#Trash Pile of OCs

[matchalovertrait]

While Dulce was on the hunt for the notebook, Antonio got acquainted with Cosi! He's more of a cat person, but he loves all kinds of animals. He would help Dulce, but that would be an invasion of privacy, no? You know what's definitely okay, though? Taking out the trash from the trash bin that is not even halfway full yet.

Start from the beginning (Gen 2)

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[secret-fungi]

The Debt

"when i'm on the throne, so shall you be" he swore. Maybe, if I had loved you more it would have been enough to wash your hands. Maybe it would have stopped my feet from running and let my head fall onto your shoulder. Maybe if I loved you more, it wouldn't hurt as much. But now, I only love you enough to never forgive you.

She glanced at the knights that lined the market as she walked, she watched and listened into the many conversations being had in the marketplace. “I wonder why they’re here, we’ve hadn’t much trouble.” the old woman who sold bread said to her friend beside her. “Even when we had it’s not as if they cared before.” the other replied.

 “I told you! It’s the travelers, they up to no good, they even asked about the mouthy one.” A loud, sun roughened man, he had a rather prominent scar that claimed parts of his ear, temple blinded one eye, and left his lips uneven. He was a hard man that despite there being no battlefield to go back to or enemies to slay, remained where his people left him, lying bleeding out in the blood soaked mud. He refused to serve his enemies, and encouraged the rest of the market to do the same. 

Some did. Others would smile apologetically but still keep an eye on her. She found that she understood it, in some strange way her people still laid beside the man, and just as he did they cried out as they laid, and they too did not want to die. With no bodies returned to honor, and nothing to bury, the ones who fought remained on the hills and decommissioned frontlines. And with no place to grieve, the ones who loved the lost went with them.

At his loud, gravely voice the mage’s ears perked up, her eyes sharply glancing at a pair of guards that whispered amongst each other, their eyes darting from looking at the other to looking at her. The situation was clear now. She had once again overstayed her welcome. She paid for her food before walking away, head down, hood low. 

Eyes followed her every step, subtly they trailed her, and with little nudge of fate the crowd thickened, and lost in the center, she casted another silent spell. The best disguise is always to be unremarkable. She adopted the manner of movements she saw from her travels.

A sad and lonely thing it is to meet people and only see the lies you can tell, traits you can steal in return for healing their pet, helping with small tasks, healing their ills, and in turn she watched, observing how one side of her patron’s face would flinch every time she smiled, which was often given that she was very friendly. Or how another would use their hands as they spoke. After the years it was hard to untangle the habits that she always had, the words she always used, the small movements she did without thought to those of a stranger who she had since forgotten.

The guards were no longer relaxed, they scanned the crowd before they dived into it. One of them grabbed her shoulders and forced her to lift her head. “Oh! by the gods!” she exclaimed as they let her go. “Sorry, Madam. We’re looking for a mage.” “Oh! Did something happen?” “No madam, we just have orders.” he said, his shoulders back and voice deepening with pride. “Oh, I see, There’s a guild on the outskirts, next to the tavern. I’m sure you’ll find someone to help there.” She said with a wide smile. “Thank you for your help, my apologies for the fright.” He said “it’s quite alright, you must keep the empire safe.” she said cheerfully and dutifully loyal. The knight nodded, bidding her to continue her journey with a wave of his armored hand. 

And she did with only mild haste. Guards rushed past, breaking through the crowd with a rough quickness, their commands to make way coming after they had shoved past you. The closer to the center she got, the thicker the crowd became, the more loud and abuzz it became. Flags waving and people in their very best. And at the front of it, was a great beast indeed. The sight made her heart freeze and her body grow cold and stiff, it stole the air from her lungs and the balance she had. 

The emperor had come, or at the very least his decoy had. 

She turned to flee only to find a familiar face looking back at her looking amused as he gestured her to come. He had come too, then. At the sight of him she knew she had been caught, but her feet carried her away before the knowledge could settle. She ran, pushing past people and guards as she was called out behind her. She ran into the alleyway and down into the catacombs that served as a shelter of sorts. It was as if it was another city entirely, one that didn’t bother selling bread or pretty fabric. 

“The whole place is lit because of you.” A gruff man said. She said nothing in return, glancing at the man with a deathly glare. “What did you do to get the emperor on your back?” he asked, and once again he got no answer. He clicked his tongue and looked at her with disinterest. “Have it your way,” he said. 

“They’re going to kill you, you know that, don't drag the rest of us down.” Her eyes flicked behind him, the light caught something in the shadows, and the closer she looked the more she understood. A few guards stood, their swords preceding them as they crept closer. He nudged her forward into their waiting arms. “Nothing personal.” he muttered as the knights held her by her arms. “Right.” she replied lowly, watching the sack of coins land in the man’s open hands.

They didn’t drag her far, from the catacombs and into the alleyway once again. Outside an inn she was renting a room in, there were many guards, along with the emperor, who looked as if he was expecting for her to run from the start. He raised his brows in a silent question of if she had gotten it out of her system before he offered his arm.

The inn was empty, no drunkard or whore, not a theft or beggar. She had assumed it was its visitors that gave it the stench, but even empty it smelt of stale dust and piss. He didn’t look about the place, nor did he ask for guidance, he walked straight to her room and opened the door. It seemed that their visit was no accident.

He watched her curiously, dark eyes flicking across her face as if he was trying to find something familiar. “How did you know?” She asked. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” he asked. “It’s an impressive glamour,” he added, his fingers coming to tug at her hair. “Not impressive enough, it seems.” He laughed out at this, patting her hand gently before he glanced at the open door.

He waited for only a moment before with a sigh, he let go of her arm and walked ahead of her as if to prove that no trap laid before her. It was useless to run, and likely dangerous, so she took a cautious step forward. She narrowed her eyes as she glanced around the room, looking for the trap that laid under rugs and between books. But none presented itself, maybe because of the company that stood before her. “Idalia.” He started with an almost fond tone. She raised her brows at the man.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been that, Prince.” He offered her a smile but even from a distance it was clear that the man was far from the dusty room they hid in, gone someplace out of reach– trapped in a memory that held him in place. “It has been a long time since I’ve been called that, too.” he returned. The years had not been kind to anyone, but years had not been kind to him. She had trouble recognizing him when he approached. Had it not been for the hoard of knights that surrounded him she would have passed him by. 

Maybe it was because whenever she pictured the man that she knew grown, she had pictured him to look more like his father, but it seemed as he aged he looked less like the image. 

She shifted her weight as he glanced at the room. “Is this where you live?” he asked curiously, the worn down room with mice skittering about and a lumpy, stained bed in the corner was hardly how he imagined she’d end up after they parted, It seemed well beneath her.  “No.” came her curt reply. She had noticed the trail of guards trailing her, she had heard their command, she just hadn’t thought such a seedy place would sell her out, for all the others that made the dark corners their home it seemed she was the only one who it rejected. 

He either didn’t notice the tone or didn’t care, as he dusted off the crooked wooden desk and leaned on it. Dark eyes fell upon her and she knew that soon, an overdue conversation would follow. She squeezed her wrist under her long, heavy cloak that was useless in evading him. 

“What do they call you now?” he asked. “Nothing.” she said. “I doubt you would allow that.” She disliked how he spoke in a congenial tone about her as if knew anything. But she remained silent as the man nodded. “Do you remember when we met?” He asked “Forgive me, the years dulled my memory.” She lied flatly. He once again paid it no mind, waving his hand as if to dispel the thought but only serving in disrupting the dust that hung in the air.

“Do you remember my promise?” “You have broken many vows, It would have been foolish to keep them under my pillow.” She said tersely, watching as his eyes fell to the floor, his knuckles tightening around the edge of the desk before he nodded. “Forgive me.” he asked after a while. 

He spoke it as if it had always been on the tip of his tongue, as if in the night he whispered it to a memory that haunted his every waking moment. The thought made the corners of her lips twitch upwards as she stared at him for a beat before she frowned.  “No.”

He expected the answer, still he flinched when he got it. He let out a deep sigh. “It was foolish to hope.” he admitted “It often is.” She agreed with a nod, white strands of hair bouncing along with her every movement. He nodded watching as her hand poked from her cloak to cast away one of the mice with a wave of her gloved hand. He had kept the tendency to hide behind himself, and maybe years ago, before her heart had hardened, the sight of the man saddened would have swayed her, made her take a step forward and had her outstretching her hand. She held her wrist under her cloak, her thumb stroking a raised scar as she watched him from the corner of her eye. 

 We all do as we must, and all is allowed in the game but not all is just. He had not been just in many years now. 

 “Just… before you leave, answer me one thing.” he asked. She nodded for him to continue. “An answer for an answer.” she proposed. He pushed himself from the desk, making the unstable surface wobble oddly at the shift. “Did you keep it?” He asked. 

She hardened her gaze for a moment, her hand tugging at the end of her glove. “No.” she replied. “I was hungry. I got a small sum for it.” She added. He frowned, his brows furrowing and his lips pressing together as he thought of what must those days have been like for the other. He lost himself in thought for a moment as the other prepared to speak. “How did it happen?” she asked. He tilted his head to the side, looking at her expectantly as if, like her, he too had been waiting for the question he knew dangled from her lips. "How did He die?” she reiterated The imperial He. 

 He glanced out the window, his posture straight and stiff as he held his hands behind his back. “Screaming.” “Good.” She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. An odd feeling of emptiness overcame her as she wondered if the source of her anger– the cause of so much pain was gone… what became of her anger now, after the man had been washed clean? The man watched her from the reflection, catching her every brief expression as she shifted. She did not look like a woman vindicated. He thought.

Neither one bothered to say more, not a prayer of curse for the man that tormented their sleep, and in the absence of anything, they lapsed, the room falling quiet for a moment as their words settled into rotted floorboards. He looked at her, and even from their safe distance he could tell that peace had not yet come to the mage. The brief flash of the clothing under her cloak told him she had enough wealth to try and hide it on her journey. She stood straight as an arrow with a haunted sort of expression, her cheeks gaunt, eyes dark and hollow. 

Still, he thought to himself, she looked more like a ruler now than she ever did, glaring at him with an icy hatred. 

        “You can return, should you ever wish.” He said “I won't.” “But if ever you want to, know that the doors will be opened to you.” “I will never return to you, not even in death.”

 he frowned, raising a dark brow at the other as he took a step forward. “You never left.” “Maybe that is so, but you have long since left me.” she countered. His frown deepened and only then did a flash of his father spring forth and its appearance made the man lose his face completely. The mage stumbled back in a panic, her hands in front of her readying an attack that never came. His heavy steps halted as soon as he saw the stricken expression come across her features. 

He stayed very still, his shoulders slouched and a dazed expression on his face as he waited for her to return to herself. She did slowly, and found the man crumbled upon the bed.

 It was long dried out affection that spurred her steps forward; she sat beside him silently for a good while before he spoke up; “If I could rule beside my enemy, why couldn’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you are not my enemy, you are my end.” Even when she was brave enough to say it, every fiber of her tensed away from him like a snake before an attack. He frowned, his lips pressing together as he nodded. “I will promise you, the day you keep your promise is the day I shall drown.” She swore, her face pinched together in a stern defiance. 

“Then, what’s one more broken promise?” he said softly, and in the silence you could almost hear the slightest tremble in his voice, the softest tone of deflation that edged the underside. He glanced down at a mouse that came too close to him before it was pushed away by some unseen force that was created with a flick of her finger. “It is beneath you to stay here.” He said “More so for you.” She replied with an amused almost smile. He offered a shrug before he glanced at her. “I’m sorry.” 

She didn’t respond, simply sitting beside him. Maybe it was for the best that she didn’t, for the best that they sat silently in the disgusting room that smelt of staleness and dust. 

Remember the game we used to play? when we were young and sat in a tree? we called it freedom, then… but we never could go past that tree. 

He glanced sideways at her, his eyes dropping towards where her hands were hidden under her cloak before he looked up and caught her eyes. “He did pay. Greatly.” He assured her. “It does not change anything.” she said.  “No.” he agreed as if the knowledge pressed heavy against his neck. He fiddled a bit before he slid off one of the many rings that decorated his long fingers. A gold signet, with his house crest. He looked at it for a long while before he dropped it into the mage’s palm, closing her fingers around it with one last pat. 

“Should you ever need me, I’m at your service.” he swore. She regarded him for a moment before she tried to open her fist under his hand, but the man only brought her to his lips. “Let me be of service to you.” He pleaded. “I won’t change my mind.” she warned, leveling a skeptical look at the other. “I know,” he said. 

A knock rattled the door and at its command, he rose to his feet, helping the mage to hers as well before bowing his head slightly. It was an odd gesture that made her raise her brows at him, but he didn’t bother to explain. “Is there anything you need?” he asked “No.” she said “Then let me take you to where you’re headed.” “There’s no need.” He frowned slightly before nodding once more. “I see…” “I must go now, but should you ever wish to write please don’t let fear stop you from doing so.” He requested. He didn’t wait for the rejection before he turned around, tapping at the door. He waited only a moment to drop a large sachel of coins on the dresser before the door opened and with then he was gone. 

The mage waited for a moment, rolling the warm ring around her palm as if it would catch on fire. It didn't.

She frowned as she pulled at the silver chain that had been hidden, she slipped the singlet ring onto the chain, where it clicked as it hit the other ring on the chain before she once more hid the locket.

She waited until he and his people left the area before she left too, returning to the shadows to let out a furious scream. The vagrants on the ground looked at her strangely and the mice scurried off at the sound. Her lies came easily, slipping from her lips without a stutter or pause, hardly enough time to realize she had come up with one in the first place. They came much easier than her tears, that refused to dampen her cheeks and spare her some relief. And after a day of many lies, she wished she could cry.

But no tears ever came.

In the end, no one truly is forgiven, not for the fights we fought or the blood we stole. The losers hold their pain, and the victors call it glory

[transmasc-tabris]

So I've seen a couple of people do posts asking which of their OCs would have the most rancid disclose if they were canon so I'm... contributing? Using this as an excuse to yap? Descriptions under the cut since I couldn't fit everything in the poll spaces for everyone. These aren't the best or most fleshed out descriptions just tried to think of things I thought people would zero in on for one reason or another.

Click for descriptions

Rella Lavellan - Fireballed a templar at least once, let Cullen keep taking lyrium, not all that nice to Solas, mediocre mother even though she very much tried, 40yr old trans lesbian, just wants to do Disruptive Chaos with Sera and not deal with all this Andraste nonsense.

Amelin Lavellan - leaned into the whole Herald thing because he loved the attention, lied to everyone about definitely believing in the Maker, overconfident in his fighting abilities and generally everything, mean to Dorian

Anaan Mercar - former blood mage, has used the corpses of slaves to fight for her, knocked a man's teeth out because he had a panic attack, trans woman who is unapologetically butch and old, believes heavily in vigilante justice, the only successful parent on this list

Issala Laidir - Thedas's youngest deadbeat father (yes the circumstances were bad but he was genuinely abusive to his son for years before giving him up), drinks too much, prone to emotional outbursts, agrees with Taash that Emmrich is weird

Inez Laidir - abandoned her wife and recently traumatized disabled child to do thief and pirate stuff, let everyone in her old life think she was dead for decades, steals literally anything from everyone but never has money because gambling

Daia Thorne - poisoned her infant son leaving him unable to hear or speak, abandoned him and her husband years later in order to avoid jail, also let her family think she was dead

Emilio De Riva - Crow, without a shred of morality or sentimentality left at this point (edgy dumbfuck let's be real) mean to Bellara, in a toxic relationship with Emmrich, dislikes Manfred and doesn't care about Assan

[serpentinespider]

constantly posting whatever I want and being as cringe as possible in every way and then remember I’m mutuals with multiple of my favorite artists/writers ever here

[the-coincidence-child]

{ Aslan's little trash pile in the shed is keeping me up all night }

{ @subaruwu idc if this boy scratches tf outta Subaru but for the love of god SUBARU GIVE YO SON A TOY ROCKET PLZ HE'S NEVER OWNED ANY TOYS PLZ (lying he just destroyed them in panic/rage when he moved in with the Sakamaki's). }

[marvelstoriesepic]

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

[imhaechanshoe]

thinking of hyuntak with a cute nerdy girlfriend

Title: The Glasses Don’t Mean Weak

Pairing: Gotak x Shy Nerdy Girlfriend (OC)

Gotak had no idea what Juntae was thinking when he introduced him to her—quiet, wide-eyed, always hiding behind too-big glasses and a stack of books.

“She’s cool,” Juntae had said casually. “Kinda weird, but smart. She helps me cheat.”

Gotak didn’t like quiet girls. They made him feel loud, too much. But there was something about her that didn’t feel fake. She didn’t flinch when he talked, and that was rare.

She started tagging along sometimes—nervous, always half a step behind—but she laughed at his dumb jokes and brought him spicy snacks in cute little plastic containers.

And eventually, he started waiting for her after class. Not that he’d say it out loud.

It happened on a Thursday.

He was walking back from the corner store, stupidly alone. He should’ve known better. A couple of guys from a nearby school who didn’t like him were already waiting in the alleyway.

“Where’s your little study buddy now, huh?” one of them sneered.

Gotak smirked, dropped his bag, and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t need her for this.”

He got in two hits before someone caught him in the ribs. Hard.

Then again, in the jaw.

It was getting bad. He was on one knee when he heard a voice—soft, furious, and terrifying in its calm.

“Hey.”

His attackers turned just as she stepped into the alley.

Gotak blinked. “What the hell are you doing here—?”

She didn’t answer.

She moved.

Fast.

One of the guys went down with a swift kick to the knee, the other got flipped—flipped—into a trash pile.

She moved like water, sharp and perfect. Years of training behind every controlled motion. And then it was just them, the alley suddenly silent except for Gotak’s ragged breathing.

She stood over him, frowning.

“You okay?” she asked gently, offering her hand.

Gotak just stared.

“You can fight?”

She helped him up, brushing dirt from his hoodie.

“I was going to tell you. Just… didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“Weird?” he wheezed. “You just did a Jackie Chan on those bastards.”

Her cheeks turned red.

“I do taekwondo. Since I was six.”

Gotak couldn’t stop grinning. His lip was bleeding, and he was definitely going to feel that kick tomorrow, but he still laughed.

“I think I just fell in love.”

She buried her face in her sleeve to hide the smile.

That night, he texted Juntae:

bro. you didn’t tell me she was a damn ninja

thanks. i owe you.

[thatbugkidd]

INTRODUCING... MY DRONESONA/OC, SCRAP

Scrap is a unique type of drone, a Collector Drone. Collector drones are a byproduct of worker drones, built with a few differences to be more efficient at their primary tasks. They are slightly smaller and more compact, but much heavier and hardy. These drones were built to be able to hold extremely heavy loads, much more than your average worker drone. They can also endure much harsher conditions, and are overall a bit more resilient.

