blink of an eye, he stood in front of you, the cool metal of his dagger rested gently against your jugular. One wrong move, and you would be dead in a matter of minutes.

“I’m Yunho,” he murmured with a sinister grin, blowing a strand of dark hair away from his narrowed eyes. He practically towered over you, glancing down with a mischievous glint in his gaze.

You didn’t bother to grace him with a response, muscles frozen in place.

“Are you afraid of me, Your Highness?” He attempted once more, leaning down slightly to meet your angry stare. “I won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me. Drop your bow.”

With a gentle huff, you slowly moved your hand away from the quiver, coming to slowly wrap around the wrist that held the dagger against you. It pained you to see that your own fingers were trembling uncontrollably. Were you afraid? You couldn’t quite tell. Yunho watched you with a strange look of curiosity, his pupils flitting from your ashen face to your nimble fingers, wondering just what you were planning to do next.

And that was when you jerked your head away, keeping his wrist still with an iron-grip, taking advantage of his momentary surprise. You hooked your leg around his buckling knees, shoving him backwards. Yunho fell onto the damp leaves of the forest floor with a pained groan.

Though he was a giant of a man, you managed to kick the daggers across the damp forest foliage, toeing them farther and farther away from his reach and pinning his hands above him as you situated yourself just above his hips.

“My, my,” Yunho crooned breathlessly, chest rising and falling just centimeters away from yours. “Never thought I’d be in a position like this with a princet of the enemy kingdom. You smell better than I expected. Is that fougère I detect? A hint of honeyed-peach eau, perhaps? Forgive me, it’s hard to tell underneath the stench of burnt fabric, Your Highness.”

“Shut up!” Were the first words you managed to snarl out. “You… you took everything from me.”

“And we had nothing to begin with, princet,” he murmured coolly from beneath you, regarding you with a well-hidden anger broiling in his narrowed gaze. It took all you had in you not to pummel your fists against his perfectly sculpted features. “Are you going to kill me? If so, I ask you to do it quickly. You don’t quite strike me as the torturing type.”

There was a tense pause lingering between the two of you as you huffed out a small breath, hanging your head in shame. It almost physically pained you to let go of his wrists as you clambered off of his larger frame.

“Thank you,” he said.

You remained silent, a frivolous symphony of death wailing into your ears. If you let him go now, you’d be a goner. And despite that, you knew that you hadn’t the courage to end his life.

After all… he had every right to be angry.

You curled your hands up into tight fists, balling up the wet leaves of the forest floor. Yunho watched you with bated breath, arching his eyebrows. “You know I have to take you in, right? You’ll be a prisoner for the rest of your life.” His question was asked softly, tentative. You were no longer the villain he thought you were.

“I know.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

Swallowing around your clogged throat, you bobbed your head once more. “I know.”

The two of you pushed yourselves off the damp floor. After you grabbed your longbow, he snagged his daggers (kicked an impressive distance away), then the two of you proceeded to stride through the forest in unvocalized tandem. Several times, he pried his lips open to say something, but promptly snapped his jaw back shut, a bashful expression gracing his features. You weren’t entirely sure where he was taking you, but you doubted that it’d be anywhere good for you. You could already picture the musty cell they’d throw you in.

Following several tepid seconds, Yunho spoke up to ask with a slight air of curiosity, “you had a chance to be free. Why didn’t you take it?”

You winced slightly, fiddling with the notched wood of your longbow. “I have nothing left, Yunho. What’s the point in running?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed uneasily. A gentle breeze ran through the trees, tousling the withered foliate hanging on the gnarled branches. Bits of dead canopy fluttered downwards. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a browning leaf catch against the strands of your hair, a minute frown marring your lips. You reached upwards to pluck out the weather-beaten frond, flicking it away in the midst of your silent brooding.

“Stop,” he commanded after a moment’s hesitation, lifting an arm to your abdomen to halt you mid-step. “I can’t… I can’t do this. You have to go.”

Incredulity seeped into your voice. “What?”

In frustration, the giant of a man carded his hands through his ink-hued locks, screwing his eyes shut.

“Yunho—!”

“I’ll pretend like I never saw you. Please, just go. Get on a boat and sail far away from here.” He paused to unsheath one of his gold-encrusted daggers, glinting almost maliciously against the filtered sunlight. You had to hold in a gasp when he held the hilt out to you, gesturing for you to take it. “I hope to never see you again, princet.”

