#a generational race with generational trauma packed in

[ipleadbritney]

days like these i truly regret getting into this sport

[randomshyperson]

Shadow Preachers - Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: In a reality where the blipped ones were the ones who stayed, Wanda loses you for five years. The reunion doesn't go exactly as planned, because now she is more than your girlfriend: she is the Scarlet Witch. And nothing will take away what she lost once.

Warnings: (+18), mild angst regarding the whole blip thing, alcohol consumption, language, established relationship, a lot of trauma buried, milf wanda controlling things, age gap, unintentional magical manipulation, darkhold drama, kissing and making out, a bunch of smut at the end with power plays, magical insemination (mild breeding kink?), some fluff, happy(ish) ending. | Words: 7.415k.

A/N-> Old idea that took a while to write, but here we are. This is not angst, I promise! But there are moments of dubious morals, and that's all the fault of the darkhold and how much Wanda should have gone to therapy and not a witchcraft house. Anyway, happy reading. I hope you were as reflective of the ending as I was (I don't know how to feel about this one so far). Please don’t flag the work, thank you.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

–//–

It wasn't necessary, given the nature of her abilities, but the warm water was very welcome to relax her muscles, so Wanda dipped her face for a long moment. Back at the surface, she took a deep breath with her eyes still closed. She pushed away all the flashes of the battle that tried to fill her mind and breathed again and again until the panic and anxiety had completely dissipated and she could open her eyes to her own reflection.

The red of her hair was fading - There was no need, since the revocation of the Sokovia Accords, to keep up the appearance of a disguise. But even years later, Wanda still held the red color in her strands. She remembers someone teasing her about it, maybe Sam or Clint, but she could not have it removed. Yelena was probably the only one who understood why.

The water dried from her face like blood dried from her superficial bruises. The magic worked on her automatically, but if she wished, she could have held the cuts for a while longer. If she wished someone to clean her wounds. She missed that today for the first time in a long while.

The bathroom gave way to her old room as she stepped outside, toward the closet. She knew that the rest of the team was spread all around the building - she could feel their auras meters away now - but she wished she had her bags packed before any of these had the idea to look for her. 

The few clothes that belonged to her had been there for a few weeks. Just the time the others were preparing for the back-in-time trip: And it was honestly a miracle that this compound was still standing after the intensity of the conflicts. It was good luck that someone like her was present to tidy up the mess in the blink of an eye.

She had already folded a red jeans jacket when a knock at the door attracted her attention - She wasn't startled, because she had sensed your presence from the elevator. Every second closer.

When she looked up at you, you had your arms crossed and your waist resting on the doorframe. So casual and painfully charming that Wanda had to look away.

"Am I that awful at reunions?" You joked with a slight dramatization in your voice. Wanda's smile was small, but her heart was racing so fast that perhaps super-hearing allowed you to hear even from that distance. 

"I'm sorry." That's the only thing she can manage to answer about the punchline. Maybe, and most likely, that's not even what she's apologizing for. "I just... no longer part of this place."

"Yeah, I heard." You mutter, moving away from the door, more serious than before. No, sadder than before. With each step toward her, Wanda squeezes her clothes tighter. "Sammy mentioned what happened."

Wanda's heart clenches. She tries not to frown, or demonstrate her own total nervousness when you are face to face. "What... did he say? About what I did?" she inquires, worried. 

You look at her with curiosity only, shrugging casually. "He was vague on some kind of fight about three years ago. He said that you've made mistakes and that you've regretted them, and have been trying to be better. And that if I wanted to know more, I should ask you."

Wanda sighs, holding a folded shirt against her chest. Her gaze goes vacant, pensive. She imagines herself telling you, and as if the story didn't make her queasy enough, she still imagines the disappointment in your eyes.

In the present, however, she finds only tenderness in them. You give her a corner smile, half curious to know what has made her quiet, but Wanda clears her throat and puts her clothes away before turning her face to you again. "I can't, Y/N." She says, and the walls between you that she raises are almost physical. "I don't want to talk about the past. Especially not today."

You nod in understanding, a little frustrated by the whole thing but respectful about her own time and space. It's always been that way. It makes Wanda feel even more guilty.

"Can I at least give you a ride?" You suggest suddenly, your smile becoming more playful. Wanda clenches her hands together and remembers feeling this same smile against her cheeks, stomach, and thighs. "You know, to whatever place you're running off to, witchy..."

Your joke is not well received; It is not your fault at all. Wanda has been completely tense and on the defensive since you - and half the universe - reappeared.