They were often tasked with "collecting" things, hence the name. Trash, scrap material, valuables, minerals, etc etc. Primarily, they were used to mine the planets, collecting and transporting materials they gathered. They are equipped with an extra pair of arms, that are removable and replaceable via a port on their sides just below their primary arms. As well as ANOTHER pair of ports just on their backside for a third pair of appendages if they're ever seen fit to use it.

Their second pair can be swapped for extensions that help with their tasks (eg, clawed hands for digging) and are often equipped with tools under the last cap of their finger joints, such as screw drivers, a drill, tape measure, etc as they were often also used to help at construction as they were excellent for carrying heavy materials where trucks and other vehicles couldn't reach.

Unfortunately, because of their heavy machinery, upkeep and maintenance was very important but oftentimes difficult to provide. Because of this, not many were built in the first place, so when the core exploded on copper-9, most of them were destroyed or permanently powered down. Scrap, being kept below the surface in a bunker for repair on damages, had been very jostled but managed to reboot with a big chunk of memory loss and now faulty code that went awry.

This caused a malfunction in their tasks, so she now collects anything perceived as dead. She wanders copper-9 digging through corpse piles of drones and humans alike, scavaging for anything interesting and looking for history as she explores the dead planet.

The backside port allows the third pair of appendages to slide up and down for added mobility!!

Also featuring @kalpeavaris 's drone OC, bishop hehe >:3

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅶ: Dormageddon

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

The dorm was a warzone.

Jeongin darted across the living room, frantically gathering stray water bottles and shoving them into a recycling bag. Chan wiped down the kitchen counters like he was scrubbing out a crime scene. Minho vacuumed with murderous determination, dragging the machine across the floor as Seungmin and Han argued over whether or not the couch cushions needed to be thrown into the washing machine.

Hyunjin, barefoot and half-dead, silently wiped the windows with a haunted expression — like his soul had long since left his body.

They were cleaning like their lives depended on it.

Because, in a way, they did.

Iseul was moving in today.

And none of them wanted to be the reason she took one look at the dorm and immediately asked to move out.

“She’s late,” Jeongin huffed, stuffing another empty chip bag into the trash. “Why is she late?”

“Maybe she chickened out,” Han muttered, aggressively fluffing a pillow.

Minho paused. “Can we blame her?”

Hyunjin stopped wiping. “Maybe she decided we weren’t worth it.”

Seungmin glanced up. “Maybe she died.”

They all froze.

Chan sighed, rubbing his face. “We need to get out of the dorm more.”

The front door finally creaked open.

And Iseul stepped inside.

She hovered awkwardly in the doorway, cradling a duffel bag, a suitcase, and... a cello case.

The boys stared at her.

And then at her luggage.

“That’s it?” Chan blinked. “That’s... all you brought?”

Iseul shifted her grip on the cello strap, her ears burning. “I don’t have a lot of stuff...”

Han squinted. “The cello takes up half your things.”

“Yeah. It’s my priority.”

“Fair enough.”

Minho shut off the vacuum, dragging it to the side. “Why were you late?”

Iseul deflated. “My mom.”

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Your mom?”

“She wanted to make sure I packed properly,” Iseul muttered, stepping inside. “And then she cried. And then she made me swear not to die. And then she cried again. And then she made me promise to call her every night—”

Seungmin snorted. “Is she okay?”

“No.”

The tension snapped in half.

Hyunjin smothered a laugh behind his hand. Jeongin giggled. And the rest of the boys slowly started to relax — shoulders dropping as the pressure dissolved into something almost normal.

Almost.

Because Iseul saw the way their gazes flicked toward her bags.

Saw how cramped the living room felt with her things piled up by the door.

She felt guilt curdle in her chest like sour milk.

They’d done so much already — cleaned the dorm, rearranged their rooms, added a bunk bed to the three-bed room, and cleared the smallest bedroom for her.

And now she was here.

Taking up space.

Making everything harder for them.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the knot in her throat.

“Since you guys cleaned so much,” she started, tugging at her sleeve, “how about I make dinner?”

The reaction was immediate.

Jeongin lit up. “Really?”

“I’ll help,” Seungmin added, casually pushing Jeongin toward the kitchen. “You can be her assistant.”

“I’m not her assistant—”

“You are now.”

The two of them bickered all the way to the fridge.

Iseul stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at the mountain of ingredients the boys had shoved at her like it was a boss fight. She chewed her lip, feeling the weight of their effort to make space for her in the dorm. Guilt gnawed at her chest. They’d added a bunk bed to an already cramped room, cleared out their smallest bedroom for her, and scrubbed the place like they were expecting a military inspection.

The least she could do was feed them.

“Okay,” she muttered, tying her hair up. “Let’s do this.”

“I’ll help!” Jeongin popped up beside her like a golden retriever, already rolling up his sleeves. “I can cut veggies!”

Seungmin leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You can barely cut paper.”

Jeongin scowled. “I can too!”

“Prove it.” Seungmin handed him a carrot and a knife with the air of a judge watching a defendant plead their case.

Jeongin gripped the knife with pure determination. He made one dramatic, calculated slice — and the carrot promptly shot off the cutting board, skidding across the counter like a hockey puck.

Seungmin burst out laughing.

“I’m TRYING!” Jeongin yelped, scrambling to catch the runaway carrot.

Iseul snorted, covering her mouth. “Okay, okay — let me show you.” She gently adjusted Jeongin’s grip on the knife, her voice patient. “Hold it like this. And curl your fingers so you don’t accidentally chop them off.”

“I wouldn’t chop them off,” Jeongin said, pouting.

“You’d just, what, mildly maim yourself?” Seungmin deadpanned.

Jeongin threw a piece of carrot at him.

Iseul shook her head, but a small smile tugged at her lips. It was... nice. Familiar, even. The way Jeongin clung to her like an eager younger brother, and the way Seungmin’s teasing had this quiet warmth to it, like he wasn’t really being mean — just pulling her into their rhythm.

“Are you sure you know how to cook?” Seungmin squinted at her as she started seasoning the meat.

“Just start chopping the onions, Seungmin,” Iseul said, handing him a knife without looking.

Seungmin blinked at it. “This feels like child labor.”

“You’re older than Jeongin,” she deadpanned.

“Emotionally, no,” Seungmin muttered, but he started chopping anyway.

Jeongin, meanwhile, handled the rice like he was solving a Rubik’s cube, painstakingly measuring everything. His tongue stuck out a little in concentration, and Iseul had to bite back a laugh.

“You’re really careful,” she noted, stirring the soup.

“I don’t wanna mess up,” he admitted, glancing at her. “You’re cooking for everyone, and I don’t want them to be mad if it sucks.”

Iseul’s chest pinched.

“They wouldn’t be mad,” she said softly. “And... even if they were, I’d tell them off.”

Jeongin blinked, then beamed so brightly she almost had to look away.

Seungmin, stirring the soup with the absolute confidence of someone who loved to provoke, didn’t even glance up. “Wow. Our knight in shining armor. Remind me to call you if a fly breaks into the dorm.”

Jeongin nearly dropped the plate he was drying. “Hyung!”

The bickering continued like background noise as she cooked, Jeongin flailing while Seungmin casually tossed insults like confetti. And somehow, despite the chaos, everything started coming together.

The soup simmered.

Jeongin cut vegetables while sneakily stealing bites, yelping whenever Iseul caught him. Seungmin expertly handled the seasoning, pausing only to deliver backhanded compliments that made her want to throw the ladle at his head.

“Not bad,” he mused, tasting the broth. “I expected worse.”

Iseul narrowed her eyes. “I’m adding extra spice just for you.”

“Aw,” he smirked. “You do care.”

Jeongin snorted, nearly slicing his finger off.

By the time they started plating the food, Iseul realized she was actually... smiling.

Seungmin wiped his hands on a towel, glancing at the perfectly simmered soup like he personally deserved a Michelin star. “Dinner’s ready,” he called out, voice echoing through the dorm like a battle horn.

From the living room, chaos erupted like they hadn't eaten in weeks.

“DINNER?!” Han practically toppled over the couch.

Felix vaulted the coffee table with zero hesitation.

Hyunjin nearly face-planted trying to rip off his hoodie.

“They act like we don’t feed them,” Seungmin muttered, shaking his head as he lifted the soup pot.

Iseul bit back a laugh, balancing a plate in each hand as she and Jeongin set up the table. Jeongin, ever the helpful one, carefully placed chopsticks and napkins, sticking his tongue out as he concentrated on getting the spacing just right.

“Why are you lining them up like we’re in a restaurant?” Iseul asked, stacking bowls.

Jeongin flushed, adjusting the napkins like he was solving a puzzle. “It looks nice, noona.”

Iseul dropped a plate.

Jeongin froze like he’d been caught committing a crime. “I— I didn’t mean to say that —”

Iseul bent down to grab the plate, but her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it again. Her brain blue-screened.

Noona.

He called her noona.

He called her noona in front of everyone.

From the kitchen doorway, Seungmin wheezed, barely holding back laughter. “Oh, that’s cute,” he said, voice dripping with malicious glee.

The universe collapsed.

Han slammed his hands on the table like he was hosting a reality show. “Wait, wait, wait,” he gasped, pointing dramatically at Jeongin. “He called her what?”

“Noona,” Seungmin chirped, pure evil in human form.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO,” Jeongin wailed, his voice breaking like a shattered vase.

Hyunjin, frozen in place, stared at Iseul like he’d discovered a glitch in the matrix. “You... let him call you that?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

Iseul didn’t respond. She couldn’t respond. Her brain was melting. She just stood there, gripping the plate so tightly her knuckles turned white, heart pounding so loudly she swore the others could hear it.

“Noona,” Felix whispered, eyes twinkling. “That’s so cute.”

“I’m leaving,” Iseul muttered, already planning her escape route.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE IT,” Han yelled, arms outstretched like some kind of cult leader. “YOU’RE HIS NOONA NOW.”

Jeongin slid down to the floor like his legs had given out. “This is the worst day of my life,” he groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Seungmin, who had clearly been waiting for this moment his entire existence, crouched next to Jeongin and patted his back like a fake-supportive friend. “It’s okay, baby bread,” he cooed. “Your noona will protect you.”

Jeongin threw a napkin at his face.

“Why do you even call her that?” Changbin asked, folding his arms with a grin that screamed he was enjoying this way too much. “I mean, she’s closer to your age, right?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jeongin stammered. “She just... gives noona vibes?”

Iseul nearly dropped the plate again.

“Noona vibes?” Hyunjin repeated, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Jeongin buried his face in his hands. “You cook, and you scold us, and you make sure we eat... you feel like a noona!”

Iseul’s soul physically left her body.

“Guys, I think she’s going to cry,” Han whispered, leaning closer to her face like he was inspecting a wild animal.

“I’m quitting,” she mumbled into her hands. “I’m packing my bags and going to live in the practice room.”

Jeongin looked devastated. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable —”

“She’s not uncomfortable,” Seungmin interrupted, voice sugary sweet. “She’s just malfunctioning. It happens when her noona programming gets activated.”

Seungmin barely had time to react before Iseul launched herself across the kitchen.

“YOU’RE DEAD!” she screeched, knocking over a chair as she tackled him with the force of a small hurricane.

Seungmin hit the floor with a thud, laughter echoing through the dorm as she pinned him down, her knees digging into his sides.

“I yield, I yield!” he wheezed, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t breathe!”

“That’s the point!” Iseul growled, shaking him by the collar like a cartoon villain.

The boys exploded.

“YES, GET HIM!” Han cheered, pounding the table.

“WORLD STAR!” Changbin yelled, holding up his phone like he was filming a fight for the internet.

“Seungmin, you brought this on yourself,” Felix snorted, not even bothering to help him.

“I regret nothing,” Seungmin choked out, grinning like the little menace he was.

Lee Know, arms crossed and smirking, watched the chaos unfold like a proud father. “I knew she had it in her,” he said, nodding in approval. “Finally putting Seungmin in his place.”

“This isn’t putting him in his place, this is a murder attempt,” Chan groaned, scrambling over to try and pry Iseul off Seungmin.

“Save me! She is a bloody monster!” Seungmin gasped from beneath Iseul, face red from laughing.

“I’m not saving you, I’m saving the dinner table!” Chan yelped, dodging Iseul’s flailing arm as she fought to keep Seungmin pinned. “Iseul, come on, get off him!”

“I’ll get off when he apologizes!” she snapped, wrangling Seungmin like a wrestler in a death match.

“For what?” Seungmin coughed, barely able to breathe through his grin.

“EXISTING,” she hissed, shaking him harder.

Lee Know leaned back against the counter, utterly delighted. “This is the best day of my life,” he said, voice dripping with amusement.

“Minho, help me!” Chan begged, half-laughing, half-panicked as he tried to lift Iseul by the waist.

“Why would I stop this?” Minho tilted his head, watching Chan struggle like it was a live comedy show. “She’s thriving.”

“She’s committing a felony,” Chan cried, dodging another swipe of her hand. “Someone help me!”

Hyunjin, still hovering awkwardly near the table, hesitated. He glanced between Iseul’s wild, feral expression and the way Chan was one slip away from being collateral damage.

His chest tightened — partly out of concern, partly out of something he didn’t want to name.

He hated that Seungmin got to tease her so easily. Hated that Jeongin got to call her noona first.

Hated that he cared so much.

Hated that he found her when she was mad. But maybe a little too cute.

Hyunjin cursed under his breath and scrambled forward, grabbing Iseul by her shoulders. “Okay, okay, let him live!” he yelped, digging his heels into the floor as he helped Chan haul her back.

It felt like trying to tame a feral cat.

“You little —” Iseul kicked wildly, limbs flailing as the two boys dragged her like she was some kind of rogue beast.

Seungmin, instead of being terrified, just lay on the ground laughing his lungs out.

“This is the best day of my life,” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Why are you like this?” Chan demanded, face twisted in betrayal.

“WHY AM I LIKE THIS?” Iseul screeched, flailing harder. “HE’S BEEN TAUNTING ME FOR HOURS —”

“LET HIM DIE,” Han cheered from the couch, voice muffled against a pillow.

Hyunjin, out of breath, managed to sit Iseul down on the floor, keeping her in place with both hands on her shoulders.

“Breathe,” he huffed, chest heaving.

Iseul glared at him, fists clenched, practically vibrating with leftover aggression.

Hyunjin should’ve been terrified.

Instead, his brain short-circuited again.

Because she was looking directly at him — eyes fierce, cheeks flushed, lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.

He swallowed hard, pulse stammering.

"...Please don't kill us," he muttered, voice shaky. “You're kinda cute when you're mad, but, like... terrifying.”

Iseul’s brain exploded.

Hyunjin immediately wanted to rip his own throat out.

Chan went rigid. His eyes, wide with disbelief, snapped to Hyunjin like a predator locking onto its prey.

“What,” Chan said, voice unnervingly calm, “did you just say?”

Hyunjin, who looked like he wanted to dig a hole and die in it, tried to backpedal. “I—I didn’t mean it like that!” he stammered, still gripping Iseul’s shoulders. “I just — I —”

“YOU THINK SHE’S CUTE?!” Han roared, flinging a pillow across the room.

Felix was cackling so hard he rolled onto the floor, tears streaming down his face. “NO WAY,” he wheezed, pounding the floor with his fist.

Jeongin, face buried in his hands, screamed into his palms like he was witnessing a crime.

Meanwhile, Iseul just sat there. Unmoving. Unblinking.

Absolutely fried.

Her entire body locked up, like her soul had fled to a different dimension.

“C-cute?” she whispered, voice so quiet it was almost a glitch in the universe. Her entire face exploded in red.

Hyunjin, realizing the chaos he had unleashed, panicked. “I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY IT OUT LOUD,” he blurted, voice pitching so high it cracked.

Chan lunged forward, grabbing Hyunjin by the collar. “THE AIR FRYER,” he hissed like a man possessed. “I’M THROWING YOU IN HEADFIRST.”

“I’LL PREHEAT IT,” Lee Know called, already walking to the kitchen with a casual strut.

“MINHO, NO!” Hyunjin screeched, flailing as Chan dragged him toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Seungmin, still sprawled on the floor, barely conscious from laughing. “Tell my family I love them,” he rasped.

“I CAN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE,” Iseul finally exploded, clutching her face as her entire body curled in on itself. “I NEED TO QUIT. I NEED TO MOVE TO ANOTHER COUNTRY.”

Jeongin, clutching his stomach, almost toppled over. “I CALLED HER NOONA AND LIVED — BUT HYUNJIN CALLED HER CUTE AND DIED.”

Hyunjin, bright red and struggling against Chan’s grip, tried to salvage what little was left of his dignity. “I WAS JUST TRYING TO STOP HER FROM COMMITTING MURDER,” he howled.

“BY FLIRTING WITH HER?!” Han screeched, clutching a pillow like he was witnessing the scandal of the century.

Chan, eyes burning with big brother fury, shoved Hyunjin into a kitchen chair. “SIT DOWN,” he ordered, voice low and deadly. “You are not allowed to speak for the rest of the night.”

Hyunjin, face still burning, sulked like a scolded puppy.

Lee Know wandered back in, biting into a rice cracker. “Pity,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “I was actually gonna turn on the air fryer.”

“STOP,” Hyunjin whined, burying his face in his hands.

Iseul, still melting into a puddle of embarrassment, finally peeked through her fingers. She glared at Hyunjin with the weakest, most half-hearted death stare imaginable.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to kill you,” she muttered.

Hyunjin peeked at her through his fingers — and immediately turned even redder.

The boys, seeing his reaction, lost it all over again.

Felix almost choked on his laughter. Han was crying. Seungmin lay on the floor like a casualty of war.

And Chan? Chan slumped against the counter, staring at the ceiling like he was questioning every life decision that led to this moment.

“I need a vacation,” he whispered to himself.

Lee Know clapped him on the back. “Or a bigger air fryer.”

The conversation eventually shifted.

The initial explosion of chaos faded into background noise as the boys fell back into their usual rhythm — tossing jokes across the table, piling extra food onto each other’s plates, and slipping into the easy, natural dynamic they’d built over years of living and working together.

Iseul tried to keep up.

She really did.

But the longer they talked, the quieter she became.

It wasn’t intentional — no one was deliberately ignoring her. But the boys moved so fast, with overlapping stories and inside jokes, that she felt like she was running after a train she could never catch.

They’d start reminiscing about something that happened on tour.

Or talk about an old trainee memory.

Or bicker about a game they played last week.

And Iseul just... sat there.

Smiling when they laughed. Nodding like she understood.

She laughed along, even when she didn’t know what was funny.

She twirled her chopsticks between her fingers, pretending to focus on her food, while her heart slowly sank into her stomach.

This is what she was interrupting.

This is what she was intruding on.

It was one thing to know the boys were uncomfortable with her presence. It was another to see — to feel — just how tight-knit they were without her.