With nimble hands, you slowly curled your fingers against the handle, the cut-jagged gems cold against your skin. You twirled the blade with surprising agility, and Yunho almost found himself grinning at your natural talent.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you letting me go?” You couldn’t help but be slightly suspicious.

Yunho refused to meet your gaze, shame sitting heavily on his shoulders. “I… I don’t want to hurt you. I wasn’t lying when I said that before. You lost everything, and it’s my Kingdom’s fault. My people are proud, and they don’t want to admit when they’re wrong. For that, Your Highness, I’m sincerely sorry. I just… I don’t want to be the reason you’re rotting away in prison.” One of his hands reached out to grasp yours, laying his warm palm over both the dagger and your knuckles. You almost flinched backwards, eyeing him warily. “If you head far enough east to where no soul knows of ridiculous trivialities like Kingdoms and royalty lines, you can… you can start over. No titles, no responsibilities, no ties. I’m giving you a chance to leave behind your bloody past. You’ll be safe. Or, as safe as one can be in these times.”

When he slipped his hands away from yours, you could almost feel all of his warmth pull away. Reality seemed to sink into your consciousness, and you also staggered backwards, sucking in deep breaths of cold forest air.

“Thank you, Yunho,” you whispered, clutching his dagger and your bow. “I won’t ever forget about this.”

He dipped his head just slightly, the smallest of smiles quirking his lips upward. “Have a safe journey, princet. I know I said I hoped I’d never see you again, but… I don’t think it’d be too awful, would it?”

“Far from awful, soldier.” You were pleasantly surprised to find genuine mirth coloring your words.

You were well aware of Yunho’s gaze piercing holes into the back of your neck. There was a queer concoction of relief and dread roiling about in your stomach. Nonetheless, you swiveled on your heel, thumbing the grooves and bumps of the sleek dagger he had given you, striding away from the enemy who let you go.

[aetheternity]

i got a request! which i do hope you like since it took a while for me to think of ejdj:

so hc’s for Levi and/or Mikasa ahsjd

they wasn’t there to protect you. They felt so stupid and useless. They couldn’t hold in their tears. you were gone. They couldn’t hold you in their arms. He couldn’t laugh at your stupid jokes. you were the heart of the survey corps. Now that you’re gone, the survey corps went all dull and colorless. They would curl up into a ball in their bed (which Levi has for some reason idk why, and if you’re wondering, no mikasa and levi don’t share a bed wtaf👩🏼‍⚖️👩🏼‍⚖️👩🏼‍⚖️) and think about their favorite moments with you. He would remember you fall down into a hay stack and that you would immediately laugh after. They would remember you falling asleep while reading a book with them. they would remember all that. weeks go by and you were still gone. The survey corps was still colorless and dull. There were many still crying after you ‘death’. But on the 18th week you were gone. it turns out. you weren’t dead. The survey corps were on an expedition, they had no expression on their face after your ‘death’ .. they still couldn’t get over the fact that you were dead. Oh they missed you so much .. but their sadness faded when they saw you, alive, hiding in a bush. now that the survey corps has found you. There was color and happiness once again.... // i hate this plot but it was all i got

(My last two requests have been angst so I would genuinely like to ask from the bottom of my heart. Are y'all ok????)

Word of warning: Angst, Missing reader (found)

Mikasa

•She had always assumed the most painful thing in the world would be losing either Eren or Armin. (Or both!) She'd already lost her mother and father but losing you was like a whole other level of painful.

•She'd always seen life as both beautiful and cruel but right now it just felt cruel. Like someone had stripped the world of its color.

•Keeps every single thing that you've ever given her or held in her bed under her blanket so she can hold it at night in a little pile.

•Cries while rereading the last chapter you bookmarked in your favorite book that was always on her nightstand. (Definitely reads it every night before going to sleep)

•Armin and Eren's moods are also drastically effected. People you probably didn't even know were coming up to Mikasa with condolences.

•If you had a living family all of your belongings that Mikasa didn't possess would go to them. But if you didn't Mikasa would add it to the growing "shrine" for you.

•They hadn't found your body and a part of Mikasa had held on so strongly for the first couple weeks that you could be alive but the surrounding area had been titan city and they found your horse without you.