"I'm not running away." She assures you as she cuts you off, her face serious and tired. You stop smiling. Wanda thinks she might throw up. "I just have a different life now."

She turns to close her bag, you fidget awkwardly. "Yeah, of course..." You murmur shyly, watching her. "I shouldn't have said that."

"It's fine." She assures you, and it sounds like a really bad lie. You look at her the same way you did when you first saw her, almost eight years ago, in a Hydra cell, and Wanda runs away like a frightened animal, holding her bag in her hands even though she is very used to using magic to do this kind of mundane activity now. She is at the door in record time but looks at you before she leaves. "Thank you, Y/N. For offering... the ride. Really. But I don't... actually need it."

She twirls her fingers, illustrating her sentence with scarlet sparks that make you chuckle slightly. The sound almost makes Wanda start to cry. She makes a portal appear before she really starts to in front of you.

"Wait." You practically beg before she can disappear. Wanda holds her breath. "When... Wanda, I want to..." It's frustrating, honestly. The whole situation, all the distance you're not used to having with her. Your attempt to ask her for something only makes Wanda more anxious, but in a way, she knows exactly what it is. You take a deep breath and take another small step forward. "I want you around, Wands. You know that right?"

She swallows dryly and nods. Her eyes are filled with tears.

"I know, detka." The nickname escapes her so naturally, it seems as if no time has passed. But knowing it has passed, like not finding age marks on your face, but on hers, makes her pull away. "I just need...a little more time. To get used to it, okay?"

You nod like a child, putting your hands in your pockets. "Of course, Wanda. Whatever you need."

The memories of the same speech, so many times and for so long before the blip, hit her hard. She breaks into a sob, profoundly. You despair, completely worried, but as soon as you make any mention of approaching to console her, Wanda shakes her head and wipes her face. A weak, hoarse goodbye is murmured, and she disappears into the portal she has opened and you are left alone.

Your chest aches with hurt and frustration on the way back to the living room. Of course, the cell phone in your pants wouldn't work after so long without paying for the service, so you don't even attempt a message. 

And getting the rest of what was once the Avengers you knew together doesn't make you feel any better seeing them in black, whispering stories to each other.

The memorial was a while ago, earlier, and now everyone was back in the tower. Some would go home, like Wanda or Barnes, but others like you had nowhere to go. Like Parker or Belova.

"Hey, Y/N." Natasha seemed surprised to see you there, assuming that your momentary disappearance would have resulted in the ride. But Wanda turned you down, and with the look, you threw her, Nat understood. She murmured polite apologies to Clint's family, all of whom were downcast and with faces smeared with dried tears, and went to join you near the kitchen counter. "You haven't had much luck with your witch, I suppose."

You hum annoyed, bending down to grab a bottle of booze from under the sink. Nat makes a soft grimace, nodding at the number of children present there. You ignore it and grab a glass for her as well.

When they are full, you raise yours. "Here's to our fallen friends, Romanoff." You say, and she sighs sadly, before raising her toast. 

The drink doesn't hurt more than losing Wanda, that's a fact.

"You look miserable." It is Yelena who says, as she appears in the kitchen, a second after the toast draws a grimace and a cough from you. She steals a glance at her sister, "Both of you, actually."

Your laugh is sad and husky. "You are very perceptive of the obvious Belova." You mock, filling your glass as Nat lets herself be enveloped in a tight hug from the blonde. You take another sip as they part. What they ask each other in Russian is probably a check on how everything was going. You are more interested in the drink. And with each drop of alcohol, your emotions surface further. "Was it something I said?" You question suddenly, and Nat and Yelena look at you immediately. "Was it... something I did?"

Nat sighs, taking the bottle and glass from you. "Okay, enough of that." She mutters, ignoring your protests. "I know you're not the type who wants to cause a scene at your friends' funeral memorial."

But you're crying regardless. No one really minds - Or comments about Yelena and Nat dragging you into the corridor.

You sit on the floor, one hand on your face and the other on your stomach. "Why... Doesn't she love me anymore?" You ask between sobs, trying to control your emotion. 

Yelena sighs impatiently. "God, are you stupid by any chance?"

"Yelena!" Nat represses, bending down to touch your knee and calm you down. "Hey, take a deep breath. It's okay, Y/N. Wanda... she just needs time-"

You give a wry, tearful laugh. "Five years wasn't enough?" You ironize between tears. 

"Come on..." Nat tries, but Yelena cringes too. Her look is more serious and determined than compressive.