They had a bond she couldn’t break into, no matter how hard she tried.

And maybe she shouldn’t try.

Maybe she shouldn’t even be here.

She stabbed at her rice, her appetite fading, guilt crawling up her throat like thorns.

Jeongin called her noona.

And she’d nearly passed out like an idiot.

The boys were bending over backward to make space for her.

And she was making it harder for them.

They had to clean the dorm for her. Rearrange their rooms. Sacrifice their privacy.

And for what?

For her to sit there in awkward silence, drowning in self-pity?

Iseul pushed her bowl away.

“Um,” she started, voice barely loud enough to cut through the chatter. “I’ll wash up first. You guys can... take your time.”

The words spilled out before she could stop them.

The boys immediately protested — voices overlapping in a flurry of concern:

“You barely ate—” “We’ll do the dishes, don’t worry—” “Are you feeling sick?”

She forced a smile. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Chan frowned, his brows knitting together. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

Hyunjin’s gaze flicked toward her.

But he didn’t say anything.

And Iseul didn’t wait for him to.

She slipped away from the table, her chest aching, and shut the bathroom door behind her like it could physically block out the noise of their laughter.

The shower steamed up the mirror as she stood under the scalding water, her head pressed against the tile.

She hated this feeling.

By the time she got out, her hair clung to her skin, her eyes were swollen, and she was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with her body as shuffled into her most comfortable pajamas without thinking — the bright green dinosaur ones with a cartoon tail on the back.

The dorm was dim, the only light flickering from the TV screen.

The boys had migrated to the living room — sprawled across couches, tangled in blankets, half-asleep as a random variety show played in the background.

Iseul hesitated.

She lingered in the hallway, heart pounding, not wanting to intrude.

Not wanting to disrupt whatever fragile peace they’d finally settled into.

But Seungmin caught her.

He twisted around on the floor, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Look who survived the shower,” he drawled, eyes gleaming. “Did you have an emotional breakdown in there?”

Iseul froze.

Her pulse skyrocketed.

She scrambled to mask the panic on her face — to laugh it off, even as her chest clenched like he’d reached in and grabbed her heart.

Seungmin didn’t know.

Of course he didn’t know.

He was just teasing her.

He didn’t realize he was right.

“I was just washing my hair,” she mumbled, rubbing at her arms. “I… didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting.”

Iseul startled.

Hyunjin sat cross-legged on the couch, leaning against the armrest, one hand propping up his face.

His voice was quiet. Gentler than she expected.

He looked tired. Or maybe he always looked like that now.

But the second he actually saw her — standing there in damp hair and dinosaur pajamas — he malfunctioned.

Iseul, still toweling off her hair, stood in the dim hallway — her eyes big and unsure, damp strands of hair clinging to her flushed face.

Hyunjin nearly choked on his own breath. His heart lurched, and for a split second, he forgot how to function as a human being.

Why was she cute?

Why was she cute when she looked like she’d been emotionally obliterated in the shower?

Why was he noticing this??

He scrambled to do something, fingers blindly fumbling through the grocery bag next to him.

Without thinking, he yanked a yogurt cup from the grocery bag beside him and — panicking beyond belief — flung it at her like she was a wild animal.

“Here!” he blurted, voice cracking like glass.

Iseul caught the yogurt, eyes wide.

Hyunjin blushed violently.

What the hell was he doing? Why did he do that?? Why was he short-circuiting over pajamas??

He turned back to the TV with the stiffest posture in human history.

“Uh — you... like those,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Seungmin cackled. Immediately.

Hyunjin wanted to burst into flames.

Iseul clutched the yogurt to her chest like it was a life preserver, her entire face glowing red.

She didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to tell Hyunjin that the stupid snack had saved her.

So, instead of speaking, she quietly sank onto the floor, legs folding beneath her.

She stayed.

The boys resumed their bickering.

The show flickered on, the room filled with noise again.

Hyunjin peeked at her out of the corner of his eye.

His chest squeezed.

Because she was smiling.

Just barely.

But she was smiling.

And somehow, that was enough.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo

STORY HINT: Iseul's mom came from a well established family and was originally a law student. But she had to quit law school as she got pregnant with Iseul and married her dad. Iseul's grandparents weren't happy with the situation (or their son-in-law) but they still stayed and helped her mom. They also made sure that Iseul was provided with top notch education and training.

Uk the original draft was more angsty than this. Like I didnt include Iseul's mom or dad, only in passing and there was no comic relief. But I'm honestly quite happy with this version. Anywhoo, don't be a ghost! Leave likes and comments!! Reblogging helps a ton too Stay safe!!! ~Candy

[electric-guillotines]

In The Wake of Fire - Pt.3

"The Woman in White"

WandaNat x F!OC Summary: Natasha and Steve talk to Fury about their walking lightning rod, and an FBI Agent comes forward with information that will shed light on the Boston event, revealing the existence of a secret society and it's mysterious leader...

Content: Hospital setting but nothing in detail Words: 5 ,994

Can also be read over on [Ao3]

Taglist: @bishovapls @queen-of-chaotic-surprises @natashasmuse

<<Start | <Back || Index || Forward> | End>>

Boston, MA 11:40 pm Massachusetts General Hospital

While most of the seriously wounded were sent south many still ended up at Mass General and space was a premium, but by some miracle, the hospital was able to find a secluded room for MacGrath, keeping her separated from the other patients that came and went in a constant flow of bodies, shaken and trembling from the shock of it all, eyes too wide in a vain attempt to process the day.

The constant shuffle left the hallway floors smeared in ash and dust, the janitorial staff working as hard as they could to keep it manageable. Eventually they started having people shake themselves off before they entered.

The doctors made short work of examining MacGrath once she was taken in. No broken bones and no internal damage, the burns on her skin were already healing faster than they had any right to. Pupillary reflex was normal except for the fact that her pupils contracted into vertical slits. Aside from that, they were confident MacGrath didn't have a concussion which was just as well—no one was particularly eager to test if it was even safe to run a CT scan on her let alone an MRI.

“Her vitals are improving every moment but her body is exhausted. Based on what you've told us that's to be expected. I don't need to tell you that we aren't equipped for someone like this so the sooner you can take her off our hands the better.”

For all her training and discipline, Natasha couldn't force herself to relax as the steady sound of a heart monitor reminded her where she was with every beat. Medical settings were a minefield at the best of times and unless she was the one being treated, Wanda knew better than to bring it up, not questioning the decision to go with MacGrath and force Natasha to second-guess what she was doing.

She was a Widow, an Avenger, she could handle being inside a hospital as long as none of the doctors came near her, but she couldn't say that bringing Steve along wasn't something of a fail-safe.

Sitting in the corner chairs across from MacGrath's bed, they quietly searched through a bag of personal belongings one of the nurses brought through.

Most of the items were burnt and tattered. The phone was completely fried, a little metal charm hanging off the corner in the shape of a death's head moth.

A plain black leather wallet seemed to have survived with minimal damage but the cards inside were similarly fried beyond use. Shuffling through them, Natasha noted a couple of bank cards, a library card, and what might have once been a driver's license if it wasn't a melted mess.

The top of a white and blue card caught her eye, tucked into the deepest recess of the wallet behind everything else.

“Anything?” asked Steve, having no luck with the clothes. He folded them neatly into a pile, ignoring that they were almost certainly bound for the trash in such a state and treating them with respect solely because they were still someone's things.

Carefully plucking the card free, Natasha blinked at what she saw.

“Huh, clever girl,” she murmured, holding it up for him.

The card carried similar damage, most of MacGrath's name burned out along with half of her face in the tiny portrait, but what stood out the most were the words printed along the top; 'Massachusetts Institute of Technology,' with faint block letters spelling out 'STUDENT' behind it.

Steve frowned.

Settling back in his chair, he turned his focus to MacGrath, crossing his arms. “How does a student end up in a situation like this?”

She sighed, folding her legs up into her seat, partially to annoy him and partially because it helped her feel more secure. “Definitely not on purpose, this didn't turn out well for her if it was.”

They fell into an uneasy silence, heavy with questions yet to be asked, suspicions festering as they watched the girl sleep.

The nurses had cleaned her up, wiping away the ash and dressing her in a hospital gown without the 'static' issue the EMTs noted.

Natasha's gaze flicked to MacGrath's hands—they hadn't sparked since arriving at the hospital.

She wondered how long that would last.

A knock on the door made them both jump to their feet.

“Evening,” said Fury as he entered, softly closing the door behind him.

Natasha relaxed, trying not to show the tiredness she felt creeping in at the edges. She could have been comfortable snuggled in bed right now but the world's evil rarely waited for convenience.

She stepped aside to let him move deeper into the room. “Nice mess you called us in for, Nick,” she said drily.

Fury threw her a look somewhere between exasperation and understanding. “You know I wouldn't have called for anything less.”

She moved to stand next to him at the girl's bedside, crossing her arms. “Yeah,” she conceded, “doesn't get any easier to look at.”

He glanced between her and Steve. “You all did good work today,” he said firmly. “Your priority going forward will be dealing with the culprits behind this attack, anything else will be delegated through SHIELD. But we can save the full debrief for tomorrow.”

He motioned towards MacGrath. “Tell me about her.”

Steve nodded, hands behind his back. “Name is Kassidy MacGrath. We found her alive at ground zero with lightning erupting from her body. Witness reports said she was holding an unknown device just before the blast. It started glowing and when she couldn't drop it we're told she started screaming at people to get away from her because she had a bomb.”

Fury narrowed his eye. “She couldn't drop it?” he echoed.

Steve gestured politely at her and Natasha answered, “that's what the witness said. He described her bracing her foot against the object hard enough to hurt herself, like it was locked onto her hands.”

“Looks can be deceiving. I'll admit the warning is odd, unless she really was in on this and got cold feet.”

“Maybe, but we won't know anything until she wakes up, and she'll be better off in our hands than here.”

Another knock at the door had them all tense, watching as the door was opened by a tall middle-aged woman in a sharp suit. She had stern, hawkish features and quick eyes, coldly flicking across everyone in the room before landing on Natasha like lasers.

This woman was military, Natasha could tell that much, if not active then an ex-service member probably working for the government. She also knew, immediately, that this woman did not like her.

Fury raised an eyebrow at the intrusion, hand resting comfortably on his hip close to a concealed weapon. “Can we help you?” he asked shortly.

“Yes, and I can help you return, Director Fury,” she said, her voice brusque and to the point with a distinct Tennessee accent.

She calmly closed the door behind her, facing them in a loose parade rest. “I am FBI Agent Mercy Cord and I have been tracking the group responsible for this atrocity for years.”

Fury stepped closer. “If you've been tracking them for so long then why did this happen, Agent Cord?” he asked, scrutinising her from head to toe.

Mercy's jaw flexed. “Because my superiors did not believe them to be threat worth chasing,” she nearly growled, frustration bleeding through. “My concern with them has always been brushed off because they stay under the radar when it comes to American interests.”

She took a steadying breath, something bitter crossing her face. “Besides,” she said, her eyes flicking to Natasha with that laser focus again, “we've all had our hands full chasing snakes in the grass, haven't we?”

Natasha shared a look with Steve.

The ramifications of their renewed fight with Hydra were still being felt even years later, it had shaken US institutions to their core and shattered public perception.

If not for Peggy Carter’s foresight and her refusal to allow in anyone brought over by Operation Paperclip, SHIELD would have been compromised to the point of destruction. As it was, SHIELD was able to do something that left much of the federal apparatus feeling more than a little humiliated; saving it from itself.

With a cold smile, Natasha simply said, “pozhaluysta (you are welcome.)”

Mercy’s glare could have cracked steel but she quickly returned focus to Fury. “Director, I have information you and the Avengers will need going forward,” she said, “but I would much rather discuss the details in a more secure location. I’m sure you understand.”

Nodding slowly, Fury slipped his hand into his coat, relaxing. He met Natasha’s eye and said, “get in touch with Stark and figure out where we need to be.”

At her nod, he turned to face Mercy. “Agent, walk with me.”

Once they left the room, Steve tilted his head. “Do you know her?”

Natasha chuckled. “No.”

At the confused look on Steve’s face, she took pity enough to explain. “I don���t need telepathy to hear someone calling me a ‘fucking Russki’ in their head. She’s FBI, it’s gonna ruffle her feathers that a Russian helped save her country.”

Steve’s face darkened and Natasha waved him off, focusing on the girl. “Put that away,” she said lightly, “you don’t do angry and brooding, that’s Bucky’s job.”

His expression softened. “I can when my friends are disrespected,” he said, low and sincere.

She couldn’t help the small, genuine smile that turned her lips. “Hey, she didn’t say it.”

“No. But you didn’t have to use Russian.”

“It’s funnier that way.”

He snorted, running a hand over his face, and Natasha grinned, pleased with herself for cracking his seriousness, just a little.

People taking issue with her history was nothing new to her and it would never particularly bother her, nothing anyone could say would ever come close to what she said to herself, not when she was her own harshest critic.

For better and often worse, Natasha knew exactly what she’d done throughout her life. Every sordid, murky, awful little detail, and all she could do was try to make up for it, even if those scales would never balance out, even if so much of it was done under duress, under conditioning, brainwashing, with a million little blades correcting her posture, behaviour, ways of thinking, pushing her to be a perfect, unfeeling weapon.

She wasn’t.

She never had been.

But Widows were very good at pretending to be exactly that, wearing a mask was second-nature, etched into their bones. Even now being sincere and vulnerable wasn’t easy, she hated how exposed it made her feel as if she were showing someone exactly where to stab her, but caring about others was nice, and so was being cared about, so she kept trying.

Her thoughts drifted to Wanda and Natasha’s grin softened into something hopelessly tender, something Steve noticed immediately.

He snapped his fingers, breaking her train of thought. “Okay, you can have girlfriend time later, Romanoff,” he teased. “We still have a job to do.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Oh please, like you aren’t going to face-time Bucky as soon as we’re home.”

Steve opened his mouth only to promptly close it, a faint blush creeping up his face.

She smirked, “exactly.”

Sobriety set in quickly, however, as their attention returned to MacGrath. The girl remained asleep, the burns on her skin growing fainter by the minute.

Natasha sighed, opening the team comms. “Tony. Are you still at the crater?”

“Nope! Samples collected, Banner and I are getting them secured for transport. What’s up?”

“MacGrath is stable but you saw what she was capable of. She can’t stay in the hospital, it’s too much of a risk. Not to mention, we just got a visit from an FBI Agent who claimed she had intel on the people responsible. Fury is talking to her right now but considering this was years of work for her I doubt she’ll just hand us the intel and step back.”

There was a pause, and Tony grumbled something unintelligible. “So, the kid needs to be somewhere secure and FBI proof, got it. Alright, Tower it is. Easier to keep an eye on them both.”

Once it was organised, Steve went with the transport carrying MacGrath and Natasha returned to the rallying point, only to be redirected to the jet. Most of the team was ready to leave, only some would stay behind to continue monitoring the crater and help recovery efforts.

Climbing the boarding ramp, Natasha gave the city one last look, her breath misting in the chilly evening air.

The streets weren’t as quiet as they should be at such a late hour, with recovery teams broken into day and night shifts the area would see activity day and night as crews worked to uncover bodies, clear rubble, and begin the slow process of rebuilding.

They had done what they could.

If she repeated it enough times perhaps the leaden feeling in her bones would fade.

Trying to exhale the weight, Natasha entered the cabin proper and closed the ramp behind her.

Sam was sitting in the cockpit with Clint, talking quietly, and Tony was out cold in one of the small bunks built into the cabin walls, his suit standing nearby like a guard dog.

Wanda was in one of the chairs, clearly trying not to fall asleep despite the way her head dipped only for her to jolt.

Natasha smiled, silently approaching her. “That doesn’t look like rest to me,” she said lightly.

Green eyes darted up at that and Wanda immediately grabbed her by the shoulder harness, pulling her down into the seat until Natasha had no choice but to sit in Wanda’s lap, held against her body like a cherished teddy bear.

Despite the heat creeping up her neck, Natasha relaxed enough to settle in a more comfortable position, dropping her head to Wanda’s shoulder. “Yeah,” she murmured, finally allowing the exhaustion into her voice, “I’m ready to go home too, lyubimaya (beloved.)”

---

Manhattan, NY 9:12am Avengers Tower

That it was only a mild headache that greeted her in the morning was as much a surprise to Wanda as it was a mercy. She knew she had overdone it by marching into the crater like that, and it would have been worse if not for the energy gel.

The thought of getting up made her groan and pull the duvet over her head.

“You and I both need food after yesterday,” Natasha grumbled from behind.

Wanda smiled despite the throbbing of her temples, enjoying the way Natasha’s Rs curled, grogginess sending her typically flawless American accent into complete disarray.

She dropped a hand down to the arm around her waist, stroking the smooth, warm skin of Natasha’s forearm.

“Can we not stay here for another hour at least?” she muttered.

As if to spite her, FRIDAY’s voice intruded from above.

“Attention, all Avengers are to report to the conference room by 10am for an official debrief. Repeat, all Avengers are to report to the conference room by 10am for an official debrief.”

Natasha’s arm tightened around her waist and Wanda grumbled a few choice words under her breath.

Apologetically, FRIDAY added, “sorry, ladies. Everyone else is awake already.”

With a squeeze of her hip, Natasha easily slid out of the bed and began stretching. She was almost always the morning person and she had probably been awake for a while, dozing on and off until Wanda showed signs of stirring.

Sighing, Wanda got up and began their routine.

They made the bed, showered, and dressed, moving around each other easily, the space between them familiar and comfortable, filled with playful touches and innocent kisses, avoiding anything more involved because they knew they couldn’t waste time getting distracted. Still, Wanda stole all the warmth and light that she could before the seriousness of the debrief, enjoying the coy little curl to Natasha’s lips every time she felt Wanda’s hand on the small of her back or shoulder. The press of lips to her temple or brow made her eyes sparkle in a way no one else got to see and Wanda cherished it like a delicate secret, holding it close to her heart.

Soon enough, they made their way up to the main floor, finding the rest of the team gathered in the kitchen.

Clint and Sam sat the island with coffee, Steve was cooking what smelled like a breakfast scramble in a large skillet, and Tony was foraging for something between the double doors of the fridge.

“Our sleeping beauties!” announced Clint, smiling over a cup of coffee. “You’re finally awake.”

“Weren’t you the last one awake before them?” asked Sam, nudging his shoulder with a smirk.

Clint shrugged. “Yeah but I wasn’t the last.”

Natasha smirked, leaning on the island. “I know you have a sleep mask, Barton,” she said, “it’s very pretty.”

Clint flushed a little, muttering into his coffee, “it’s Laura’s, the silk feels nice.”

Warm laughter bubbled around the room, brightening the morning mood.

The skyline outside was murky and grey, the streets twinkling faintly with car lights as a thick swaddling fog and watery clouds hid the sun from view.

