#Is Ornament Still a Crime?

[dlyarchitecture]

[galaxywhale]

my character is connected to another character through our backstories and they’re like.. bonded, he has no choice but to stick with her bc if she dies, he dies and it’s SO much fun bc my character is a lying thief and his character is a law abiding investor and it’s been a looot of fun to ply so far :’)

[inbabylontheywept]

by tradition, the first day of the camp was spent pranking the group next to us. our prank was ziptying the zippers on their sleeping bags together. we figured one of them would sleep with a knife, because we all slept with knives, because we were dangerous maniacs and half the danger of a dangerous maniac is that they tend to think that they are Actually Normal. so. obviously that didn't pan out, and instead they got stuck in their sleeping bags for like half an hour and because their scoutmaster slept in their car and couldn't hear them yelling, they actually only got out when one of them went full caged animal and chewed through the plastic. which meant they had time to make it to the axe throwing station, but they did miss breakfast.

the scale of our victory was impossible to understate. it was an epic prank. unrivaled. the best in years. we knew they were going to retaliate, and we both feared and craved it. maybe i'm still a maniac, but that feels like a common thing, right? do well adjusted people that are not maniacs crave Judgement?

(serious answers only please, from people who would never spoon a knife.)

anyway, the next day we got back to our camp, and the neighors had skipped dinner to just come back and fill all our tents with pinecones. which was like, a decent prank, i guess, but it probably took them an hour to fill all the tents up, and it took us like 15 minutes to tip the tents out, and as a return volley to the ziptie prank it was incredibly underwhelming. we felt a little cheated.

so our scouting group held a council, and we agreed, unanimously, that our prank was 100% better and theirs sucked and that there would be no escalating tensions because we were the clear victors. they'd had their chance to retaliate, and they failed, and so the war was over. that was it.

we agreed on this. we swore. but madness is a relative thing, and in our group of maniacs, we still had J. i have many, many J stories. too many. i biked up to school with him from 4th grade to 8th, and i saw him get hit by cars thrice. he'd just swerve into the road sometimes. one time on a rainy day in 4th grade, a car splashed me, and before i could even consider my response J yelled I GOT THIS and then he blitzed off after the car. i didn't see him the rest of the day. i was so anxious i barely slept that night. i saw him the next morning and he told me that he'd chased the car until it got to a gated community and then he'd climbed over the fence and looked in peoples garages until he found the one with the car, and then he'd ripped the hood ornament off and broke their window. then he gave me a hood ornament to a different brand of car from the one that splashed me and i didnt tell him because i didnt want him missing more school. i want you to mentally adjust your mental model of the things a 9 year old is capable of doing to include chasing a car for five miles, hopping a fence, breaking into a garage, and vandalizing a randos car.

and that's just the tip of my J stories iceberg.

the point of all this is just to say that J was so crazy that he made us knife spooners look like accountanting enthusiasts.

so we agreed the war was done, and we shook on it, and then J, in the name of friendship, in the name of honor, in the name of avenging our pinecone filled tents, snuck over to their camp that evening and fornicated with a watermelon that they'd been saving in their cooler.

i want to emphasize, again, that this was not the consensus of the group. that is not a prank. like i know it seems like we dont know what pranks are because of the whole ziptie thing, but even we knew that fucking someones food is not a prank, it is a crime, and a sin, the kind of weapon that had only been ethically used once in history by Horus in his battle against Set and none of us dumb assholes had owl heads.

so.

the next day went pretty well. we threw some more axes again, which is a valuable and important skill for children to learn i guess, and we learned how to tie knots, which is a skill that turned out to be far sexier than i ever expected, and i learned how to light fires with a magnifying glass, which was great. i'm looking back at this, and i am actually just now beginning to realize that the clear and obvious point of scouting is turning child sociopaths into apex predators.

and then the day ended, and we went back to our camps, except for our leaders, who had a sort of Scout Leader Meeting they were going to have for a few hours at least. it was built into the camp, that day was supposed to be our day to chill as a group, and make peach cobbler, and just be buddies.

except, as it turned out, our neighboring group's alternative to making peach cobbler was eating their watermelon. so at some point they opened their watermelon, and woo boy. oh man. you think catholics hated seedless watermelons? you should see how much mormons hate seeded ones.

so we were chilling by the fire, and then we heard screaming from the camp over, but we didn't pay much mind to that because there are many reasonable explanations for a group of 10ish children to scream simulanteoulsy, such as wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then the screaming got closer, which did not bother us because there were many reasons for a group 10ish children to scream and run towards us, for example, wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then we noticed they had large sticks on them, which we figured were perhaps being used to drive away the wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then they arrived and they started beating the shit out of us, abundantly, in arizona.

so we ran into the woods.

now, at this point, we had no idea what was up. we knew that the camp next to us was out for blood, which was crazy, because we'd actually locked them in fartproof bags for 30 minutes and they'd barely done anything back, and were trying to figure out what could possibly have happened that could drive them to Terrible Violence when we realized that J was cackling like a witch that had learned how to order children off of ebay.

so we politely asked J what the hell he had done, and he politely explained that had "done" their watermelon, and we politely beat him with large sticks because life is nothing but endless cycles of violence.

we were still being chased by the other camp btw. so it was them, chasing us, chasing J, and then they got tired and went back to their camp, and we chased J a little longer because we were mad we'd all been walloped with sticks, and J did not care because he was a supernatural entity whose only weaknesses were Needles and Fire, and then we got tired and went back and J kept running, and we just kind of figured he would come back eventually.

he did not.

we went back to our tents, and we waited, and J did not come back. we stayed up all night, peering into the forest, worrying. our leader came back, and we did our best to hide our battlewounds, and he either genuinely did not notice or simply accepted this as part of Boyhood. then he went to bed, and we waited, and waited, and waited. And Waited. and did not sleep.

eventually, we convened again, and we agreed that if J was not back by after breakfast, we would have to tell the scoutleader about what exactly had transpired. and we really did not want to do that, because it would have meant that everyone would have gotten in a very large amount of trouble.

morning came around, and J still was not back. we went to breakfast, and we ate very, very slowly. we were afraid the other camp was going to continue their war with us, but they actually looked fairly frightened. one of them actually came to us and asked for a truce, and we agreed because we truly felt bad for them. like, yes, they did beat us with sticks, but J fucked their watermelon. we werent complicit in the watermelonfuckening but they didnt know that, and it was definitely the kind of crime that left one outside the bounds of the social contract.

and then when we could eat no more bits, when breakfast was almost done, right when i was getting pushed to go and tell the scoutleader that we needed to find J, he arrived. he was sleep deprived, and noticeably scraped and bloody, and tied to his belt was a blood squirrel tail.

and i asked him, J, where did you get that? and he said, don't worry man, it was already dead, which did not answer by question and gave me several more.

the camp ended that day, and the other groups avoided us like the plague, and it was not until some weeks later that we were able to piece together what happened.

J, in his sojourn through the forest, managed to find (or, possibly, make) a dead squirrel. he then cut off the tail to keep on his belt, because he was a weird little freak like that. he also took the dead squirrel, and he skinned it, then he tied it to a little crucifix made of wood, and he left it in the other scouting group's camp. which is why they were so scared of us.

it was such an unhinged thing to do it actually sobered us up for a while. scouting became a scary thing for us. we'd found something dark and primal there, in the place where no adult could see, and our appreciation of J as a wild ride kind of changed into seeing him as something truly dangerous. we had a sense wherever he went, something terrible would follow, and the only way to escape it was to not be there when it arrived. and so piece by piece, the scout group dissolved. it wasnt until he moved out of that ward that the rest of us started daring to go back to scouts.

and for the final epilogue of the tale:

i have a little brother who was friends with a younger cousin of J's, and the two would go to parties together in highschool. and sometimes J, who was in his early 20's at that point, would show up at the parties, and it was unsettling in such a way that it just became a known risk at parties with the cousin. and at one party, they were playing truth or dare, and J wasn't even in the room, but someone asked him the Truth of how he always knew how to find the cousin, and J said the cousin's mom had mentioned she was worried about him and the parties so he'd put a tracker in his car. and when he saw that the cousin was out of the house on weekends, he'd made a visit by, just to make sure he was safe.

then he left. and every single person at that party went over that poor kid's car. they searched the wheel-wells, checked underneath it, the works, until they found the tracker. then because they were clever, they didnt break it, or throw it away, or anything that would've given away what they'd done. they just gave the tracker to the cousin, who put it in his glovebox. and on schooldays, he'd take it with him, so J could see him in the parking lot. and on weekends, he could leave it in the garage, so he could go to parties with out Hell coming with him. because everyone that met J - every single person - knew that the only way to be safe from him was to be far, far away.

[batsovergotham]

tangled threads pt 1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: more smut guys i cant be contained, mentions of cheating, shit abt to go down next chapter, jealousy, reader is lowkey an overthinker

w/c: 11.7k

a/n: prepare yourselves mentally for the next chapter. anyways yummy possessive mark smut. also shout out to anons birthday today ily mama<33

Your suit itches a little under your arms.

It’s not a big deal, not really. You’d stitched this one yourself after all, and honestly, it’s the greatest version yet. Sleeker, cleaner, sturdier. No duct tape. No odd wrinkles that make you appear like an amateur. The webbing design is symmetrical this time, and you finally worked out how to line the soles so you wouldn’t fall off every damp rooftop like a young deer on ice.

Progress.

Still, you quiver a bit as you crouch over the alleyway, perched on the edge of a fire escape, head inclined.

It was calm a second ago. Just the normal city street , car horns, distant music, some man yelling at his phone. But then you heard it.

A skirmish.

And then

“Shut up! I said give me the bag!”

Your eyes bolt up wide.

There it is.

It’s the type of stuff you’re supposed to be used to by now. A classic mugging. Textbook crime. You should feel like this is ordinary, that it’s no big deal because this is your work now. Your obligation.

But your stomach still twists, adrenaline coiling like a spring behind your ribs. You’re nervous. You always are.

Still, you move.

You slither up the side of the structure with a practiced elegance you didn’t have a few weeks ago. Natural webs have some attractions. They’re stronger than the synthetic stuff more elastic, too. And your fingers? They just know how to hang on now, like your DNA rebuilt itself into something savage and spider-ey.

You glance down from the rooftop and notice them two guys in jeans and jackets, both jittery, frantic. One of them’s clutching a knife. The other’s snatching a pocketbook out of a woman’s arms middle-aged, short brown hair, immobilized with fright. She’s too stunned to yell. Just wide eyes and shaky hands.

You don't hesitate.

You leap.

The air whistles past your ears as you tumble midair, webbing connecting to a lamppost to slow your descent. You fall precisely between the woman and the assailants, hunched low, one hand on the pavement, head angled up beneath the white glare of your glasses.

They flinch.

You straighten slowly. Try not to sound cocky. But… well, maybe a touch cocky.

“Hi. So. I know muggings are, like, a city staple, but have we considered not scaring innocent people today?”

The person with the knife lunges, predictably. You sidestep and web his arm to the dumpster behind him in one smooth motion. The webbing adheres instantaneously, holding strong.

“Whoa, fast reflexes,” you mutter. “But uh… maybe don’t stab strangers. Ever.”

The second person attempts to run. You link his shoes to the pavement and he eats it hard, sprawling face-first with a muffled moan.

The woman holds her bag tighter. She’s trembling.

You turn to her softly, keeping your voice low. “You okay?”

She nods once, speechless.

You motion toward the opening of the alley. “There’s a police station two blocks over. I can walk you there if you want or I can wire these dudes to a lamp post and call it in.”

She blinks. And then she grins.

“I can make it,” she murmurs. “Thank you. Thank you.”

You grin under the mask. “Anytime.”

She hurries out, heels clicking on the sidewalk as you link the assailants together and lift them up onto the wall like hanging, very puzzled Christmas ornaments.

You're still smiling a little when you leap back up to the roofs. The breeze feels good against your skin. Cold, crisp. You exhale and let yourself breathe.

That’s the problem with evenings like these. You don’t just halt crime.

You recall why you’re doing this in the first place.

You’re not a cop. You’re not a soldier. You’re not a millionaire with gadgets or a flying suit.

You’re just… you.

Some nerd with a brain full of comic books, a heart much too tender for your own good, and a weird radioactive spiderbite that chose to make your life complicated.

But right now, someone’s safe because you showed up. And that’s enough.

You fire a web, swing into the night, and let the city hum beneath your feet.

You’re back on patrol five minutes tops when your phone buzzes against your hip.

Which is odd.

Because, like… no one actually calls you when you’re out here. You’ve been careful, about the mask, about the second persona, about compartmentalizing. The entire double life thing is taxing, yet you make it work. You have to.

Still, your heart skips. Because if it’s someone who knows you, truly knows you, then something could be wrong.

You land on an empty rooftop and fumble to grasp the burner you keep strapped inside your suit, right below your ribcage. The screen lights up.

Blocked number.

Great. Classic. Totally cool.

You hesitate, thumb lingering.

Then sigh. “Fine,” you mumble. “Caution to the wind, I guess.”

You tap the response button.

There’s static, heavy, thick. Then a voice, low and piercing.

“Spider-Woman. Confirm identity.”

You freeze.

Nobody calls you that. Not out loud. Not formally. You didn’t even select the name, it kind of just happened. You made a few public saves, and the news stations did the rest. You still shudder a bit when you hear it, like it belongs to someone else.

“…Who is this?” you question carefully, without hiding your mistrust. “Because if this is a prank, it’s very elaborate and kind of terrifying, and also I have a paper due tomorrow, so-”

“We don’t have time,” the voice snaps. “We’ve been tracking you for a while. You’re registered as an unclassified enhanced. We’ve got graphics, reports, footage. And for now, we don’t care about jurisdiction.”

Your mouth gets dry.

That’s not good.

That’s the antithesis of good.

“…Okay,” you respond warily. “Still waiting on the part where I don’t hang up.”

Another beat. Then the voice changes, less harsh, more strained. Still serious.

“There’s something happening. Midtown. Three blocks south of the Flaxan contact point. We’ve got Guardians on-site. Situation's escalating rapidly. You’re the only augmented we have in range not tied up in a response unit.”

Your brain strains to keep up.

You’ve heard of the Guardians of the Globe. Who hasn’t? They’re legends. Heavy hitters. Real-deal superheroes with powers that make your webs look like party tricks. You’re quite sure if you ever met one, you’d forget how to talk. Or breathe.

And they need backup?

“You’re sure you have the right person?” you ask, voice thin. “Because I’m kind of more of a friendly-neighborhood-falling-off-buses type. If this is, like, end-of-the-world level stuff, I’m not exactly your girl.”

“You’re in the air in thirty seconds or we send in someone else,” the voice says. “We’ve got a possible offworld breach. Hostile. High-speed descent. Debris fields are developing. Civilians still in the area.”

Then quieter, almost like a warning.

“This isn’t about being ready. It’s about showing up.”

Your stomach twists.

You want to say no. You truly do.

Because you’ve battled muggers and bank robbers. You’ve hauled drivers out of automobile crashes and stitched up the occasional robbery victim, but this? This sounds larger. This sounds weird.

This sounds like the type of thing that people die in.

You squeeze the bridge of your nose through your mask. “God, I didn’t even bring snacks.”

The voice doesn’t laugh. You hang up.

And then you’re running.

You swing hard, fast, quicker than usual because suddenly there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t quit. You’re thinking about debris. About civilians. About what the hell “offworld breach” means. You’re thinking about the Guardians. About what type of thing makes them require support.

Your mind swirls through every half-finished scientific headline and tabloid theory you’ve ever skimmed. Alien threat? Another dimensional rip? Viltrumite thing? No, can’t be. You’d know. Right?

You don’t know.

That’s the worst part.

You’re swinging into the unknown, and you’re not ready.

But you’re going anyhow.

Because the woman in the alley’s probably home by now, cuddling her family.

Because someone else might not be.

Because if this is what it means to matter, then maybe you owe it to the city, and to yourself, to try.

You thrust yourself into the sky, pulse thumping, and hope, desperately, that you’re enough.

The first thing that hits you when you go to Midtown is the smell.

It clogs your nose through the filters on your mask, acrid smoke, burnt metal, dust. There’s a peculiar flavor in the air too, electric and biting, like the city’s been scraped raw. The type of stench that tells you something very, very wrong is happening.

You fall on a rooftop hard enough to make your knees ache, lungs burning as you take it all in.

Below you, the city is tearing itself apart.

Chunks of the roadway are caved in. Cars are flipped, on fire, some burning wrecks with doors hanging open. Windows are broken for blocks. Civilians are rushing in every direction, carrying wailing children, holding phones, yelling names. Sirens cry from someplace nearby, but the noises get swallowed in the tumult.

And in the middle of all of it?

Flaxans.

You’d seen them before, on TV, in the news, maybe once or twice in the darker reaches of the internet. But this? Seeing them in person is like getting a hit to the stomach. They’re shorter than you expected, barely five feet tall, but muscular. Thick limbs, squat bodies jammed into luminous green armor that hums with alien electronics. Their moves are military, coordinated, rehearsed, rapid. They march ahead in line, mowing out anything that stands in their path with pulse rifles and wrist-mounted plasma cannons.

And strangely, they appear comfortable here.

Like this is normal.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. Then you fire a web and descend directly into the midst of the combat zone.

You hit the ground in a tumble, spring up swinging, literally, and web a Flaxan’s face to a mailbox before he can aim. Another rounds on you, but you flip over his head, twist his arm back with a webline, and smack him to the pavement. It’s like a dance, only you’re the only one not invited and everyone else brought weapons.

A flurry of yellow and red surges past you.

You turn just in time to witness Rex lob a bright metal bolt toward a clump of Flaxans. It adheres to the earth between them and detonates, sending them flying like crash test dummies. Shrapnel showers down in every direction.

He’s delving into the belt around his hips now, fingers lightning-fast as he retrieves more discs, random stuff, really. You can’t even tell what half of it is until it flashes brilliant orange and shoots into the air in a beautiful arc.

You don’t hesitate.

You leap in.

“Nice throw,” you yell, arriving behind him just as another disc goes off. “That from baseball practice, or just lots of recreational violence?”

Rex turns, eyebrows rising under his visor. “Spider-Woman?”

You web a Flaxan attempting to sneak up behind him and slam it into a wall. “The one and only. Unless someone’s cosplaying extremely hard right now.”

“I thought you were just some social media hoax.”

“Honestly? Same,” you mutter, ducking a plasma shot. “But it turns out I’m very annoying in person.”

He tosses a metal disk that flashes brilliantly and pops like a firecracker in the face of another soldier. “Well damn. Welcome to the big leagues.”

You web-swing over a mound of rubble, land on a Flaxan’s back, and kick him flat. “Didn’t get the welcome basket. Just smoke and aliens.”

Rex flings a handful of incandescent bars at an advancing gang. They disperse, and two get knocked off their feet by the concussive explosion.

“You got moves, Webhead.”

You roll your eyes under the mask. “You’re gonna call me that again, aren’t you.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You don't have time to answer. There’s a harsh noise, mechanical, electric. A pulse in the air. It makes your teeth ache.

You both whirl around just in time to witness another portal blast open in the center of the roadway. The borders glow green and sticky, like jelly formed of static. A dozen more Flaxans fall through, landing in tight formation. Their weapons are already pointed.

“Come on!” you groan. “Does this planet look like it has the resources for this??”

Rex chucks a disk like a grenade and blasts out the first line. The following batch doesn’t even flinch.

You lunge forward, webbing two of them to a lamppost, only to get blasted backward by a pulse round. It hits your side, not a clean shot, but enough to knock the wind out of you.

You slam against the bonnet of a Prius, denting it so severely the windshield spiderwebs below you. Your ribs sting.

Rex lands near you with a grunt. “Still with me, Webhead?”

You groan. “Yeah. But I think I messed up this guy’s insurance premium.”

He grins and pulls you up, tossing another glowing disk into a Flaxan’s chest. “You always this mouthy in fights?”

You cough, then web-launch yourself into a wall run. “You always this explosive in team-ups?”

His laugh is wild and short, like it’s simply muscle memory now.

But then you hear it.

A grinding, metallic screech.

You jerk your head toward the sound and freeze.

The school bus from earlier, still teetering on the verge of the hole in the road, is starting to tilt.

The earth underneath it collapses.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You shoot a webline to the back of the bus, push yourself forward, and fall hard on the side of a building across the street. Your arms extend, strain tugging hard through your shoulders, almost enough to dislocate. But you hold. You have to hold.

The bus tilts. Groans.

And finally settles.

The back wheels impact pavement again. You release the web slowly, carefully, and the frame creaks as it levels out.

The hatch in the back breaks open.

Kids pour out. A dozen of them, coughing, eyes wide with horror. One tiny girl, maybe seven, throws her arms around your waist and clings like her life relies on it.

You freeze.

Then softly, one arm still shaking, you embrace her back.

“You’re okay now,” you mumble. “I’ve got you.”

A tremendous thud hits nearby. You turn just in time to see Monster Girl fall in her altered condition, covered in gore, panting hard.

She stares at you, then the kids.

Her voice is gruff, yet real. “Nice save.”

You nod, still breathless. “I had help.”

She snorts. “Hope you’ve got more where that came from.”

Another portal flickers open. You hear more screaming in the distance. The sky’s become a peculiar green in places, the boundaries of the city flashing like a glitch in a video game.

But you’re here.

Rex is still tossing homemade bombs like it’s second nature. Monster Girl is smashing through enemy lines like she was born for it. Dupli-Kate and Bulletproof are assisting evacuate civilians from an overturned ambulance.

And you?

You're bleeding. Sore. Ribs bruised. Every bit of you screaming.

But you’re still standing.

Still swinging.

Still saving lives.

You’re not the strongest. Not the quickest. Not the most powerful person on this block.

But you showed up.

The world narrows.

It’s not the smoke, or the wailing sirens, or even the metallic fragrance of burning debris that surrounds your senses now.

It’s him.

Invincible.

Hovering only a few feet above the ground, suit scuffed, hair a wild jumble around the edges of his mask, chest heaving from the strain of smashing through an alien army and nevertheless, somehow, beaming at you like this is just a pick-up basketball game instead of a war.

"You’re good," he replies, voice raspy with exertion but obviously warm. Genuine.