"You don't know shit, Y/N." Says the blonde, ignoring the way her sister looks at her. "How do you think it's been these five years, huh? You, both of you, vanishing along with half the universe. It's been fucked up, okay? And some people made some really bad mistakes during this time. I... I missed Nat, a fucking lot. But I didn't have the magic to change that. Wanda did."

You make a confused face, "What the hell are you talking about?"

She sighs wearily. "You just need to understand that it was hell for those who stayed. You probably will when you get back to work, but right now... You just buried your friends, rest first. And Wanda, you have to understand that she needs time to accept that you are back. She... she's had to say goodbye to you too many times."

Yelena exchanges a look with Nat, clearly closing the subject, but you despair. "L-lena, wait... tell me! Tell me what happened-" You follow her as she gets up and walks away, begging and demanding until she grunts in irritation.

"She brought you back!" She declares suddenly. You and Nat both widen your eyes. Yelena sighs. "Damn... Look, I really think Wanda is the one who should-"

"How?" you demand exhausted. The blonde swallows dryly, but ends up sighing in defeat.

"I think Cap still keeps the Westview files." She mutters, nodding in the direction to be escorted. Nat mutters something about it still being weird to hear someone refer to Sam this way, but you're more interested in what the hell Westview is.

Nothing prepares you for the S.W.O.R.D. tapes.

–//–

Everything kept coming back in flashes, even as she struggled to keep the memories at bay.

Shuri's gauntlet, the stones, Clint's body.

You.

So happy. So innocent. Smiling at her as if it was still 2018 and you were still hers.

"I can't believe you disappeared on me in the middle of a fight, little witch."

Your voice made Wanda shudder from head to toe, and she would have started crying right there, running away from the battle just to hug you if it wasn't such an ugly fight.

Unlike the first time, they were much better prepared. They had the upper hand. 

Mildly Thor was not as experienced in battle, but just as strong as the original, and held the ground until Thor showed up with the rest of the blipped. Thanos's head was off before he could even think of the stones once more.

By the time you found her again, you had been told how many years had passed, and of course, you didn't waste another second before hugging Wanda. She hugged you back of course, without hesitation. But that was weeks ago in the heat of battle. Now reality was on your heads.

As a coven of unsympathetic witches, a team in conflict and a world in recovery.

Wanda had only been with the Chaos worshipers a short time. Just long enough to dull the effects of the darkhold in her head, the help is very welcome although her trust in Agatha is almost nil.

Helping the Avengers one last time, at the request of Strange and his irresponsible plan involving time travel was a long shot. But it worked. And Wanda had you back, and suddenly there was nothing left for the doomed to offer her.

Well, almost nothing.

Dreams involving her children haunted her at night. But well, since you've been back, Wanda hasn't done sleeping that much, so there's some advantage there.

She is trying a sleep potion when Agatha enters her chamber.

"You have visitors, Rapunzel."

She giggles at the nickname, not taking her eyes off her colleague's borrowed grimoire. "Don't call me that."

Agatha smiles, leaning on the door. "Well, you stay locked in the tower all the time and you have long hair... Also, you act like a spoiled little princess..."

"Fuck off, Agatha." Wanda retorts with a laugh, wiping her herb-soiled hands on a cloth. "Who's down there? Some sorcerer?"

The Harkness Residence was tricky - Especially in solstice season. With so much magical presence, Wanda would be overwhelmed to be in alert mode all the time. And for a house full of witches, she didn't expect to be able to detect them all the time.

Agatha shook her head. "Your other type of friends, honey." Said the older one. "Avenger. And pretty face." Comments the brunette, giving her a wink and leaving.

Wanda tries not to look like a complete mess as she makes her way downstairs. It doesn't work much when she finds you in the living room - Adorably poking at Agatha's magic clock.

"Hi." She practically gasps, her hands in front of her body. You turn your face and smile contently, waving your finger at the wooden item in front of you.

"Hey, sweetheart, have you seen this? It looks like the one from Harry Potter." It is so painfully casual that it almost leaves her speechless. Wanda has to remember that despite her early escape from the tower for some space, you still feel as if only a few weeks have passed since you last met. And not five years. "It's so cool." 

Wanda adjusts her messy strands of hair, moving closer to you and the clock. "How did you find me?"

You shrug, taking your attention away from the item entirely to turn to Wanda. "Avengers technology now has Kamar Taj tricks."

Stephen, of course. Wanda grimaces softly, making a mental note to reprimand him for charming equipment but all thoughts suddenly disappear.