“Recovery drinks, ladies,” said Tony, pulling a tray of ready made smoothies from the fridge. Two cups of the dark green liquid remained, the rest already downed by their teammates.

Breakfast passed quickly, the chatter light and easy until it was time to head to the conference room.

Steve introduced them to FBI Agent Mercy Cord as they filed in, already waiting for them at the head of the table with a stack of folders marked‘Avengers Eyes Only.’

A cursory pass at Agent Cord’s surface thoughts gave away very little and Wanda suppressed a frown, remaining outwardly neutral as she took in everything she could about this new Agent. She remembered Natasha mentioning the encounter at the hospital, but both of them had been so tired that she only recalled the name.

Agent Cord was stark and taut, her posture precise, every movement exacting, and her grey eyes flicked to each member of the team around the table with calculated chill. The only difference came when she looked at Natasha, a flex of the jaw, a twitch of the brows as if she wanted to scowl, then nothing, her face smoothed back into icy indifference. Yet, even then, nothing rose to the surface of her mind–Cord had an iron grip on everything so unless Wanda wanted to immediately alert the Agent to her surveillance, she would have to wait until something slipped.

Wanda narrowed her eyes, filing the observation away for later.

With everyone settled at the table, they contacted Fury via video call.

“Good morning,” he said evenly, “I trust you all managed to get some sleep.”

They each went over everything that happened, detailing the bodies discovered, the people they talked to, samples taken, evidence found, everything that would go into their official written reports later.

Agent Cord remained silent and Fury listened with intense attention to detail as usual, a trait of his that Wanda had slowly gotten used to. It used to feel as if he was trying to catch her out on something, find where she went wrong and prove why she didn’t belong here after all, now she understood it for what it was, simple professional zeal and more than a little dash of Fury’s desire to keep the Avengers safe and functioning. He needed to know everything down to the last detail if SHIELD wanted to stay ahead of any untoward activity against them.

It was an unfortunate truth that many people in power felt threatened by a group such as theirs, even if they had no interest in overthrowing governments and sending entire countries into chaos. Wanda certainly had no desire to inflict that, a nation’s fate should be its own without external interference, that was the point of accepting Hydra's honeyed poison, before she knew the truth.

No, the Avengers were meant to keep innocent people safe, even if that meant embarrassing government officials. They wouldn’t always succeed, they would make mistakes, but they would always try to do better, and Fury knew that.

With each of their accounts covered, Fury moved on to the next topic of discussion. “As you might expect, the clean-up is projected to take months. SHIELD has locked down access to the crater and its immediate surroundings for study, moving forward those teams will be in constant contact with Stark and Banner.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Make sure your people aren’t hanging around down there,” he said, frustration creeping into his tone, “I don’t know what effect that energy has on the body long-term, if any.”

Fury nodded. “They’re treating it like a radiological hazard.”

He glanced to the side, tapping in a few commands on a console. “We found plenty of information about your guest, and she was a student at MIT, three years ago. She never finished.”

A file came up on their tablets;

Subject - Kassidy Quinn MacGrath

The file came with pictures from different points in the girl's life, some taken from group pictures, others from school yearbooks, and a few were candid shots where Kassidy seemed unaware she was in the picture, focused on a book or science project.

She had pale olive-tone skin, straight black hair, blue eyes, and wore a crooked half-smile when aware of the camera. A sharp jawline and strong nose paired with soft and subtle features made her a rather distinct and pretty young woman, and it clashed violently with the terrified girl Wanda saw yesterday.

None of the pictures showed her piercings, however, nor the current style of her hair, a wolf cut. The pictures showed an otherwise plain girl dressed in conservatively feminine clothing, not a single sign of rebellion.

Fury spoke as they moved to the first real page of the folder. “Kassidy MacGrath, twenty-five years of age. She was born in Northern Ireland to parents Silvia Jäger and Ronan MacGrath and has a twenty-one year old brother, Arthur. The family moved to Boston here in the states when MacGrath was nine and her father began working with a private security firm called Vanguard Security Services.”

Wanda lingered on a family picture, connecting the names to faces. The picture showed everyone in their Sunday best, primly posed and smiling for the camera. Kassidy clearly took after her mother, only sharing her eye colour with Ronan who sported short, sandy blonde hair and stern, gruff features that struggled to carry warmth.

Something about the picture didn’t sit right with Wanda and it took her a moment to hone in on what was bothering her. After all, it was a normal picture. Ronan and Silvia stood in the middle, Silvia's gloved hands resting on the shoulders of Arthur, standing in front of her wearing a navy suit like his father—the boy looked no older than 13. But then there was Kassidy, standing to her mother's right, wearing a modest green dress to match her mother, her eyes completely untouched by the smile on her face.

Another observation to file away for later.

She returned her attention to Fury’s voice. “By all accounts, she was a model student. Kept out of trouble at every turn, maintained a perfect GPA and went on to study physics at MIT with her sights set on theoretical and experimental physics.”

Steve sent Natasha a look of acknowledgement, getting a nod in return.

Tony leaned on the table, flicking through the document. “Disciplined, intelligent, and not afraid of a challenge,” he said flatly, brow furrowing. “What happened?”

“Two and half years into her studies, MacGrath dropped out and started working as a bike courier. No information on why, professors said she was doing great.”

“What about her parents?”

A flicker of something dark crossed Fury’s face. “We attempted to contact them but all they had to tell us was how much of a disgrace to the family she was before hanging up. They refuse to cooperate with us.”

Sam looked up from his tablet. “There’s a story there,” he said carefully, “any sign its connected to what happened yesterday?”

Fury sighed. “That’s the thing. She hasn’t missed a day of work in three years. There isn’t so much as a mark on her driver’s license. Her digital footprint is clean. She has two friends that we know of and doesn’t step out of line. There’s nothing to indicate she was an active participant.”

Clint spoke up, “good kids only run if you give them a reason.” His voice was quiet and hard, contemplative, like a thought that escaped containment.

No one spoke, weighed down by the implication of his statement.

A sick feeling coiled in Wanda’s stomach and she looked at the family picture again, the same discomfort nagging at her with greater insistence.

It wasn’t just the surliness of a teenager who didn’t want to be there.

Fury broke the uncomfortable silence. “Well, there’s more information in the file for you to review. For now, Kassidy MacGrath is under the care of Dr Cho and her team in the Tower. Consider her in protective custody until we can determine the danger of this situation.”

He looked at Mercy. “Now, I believe Agent Cord has information to share with you.”

“Thank you, Director Fury,” Cord said politely.

She moved with practised efficiency, handing out physical folders to each of them until she stood at the head of the table again where she typed commands into the projector interface. “Now, as I told Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff yesterday, I have been tracking the group responsible for yesterday’s atrocity for years.”

A holographic projection showed them a symbol of scissors cutting through a rope arranged to represent infinity. The scissors weren’t of a modern design, but ancient, more like shears one would see on Greek pottery.

Agent Cord continued. “They’re known as the Severed Society. They were founded in the late 1800s, a secret society of mentalists and occultists, but since the end of World War 2 their focus shifted to experimental sciences and their numbers exploded. They are well funded, well connected, and have operated quietly for decades. Their business in the United States is in pharmaceuticals and the like, for which they use fronts to avoid being connected. Unfortunately for them, they caught my attention.”

Several images came up showing groups of men and women in distinctive dark blue and white combat uniforms, faces covered. Their gear looked custom made rather than surplus, and they were kitted out with enough weaponry for a small army. On the pale chest-plate of each uniform the same symbol of the rope and shears was emblazoned in black.

Cord went on to explain how the Severed Society operated outside the US, engaging in wet work, kidnapping, trafficking, assassinations, and torture, just to name a few. Whatever built them connections, drew in more money and resources for their research projects, they did it with zero remorse or hesitation.

Tony interjected, “what were they researching?”

She paused, lips pursing. “The Shroud.”

At Tony's frown, Agent Cord continued. “There was a scientist in the 80s by the name of Christopher Ray. He believed the neuro-electricity of all sapient beings carried a certain power to it, ‘cardinal’ energy he called it. The Shroud is a dimension where that energy gathers, concentrating in the same places people are like galactic filaments concentrate matter throughout the cosmos.

I wouldn’t have believed it until yesterday. I believed the Severed Society to be dangerous, that they were working towards something big in their mad quest for this thought dimension.”

Cord frowned deeply, ruminating.

Tapping the console, she brought up the holographic projection of an octahedron and what looked to be vastly simplified schematics of its inner workings. A metal casing surrounding complex electronics and crystalline shielding, built around a glowing core of unidentified material.

Tony leaned forward, eyes fixed on the image, taking in every detail he could.

Agent Cord crossed her arms. “This is their crown jewel; the Cardinal Matrix. A tool designed to drain the neuro-electric energy from everyone nearby and concentrate it into an individual. This transfer briefly inundates the surrounding area with cardinal energy, like a little piece of the Shroud bled through. Considering Miss MacGrath was doing her best impression of a lighting rod yesterday, I’d say it worked.”

The phrasing grated and Wanda shifted in her seat, keeping her eyes firmly on the documents showing clearer pictures of the Cardinal Matrix. The holographic display didn’t quite capture the strange wave-like pattern on the metal.

She noticed Natasha looking in her periphery and lightly nudged their boots together, a silent signal that she was fine.

Wordlessly, Natasha returned her attention to Cord.

Steve asked, “who leads them?”

Everyone looked at Agent Cord then, and she brought up new images. Pictures taken from near and afar, footage from what appeared to be body cameras, all showing a figure draped in white.

With a sense of reluctance, Cord admitted, “I don’t know as much as I’d like, but they call her Damocles.”

The woman wore white from head to toe, with a military coat and a tight hood pulled over her head, her face hidden by a snarling metal mask reminiscent of a tiger. Its mouth was full of shining coppery teeth, and the eyes glowed blue, frigid and unfeeling. Metal armour reinforced the legs and her hands were encased in clawed gauntlets.

In the body cam footage she moved with an eerie calm in what seemed to be the aftermath of a fight, smoke wafting through the air around her as she approached the camera. Whoever wore it appeared to already be dead, sprawled on the floor of some old factory judging by the industrial environment.

Damocles crouched over the body, inspecting it, before a digitised voice addressed her by name. She stood up, peering at the body for a moment longer before she lifted her boot and crushed the camera.

Agent Cord’s mouth twisted. “Aside from her name, I know that she has two direct underlings who go by Wraith and Imperatus, and all three of them are enhanced. Damocles is fast, strong, and hard to hurt. Imperatus has telekinetic powers, and Wraith…” she trailed off, sighing. “I don’t know what she can do, specifically. All I’ve been able to gather is that she's a nightmare that Damocles releases on the Society’s enemies. Imperatus is more reserved, a real right hand rather than an attack dog.”

Natasha spoke up, asking a question that had been quietly rattling around everyone’s heads. “How haven’t we noticed these guys before?”

It was less a direct question for Agent Cord and more of an escaped thought, like Clint’s observation, and it was perfectly reasonable. For a group with so much dedication, resources, and history, the fact that none of them had ever heard of them before this attack was alarming.

However, Cord just nodded in understanding. “You begin to see why I fought with my superiors,” she said shortly. “Nothing the Society did threatened American interests, it was always either above board or off in some war torn backwater they could pretend didn’t matter. But weeds grow out of control where you don’t look, we already had to learn that lesson the hard way with Hydra. I did not want to see it happen again with the Severed Society.”

She sighed, hands resting on her hips. “Now thousands of American citizens are dead and suddenly they’re all ears,” she sneered, “would’ve spat in their faces if I didn’t have a duty to fulfil.”

Steve stood up from his chair, leaning on the table as he levelled a serious look at Cord. “Well, this Severed Society has our attention, and I promise we will do everything in our power to bring Damocles down.”

Cord stared at him for a moment, scrutinising his expression as if expecting to find a hint of deception, something that told her his words were nothing but hot air, just trying to appease her concerns like her superiors did. When she didn’t find what she was looking for, her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. “Thank you, Captain.”

Looking at the rest of the team, she offered a very rusty yet polite smile. “I look forward to working with you all.”

Fury closed out the meeting, reminding them all to study the files and log their reports.

Tony disappeared to the lab while Clint showed Agent Cord to the guest quarters, and Natasha split off to get ahead on filing her report. Steve and Sam stayed behind to read and continue talking.

Wanda, however, took the lift up to medical. She needed to see for herself, to settle the mental image of a terrified, broken girl pulled from the wreckage of a devastated city.

The medical bay always struck her as too alienating so she tried not to end up there if she could help it. It was cold and clinical, tinged by the faint smell of bleach that never failed to remind her of Hydra’s frigid hospitality. At least the smell of blood didn’t hang in the air too.

She found Dr Cho in her office, and Helen immediately understood, showing her where they were keeping Kassidy.

The medical bay had one operating theatre, a small ward fitted to hold an entire team of battered Avengers, and an intensive care unit that could double as a secure holding cell should they find themselves in exactly this position, with someone hurt and potentially dangerous on their hands. The room had reinforced walls, a security door, and the observation window could withstand anti-tank rounds, so containing a little lightning should be easy enough.

Surrounded by all manner of machinery to keep track of her vital signs, Kassidy remained peacefully asleep, the burns from yesterday completely gone.

Something loosened in Wanda’s chest at the sight, and she took a breath, slowly releasing it as if she could exhale her anxiety with it.

“She’s very strong,” Helen said. “There’s nothing medically wrong to cause this comatose state, her body has simply gone through an intensely traumatic transformation and needs time to adjust. ”

“The burns–was that you, or?”

“No, whatever happened to her in that crater seems to have accelerated her natural healing. I’m unsure to what extent, but I’d much rather save any tests for when she’s awake and I can discuss them with her. For now, she needs rest, her body will wake when it’s ready.”

Wanda nodded, thanking Helen and allowing her to return to her work.

Standing outside the observation window a while longer, Wanda tried to put the pieces together in her head, the uncomfortable family portrait, dropping out of university, falling into a mess like this, and the terror, the sheer, primal fear she felt in that crater.

She nearly jumped when Steve’s voice greeted her. “Hey.”

Wanda shook the disparate thoughts from her head and smiled, though it felt forced. “Hello, Steve.”

He came to stand beside her, watching Kassidy rest with that furrow to his brow when he was trying to figure out the best way to protect someone. “Didn’t get a chance on the way back,” he started, his voice steady and gentle, “I just wanted to check on you, see how you were doing after a mission like that.”

She let her eyes drop to the floor, sitting with the weight of his words, the care behind them. When he first started to do that, her response had been to clam up, to lift her walls as high as they could go and pretend to be fine, assure him she wasn’t going to be a problem, she wouldn’t be a burden. But over time, Steve began to see through it, began to carefully chip at her defences until she started being honest with him, and he would look at her without judgement, simply listening.

He had the makings of a wonderful older brother.

The thought still stung, warm though it was.

Sighing, Wanda sent him a sad smile. “It’s always going to remind me,” she whispered, simple and to the point.

Steve turned to face her and held out his arms in a silent offer.

Another thing she had gotten used to, and something Wanda accepted gratefully, allowing Steve to wrap her up in a big bear hug that ever so gently squeezed the air out of her lungs.

He let her go, smiling. “Want to go for a run?”

She groaned, shoving him away with no real strength behind it. “You will kill me, Rogers.”

He grinned, offering a bent arm like a gentleman. “I promise I won’t run you ragged. But it’ll do us both good.”

With a dramatic sigh, she linked arms with him as he started walking them to the lifts. “If I drop you can explain yourself to Natasha.”

He chuckled warmly.

---

Please enjoy some visual aids regarding Damocles ✨

<<Start | <Back || Index || Forward> | End>>

[magiturge]

the oc x canon has hit the.. magiturge, again.

if you are for whatever reason interested in what i have for them, under cut. be warned it is very long

this is taken from a thread i made on twitter

seneca, as i believe i’ve mentioned before, tends to sleep on trash piles or wooded areas. i feel at some point he would’ve unintentionally gotten into pink swamp where richardson’s property is due to his attraction to the calming atmosphere.

he would be relatively unaware of the fact it’s private property, more or less just interested in the atmosphere and how peaceful it is. he would call it a garden. though i think of course, paton would inform richardson somebody got into his property and seek them out

i did not draw it.. because im lazy, but richardson would have his shotgun, to also pressure the intruder to leave like with vincent but seneca is not a malicious intruder. he is at most just leaning on the railings of marshland to look around quietly

seneca has very poor survival instinct given whats.. wrong with him, and does not immediately notice that richardson is approaching him carefully with a gun. he is likely just staring out into the water, and the only thing that breaks him out of the peaceful moment is blood from off of his head into the water, making him finally look around to see richardson approaching. all he sees is somebody whos at an advantage over him, with a weapon, and that signals to seneca hes going to get hurt so all that makes him do is stumble and fall onto his back fearfully, murmuring pathetically because he does not want to die and tries to flee. he didnt want trouble he just wants somewhere to rest. he honestly probably looks crazy to richardson, bloody cage with josafa cross on him

i feel.. atleast based on how kind richardson seems as well as trying to get away from the noise can spare seneca some peace of mind. in the moments prior to seneca noticing him, he was likely observing seneca just look around wistfully

looking around wistfully with no weapon in sight, with a stumble in his walk and propping against the railings shows someone very vulnerable or atleast not well fit to defend themself or has intent to hunt and cause harm and his poor attention and awareness lended to that

even as he tries to flee he is propping his hands on the railings, feeling a bit stupid for not noticing the small wooden homes on the sides of the marshland and not deducing somebody lived here. he just wants to run off to somewhere quiet, but he is not healthy.. he cant run

i think, i can imagine with how warbly seneca ends up sounding with pleas, theres some level of panicky calming down because hes very much not a threat right now, and reluctant wary dragging to the infirmary on one side of the marshland.

the whole interaction makes seneca more skittish than normal because hes afraid of being trapped somewhere and gunned down like an animal moments after he thought he had peace. in a way, hes silently accepting what he believes will happen to him

at the moment, richardson does not see that seneca is in way worse shape than he seems ( i.e cannot see how malnourished and thin he is, only sees the visible blood and disfigurement of his face ) and does not understand immediately its not as simple as removing the cage

it throws seneca into a panicky fit in the infirmary of standing up against the walls, hands sprawled like a spider facing richardson, murmuring over and over about how hes trying to kill him. how hes just playing with his food and all kinds of violent accusations

hes just scared. its just coupled up experiences applied to his situation, of kindness stabbing him in the back. he doesnt want to lend himself to extreme vulnerability, hes all trembly, he’d rather hurt forever than die once

it would take so much persuasion for him to relax a little, and just allow richardson to try atleast dabbing gauze on his face through the bars of his cage. it is a really slow process, like dealing with a scared animal. slow movements, and very gentle

and even with some lighthearted comments, to ease the tension, seneca would just continue to stare at richardson with wide crooked eyes, at every movement, with his mouth pulled in a strained smile as he shakes. he cant help being scared. richardson, may likely stick around in the infirmary watching seneca even as hes laying down. hes still an intruder even if he looks weak and harmless.

that little cot is the most comfortable place hes rested in so long, even though hes shaking like crazy, that little cushiony feels against his head through the bars of his cage, and the give from the cot to his body, makes the tremors cease into slumber

hes out cold for the rest of the day basically.. even though his blood soaks the cot while he sleeps. i dont know how long richardson wouldve been there watching, but he’ll be lingering around the marsh when he wakes up

..given hes still scared, and his nature of living now, even though its a comfortable little place he feels the need to flee and run, scrabble up the marshland cliffs and go elsewhere where he isnt cornered

scrabble up like a poor cat at a door and fall over, just in sight of richardson. clang his caged head against the floor and be winded from a feeble attempt. even from a long rest, from how winded he is from a little fall makes it clear hes in way worse shape than he seems

he just looks up at the canopy of trees and the sky with labored breathing. from here, its a little more lighthearted. a guy who gets away from the screens, with a rather humorous curiosity for things read on the web and guy whos a bit of a faux religious nutcase

with how richardson seems to occasionally bring up things in props 4 sale about things hes seen online, i imagine some of the religious tidbits he finds will spark some kind of chatter from seneca but even his tidbits are skewed and odd.

and given how away richardson is from all the noise, his property would be a nice little place for seneca to avoid the noise and dangers of thornight given its only pretty at a distance. its likely seneca will just wander and gaze for awhile.

it might even be funny to watch seneca at a distance be still and in control of his body just to break into tremors when approached again. it could be a funny pairing, is what im saying..

something something, richardson being able to stick his hands through the bars of seneca’s cage and for him to not shake at all. i dont think seneca would even realize his feelings, i dont think he would notice how much more he is talking from the sanest part of his mind.