You blink, briefly disarmed. You’re used to people shrugging you off, underestimating you, some kid in a handmade suit but there's none of that in his voice. No condescending tone, no expression of amazement that you managed to stay up.

It’s simple. Honest.

“You’re not terrible yourself, Hotshot," you fire back, heart thumping foolishly hard under your ribs.

The second the words leave your tongue, you wince inside.

Hotshot? Seriously? What are you, a walking 90s action comic script?

He glides a bit closer, hands slack at his sides, his whole body still crackling with velocity he hasn’t completely burnt off yet.

"Hotshot, huh?" he says, taunting, cocking his head slightly.

You struggle, backpedaling like a defective Roomba. “I meant, you’re fast! Like, you know. A hot... thing. Flying. Through... air."

You trail off, humiliated. You can feel the heat spreading over your cheeks inside the mask.

But he simply laughs, not harshly. It’s smooth and brilliant, somehow cutting clear through the smoke and sirens. It smacks you down in your gut, a vibration you don’t know what to do with.

“Well, I’m not gonna argue,” he adds, mouth twisting into an even larger smile. “I’ll take ‘Hotshot.’ Makes me sound cooler than I am.”

You huff a chuckle without intending to, the stress oozing out of your painful muscles for just a second.

Movement out of the corner of your eye yanks you back to reality.

A group of Flaxans, still armed and regrouping over the ruins, assemble for a charge.

Instinct kicks in.

You don't need a plan. You don’t even need a glimpse.

You and Invincible move in perfect harmony.

You dash low and quickly, webbing the ground in front of the Flaxans to make them slip. He swoops above in a broad arc, striking his fists together in a shockwave that flattens their first row like bowling pins.

You’re almost there by the time the second line regains footing, slingshotting off a lamppost and kicking the leader square in the chest. He goes down with a groan, shattering pavement.

Another Flaxan tries to flank you, Invincible intercepts effortlessly, seizing the soldier by the collar and flinging him through the remnants of a bus stop.

You dart forward, webbing a plasma weapon out of a Flaxan’s hands, catching it midair, and tossing it to Invincible.

He catches it one-handed, turns it, and smashes it over another alien’s head in one seamless move.

Crash.

"Good job, Web-head!"

You sigh loudly as you fall alongside him. "Spider-Woman!"

He grins, the type of grin that’s half apology, half doing it on purpose because it’s hilarious.

You don’t punch him.

You want to.

But you don’t.

Instead, you focus.

There’s a lull, brief but golden, and in it, you hear the crackling of something greater starting up. Another portal. A last wave.

The earth under your feet shudders.

Invincible soars higher, searching the horizon. His expression hardens behind the mask.

"They're bringing in heavy reinforcements," he says. "Bigger tech. Maybe even tanks."

You shoot a web at a cracked traffic light and pull yourself up to perch at his height.

"So what’s the plan, Hotshot?" you tease, but your voice is firmer now, shifting into something more natural, like the two of you have always battled together.

He stares at you, really looks, and flashes that same, unbreakable, reckless smile that must terrify the hell out of every criminal he confronts.

"Plan? Easy," he adds, rolling his shoulders. "We hit 'em harder."

You snort, shaking your head. "Ohhh, you’re one of those. Big punch, no intellect."

He pretends to be hurt. "Hey! I have at least some brain."

"Sure," you quip, firing a webline at a neighboring structure to swing ahead, "Maybe half a brain cell rattling around in there like a marble."

He laughs again, loud, unguarded, real, and it fires something in your chest.

Not simply admiration. Not simply attraction.

Something familiar.

...Weird.

You don’t have time to linger on it.

The last Flaxan gateway opens with a shriek that shakes your teeth.

The roadway virtually implodes as a massive mech suit strides through, Flaxan design, green armor, twin weapons strapped to its shoulders, storming toward the city center like a behemoth out of a nightmare.

Civilians trapped under a smashed taxi yell nearby.

Invincible cracks his knuckles.

You web-swing down and settle alongside him.

He stares at you, grinning crookedly again. “One last dance?”

You beam a grin back behind your mask, pulse pumping.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

And without another word, you launch yourselves together, him a blur of yellow and blue, you a streak of red and black, straight into the heart of the war.

Side by side.

Like you’ve been doing it forever.

The Flaxan’s mech claw snaps around Mark’s neck mid-flight, yanking him down like a broken toy. Metal fingers crush into his throat and collarbone, bruises bursting dark and ugly across his skin. He gasps, head wrenched back so violently his collarbone creaks under the pressure. Blood fills his mouth, hot and metallic, his vision swimming at the edges. The Flaxan squeezes harder, grinding bone and muscle until his skin blooms purple and black.

"Not... today," Mark rasps, his voice shredded. He slams his forehead into the mech’s cockpit, shattering glass, the grip faltering.

He crashes to the ground, coughing, the bruises burning like brands but rage drives him back to his feet, fists clenched, ready to rip the monster apart.

The mech lets out one more, earsplitting cry before it smashes backward, its metal structure crumpling like a soda can under its own weight. Invincible doesn’t hesitate, he leaps forward, shouldering the wreck mid-fall to redirect it away from the crumbling residential block.

The mech smashes into an abandoned construction lot with a gut-punching BOOM, sending a rolling wave of dust and grit into the air.

You hardly have time to respond.

You shoot a web at a damaged crane, hauling yourself up and swinging in a broad arc, your body cutting through the dust cloud in a tight corkscrew spin before you crash softly into the battered pavement.

It’s silent now.

Not peaceful, there’s still the distant screech of sirens, the crackling of burning debris but the worst is passed.

The Flaxan gateways are gone.

The aliens are scattered or unconscious.

You straighten up slowly, every part of you hurting.

Your suit is ripped across your side, your suit torn at the knuckles, and you’re quite sure you twisted your ankle on that last nasty landing.

But you’re alive.

Standing.

Victorious.

And as you peek over your shoulder, you see him.

Invincible.

He drifts down through the settling dust like a shot-out star, boots hitting the cracked pavement with a hard, grounded thud. His suit is charred and shredded in parts, a deep cut flowing sluggishly from his brow, yet he’s grinning anyway wide and dumb and sincere.

His eyes meet yours over the wreckage.

And despite yourself, despite the tiredness tugging at your limbs, you grin back behind your mask.

"You’re good," he says first, a touch raspy but very sincere, dusting soot from his gloves.

You breathe out a nervous breath, adjusting your weight. “You’re not so bad yourself, Hotshot.”

He laughs, a pleasant, youthful sound that cuts through the smoke hanging in the air.

"Hotshot, huh? Might be my new fave."

You cock your head. “Could’ve been worse. I nearly nicknamed you Flyboy.”

He scrunches his nose, appearing to be terrified. "Ugh. I’d have to start wearing a cape if you did."

You snicker, and maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the bizarre connection you had fighting back-to-back but for a minute, it’s easy.

Like you’re just two foolish kids who stumbled into rescuing the world.

Before any of you can say anything further, heavy shoes crunch on the pavement.

Rex Splode comes walking toward you like he rules the battlefield, brandishing a burned Flaxan weapon between his fingers.

He pauses a few feet away, sizing you both up like he’s stumbled across a scene developing.

“Oh, wow," Rex exclaims, loud enough that you wince. "Look at this. Banter. Flirting. Dramatic tension."

You and Invincible both quickly stiffen.

“What?! No!” you blurt, far too fast.

Invincible grunts, raking a hand through his hair. "Dude, knock it off."

But Rex is already in full performance mode, tossing his arms wide. “I mean, the way you two were syncing up back there? Chef’s kiss. Someone call Hollywood, we found a new power couple.”

You shake your head, horrified. “I have a boyfriend, thank you very much!”

Invincible lifts a hand too, clumsily. "And I have a girlfriend."

You and him both point at each other like you're setting down evidence at a trial.

Rex whistles low, grinning. "Yikes. Star-crossed and everything."

You sigh into your palm, feeling the heat climb up your neck behind your mask. "This is not a thing."

Invincible crosses his arms, fidgeting nervously. "Yeah, Rex. Seriously. Cut it out."

But Rex only smirks, flinging the burnt weapon over his shoulder. “Sure, sure. Totally believable. No chemistry at all. Couldn't even tell you were two seconds away from proposing mid-battle."

You almost choke.

Even Invincible makes a strangled sound like he’s struggling not to die on the spot.

You square your shoulders, pushing yourself to breathe. "For the record, my boyfriend is basically the world's biggest nerd. He thinks jaywalking is too rebellious.”

Mark runs across your mind, messy hair, naively sweet eyes, a voice breaking somewhat when he attempts to flirt.

You feel a silly, overpowering warmth spring in your chest at the thought of him.

Meanwhile, Invincible huffs, attempting to appear nonchalant. "My girlfriend’s way cooler than me. She's, um... smarter. Way smarter."

(He glances sideways at you for a fraction of a second before clearing his throat and focusing hard at a broken light post.)

You catch it, but you brush it off.

It’s just fighting adrenaline.

It doesn’t signify anything.

Probably.

Rex isn’t helping.

He slaps a hand on Invincible’s shoulder and laughs big. “Well, tell your lady thanks for letting you share the battlefield with your love tonight."

Invincible shoves him off softly. "You’re such an idiot."

You can’t help it, you laugh.

The tension breaks, just a bit.

You gaze at Invincible again. He’s smiling too, crooked, exhausted, a touch ashamed.

There’s blood crusting at the corner of his lips, a bruise deepening on his jawline, his whole body drooping with exhaustion, and he still seems like he’s having the time of his life.

You shouldn’t feel so warm inside.

You really, really shouldn’t.

You push your hands onto your hips, attempting to seem nonchalant.

"Anyway. I’m out. I've got a hot date with an ice pack and a thousand regrets."

Invincible chuckles, raking a hand over his shaggy hair.

"Same. Except, like, two thousand regrets."

You shake your head and blast a webline up to a shattered billboard.

You hesitate for just a second, staring back at him.

"See you around, Flyboy."

He grins, lopsided and careless.

"You better."

You jump into the air, soaring high across the rubble of Midtown, heart still thumping hard against your ribs.

You’re smiling too hard behind your mask.

And you don’t realize

neither of you realizes

that when you meet Mark Grayson tonight, when you fumble through a weary, uncomfortable coffee date...

you’ll be seeing the same boy who caught you mid-fall.

Who grinned at you through flames and blood and broken concrete.

The same boy you already, somehow, unconsciously, entirely belong to.

Morning strikes you like a freight train.

You wake up aching in areas you didn't even realize you had muscles, your body fighting the mere act of breathing.

Your ribs ache deep and hot under your skin. Your arms feel like they’re burdened down with lead.

Even your fingers are tight, bruised and painful from slinging webs for hours straight.

You sit up carefully, cringing as a stinging pang slashes through your side.

You look at the bedroom ceiling for a few long seconds, heart heavy, lungs feeling too big in your chest.

The war feels like a dream now.

Like it didn’t happen.

Like it was some foolish dream you thought up between classes and homework.

But the bruises are genuine.

The cuts are genuine.

The way your body trembles when you force yourself to your feet is quite genuine.

You get dressed mechanically, loose pants, a big sweatshirt you can hide yourself in.

You take twice as long as normal doing your hair, covering up the bruises on your face with meticulous makeup on your bruised eye.

Your hands tremble a little when you apply the concealer.

You pretend it’s just tiredness.

By the time you make it to campus, the sun is high and the sidewalks are full.

Students swarm by you in every direction, chatting about schoolwork, weekend plans, gossip.

Nobody looks twice at you.

Good.

You need today to be normal.

You need to visit Mark, and sit with him beneath some stupid tree with coffee and chat about anything but superheroes and cities breaking apart.

You hold your coffee cup like a lifeline, the cardboard warm against your injured fingertips.

Your ankle twinges intensely with every other stride.

You breathe through it.

You’re fine.

You’re halfway at the library when you notice him.

Mark.

He’s standing near the steps, bag thrown over one shoulder, hair as unkempt as ever.

He’s wearing one of his normal awful graphic tees, the Seance Dog one that’s virtually falling apart, and a pair of pants so old they’re more thread than fabric at the knees.

Your heart stumbles the way it usually does when you see him.

You halt your steps, some silly smile already pulling at your mouth without permission.

But then you see her.

Eve.

She’s standing close, too close, from where you are.

They’re laughing at something, heads inclined toward one other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You pause, your feet clinging to the concrete like you just walked into quicksand.

Your fingers clench reflexively around your coffee cup. The cardboard crumples slightly beneath your fingers.

You aren't even aware you're holding your breath.

Eve reaches out, casual, easy, and punches Mark softly on the arm.

He ducks his head, laughing, scratching the back of his neck the way he usually does when he's embarrassed or flustered.

You recognize it.

You know that gesture like you know the back of your own hand.

You bite the inside of your cheek till you taste copper.

You try, really try, to persuade yourself it's nothing.

They’re simply friends.

Mark told you. He said he and Eve were old news. That it never truly went anywhere after Amber broke up with him. That it’s just friendship now.

But standing here, watching them...

It doesn’t feel like just friendship.

It feels like something you’re not supposed to witness.

Eve is attractive in that easy, nonchalant manner that makes your stomach twist.

Sunlight captures the red in her hair, the way it drapes over her shoulders.

She’s beautiful. More elegant. More sure about herself.

And Mark.

Mark's staring at her with that easy, comfortable grin you used to believe was reserved exclusively for you.

Your heart kicks into your ribs, quick and terrified.

You shift your weight, attempting to seem busy, pretending to scroll through your phone.

But your eyes keep sliding back, betraying.

They’re still chatting.

Still smiling.

Still appearing like they fit together flawlessly in a manner that you will never quite measure up to.

You feel sick.

Your coffee has gone cold in your hands, the warmth leaking away without you knowing.

You tell yourself to move.

You tell yourself to stroll over there, to wave, to say hey like a normal human being.

But your feet won’t move.

You’re glued to the place, staring like an idiot from across the quad.

You’re so dumb.

You’re so, so dumb.

You’re Spider-Woman, for God's sake, you battled alongside actual superheroes, you survived an alien invasion, and yet here you are, petrified by a gaze.

You peel your look away finally, your throat tight.

You sink your head lower under your sweatshirt and slink toward the Humanities building, weaving between the masses as swiftly as your aching body would allow.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Your chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with damaged ribs or strained muscles.

You stagger inside the building and slump into the nearest bench, hands quivering around your coffee cup.

You set it down before you crush it completely.

You sit there for a long period, simply breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

You can still see it behind your eyelids, Mark laughing, Eve gazing up at him, the comfortable push of familiarity between them.

You close your eyes tight, hating yourself for how much it hurts.

It’s unreasonable.

It’s insecure.

It’s unjust.

But you can’t turn it off.

Not when you’ve never felt like enough to begin with.

You push the heels of your palms into your eyes, wishing the anguish away.

Later…later you’ll meet up with Mark, like you arranged.

Later you’ll sit across from him with coffee or fries or anything stupid and normal.

And he’ll grin at you, and he'll grab for your hand without thinking, and he'll say something dumb and charming like he usually does.

And you'll remind yourself that you're the one he's dating.

Not Eve.

You.

You'll push yourself to believe it, even if your foolish heart still hurts with uncertainty.

Even if some part of you, small and nasty and terrified, already feels like you're waging a battle you don't know how to win.

You sit there on the bench for a long minute, simply breathing.

In, out.

In, out.

Trying to shove the dumb, unpleasant emotion back down where it belongs.

Trying to remind yourself that you’re exhausted.

You’re sore.

You’re emotional after all that happened last night.

It’s not Mark’s fault.

He hasn’t even done anything wrong.

And yet, when you hear familiar footsteps sprinting up the steps toward you, your body tenses without thinking.

You glance up and there he is.

Mark.

He’s a bit out of breath, hair a mess like he rushed across campus to make it on time.

His backpack's falling off one shoulder, and there’s a coffee stain on the front of his Seance Dog T-shirt like he spilled it in a haste.

You would normally smile at the sight of him.

You would normally feel that silly, automatic flutter in your chest.

But right now?

It just bends into something heavier.

“Hey!” he exclaims, flashing you his boyish, too-bright smile. “I thought I was gonna be late, but turns out Professor Connors is running behind. We’ve got like, five minutes.”

You nod mutely, straightening up stiffly.

Mark’s grin falters a little, his brow furrowing.

“You okay?” he says, putting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "You look... tired."

You shrug, pushing past him without meeting his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Which isn’t a lie.

You didn’t sleep.

You spent half an hour reliving the picture of Eve smiling at him over and over until it burnt itself into the backs of your eyelids.

Mark falls into stride with you as you approach into class.

Normally, he’s a touch clingy in that stupidly cute way bumping your shoulder, brushing your hand with his, sneaking small looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

Today, you keep just enough distance between you that he notices.

You see it in the way he hesitates mid-step, like he’s not sure if he should approach closer or not.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer now. “You seem... I dunno. Off.”

You exhale through your nose, hard, holding the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.

"I said I’m fine," you mumble, harsher than you want to be.

Mark blinks at you, thrown off.

You don’t typically snap at him.

You don't normally snap at anyone.

He falls silent for a beat, staring forward at the structure.

You both climb the steps in awkward, weighty quiet.

You can feel him stealing looks at you from the corner of his eye.

You know he’s worried.

You know he’s confused.

You hate yourself a bit for making him feel that way.

But you can’t help it.

You can’t stop picturing it, him standing there with Eve, smiling, laughing like he belonged next to her in a way he doesn't next to you.

You don’t want to be that person, the jealous girlfriend, the insecure mess.

You trust Mark.

You do.

But that doesn’t stop the anguish gnawing at you from the inside out.

You enter inside the lecture hall together.

You normally sit close, shoulder to shoulder, sharing silly whispered commentary throughout the dull sections.

Today, you place your bag onto the seat by the window, giving yourself an extra chair of space between you without thinking.

Mark waits nervously before sitting next to you, near, but not as close as usual.

Professor Connors starts talking.

Slides click onto the projector.

The normal mind-numbing drone of a lecture fills the air.

And you sit there, looking at the board, not hearing any of it.

You’re too conscious of Mark fidgeting beside you, tapping his pen against his notepad, bouncing his knee, stealing looks at you every few minutes like he’s trying to figure out how he ticked you off and has no clue what he did.

You feel him lean down slightly, voice low and hesitant.

“Did I... do something?”

You shake your head fiercely, gaze fixated on the screen. "No."

"But you’re mad," he adds, not accusing, just perplexed, a little hurt. "I can tell."

"I’m not mad," you lie, voice too flat.

He leans back, appearing a bit more upset now, but keeping it under the surface the way he usually does when he doesn't know how to solve anything.

You cross your arms across your chest, sliding deeper in your seat.

You hate this.

You hate that he’s trying.

You hate that you’re blocking him out.

You hate that you feel so little, so childish, so disposable.

You twist your fingers into the hem of your hoodie, pushing your nails into the cloth.

You’re being unfair.

You know you are.

Mark didn’t do anything wrong.

You’re just exhausted.

You’re just insecure.

You’re just frightened that one day he’s going to discover that someone like Eve fits better beside him than you ever could.

And you won’t even be able to blame him for it.

You look toward the front of the room, willing yourself to focus on anything but the burn behind your eyes.

Beside you, Mark goes still.

Quiet.

Trying to give you room.

Trying not to make it worse.

You sit there, side by side, the slight distance between you feeling like a canyon.

And for the first time since you started dating him, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not as sure of yourself as you thought you were.

Class drags like a big weight behind you.

You keep your eyes forward, your expression neutral, trying not to think about the agony in your chest, or the ache in your ribs, for that matter.

The lecture is just a jumble of slides and half-hearted notes.

Beside you, Mark fidgets incessantly.

He’s never been excellent at sitting still.

His knee jumps beneath the table, his pen taps a rhythm on his notepad still, and every so often, he stares at you.

You ignore him.

Or you attempt to.

You can feel the confusion radiating off him like flames.

He doesn't understand why you’re suddenly cold.

You can literally hear the gears in his mind turning.

Normally, he’d mutter a foolish joke under his breath, just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

Normally, you’d push his arm or steal his pen simply to screw with him back.

Today you don't.

You just sit there, frozen, looking blankly at the blackboard while your chest tightens tighter.

Finally, mercifully, the lecturer dismisses you.

Everyone around you rushes up, grabbing bags, talking.

You stuff your notepad inside your backpack with hard, jerking movements.

You can feel Mark watching you, waiting for you to look at him, but you don’t.

You rush toward the door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear him jog to catch up.

"Hey-"

His voice breaks a little on the word.

He clears his throat and tries again, maintaining pace with you. "Wait up."

You keep walking, not slowing down.

Mark scuffs his sneakers across the tile, visibly worried. "Um... you doing anything after this?"

You peek at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s staring at you, hopeful, wary, all huge blue eyes and tangled hair, and something terrible and tender twists inside you.

You hate that you still want to fall into him.

You hate that you can't.

You shrug. "Why?"

Mark touches the back of his neck, a classic motion when he's uncomfortable or awkward.

"I dunno. Thought maybe we could, like... hang out or something."

He says it like he’s winging it.

Like he hadn’t been planning it in his thoughts for the previous twenty minutes while you gave him the cold shoulder.

"We could get food," he says hurriedly. "Or, uh, Netflix. Something silly. Whatever. I mean, if you want. No huge issue if you don't. Just-"

He’s spiraling.

Fast.

You halt at the entryway of the main building, fingers clenching on the strap of your bag.

You eventually gaze at him.

He’s got that uncomfortable, serious face you know too well, the one that indicates he has no idea what he did wrong but he wants to repair it regardless.

You should say no.

You should put distance between you.

Give yourself room to breathe.

But the words stick in your throat.

You can’t make yourself shove him away.

You can’t.

"Maybe," you respond quietly.

Mark perks up quickly and his whole face glows. It's so foolish and innocent that it makes your chest feel harder.

"Cool," he adds, going for casual and failing terribly. "Yeah, nice. No pressure."

You nod, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your wounded knuckles.

You step outdoors together.

The sun is too bright; it makes your head hurt.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But he keeps strolling next to you, shoulders slouched, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, stealing looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how upset you are without risking saying anything idiotic and making things worse.

After a minute, he clears his throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" He repeats it lowly, trying not to seem like he’s lingering.

You hesitate.