You grab the front of her work apron, pulling her close and Wanda chokes on her own breath.

"Wands, I know it's been five years for you, but... I really miss kissing my girlfriend." You murmur, the narrowed eyes staring at her lips and making her face warm. Wanda has missed this so much that it aches, but she is overwhelmed by the sudden action. You don't move until you have permission. "I'll be happy with just a peck..."

"God, detka." She tries to formulate some sentences, and some thoughts, but all her body can focus on is your presence. Your face inches from hers, the smell of your perfume, your hand on her low back, and the firm grip that ensures she doesn't fall over because of her weak knees. 

Your forehead falls heavily on hers, and Wanda chokes out a very primal sound in her throat. She is ready to end all the longing against that colorful clock, on the living room rug or anywhere you want, when a voice interrupts the whole thing.

"Hello, love birds!" Agatha greets you cheerfully, smiling as you turn away from Wanda with a sigh. "I don't believe we've met, Miss..."

“Oh, you’re Agnes.” You say, and Wanda freezes. The older witch laughs in surprise, and you shake the hand she extends with a clumsy smile. "I mean if that is really your name? It was the only one on the recordings."

"Actually, I'm Agatha Harkness. Did you say record?-"

"Later." Wanda cuts off the older witch with a serious red-eyed look, and she begrudgingly swallows dryly all her questioning. Wanda turns to you, grabbing your hand before you have a chance to question what is going on.

Wanda's room impresses you. In fact, the entire Harkness residence does. It is clearly magical, much larger on the inside than the American house on the outside. You want to absorb every detail on a future tour, but right now, you're more interested in the witch dragging you inside and sitting you on her bed.

"Who told you?" she inquires in such a confused mixture of emotions that you can only assume they are not very good, by the tears in her eyes. Her door closes as soon as you enter, and you clear your throat awkwardly.

"It doesn't matter, Wands, I just know."

She grunts angrily. "I'm going to kill Yelena-"

You giggle. "Hey, don't read my mind." You grumble, watching her circle the room anxiously. "Little witch, relax, I'm not mad at you."

Wanda looks at you immediately. "I didn't expect anger." She clarifies with upset. "I thought...you'd be disappointed in me."

She looks down at her own feet, and you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. "Disappointed by the greatest demonstration of your power and how strong you've become? Don't be silly."

"I hurt people!" She retorts with emotion in her voice, annoyed that you are not acting as she has punished herself for so long. You sigh, adjusting yourself on the bed to remove the leather jacket that Wanda was pretty sure belonged to Natasha. 

"And people have hurt you." You argued. "Same old story, no? But you have...this strength in you, right? You lose control, that's part of the magic. No power comes for free. I know these things, Wands, remember? I know you. And I saw how you let them go the very second it happened. And that Rambeau woman filled the archives with notes in your defense about everything that happened, so I don't know why the whole big deal is..."

"I took a town hostage." She interrupts you seriously. "Those people...compared standing over my domain as agonizing torture...begged to die after seeing my dreams-"

"Yeah, insomnia sucks." You complete, shrugging and Wanda grunts in frustration. She looks away, putting her hands over her face and you lie on the bed, crossing your hands behind your neck. She sighs.

"Why... are you different?"

Her question fails to shake you as her other statements. You remain quiet and carefree. "Maybe you are the one who remembers me differently."

Wanda stares at you, but is thoughtful. She tries to organize her own memories. Before, during, and after Westview.

Only now, seeing you in her bed again, does she doubt what her mind created and what was real really.

"I remember you... kind." She tries, shadows passing through her eyes, moments in the compound from cooking together to transmitting confidence and support to her in practice. "Taking care of me and everyone else, honestly."

You chuckle, cheeks rosy. "Well, thank you, that's a very nice view of the facts." You murmur, looking at her in a way that always made her knees weak. "But I'm just normal, I guess? I work hard and generally act within the law, briefly speaking. But kind? It's nice to be called that."

"Detka-"

"There's the catch." You interrupt her with a smile, your gaze gleaming with mischief. "That's what I am, Wands. Your Detka.  Ever since I blew up half a Hydra to save you, that's what I've been. I appreciate that you see me as someone good, really. And maybe that's true because all I've done is be good to you."

 Wanda swallows dryly, approaching you almost by a magnetic force. She takes the seat in your lap without haste, and her hair makes a curtain over your faces as she rests her forehead on yours. 