( doing a gesture, points at attached image to read before continuing )

richardson can do so much for seneca, but seneca is staring past it AT him. seneca can give nothing to richardson but his company and his craft.

seneca does not understand his feelings, he just feels safe. he feels his insistence on offering richardson things hes crafted from garbage and thinks around the marshland is solely for expressing gratitude for his hospitality when whats been put into making them is affection.

he could’ve simply plucked a flower and given it to him, but the reality is seneca would carefully crinkle candy wrappers into bouquet paper, bedazzle flowers with crystals from the caves and fold paper into petals as a gift. even if hes unstable, he loves rather colorfully.

[hansrkive]

IF ONLY YOU KNEW (L.JH)

CHAPTER 1 — COFFEE STAINS

The only thing Haneul wanted in life was to be a singer — nothing more, nothing less. But as the red string on her pinky finger seemingly got tugged, She didn’t know that an hour away from her was a kid named Jihoon, who had the same dream as hers.

౨ৎ PAIRING: lee jihoon x choi haneul (afab!oc)

౨ৎ GENRE: fluff, comedy, little bit of angst, and just pure old romance.

౨ৎ TAGS: idol woozi, idol oc, and idol side characters.

౨ৎ NOTES: dedicated to anon who read my mind.

౨ৎ HYPERLINKS: pinned post, ko-fi, seventeen master-list, woozi’s master-list, and if only you knew chapter list.

౨ৎ WORDCOUNT: 1.44k for chapter 1.

NOKSAN-DONG, BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA: OCTOBER 17, 2010

The coffee stains on Haneul’s crumpled-up notepad were the only sign that she was still alive — that even if she hadn’t left her room for days, the bitter, dark coffee her mother gave her was the only thing keeping her sane. Trash of all sorts made a small mountain-like attraction at the foot of her bed, takeout boxes from various restaurants lived on her fridge, and piles of unwashed dishes were slowly trying to take over her kitchen sink. Her mother, who was tired of lecturing her, tried to reason with the young woman. She would text her day and night about how she’s so young and that she’s wasting her time on some silly passion called music.

“XY Entertainment is now holding auditions in Noksan High School for young men and women aged ten to fifteen! If you want to be the next Taeyon, auditions start tomorrow until the twentieth!” the old man on the television spoke, piquing Haneul’s interest. Gathering all the energy left on her body, she quickly left her room.

“Mom, is it okay if I don’t go to school tomorrow?” Haneul smiled.

Her mother, who was busy putting red nail polish on her hand, nodded. “Just make sure to come home by seven, okay? Lots of bad people are kidnapping kids nowadays,” her mother snickered. “This is the last time you’ll audition, okay? You should be getting ready to go to America, to your Aunt Hyebin! Money is there!”

“Money is also here, Mom. Money is everywhere!” Haneul rolled her eyes. “Don’t you want to brag to your friends about how famous your daughter is?”

“Are you already on Patti Kim’s level yet? Choi Haneul, work hard first, then you’ll be the next Patti Kim.”

Haneul, who was not listening to her mother rant about how Patti Kim was amazing, was already thinking of what song she would audition with tomorrow. “Hey, go away! Invincible Youth is starting!”

“How’s your audition?” the girl beside her asked. The day of the audition finally came, and Haneul was nervous, to say the least. Her hands were starting to clamp up as beads of sweat started to form on her forehead.

“It was good,” Haneul said, her heart beating out of her chest. “I just passed.”

JAMSIL OLYMPIC STADIUM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA: NOVEMBER 27, 2022

“Can you tell the people next door to keep it down?” she whispered, her focus solely on the iPad in her hand. It was probably the shitty walls of this four-cornered room but as much as she wanted to review her practice video yesterday, the loud singing from outside was the only thing she could hear in this godforsaken place. “I swear, if they don’t stop singing, I might cut my ears off.”

Well, not really. The singing was rather good, but at nine in the morning? She’d rather stick a fork in her ear. “I really can’t do much. It’s Seventeen beside you. You know how they roll,” her stylist laughed as she carefully chose the pieces that Haneul was going to wear later tonight.

“Do you think I could probably ask Seungkwan?” she asked. “We’re kinda close, maybe. We did a variety show together eons ago.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Or just endure the singing. They have great voices, you’ll live.”

It was award season, and honestly, she just wished she could sack it off and go back home to Busan. Not that she wasn’t grateful or anything. But being the ‘token’ nomination this year wasn’t really on her agenda. As a soloist, it was really hard for Haneul to compete with these big groups, sometimes making her doubt herself as an artist. But here we are, getting forced by her manager to wear these obnoxious dresses while she fakes a smile for the camera. “You know what, I’m knocking,” she said as she stood up and grabbed her robe. The dressing rooms weren’t that far apart. She could clearly hear DK and Seungkwan singing their butts off.

DRESSING ROOM #3A: SEVENTEEN.

“Hey, shut it down! Someone’s knocking!” a voice yelled. The door slightly opened, revealing a disheveled Mingyu who looked like he had just woken up from a deep slumber. “Oh, Haneul sunbae-nim,” Mingyu said. As he omitted her name, the speaker was quickly turned off as they all tried to bow their heads.

“Oh, you don’t need to bow, it’s okay,” she chuckled, noticing how quickly they changed their demeanor. “I just wanted to ask if you could keep the music down?”

“Of course, sunbae-nim!” Seungkwan shouted and bowed again. “We’re sorry!”

God, they were so energetic. “It’s fine!” she said. “Go back to what you were doing before. See you later,” she smiled. Some of them murmured goodbye, and some bowed again, but Woozi wasn’t really trying to make eye contact with her. He just whispered, bowed, and went back to fiddling with his phone again.

“So, what did they say?” her stylist asked as she went back to her room. “Let me guess, they turned it down?”

“Yeah, they did,” she laughed. “They’re nice people.”

“Haneul, here’s the list of producers that want to work with you. Just pick someone and we’ll ask if they’re available,” her manager said. For her tenth anniversary, Haneul has been writing songs to fully capture her ten years in the industry — loved by many, maybe hated by a few. Haneul wasn’t going to lie, because of her rock-hard heart, some people in her own industry were probably annoyed by her. But she didn’t care, not one bit. All she ever wanted to do was to make music, not to get chummy with people she might not even see in the future. “Woozi?” her interest piqued.

“Yep, I was shocked as well,” her manager admitted. “I thought he only worked with Seventeen. I guess not.”

“Is he available?” Haneul asked as she took a sip of her kombucha. “Working with a new producer doesn’t seem bad, right? Widening my horizons and all.”

“Maybe you could ask him later,” her manager suggested. Outside of broadcasts and music shows, Haneul and Woozi never really interacted with each other. The only two she had a connection with in Seventeen were Seungkwan and DK.

LE CHAMBER, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA: NOVEMBER 27, 2022

In this cutthroat industry, having friends was a luxury. If you choose the right people, you were considered lucky. For Haneul, she only has three friends by her side — Jijoo, Hyeran, and Yujin, the three other auditionees who got in with her. “Should we just sack this off and go smoke outside?” Jijoo whispered as the four of them stood awkwardly at the after-party.

“Joo, this after-party was literally made for us. Just stand there and act as if you’re not bored.” Yujin faked a smile as the industry's higher-ups were eyeing them up and down. What a bunch of creeps.

“Okay, are you looking for someone, or are you just looking for the bar?” Hyeran chuckled, weirded out by Haneul, who was visibly looking for someone.

“I’ll be back.” Haneul breathed. She then walked slowly towards Woozi, who was alone at the farthest booth from everyone else, with his back against the wall. “Hey, is it a great time to talk?” Haneul asked, her fingertips softly touching the wine glass in her hand.

“Of course, sunbae-nim,” Woozi said, his voice so low only Haneul could hear.

“Just call me Haneul. We’re both the same-age.” Haneul smiled as she sat beside Woozi. “So, I saw your name on the list of producers who wanted to work with me. Is that real?” she asked, her gaze planted on his eyes.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve always wanted to work with you.” Woozi bubbled, eyes glowing from the strobe lights surrounding them. “Not because I like you or anything. No, I like you as a person, but not like that. I like you as a colleague. Yeah, as a colleague,” he blabbered, obviously flustered at Haneul’s presence.

“It’s fine.” Haneul laughed. “I get what you’re saying.”

The crowd had doubled since earlier. Both of their friends were nowhere to be seen. It was just them amongst sweaty, drunk idols who wanted a taste of freedom just for the night. As the night progressed, the only sound Woozi could hear was Haneul’s voice. As if everything got filtered, and he got lucky. Heart thumping out of his chest, this was probably the first time he felt this way. He felt nervous yet excited at the same time. “If it’s okay, I have a couple of songs that would fit you.” Woozi shyly said, his eyes never leaving hers.

“That would be amazing, Woozi.”

[buggs-and-beasts]

No Stone Unturned (p1)

Summary: The last thing she needs is the Winter Soldier crashing on her couch. It’s only a matter of time before someone tracks him down to her apartment, the only place he visits more than once. All she can do is hope Hydra doesn’t get their first, or if they do, that they kill her before they recognize her.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female OC/Reader

Chapter Warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of canon typical violence and torture, descriptions of physical injuries, invasions of privacy, mind and memory reading reader, depictions of mental illness and flashbacks

Word Count: 2743

Note! - thank you to my lovely fiancée for helping name the story and the chapter, as well as being my wonderful beta reader to catch silly little mistakes (like when I imply Bucky only has one lung)

Look What the Cat Dragged in

She’s always liked taking walks in the rain.

There’s something so peaceful about the way the world slows down and the air gets crisper, something that just opening the windows to her apartment can’t fully capture. Down here, on the city streets, it’s so much stronger. That’s why she’d pulled on her soft blue, long sleeved dress and fleece lined leggings to brave the chilled early evening.

The streets were practically deserted by the time she stepped out of her apartment building and opened her black umbrella, but that only made it better. She might as well be the only person in the entire city, walking her familiar loop around closed storefronts and locked doors. Now, only 2 blocks away from finishing her loop with waves of comfort rushing through her, movement at the edge of an alleyway catches her attention.

Whatever moved was small, maybe a racoon or a stray dog or cat. The weather report she’d watched earlier rings through her head, it’s meant to freeze tonight. She’s quick to veer off her loop, stepping into the mouth of the alleyway and scanning it for life while chirping to get the animals attention.

“Come here sweetheart,” she calls. A sudden flash of mottled gray before her makes her yelp, then laugh as she takes in the dirty gray soaked fur of a ragdoll cat.

“Well hello there beautiful.” She smiles as the cat weaves between her legs, “What’re you doing out in this kind of weather?” The cat doesn’t stay with her for long, prancing further into the alleyway but pausing every couple of steps to check if she’s following. She does.

“Are there more of you back there?” She calls, scanning the area nearby for something she could carry the cat back to her place in, eyes landing on a damp cardboard box. She pulls it from a pile of trash, carefully keeping it under her umbrella as she follows the slender watercolor gray cat deeper into the dark alleyway. She’s trying not to trip on the uneven asphalt, watching as the drenched animal vanishes around a corner.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to find. Probably a litter of kittens or a pile of trash turned into a small shelter.

The last thing she was expecting was to find a man there in the dark, his hulking frame sprawled out on the floor, bloody and rain-soaked. He’s in worn dark clothes, resting on his stomach, head facing away from her so his shoulder length dark brown hair blocks his face from her view. The cat stops at the man’s side, sitting expectantly with big eyes trained on the girl it’d led here.

She takes a single step forward, opening her mouth to call out to him but the syllables die on her tongue as she notices the knives and guns strapped to him. That sends her stumbling back, the umbrella and box dropping from her hands, her body pressing into the dirty alleyway wall.

She stays there a moment, watching and waiting for him to move. He doesn’t.

The puddle of rain surrounding him is dark, bloody. He’s obviously hurt, presumably unconscious. The cat is next to his head now, licking his cheek without response.

She should call the cops, and ambulance, help in general, but a nagging feeling tells her not to.

“Fuck.” She curses, taking slow careful steps closer to him before kneeling down beside him. He doesn’t look incredibly dangerous, famous last words, she knows, but what if he isn’t. What if he needs help.

There’s a way to know for sure.

Self loathing soaks into her alongside the rainwater. She hates that the idea even came to her, that something deep inside her would dare to recommend she use her disgusting ability. She didn’t need it. It wasn’t her, just a remnant of the worst experiences of her life.

She couldn’t let him die there, but if she was in his position she’d sooner die than risk detection in a hospital. What if he was running too?

One step away from the wall. Her worry for the man’s life is winning and she knows it. It’s dishonorable, sure, but is invading someone’s privacy worth it to save their life. She takes another step, then another, until she’s kneeling next to him.

The hem of her skirt is soaking up rainwater and blood, the liquids creeping up the fabric. She’s holding her breath, reaching out with her pointer finger but stopping before she can feel the soft skin of his bare and bloody cheek.

Just one touch, one unethical, invasive peak into someone else’s mind to decide where to go from here.

His skin is cold, but she only manages to feel that for a moment before its overtaken by a deep burning. Instantly her head is throbbing, her vision blurring from the pain. She can feel water filling up her lungs and electricity throbbing through her hands, her arms, her core. Everything aches and stings and glows white hot. Hands are grabbing and hitting her everywhere, bruising fingers and violent impacts making her dizzy. All she can see is a blur of harsh men and bright lights. There’s blood in her eyes, sticky thick liquid dripping and gliding down her face.

Just when she thinks it all might knock her unconscious a new, stronger cold soaks into her. It’s deep and throbbing, bringing a new burn alongside a painful numbness. She can’t feel her fingers, her toes. She can’t breathe or scream or cry out. She’s frozen. Completely and utterly.

The girl falls back with a gasp, panting as the images and feelings slowly vanish. She’s completely sitting on the ground now, desperately trying to adjust to a spinning brutal world. The feeling of soaked fur and chilled toe pads pull her back into the alleyway, the cat brushing past her shoulder then hopping up to stand on her bare thighs. The cat chirps at her, tail flicking gently behind it.

No hospitals. No police.

If she wanted to help him, and she did, she’d have to do it herself.

“I’m gonna need a bigger cardboard box.”

—

It only hits her a couple hours after she finally managed to drag him into her apartment just what she’s done.

The Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra, is laying shirtless on her couch, his massive form making it seem comically little. He’s wanted by Hydra, every government worldwide, and the Avengers. The three groups she wants in her life the least are actively tracking down the guy she’d just stitched up like she was sewing a new skirt.

If her body wasn’t so exhausted she’d be terrified, but instead she’s just semi-panicking while half awake. It had taken 2 hours to pull Captain America’s right hand man 2 blocks, stopping only when the pain from his memories forced her to throw up or collapse into a wall. She’d tried to avoid touching his skin but it was nearly impossible to do while heaving him onto her shoulders or yanking him down the sidewalk. Her one saving grace was his left arm, thankfully the sleek metal didn’t conduct the inside of his mind like his skin did. Unfortunately that didn’t protect her from his memories when she’d handled his injuries.

It was nothing she couldn’t handle, just a stab and a couple gun shot wounds. She’d spent another hour tackling those with her handy sewing kit. It would’ve been so much quicker, but she needed 30 of those minutes to get herself to a point where she didn’t flinch and yelp with each brush of his skin. The end result wasn’t perfect or ideal, the unsteady stitches making her curse her once steady hands for their current tremors.

She can’t tell which has been more exhausting, heaving around a man twice her size or taking in the unbearable torture inside him.

With her guest handled she moves to care for the cat, wiping dirt and grime from its fur with a warm wet washcloth to reveal pure white. She trudges around the apartment, setting up a litter box alongside bowls of dry food and water on her living room floor.

Now, with everything and everyone handled, the newfound calm gives way to her own horrors.

She spent too long too close to him and now even across the room she can’t get his head out of hers. She’s a broken radio, stuck on his station at full volume. His memories are overwhelming, overloading every sense in her body. They’re blurring, blending into her own experiences, building into unstoppable flashbacks until she has no clue what sensations are hers. She stumbles back against the wall, sliding down it and setting her head into her hands. Bones are cracking and splintering, lungs are heaving, whimpers and screams are bubbling up into her throat.

It takes every grounding exercise in her toolkit to calm her body down and by then even crawling to her room is out of the question. Instead she leans back into the wall, shutting her eyes as the damp cat crawls into her lap. She’s out in minutes, free falling into the dark void of sleep with a strangled sigh.

—

His eyes snap open into a room he’s never seen before.

The couch he’s laying on is plush. A thick soft blanket wraps up from under him until it hugs around his shoulders, locking him into a comfortable cocoon, but otherwise he can’t feel any restraints. In front of the couch is a coffee table, strewn with bloodied medical and sewing supplies. Beyond that is a fireplace, the sparse glowing embers quietly crackling, and a chair piled up with dark thick fabric, metals, and plastics.

His hands shoot to his body, pulling away his cocoon and searching for his weapons in a panic. Not only are they missing, presumably within the pile on the chair, but so is his jacket, his shirt, even his shoes and socks have been removed leaving him semi-exposed in only dirt and blood cacked tactical pants and underwear.