You could tell him the truth.

You could say. ‘I saw you with her. I saw you smiling. I saw how easy it was.’

But you don't.

You just pull your arms tighter over yourself and whisper, "I'm fine."

Mark studies you for a second longer, like he knows you're lying but doesn’t know how to call you on it without making everything worse.

"Okay," he replies eventually, quietly. "I’ll shut up."

He touches the back of his neck again, gazing at the sidewalk.

You soften a little.

Just a bit.

Because he’s trying so hard.

Because he doesn’t even know what he’s attempting to solve.

You decrease your speed a little so he can catch up.

You don’t take his hand.

But you don’t draw away when your arms brush.

You stroll side by side in silence, awkward, wounded, fatigued.

Not healed.

Not really alright.

But trying.

His dorm is still a disaster.

Not a biohazard-level mess, not yet, but busy enough that you wind yourself carefully stepping over a crumpled sweatshirt and a couple of tossed notebooks on the floor as you go in. The curtains are half-drawn, plunging the room into a pleasant sort of half-shadow, and Mark quickly sinks face-first onto his bed like a dead body.

"You pick," he mumbles into the covers. "Netflix password's saved."

You snort under your breath, laying your bag down and poking his foot with your knee. "Lazy."

"You knew what you signed up for," he mutters back, voice muffled.

You roll your eyes, but a faint smile comes across your face before you can stop it. You walk to his desk, turn on his laptop, and navigate through Netflix until you find something silly and familiar, something you both can half-watch without actually paying attention.

By the time you press "play," Mark’s switched over, rolling onto his side to make way for you without even opening his eyes. Like he simply expects you to be there. Like it’s normal.

And somehow…somehow it is.

You kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed with him, the mattress lowering beneath both your weight. He quickly drags you closer without thinking, flinging one arm around your waist and nestling his face into the crook of your neck.

You go stiff for a second, the heat running up your neck so fast it makes you dizzy, but Mark only sighs, pleased, and squeezes you once before relaxing. His breath is warm on your skin. His body is warm against yours.

You tell yourself not to read into things.

You convince yourself it's simply who he is. That Mark Grayson is the sort of person that hugs people like he means it. The sort of man who laughs at your idiotic jokes, who waits for you after class, who doesn't notice when you gaze at him like he's the whole universe wrapped up in an oversized sweatshirt and a poor Netflix suggestion.

You don't even know you’re crying until Mark stirs against you and pulls back, looking blearily up at you in uncertainty.

"Hey," he replies, voice suddenly crisper, more aware. "What's wrong? Are you…are you crying? Oh my gosh, did I elbow you in the face? I knew I should've moved the laptop-"

You let out a wet laugh, brushing your sleeve across your face. “No, no, you didn’t elbow me, you idiot. I’m OK. I just-" You swallow. "It’s stupid.”

Mark sits up fully now, his hair sticking up in a million different places, looking absolutely wrecked with stress. His hand hangs over your back like he wants to touch you but isn't sure if he should.

"It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry," he adds, so sincerely, so earnestly that your throat tightens again.

You shake your head, producing a feeble grin. "I’m just-" You breathe deeply. "I’m really glad I met you."

Mark stares at you for a second, like he’s attempting to download those words right into his head. Then he grins, tiny, gentle, real, and leans in to place a kiss on your forehead.

"You’re stuck with me now," he says playfully, attempting to make you laugh, but you can hear the reality behind it. The way he means it.

You close your eyes and lean toward him, letting yourself breathe him in.

For a little while, you simply remain like that, tangled together on his bed, the laptop playing some bad comedy nobody’s actually watching, the late afternoon light creeping golden over the room, and for the first time all day, that unpleasant knot between your ribs starts to ease.

Maybe you’re not Eve.

Maybe you’ll never be as confident or as flawless or as easy as she looks.

But you’re you.

And oddly, that’s the person Mark wants next to him right now.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

The world outside disappears, the sounds of campus traffic, the distant sound of someone laughing down the hall, even the quiet hum of the laptop playing some show you’re no longer recognizing. It’s all background static now.

All you can feel is Mark.

The calm, steady rise and fall of his chest on yours.

The weight of his arm, relaxed but protecting, wrapped over your side.

The way his thumb continues pressing little, absentminded circles into your hip through the fabric of your shirt, like he’s grounding himself there.

It’s dumb.

It’s so ridiculous.

But you’re terrified to move.

Scared that if you shift, if you break the fragile enchantment hanging in the air, you’ll lose whatever this is, whatever glittering, delicate thread has weaved itself between the two of you.

God, you love him.

And the notion strikes you, abrupt and raw and terrifying, He could leave you at any second.

He might discover you’re not what he needs. That you're too much or not enough. That he deserves someone simpler to love.

And it would break you.

It would totally break you.

You’re so weary of pretending you’re cool with it.

So tired of smiling through it.

So weary of being too timid to tell him.

The panic rises in your chest, overpowering, and before you can think better of it, before you can convince yourself that you're meant to be sensible, or wise, or at least not a complete disaster-

you lean up and kiss him.

Hard.

It’s clumsy. Desperate. You just manage to angle your face right before your mouth crashes into his, your palm fisting uncomfortably in the front of his sweatshirt like you need anything to grasp onto, something substantial to prevent from falling apart altogether.

Mark freezes.

For a single, painful heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss you back.

You nearly flinch, almost draw away, terrified at yourself, heat blooming up your neck so quickly it burns

But then he makes a sound.

A quiet, broken, shocked sound down in his throat.

And then he’s kissing you back.

It’s not polished.

It’s not gentle.

It’s hungry.

Mark turns, rolling fully onto his side, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, pushing you more into him like he can’t take the notion of even an inch of gap between you. His mouth is hot and a touch feverish against yours, and you can feel the strain he’s been carrying, the perplexity, the doubt, the hope, pouring out into every weak breath he exhales into your skin.

You gasp against his mouth as his other hand finds your waist, dragging you closer, and the sound seems to destroy him, he sighs, deep in his chest, and kisses you harder, like he’s scared if he lets off for even a second you’ll vanish.

Your heart is beating so fiercely it feels like it could break your ribs wide.

You feel alive in a way you didn’t even aware you weren’t before. Like the world has sharpened into something brutally vivid, every nerve-ending lighted up, every inch of your skin throbbing with how hard you want more.

When you eventually draw back, it’s only because you have to because you’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon, foreheads crushed together, hands still clutching to each other like the ground may drop out beneath you if you let go.

Mark’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils black and blurry, his cheeks heated. His lips are red and a bit puffy. He looks destroyed.

He looks fantastic.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “You’re-you’re just full of surprises today, huh?”

You want to laugh, or joke, or say something funny, but all you can do is gaze at him, chest heaving, your hands still knotted in the front of his sweatshirt. You feel stripped bare. Exposed.

You attempt to talk, but it comes out tiny, hoarse “I’m sorry-”

Mark’s visage dissolves, softens, and he shakes his head instantly.

“No.” He crushes his forehead more firmly to yours. His hand brushes across your cheek, trembling just slightly. “No. Don’t apologize.”

You blink hard, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again but this time it’s different. Not fear. Not jealousy.

Relief.

Hope.

Something terrifyingly near to bliss.

Mark draws back just enough to actually look at you, his thumb stroking across your eye where a tear slid loose. His voice is so soothing it nearly breaks you. “I didn’t even know what I did wrong,” he mutters against your lips, voice shaking with relief and leftover fear. His hands roam your back like he’s reassuring himself you’re real. “I just… thought you hated me or something. Thought you were done.” Your throat tightens so tightly it aches. You attempt to grin, and it wobbles all over the place.

“You’re…you’re quite awful at subtlety, y’know," you say, your voice barely holding steady.

He grins, crooked and lovely, like he understands precisely how much he’s destroying you with it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re bad at it too.”

And then he kisses you again, softer this time, slower, like he’s enjoying it, like he’s remembering the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth.

And you let him.

God, you let him.

You sink into him, let yourself drown a little, because you finally can.

For once, you don’t have to pretend you’re OK.

For once, you’re exactly where you want to be.

Right here.

With him.

Mark kisses you like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists.

It starts soft, a brush of his mouth against yours, tender and a little shaky, like he’s still not totally sure you’re real, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Because you kiss him back.

You kiss him back with everything you've been holding in, every second of pining and doubt and hope and fear you've tried to swallow down for months. You kiss him like you're afraid he might disappear if you don't.

Mark responds like he’s been starving for it.

The hand cradling your jaw slides down, finding the side of your neck, his thumb brushing the line of your throat where your pulse is hammering wildly. His other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the sudden press of his body makes your breath catch.

You don't even remember tilting back, but somehow you end up half-lying across his bed, tangled together, the world narrowing down to the slow drag of his mouth against yours and the heat coiling low in your belly.

You feel clumsy.

Overwhelmed.

Alive in a way you didn’t even realize you weren’t before.

When he parts your lips with his tongue, you let him, and the soft, involuntary noise that slips out of you seems to light something up inside him, something a little reckless, a little raw.

Mark shifts over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head on the mattress, and you grab the hem of his hoodie without thinking, clinging to him, pulling him closer.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, flushed, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, and for a second you just stare at each other, hearts pounding so loud you’re half-convinced he can hear yours through your ribs.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice hoarse, serious.

You nod, dizzy, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, just-”

You swallow, and your voice wobbles. “You’re really close.”

Mark grins crookedly, something soft and helpless in the way he looks at you.

"That’s kinda the idea," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time, savoring it.

The heat between you builds with every touch. It’s not frantic, not like the movies make it seem but it’s constant. A steady, aching pull. A need that feels so much bigger than just your bodies.

His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, skimming along your waist, tracing the curve of your hip, ghosting up your side under the fabric of your shirt but never pushing too far, never crossing a line without some kind of silent permission. Like he’s letting you set the pace. Like he’s terrified of hurting you, even by accident.

And it just wrecks you.

The way he touches you like you’re precious.

You fist your hands in the front of his hoodie again, pulling him closer, and he follows your lead without hesitation, pressing against you, the firm heat of him impossible to ignore now. You can feel the hardness straining against his jeans where he slots between your thighs, and the realization sends a molten jolt through you so strong you almost whimper.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you again, searching your face, his own flushed and almost wrecked with want.

“We can stop,” he says, his voice low, rough. “If you want. Just say the word.”

God.

You’ve never wanted anything less.

“I don’t wanna stop,” you gasp, fingers clutching him tighter. “Just…” You blink rapidly, breath hitching. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And it hurt more than it should’ve.”

Mark lets out a short, shaky laugh, not mocking, just unbelievably fond. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth, slow and patient and sweet.

“Neither do I,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice rough but honest. “I’m just… trying. Trying to be good enough for you. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob of relief, and he kisses you again, really kisses you, deep and slow, like he’s trying to tell you with his mouth that you don’t have to be perfect. That you’re enough.

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie again and tug, clumsily. He breaks the kiss to help you, grinning a little as he yanks it off and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Your heart trips at the sight of him, broad-shouldered, solid, every muscle in him straining under light golden, sweat-slicked skin. He’s not some giant, he’s real, tangible, all lean strength and quiet power.

Everything you know, everything you’ve missed. Everything.

Mark leans back down, and this time, when his hands slip under your shirt, you arch into him instead of flinching. His palms are warm against your ribs, exploring slowly, reverently.

You kiss him harder, and he groans against your mouth, grinding his hips against yours in a way that makes you gasp, your fingers scrambling at his shoulders for something to hold onto.

It's messy. It's uncoordinated. You’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon and half-laughing into each other’s mouths whenever your teeth accidentally bump.

And it’s perfect.

Because it’s real.

It’s honest.

It’s you and him, no games, no pretending, just raw, aching want.

Mark kisses a trail down your throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your jaw, and you shiver, your hands sliding up into his hair without thinking. He groans when you tug gently, pressing closer, and you realize with a dizzy, giddy kind of wonder that you’re driving him just as crazy as he’s driving you.

You don’t know who breaks first.

Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the soft, broken little gasp you let out when Mark shifts his hips against yours again, grinding slow and helpless, like he can't stand being apart from you even for a second. Maybe it's him, maybe it’s the way your hands find their way up under his muscles, tracing the warm, solid lines of him, feeling him shudder against your palms.

It doesn't matter.

Because the next thing you know, Mark is pulling back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his hair a mess, his breathing ragged, and there’s something wild and pleading in his eyes.

"Bedroom," he mumbles against your mouth. "Please."

It sends a bolt of heat straight through you, grounding and electrifying all at once.

You nod before you can think twice, and he stands up, gathering you into his arms without missing a beat.

You let out a surprised little yelp, clutching at his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"Mark!" you hiss, half-laughing, half-mortified as he stumbles a little, nearly knocking over a pile of laundry in his rush to the door.

He’s laughing too, low and breathless and giddy, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn't even pretend to put you down. His hands are firm under your thighs, holding you steady against him like he doesn't want to risk losing even an inch of contact.

"William’s gone," he says, a little smug, like it’s the greatest victory of his life. "He’s at Rick’s for the weekend, remember?"

You barely remember your own name right now, let alone William’s plans.

All you can focus on is the way Mark is carrying you like you're something precious. Like you're something he’s earned.

He kicks the door open with his foot and fumbles inside the darkened dorm bedroom, still carrying you, still kissing you in little stolen gasps and nips whenever he can reach your mouth.

He finally manages to get you to the bed, half-dropping, half-tumbling you onto the mattress, and you both collapse into a heap, laughing, breathless, tangled together.

The mattress springs squeal under your combined weight, the familiar scent of Mark's cheap laundry detergent and body wash surrounding you like a second skin.

And for a second, you just look at each other.

Really look.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink. His dark hair sticks up wildly. His chest rises and falls fast, like he’s been running.

He’s beautiful in a messy, real way that makes your throat ache.

You reach up, your hand trembling a little, and brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering half-shut, like it's the best thing anyone’s ever done for him.

You love him.

The thought knocks the air right out of your lungs.

But before you can spiral too far, Mark’s kissing you again, softer this time, slower, more deliberate.

He pulls back just an inch, his voice low, rough.

"You sure?"

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

But then you catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and you make yourself say it, voice a little shaky but certain

"I’m sure."

Relief floods across his face so raw and visible you almost cry again.

Mark kisses you like he’s thanking you. Like he’s worshiping you.

His hands slip under your shirt, tracing your ribs, your waist, the curve of your back, reverent, slow, giving you a hundred chances to change your mind that you’re never going to take. He sits up just enough to tug your shirt over your head, and you arch into him, trying not to shake.

He’s so careful with you.

It undoes you.

When your shirt’s gone, Mark sits back on his knees for a second, just staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s trying to burn the sight of you into his memory.

You flush, biting your lip, self-conscious but before you can squirm or cover yourself, he reaches out, slow and steady, and drags his fingers down your arm, your side, your hip, like he’s memorizing you by touch.

"You’re beautiful," he says, like it’s a fact, like it’s inevitable, like it was always true and you were just the last one to figure it out.

You want to say something, something smart, something funny, something to fill the aching, awful tenderness spilling out of you but all you can do is pull him back down into another kiss.

It gets messier after that.

Hungrier.

Mark’s mouth moves to your throat, then down to your collarbone, then lower still, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers scrabbling at his hair, his back, his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto.

His hands roam your body like he’s discovering it for the first time, reverent, careful, greedy all at once and you can feel how badly he’s trembling, how hard he’s holding back.

It makes your heart clench.

It’s not perfect.

It’s messy, clumsy, and breathless.

It’s hands fumbling with buttons, knees bumping into the mattress awkwardly, both of you half-laughing, half-moan.

But it’s real.

And when he finally slides his hand low, cupping you through your pants, you can’t help the desperate little sound that punches out of you, wrecked, needy, shameless.

Mark groans against your throat, his voice rough and low.

"God, you sound so good."

You whimper, hips canting up helplessly into his touch, and he curses softly under his breath, like he’s losing the last shreds of his self-control.

"Need you," he mutters, frantic. "Need you so bad, baby."

You rake your hands down his chest, feeling him shudder under your touch, and he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"Tell me if you wanna stop," he says again, voice breaking a little. "Please."

You cup his face in both hands, pulling him down into a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

"I don’t want to stop," you whisper against his lips. "I want you. Please, Mark."

His thumb traces up your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra and that’s when he freezes.

The room feels suddenly too still. His fingers ghost over your cheekbone.

You blink, confused, and then, fuck.

The makeup. The damn sweat had smudged it enough that the bruise was showing, an ugly smear of purple and yellow blooming beneath your eye like some kind of poisonous flower.

Mark pulls back a little, his brows knitting together, worry carved into every line of his face. "What-?" he starts, voice low, almost afraid to finish the question. "Who did that to you?"

You jerk back, instinct lashing out before you could think. "It’s nothing," you snap, too quickly, too defensively. The words slapped the air between you. You scramble back off the bed, arms crossed tight over your chest, heart hammering like a bird in a trap.

Mark holds his hands up, palms open, like you’re some skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. "Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not- I just…are you okay?"

"I said it’s nothing," you bite out. You can hear your voice crack, and hate it. Hating how exposed you feel. How soft and messy and wrong it all is now.

You can’t tell him. Can’t tell how you’d gotten it during the Flaxan invasion, fighting side by side with Invincible, half the city in flames around you. Can’t tell him that you were just some girl in a homemade suit, stitched together with shaky hands and stubborn hope, swinging into a war zone like you actually belonged there. That you’d thrown yourself into the fight with no real training, just reckless bravery and a desperate, aching need to make it right. To prove to yourself you could be something more than scared, more than helpless.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

Mark doesn’t push. He just stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at you like he wants to gather you up and shield you from the whole goddamn world. And that, that almost breaks you more than anything.

Because you don’t know he was the same. You don’t know that under that rumpled mop of hair and the nerdy smile, Mark Grayson carries bruises a thousand times worse, stitched into his skin from fights against monsters and gods and nightmares with teeth. That he had secrets pressed into his bones so heavy it was a wonder he could stand up straight.

He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic you’d seen a hundred times. "If you ever wanna talk about it," he said, voice low, "you can. You don't have to pretend around me."

You don’t know whether you want to scream at him or throw yourself into his arms. Maybe both. Your heart twists painfully. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice barely a whisper.

Mark doesn’t believe you. You can see it all over his face. But he doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make you say more than you can handle. Instead, he just nods slowly and says, "Okay."

And somehow that okay messes you up you more than a thousand questions would have.

You don’t even bother putting your shirt back on properly. You just yank it over your head, backwards, half your hair tangled inside the collar. Your fingers fumble with the remainder of your garments, quivering with the type of terror you haven't felt since your first disastrous chemistry presentation in front of the whole class. It’s almost comical, how much simpler it was to be nude in front of Mark than it is to look him in the eye right now.

You can still feel the way his hands hesitated, confused, once he saw it, the way the perspiration on your skin distorted the delicate layer of makeup you’d spent twenty minutes putting on, the bruise below your eye emerging like an ugly secret. And Mark… he noticed. Of course he noticed. He’d been running his mouth all night on how lovely you were. You should’ve known there was no way he wouldn’t notice it once things got hot and close and-God, you’re so foolish.

You wrench the zipper of your jeans up too hard and it jams midway. You have to stop, breathe, and force your fingers to settle down enough to correct it. Mark’s still sitting on the side of the bed, his face all tense and anxious, looking like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

"Wait, hey-" he starts to stand, reaching out.

"No, I'm fine," you cut him off far too soon, way too harsh. You throw your bag over your shoulder, nearly knocking over the light on his bedside in your hurry. "I just remembered, I have to…I have to go. Homework. Big exam. You know. School."

Your voice breaks uncomfortably halfway through, and you want to crawl into a hole and die right there. But instead, you push your sneakers on without bothering to knot them and fumble toward the door.

Mark’s standing now, looking like he doesn’t know whether to chase you or stay put. His hair's a tangle, his cheeks still red from earlier, and there’s this look in his eyes that makes your heart lurch sideways. Confusion, primarily. Hurt.

You don't give him a chance to say anything else. You slam the door open and virtually rush down the hall, your footsteps loud and dumb on the poor dorm flooring.

You don't even know you’re sobbing until you step outside and the cold air hurts your moist cheeks.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17

[ckret2]

So y'all know the Gravity Falls production bible that leaked three weeks ago. Someone in one of my discord servers pointed this out:

And, naturally, that spawned an entire AU.

AU Concept: Ford was kicked out instead of Stan and takes a job as a trucker to makes ends meet since he couldn't go to college, while still studying the weird and anomalous however he can.

Ford driving around from quirky small town to quirky small town, drifting through the liminal spaces of truck stops, meeting odd people in isolated diners, seeing strange things out on the road—a deer with too many eyes bounding across a two-lane highway, a flirty woman at a rest stop who doesn't blink or breathe, mysterious lights in the sky at night, inhuman growls on the CB or 50-year-old broadcasts on the radio—and taking notes when he stops for gas or food.

Aside from having gotten kicked out before graduating high school, Ford's the same person he is in canon.

He's still an ambitious guy, and here "ambitious" means working hard and saving as much money as he can—so, a long haul owner-operator who spends weeks at a time on the road. (He goes through a LOT of educational audiobooks.) Plus, this is the easiest way for him to get to travel the country; and since it looks like his "travel the world" dreams with Stan are dead, he'll take what he can get.

Since he's never in the same spot long and carries his life in a truck, almost all of Ford's research is in his journal. His bag of investigation supplies has an instant camera, a portable tape recorder, a thermometer, a flashlight, rubber gloves, and a few zip lock bags—and that's about it. It has to share space with all his clothes, toiletries, and nonperishable food when he's on the road. He doesn't have much opportunity to closely examine anything odd he finds, unless he's lucky enough to run into something when he can stop for the night. He has to cram his paranormal research around the side of his full-time job.

He doesn't live in Gravity Falls, but he knows it exists. Every time he moves—to Chicago, to Nebraska, to California—he seems to inch closer. He currently lives in Portland and usually hauls loads between the Pacific Northwest and Chicago or New York. He stops at the truck stop outside Gravity Falls when he can and has gone fishing in town a few times. He doesn't have the benefit of extensive research to know that this is the weirdest town in the world; but it seems pretty weird to him, there are local rumors about the town, and he's had some weird experiences in the area.