"I'm sorry, dorogoya." She whispers with her eyes closed, her hands gripping your blouse. You adjust to hold her waist. "I hurt people to have you back."

You hum, moving a hand to her face. "Like I did, baby. Don't you remember?" You ask in the same tone, caressing her cheek. "Killed those Nazis back in 2015... then the agents who tried to lock you up for not signing the Accords..."

"It was different-"

"I would have done the same." You assure as you firm your grip on her cheek. Wanda moans low, unable to control herself at the roughness. Your eyes darken. "I think they're lucky I was the one who blipped, honey. I would have burned this world and any other to get you back."

There is nothing she can do but kiss you. It's firm, full of longing. She gasps into your mouth and you slide your tongue between her lips, taking control and matching it with the same passion. Wanda burns and the thrill of having you back hit her hard.

She is crying, so you stop and hold her as she hides her face in your clavicle.

"I thought...I lost you...I'm so sorry..." She mumbles disconnectedly between sobs, and you don't let go, stroking her back as you try to calm her. 

"You're not getting rid of me, Maximoff." You tease. "You're going to marry me as you promised. For real this time."

The comment elicits a whiny laugh from her, and you chuckle when she pinches you in a warning for mentioning Westview so lightly. But there is no other way for you.

"Besides this, darling, you put me in a dress?" You comment with false indignation. "The greatest of crimes, really."

She chuckles weakly against your neck, adjusting herself to sit on your stomach and look you in the eyes. 

You look at her with such love, wiping her face with your gentle hands, and Wanda thinks you're right. You are good to her. You always have been.

"It wasn't really you." She tries to say with a slight frown. "It was...like a whisper. A ghost."

You hum in a mix of understanding and curiosity. "It was because of the stone, wasn't it?" You deduce. "My powers... created the connection-"

"No." She shakes her head, her hands going to adjust the collar of your blouse. "My love for you created the connection. Your version of Westview was just... so nice. All those good things you did for me. How much I loved you. My magic created this... clone. It was a reflection of everything I loved about you, but it wasn't you. Maybe... that's why I was able to say goodbye."

You twitch your nose, a small smile on your lips. "Nothing compares to the real thing, huh?" you comment smugly, stifling the other's indignant snort with a firm kiss. Wanda chuckles affectedly, ready to debate that Westview's version was good enough when you spin your bodies on the bed at once, and upon being pressed into the mattress, all that comes out of her mouth is a moan. You hum in satisfaction. "I missed that sound."

She breathes affectedly, her eyes opening to meet yours staring at her passionately. "And I missed you." She murmurs, her hands finding your hair to pull you back.

Making out sessions were so common in your relationship, especially during Avengers that it was only now that it had been five years since the last time, that Wanda realized how much she missed it. Back then, it was usually enough to calm her hormones, but Wanda had never felt so needy as she did now.

You chuckled huskily against her neck, interrupting the soft marking of hickeys when you felt her rubbing herself on your thigh. "Got all turned on by a few kisses, Maximoff? Someone really missed me..."

She wants to rip off that smug little smile, even though that is absolutely true. "God, I had forgotten what a pain in the ass you are." She complains, trying to normalize her breathing, which is difficult with you on top of her, making her hot and bothered, tingly all over. 

"Please, you love me." You tease, and Wanda smiles, enjoying the feeling of having you lying on top of her again, your face on her collarbone depositing more chaste kisses now.

"You have no idea how much, detka" She whispers as she closes her eyes, one hand stroking your hair. You smile against her skin. Wanda thinks you murmured I love you back before falling asleep, exhausted by the journey there.

Holding you, Wanda knows. She can never lose you again.

–//–

You dream of a teenage girl. Scared and fearful, running, or perhaps, escaping from something.

It is fast and intense, and when you wake up, you jump softly. You don't remember the dream when you look around, and are more concerned about the empty bed than nightmares.

The room is dark, the only illumination coming from the moon through the window and a candle burning in the corner of the table. 

Unlike the commode, the rest of the house is noisy and you can hear a mix of voices downstairs, muffled by the closed door.

"Wanda?" You call out to her a few times until you realize that wherever she is, she can't hear you.

On your way out of the room, you bump into Agatha again.

"You are a heavy sleeper, Avenger." Comments the witch teasingly, as you scratch your eyes. 

"Yeah, I guess so." You mutter. "Where...?"

"In the tower, dear." She interrupts your question already assuming it would be about Wanda. "We have rules for some types of spells around here. Nothing that corrupts can be inside the house."