He shoots up to a seat with a sharp wince from his strangely cleaned and bandaged core. Even the healing gash on his right forearm he got climbing a fence is wrapped up. He tries to push away the uneasiness of having been cared for while limp and unconscious, instead scanning the space. It’s an apartment, a modest living space broken between living room and kitchen with an island of countertops. What catches his eye the most is the vase of flowers, bright marigolds on the island.

Every movement he makes is careful, slow, cautious. The last thing he needs is to get the attention of whoever brought him here. He had no reason to think they want to harm him, he’s not bound, his stuff is right there on the chair only a couple feet away, still the idea of him being found and moved while he was so vulnerable makes him want to run. Run fast and far, and never look back.

Better to be gone than risk meeting his host.

He makes it a couple steps towards the chair, reaching out for the handgun still in a holster at the top of the pile before he hears it. A gentle… purring? It’s coming from behind the chair. His gaze moves downwards, peaking delicately over the top of the pile in search of the source of the sound.

His tired, gray-blue eyes land on vibrant icy ones. The pupils seem to grow at the sight of him, purring turning into chirping as a fluffy white ragdoll cat squirms out of the arms of a sleeping girl and prances over to him. It rubs it’s head against him, chirping louder and louder by the second.

“Shh.” He hushes but the cat doesn’t seem to care, now chattering and pacing back and forth against his legs. “You’ll wake her.” He whispers, watching the cat hop up onto the pile and carefully climb the exposed edges of the armchair. It’s first meow is enough to push him over the edge, his right hand rubbing a warm cloud onto its head. “Please.” The touch appears to placate the cat, returning meows and chatter and chirps to methodic purring.

Still petting the cat he dares for a moment to scan the girl behind the chair. The first thing he notices is that she isn’t really behind the chair, just in the triangular space between it and the wall because of its angle. The next thing he takes in is the girl herself, she’s softly breathing, curled up into a loose ball, eyes solidly shut. Asleep. He takes slow and deliberate steps around the chair to get a better look at her, the cat following his hand to the other side of it’s back. She doesn’t look much like a threat to him.

His heart races a little when he notices the blood stained all over her baby blue dress and gray leggings. Her hands are bloody too, stained and coated in cracking dried red without a source he can identify. He’s crouched beside her, having halfway convinced himself to pull her out of the corner for a proper injury assessment when he realizes where the red came from.

Him. It came from him.

He glances back at the coffee table, at the blood soaked needle and thread haphazardly thrown into a clear lidded tin to keep the cat from getting it, at the trashcan at the end of the island and the completely soaked bandage trapped just barely poking out of the lid. Had she really fixed him up?

He doesn’t get to grapple with the question for long before a gasp pulls him back to her. He stands again stepping back quickly to give her space, but she doesn’t stand. Her eyes don’t even open, but another gasp escapes her lips, this one accompanied by a panicked whine.

It’s a nightmare, he’s sure of it. He’d recognize the way her unconscious body squirms and twitches, the way her eyes dart around beneath her eyelids, the quiet breathy half-words anywhere. He should leave but he can’t. Instead his hands stretch out towards her, slow and wary. He doesn’t let his fingers meet with her soft skin, only grabbing onto her shoulders where the long sleeves of her dress cover her and shaking her frame softly.

“You’re okay.” It’s practically a whisper, every syllable hoarse and raw from disuse. It occurs to him in fleeting concern that this is the first thing he’s said since the airship. He tries again. “You’re okay. It’s just a dream.” Her chest is heaving more and more with each strangled breath.

“Ple-” there’s something so heartbreakingly familiar in the way her numb lips stumble through only a fraction of a word. Her eyebrows knit together, face tensing up as her head lolls forwards. “No.”

“Fuck.” He can’t help but curse, releasing her left shoulder and pushing a strand of her from her face. “It’s just a dream.” She seems to settle a little, as if she can hear him through the mist of her own nightmares, but the fear builds up again into an agonizing whimper. He doesn’t think, he just acts, cupping her cheek into the palm of his hand. He can feel the warmth of her flushed face as he lifts it up.

“You’re okay.” He repeats for the last time, as firm and loud as his damaged voice can handle. “It’s just a dream.”

Her eyelashes flutter open, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, bright eyes boring a hole through his head. There’s something gorgeous about them, so vibrant and detailed he could search them for hours. That is, he could search them for hours if he could manage to ignore her flushed cheeks and plump, parted lips.

With a jolt he realizes just how hard he’s staring and the intimate way his fingertips are cupping her cheek, tilting her chin up towards his face almost as if….

He pulls his hands from her suddenly, blush creeping up his own face at an alarming pace. The silence between them might as well be another bullet forcing it’s way into his side. He screams at himself to say something, anything. Unfortunately part of him takes ‘anything’ a little too seriously and, instead of concocting something endearing or charming to say he can only force out a pathetic…

“Hi.”

[feyreswaterybowels]

⭒The Silent One⭒

#3 Azriel x Fem!OC

⭒Part 1⭒Part 2⭒Part 3⭒Part 4⭒

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: Azriel finds the guy that sold Cassandra. Lots of bonding happens with Cassandra, Azriel and other members of the IC. Slight cliffhanger.

Warnings/Tags: mentions/implied rape. Mention past sexual abuse. Mentions pregnancy from rape. Slow burn. Violence. Brief victim blaming. Found family. Protective!azriel. Protective!IC. GRAMMER ERRORS—I plan on going back to edit this please don’t judge me too hard I’m gonna have a busy week and just really wanted to get this posted for y’all🩵

Authors Note: all reblogs, likes and comments are welcome, appreciated and encouraged! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for the next chapter. Regular italics are inner thoughts and bold italics are mental communication.

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Azriel stands in the darkness of night watching. Waiting. Body thrumming with anger. Calm cold anger. The kind that got people killed if they didn’t give him what he was looking for.

Only moments after Cassandra’s departure had his shadow returned to him. Telling him where to find this Vale. This horrid male who was taking females away from their family and selling them off—profiting off of them like livestock.

He sees the male, recognizes him from the briefs flash of memory Cassandra let slip at dinner, the one where this mad had choked her, slammed her against the wall just for needing to use the restroom.

The male is loading something up in the back of a wagon, the building behind him dark and dingy. Azriel let his shadows take him closer. Closer. Until he was standing in the alley between this man's house and another. The smell was horrid, small creatures scurrying about looking for their meal for the evening.

The male retreats into the building and Azriel lets a shadow loose to follow him—to be his eyes inside of this building. Inside is just as dark and dingy and piled high to the roof with…stuff. The blue skinned male navigates the maze of boxes and bins and trash with ease. He seems to be the only one here but Azriel knew better so he waits following the man through the seemingly endless maze.

That’s when he hears it, his shoulders going tight, his jaw clenching. Crying—no sobbing. A girl begging to be left alone as the male grabs her and pins her down to the floor.

“Fuck,” he growls. He pounds his fist against the outside of the building, taking chucks of the stone out. It’s loud enough to distract the man, to get him away from that girl as he rushed from the room under the floor, locking the locks and coming out. Looking around wildly for the source of the sound.

Azriel winnows, leaning against the wagon the man had been loading before, whistling to get the man attention. He whirls around, black eyes narrowed in anger, freezing in place when they land on him.

“Shadowsinger?” He grunts, narrowing his eyes at Azriel. “What brings you to these parts?”

Azriel looks him over, the smell of shit, piss and rot was overwhelming even from this distance.

“Vale,” Azriel says, to let the male know he knows who he is, rightfully see the fear in his eyes. “I’m looking for something and I hear you’re the one to help me.”

“I ain’t got nothing you need, pretty boy,” Vale sneers, crossing his arms, looking Azriel over. Trying to come off as tough but it’s actually laugh-able.

“Are you sure?” Azriel asks, pushing off the wagon. Letting his wings spread wide, walking closer, towering over the male. “See, I’ve got this female telling me you bought her from her dad and sold her to a pleasure house. I mean, tell me I’m wrong, man. I’ve just gotta check on these things. It’s a pretty serious accusation and all.”

“That chick’s got the wrong guy. I would never do something like that. These bitches are always trying to get us males in trouble,” Vale said, seeming to relax. Big mistake.

“You think so? Just tell me if you know her man. About this tall, really pretty, tan skin, white hair. Wings.” Azriel growls the last word, the man’s eyes widening again, taking a step back.

“Look, man, it’s not like that. Her dad owed me money, so he gave me her instead cause he couldn’t afford to pay me back, okay? So I didn’t technically buy her,” He stammered out, trying to explain himself.

“Oh,” Azriel said, nodding his head. “Well, I mean, if you didn’t technically buy her then no law was broken.”

“That’s right!” The male nods, sighing in relief. “No law was broken, man. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that—”

“Yeah. I get it,” Azriel nods, shifting. Looking towards the building, then back to the low life in front of him. “And that female inside? Did you buy her? Is she here of her own free will allowing you to rape her daily?”

“Fuck,” Vale whispers, turning and running down the cobble stone road. Azriel stands there watching, a grin stretching his lips as he lets the male think he’s getting away.

“Send Morrigan,” He calls out to Rhys as he watches the male.

“She’s coming.”

Then he's gone again, just as Vale looks over his shoulder to try and spot him, only to smack hard into a body that came out of nowhere. He looks at the shadowsinger towering over him, swallowing thickly.

“What do you want from me?” The male nearly cried out as Azriel grabbed him and pulled him up, slamming his face first into a stone wall. The resounding crunch of his nose breaking is ever satisfying.

“Her name is Cassandra,” Azriel snarls into the man's ear. “She told us what you did to her. What you did to that female you have locked in that disgusting building. We know there’s more girls. We will find them all and when we do, I’ll let each one take a turn with you. Their weapon of choice. And you’ll feel exactly what they felt.”

“Ple-please. Please, just kill me,” The man begged, fighting in Azriel’s grasp but he was no match for Azriel’s strength.

“And what kind of justice would that be? Did you stop when those girls begged you to? Did you give them death with they would have preferred that over you using their bodies?” Azriel asked, scenting the smell of urine as the man pissed himself. “You deserve everything you’ve got coming to you.”

Before the pathetic excuse of a male could beg or plead any more Azriel grabbed the back of his head, smashing it into the wall, letting him fall unconscious to the ground. He left him there binded and hidden by shadows, stalking back to the building where he spotted Morrigan easily.

“Don’t tell me this is where he’s been keeping those poor girl?” She asked when she spotted him approaching.

“Unfortunately, I think it is. She said under his house but he could live here. I’ll question him more. I know there’s at least one female inside,” Azriel explained, guiding Morrigan into the building. Be could get the female on his own but he knew it was safer to have a female companion—after all they’d been through the least he could do was make sure a female was the one to comfort them.

They get to that basement floor, unlocking the various locks and pulling the hatch open. It’s as dark and dingy down here as it was in the rest of the building. Morrigan enters first, taking Azriel’s hand to steady herself on the old wobbly stairs.

“Your wings won’t fit down here,” She said, hushed. He nods at her. “Send a shadow if I call for help.” It’s said jokingly but he knows she’s serious. He’d rip the floor from this building to help her if she needed it.

Mor squinted her eyes in the dimness of the sellar, resisting the urge to plug her nose from the horrid smell.

“Hello? Is anyone down here?” She calls out, looking up from at Azriel when there’s no reply. “Hello, my name is Morrigan. I work for the High Lord. The male keeping you here is—”

Morrigan’s cut off when I body slams into hers, knocking her to the ground. She cries out in surprise when a sharp sting slices across her cheek.

“Stop, hey, stop! I’m here to help!” Mor calls out, trying to catch the hands of the female fae on top of her.

“Mor!” Azriel’s deep voice calls.

“I’ve got it!” Mor calls back, grabbing the girls wrists. “Please, stop! Vale is gone! He can’t hurt you, please, stop!”

The girl stops fighting then still tense where she’s straddling Morrigan’s middle section.

“He’s gone?” She whispers and Mor nods.

“Yes, he’s gone. He can’t hurt you any more. I swear,” She promises. Eyes finally able to take in the sight before her.

A fragile, naked, malnourished body sits atop her. Eyes not only shut but scarred as if they’d been cut—maybe by the same person that took Cassandra’s tongue. But what really got Morrigan, what had her ready to lose the contents of her stomach was the rounded belly attached to that nearly skeleton body. Her eyes welled and she helped the female to shift off of her body.

“Are you pregnant?” Mor whispers, trying to keep her voice from breaking as the female nods.

“Please, don’t let him take this one too,” She cries, reaching out to find Morrigan’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Promise me I get to keep my baby.”

“I promise, no one is going to take your baby away from you,” Morgan swears, a single tear falling down her cheek. “What’s your name, sweet girl?”

“Neema, my name is Neema,” She answers and Mors eyes widen. The girl Cassandra told them about.

“You and your baby are safe, Neema. We’re gonna take you away from here, okay?” Morrigan says, standing and helping the pregnant female stand as well.

“I have my friend Azriel here too, he will not touch you, he’s only here to make sure no further harm comes to you. He’s handing me a cloak for you to wear,” Morrigan explains so the female doesn’t feel uncomfortable. She nods, allowing Mor to wrap the cloak around her.

“Are there any other females here?” Azriel asks gently, wishing he hadn’t with the way she clenched at the deep mess of it.

“Not—not that I know of. The females come and go. There’s been no others for months…” Neema answers, grasping the fabric tighter around her body.

Azriel and Mor share a look the last females had to have been Cassandra and the other two she mentioned.

“I’ll stay and check the building before I head back,” Azriel informed, consciously softening his voice so as not to scare the female again.

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Morrigan winnows away with Neema and Azriel searches every inch of the building with his shadows. No signs of any other females. He leaves the building, needing to relieve himself of the horrible stench.

He retrieves the still bound and unconscious male, winnowing him to his dungeon. He strips him, places a gag in his mouth, dumps him into a chair and binds him to it. He would be dealt with later.

The sun would be rising soon and he wanted to be there when they informed Cassandra they found the male and the female—her friend?

He enters Rhys' study, Cassian and Mor there too.

“How is she?” He asks, glancing at Morrigan then his brother.

“Resting,” Rhys answers. “Madja looked her over. Thankfully the baby seems healthy, Madja’s main concern is getting Neema to gain some weight and begin healing herself.”

“We offered her to live amongst the priestesses in the library, she agreed,” Morrigan said, her brown eyes bloodshot and cheeks flushed.

“Good, that’s all good, they’ll help her heal,” Azriel nods his head crossing his arms. “I have the male in my dungeon.”

“Have you gotten any information out of him?” Rhys asks, standing from his desk.

“Not much. He admitted to knowing who Cassandra was, receiving her from her father and holding her. He never admitted to selling her but that information won’t be hard to get out of him,” Azriel explains and Rhys nods in agreement.

“You get whatever information you can out of him and then he’s dead,” Rhys orders, Azriel doesn’t need to confirm he already knew what Rhys decision would be.

“Are we telling Cassandra?” Cassian asks, the first words he’s said the whole time.

“We are. She needs to know he’s here, it may bring her some comfort knowing he’s locked away and Neema is safe. I think you should be the one to talk to her, Azriel,” Rhy says, turning his attention to the shadow singer.

“Me? Not Mor?” Azriel asked, a bit confused.

“Yes, you. She’s comfortable with you. You’re the one that apprehended him. I believe she would prefer to hear it from you,” Rhys nods.

“Okay, I can do that,” Azriel agreed.

“You handle that, I’ve got some business to attend to with the priestesses. We’ll all meet up in a few hours to discuss further action.” Rhys stepped around his desk, patting Azriel’s shoulder when he passed by him.

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An hour goes by before Azriel tracks Cassandra down. Finding her in the library, flipping through a book where she’s sat in the large window seat that overlooked the city below. A steaming cup of tea next to her.

“I thought you couldn’t read?” Azriel asks, leaning against the door frame, grinning when those green eyes meet his.

“I can’t. I’m looking at the pictures,” She said, holding up the book, some romance book from the looks of the two people in a colorful garden.

“Ah,” Azriel says, walking further into the room. Trying not to focus on the way her eyes track up and down his body the closer he gets. He holds his hand out for the book, flipping it over the read the title, snorting at it. “Secret Garden Romance, huh?”

She shrugs, taking the book back.

“I asked the house for a book with a lot of pictures, this is what I got,” She said, a small sweet breathy laugh escaped her lips and he couldn’t help his own smile.

“Did you end up getting some sleep?” He asks, watching her set the book down and grab the warm mug.

“I slept but not great,” She shrugs. “I can’t stop thinking about my sisters.”

“We’re gonna do everything we can to find them, I promise you that,” Azriel said, not even waiting for a beat. He would find her sisters and he’d beat the shit out of her father too.

“You know I took my older sister's place. It was supposed to be her he sold off but the way she had cried when he told her. I couldn’t let him do that to her so I told him to take me…I didn’t really know what he meant when he was selling me. I thought I’d be a servant like the ones we had when I was a kid or something. I never thought…” She trailed off, taking a deep breath.

“You’re not to blame for what happened to you. You were protecting your sister. You did a very selfless thing. You're safe now and your sisters will be, too,” Azriel said, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned towards her.

“Well, what about you?” Cassandra asked, gently changing the subject. “Did you ever get any sleep?”

Azriel sighed with a head shake. “No, actually. That’s kind of why I came to talk to you.”

Cassandra fixed him with a curious look, leaning forward as if to give him her full attention for whatever he needed to say. He looked into those glowing green eyes, filled with curious concern.

“We found that male. Vale. We found him,” Azriel said, watching the vast range of emotions flash through those emerald eyes.

“He’s here?” Is what she asks, fear tinging her voice. Azriel straightens his back.

“He will not touch you,” he declared, holding her gaze. “He won’t even come near you.”

I’ll fucking kill him if he does. He thinks but doesn’t add it out loud.

“He can’t get out of…wherever he is?” She asks, and he wants to reach out so badly to comfort her. The ache in his chest drawing him to her.

“No. He’s being held in a very secure place. I promise you’re safe here. You’re safe with us.” Azriel promises. You’re safe with me.

“Were there any females with him?” She asks and Azriel nods.

“The girl you told us about, Neema. She was the only one there—it had been only her for months.”

He watches as her eyes fill with tears, offering his hand for her to hold. She takes it, thumb tracing his scars unconsciously.

“Just her…alone with him for months. Gods, is she…I feel like okay isn’t the right word for what I want to ask,” She says, sadness written all over her face.

“She will be okay,” Azriel said. “She’s in bad shape. Pregnant, malnourished but we have an amazing healer and a library below the mountain. Many priestesses live there. Many of them have experienced similar traumas. They’ll help her heal.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. He wasn’t sure what was going through her head as she sat there silently, grasping his hand and tracing his scars.