Plus, he can't explain it, but it's like the town's calling to him. He wants to move there, but it'd put him over an hour outside of Portland where the nearest jobs are. Maybe if somebody chucked him like $100k to build a cabin in the woods; but what are the odds of that?

He does know Fiddleford. Truck broke down somewhere and Fiddleford kindly pulled over to fix it on the fly. They looked at each other, had mutual knee-jerk "dumb trucker/hillbilly" reactions, and within ten minutes both went "oh wait you're the most brilliant genius i've ever met." Fiddleford's living the same life he was in canon before Ford called him to Gravity Falls—with his family in California, trying to start a computer company out of his garage—but they make friends and keep in contact.

One time Ford stops at a kitschy roadside knickknack store that also sells new agey magic things—crystals, tarot cards, incense, etc. He bought a "lucky" rearview mirror ornament that looks like an Eye of Providence in a top hat and hung it from his cab fan, and ever since then he's had weird dreams whenever he sleeps in his truck.

Things I don't know yet: what Stan's up to; or why Ford's the one who got kicked out. I tend to believe that in canon Stan wasn't just kicked out because he ruined Ford's college prospects, but rather because the family thought he deliberately sabotaged Ford; so in this AU, Ford would've been kicked out over a proportionate crime.

[woradat]

Throne and fall #1

PT1 (here) -> next

NOTE - based on scenario: throne and fall

SUMMARY - An unlikely political alliance: a labor protest leader like Megatron and a sly senator like you who offered him an apple - maybe he knew it was poisonous but still chose to take it because the poison was not fatal (pre-war, au-ish)

PAIRING - megatron x reader, various char x reader

·

·

He didn’t know why he had come

Some ancient instinct buried deep within his spark—older than rebellion, older even than obedience—had murmured you shouldn’t. This was a mistake. A trap, carefully lacquered in the civility of the elite and polished to a shine so brilliant it blinded those foolish enough to look directly

The room, if it could be called such, did not appear on any schematic. It had no designation, no records, no function. It was not meant to exist. And precisely because of that, it did

Cradled in the unseen arteries between Senate foundations and the planet’s industrial underbelly, it hovered like a secret. Not quite above, not quite below. Suspended in power’s blind spot

And tonight, he stood at its center

The scuff of metal across the floor marked his presence—ungilded, unapologetic. The scent of oil and oxidized labor clung to him with all the intimacy of a second skin. There were no sigils, no ceremonial trims, no apologetic polish. Only the brutal honesty of his frame: battered, unsanded, engraved by hardship and carbon soot

He was an eyesore. He was a statement

And then you arrived—two minutes late, not by accident but by design

Of course you did

You stepped into the room as though it belonged to you, which it might as well have, moved like someone accustomed to being watched. But you only performed for an audience when you wished to

Tonight, you performed for him

armor was so meticulously sculpted it bordered on artistry, your plating so finely burnished it seemed a crime to breathe near it. Every panel caught the light with curated indifference, daring anyone to look—and reminding them why they shouldn’t

You were not beautiful

You were engineered

Elegance draped across you like a verdict. The subtle gestures, the ornamental excess, the glinting details no one needed—they all whispered of wealth, of legacy, of a world where extravagance had long since divorced itself from utility. You were not built to survive. You were built to command

And he? He was built to break things

You sat without waiting. Of course. A minor act of rebellion dressed as poise

Your voice slipped into the room like high-grade energon poured into crystal. Cold, clear, and far too expensive.

“You look… better than I expected” you drawled, tasting the words like they were laced with mild poison—palatable, but only just

“Crude, yes. Rough about the edges. But sometimes, raw ore holds more potential than the trinkets forged from it”

He stared. That frown came not from insult, but from disbelief. How could contempt be spoken so sweetly? How could condescension sound like courtship?

It was almost impressive

He did not return your smile

“How kind” he replied, his voice like gravel “What do you want?”

You reclined slightly—just enough to imply boredom, just enough to suggest danger

“Because I was tired” you replied airily “Of everything. The speeches. The processions. The hollow hymns to a system long since embalmed in corruption and paraded about like a sacred relic. Tired of pretense. Of preening Senators who couldn't differentiate virtue from vanity even if it were welded to their foreheads”

You gestured, idly, like flicking away dust that didn’t dare settle on you

“I’m weary of watching power drip like stale lubricant through the cracks of a world pretending it isn’t dying. But most of all..”

And here, your gaze fixed on him

“–I’m unspeakably bored of living in a world where voices like yours are only heard when they shatter glass ceilings”

A pause. Heavy. Deliberate

“And I wonder, my dear anarchist-” you whispered, almost intimately

“Megatron of Kaon, tell me.. how loud are you willing to become?”

Megatron stood still, though confusion crackled at the edge of his thoughts. This high-caste bot—this senator cloaked in influence both within and outside the chambers—spoke as if they hated the same world he did. But he dared not believe it

Was this an invitation… or bait?

“You speak as if you understand me,” he said, voice low “But have you ever stood in a mine, even for a single day?”

“Never” you replied, tone as cool and crystalline as high-grade energon “And I never will. But I know enough to say that your labor fattens the bellies of Senators so full they could roll from one committee meeting to the next”

“And out of the goodness of my spark…” You stepped around the table, slow, deliberate, until you stood beside him—then stepped closer still “I wish for you to learn”

You moved like you were sculpted for movement—graceful in a way that wasn’t learned but engineered. Even from a distance, you looked untouchable. Up close, you were impossible

He could smell the delicate trace of luxury-grade oil, could see the etched gold lining your frame—filigree and flourish designed not for function but for the sheer audacity of having more than anyone else. Things bots like him only ever dreamed of owning. If the world were different, he might have felt ashamed to be standing beside you

But not tonight

And he could see it now—clear as a burn mark. That look in your optics, the way your field brushed against his, cold and precise. This was not interest. Not in the way others might dream of it. This was selection. Evaluation

You weren’t here to join him

You were here to use him

Measuring him

And for a fleeting moment, he surprised himself by not resenting it

“What exactly do you expect me to learn?” he asked carefully. The miner choosing his words like stepping across a tightrope—one strung between you and something he couldn’t yet see. He didn’t know whether you’d be waiting at the end… or set the rope alight and let him drop

And you wouldn’t warn him if you did

“You have power” you said, so softly it almost sounded like admiration “I heard your words echo through the below. You speak like someone who has never tasted true authority”

“Words that stir the masses” you continued

“if left without aim, without art, without the elegance of control… are nothing but grenades with no target”

He didn’t speak—not because he misunderstood, but because no one had ever spoken to him like that. Foremen had called him trouble, fellow laborers called him a dreamer but you—you—said he had power

And you dared to stand beside him and mean it

He glanced at you, optics unreadable. But a flicker of something uncertain crossed beneath their steel

You leaned in, voice a whisper spun from steel threads and fine silk

“In my world, a ‘promise’ means nothing unless it comes with collateral. But for you…” you purred, “I’m willing to make an exception. Once”

You smiled

There was nothing kind in it

“And if you fall” you said sweetly “I’ll cut the rope myself—before your fall trips me into the chasm with you”

The words rang truer than anything he’d heard all day. More honest than any leader he’d ever met. Crueler than any vow he’d ever been offered

And he liked it

Not because it offered hope—but because it offered truth

He still wasn’t sure if you stood beside him… or if you were carving him into a weapon to be shattered on command

But he was beginning to understand: The system he fought wasn’t just built from steel

It was built from people like you

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability. 

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning. 

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations. 

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays. 

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret. 

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards. 

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival. 

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains. 

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter? 

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet. 

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation. 

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship. 

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup. 

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear. 

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine. 

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned. 

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age. 

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs. 

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn. 

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally. 

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter. 

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind. 

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life. 

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown. 

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care. 

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts. 

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall. 

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries. 

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him. 

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess. 

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system. 

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important. 

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock. 

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart. 

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions. 

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame. 

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness. 

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it. 

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left. 

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react? 

How did she react? 

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?! 

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

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[whispereons]

Oracle!Reader Part 18

Masterlist - Part 1, Part 17, Part 19

Warning! This has blood, injuries, and violence! This is a imposter Sagau so you can expect these topics!

The faintest sound of grass being crushed jolts you back into the waking world. Gripping your chest, your mind tries to remember your situation as you take deep shaky breaths. Just how long were you asleep?

The moon glimmers above you and it isn’t very obviously moved, so it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes… How could you have been so stupid to waste your limited time sleeping?!

The sound of heels stomping at a fast pace makes you move quickly. Packing up the medkit, you shove it into your bag and throw it over your shoulder. There’s a slight dizziness, your body is still sore and in pain, but it’s no longer unbearable.

From a 10 out of 10 to a 9 out of 10. Why couldn’t you get some sort of healing power as the Creator? Cursing your shitty luck that unfortunately didn’t change when being isekai’d, you bring up the game screen.

One more try, you reason with yourself. Maybe after that minute-long power nap, it will finally work for you. To your quick dismay, it still doesn’t work, but at least you could finally figure out where the fuck you were and where to go.

Staring at the game screen as your heart rate slowly rises from the sound of shoes stalking closer isn’t the situation you want to be in, but it is what you get from this particularly shitty hand of fate. What’s even worse is just how far away you are from any civilization, teleport waypoints, or statue of the sevens.

You eventually settle on going for the closest teleport waypoint and pray to any god besides Celestia that it reactivates your ability to teleport. Looking across the lake, you frown knowing you’ll have to walk around the whole damn thing.

Standing up, you can’t even pay attention to the rush of blood to your head as the dropping temperature monopolizes it. There’s no more time to waste. Kicking back into full drive, you weave past the Cryo Slimes now that you can actually see, and start to run on the edge of the lake.

It’s pathetic how you couldn’t take more than a few steps before an ice maiden flies beside you and blocks your path. Large waves of ice follow it before it dissolves into Cryo-infused talismans. The only paths you had now were the water to your left or going backward. 

Both clearly lead to death.

Just your fucking luck.

“Y/N!” Your name is spoken like a curse, as if you were nothing more than a pest meant to be crushed. Turning around, you look back at Shenhe who still doesn’t have any red ropes subduing her murderous urges.

Her polearm is waved slightly as blue slime flies off it. It’s only now that you realize the slimes near you were missing. The moon illuminates the blood shining off her clothing, both yours and hers. Dirt, minerals, and grass stains stick to her outfit and hair as she prowls closer.

The cold wind blows as she stops just a few feet in front of you. There is no blind anger or desperation for your death in her posture. Iridescent eyes stare you down as her Cryo vision is held in place solely by the gold ornament holding her hair in a loose ponytail. She is more than aware that your chance to survive or escape is low.

“You’ll pay for your crimes. Let my hatred suppress whatever meaningless feelings you have, to prevent you from ever resurrecting as a demon.” Cold. Her voice is cold as she holds her polearm in position and steps closer.

Despite the fear, despite the pain, and anger, you hold onto whatever half-baked plan you have in mind and stay in place. Backing away would only corner you against the ice wall she built.

Determined eyes stay locked onto Shenhe as your hands stay empty. Your silent refusal to bring out your weapon breaks whatever little self-control she has as she lunges at you. Gritting your teeth and throwing away your self-preservation, you rush forward to meet her.

Just as you hoped, Shenhe swings her weapon earlier with her quick reflexes and your heels dig into the ground to pull you back avoiding the fatal blow. The deep laceration on your collarbone is a small price to pay for your hands to grasp her wrists tightly. Growling, Shenhe moves to yank her hands away but petrification begins to overtake your hands and her wrists.

Not wanting to get caught in your petrifying trap again, she releases the polearm quickly, letting it clink out the ground. Your nails strain with the effort needed to keep her in your grasp but it’s worth it as her hands and wrists are successfully petrified. Like this, she couldn’t use her weapon or take out a talisman.

“You know, it’s really unfair of you to hold such a grudge against me for hurting you when you hurt innocent people all the time. Talk about a hypocrite.” With a mocking tone you begin to pull her into the shallow water. She tries to fight back but with your hands locked together and the water lapping at your feet, her resistance is futile.

“I mean, just cause you’re gullible and stupid enough to not pick up on basic social cues or even try to learn them, doesn’t mean you’re free from the consequence!” Your words end with a shout as you use your strength to pull Shenhe down with you into the water.

Falling onto your side with Shenhe in the same position, you raise your head just high enough to not drown. You didn’t pull her into the deep end, that would be suicide for you both but at least now she couldn’t use cryo without freezing herself too.

You could only hope she wasn’t that far gone to be willing to commit a murder-suicide.

Shenhe regains her bearing and quickly gains the upper hand by pinning you down into the shallow water. Holding your breath in the nick of time, your petrified hands push against her weight and flip her over.

Doing your best to hold her down in hopes of forcing her to pass out fails with how she switches the position. Constantly applying Petrify, you're locked in a grapple with Shenhe as the water splashes against your face.

“I don’t care that you hurt me. I care that you hurt my nephew!” Shenhe says in a frosty tone once she’s in an advantageous position.

Frowning at the sheer audacity of her words, pure annoyance gives you the strength to quickly overthrow her. It’s even enough to ignore how the arrow is pushed deeper and deeper into your chest.

“Stop fucking lying! You barely give a crap about him, which is still a leg up compared to how you seem to nearly hate the rest of humanity. The only person you like is the Traveler!”

“That’s not true, it’s not!” She refutes like a stubborn child. “I love the Creator too, more than anything else!” Her harsh breathing is strange, that anger she’s been so intent on expressing seems to hint at something else too…

“Then why the fuck are you still hunting me?! I didn’t do shit to the Creator nor to your precious traveler!” Probing for answers, you hold her down even with the ice spikes melting, unplugging your wounds.

“I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!” Shenhe spits it out the words with rising irritation but her resentment is slowly mixing with visible frustration. “The Traveler is my link to this world, my link to the Creator. I know for sure that I like her because these emotions fill me to the brim when I’m in her presence. That’s why I’m sure that I hate you!”

Shenhe’s feelings hit the limit as her next move slams your head onto the rock in the water. Your mouth opens automatically from the pain, water rushes into your mouth choking you. Ears ringing and body steadily going limp, your mind switches between intense static and terrifying calm contemplation on her words.

That resolute tone she spoke wasn't natural, almost like she’s forcing herself to believe her words. The back of your head feels warm and you can’t tell if you’re bleeding or if it’s just water.

Emotions filled Shenhe when she met the Traveler as you were the one controlling the Traveler all this time. The Traveler is publicly known as your acolyte, probably known as your first acolyte since you start Genshin with the Traveler. As this was her first taste of emotions since her father’s betrayal, she had a positive view of Lumine immediately.

But then what did that mean for you?

Your lungs burn as water blurs your vision and Shenhe shivers above you. The medical care you applied earlier did nothing now that you’re wet. Those useless, meaningless worries fade away as you retreat into contemplation, back to where you weren’t burdened with a fight you didn’t have the energy for.

Meeting you in person must have caused even more feelings to appear but you didn’t have a reputation like the Traveler did. Combine that with the action of stabbing her, it must have warped her perception of what feelings she has toward you.

Perhaps you hit your head too hard, or maybe it was the lack of oxygen that caused a near-manic glee to fill you. With strength unknown to you, you finally push her down and smile wide enough that it borders on being creepy. The water left in your mouth runs down your face with no change in your expression.

“This has to be some bullshit. The world, Celestia, and fate must be dying to screw me over in every way possible.” Your eyes stare unmoving down at the somewhat stunned Shenhe. The slight furrow of her eyebrows and the smallest downward turn of her lips tempt you to speak with mocking joy.

“Congratulations Shenhe, you don’t hate me, you never did! You love me, you love me the same fucking way you love the Traveler. Because just as Yelan said earlier, I’m an oracle, and no matter how much you want to push those feelings away. They. Won’t. Leave.”

Punctuating those last words with more force, you lean down closer to her face which morphs into something mirroring shock and slight fear. It almost immediately turns into an expression of denial as she switches your position to keep your head on the raised seafloor. 

It seems she didn’t want to drown you anymore. Your verbalized enlightening words nurtured those little seeds of doubt she tried to stomp out.

“That’s wrong, it has to be. I hate you, I must hate you! I can’t love someone who harmed me. There’s no other choice, I have to hate you.” A strong denial, but it’s all a front. The fear in her eyes is as clear as the silver moon above you.

Why, oh why did you have to deal with a little kid figuring out their feelings in this sort of situation? Just like when adults claim that a boy bullies a girl he likes. You now had to deal with Shenhe’s ‘hatred’ due to her emotionally stunted childhood. 

Your luck just couldn’t get any greater!

“I can’t love you. I can’t love someone who hurts me, not again.” Shenhe stares down at you as tears begin to slide down her cheeks. Staring blankly up at her, your mind seems to connect the dots on why she’s so against loving you.

Just like most trauma, it all starts with the parents. Her father’s stupid and abusive decision still has her in a chokehold.

Perhaps if this was a different situation, a different day, you could have dealt with her feelings gently. Slowly talking to her to accept these new emotions. Pushing past any barriers and lousy facades she might use to escape your kind words of advice.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Not today, not tomorrow, and probably not for a long while. The water around you has the faintest pink hue, no doubt from all your wounds being reopened. Your ears still ring and your lungs still make your chest heave with effort to regain proper ventilation.

Shenhe’s tears drip down your cheeks as she gazes down at you with watery eyes. The beautiful mirage of colors is swamped with salty droplets as her lips quiver.

Distantly, you count this as the second time you’ve made a Cryo vision holder cry at your words. The love you held for the characters back then has all but been buried deep inside you at this point. You will not survive in this world clinging to your past love for them all.

The petrification crumbles away with Shenhe too lost in her mind and heart to realize. Your dominant hand carefully releases her wrist before clenching around a familiar weight. 

If she’s the one with the Cryo vision, then why is it that you’re the one looking coldly at her?

“But you do love me, and living with those confusing emotions is what it means to be human. To be mortal.” With a swish of your sickle crackling with electricity, the blunt side makes direct contact with Shenhe’s temple. Eyes rolling to the back of her head, she collapses onto the water as her body jostles wildly from the electricity.

You aren’t afraid of the Electro hurting you. The trust you place in Teyvat to not hurt you is justified as the Electro doesn’t shock you, even as you grab Shenhe and drag her onto land.

The love you felt for all the characters isn’t being calculated in your decision. Shenhe dying, especially at your hands, is a recipe for disaster. You try to ignore the ache you feel at the thought of Shenhe's cold and rotting body in a coffin.

Touching the back of your head, you pull your hand back into view and grimace at the freckled blood dotting it. Multiple bruises, lacerations, a puncture wound in your chest, the leftover ice lodged in your lower legs, and now a head injury too? 

Maybe getting a fracture or broken bone will balance out your injuries. 

A slightly bitter chuckle leaves you as you open the game screen again. You only try once to teleport but as expected, it fails to work. Sighing and resisting your rising frustration, you resume your journey to the closest waypoint.

A strong smell of iron and salt clings to you, you're cold and wet but it’s bearable. Bearable compared to the pulses of pain that torment you as you amble to the halfway point of the lake.

The sound of treasure hoarders laughing and clinking of coins throws you off. Even from this distance, you can count at least five hoarders. An impossible battle in your state, you would surely die trying to get past them.

It’s hard to forget how many people they’ve kept in cages, robbed, murdered, and even implied to sexually assault. 

Dread and loathing bubble up to the point where you’re almost positive that if you opened your mouth, acid would come out. Doing your best to disregard the pain, cold, exhaustion, and fury you turn around and walk back. 

Farther down south is supposed to be where another teleport waypoint is built. Supposedly: it’s right above the Chasm in Lumberpick Valley. Just some climbing, not like you can’t push your bleeding body a little farther, and then a straight shot to the waypoint. 

Checking the game screen one last time to be absolutely sure, you start your journey. You avoid looking at Shenhe’s peaceful appearing body laying on the grass. Mindlessly your hands apply your leftover medical supplies to your battered body.

There’s no time to rest. No time to stir on what direction to go, on how you should react to Yelan if she appears. No time to collapse on the soft grass and just let yourself bleed to death.

Yelan was bound to be on your heels and you would be damned to let her be the death of you.

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

Sweat dripped down your skin as your haggard breathing could be faintly heard. Knuckles pale from the tight grip you enforced, you pulled yourself up over the last ledge.

You couldn't just backtrack and go back the way you came, the chance of running into Yelan or other enemies was too high, so now you were stuck climbing hill after hill.

Crawling away from the edge, you pick yourself up tiredly. Wincing from the throbbing pain in your head, you held it gently. The bandages wrapped haphazardly around it were slightly bloody. 

Each drop of ruby and ticking second was precious. You didn't have much energy left.

Following the vague instructions you remember from looking at the map, you followed the hill down. As you got closer, the sound of conversation was recognized.

Slowing down, you crouched low and laid down near the edge closest to the waypoint.

Two treasure hoarders stood below walking together. Scanning them up and down, you noted the crossbow and throwing knives arming them.The men stopped almost directly below you making a smile creep onto your face. 

Your specialty was gathering information. To be more specific, blackmail. 

And while you doubt they know any good blackmail, whatever they know could be useful.

"Isn't it great that we finally got word from Brass Bull and Flower? I was so sure that we would never receive another letter after what happened…"

"You shouldn't speak about Big Sis and Flower that way! I mean, the Madam from the Treasure Hoarder Association came in person on Big Sis's request."

"What are you doing trying to scold me while openly referring to Brass Bull as Big Sis?!"

The hoarders squabble with each other below you as you stir on their words. A Madam from the Treasure Hoarder's Association? That doesn't seem suspicious on the surface layer but from what you remember…

There never was a Treasure Hoarder Association in the game. The most impressive thing about them was how disorganized yet large their group is. 

Keeping a hand over your mouth to halt the manic giggle from escaping, your eyes gleam with malice.

Everyone has some sort of tell when they lie. Experienced liars have learned to hide their physical tell but that makes it evolve into something else. A pattern for lying, a favorite lie to rely on.

And if you remember correctly, Yelan almost always claims to be a part of some organization while conveniently avoiding her name.

All that built up excitement at seeing past Yelan's lie falls the moment you realize that she must be near the waypoint. Maybe you should just turn back?