You make a confused face, "Corrupts? What are you talking about, Miss Harkness?"

But there are a couple of well-dressed people on the stairs and Agatha waves to them. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry, I have to go." Says the witch. "It's the night of the solstice, you know? We have rituals to be done. It would be... polite if Wanda would join us, but all she wants to do is consume that book. It's like an addiction if you ask me." You open your mouth to question further on this subject, but Agatha is walking away, talking to the other strangers in a language you don't know. You think you will have to find this tower on your own, but she turns around before she goes down the stairs and tells you the way.

You are spinning your ankles almost immediately.

The room where Wanda is is lit entirely by candles, spread out in a circle. The air inside is unnaturally cold and shivers you from head to toe.

For a brief, scary second, you can almost hear the glow of the mind stone from the day you received your powers. Trapped on a Hydra stretcher like an animal.

"Wanda?"

The woman, so far trapped in some kind of ritualistic trance in the circle of candles she is in, opens unfocused red eyes. You see a glimpse of the book behind her before Wanda straightens up and with a nod, blows out the candles and lights the candelabras.

"Hey, detka, you're awake." You chuckled at how guilty she looked, hiding the book with her body and erasing the scary circle of spells.

"What are you up to, eh, little witch?" You ask, readily accepting her invitation to slip your hands around her waist. Wanda has a different gleam in her eye - now green again - and in the atmosphere of this room, she seems like a force of nature. You could say you are charmed by her if you didn't already love her so deeply.

She bites back a smile, interlacing her hands behind your neck.

"Only mischief, I'm afraid.'" She murmurs, close enough to tease your lips with the tip of her tongue. You choke softly, your hands moving down to her ass, squeezing it to press her against you. 

"Hmm, I missed you being naughty..." You sigh when she kisses you. It's different. You can't put your heart on what - You can't think of anything with Wanda kissing you with such vehemence and sensuality; You're more used to her submission, always in love with the feeling of having her ruined beneath you. But the way she kisses you now - as if she knows exactly how secure she is in your heart, body, and soul - is breathtaking. She puts you at her mercy by sucking on your tongue.

"F-fuck." You break the kiss with a gasping sigh, every inch of your body burning. A stream of saliva connects your mouth to hers, and Wanda stares at you with dark pupils. "You're playing a dangerous game, Maximoff-"

Your attempt to gain a little dominance turns into an affected grunt when Wanda grabs your face at once. Much like the way you did hours ago. And you are too distracted by her eyes that flutter between green and red to notice the darkness of her fingers.

"Knee for me, darling." She orders in a husky voice, bringing a wave of heat to your abdomen. You moan, and your knees would have given out on their own - But Wanda uses her magic anyway. On the floor, you look up with pleading eyes, watching her magic tear off her clothes.

You can feel your own arousal oozing down your thighs, but don't you dare seek any kind of relief from yourself with Wanda inches from your mouth. The last garment is barely out and you dive in - Proudly tearing out a loud moan as your mouth meets her core.

Her cunt drips and clenches on your tongue and fingers you slide them up her thigh until you sink in, but Wanda barely feels you and is already putting one leg over your shoulder, whimpering as you work to bring her orgasm.

It comes intense and very quickly, and you both know it's because of the time apart. Her body has been begging for your touch for so long that she almost hates how fast it happened. You shush her worries and complaints of the overstimulation, making no mention of letting her go. Instead, one of your hands digs its nails into her thigh, holding her open and against your mouth as you eat her out until she can give you another. And another.

It's the roughest sex you two ever had - Full of longing and passion - and Wanda doesn't know when she got on the floor, maybe it happened after the third or fourth climax when her legs were too weak to keep her upright, and she's not complaining one bit.

You fucked her intensely and desperate to please - She loved how much control she had without needing a drop of magic. And when you didn't question the hardness between your legs put there by her, she wanted to test how far your obedience would go.

"That's new." You murmured in a husky voice against her ear, your hands pinning hers to the floor of the ancient meditation circle. Wanda couldn't deliver more than a groan - The toy buried deep in her abused pussy was making everything more difficult. Your strokes, slow and deep did not fail to draw breathless moans from the witch beneath you. "Is this what you wanted, baby? For me to fill you to the brim?"

Wanda whimpered aroused, her walls clenching the fake cock until you couldn't move and she came with her back arched and her eyes scarlet - You gasped in satisfaction at the image, surrendering to your own pleasure next. Pumping in and out inside, it wasn't long before you came, grunting against her neck as you spilled inside her walls, staining them white. Wanda moaned at the sensation, her legs hooked around you so that you would go nowhere, that no drop would go to waste.