•Mikasa would retell every memory she has of you to Eren and Armin (sometimes to anyone who will listen).

•She doesn't want to look like she's dying inside but she is and literally everyone can tell. (The entire Survey Corps seems to be mourning for weeks with her.)

•When she thinks no one's paying attention or when she's alone is when she'll really give in. Hugging her knees, pretending it's you and just rocks back and forth with deep heavy sobs.

•Around week 18 when the search had been completely given up on and everyone had begun to live normally again (aside from Mikasa.) There you were, in a bush.

•Jean had been the one that found you. Breathing, slumped back against a tree and behind a bush.

•Somehow you'd survived and here you were like a mirage. Except-

•Alive.. real. So so very here.

•Mikasa was already tearing up as she pressed a finger over your pulse. Then pulled you forward into her lap. Your body a little pale, but warm.. so so warm like it'd been every night she'd ever held you.

•Remember in S1 when Mikasa was holding Eren after he emerged from the titan and she put her head up to his chest then cried as she held him? That's you and her rn.

•Girl's sobbing so loud she's attracting the other Survey Corp members that had come out beyond the walls.

•Everyone else starts to tear up too as she just rocks you and cries into your dirty shirt.

•You can bet she's not letting you go either. "We need to put them in the wagon Mikasa. They need treatment as soon as we get back." Cool. She's got you in her lap, arms around your waist.

•Over her dead body will you separate her from you especially in this state. She's combing your hair back with her fingers, placing a hand over your heartbeat and sighing sweetly as she listens to your pulse.

•Please don't take them away that's my emotional support human. 🥺

•You can bet she's gonna follow you around like she's surgically attached until she feels like you're genuinely ok and that you're not gonna leave her again.

•Know that she does it because she loves you.

Levi

•Everyone else is balling their eyes out over your death. You've even got some of the toughest looking men in the Survey Corps balling like little kids.

•He's not though.

•At least not during regular business hours.

•Alone at night in his room he's got your favorite book in his arms. Tears spilling over his cheeks with little sniffles as he holds the pillow you love alongside your book.

•He makes your favorite tea every morning and places it on your side of the table before remembering but he can never bring himself to drink it or throw it out so it just sits there till someone else gets rid of it.

•Your laugh never leaves his mind. In fact it practically haunts him. He's all alone but there's that sound. It's always you.

•He's lost so many people but the first week you were missing he refused to believe it. He's a little harsher in his words as he speaks to people for that whole week.

•You can't possibly be gone..

•He finally stops making an extra cup of tea for you and when he does the normal chores he stops saying he's doing your chores.

•To everyone else it just seemed like Captain Levi was being Captain Levi. But to Hange and Erwin they could see the slight difference. (I'm betting Erwin is the one who throws out the extra cup of tea Levi made every morning.)

•On the 18th week of you being gone a cadet comes yelling boisterously. Panting as they try to speak. "Captain! We found something!"

•When Levi sees you something swells in him. His heart is beating a mile a minute. Erwin is holding you and for a split second Levi's resolve slips and he's down on his knees next to Erwin.

•"Are-Are they?.." Erwin nods. "They're alive, Levi."

•He doesn't let you out of his sight for even a split second. He's riding a horse next to the cart you're kept in all the way back home. He's in your hospital room every free minute he has. He's fluffing your pillows every night and placing your favorite book in your arms.

•He made you tea even though you're not awake to drink it 🥺

•Holds your hand and stares at your still face for hours.

•Probably cries late at night when everyone is definitely asleep. Whispering soft, You're ok.. you're ok's Next to your ear.

•Listens to your heart beat because he'll never get tired of it.

•He's so mean once you're awake. He's probably forcing you to take on more work but know it comes from a good place.

•Don't ever do that shit again. But with his frowny pout that's too cute to look at.

•Please don't leave him again. You're one of the few things he has left.

[yujikuna]

when the night is over

summary: bucky comes home to you after a long mission

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 2k

warnings: fluff, angst, and like two lines of smutty action

a/n: i always said i would never post my stuff on tumblr, but here i am. also, i’m sorry in advance. inspired by when the night is over by lord huron.

The white house across the field is illuminated like a mirage in the desert. The scene is picturesque in the way that dawn has begun to take over the sky, and the large willow tree that sits by the pond east of the house flutters in the breeze.