Standing back up you grimace at the blades of grass dotted with crimson. You were losing blood at a rate too fast to play it safe. At most you had another two hours, and that was without combat in the equation.

Ignoring the dull spikes of pain from your skull, you keep low and sneak past the treasure hoarders. The various large rocks and swaying trees served as a good concealment. The night sky was just another bonus that helped you along.

The path clears and after walking a bit on edge, you slowly rise to your full height.

There wasn't another soul in sight.

As much as you would like to be suspicious and keep to the shadows, you couldn't afford to be so guarded. Merely thanking your lucky stars, you follow the path quickly.

Slowing down, you come across a wooden structure with stairs leading up to the teleport waypoint. The blue glow was a comforting sight. Finally, you can try to escape this place by activating it.

With one more wary glance around the area, you quietly climb the stairs. Not a sound is heard as you dash closer to the waypoint and reach your hand out.

Chills run down your spine and Teyvat cries out in your mind with what sounded like an animalistic scream. The glimmer of something shiny blue comes from the teleport waypoint but it's too late.

Not even your instincts can push your lightheaded and muddled mind to process the situation fast enough.

Hydro lifelines cut into your hands, letting your blood reveal the criss-cross patterned trap guarding the waypoint.

A yelp of pain leaves you from the burn of your nerves and you startle back just in time to not get your face smashed into it.

The lifelines move to wrap around your limbs and fling you back. There's a split second of being airborne, your heavy body floats for felt like an eternity.

Until your back collides with the insignificant stack of crates that break at your weight. Splinters tear your worn out clothing and stab into your back. It's not deep but the blood is obvious. Pain floods your senses and your ear

The remaining crates fall onto your face and there's a sickening crack of your nose. All you can do is gasp from the pain and bite back tears.

"A little birdie told me of someone messing with the Creator's holy structures. Those who aren't chosen by the Creator can't touch them."

Even through the blinding pain, ringing ears and bloody spit, you make sure to bite out "Just like you?"

Yelans blurry figure enters your vision that fades in and out of consciousness. What a shame that you couldn't see the snarl her lips curled into.

Lifelines pull you by your wrists into a standing position. Blood rushes to your head, causing you to gasp from the sharp spikes of pain. Your vision comes back into focus, showcasing a smirking Yelan. 

Clean and bandaged, the exact opposite of you.

“Keep them still, don’t bother with the rope. Restraints would be wasted on a captive as beat up as them.” The off-hand words are followed by the lifelines breaking away and leaving you to sway. Almost immediately, a larger pair of hands grab your arms and force them behind your back. Calloused fingers dig into your wrist to hold them still, the lacerations throb at the rough handling.

Not bothering to fight the new hold, you slowly turn your head to examine your surroundings. What was once an empty platform is now filled with treasure hoarders. Both possible exits are blocked off by groups as Yelan stands in front of you with her back turned.

“We got them, Madam! This is who we needed to capture to finally be connected with the Fatui, right? With this masked target caught, we can get Big Sis and Flower back!” A cheerful treasure hoarder speaks up first. Perhaps he's the leader for this bunch of hoarders?

The rest of the hoarders chime in too, big smiles stretch across their faces as they celebrate. The names ‘Brass Bull’ and ‘Flower’ are mentioned multiple times as they grow louder and more excited.

“Oh yeah?” Even with Yelan’s back to you, the smile in her voice is easily heard by you.

“Then it’s almost a shame to say that I caught the rest of you too.” The confused and wary expressions turn into realization as lifelines appear all around the treasure hoarders. The hands around your wrists tighten up as you peek up at the hoarder holding you captive.

Silent and still, the masked hoarder tightens his grip on you as the other members begin to fight back against Yelan. Only some though, most are too scared to move and get filled by the laser-beam structured lifelines.

Yelan, as calm as still water, walks to the stronger hoarders, determining them as the only threats. The noise in the area heightens as fighting ensures but your mind seems to work properly amidst the confusion. Fingers twitching with the desire to hold your sickle and break free from the flimsy man’s hold, you take a shaky breath. Not yet, you tell yourself, just one more step and then you can break free.

Yells of anger and betrayal ring out as the hoarders curse Yelan out. The names Brass Bull and Flower are spoken with so much affection that the familiar tug on your memory finally makes sense.

A past Genshin event involving the traveler helping the Milleth arrest a group of treasure hoarders comes to mind. As per usual: it ended with the Traveler arresting the leaders Brass Bull and Flower, along with what seemed to be their full group.

Seems this group was just the leftover that must have been somewhere else during the time of the event. They’re simply the leftovers that Yelan is obliged to clean up. Yelan never helps an enemy without helping herself first.

“I almost feel bad for you all.” A dry chuckle leaves you after speaking as the hoarder holding you shoots you a nervous glance. 

What easy prey.

“Did you really believe that Madam so easily? Brass Bull’s letter has to leave the Milleth prison meaning anyone could have peeked into the contents. Forging a letter to catch you all is just one possibility. It would be even easier to just replace the true Madam to infiltrate for any information you might withhold in captivity.”

His body stiffens up and his eyes look down at you with not quite a glare but something harder than a stare. “H-How did you kno-”

“About the letter? Yelan, or rather your fake Madam, bragged to me about it of course. A public servant for the Ministry of Affairs like Yelan can’t help but flaunt her misdeeds.” There’s a wariness in his eyes as he stares at you, his guard is lowering by the second.

Tone shifting into annoyance, you continue. “Don’t give me that look, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, don’t you know that? I was the one undercover to bring the real Madam back here. When I couldn’t find her, that's when I met Yelan.”

Biting your bleeding lip, your expression scrunches into one of anger as treasure hoarder after treasure hoarder are sent flying. “Yelan explained in detail how she tortured my dear Madam for information, all while inflicting these wounds on me. I’m not surprised to see that she infiltrated your group by lying her ass off.” His brows begin to furrow and his hands begin to steady.

“You wanna know something else?” His nod makes you smile widely and much like a devil to a wronged soul you whisper into his ear. “The Fatui you all were supposed to meet on Brass Bull’s orders have already been taken care of by Yelan. She could have just captured you all without any unnecessary fighting, but she wanted to betray you all.”

“Just like how she helped the Traveler arrest everyone all that time ago…” 

His complexion turns red as he releases your hands quickly and grabs the sledgehammer hanging from his waist. He sprints swinging it widely while yelling-

“-That woman is a fake! A fraud! She’s responsible for the past arrest and now this arrest!” Yelan jumps back, barely escaping a broken jaw as he continues to yell. “She’s the one responsible for Brass Bull and Flower’s sentence! Everything from then and now is all her fault!”

That knowledge makes every treasure hoarder's eyes grow in size and lock in on Yelan. Your hands pick up your bag from the floor as the hoarders lunge for Yelan.

Emerald eyes, wide and panicked, lock onto your tired yet satisfied ones as you send a shit-eating grin her way. ‘Eat shit’ you mouthed to her before watching the remnants of the group jump her.

It felt great, amazing even, to give her a taste of her own medicine after what happened with Shenhe.  

Only the smallest bits and pieces of wood were stuck in your back as you lug the back onto your shoulder. Flexing your body despite the pain and slight sway, you survey the battlefield.

You still needed to touch that damn waypoint.

“Ugh!” With a wince, you press a hand against your head before ducking as a blue arrow whizzes above you. Your skull sends sharp jolts of pain down your body as your back grows wet with blood.

This battlefield was too risky, every hoarder was blindly shooting and Yelan was still targeting you! 

Putting pressure on your calves that still drip with blood and melted ice, you march through the battle. Limbs and heavy bodies bump into you harshly as weapons narrowly hit your fragile body.

With laser focus on the teleport waypoint, you escape the constantly moving current of fighting and come into proximity of the waypoint. The cool feel of the waypoint is soothing against your feverishly hot fingertips, just when did you get this hot?

A gold glow shines from the teleport waypoint as you wretch your fingers away quickly, uncaring how your ruby blood left its mark on the object.

Shit, shit! How could you forget?!

The battle stills as everyone’s eyes are drawn to the dimming glow and new color of the waypoint. Yelan stares at you past the remaining hoarders before you jump to the side when multiple Hydro projectiles are shot at you.

It snaps the treasure hoarders back into reality as they glare at Yelan again. Taking advantage of what little time you can get, your body moves automatically to the closest exit.

Only to stop as the lingering hoarders who are too scared to fight Yelan but feel too guilty to run away aim at you with pale complexions. “D-Don’t come any closer!”

A bloody and messy unknown traveler on the other hand? The chance of them actually shooting you is high. Spitting out the blood pooling into your mouth, you back away from them. Turning back, you try the other exit but it’s just as bad.

Neither way was going to let you through and Yelan was starting to seriously cut down on their numbers. The small mountain next to you was starting to look increasingly tempting…

A passed out treasure hoarder is flung in your direction by unstable lifelines with you pressing your aching body against the stone to avoid getting hit. Your skull hits the stone and your mind goes blank for a hot minute.

Did you really have any time to be picky? You weren’t even sure if the waypoint would even work.

Sucking in a painful breath, you wrap your cut up fingers around the rocks and begin to climb. Sweat rolled off your feverish body as every movement made waves of pain wash over your body.

Blood dripped from your nose, spilled out of your mouth, and mixed with the slightly bloody dents you got from Yelan’s nails. Hot stings pricked at your head as the bruises beneath your body made itself remembered.

Finally at the top, you pull yourself up and gaze at the Chasm as the cool night air nipped at your skin bringing sweet relief. Lumbering closer to the ledge toward the Chasm to avoid any stray arrows, your fingers tremble slightly as it brings up the map.

Strange, when did you start trem- “Argh!” The cry is pulled from your lips as an arrow pierces your back. The pain and force behind it is too great forcing your body to collapse to the ground.

Your broken nose makes contact with the groan pulling a pained groan from you. Weakly, you roll to your side as heels begin to head your way. Body sore and sensitive, your eyes stare up at Yelan’s casual stride.

She’s slow and beaten up too. That arrogant smile is gone and those demeaning eyes have changed into something akin to hatred. Pulling yourself up as she stops just a few feet away, you watch her draw her bow.

Taking a step back just to get some distance, maybe even enough to dodge, it’s stopped short when all you can feel is the edge beneath you. 

It’s a dead end.

Yelan is quiet as she aims at you, her trembling bloody fingers are more than enough proof of how far you pushed her. Should you be satisfied seeing someone who basically had their whole life play out like you wanted and craved suffer?

“I guess you really will be known as a hero, Yelan, just like your ancestors.” The words are sad and bitter on your tongue. A sharp contrast to the iron taste as you cough up blood.

“It cough must be nice! Knowing that every-cough thing in your life worked out in the end! Hack” A clot of blood is forced out of your throat as Yelan narrows her eyes at you.

“I hope you thank the Creator every damn day for the people in your life…” A sardonic wet laugh leaves you as your body shakes. “Especially Ningguang as she's the reason you didn't have to struggle to find a new job.”

A bloody coughing fit consumes you and pain accompanies it as the bow’s tension is released. 

The incoming arrow isn’t something you can avoid or block, the force of it pushes you off the edge. Time slows down as you blankly watch Yelan’s form begin to get smaller from above you.

You have no energy to panic, just a faint realization of your quickly coming death and a conflicting feeling of acceptance. The wind howls in your ears and the world blurs together, all you can truly see is the starry sky above you.

Is this how you will die? Is this how you want to die?

No, maybe you should at least be thankful that you’ll be dying from being a liar rather than being an imposter.

Would that make your death more acceptable in your eyes?

Your body is weightless and the pain you suffered from no longer torments your body. Closing your eyes, you let all those lingering worries fade away.

.

.

.

.

Why weren’t you dead yet?

Opening your eyes, you find that your fall is a lot slower than before. It’s gotten softer from a howl to a murmur in your ears. Aches begin to plague you as pressure compresses your body and lungs.

Rocks and other edges move past you and the incredible thing you realize is that you’re floating. Will you actually survive? Is there a big difference between falling to your death and floating to it?

Struggling to breathe through the thin air and blood in your mouth, no scream of pain can leave your lips as your back meets the grass. Several cracks can be felt and a tip of the arrow pushes through your body until the metal tip pierces your lung.

The pain is unbearable as you lie there helpless. 

Teyvat traded a quick painful death of being splattered and compressed on the ground for a slow painful death of bleeding out? 

‘What a fucking joke!’ You think to yourself as tears run down your face, and your skin turns cool and clammy. Warm blood seeps through your clothing and it begins to form a sticky puddle beneath you.

Skull aching as your spotty vision fades in and out, the several new broken bones that leave you unable to move, and the agonizing pain of something stabbing your insides as blood bubbles in your mouth?

It’s torture, you conclude. You’re fated to die a torturous death no matter what.

“...herbs….here…” It’s a slight mumble that you can’t hear.

“Maybe…here?” A little closer and the voice catches your slowly dying consciousness.

“The last herb is here.” A slow, childlike voice reaches your ears and you turn barely enough to watch a zombie-child walk your way.

A small basket is stiff in her hands filled with plants. “I need to gather the herb.” She speaks not quite to you but past you.

To a snow-white Qingxin, the petals droop beautifully dotted with crimson beads of your blood. Qiqi walks closer with empty eyes unflinching as her shoes are stained with your blood.

Qiqi can carry Xiao and she goes straight to Baizhu who is not only a healer, but also the best doctor. This agony and suffering would be worth going through if you would actually live. 

The only thing in the way was her current order... 

Good thing you already know how to cancel it.

Qiqi’s stiff fingers wrap around the stem and freeze when your larger, shaking one's weakly lay on hers. Dull pink eyes look up at you as if seeing you for the first time. Her pupils widen minuscule as your warm eyes stare back.

Forcing a small bloody smile, you weakly whisper sweetly. “Qiqi, I love you most.”

The basket in her other hand drops to the ground but Qiqi’s eyes never stray from yours. Her small grip on the stem stiffens and you continue. “It’s true Qiqi, I love you most.”

“But I won’t be able to love you if I die here. Bring me to Baizhu.”

Her eyes dull immediately and she releases her grip on the herb. “Order received.”

With that, she takes the arrows embedded in your chest and snaps the majority of the parts sticking out. The pain you feel from Qiqi’s lack of restraint isn’t unbearable but the continuous feeling of your conscious fading scares you.

Within a minute Qiqi has you on her back with your arms draped over her front as she holds your legs up. The position is painful as her readjustment and movement make the leftover arrows in you jolt, but it works.

Not a single part of your body is dragging on the floor and she even has your bag hanging from her neck. It would be a cute sight if she wasn’t going to hike back to Bubu’s Pharmacy carrying a dying body.

You admittedly held some negative feelings towards Baizhu for using that method of canceling orders. He may take good care of Qiqi but he only loves her as a patient, rather than as a parent.

Qiqi hikes back with no stumbles or enemies in the way. Even with your weight, she walks as if unburdened. That doesn’t stop the mind-numbing sting plaguing you and your body.

What right do you have to judge Baizhu for giving Qiqi false parental love for his own benefit? You’ve now done the same exact thing. If anything, you should know better. 

You don’t have much time left as your head sags onto her, your consciousness is at the brink. Unknowingly your thoughts begin to spill out in a hoarse voice “Sorry Qiqi, I shouldn’t have said that. What I should say is sorry.”

With that, everything fades to black.

This was one long chapter, but I did not want to split and risk losing the momentum. I'm happy to conclude this women hunting you down arc! I swear this chapter was done when I was freed from the shadowban, it just took a long time to edit. Thank you to my editor for helping me edit this document from hell. It definitely would have taken at least another few days. Next chapter might take a bit longer as I have to finish Baizhu's story quest for a proper view of him. I'll admit that my series can get confusing so if there is any questions, feel free to ask! I appreciate all the likes, comments and reblogs!

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[nicoline1998enilocin]

Our Christmas | Christmas Special 2024

PAIRING || Fiancé! Tony Stark x Fiancée! Female! Reader

WORDCOUNT || 7.6K

SUMMARY || You've been working on preparing the best Christmas celebration you have ever had with the Avengers and other loved ones, and tonight is the night that all your hard work will come to life. From a delicious dinner to the most fun game of Secret Santa you've ever seen, it will surely be a night that will go down in history as one to never forget.

RATING || Explicit (E)

WARNINGS/TAGS || Established relationship, former sugar relationship, age gap romance, lots of domestic fluff, lots of PDA, use of mistletoe, explicit sexual content.

SMUT || Teasing, hickeys/lovebites, quickie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), fingering, spanking, hair pulling, cream pie, biting, begging, dirty talk, breeding kink, pregnancy kink.

A/N || Merry Christmas! I'm incredibly grateful for everything that my time on Tumblr has brought me this past year, and I'm happy to be able to share my stories with you all, too. I also want to give my special thanks and love to my best friend and the person I love the most on this earth - @ccbsrmsf1. I love you bestie, thank you for everything you have done for me this past year! 🤍

EVENTS @anyfandomfluffbingo || Edible underwear @fandom-free-bingo Book Night || (Catching) fire @fandom-free-bingo Pride || Queer cat parent @fandom-free-bingo Pride || Free space + “Be gay, do crime.”

@fictionaldelightsbingo Under The Sea || Finding safety at their lovers side + Free space + Gift exchange @julybreakbingo Post-JBB || Found family + “We shouldn’t do this.” @seasonaldelightsbingo Sweater Season || Cookies @tonystarkbingo Round 8 || Marriage

All the graphics are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark || Sugar Daddy! Tony Stark

“Can you hand me that ornament?” you ask your fiancé, Tony, as you’re standing on a step stool to decorate the Christmas tree in the communal living room you share with the Avengers. You might as well have been talking to a ghost because he is much busier ogling you than he is with paying attention to what he’s supposed to do until you snap him out of it.

“Tony, hey! My ornament, please?” You snap your fingers a couple of times in front of his face, a chuckle audible as he shakes his head to return to reality. He had drifted off into a daydream when he saw some skin on your back as your Christmas sweater had lifted, and he immediately thought back to the way his fingers grazed that spot earlier today as he had you bent over on the bed.

“I- uhm, sorry,” he says shyly, reaching for the red and gold ornament you’ve asked him twice for. His cheeks are flushed with a deep red color, making him look adorable as you take the ornament from his hand, your fingers brushing past one another as you do. Your lips curl into a smile as you take a moment to take in the sight before you - a shy Tony whose cheeks have turned redder than ever before, all because he got caught in the middle of a daydream.

“It’s okay, Handsome. Just don’t let it happen again, okay?” A wink follows your words, and Tony nods before quickly turning around and grabbing two more ornaments for you to use. Your two cats, Sun and Moon, are napping in one of the countless cat beds you have strewn all over your penthouse and communal living spaces, and he melts a little at the sight.

“Aren’t they adorable like this?” You come down from your step stool as you stand beside your fiancé. He hums in approval, and you two stand there for a few more moments before you grab one of the ornaments from his hands and return to decorating the tree because there’s still much to do before your Secret Santa tonight.

“Do you want to help me bake the cookies once this is done? I want to make a few different kinds, and I think they-” motioning at your cats “-will be napping for a while longer. She doesn’t need another bottle until dinner either, so I think it might be fun to make some Christmas cookies together.”

“Hmm, there’s nothing else I would love more than to help you, Sugar,” Tony says as he comes to stand behind you, his hand lying on your ass as he does.

“Can you two keep your hands to yourselves? Not everyone wants to see you two touching each other like that every time they walk into a room,” a familiar voice says. You laugh loudly, and Tony doesn’t move his hand as he turns his head.

“Careful, or I’ll tell Laura you’re staring at us while we’re having an intimate moment!” Tony quips back at Clint, who picked up one of his arrows that stayed behind after cleaning them earlier. The archer flips him off with a chuckle before leaving you two to what you were doing. You have gotten rather close with all of the Avengers, and it isn’t uncommon for Clint to call you two out during moments like this, but you don’t mind because you know it comes from a place of love.

After one more squeeze, Tony lets go of you to grab the last ornaments needed to finish decorating. When you’re done, you take a step back to admire your hard work in full. You feel your fiancé’s hands slipping onto your waist and his chest pressing against your back, and a flutter of butterflies goes wild in your stomach at the closeness.

“You did an amazing job as always, Sugar. ‘M so proud of you!” His words are emphasized by a few soft kisses on your head that have you smiling wide. As you’re standing here together, you take a moment to bask in the closeness, and Tony can’t help but do the same as he nuzzles his nose into your hair, your sweetly scented shampoo reminding him of some amazing things you’ve shared.

“I love you, Tony, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule, so it’s time to bake cookies now!” you let him know, and he chuckles before letting you go, his cheeks still showing the flush from earlier when you turn around. Your hands cup his cheeks before standing on your tiptoes and kissing the tip of his nose, which warms his cheeks under your fingers.

“I love you too, Sugar. Thank you for brightening my days,” he whispers, and you smile at him before letting go and making your way to the kitchen. Tony gently picks up the bed that Sun and Moon are lying on. They don’t seem to be disturbed as he takes them to the kitchen where you’re getting some supplies ready, and the oven is already preheating.

Over the next two and a half hours, you and Tony spend some much-needed quality time in the kitchen - from preparing the different kinds of cookie dough to cutting them out, baking and decorating them, it’s like you two are a well oiled machine with the way you two are going at it.

“Ready for the last batch to go in?” you ask Tony as he’s finishing a few sugar cookies that are being piped to look like snowflakes. Never in a million years would you have guessed that someone like him would be good at decorating cookies, but in hindsight, you’re not surprised at all - he has very skilled hands after all.

“Absolutely! And when they’re in, I think it’s time we take a small break until they’re done!” The enthusiasm with which he says it has you raising your eyebrow in a questioning way, though you also can’t help but melt a little at how excited he is at the thought of taking a break with you.

“It’s not like I could every say no to you and your cute face,” you tell him with a chuckle, which makes a dark red flush appear on his cheeks. While he has the art of complimenting you down to perfection, he still has a long way to go when it comes to receiving compliments, and you can’t help but look at him in awe when he turns into the shy boy you’ve come to know and love, too.

As soon as the cookies are in the oven, Tony guides you to sit on the bit of space on the counter that he cleared. He steps between your legs before pulling you towards the edge.