You had no idea why, but you were too high in pleasure to ask or even think about it.

Breathing out of rhythm as you calmed down, you deposited chaste kisses on her collarbone until you reached her face - Matching the smile Wanda had as you kissed her.

"I love you, little witch." You declared somewhat breathlessly, and repeated it a few times until Wanda giggled away, all the exhaustion from being fucked over and over leaving her feeling a little dizzy and with an easy smile. It took you less than thirty seconds to slide out and get rid of the toy in some corner of the room, but Wanda followed you with her gaze the whole time until you were back on top of her. "How about ... we ... take ... a ... shower... together?" Every word was filled with a kiss, and Wanda almost didn't let you stop doing it.

"That sounds lovely." She said, and seeing that you were getting ready to stand up, she held you back. It didn't take long for your expression of confusion to turn into one of complete amazement. 

It took Wanda, not a second for the room around you to transform - You thought it was teleportation at first but realized that the shape of the bathroom you were in now was the same as the tower, and understood that it was chaos magic. No longer were you lying on the floor, but inside a tub, slowly filling in as you got used to the environment. Wanda adjusted herself to sit up, and you held the edges to look around, an impressed giggle escaping your lips.

"Damn, babe, that's fucking cool." You praise the magic, blushing as you meet Wanda's passionate gaze on you once you turn your face to her. With a wink, you adjust to lie with your back on her chest, and Wanda slips her arms around you, sighing in satisfaction. 

It is a very peaceful and comfortable moment. Just you and Wanda under the warm water, with her stroking your hair and almost making you fall asleep, and you have no idea of the evil whispers from a magic book that she is trying to push away as she does so.

"Sorry, Wands." Your speech confuses her; she blinks her eyes, focusing on your figure against her. You interlace the fingers of your hands and stare at the gesture as you clarify. "For leaving you alone."

Her chest tightens. She swallows dryly, once and twice, and you wait. All Wanda does is kiss the top of your head.

"What matters is that you are here now." She says meekly, letting you play with her fingers. "And nothing will ever take you away from me again."

The darkness of the sentence goes unnoticed by you. You are more curious about the coloration of her fingerprints.

"Is that some kind of spell?" You ask, and she merely hums in return, trying to buy time to formulate an answer. "It's not a bad thing, right? Nor painful?"

Your insistence. No. Your sincere concern, which she can read in every inch of your mind, makes her chest burn with guilt. She holds you tighter.

"It's nothing you have to worry about, darling." She assures you in a tone of closure, using her free hand to spread your legs under the water. 

"B-but Wanda..." You start but are unable to ignore your own pleasure when Wanda slides her fingers into you with ease. The bite she places on your shoulder makes you whimper. Your hips move in rhythm with her fingers, but you gasp and pant, warning, "You can't just fuck me out of a conversation-ah-"

She giggles macabrely, feeling you throbbing in her digits. Your warm juices mix with the water in the tub.

"Oh, I think I can." She teases in your ear, increasing the speed. You grunt, begrudgingly focusing on your orgasm and not on whatever it is that Wanda is hiding. She presses her palm against your clit, sinking a third finger next and stretching you out. You grip the edges of the tub so hard that the wood cracks and the throaty moan that escapes you make all of Wanda's hair shiver. "Let it go for me, detka. Make your wife proud."

The title takes you over the edge - You come in an almost animalistic moan, spasming against her in one of the most intense orgasms you have ever had in your life. Wanda continues kissing your neck and slowly stimulating you throughout your climax until you try to pull away from the excessive stimulation.

There is a tender moment, Wanda whispering sweet nothings in your ear until you can catch your breath again. She slides her fingers out and sucks your taste off as you calm down. The scene is almost enough to get you ready again, but after so many times, you both need a break.

When you look at her again, your smile is teasing. "Wife, huh?"

She matches her expression, but there is gentle insecurity in her eyes that would surprise you if you didn't know her so well. "It slipped out. But... you should get used to it, detka. I'm going to marry you yet."

You chuckle shyly, adjusting yourself so that you can kiss her on the mouth. Wanda also smiles into the kiss. Between one kiss and another, you joked, "Did marriage make me a bottom?"

Wanda burst into a laugh, her arms around your waist as you adjusted to sit on her lap. 

"Is that a complaint about my performance?"