Every light is on, and the sconce above the front door is lit as a silent invitation for him to enter. Small lanterns line the path leading from the driveway to the porch, beckoning him forward.

He strips himself of his gear before he ascends the porch steps. There was no place for it there. This was holy ground not meant to be tainted by the dirt and blood caked on his soles and his heart. Each piece he takes off feels like a layer of skin being pulled back until he is left with only a bruised and tattered soul longing for solace. His boots are left in the yard.

The second step creaks under his weight and the rusted hinges of the screen door screech when he opens it. He would have liked to remember to fix them later, but all of his worries and responsibilities are forgotten as soon as he steps over the threshold into the metaphorical Eden that he shares with you.

There’s no need to knock. This is their sanctuary. A safe haven far, far away from the terrors of the world.

“Bucky? Is that you?”

Of course it’s him. It’s always him. No one else knows that this place exists.

His bare feet pad across the cold hardwood, following your voice and the smell of breakfast to the kitchen. It makes him think of someone else, someone older with blue eyes and brown hair like his who sang as they cooked and made him their certified taste-tester. But the thought is fleeting, and he pushes it away.

You’re a vision standing there in front of the stove. A dream. But you have to be real. There’s no way a man as twisted as he could ever create something as ethereal as you.

Bucky takes a moment to watch you. You’re humming and swaying to the song coming from the radio sitting by the window as you flip blueberry pancakes and sizzling bacon and stir scrambled eggs. He can’t see your face from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t need to.

He’s happy. He’s so utterly, devastatingly, happy that he can’t contain everything he feels within his cracked heart and has to let it pour out of him. Has to let it go wherever it can find a home. It always ends up finding its home with you.

He found his home with you.

He doesn’t think twice as he crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your hair, the strong scent of your shampoo tickling his nose. His titanium hand grasps your hip as his flesh one gathers your hair to push it over your right shoulder. You let out a soft sigh when you feel the tip of his nose trace a line from your shoulder up your neck, ending with a kiss behind your ear.

“If you want breakfast you’ll stop while you’re ahead, Sarge,” you tease. You don’t move away, though, just close your eyes and tilt your head back to rest on his broad shoulder.

“Don’t need food,” Bucky says, the words muffled by your neck. “Just need you.”

The song changes, slightly more up-beat than the one before, but he just presses his chest closer to your back. He feels seventeen again, swaying with you to the mellow jazz in the background. The hand that was holding your hair trails down your side, stops to give your hip a little squeeze, and then continues its journey to your leg.

His calloused palm is rough against the soft skin of your thigh. A hum falls from your lips when his fingertips dance across the peach fuzz there, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It travels upwards again, but stops at the delicate hem of silky fabric.

“This a new dress?” Bucky’s face is still burrowed in the juncture between your shoulder and neck, a grin on his face when he feels you try and fail to suppress a shiver at his lips moving across your skin when he asks the question.

“Mhm. Got it on sale a few weeks ago,” you say. The kitchen is quiet for a moment, only the sounds of soft music and sizzling bacon filling the silence before you speak again. “You’ve been gone so long, Bucky.”

“I know. ‘M sorry. ‘M here now, though.”

You turn in his arms to face him. Something warm that he hasn’t felt since he left bursts in his chest when he sees your face. He had been gone longer than usual this time. Mission after mission after mission-- they never seemed to end. But even after all that time, here you were, just as beautiful as always. It was like you never changed.

A smile takes over your face when you look at him. “Your hair’s longer,” you say, running your fingers through the tangled brown tresses before swiping your thumb across his cheek to remove a smudge of dirt. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up and breakfast will be ready by the time you get back?”

He wants to protest, wants to stay there in front of the stove with you and sway until the food is burnt and the sun finishes rising and sets again in the night. Wants to hold you until the house gives in on top of you and you both turn to dust and become one with the earth below.

He would be okay with that, content with the thought of his aching bones finally being laid to rest entwined with yours, but you just kiss the tip of your pointer finger and press it to the dimple of his chin before shooing him away and turning back to the food.

Breakfast is spent with you on his lap, his metal arm wrapped around your waist to keep you from getting up, the two of you basking in the first light of daybreak as it filters through the sheer curtains hanging on the window. In between bites he kisses your shoulder blade, and when you finish you cuddle against him while he goes back for seconds.