“Much better,” he murmurs with a small smile before trailing some kisses over your jaw and down your neck, his teeth sometimes nipping at your sensitive spots as you moan only loud enough for the two of you to hear. His fingers dig into your thighs while yours are tugging gently on his chocolate brown locks, the moment making it feel like you’re floating and going to heaven.

“Tony,” you moan softly, his lips curling into a smirk as he nips at your jaw. Your entire body feels like it is on fire from the time he spent leaving his marks. Unfortunately, the moment is rudely interrupted by the dinging of the oven, letting you know that your last batch of gingerbread cookies is ready to be taken out.

As soon as your fiancé steps away, you feel like a piece of you is missing, and the room has turned significantly colder without him being this close to you. Thankfully, you don’t have to wait long for his return because as soon as the cookies are on the cooling rac, he’s back in his original spot, his hands now cupping your cheeks.

“Have I told you that you look beautiful today?” Even though it’s a relatively straightforward question, you can’t help but feel like your entire body is catching fire as he asks it. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes, every last bit feels like it’s blushing as you try to hide your face in his neck, but to no avail - he won’t let you hide that easily.

“Oh no, there’s no hiding from me, Sugar! Now that you’ve said yes to marrying me, I will tell you even more how much I love you and how beautiful you are. So I suggest you better get used to it while you can.” The smirk on his lips makes you melt in his hold, and you lean forward to kiss his lips gently. It’s followed by a kiss on the tip of your nose, and then Tony steps back, ready to help you off the counter.

As soon as your legs are steady again, Tony kisses your head, making you smile like an idiot, before turning around to get ready to do some more decorating of the cookies. Tonight, you’ll be doing Secret Santa with the Avengers and tasked to ensure there are plenty of snacks for everyone, and baking for them is a love language you’ll happily indulge in.

“If you continue the sugar cookies, I’ll do these gingerbread cookies while Sun’s bottle is warming up, okay? I saw she’s awake again, so I think I’m giving her an early bottle today,” you tell Tony, who wholeheartedly agrees. Soon after, the bottle for your kitten, Sun, is warming while she and Moon are playing with a toy already in their cat bed, making the most adorable of noises as they do.

Once all the cookies are done, you let out a sigh of relief as you look at them, pride flowing through your body as Tony places his hands on your shoulders while standing behind you. Neither of you can stop smiling as you let yourself melt into his touch for a moment, the warmth of his body welcomed more than ever.

“I’ll get our blanket ready if you get her bottle, okay? Then we can maybe watch a movie as we cuddle with our babies,” Tony offers, and you happily agree with his idea. Once you’re on the couch - both your and Tony’s legs are covered by a large blanket, Moon is in Tony’s arms, and Sun is in yours as she drinks from her bottle of milk - you feel a moment of peace come over you as you put your head on your husband-to-be’s shoulder.

“Where do you want to get married?” Tony asks, and for a moment, it’s completely silent. You’ve thought of many places where you could tie the knot, but lately, one place stands out when you think about it.

“Well, I have some thoughts, but you can always say no if you don’t want to do it, okay?” you ask, and he nods in agreement.

“It may sound silly, but ever since I proposed to you, I’ve been secretly doing some wedding planning on the side - nothing major, of course, just figuring out where I want to get married, what type of dress I like, things like that - and there’s one thing that I think will make our wedding day perfect. I’ve been going through many files and found out that your Mom and Dad got married in Italy, and I think it would be a beautiful honor to get married in the same place as them.”

Tony’s mouth is slightly agape as he looks at you with an adoring look, tears forming at his waterline as he lets the news settle in that you’ve thought about getting married in the same place as his parents, even though you never had the chance to meet them. Your thumb wipes away some of the tears trickling down his cheek, and he nods enthusiastically as he doesn’t trust his voice right now.

“Without them getting married there, I never would have had the chance to get to know and fall in love with you, Tony, so I think there’s nothing more fitting than the beginning of our marriage to be in the same place as theirs. It resulted in you, after all,” you tell him with a chuckle. He laughs loudly as he wipes the tears from his cheeks. Moon has shifted from his lap to his chest to comfort him as well.

“It’s okay, Buddy, Daddy’s not sad. Mommy just made him so happy he couldn’t hold back his tears,” Tony says gently as he kisses Moon between his ears, who purrs audibly. Your mouth curls into a smile as you look at them, and Tony looks at you before leaning over and kissing your cheek. You’ve been thinking about it for months, and now that you’ve finally told Tony about your idea, you’re even more excited to say yes to him one day.

“What do you think I should wear to dinner?” you ask Tony, holding up two dress options. One is a stunning black off-shoulder dress highlighting all your curves, and the other is a low-cut red velvet dress with gold accessories. While he gifted you both options not too long ago, you’ve been indecisive about what to wear, and you’re hoping that his choosing for you will make it easier, though there isn’t really a choice. You already know which one he’ll pick between these two.

“Hmm, while I know you will look beautiful in both, I think I’m choosing the burgundy for tonight and the black one for when we go out for dinner on New Year’s Eve,” he offers, and your mouth curls into a smile as this is exactly what you anticipated would happen. If there’s one thing Tony loves, it is you dressing in his colors, and the excited flush on his cheeks makes him even cuter than he already is.

“Thank you,” you whisper before pecking him on the lips and turning around, leaving him breathless as he discovers you were hiding some deep red lingerie behind the dresses you showed him. The sway of your hips immediately has him wanting more of you, and he can’t help but follow, the belt he was putting on now being discarded on his way into the large walk-in closet.

Before you’ve had a chance to properly hang up the black dress and lie the red one down, you feel your fiancé’s hands gently digging into your hips, his lips already on the sensitive spot in your neck as he groans softly, his pants growing tighter by the second.

“You’re such a little tease tonight, huh? First, showing me the red dress, knowing full well that’s the one I’d pick, and then revealing you’re only wearing some of your sluttiest lingerie for me? You’ve been serving yourself on a pretty platter for me to enjoy, right?”

His words come out in a breathy voice, his rapidly hardening length already poking against your lower back as your head falls to the side, giving him all the access he wants while your chest rises and falls quicker as your heart rate and breathing are faster than before.

“Tony, we- we shouldn’t do this right now,” you say with a giggle, as he’s already moving to unbutton his pants with one hand, his other hand kneading your breast as he looks over your shoulder at what he’s doing. He hums as an answer, knowing you want this just as much as he does right now. As your eyes slip shut, you can hear the distinct sound of the zipper being pulled down, which elicits a soft moan from you.

“Is that so? Well, I think that if I were to slip my fingers in your lacey little panties, your sweet pussy would tell me something different,” he says, and without missing a beat, he does exactly that. Your legs spread a little to make room for the thickness of his digits sliding through your soaked folds, an excited hum audible as he takes his time to play with your sensitive clit.

“Please!” The word comes out in a soft whine, your head falling against his shoulder as Tony’s cock throbs in excitement, his hand wrapped around it as he gently strokes himself. Without warning, he bends you over the large dresser that’s in the middle of the closet, your ass being beautifully exposed as he does. With the hand that’s now free, he lands two loud slaps on your ass, that have you moaning loudly.

“That’s it, moan for me like a good slut,” he encourages you before pulling your panties to the side and sliding his tip into your tight pussy, still well aware of the fact that even though you two don’t have much time, he doesn’t want to hurt you by giving you more than you can take, either. With clenched teeth, he takes the time to stretch you, your mind slowly going blank as you grab onto the dresser’s edge as he does.

“Such a perfect girl, letting Daddy fuck her whenever his dick gets hard from you walking around like this.”

A brutal pace follows the words as he bends himself over your back, his hand being placed on your throat without squeezing, giving him enough leverage to fuck you senseless. Your moans turn louder and louder with every thrust, his thickness sliding in and out effortlessly as your pussy gushes around him constantly. As your orgasm quickly builds, you grab Tony’s hair to pull on it, which is followed by him biting down on your shoulder while the pleasure builds rapidly.

“D-Daddy, fuck- I’m c-close!” you tell him, your words barely audible as the pleasure is taking over every fiber of your being, your blood feeling like lava inside your veins as the pleasure takes you under until you’re clenching down on your fiancé’s cock, which is followed by his orgasm as he cums deep inside you with a loud groan of your name.

“Take it, fucking take my cum- You’ll get so fucking pregnant tonight, I’m sure of it,” he groans as he’s panting above you, a small layer of sweat on your skin as you’re coming down from your high. For a moment, you cannot say a single thing as you’re shaking and trembling in your future husband’s hold, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite him having gone soft and being overly sensitive.

“I love you, my sweet, beautiful, and amazing Sugar,” he whispers as he kisses the sensitive bite mark he left on your shoulder - it’s not enough to have drawn blood. Still, it definitely will bruise, and you’ll wear his mark with pride as you’re having dinner with the Avengers and all the others soon. With a dopey smile on your face, you get back up before putting your panties back in place, ensuring Tony’s cum will stay nestled inside you for as long as possible.

“Will you help zip me up, Handsome?” you ask Tony not long after you’ve slipped into the dress, though it took you quite some time to finally regain your composure without trembling on your legs like a baby deer. He’d done a real number on you and your body when he took you like he couldn’t wait any longer, but you wouldn’t change it for the world, especially after seeing his fucked out face when he tried to get himself looking decent again.

“Hmm, I’d rather help you get it off, not on,” his words followed by a chuckle as you roll your eyes at his comment, but he still does what you asked. As you take a moment to smooth out the fabric of your dress while looking at yourself in the mirror, he stands behind you, one of his hands sliding from your hip to your belly as he crosses your gaze.

“You’ll be the most beautiful woman ever when you carry my baby.” The words come out as more of a whisper, but they still set your cheeks on fire as you cover his large hand with your significantly smaller one. There’s a comfortable silence between you two as you bask in the closeness and the thought that Tony has thought about the way you look while pregnant. You two have discussed babies before but haven’t ever gotten too deep into it, so while it isn’t a huge surprise, it still makes your heart beat faster from excitement.

After a few more moments together, it’s finally time for you and Tony to go to the communal kitchen, where the dining table has already been set, and the private chefs Tony hired to prepare a delicious Christmas dinner have been working hard to make your evening unforgettable. However, before you two can head there, he has a small surprise for you.

“It might be a bit silly, but I hung up a surprise for us in the living room,” Tony tells you, his cheeks slightly red as he confesses to his actions. While you have a feeling you know what he did, you still go and check it out to be sure - and your hunch was correct. In your favorite spot - in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan - is a mistletoe, which makes you smile broadly. While it might be a simple gesture to most people, it’s a massive one to you as you stand underneath it, your hand outstretched for him to join.

“It appears a mistletoe has suddenly appeared, so it’s only fitting we honor the tradition that comes with it,” you say. Tony smiles brightly as he steps in front of you, his fingers intertwining with yours before he ducks his head slightly, kissing your lips softly, making the world around you feel like it’s fading. There’s nothing other than you and Tony, your lips on his, and your souls connecting right now.

You two are only pulled from your moment when you feel a familiar feeling against your leg as your cat Moon pushes his body against it, wanting some attention, too. He follows it with a few soft meows, and you can’t help but smile as you pull away from your fiancé’s lips. Your black cat, Moon, is known for interrupting moments like this when he feels like getting attention, and he’s too spoiled not to do it, seeing how you give in every time.

“I believe someone else might want some attention, too, don’t you, Moon?” You ask as you let your hand glide over his back, a soft purr audible as you do. Tony takes a step back to admire how you interact because even though he prefers to be with Tony most of the time, he also loves getting attention from you, and you’re more than happy to give it to him every time he asks for it. Your mind flashes back to when you first rescued him when he was a little kitten, and he has come from far to be where he is now - a spoiled, well-loved cat with all his heart desires and more.

“Shall we take you and your little sister to dinner with us? Maybe Bucky will bring Miss Alpine too, and all three of you can have some fun, too,” you ask, and Moon immediately meows in response. He always brings a smile to your face, making you fall in love with him more every day as you look at him and the cat he has become since you rescued him a few years ago.

“Let’s head to the kitchen, Sugar. I’m starting to get hungry after you’ve worn me out the way you did,” your fiancé says with a small smile, though you both know it was him who wore you out when he fucked you the way he did not too long ago. Still, you happily agree before taking his hand and leading him to the elevator, Moon following closely behind.

While you open the elevator doors, Tony picks up a cat bed from the couch, where Sun is napping. Moon is patiently waiting for his Dad to join you both. Your face splits into an excited smile as soon as he comes into sight, and as usual, your happiness cannot be contained as you look at how handsome he looks in his black suit. He often wears suits for work, but something about him wearing all black has you squeezing your thighs in excitement.

He pecks your lips softly as the elevator doors close, and soon, you find yourself getting the last things ready in the dining room, which is already lavishly decorated with every last bit of Christmas decoration known to man. Just as you’re about to light the last few candles on the table, you’re suddenly stopped by your best friend and Avenger, Natasha, as she puts a hand on your shoulder.

“I know you two have a thing for marking one another, but this…” Natasha says with a small smirk. “...I approve,” she follows with a wink, making your cheeks set on fire as she examined the bite mark Tony left earlier. It’s less red than before, but the bruising is already starting to happen, making it more evident than you thought. You still wear it with pride, showing your commitment to the man you love. It also gives you a mental note to mark him up like this at some point so he can walk around wearing your marks, too.

Once everything is ready, everyone slowly shows up. Steve and Bucky come in wearing simple black-and-white suits, their fingers intertwined, while Bucky carries Alpine in his free arm. Clint and Laura walk in looking beautiful in their matching purple dress and suit. Thor and Loki are dressed in the finest Asgardian clothing, making them look out of this world, and Bruce and Natasha have gone for classic black.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Tony asks as he stands up, the conversations between everyone slowly dying down before there’s nothing but silence - apart from the soft purring audible from the three cats that are having the time of their life during this Christmas dinner with all the attention they’re getting.

“I want to thank you all for being here tonight because it wouldn’t have been as fun if some of you were missing. If there is one thing that the past year has taught me, it’s nothing more important than being with the people you love, and I’m happy to see you all. Everyone here tonight has a special place in my heart, and I’m happy to say you’re all part of my big, found family. None of us would be here tonight without one another,” he says with a slight smile, and everyone agrees.

“One thing I don’t say nearly enough times is that even though some of us may have had our differences before, I love you all deeply. And I love the furry babies - Sun, Moon, and Alpine, too. They brighten everyone’s days in ways they’re probably unaware of, but they are playing a big role in our lives, and I can’t get enough of their silly moments.”

“But there’s one person who I want to mention especially. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to believe I was worthy of being loved, and I wouldn’t have been able to love myself. Sugar, I cannot thank you enough for showing me every day what it is like to be loved and being with me throughout everything we’ve been through. It’s surely not been easy, but without you, I wouldn’t have gotten through it at all, and I’m thankful that you’re the love of my life. You have made me believe in love again, and I cannot wait to marry you in a few months. I love you,” he finishes his little speech, which has brought tears to your eyes as you smile up at your future husband.

“I love you too, Tony,” you whisper before getting up and kissing him, sealing his words with a promise of loving him for the rest of your lives together. He may be quite a few years older than you, but you’re still looking forward to spending your best years with him as you grow your family. And you know he’ll look very handsome as a silver fox. Applause slowly erupts around the table when you two pull each other into a tight embrace, and there is not a single dry eye in the room when you’re sitting down again, ready to finish dinner before getting ready for Secret Santa.

Once everyone is done having dinner, it’s finally time for the main event of the evening: a gift exchange in the form of Secret Santa. Everyone is spread out on different colored loveseats brought in from any place anyone could think of, ample chairs, and the floor around the fireplace, which burns in the communal living room area. There’s a comfortable atmosphere as everyone sips on a drink and converses until Tony grabs everyone’s attention again, wanting to get started.

“So, it’s only right that the first person to give their gift away will be this beautiful woman next to me, as she has graciously put this evening together for everyone. Will you do the honors, Sugar?” Tony asks softly. You nod before pecking him on the lips and getting up. The present is wrapped in a cylindrical package and topped with a large purple bow.

“Merry Christmas, Clint,” you say as you hand him the present, but you can’t get too far as he pulls you in for a hug while murmuring his thanks to you. With a large smile, you walk back to the loveseat you and Tony share before getting comfortable with his arm wrapped around your shoulder. Once seated, he kisses your cheek before looking at Clint, who’s quickly unwrapping his present.

“Oh my god-” is all he can bring out before he’s out of his seat and running over to you, pulling you in a hug while you’re still half in Tony’s hold. He uttered about a hundred thank yous as you two hugged. You have thought of the perfect gift, so make a mental note to thank Shuri when you speak to her again. When he finally lets you go, he cannot stop smiling as he looks at the Vibranium arrows he received from you, which were specially made by Shuri. He’s wanted some for a long time, and these will be perfect for taking on missions with him.

“Okay, now it’s my turn! Here you go,” he says to Bucky, who’s sitting one seat over. After a small thank you, he takes the tissue paper out of the bag he’s been given and pulls out two presents that make him laugh and nod in approval. He receives a mug with the text ‘Queer cat parent,’ as well as a shirt that reads ‘Be gay, do crime.’ It’s like they were made just for him.

After gently putting the presents to the side, he grabs a small package wrapped in black and gold paper and hands it to his oldest friend—other than Steve, of course—Natasha. She takes her time opening it, and when she finally does, she gasps loudly as she examines the set of custom Vibranium knives that Bucky has gifted her. The blades are of different lengths and all black, while the handles are deep red, resembling blood.

“I- wow. Thank you, Bucky,” she says as her cheeks turn dark red. While she would have been happy with any other type of knife, too, something about these has her appreciating him even more than she already did. They match her black widow aesthetic beautifully, and she’s either looking at them or doing tricks with them the rest of the night, showing off her expert knife skills.

“Before I give my gift away, I need to thank someone very special. Tony, thank you for helping me out with this present because, without you, I still would have been deciding what to give. You’re the best friend anyone could wish for, and Detka, you’re a pretty lucky lady with a man like yours,” she tells you, and then grabs her significantly sized gift from the pile in the middle of the circle you’re all sitting in.

“Merry Christmas!” Natasha practically drops the gift in Bruce’s lap because it is so heavy, a loud huff audible as it lands on his thighs. His glasses slide down his nose, and he quickly slides them back up before tearing the wrapping paper off to find a collection of science books he’s been dreaming of for years.

“I know you don’t like to spend money on yourself, so Tony figured it would be the perfect present-” is all she can say before her words are cut off with a kiss - it might not be the first one they’ve ever shared, but it is the first one they’re sharing in front of everyone. Other than you - Natasha told you as soon as they became official - no one knew that they’ve been secretly dating for a few months now, and tonight is the night they’re finally coming out with their secret, even if it wasn’t planned this way.

As you look at them with a smirk, Tony pulls you closer to him before whispering, “You knew about this, didn’t you?” With the same smirk on your face, you turn to him as you nod proudly, as you want nothing more than to see your best friend happy and in love. Then, when all the excitement in the room died down, it was Bruce’s turn to gift his present, and he got a beautiful pair of diamond earrings for Laura after Clint recommended that he get some.

“They’re lovely, Bruce. Thank you so much,” she says shyly, a blush on her cheeks as she takes in their beauty, almost forgetting that it’s now her turn to give someone their present. It turns out that now it is Tony’s turn, and he would never in a million years have been able to prepare for the gift he has gotten. Inside the bag is a set of edible underwear for you and him to enjoy as an engagement present, as well as two Santa hats - one for him and one for Moon - and a brooch with a matching tie pin in the form of a Sun, so you two can always carry your little girl close to your heart.

It doesn’t take long for Tony to put on the Santa hat and the one meant for Moon, even if he isn’t the biggest fan. Eventually, he warms up to the idea. Happily, he returns to his cuddle pile with Alpine and Sun while wearing it, which means everyone takes countless photos of the inseparable trio.

“Now that you’re wearing the Santa hat, does that mean I get to sit on your lap tonight and tell you what I want for Christmas?” you ask as you gently rake your nails over his chest, making goosebumps appear all over his body. He quickly nods in approval, not trusting the words that’ll come out of his mouth if he opens it. Then, as most drinks are now empty, you and Tony offer to fill up some drinks, and he quickly pulls you out of the room to get away for a moment.

“Tony?” you say as you’re in the kitchen, waiting for him to grab a few cartons of egg nog. He pokes his head around the fridge to look at you, his Santa hat swinging as he does. You smile as you look at his adorable expression.

“I know I asked you if I could tell you what I want for Christmas, but I already have everything and more right in front of me. I have an amazing future husband who takes care of every need and two amazing cats that are the light of my life,” you say, and Tony blushes deeply as you tell him. He’s still getting used to you saying things like this, even after being together for as long as you two have now.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?” he asks before closing the fridge door and walking over to where you’re standing. He leans in to kiss you softly, taking your breath away as he does. It’s a sweet, loving kiss that has your heart beating faster and the butterflies in your mind go wild. While you’re unsure if it’s possible, you love him even more than you did before, and his sweet words will melt your heart every time.

When he pulls away, you’re both standing there with wide grins on your faces, wanting the moment to last just a little longer as you intertwine your fingers with his.

“I love you so much, Tony. Thank you for choosing me every single day.”

“Thank you for being with me through my good and bad days. I love you more than I can ever describe.” His words make tears gather in your eyes as he pulls you in for a hug, sealing his words until it’s finally time to head back.

Before heading back to the gift exchange, you grab a few cartons of egg nog to ensure there is enough for everyone, and it is divided rapidly among everyone, allowing you to sit on the couch again. Tony pulls you to his side, where your fiancé feels safest. He knows he can always find safety at your side, and the ease with which he sinks into your body shows it.

“So, uhm- My turn?” Tony asks as he rakes his fingers through his dark brown locks, and everyone hums in agreement. He gets up with a small gift, but you know exactly what’s inside as you smile broadly. Thor is the recipient this time, and as he rips open the package, he finds a silver necklace with a thunder pendant on it and a voucher for a lifetime supply of his favorite pop-tarts.

“You two are the best, thank you!” he says, his Australian accent thickening as the night progresses. When he gets tired, it always gets more noticeable, and it never fails to make you smile. It’s Thor’s turn to give the gift he has gotten, and it is Steve’s turn to open it. Inside is an extensive palette of the most beautiful paints you have ever seen, and Steve can’t stop smiling as he examines every color with a careful eye.