“I want him to die.” It’s fierce. Heated. Emotional. And it does something to Azriel’s heart, to his brain. He squeezes her hand. “I want him to feel everything we felt. To know the fear he put us through. I want him to suffer and then I want him to die.”

“He will die. I swear to the Mother. I’ll get every drop of information from him and when it’s time his death will be painful and slow,” Azriel swore, gently swiping a tear from her cheek.

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The next day is a day Cassandra would remember forever. She hadn't slept much the night before but Morrigan had practically begged her to have lunch.

Cassandra wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for a day out in the city but she felt safe with Morrigan. She nearly asked if Azriel could come too until she learned he would be spending the day collecting information from Kamari and Vale.

Morrigan picked out her outfit for the day and it was one of her favorites she’s worn since being here. A flowy silk top that tucked into a dark pair of slacks that raised high on my hips. They emphasized her longer legs in a way she had never noticed before. She had also pinned Cassandra’s hair up and out of her face.

She liked the way Azriel smiled at her when he saw her dressed this way. She blushed but was quickly rushed away by Morrigan, shouting something about wanting you to herself for the day for girl time.

Their first stop was a place she called the River House. A beautiful home that her mother would have loved. Morrigan had only had them stop here briefly to grab a few tote bags, wanting to shop while they were out but promised to bring her back and give her a proper tour of the house.

The city was even more beautiful when you were in it. The sun was shining bright in an endless blue sky. Better than any dreams she had ever had about it.

They went to bakeries, where Cassandra single handedly filled half a tote with various pastries.

Then a clothing shop where Morrigan helped her pick out some new clothes. A few everyday pieces. A gorgeous gown she wasn’t sure where she would wear it but Morrigan swore she would need it sooner or later. And then the softest, satin, dark blue nightgown—it had reminded her of the stones that glowed atop Azriel’s hands. Morrigan herself had picked out quite a few outfits and gowns of her own and a lace set that looked like something the girls in the pleasure houses would wear but she paid no mind to it—she was sure it would look gorgeous on Morrigan wherever she planned to wear it to.

Then they went to a place near the river for lunch, the glistening river was the perfect view while they ate.

“Do you feel like you’re settling in okay?” Morrigan asked, sipping on some kind of iced fruit tea while they waited for their food.

“I’m still…adjusting. I enjoy the company of everyone. I feel like I can trust you all. It’s just odd.” Cassandra says, taking a drink of her tea that was just slightly too sweet but she wasn’t complaining.

“What’s odd?” Morrigan asks gently.

“Trusting strangers more than I’ve ever trusted anyone else,” She says it like a confession, like she should be ashamed for feeling that way.

“I don’t think that’s odd,” Morrigan shrugged. “You’re around people like you, people you can relate to and get to know. It’s easy to feel safe with us in turn, causing your trust. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Cassandra smiles at Morrigan.

Their food comes soon after and they talk the whole time. Morrigan gives her the rundown of how Rhys, Azriel and Cassian all knew one another. She explained more about their titles and what each one of them did as a member of the inner circle. She told her about so much that Cassandra could believe she’d spent her whole live knowing practically none of it.

When they go to a bookstore Cassandra looks at a few before putting them back. Morrigan grabs them and tells her they’ll teach her to read—that she’ll love these books and so many more.

And when they finally get back to the House of a Wind it’s late. She's exhausted from carrying around nearly overflowing tote bags and eating more muffins then she can count.

A top the house where they have to land they’re greeted by the three males. Their solemn faces wiping the smile off your face. She caught Azriel’s eyes, sees the look of pure death there—a look that she just knows means he wants to kill someone.

And just like that, her perfect day with Morrigan took a turn straight down hill.

Tag List: @aelinwya @starlightandsouls @fullmoon-94 @aetherl0l @caticorn61 @lilah-asteria @blackgirlmagicforever @div94 @purple-writer8 @little-missbookyworm @saltedcoffeescotch @namelesssav @slytherintaco @whatsupb @little-missbookyworm

[naffeclipse]

A Tease

Reader x Grease

Commission Info

I am rattling @o-cinnamonstickz for commissioning one of my monster boyfriend OCs and letting me go absolutely feral with this guy! Grease is such a menace and the poor reader must sweetly suffer him. After stealing a break while on a late shift, the reader will run into Grease behind the diner, and one tease will lead to another.

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

The customer smiles as he hands you back the black check presenter, his mouth spread a little too wide to show off his molars. You feel the money tucked within, but with an inward groan, you fear there is no tip. You wish him and the few others eating with him a good night. Maybe you’ll get lucky and one of his friends will pity you and dump a few quarters on the dirty table.

As they all throw down their napkins and scurry away, out into the night of Hebron, you step back to the cash register. Feeling the inside of your apron pocket, you brush against the worn and half-crumpled box of cornstarch hidden within before snagging your pen to tuck behind your ear.

With a few taps and clanks, and a little slam to get it to open properly, you deposit the cash for the meal. Stealing a glance over to the table, you find the dishes piled high, the clear cups half filled with watered-down soda, and not even a dime in sight.

Great. Just lovely. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and huff through your nostrils. Where did the virtue of tipping go? Is it just tourists or is it simply everyone that steps through the diner doors who forgoes the practice?

Such questions will only leave you with a headache pounding away at your temples. Biting back a few choice words due to their rowdiness and the not-at-all-subtleness in looking you up and down, you slip the bill into the towering pile that has collected throughout the day.

It’s close to the end of your shift, right? You keep yourself from staring at the clock in the diner too frequently lest the hands get stuck in one place, endlessly ticking without spinning. Everything seems stuck in time here. 

The Hebron Diner, aptly named after the town Hebron, in which you and this poor restaurant reside, is a vintage theme with black and white photos of old cars driving between the trees and sepia pictures of scenery from the nearby national park. You’re growing to hate the lilac coloring of the tables, stools, and booths, and your own stupid waitress attire is drenched in the same hue. Your apron is white—a poor choice, considering how well it shows the stains of burger grease and ketchup. 

You return to the table and begin gathering plates. One hardly touched his fries and you think the other merely played with his country-fried steak. Only an hour to go and then you’re free to rush home and scrub off the smell of fast food from your skin and hair. As the darkness holds over Hebron and its neon-dusted but quaint main street, your hope for the end of a long shift grows. 

You bring the dishes back into the kitchen. Darren, the cook, seems content to clean the grill while the diner remains open but inhabited by hungry customers. 

“Hey, would you mind taking out the trash?” he calls over his shoulder, never even looking up from the faint steam that sizzles over the grill top. “I’ll keep an eye out, let you take a break for a minute if you do.”

“Deal,” you answer without hesitation. You still need to wipe down the table, but you’ll do that after your break. You’ve earned one. 

Dropping off the dishes, you look to Darren for directions on which garage. He jerks his head in the direction of the trash bag sitting in a gleaming silver can, and you quickly tie it up and lift it from its container. Without another word, you breeze outside towards the dumpster. 

Darren scratches your back, you scratch his. You don’t talk to him much, but your habitation as coworkers is seamless as butter on fresh hotcakes. 

The coolness of the night washes over you, chasing away the heat and stress of the diner. A faint street light shines into the employee parking lot filled with cracked pavement and the remnant odor of grease traps. 

The dumpster is located on the other end of the small lot, unfortunately. The light doesn’t quite reach there and deep potholes collect water and whatever may fall into their depths. Your heart skips a beat, your fingers white-knuckling the tied-off garbage at your side.

There are monsters out there. You never thought of such things since you were a child, but the world became a lot bigger and unknowable, and this town became a lot smaller and strange since you discovered the truth. There are things in the dark that hide with mouths full of teeth. They like to watch you. They hope to follow you home and catch you where no one will hear you scream.

Is your paranoia striking because you’re alone now? The darkness is thick and inky, wrapping around the edges of the weak streetlight.

No. Stop being a child. Heaving the trash bag up with a soft clatter, you grind your teeth. The night isn’t what scares you. You push yourself forward, one foot after the other, until you catch sight of one of the potholes. It brims with dark liquid shining iridescently. It stands between you and the dumpster, and you catch an unmistakable ripple across its surface. There is no breeze tonight.

Your breath catches in your throat before you roll your eyes. A name is on the tip of your tongue, ready to call out, but you stop yourself.

A wicked grin crosses your lips. A juvenile idea infiltrates your brain and you run with it. You set one hand on your hip before arching a brow, staring down at the oil puddle. Does he really think you don’t know he’s here?

Dropping the trash bag into the puddle, you promptly sit on top of the black material—not allowing logical thoughts such as the fear of something sharp poking you or the general distasteful smell reeking from it stop you—and throw the puddle outwards in a thick, black splash.

You recline back on it, hands on your knees, as you shift your hips slightly to sink into what feels squishy and crumples slightly, perhaps old food and cardboard boxes. Gross. You ignore it and keep sitting pretty. Underneath you, the puddle begins to bubble and froth. The iridescent sheen of purples and blues and yellows flash in a way you haven’t quite seen before. 

Then the thought lingers a little too long before it manifests into something searing with embarrassment. You might as well have plopped yourself into a demon’s lap.

No. You hold firm. This is payback. He’s stalked you, hunted you down, and grabbed you. The least you can do is embarrass him with the rotten cherry being a trash bag on top of him. You lounge as if it were a throne.

Then a growl emerges from below you. Goosebumps roll over your arms until every tiny hair pricks. Your heart begins to thump hard and fast like a rabbit fleeing from a fox.

You spring off of the garbage bag as if burned. Breath caught in your throat, you whirl back to face the sleek ripples of the oil puddle. 

The black liquid rises, funneling into the figure of a man, lithe with muscles and powerfully sleek not unlike a tiger. The trash bag is ripped upwards in a grip of indignation. Your gut clenches as claws, iridescently gleaming and dark, sink into the thin black material.

A creature of living oil. A demon. Grease.

Two dark tendrils drip down from the top of his head, the tips resting at his shoulders. A long, sleek, and wicked tail snaps behind him. His face is flat with a sharp jawline, lacking a nose but his mouth bears bone-white teeth. Two pale blue eyes, centered with black pupils, pierce you in the darkness of the parking lot as if he might devour you whole. You’re reminded so vividly of a tiger before it strikes.

“How disrespectful,” Grease snarls, his silky and dark timbre carrying a slight threat underneath it. “I’ve come to see you and you put trash on me. Must I remind you who I am?”

You shift on the gritty pavement from one foot to the other. The candle flame of mirth inside of you is not yet extinguished. A small voice warns you in the back of your mind that you’re pushing your luck, but you are nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

“I know who you are, oil boy,” you say, much braver than you are. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

His grin widens.

“Oh?” He steps forward, his shoulders lowering like a cat about to bounce. The sway of his tail is excited, thrilled for a chase. “Neither are you, little nymph.”

A brief burn infiltrates you at the nickname he’s unfortunately bestowed upon you. Your brow furrows as you take a step back. A powerful concoction of adrenaline and confusion floods your veins, interrupting the flow of your thoughts as a primitive instinct to survive takes hold.

“What…?” Your tongue is too heavy.

He tilts his head, revealing a terrible mouth filled with shark-like teeth. Fear spears your heart.

“If you want to sit in my lap, you merely need to ask.” He cackles a heinous sound of black glee.

Red heat fills your face, coloring you in both rage and embarrassment. No, no, this is backfiring. You should have known he would have twisted it in his favor. He’s so seductive and intimidating. You forget which part of him is more dangerous: his teeth or his words.

“Ah, just how I like you, all pretty and pink,” he purrs deep in his throat. His black tongue, oily and black as midnight, swipes over his teeth as if he just found dessert.

Forget this. You twist on the balls of your feet, pushing off the cracked pavement in a dead run for the back door of the diner.

It’s over before it’s truly begun. Long, slick claws snatch you by the arms. Grease rips a gasp from you as he whirls you around and pins your back to the wall. You glare up at him, a breath rattling into your lungs. 

“Let me return your little favor.” His voice coils within you. Your heart beats against your ribs, wild under his devouring gaze. “A little tease for another.”

The sleek tip of his tail finds your ankle and begins winding up your leg. You bite back a yelp at the squeezing, staining pressure from the tendril. A chain to ensure you can’t run.

“I wasn’t teasing you,” you protest, but it’s a lie. A filthy lie that is only met with a sinister chuckle from Grease. 

“Don’t be so coy. It’s not a good look for you.” 

Fighting words long to fly off your tongue but his own emerges from his jaws. Dripping black saliva coats it like thick honey. Your eyes widen. He leans in closer with a monstrous grin. The tendrils upon either side of his head twist up gently and press into your cheeks, securing you into place as you suck in a sharp breath. Your palms press flat against the wall at your sides. He bends low to find access to your neck.

The cool, slick caress of his tongue on the curve of your throat draws out a shiver. It fills your chest and rolls down your spine. Tenderly exploring your skin, the tip of his tongue licks slowly upwards before disappearing from underneath your chin with a cool trace. You gulp.

The fiend. You would curse him if you weren’t half-paralyzed underneath his mouth. Your fingers inch toward your apron pocket.

“On second thought, why stop with a tease?” Grease slips back just enough to capture your gaze and watch you squirm. A threat of blush is bearing down upon your defenses. “You deserve more. A proper… tantalizing…”

He finishes his thought with a too-wide smile and his tongue flicking out of his mouth, closing the precious little distance between your lips. The gallope of your heart roars in your ears. You can’t name the roiling in your middle. It is too hungry, too excited for an oil demon’s touch. 

Still, you lean forward in the slightest, just to catch him the slightest bit off guard. His tail loosens from your leg. His eyes widen, but he presses in—

You snatch the box of cornstarch out of your apron and whip it in front of you, spilling out fine white powder onto the oil demon. He screeches in fury. Backing away from you as the cornstarch latches onto his chest, he writhes and hisses, claws raking at the substance gluing up his sleek form.

“You—! You—!” He howls but all you can do is steal one breathless sound before sliding out from underneath him and grabbing the door handle. Twisting it, you fling yourself into the kitchen.

You twist back to slam the door closed but catch a sharp, pale blue glare, frothing with a promise so vile, it ignites your core into a hot bubbling mess.

Grease will make you pay. But not tonight.

You lock the door and fall back against it. Deep gulps of air heaves through your chest. You slowly push your hair away from your sweaty face.

You got away. For now.

[st4rg1rl-16]

━━ ✶✶˖° 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗜𝗩𝗘 | 𝗡𝟰𝗦.

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻��(𝘀) ━ 2019 to 2023!f1 grid x driver!female oc

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 ━ twitter goes crazy after some youtubers sexualise the only f1’s female driver and the worst of it all is that she reads every tweet

𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 ━ 2019, 4 april / 9 april

𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ━ shanghai, china

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ━ charles and arabella being a little horny (again), mentions of virginity but nothing happens (yet) sexism, sexual objectification so basically men being trash (what a surprise!)

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 ━ i suck at warnings anywhore! pain so soon? this is nothing! sadly, arabella is going to suffer a lot :(

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ━ @namgification @louvrepool @d3kstar @omgsuperstarg @whoselly @yl90 @wcnorris

• — need for speed’s masterlist

A COMFORTABLE silence hung over the room, without counting the sounds that the skin of their lips made when they collided with each other, their breaths and sighs or the distant song of birds. A bluish light from the dawn of a cloudy day painted the white walls of the hotel room. You could still see the moon thanks to the large window that was located on the other side of the room, in front of the bed in which both of them were tangled in each other. Although it was already April, it was still cold in Shanghai.

Her long, slender fingers curled into the short strands at the nape of his neck, giving a small tug earning a growl that he felt in his mouth as he caught her lower lip between his teeth. He separated from her, taking a few seconds to observe her and he could swear that there was nothing that could compare to what he felt in that moment when he saw her green eyes that were looking back at him lazily but intensely full of life, her brown locks piled up at the top around her head, her cheeks were red and her lips, oh her lips, her lips were red and swollen thanks to him. Because he had been the one who had left her like this, him and no one else. He watched as she rolled her eyes before he felt her grip tighten on his arm and how with the hand she had on his neck she pushed him even closer to his face to press their lips together again.

Their lips met again and neither of them could be happier. Charles's hands took on a life of their own as they began to roam over the girl's body as his life depended on it. He felt her skin crawl beneath his fingertips, his chest swelling with pride as she let out a breath into his mouth.

"Charles..." She sighed his name against his lips when his left hand passed over her hip and he smiled into the kiss. He raised her hand again very slowly until he brought it to her collarbone and where he gently caressed the skin of her neck before curling his hand around her throat. He pressed his body even closer –if it was possible– to hers.

His hand was big enough to cover her entire neck, he liked that. He moved his thumb caressing the edge of her jaw as he separated from her enough to break the kiss but not enough for their lips to stop touching.

"Tell me, ma belle" He murmured, because even though they were alone in the room it felt like a sin to speak out loud and break that intimate bubble that they had managed to create around them. Arabella's breath hitched in her chest as she saw his sly smile hang on his lips and she felt his grip on her throat tighten for a second "Tell me, what do you want?".

She mentally cursed not only herself but him as well. Her lips parted feeling the need to breathe harder and harder, she really felt like she was drowning. She looked into his eyes and then at his lips, she licked her own, managing to taste him. Charles almost looked away from her eyes when he felt her tongue lightly touch his lips but he held strong.

He tightened his grip, feeling her erratic pulse through her neck, and pushed his hand up, making her raise her chin. He insisted "Mmm?".

Fuck it.

She looked at him pleadingly and practically moaned "You. I want you”.

He analyzed her for a few painful seconds that to Arabella seemed like hours before he crashed his lips against hers. While they were kissing she felt him turning them on the mattress and a second later they were sitting, she on top of him.

The kiss was aggressive and fast but she still felt that he was trying not to hurt her, she smiled earning the grip his hand had moved down from her throat to her ass. She let out a moan and immediately wanted to hide under a rock when she saw him pull away from her but she calmed down when she realized it was to take her shirt off of her. She nodded when he gave her a look asking if it was okay, she thought that it was adorable so when the shirt went over her head she gave him a short kiss to which he smiled sweetly before bending down and starting a trail of kisses from her chin to her cheek and down the column of her throat.

She bit her lip not caring that they were swollen and beginning to sting due to her action, she closed her eyes throwing her head back leaving him more room to paint her neck with kisses.

She moaned again as she felt him suck and bite her delicate skin. She should have stopped him, she should have considered that it was not a good idea for him to mark her that way but she was drunk, too drunk from that sensation that she didn’t know how to explain nor that sensation that she didn’t even know how to name. She didn't care, she only cared about him. It was all him, she felt him throughout the room, in every pore of her skin.

Him, him, him. It was all him.