You’re so warm against him, and he can’t help but tuck his hand underneath your dress to feel the heat of your skin on his. He swears he can almost see his own breath.

‘S cold, he told you there in the kitchen. The furnace is acting up, you had replied. Another thing to add to the nonexistent list he was keeping.

Dishes are left on the table. Pans are left on the stove. The sink is so full that it’s overflowing to the counter. They’ll clean later. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. It can wait, but they can’t.

In the living room, a basket of laundry is taken from the couch and deposited on the arm chair instead. A stale cup of water from the night before is moved from the coffee table and poured into the overgrown pothos by the window and Bucky watches you sit the glass on the floor. It can wait.

It’s so achingly domestic, he thinks, coming home to a well-loved house and being well-loved by the woman in it. There are no false pretenses, no need for the two of them to pretend to be someone they’re not. It’s almost like he never left-- like time in the little white house in the field was frozen, allowing the two of you to pick back up exactly where you left off.

Bucky dutifully follows you to the couch, and the last of the tension in his body melts away when he opens his arms for you to fall in to.

He plans on staying there forever.

Soft touches and soft kisses and even softer words. The radio plays softly in the background as you tell him what he missed, and he listens diligently while you run your fingers through his hair. Eventually you pick up a thin book and a pen. You tried to show him how to solve the puzzle in front of you, but each time you looked at him you noticed the spaced out look and dopey smile he always got when he was watching you, and gave up soon after.

“…Six, seven, eight, nine.” The last number is nearly cut off by a choked giggle when you feel him start to kiss down your neck. He can tell you’re trying to ignore him, but he continues mapping his way down your body, looking up at you as he kisses the inside of your knee. “Bucky.”

The expression on your face is adorably stern, but the almost imperceptible quirk of your lips and the benign tone of your voice tells him everything he needs to know.

It’s there on the couch that he is given his final homecoming with your arms wrapped around him tightly and his hands, one warm and rough and the other smooth metal, grasping your legs. You’re a vision above him. A dream. Beautiful. Ethereal. He feels your warm breath ghost over his face and your eyelashes brush his cheek before you cum around him, a whispered ‘I love you’ and one final kiss urging him to follow. He would follow you anywhere. His beautiful girl. His home.

The air between the two of you is electric as you fall into his chest. He swears he can feel it in his fingertips, his toes, his brain, his heart. Every nerve in his body feels alive.

Another giggle and a slow, languid kiss is shared between you. “Do you think that was it?”

Bucky reclines on the couch, bringing you with him. “I hope so,” he mumbles into your hair. He pulls the discarded blanket over you to slow the creeping chill seeping into his bones. “We gotta get a move on if we’re gonna have four.”

You pinch his side and push yourself onto your elbows. “Four?” you ask, a teasing glint in your eye. “I’m pretty sure I agreed to one.”

“Nope, I vividly remember you telling me we could have as many as I want, and I want four.” The sun has set, but he ignores the darkness outside, instead focusing on your blissful smile and the way the soft light of the lamp on the table dances over your skin.

“Absolutely not. There’s no way I could handle four kids.”

“Okay,” he says, a cheeky grin on his face, “we’ll compromise and have six instead.”

“Six?” you squawk, your tone full of mirth. “Why stop there? We might as well have enough babies to fill an entire freight car.”

The electricity that runs through his body in response to your final two words is enough to make his jaw lock and his muscles seize. He can’t speak, can’t think, can’t hear your worried pleas for him to look at you.

Bucky wants it to stop. It’s too painful, too much, too soon, and he can see you above him still through the fog of his mind-- his shining sun. He can see you, can feel your hands on his face but you’re soon eclipsed by the current running through his body.

Too painful, too much, too soon. The night wasn’t over yet. He was supposed to still have time. Too soon, too soon, too soon.

Did he tell you he loved you? He knows he does, he knows you know, but did he tell you? He can’t see the sun anymore. Was it even there to begin with? He can’t remember.

Bucky closes his eyes, unable to move. He feels lost inside his own mind. Where was he?

When he opens them he thinks he sees the sun. But it’s not soft daylight being filtered through lace curtains or your warmth melting him down to his core. It’s harsh and white and he’s so, so cold.

A man steps in front of his chair.

“Доброе утро, солдат.”

“Я жду приказаний.”