“Thank you, Thor. These are amazing! I can’t wait to get some use out of them as I finish the portrait of Bucky I’ve been working on!” Steve says proudly, though his partner is less impressed as he turns bright red, knowing that Steve is working on a nude portrait of Bucky. Still, he smiles as he looks at the colors, too, and they’re some of the brightest, most beautiful colors he has ever seen.

“At this point, only two people are left to receive a gift, and I’m sorry to say you’ll have to wait a little longer, Y/N!” Steve says as he hands Loki a square package, which he graciously accepts. You smile in appreciation at Steve’s words, though you don’t mind being last because you enjoy everyone else opening their presents just as much as you love opening them yourself.

As Loki gently opens the package, he finds a large, handmade cloak with an emerald green lining, a black outside, and a beautiful pattern of swirls in thin gold thread. The clasp that keeps it closed is gold, which matches his other garments beautifully. He immediately tries it on, getting many nods and words of approval as the gold detailing shimmers in the light coming from the fireplace and Christmas tree lights.

“Now, I hope that I will have saved the best for last,” Loki says as he gifts you a square gift wrapped with emerald green paper, letting you know exactly who it came from.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he says as you take it from him, the anticipation nearly becoming too much as you’re excited to see what is inside. Once you open it, you immediately gasp at the sight. Inside is a customized stethoscope that has your initials on it, but instead of the initial of your maiden name, it’s an ‘S’ for Stark because you’ll soon be Mrs. Stark, of course.

“I am speechless,” you say as you pick it up to examine it closer, the silver shining back at you as you fight the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. It doesn’t often happen that someone gives you such a thoughtful gift, but it warms your heart to know Loki had it made for you to use in the long run, as it’ll proudly show the initial of Tony’s last name.

“Thank you, Loki. It means a lot that you got me this,” you say as you get up to hug him, too, wanting to give him an extra special thank you. He then whispers another Merry Christmas before letting you go and sitting back down, the stethoscope proudly hanging around your neck. Once everyone has opened their gifts, it’s time to thoroughly check them out until it’s time for everyone to call it a night and head to bed.

As soon as you’re back in your penthouse with Sun and Moon - vast asleep in their cat tower - Tony pulls you to the bedroom to get some much-needed cuddles. The past few days have been nothing but stress and running around to get everything ready on time, but now that you have had a successful Christmas dinner and Secret Santa, you can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

“I think I’m going to sleep the entire day tomorrow because I’m not getting up for anything or anyone after the days I’ve had,” you say with a chuckle as you take off the dress you’re wearing. Once you’re left in your lingerie, Tony unhooks the bra before you let it fall to the floor and walk over to the dresser, where you have your comfortable cotton panties, together with Tony’s shirts, waiting for you.

“Hmm, as long as you’ll be awake long enough for me to gift you one last present tomorrow, then we’re all good,” he says with a chuckle before disappearing into the en-suite bathroom, ready to do his nighttime routine. You follow shortly after, wearing nothing more than the panties and Tony’s shirt you picked out, ready to brush your teeth and call it a night.

“I think I’ll be able to manage that. But I don’t want to be awake before 10 AM, okay? A girl deserves to sleep in now and again.” He looks at you through your mirror, and you smile as he raises a brow in response. Still, he wouldn’t dare go against your wishes because he is always willing to give you everything you’ve ever asked for, and if sleeping in until 10 AM is what you want, then that’s what you’ll get.

Once you’re finally in bed and tucked away under the soft sheets, you quickly fall asleep with your future husband against your back, his large hand splayed over your belly and his face buried in your neck. The following day, Tony is up bright and early again, but he won’t wake you up before 10 AM, just like you asked, instead going to the kitchen to do some meal prep for you and the two long shifts you have ahead of you before New Year’s Eve, as well as making breakfast.

Then, at precisely the time you mentioned, Tony wakes you up as the smell of pancakes and coffee fills the air, and the sheets feel tighter by your feet, which means Sun and Moon have joined the two of you.

“Good morning, Sugar. It’s 10 AM, and I have one more surprise for you,” he says. You smile before nodding and getting comfortable in bed, your back against the headboard as a pillow supports your lower back. Soon, Tony is back on his side of the bed, with a present in his hand wrapped in gold and red wrapping paper, just like the colors of his Iron Man suit. After a whispered thank you, you quickly unwrap it to find a golden necklace with three charms. There’s a red ‘T,’ a small black Moon to represent your oldest cat, and an orange Sun to represent your kitten.

“Sadly, we can’t be together all the time due to me being gone for long missions sometimes, and you are working long shifts as the best surgeon SHIELD has ever known, but this way, you can carry us wherever you go, Sugar.”

“Tony… I love it. Thank you so much,” you say as your fingers glide over the beautiful charms, complementing each other perfectly. He has thought this gift through to the last little detail, and it’s the best present he has given you - apart from your engagement ring, of course. You lean in for a few kisses, his facial hair tickling your skin as he does, but you can’t stop smiling while holding the present.

“Would you like for me to put it on you?” You immediately nod, and it doesn’t take long for him to have the clasp closed, making it official. You’ll always be able to carry your husband-to-be and your cats with you, no matter where you’re going. While your Christmas was fantastic, it has become the perfect holiday. Now, you can finally look forward to being spoiled by your fiancé on New Year’s Eve, as it promises to be one never to forget.

[lemonwrap]

Mistletoe Mishaps

This is a gift for @tetradfreaker for the 2024 Ghoap Holiday exchange, hosted by the wonderful @forsaire!! I hope you like it :)

Read it on Ao3

Ghost doesn’t really do parties. 

Soap knows this because Ghost hasn’t attended a single Christmas party in the three years Soap has known him. …Actually, now that Soap’s thinking about it, Ghost hasn’t shown up to most of the various celebrations thrown and usually made an Irish exit when he had the chance. 

Having grown up in a big family with three sisters and a plethora of other relatives, Soap is used to every celebration being made into big events packed with people. It’s the typical kind of ‘party’ thrown on base—food, unfortunately nonalcoholic drinks, cheap decorations, and about fifty people gathered in the mess hall. It’s also exactly the kind of event Ghost would prefer not to attend, so Soap can’t be blamed for being surprised when he spots his lieutenant’s hulking figure in the tinsel-strung doorway.

“Lt, you made it!” Soap grins, abandoning Gaz and a few other soldiers to give Ghost a friendly punch on the arm. “Good to see ye this year.”

“Nice sweater,” Ghost deadpans, glancing at the garish red and green reindeer sweater that Soap is donning. “Dressed for the occasion, I see.”

“Nice mask,” Soap remarks. “Wasn’t Halloween a few months ago?”

At the quip, the corners of Ghost’s eyes crinkle in a smile, and Soap’s stomach definitely doesn’t do a little flip at the sight. 

“I’d rather have a Halloween party than this,” Ghost comments. 

“Why’d you show, then?” Soap asks. “Get visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past?”

“Just Price,” Ghost says. “You know how he is around the holidays.”

“Aye,” Soap says, thinking of their captain’s insistence on ‘team bonding’ whenever Christmas rolls around. “Want a cookie? Dawn brought some.”

“Have they got sprinkles?” Ghost asks. 

“Of course,” Soap replies.

“Good man,” Ghost says in that same approving tone he uses on ops, and Soap hopes his cheeks aren’t as red as they suddenly feel. 

…Okay, so maybe Soap has a bit of a crush. Whatever. Despite what Soap’s pastor growing up would have said, it’s not a crime to like looking at Ghost’s biceps or his deep, dark brown eyes and his long, blonde lashes, the only visible part of his face. Or his ass. Can’t forget that ass. 

Most of the tables have been pushed out of the way, so it’s easy for them to weave through the partygoers and to the front of the room, where a table filled with drinks, cookies, and other treats sits. A fake Christmas tree only three or so feet tall is set on it near the edge, adorned with a handful of ornaments. Most of the food is okay, but Laswell’s wife, Dawn, has a knack for baking and brought what Soap considers to be cookies just as good as his mum’s. Dawn herself is nowhere to be found, probably off with Laswell, but a few of her revered sugar cookies still remain on a plate.

“Got here in the nick of time,” Soap says and takes a cookie, round with red frosting. Ghost nabs the cookie with the most sprinkles, a green one shaped like a Christmas tree, and lifts up his mask to take a bite. The half Glasgow smile that runs from the corner of Ghost’s mouth and travels up until it’s hidden by his mask catches Soap’s attention like it always does, pale and long since healed. Soap likes watching how it curves on the occasion he can get Ghost to smile and has imagined how it would feel against his lips a few too many times. 

“Gonna eat that or just stand there?” Ghost asks, pointing at Soap’s cookie.

“Huh?” Soap says. Upon realizing that he’s been standing there and watching Ghost eat like an idiot, Soap hurries to eat his cookie. It’s pretty good, but he’s more distracted than usual by the man of his dreams. Sue him, but Soap knows what he wants for Christmas this year.

“Why are Christmas trees bad at sewing?” Ghost asks out of nowhere, his mouth quirking up but not smiling yet.

“I dinnae ken, you tell me,” Soap replies.

“‘Cause they always drop their needles,” Ghost says, and Soap chuckles a little. He’s liked Ghost’s horrible jokes since day one.

“Alright, what does a gingerbread man put on his bed?” Soap asks.

“A cookie sheet. I’ve heard that one, Soap.”

“Bastard. Alright, what do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire? Frostbite.”

That one gets Ghost to truly smile, just a small thing, and Soap treasures it. They quickly fall into their usual routine, telling shit jokes and borderline flirting with each other, like they have been for nearly three years at this point. 

Ever since Las Almas, Ghost has always matched Soap in every way, from being his equal in a spar to their endless back and forth bantering. Ghost was only trying to keep him calm and get both of them out of the city alive, but their talks continued long after Las Almas, with Ghost’s deep, gravelly voice haunting both Soap’s dreams and his waking moments. 

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Soap gets the feeling Ghost isn’t opposed to going a little further than over-the-comms flirting. They just need to find the right moment.

So when Soap watches over Ghost’s shoulder as a mischievous soldier pins a mistletoe right over the doorway leading in and out of the mess hall, he has a brilliant idea. 

The mistletoe! All he has to do is get Ghost under it, and a kiss should naturally follow. Genius, really. 

It’s a few minutes before Soap can manage to subtly herd Ghost towards the doorway. He’s pleased with his progress until Corporal Hodges approaches, smiling.

“Lieutenant Riley! MacTavish!” he says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at a Christmas party before, sir.”

“You haven’t,” Ghost says, already getting that bored expression he has when he’s not interested in talking to someone. Soap knows the feeling.

Amazingly, Soap doesn’t find Hodges annoying because he’s American. It’s actually because he’s a kiss-ass and tries to butter up his superiors, Ghost included. Ghost cuts it short every time, including today, in which he not-so-discreetly moves away from Hodges only thirty seconds after the corporal started talking. Unfortunately, that also means that Ghost moves away from the mistletoe hanging nearby, and Soap groans internally when Ghost strays far enough that Soap can’t guide him back without arousing suspicion. 

To Soap’s dismay, that pattern continues. Every time he tries to even get Ghost close to the mistletoe, his plan is somehow foiled. First it was Hodges. Then Ghost goes off to talk to Price. After that, Soap nearly has Ghost where he wants him, and then a private taps Soap to get his attention and asks him when his next demolitions demonstration will be. Soap would usually be thrilled to talk about demolitions, but he’s a little preoccupied, damnit!

“It’s hopeless,” he finds himself lamenting to Gaz after Ghost walks right under the mistletoe twice without pausing on the way to and from the restroom.

“Maybe he didn’t see it,” Gaz suggests, taking a sip of his soda.

“There’s no way he didnae see it, Gaz!” Soap exclaims, nearly spilling his own soda on Gaz when he throws his hands up in exasperation, “Look at the size of ‘im, his head nearly touches it!”

Soap is beginning to come to the conclusion that he will not be getting a kiss from Ghost tonight.

The final nail in the coffin is when two soldiers steal a brief peck under the mistletoe amidst the oohs and whoops of their peers, with Ghost being entirely unaffected by the display from where he’s standing next to Soap. Soap is pretty sure the universe is just messing with him at this point.

Ghost isn’t even looking directly at him. Having given up on the mistletoe being his chance, Soap indulges himself by silently gazing at his lieutenant instead. Ghost is as beautiful as ever, even surrounded by half-assed Christmas decorations and holding a plastic cup of soda. Not a supermodel or conventionally pretty, no, not with his scars and face shape that gives off the impression of a very ordinary-looking man, but Soap has spent enough time trying to put Ghost’s likeness down on paper to be certain that Ghost is all he could ever want or need.

“Did you want to come back with me?” Ghost says, turning his head to look at him.

“Um, what?” Soap fumbles, mind blanking and trying to look like he hasn’t been staring longingly at Ghost for the umpteenth time tonight. 

“I’ve got a gift for you,” Ghost explains, seemingly unaware of Soap’s hopeless pining. “Meant to bring it with me, but I forgot it in my room.”

“A gift?” Soap asks, and hopes Ghost doesn’t see the flush that must be on his face at the idea of Ghost getting him a gift.

“I can show you,” Ghost says. 

Soap doesn’t even bother to look up at that useless sprig of leaves as he hurries to catch up with his lieutenant, trying not to be disheartened by the whole thing. The mistletoe was decidedly not as brilliant of an idea as Soap had originally thought, but he’d like to think he has the balls to make a move anyway. The night’s not over. 

“So, is it a book?” Soap asks. The hallway is still brightly lit, not having reached lights out yet, so Soap can easily see how Ghost’s eyes shine with humor.

“No,” Ghost says. 

“Okay, a sketchbook.”

“Still no.”

“Matching pajamas.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Something very obscure that took you months to find.”

“You’ll see,” Ghost says, sounding amused. 

They stop in front of Ghost’s door at the end of the hallway before Soap knows it. He’s not expecting Ghost to turn around, pull that damned mistletoe out of his jacket pocket, and hold it over their heads. Stunned, Soap doesn’t make his move even when Ghost pulls his balaclava off, and oh, he’s just as stunning as Soap imagined, all dark brown eyes, scars, and blonde hair staticky from the balaclava, and—and then Ghost’s lips touch his.

It shouldn’t be anything special. Ghost’s mouth tastes like too-sweet icing, his lips are a bit chapped, and the hallway lighting isn’t exactly romantic, but Soap has died and gone to heaven, because Simon fucking Riley is kissing him. 

It’s over so much quicker than Soap would’ve liked, but it’s worth it when they part and he sees Ghost’s pale cheeks flushed pink and his eyes locked right on Soap.

“Not bad,” Ghost comments, sounding a bit winded, and his scarred lips curve into a smile—just how Soap likes.

“How’d you know?” Soap blurts out. “About the mistletoe.”

“It got kinda obvious after the third try.”

“Seriously?!”

————

“Thank god,” Gaz says to Price when the two finally leave the room, Ghost discreetly plucking the mistletoe from the top of the doorway and stuffing it in his pocket. “The puppy dog eyes were starting to get painful.”

[theangrycomet-art]

Drift's Jettrine AU

Crack at the Drift Fam + Jetfire but in TFP instead of RiD.

the trine need some tweaks; sharper detailing more muted colors, but i feel like this is a good start.

i love how cohesive the Drift fam's designs are in RiD, and i need to figure out a better way to integrate that with their "new" paint jobs without completely sacrificing their color pallets.

Random Lore/Backstory:

Deadlock's was one the Decpeticon's most dangerous

The minicons backstory with Shadow Raker is still canon, with Jetfire thrown in

(JETFIRE AND SKYFIRE ARE SEPERATE ENTITIES)

While all three are Deployers, they have aeiral altmodes as well transforming into jets, with their Earth altmodes are Bede Bd-5J's specifically

i guess this technically makes them triple changers??? but that doesn't seem to be as big of a deal in the Aligned verse (gestures to the Rescuebots' (+Rescuebots Academy) whole deal in mild confusion) so i hesitate to refer them as such so yeah

Slipstream was previously known as Jetstream before she transitioned (🏳️‍⚧️)

Has had the hardest time breaking her stealing habits, and is very protective of what she thinks as hers (this extends to her family as well as her weaponry)

Jetstorm lost his right optic in an "accident" before he joined ShadowRaker (no one would hire a "broken ugly" minicon when there were so many perfectly functioning cute ones ready for hire

still prone to reckless rushing and the subsequent overthinking and overcorrecting (feeling the need to prove he is useful and worth his mentor's time)

Jetfire is a slight pyro maniac which he shamelessly denies even as he sticks a shatterbomb to someone

he also has a terrible luck when it comes to weather, and gets easily lost without his trinemates

Deadlock split off from Shadow Raker after being mocked/baited one too many times

Pissed, he'd planned on simply stealing Shadow Raker's favorite ship and skipping town but he ended up stumbling across the Jettrine being when he was searching for supplies

it was easier just to take them then try and weasel his way out of it, and they surprisingly went along with it

struck out on his own after a while (and needing shanix for energon for the triplets he'd picked up) and caught Megatron's eye

Joined the decepticons as a mercenary and starting getting clean, rising in the ranks. Deadlock was no 'Wave but he held Megatron's favor

when Deadlock found out Megatron still worked with Shadow Raker, he didn't take it well

the start of the deterioration of their relationship- Deadlock being outraged that Megatron tolerated someone who saw his men as objects/tools/etc from one under his command and Megatron... really not giving a shit about the details

Shadow Raker's forces were damn good at their job, they were all treated well, and he was a proven loyal decepticon, so what did it matter if he gave out punishments and stole a few things here and there (SR is obviously not stupid enough to steal from Megatron or it would be a different story)

Megatron allowed Deadlock to storm out, assigning him the occasional mission as he blew off steam and meandered

Deadlock isn't happy with the direction the Decpeticon cause is going but has no idea what to do about it (because if it pans out to nothing then he killed and committed so many war crimes for NOTHING)

his newly acquired students, however they became such, aren't particularly bothered with politics and are far more interested in what this old man has to teach them

Eventually Deadlock gets orders to return to the Nemesis to get a personal debriefing on the chain of command

thinking Megatron's finally gonna address the issues he'd been seeing, he made it in record time

... to find STARSCREAM in charge

Flat out turns on his heel and dips out at THAT shitshow

Deadlock gave the Trine their headpieces/ ornaments about a year(?) into their training, though at the time they'd been unpainted

COMMISSIONS OPEN

Height ReF

[thebearer]

autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: target, halloween, carmen, and you. or a short, fluffy work about halloween shopping with target bc why not? 'tis the season.

contains: fluff. that's it lol. mentions to past family memories and some insecure carmen, but honestly just fluff!

“Oh, look at this one!” You coo, snatching the tiny ghost figurine off the shelf.  

“Cute.” Carmen muttered, one hand on the obnoxiously red cart, the other on your lower back. “Put it in.” He nodded towards the cart that was slowly starting to fill up. 

The speakers droned out some dull pop song, your coffee and his melting away in the drink carriers on the cart. Carmen didn’t usually prefer Starbucks, much more of a fan of the local coffee spot a block over from The Bear. They knew his regular, made it for him as soon as he walked in. No fuss, no forced conversation- just the way he liked it. 

But you liked Starbucks, well, in the right circumstance. You liked going to Target, you liked having a coffee to sip on while you “browsed”. Browsed, Carmen had grinned when you told him that. 

“You don’t just go out and browse sometimes? Look at things? Window shop to make yourself feel happier?” You’d asked him earlier in the car, head tilting to the side. 

“No, baby. I, uh, I don’t.” Carmen looked over at you, his hand still holding yours in the center console. “But maybe you’re onto somethin’.” 

Carmen’s lack of decorations was deemed a crime in your eyes, which inspired the trip. Halloween trinkets filling the cart, the sly smile you’d give him when you’d slip another one in, just like you were doing now. 

“It’s my treat.” You’d remind him, with a little wink. Carmen let you think that. Like he’d ever let you pay. And miss out on a chance to spoil you? No way. 

“Where’re you gonna put all this?” Carmen hummed, watching you situate the tiny ghost next to the plastic cauldron and iridescent ornaments- something you saw on TikTok that you were going to attempt to DIY. “My place isn’t that big.” 

“I’ll find a place, don’t worry.” You hum, sliding back in beside him, swiping your cup out of the basket. “You’ve got a bathroom, and the kitchen, and the bedroom-” 

“-Bedroom?” Carmen grinned lightly, his hand snaking to your waist while his free hand pushed the cart. “You gonna put this creepy shit in there?” 

“It’s not creepy.” You huff at him. “It’s cute, festive. Makes the place feel more… homey.” 

Carmen decided then, he’d let you put a full fucking skeleton in his room if it made you feel that way. He’d get rid of all his shit, didn’t need it anyways, so you’d have room for all your holiday stuff. Carmen’s heart fluttered at the thought of what Christmas would look like. Would you put up a tree? He hoped you would. He’d go and chop one down if he had to. Where in Chicago he’d find a tree? He wasn’t sure, but he’d find one for you. If it made you as happy as this did. 

“Ok,” You pulled him out of his thoughts, stopping the cart lightly. You plucked the bright orange bag up. “Did you know these are my absolute weakness?” Pumpkin shaped Reese’s, in their bright orange and purple glory. 

“Yeah?” Carmen grinned. “This is it, huh?” 

“Yes, in any shape too. But I prefer the pumpkin.” You went to set it back, Carmen’s hand grabbing the bag lightly and putting it in the cart. 

“‘M more of a Christmas Tree fan.” Carmen shrugged. “You know Cicero- uh, Jimmy-” You nodded, slipping back into his side. “He, uh, he used to bring a bag of these to Christmas every year when I was little. He’d always have to hide ‘em, ya know? My dad… My dad didn’t want us havin’ all that sugar before dinner. Jimmy would come in where all the kids were, toss ‘em to me or Mikey or Richie when he started hangin’ around. Tell us not to get caught, and Merry Christmas, and hide the evidence. We’d eat them before goin’ to Mass, and he did it every year until I got in high school.” 

You smiled softly, hand sliding down his back. “That’s sweet.” You hum, squeezing his hip lovingly. “You should get him some for Christmas this year. Return the favor.” 

“Yeah,” Carmen scoffed lightly. “Yeah, I think he’d like that.” 