She was so immersed in that simple pleasure that she didn't even feel uncomfortable or insecure about being in a bra in front of a boy for the first time. It was strange, she really thought the first time was going to be a disaster but for the moment she was quite comfortable and she was quite enjoying it. Had she really missed this all these years?.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she felt his chin brush against one of her breasts, his kisses had descended from her throat to the skin that covered her esophagus and were about to reach the beginning of her breasts. His hands had moved from her waist and bottom to her back, both hands large enough to cover almost her entire back. She felt one of his fingers caress the clasp of her bra.

“Can I take it off, mon ange?” She lowered her chin again and after looking into his eyes for a few seconds, she finally nodded. She didn't trust her voice at that moment, she didn't believe that anything other than moans, gasps or some sigh was going to come out of her throat.

She let his hands take hold of the hook of the black bra and soon she felt it peel away from her skin. Swallowing, she helped him take it off by passing both arms through the straps. She looked at it in the monegasque's hands and she scolded herself for not having chosen a prettier bra, not that that one was ugly but it was too simple. She shook her head slightly without Charles seeing her, that wasn't important now.

He threw the bra across the room, almost hitting a painting that it looked like it was expensive. He grimaced and she laughed lightly making him smile.

He looked at her, laughing and almost naked on top of him. The expensive painting that he almost broke couldn't compare to the work of art he had in front of him. A small sigh came from deep in his chest. He brushed aside a couple of unruly strands that had slipped past her shoulders and pushed them back, letting them join the rest of the long hair that covered her back. This caught the girl's attention, her laughter began to die, leaving behind a pretty but unremarkable smile.

She shifted a little uncomfortably under his gaze and he denied, caressing her waist, his other hand gripping her chin and forcing her to look at him again when she looked away from him. He looked at her with all the sincerity in the world "You're beautiful, mon ange."

"Really?" Her voice was almost not heard but he did, he would always hear her. He nodded, taking her hand and bringing it to his bare chest, placing it on top of his heart.

"Really" He caressed her face with the hand that was previously holding her waist "You're like an angel, the most beautiful thing anyone can see in their life".

She licked her lips and brought her free hand to his neck. She approached him and rested her forehead on his before closing her eyes "Kiss me, Charles."

And he, more than happy, obeyed. Their lips met for the thousandth time that morning, their tongues began to curl around each other until her lungs began to demand air, they reluctantly separated. Charles kissed her lips chastely before moving his lips to her cheek, down to her jaw and then to her neck as he had done before. After thinking about it for a second he took her hand to one of her breasts and began to caress it, testing the terrain.

Moans soon filled the room when his lips accompanied his hand, especially when he began to pay attention to her nipples. With his lips glued to her chest he looked up at her and he could swear he almost came right there. Her eyebrows had furrowed together, her eyes were closed in enjoyment and her mouth was slightly open while moans came non-stop from the depths of her throat.

Charles's pants were starting to feel pretty tight.

He separated his lips from her skin and flipped them over again, so he was on top of her again. The spanish girl complained when she felt the loss of contact to which he let out a small raspy laugh before placing his lips back to her chest although they didn't stay there as they began to move towards her stomach.

Arabella's eyes widened when she felt his hands get tangled in her pants and her panties. She sat up quickly making him stop and look at her confused.

She covered her face with both hands and let out a loud sigh, muttering curses in her native language. The monegasque frowned at her, crawling across the bed until he was in front of her. Once he was in front of her, he took one of her hands, forcing her to uncover her face, which was red with shame.

“Hey” He whispered when he got her to uncover completely and look at him, he looked at her worried “Have I done something wrong? Something that made you uncomfortable or...”

She was quick to interrupt him “No, no, no. The thing is...”

She bit her lip, uncomfortable with the situation. Charles raised an eyebrow at her, positioning himself more comfortably on her side. He looked at her expectantly, making her gaze nervously travel around the room, avoiding his eyes. She pressed her lips together making them disappear in a fine line when he took her hand and intertwined their fingers.

"It's okay, ma belle" He gave her a small smile "You can tell me if you want."

She took a breath and bit her lower lip again "It's just... I've never been with someone like….that, I-I'm a virgin" She murmured her last words, trying to avoid them, but he managed to hear her.

He opened his mouth, surprised more than anything. It took him a while but he reacted, he began to caress the back of her hand with his thumb to calm her down.“Oh, okay. It's okay, nothing happens. We can go slow, I'm not in a hurry”.

He smiled at her when she finally looked at him. He knew that she was worried about what he would say or think, he could see it very clearly in her eyes but it was true that he didn't care too much about sex, he wasn't with her for that reason.

She covered her face again, letting out a sharp complaint "This is so embarrassing"

He laughed lightly, twisting his hands around her wrists to move them away from her face again, he pushed her making her back make contact with her mattress again. He soon lay down next to her and hugged her. They both looked at the ceiling in silence. Charles knew she was embarrassed –not just because she herself had just admitted it verbally– it was noticeable in the air of the room, in how it had changed. He let out a small sigh and began to caress her shoulder gently.

“After Azerbaijan the race is in your country, are you excited?” He changed the subject, wanting to distract her from her thoughts knowing that she was overthinking, it was something he had observed in her. Arabella had a hard time expressing her feelings out loud so everything was stuck in her mind and he knew that right now her head was in chaos.

He felt her shift against his chest, he tensed for a moment because she, like him, was still naked from the waist up and her could feel her breasts pressing against the skin of his own torso. He kissed her hair letting her get comfortable.

"I'm nervous" She admitted, tightening her grip around his torso. "I'd like my first victory to be at home”.

“Maybe you win here or in Azerbaijan” The girl's gaze traveled to the large window from which much of Shanghai could be seen. She was grateful for having accepted Charles' idea of traveling to the chinese city a week earlier.

She separated her chin from his chest and raised her head to look at him. He followed her with his gaze, tangling his fingers in the rebellious brown locks "And you, how do you feel? It's going to be your first home race in Ferrari”.

He grimaced “I just hope I don't eat the wall like two years ago.”

The girl opened her mouth remembering it “It was you! God, I didn't remember that”.

She remembered when she saw the boy's car hit the wall in the 2017 race in Monaco, they were both still in Formula Two. She still remembers seeing the car smashed against the wall as she drove past it, not much later she was named the winner of the race.

Who was going to tell her that the driver of that car was going to be her teammate and that they would both be half naked in bed? The world was really small.

“You won, right?” He looked at her with half-closed eyes and she nodded, laughing. He clicked his tongue “I remember I wanted to congratulate you but I never did.”

“Maybe thanks to that we are here today”.

He kissed her forehead “And I wouldn't change it for anything in the world.”

SHE frowned when she saw a tweet about how some YouTubers mentioned her, she moved her right thumb to the link and waited for the screen to take her to the YouTube video.

When the video's headline appeared on her screen, her brow furrowed even more. 'Moto2: Argentina Race, summary and our opinion' Her eyes traveled curiously across the screen observing every little detail, apparently they were a couple of spanish boys, one with hair dyed blue and the other brown, it seemed that they were not very far from her age, they had set up a channel in which they commented on Moto GP races and according to their number of subscribers, apparently they were doing quite well. She raised an eyebrow, sensing what the matter was going on.

She pressed play and the blue-haired boy began to speak “Bienvenidos otra vez a…”Welcome back to…

She rolled her eyes heavily before stopping the video and beginning to search through her comments for her name. She stopped a couple of times reading her last name but when reading the comments she could see that they were only talking about her brother, she bit her nail as she continued scrolling down through the comments. She finally started to find her name.

She moved the thin red line until the number 6:02 became present, she pressed the center of the screen again and quickly one of the boys' voice rang through the room. She was thankful that she was back in her room because she didn't know what to expect, much less how she was going to react, so she was thankful that Charles wasn't present.

“Oliver Torres was going very well until he had to go to the pits” Her ears perked up when she heard the name of her younger brother. The blue-haired boy nodded at his friend's words and turned in his chair.

“Yeah, he's really not having any luck this season” He lowered the hood of his head and looked at the camera “At least he doesn't have anyone giving him shit like his sister with Hamilton”.

The other snorted before laughing half-heartedly “Ah, yes, Arabella Torres.”

"He doesn't like her" His buddy laughed, hitting him on the arm, to which the other stretched out making a face.

“It's not that I dislike her, but I don't think it was a good idea to put her in Formula One” He shrugged his shoulders.

The blue haired one looked at him interested "Why?"

“I feel that the FIA accepted her just for being a woman, so that there is diversity. They have Hamilton and Torres, they already have the minimum diversity acceptable by society”.

“That's twisted but I wouldn't be surprised if it were true”.

“Hmm, I also don't like her because he's too narcissistic. She thinks she's the best but come on!, she hasn't won anything. She said she was going to beat Hamilton but she's done everything but win, it's no big deal. Her racing style is shit and I don't know, she isn’t that good”.

“But she is pretty”.

They both looked at each other for a few seconds in silence before starting to laugh. The brunette nodded "Yes, she's hot. Very hot, how old is she?”.

“Eighteen”.

“Ah, okay, then it's legal for me to say this” They laughed again as if it were the best joke in the world “She would be a good fuck, have you seen that ass?”.

“Yes but I'm more of a tits guy, you know.

“It's not that she lacks in that area” He put her hands in front of his chest and squeezed them making an obscene gesture “Some good pillows”.

“Do you think they are natural or she had surgery?”.

Disgusted, she ran out of the video. She dropped the phone and lost her gaze to some fixed point in the room. She suddenly felt disgusted with her body, as if she had the sudden need to cover herself as much as she could so as not to be seen.

How could they talk about her as if she were just a piece of meat with eyes? Was it only her chest and her ass that were important and not that she drove a car every weekend that went three hundred kilometers per hour with the possibility of die every time she sat on it? She pulled her sweatshirt down trying to cover herself as much as possible and lay down on the bed. She felt tears pool in her eyes as she crawled into the sheets. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them, it didn't take her long to fall asleep through tears.

A couple of hours later, which was actually seconds for her, the noise of her phone indicating that someone was calling her. Her gaze traveled around the room, she felt disoriented not knowing what day or time it was. She could tell that at least it was still daylight thanks to the large window in front of her bed. She ran a hand over her face, feeling the roughness of her cheeks thanks to the tears that had dried on their way to her neck. She let out a sigh and immediately sat up, sitting on the bed. She groaned when she felt a sting in her skull, something that used to happen to her when she fell asleep while or after she cried.

Blindly, she moved her hand across the sheets to touch her phone, picked it up, and looked at the screen. The YouTube application was still open but there was no trace of the video, she looked at the time and breathed a sigh of relief, it was still early.

The phone was still ringing indicating that her brother was calling her.

She pressed the green button present at the top right corner of the phone and brought the device to his ear.

“¿Si?” Yes? She asked fearfully because the truth was that she almost never spoke with her brother, at least not on phone calls, but they did send each other the occasional message to congratulate each other when one of them took a trophy home or to ask about their parents in in case one couldn't talk to them but the other could. They both had a very busy life, him in Moto2 and her in Formula One, so it had been at least six or seven months since the last time they saw each other because it's not like they coincided too much, when one was on one side of the world the other was in the other. It was strange, but that was their relationship.

“I've seen the video” From the tone of her voice he knew that he was angry and the truth didn't surprise her. Since Oliver had entered his teenage years he had acquired some anger problems, of course she couldn't blame him because she was just like him except that when her little brother received some kind of comment or something he didn't like he was quite vocal about it while she decided to keep quiet and let her actions speak for her.

And now you cry like a little girl, her conscience scolded her.

"I'm going to kill them, who the hell do they think they are to talk about my sister like that?" She came back to reality when she heard his growl, behind his voice she could hear motorcycle engines roar. She assumed that he was training for his next race, she felt bad for him, she hoped that the issue would not affect her training.

“Oli, it's okay. Everything is okay” She tried to reassure him “They're just two assholes talking nonsense”.

“No, Bella. It's not okay” He shook her head even though his sister couldn't see him “Do you know what they're saying about you on Twitter? They are talking about your body as if it were theirs to comment on, it's disgusting”.

She saw how her free hand began to shake and she sighed again, she closed it into a fist trying to make the tremors stop. She suddenly felt guilty, guilty that her brother was having a hard time in that moment, he was only sixteen years old and he was witnessing his older sister being sexualized on the internet. It wasn't something a little boy should have to experience.

She heard a door close on the other side of the call “Arabella, I've read tweets where they say what they want to do to you. There are people who have gone to jail for less, it is very disgusting”.

“Fuck” She cursed out loud. She was thankful that her parents didn't have social media.

"Whatever you do, don't look at Twitter, okay?" He sounded like he was pleading from his tone but she knew he was actually trying to be nice and make her say yes but they both knew that as soon as the call was cut off she would run to the blue bird app. He pursed his lips, swallowing his words “I think mom told me that you are in China with your friends, go out with them and entertain yourself as much as you can. Forget it, okay? I'll tell Nick so he can do something”.

“Mmmh, yeah, okay” She nodded quickly, wanting to end the call. She sounded like a masochistic but she really wanted to see what they were talking about her.

“Please, Bells”.

"It's okay, I'm not going to look at it" She promised him. Her face was distorted into a grimace, her chest hurt when she breathed. I'm sorry to lie to you, little brother.

"Please, don't do it" The youngest Torres begged, knowing his sister. He knew that she was going to look at it and that she was going to mentally beat herself up about it, then she would smile in front of the world and say that she didn't give a shit to keep up the appearances. That was his sister, trying to seem strong in front of everyone when in reality she was just a scared girl.

"Goodbye, Oliver" She cut off the call before he could answer her. She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen, moved her finger across it and exited YouTube, the home screen soon coming into view. She stared at the blue bird icon for a few seconds, biting the inside of her cheek.

Her gaze went to her hand, which was still shaking only more rapidly now. She wrinkled her nose regretting what she was going to do but still didn't stop her finger when it moved across the screen.

Her eyes moved frantically across the screen; people talking about how they wanted to fuck her, comments about how she was only in Formula One to be the sex doll for the other drivers, some sick bastards explaining with every detail what they would do to her in bed if she gave them the opportunity and, of course, lastly, a little few comments defending her.

She brought her hand to her mouth trying to suppress the sob she could tell she was fighting to get out of her.

You should have listened to your brother.

SHE FELT Lando's arm slide down her shoulders which woke her up from her trance, she looked at the briton finding his unique white smile.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his tone wasting concern despite the big smile that hung from his lips as he spoke.

"Yes" Sh nodded, passing her arm around his waist so that they could walk more comfortably, she looked at the backs of the others walking a couple of meters more in front of them before looking at the curly again "Why do you ask?”.

"It's just that you've been all morning like in another world, I don't know” He shrugged. His index finger traveled to the junction of his sunglasses to push them up through the bridge of his nose.

It had been three days since the twitter thing had happened and, although she couldn't stop thinking about it, she hadn't talked to anyone about it. She ignored her brother's calls and messages and apparently, fortunately or unfortunately, neither Charles nor any of the others had seen the tweets. The truth is that she thought she had been lucky because she preferred to enjoy her free time with the boys without feeling the clear discomfort that the fact that they read the tweets would bring, she knew that they would try to cheer her up and that they would try too hard that things would become uncomfortable.

She leaned her head against Lando's shoulder and a short time later she felt how he rested his chin on hers. They kept walking until they met the others, who had stood near a bar.

Pierre smiled ladily when he saw them hung together "Is there anything you want to tell us, guys?".

Immediately Daniel began to make noises to annoy them, forcing Max to follow him who resisted but ended up following him with laughter. The gaze of the youngest of the McLaren duo traveled to the Ferrari boy who didn’t look very happy, and moved slightly away from the girl.

Arabella rolled her eyes extending her arm to push the frenchman, simulating discomfort but the smile on her face betrayed her “Que pesado el Pedro” So annoying, Pedro (spanish version of Pierre).

Gasly frowned confusedly at the unknown language in which his friend had spoken to him while the other spaniard laughed loudly. He turned to his best friend, leaning over to murmur in his ear and that no one listened to him “What did she say?”.

The monegasque shrugged while still looking at his teammate laughing with her compatriot while they spoke in spanish. He smiled slightly happy to see her laugh again because these last few days he had noticed that her mood had changed, she was acting strange. He had decided not to mention it knowing that she had a hard time talking but he had set a deadline, tonight he was going to ask her if she was still acting like that. He was relieved to see her gradually becoming the Arabella he knew again. He felt his chest warm up when he saw her smile.

Merde, Charles. You're in too deep, huh?

"Well, let's eat" Norris raised his voice and made his way among his friends to enter the bar although he stopped his steps by turning around to look at the others. Everyone looked at him expectantly wondering what was wrong while he looked at them pursing his lips “Does anyone know Chinese?”.

The other curly haired laughed, hitting his hand against his shoulder as if he had said the funniest thing in the world while the dutchman rolled his eyes, passing between them to lead the group and, finally, go to the bar. He looked at the british “They also speak english, Lando”.

“Oh”.

Ricciardo's laughter got louder, he bent over holding his stomach “Ah, it hurts”.

Carlos looked at him entertained "Look how happy he is always, I want to be like him at his age”.

"Hey, I'm not much older than you." He quickly stopped laughing, put his back straight and looked at the male spaniard who smiled mockingly at him.

"But you're older”.

He opened his mouth to answer him but the hand of the only girl resting on Sainz's shoulder and pushing him towards the bar interrupted him.

"Come on, Carlitos" She kept pushing him, an equally mocking smile stuck to her lips "Don't bother grandpa anymore”.

"Oi!" The Australian exclaimed and both spaniards began to laugh.

Charles looked at them –at her, rather because he only looked at her– with a smile as he followed them from a little far away. His best friend made a noise calling his attention, he looked at him finding that he was already looking at him with a small smile on his face.

"What?" He asked confusedly at what the blue-eyed one laughed catching him in his arms, Leclerc complained when Gasly's arms surrounded his head.

"You like Arabella" He sang causing the younger to stop his movements, he looked at him alarmed but Pierre ignored him "It hurts me a little that you didn't tell me, you know being your best friend and all that but...”

“What are you talking about? I don't like her!” He exclaimed getting out of his grip. The frenchman analyzed him with his eyes, he was on the defensive mode, he definitely hid something.

"Yeah, of course" He took his phone out of the back pocket of his pants and put it on his face "Well, look, how together you can be seen here, holding hands and everything”.

Charles snatched his phone to be able to see the photo better.

"Merde” Shit.

Meanwhile, inside the bar, Arabella was smiling at Verstappen who in a gentlemanly act was holding her chair to sit down.

She gave him a smile “Thank you, Maxie”.

The boy blushed, waving his hand like saying "it's nothing." Lando let out a sharp laugh when he saw the intimidating dutchman blushing.

“And you don’t hold the chains for the rest of us? So rude of you" Ricciardo complained to which the Red Bull driver raised his middle finger in his direction.

"I can hold something else for you if you want”.

Arabella laughed, taking her phone out of the bag that hung from her shoulder, which was ringing indicating that they were sending her messages. All the color left her face, leaving her as white as a paper sheet.

"Mierda” Shit.