A silence fell between the two of you, chatter from the surrounding people, the scratchy-screech of the cart. Carmen’s heart hammered, mind racing. Why the fuck did you tell her that? Fuckin’ ruined the moment. Stupid, fuckin’ stupid. 

“Hey, uh,” Carmen’s hands shook lightly, fingers drumming on the red plastic over the cart. “I-I didn’t mean to… ‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to say all that, ya know? Ruin the-the… I just, I dunno, you said that and-and I-” 

“-What?” You asked softly, brows creasing lightly. “What are you talking about? Say what?” 

“The, uh, the thing with Jimmy. I-I didn’t mean to make it awkward-” 

“Why is it awkward?” You pressed, setting down the candle you were smelling. “I thought it was sweet.” 

“Yeah? I-I just… I dunno why I said it, I’m sorry.” Carmen rambled, a hand falling over his face, hoping you couldn’t see the blush growing over his face. 

“Don’t be sorry, Carm. There’s nothin’ to be sorry about.” You shook your head, waving him off. “It’s a sweet story. I like that you told me that.” 

“Yeah?” Carmen asked softly. 

You nodded, smiling at him. “You know I do, bear.” The nickname rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, calmly- Carmen’s sure he’s going to melt into the floor. 

“Here,” You twist the lid off the next candle. “This one has caramel. You like that, right?” 

Carmen wasn’t sure how you remembered that. He’d mentioned it once, in passing, that he liked whatever you were burning at your apartment when he was over. It was caramel and coffee, you’d remembered, because you showed up at his house with the same candle the next day. A love present, you’d called it, pressing a kiss to his cheek. You didn’t want anything in return, no strings, just buying him something because you wanted to; because he liked it. It was still a new concept to Carmen, how you could love him without wanting anything other than love in return. 

Carmen ducked down, the brim of his hat bumping your wrist lightly. “Yeah, I like that one.” He nods. “Smells like that other one.” 

“Yeah? Not too pumpkinny?” You tilt your head to the side. 

“No.” Carmen laughs, breathy and light. “I don’t smell any pumpkin. Is there pumpkin?” 

“Caramel Pumpkin Latte.” You tilt the label towards him. “They’re saying it’s in there.” Carmen hummed lightly. “You calling them a liar?” You giggle playfully.  

“No, but I am sayin’ there’s not pumpkin in there.” Carmen snorted lightly, putting the candle in the cart anyways. “Not real pumpkin, anyways.”

“Maybe if this chef thing doesn’t work out, you could be a candle critic.” You tease, falling into slow steps beside him. “Be a candle blogger or something.” 

“Candle blogger?” Carmen repeats with an amused smile. “That’s not real.”  

You look at him, eyes wide in excitement. “Oh, Berzatto, am I about to blow your mind.” 

“No? Really?” Carmen laughed. “You’re fuckin’ with me?” 

“No! It’s a real thing, Carmen.” You laugh, pulling out your phone. “There was this woman that, like, went viral because she was going insane about Bath and Body Works not having her candle or something.” You giggle, typing slowly in the search bar. 

“That’s fuckin’ insane.” Carmen rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah.” You smirk. “Think she might’ve started a trend.” 

“Well, can’t do that then.” Carmen shrugged, loading the items on the small platform at the self checkout. “Don’t wanna go up against her, baby. She’s intense.” 

“Yeah, good call.” You grin, pocketing your phone, opening the bags while he scanned the ghost. “Guess you’ll have to stick to cooking.” 

“Guess so.” Carmen muttered, putting the plush pumpkins in the bag, reaching for his wallet. 

“Eh! No!” You click your tongue, eyes flashing at him. “I told you I was buying it.” You put a hand over the card slot, glaring at Carmen with a frown. 

“C’mon,” Carmen shook his head lightly, pushing your hand away lightly. “You got a number you wanna put in?” He nodded towards the screen. 

You pouted, pausing for a moment. “Yes.” You mutter, typing in your number quickly, pivoting your body in front of the card machine. 

“You gonna move?” Carmen looked at you, already reaching around to put his card in. 

“No, I told you it was my treat.” You mutter, twisting with your phone in your hand. One look at the screen, and you were tapping your phone against the screen. The ding chimed, your smug smile spreading across your lips when the receipt printed. 

Carmen was stunned, card still in his hand. “What- How did you-” 

“Gotta be quicker than that, Berzatto.” You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Carmen looked down at his card in his hand, shoving it back into his wallet. Maybe Sugar was right, maybe he did need to actually learn how to use his phone. He grabbed the bags from you, swatting your hand away while you pushed the basket back. 

“Shoulda let me pay.” Carmen grumbled, walking beside you out the sliding doors. It had started to get chilly, leaves tinging with warm color and the temperature beginning to drop. “Stuff’s for me anyways.” 

“Yeah, but I wanted you to get it.” You bump your hip playfully with his. “Besides, I told you it was my treat.” 

Carmen didn’t respond, unlocking the trunk and putting the bags in carefully, but the frown didn’t fade. Brows still furrowed and lips still in a hard line. 

“Hey,” You call, stopping him before he could close the trunk. “I told you I wanted to buy it for you.” 

“Yeah,” Carmen’s brows furrowed. “But you shouldn’t’ve-” 

“-Carm.” You groan lightly. “I wanted to pay, ok? You always get me stuff. Let me get this for you, ok?” You say lightly, arms snaking around his shoulders, looping behind his neck. “Let me spoil you, bear. Lemme be your sugar mama.” 

Carmen snorts, lips curling in a grin lightly. “Shut up.” He mutters, your lips closing over his in a sweet kiss. 

You pulled apart, blushed and swooned in a Target parking lot. “You gotta put the stuff up anyways.” You tease, hands sliding down his toned arms, over his color block jacket. 

“Yeah?” Carmen snorts lightly, pulling the trunk shut. “You’re not gonna help me?” 

“I’ll be directing.” You declare, pinching his butt lightly, grinning at how he jumped and flushed. Sliding into the passenger side, you lean across the console to Carmen. “I’ll make sure the ambiance is there.” 

Carmen nodded, starting the car, eyes bright when they met yours. “Light the candle?” 

“Yes.” You laugh. “And I’ll pick out a movie.” 

Carmen snorted lightly, his free hand moving behind your head rest while he backed out. It made your tummy flip with excitement. “Yeah? Casper?”  

You give him a feigned unimpressed look. “You know I’m more of a Hocus Pocus girl.” 

“Right, my bad.” Carmen laughed, hand gripping your thigh lightly, thumb rubbing patterns over the material of your leggings. Your heart skipped. “Fine. As long as you open those Reese’s.” 

“Deal.” You grin, kissing his forearm gently. 

Hours later, wrappers piled on the coffee table, the candle burning in the kitchen, and the orange lights glowing from where Carmen string them over the TV stand in the living room. One Jack-O-Lantern fleece blanket thrown over both of your legs, your head on Carmen’s while the beginning credits of Beetlejuice played on the TV. Carmen decided right there that you were right. This was more homey. Felt… right and content. He wasn’t so sure it was the decorations, more likely it was the girl who picked them out.

[dmmchn]

Gottlieb Xinger now has a GUN.

…Gottlieb is a survivor of Drow House Wars. As a child, he was smuggled to the surface by the members of Bregan D’aerthe and was placed in an orphanage in Luskan. He then became their minion, performing small crimes, burglaries and thefts as a repay for his survival. Members of Bregan D’aerthe were known pirates and always carried gunpowdered pistols with them, which were madly expensive for an orphan like Gottlieb. This deadly and ornamented weapon couldn’t be compared to any knife or sword.

A hundred years later, in Barovia, he stole a musket from a trap in House of Lament. Now, he would rather die than be separated from his gun, as it represents him overcoming from his past and taking back the control over his life. Even if he chooses to separate from civilisation and live in a forest alone, that’s still his own choice.

[jeonjaemark]

getting into the holiday spirt || kim mingyu

content warning: suggestive, sexual themes, oral, MDNI || masterlist

a/n: hi lovely people!! i hope everyone is enjoying the 13 days of svt holidays. i might slow with posting within the next few days depending on certain things but i should have each one posted up until 23rd/24th. also i would highly appreciate it, if you can leave comments your thoughts/reactions to 13 days of svt holidays, so i know what you like and it would help me with writing more. don’t forget to reblog, like and comment your thoughts/reactions☺️ thank you again for reading & liking the short series so far 💗kate

i fluff up the ribbon to the outskirts of the tree branches then take a step back. i tilt my head off to the side debating if the red ribbons and white lights were balancing out against the tree. i didn’t want the lights or ribbon to look like they were choking the tree or clashing. i walk closer pulling at the ribbon and string of lights until it was to my liking then move down to adjusting the white knitted tree skirt with snowflakes. quietly humming along to the christmas music i step back and forth along the tree and around the ornaments i had dropped to floor.

“what do you think you’re doing decorating for christmas without me?” a deep voice questions from behind me.

“i got a little too excited when i saw you brought down the bins from the garage. i didn’t do much decorating, i swear.” i held my hands up out of defense.

mingyu pans his arm around our living room decorated in various blue and silver decor to go with our snowflake theme this year. it took everything inside of me to not drive to the store today and find more decor to buy for the house. it helped that mingyu had taken the car to the gym this morning. i smile to myself proud of the set up so far. the tree garland with blue and silver ornaments hanging down across the mantle. the mini town village set up on the cabinet storage. the floating candles with a snowflake inside of the case at the center of the coffee table. various blue and white pillows fluffed on the couch with a throw blanket.

“love, you only left the outside for me to decorate and half the tree. you deserved to be punished for your crime.”

“correction, the tree only has ribbons and chrsitmas lights around it. i just barely started putting on the ornaments until you caught me.”

“you know how much i love decorating for christmas with you.” he pouts crossing his arms.

around the holiday season i get a little too excited with all the songs, the decorations and the overall feelings that resonates being with loved ones on the holiday. every since mingyu has been in my life, he hasn’t let me decorate the place alone. he loved being around to help me, listen to christmas music, and snack on our reindeer chow i made. he would also give out his opinion on how to decorate. we would both debate on certain things but there was a lot of comprises. my favorite thing is to decorate the tree with him (and not just because he’s tall and can reach higher on the tree). also how he would pull me away mid decorating to dance with him to the songs playing.

“okay, i promise to not decorate the tree any further until you finish your post work out shower.” i held my pinky up to him.

he hesitates at first, still a bit sulky from my head-start, but he links his pinky around mine. mingyu tugs me closer pressing his lips against mine before breaking into a sprint up towards the stairs.

———

while waiting for mingyu to finish washing up, i measure out the ribbons for the kitchen cabinet to decorate it like a christmas gift with a bow. i sway my body to the rhythm of sabrina carpenter’s santa doesn’t know you like i do. the song has been on constant play on my playlist ever since halloween ended a few months ago. i sing along to the song while cutting out the ribbons until the second verse comes on.

i drop whatever i am doing and twirl around the kitchen and smiling to myself at the thought of mingyu. i hated how easily he invades my thoughts with songs involving love. it’s impossible for me to not think of him because he is filled with so much of it.

i somehow make my way to the living room and start to belt out the second half of lyrics. my hand gently and passionately tapping against my chest and fall onto the couch. my heart jumps at the loud clapping coming from behind.

i push myself up against the soft cushions finding mingyu leaning against the wall. his arms crossed against his white santa shirt with his red plaid fleece pants. a smug grin on his lips and admiring eyes.

“how long were you standing there?”

“long enough to know santa doesn’t know me like you do.” he winks. my cheeks flush with warmth, slightly shy from being caught. “so do you want to start decorating the tree with me or do you need to wrap up your concert performance first?”

the songs were still playing and i roll my eyes tossing an ornament at him. he quickly dodges it and walks over to me giggling. i slide over the bin with all the ornaments we were going to use on the tree. mingyu separated the snowflakes in the boxes making it easier for me to take. we fall into our own rhythm of grabbing the ornaments, placing it on the tree and stepping back to examine the balance of the ornaments to the tree.

mingyu occasionally brushes his body against mine as he passes by me making his way around the tree. i can’t help but feel all tingly when his hand would brush against my exposed hips or when his body presses behind mine when he is reaching over me.

it’s not like i haven’t seen mingyu in months. he’s been home for some time now since his two month work trip but for some reason my body was quite sensitive watching him decorate the tree.

i hold the star and mingyu crouches down. i carefully swing my legs around his shoulder as he stood up walking to the tree. it takes me a second to the new height considering i am tiny. i stretch my arm out placing the star on the top then pat mingyu. mingyu takes a few steps back as we both stare at the tree mesmerized with a sense of accomplishment.

“you did good, my love.” he presses a kiss to my inner thigh.

my body freezes except for a small but hot tingly sensation awakens against my skin. i suddenly become hyper aware of mingyu’s head being between my legs. it’s never a good idea with him being so close. it feels so intimate and invasive at the same time even though his head between my legs have lead me to some of the best releases i have ever felt in my entire life. my core starts to throb at the proximity of mingyu’s mouth near her. it’s like it had a memories of it own and starts to ache for his ache for his attention too. memories of the way his tongue felt darting sucking in tandem with his fingers slowly stretching me in and out. the way my body would tremble simply at the touch his hand. fuck.

mingyu squeezes my waist breaking me out of my thoughts. my skin feels warm and my heart pulse a little faster being brought back to reality. i glance around the room as if anyone was here watching me when he carefully swings my legs off his shoulders and sets me back on the ground. we both fall back onto the couch staring up at the tree.

“i really love how the tree looks, love.” he brings his body forward when i notice the back collar of his shirt was damp.

“babes, i think you’re sweating.” i point out, hoping it’s actually sweat and not something that came from me.

i reach over to wipe it but mingyu reaches behind his neck touching the substance. a knowing grin quirks the corner of his mouth. his eyes go from light to something dark and sinister. if i wasn’t looking at him already i would’ve missed the shift in his eyes.

“i don’t think that’s sweat, my love. i think you were enjoying yourself a little reminiscing over old memories.”

“what do you mean reminiscing over old memories?”

“babes, i know how your body reacted when i kissed your inner thigh. it’s nice to know i have that kind of affect on you.” he giggles. “also after i did that, i tried talking to you but you were lost in your thoughts again and i felt the back of my neck getting a bit wet.”

i cover my face with my hands embarrassed by his words. every inch of my body wanted to scream out of horror. if only i could jump into a black hole and hide out until my face stops warming up and being red. am i comfortable with doing sexual things with mingyu? yes. am i comfortable talking about said sexual things with mingyu? also yes. will i still get shy getting caught having x-rated images and fantasies about him even after dating for some time now. fucking yes.

mingyu giggles sliding my hands away to cup my face. his thumb softly stroking my blushing cheeks. “it’s cute you’re being shy after getting caught but i would be lying if i said i wasn’t also reminiscing about what happens when i am between your legs.”

before i could even process what he said mingyu’s body hovers above mine. his arms trapping me between him and the couch. i glance up at him lust flashing over his eyes. i wrap my hand around the back of his neck pulling him down to me crashing his lips to mine. his teeth grazes the bottom of my lip slipping his tongue inside. the kiss intensifies as he slips one hand down to my needy core.

his lips find their way nipping at my neck all the way down until they reached the area where i needed him the most. mingyu kneels in front of me his eyes sparkling and glistening at my body’s reaction to him. his tongue licks at his bottom lip with appreciation of his view. without warning he dives right in not wasting any time. my body response very well and appreciative of him as a moans slips from my lips. mingyu begins to pick up pace switching between different techniques.

“gyu… feels so so good. k-keep going.” i pant breathlessly.

mingyu continues on his journey luring me into a wave of pleasure. his mouth doing wonders to my body. i could feel my head starting to get dizzy at the fast pace he was going at. my back arches off the couch but mingyu presses his hand against my hips keeping me in place.

my mind goes numb seeing the stars above me. i run my fingers through mingyu’s hair tugging him closer to me. so many things were happening that i barely had time to process any of it. mingyu looks up from under his lashes taking in every one of my reactions to him. i thrived knowing how well he knew my body’s turn ons and turn offs. it made everything with him a thousand times better.

his voice vibrates into my body making me coil with ecstasy. something warm boiling inside of my stomach ready to explode when his tongue hits a certain spot. mingyu notices my body’s reaction making him smile against me. he continuously hits that specific spot until i stop tugging at his hair. my head falls back from the amount of pleasurable bliss running through me veins.

i cry out his name as a harsh wave crashes over from my head all the down my toes.

one moment my body rises up from the cushions and the next it falls back to the couch. mingyu cleans up every drop not allowing anything to hit the couch. he kisses his way up my body trembling under his touch.

his hand presses lightly against the side of my neck as he kisses me softly this time. i could taste myself on his tongue. i smile into the kiss reaching down for his the band of his sweats and boxers. he grabs my wrist stopping me. his forehead pressed against mine as we both inhaled a breath.

“this isn’t about me right now, my love. i just wanted to punish you a little for getting a head start on decorating without me earlier.” he snickers pressing a kiss to forehead. “i promise we can get to that part of my punishment later tonight.

mingyu breaks away leaving me on the couch and returns back with a towel. he gently cleans me off before slipping back on my underwear and shorts.

it’s crazy how mingyu can turn a whole one eighty within the span of five minutes. one second we are on the edge of the couch in pure spice bliss the second we are cuddling in said couch watching a holiday movie.

[nov4-rocket5]

Okay, so a lot of people are saying that Joon The King deadnames and deliberately used unflattering photos of Lily Orchard in his latest video.

The latter is pretty subjective, all the photos were of Lily post-coming out that she posted herself (and she really hasn’t changed much since posting them either); and the former claim is just… blatantly incorrect.

Joon clarifies Lily used to go by a different name once, and he says this because a lot of the archived footage and chats come from Lily pre-transition, and didn’t want the audience to get confused. He uses Lily's preferred name and pronouns the entire video, even when chats he's reading are of Lily's previous identity.

Keeping archival information unaltered is super important, both for the sake of Lily’s timeline, and the validity of Joon’s research. You start changing details out of a sense of 'respect' and you open up the question of what else you’re willing to change and censor. Maintaining the integrity and trust in your research is vital for communicating points. Especially when those points involve very heinous, very sensitive topics. If Joon had edited/censored the footage and chats, people would have searched for, found, and posted it anyway. It also would have probably led to Lily just claiming Joon falsified/doctored shots to make her look bad.

Joon isn't a DramaTuber, he's a documenter. And as a documenter, Joon presents information, in this case about Lily's online history and actions, and leaves it to the viewer to decide what to make of it. Joon doesn't moral police his audience, he set up that she is Lily and only chose to highlight her previous identity when it was relevant as a side fact (Joon doesn't even call her a cis male, just that she was still presenting that way), and trusted the audience he’s cultivated to not bully and harass people.

Current footage is used of Lily, current names and pronouns are used for Lily, and he makes it clear that Blake is a person who doesn't believe Lily's really trans but makes a brief counterpoint to Blake’s stance, and leaves it to the audience to make their own conclusions. Joon’s video is purely informational and intends to inform people about Lily and her long pattern of established behavior even before her current channel and Tumblr.

Joon encouraged discussion with Lily's current name and identity intelligently and gracefully. Knowing Lily’s deadname is just that - a name Lily was once known as, but she is Lily now. Since most people aren't rioting in the comments and keeping a level-head saying "she's Lily, these are her terrible crimes not just as a trans woman", Joon was successful. Only idiots and douchebags will directly harrass Lily with "hurr durr you will never be a yadda yadda". And Lily will no doubt just make those strawmen herself. Lily routinely thrives off chances to use her status as a trans woman “of color” to prove all her critics are just mean ol’ racist phobes.

And the simple truth of the matter is, Lily isn't some delicate ornament that will shatter to pieces at the slightest bit of transphobia; Lily is an easily-angered, pathological liar and manipulator who would hurt anyone in any way if she sincerely believed she could get away with it.

[quitealotofsodapop]

I don't think Wukong might have been wearing his armor. At least not the famous armor he's known for. Considering he was supposedly asleep when the Thrall took Wukong's egg, he was likely wearing either his standard outfit or something closer to sleep wear (which tbh could just be his standard outfit without the chest plate, shoes, and the waist wrappings) and I think it's implied the outfit got destroyed into he fight with the Thrall, or at least heavily damaged

Prev.

I thought about this after I made the post + this other anon ask;

And now I'm imagining a whole Heist-style episode where the Monkie Kids (MK, Mei Peaches, and Sandy) come together to plan a heist on the Megapolis Police Department in order to get the Monkey King's armor back.

Peaches and MK see it as a perfect opportunity to flex their transformation abilities. Peaches takes the form of Monkey Cop while MK is his loyal Deputy. Mostly cus it would be a lot easier a "tutorial mission" to transform into a slightly-different monkey than a whole new animal.

The heist has issues of course

Mei is diguised as a speedster doing dangerous driving so the bros can get through. Sandy is posted outside in the van as their handler ("I've seen the inside of this place before a bunch of times! They know my face.").

Hijinks ensue as you can imagine. Lots of speech checks need to be passed. Key cards and passwords borrowed to access the files + evidence locker. Turns out the layout has changed since Sandy last got arrested, so they end up in the wrong room at some point - for some reason I'm imagining a retirement/birthday party for an actual police officer.

The gang suddenly has a strike of moral dilemmia, and Peaches/Wukong decides to just walk up to the front desk as himself and ask for the evidence taken when he was picked up those 18 years ago.

And... they give it to him.

Turns out the cop he befriended at the retirement party was the officer on that case. The cop seems to know "Peaches" is something else but decides it none of his business as long as no crime has been broken. (The kids laugh nervously in Heist-mode)

The gang happily run home with the evidence box, excited to show Tang and Dadsy the Monkey King's armor.

Only for....

Macaque, unimpressed: "Wukong. Those are your pyjamas."

Peaches/Wukong, holding whats obviously not armor: "Waa??"

Macaque points out that the "armor" is no more than linen cloth with no ornamentation or protective padding. Likely whatever event led to him losing his memory occured when the Monkey King was snoozing. His real armor is probably back on FFM in his hut.

Macaque: "Also, if you needed to steal something from the police; why didn't just ask me to do it?"

The gang: (*avoid his gaze all embarassed*)

They still keep the pyjamas though - it's the Monkey King's pyjamas after all.

Macaque's nose curls as he recognises a scent on the fabric. A dead, cold scent....