You chuckled, arms around her neck. "Oh, sure, I hate coming so much." You mocked against her lips, staring in the same passionate, mischievous way she was looking at you. "I can't believe you made me... come inside you."

Wanda bites her lips, feeling your warmth in her lap and knowing that you can feel hers. "Did you like it?"

You nod, kissing her jaw. Wanda swallows dryly, controlling her own excitement to keep talking. "It's a spell I learned. And it works... like the real thing."

Your kisses stop as soon as you understand what she is saying, and your frown as you face her again doesn't calm the other one's nerves. She keeps her grip on your waist.

"Wait." Wanda can almost see the gears in your mind working. "How real?"

She swallows dryly and squeezes harder without realizing it. Terrified that you will reject her. "I want to have your children." She declares boldly, though her heart is hammering in her ribcage.

You are in shock at the whole thing. You open your mouth but all that comes out is an incredulous laugh, and with a gentle effort, you escape Wanda's hands, out of the tub. She licks her lips, trying to keep the tears in as you cover yourself with a robe as if suddenly, being naked is no longer comfortable.

"Please don't be mad." She murmurs, but you chuckle incredulously.

"You should have told me."

"I-"

"No, Wanda." You cut her off in a serious tone. Wanda is ready to be stubborn about it, but all certainty disappears when she sees your expression and the way that despite your super strength, you never looked so small as you do now. "I really love you, Wands. Nothing will ever change that. But children are a very important step. A conversation we haven't had yet." Wanda hesitates, in her gaze, and you sigh. "Westview was a fantasy, sweetheart. I'm not that ghost. I was gone for five years, I'm still only twenty-four years old. I wanted... this life of travel and dating and adventure with you. To mature by your side, and create a career, and then someday, if we were ready for it, have children."

Wanda sniffles lightly. "What if... you weren't?"

You give a sad smile. "Wanda, I'm not you." You mutter upset. "I didn't have incredible parents, nor did I lose them too young before I could grow up and notice if they had problems or not. Mine were terrible and damaged me for a long time. I am very afraid that I will be just like them."

Wanda immediately denies it with her head. "You are not! You are sweet and good and I will be an incredible parent!"

You give a short, humorless laugh, pushing your hair back. "I guess we'll find out soon enough." You ironize, and Wanda swallows dryly.

"You could at least be happy-"

"That you lied to me?" You interrupt indignantly.

She stares at you with the same irritation. "I didn't lie!"

"Omitting is a form of lying!" You retorted. "And apparently that's not the only thing! What are the marks on your hands, who are these people, where are we really? I have a million questions for you, and all you do is run away and hide things from me!"

Whenever Wanda gets emotional enough, her magic reflects it. You are used to it, but it is a little terrifying that the ground trembles over your feet when she stands up in anger. Her robe magically appears on her body, covering her as well.

"I'm doing everything for us!" She shouts back, holding onto your arms. "So we can have a family, a home! Making sure nothing takes that away from us again!"

"Wanda, you have to understand that I'm not the person who lost these things-"

"And you have to be content!" She refutes truthfully, scarlet eyes glowing with emotion. "Happy and understanding about what I'm doing for us!"

It happens in a second. All irritation, hurt, or fear, simply vanishes from your expression. Wanda doesn't even realize what her magic has done for the moment. 

"I understand, my love." You say smiling at her as you did the first time she said she loved you. Wanda frowns, but you hold her cheeks tenderly. "I love you so much, darling. I'm so grateful that you're looking out for me, making sure nothing bad happens."

She chokes on the emotion softly, breaking under your gentle touch and tone of voice. "Really?"

You smile. "Nothing is going to keep us apart, Wanda. You'll make sure of that."

Wanda nods, sighing in relief at being understood in her own despair. You hug her by the shoulders and she sinks her face into your collarbone, murmuring how much she loves you into your skin.

"Don't be mad at me. I just wanted our children back." She pleads against you, hearing you sigh before pulling her face to face you. Your hands grip her cheeks.

"We'll get them back, honey." It's a promise, Wanda feels it. You smile mischievously at her, bringing your faces closer together. "And we can make as many more as you want."

She blushes, giggling shyly as she wraps her arms around your waist. "I can never lose you again, детка. I wouldn't... survive."

You look at her tenderly. "I'm here, baby. I will never leave you." 

She kisses you, letting herself be enveloped by your warmth and love until the darkhold dominance that whispers that another step toward the happiness she lost has been completed becomes hazy and muffled in her mind.

--//--

A/F/N->This should have been a series, but I left it as one, and because of this ending, I'm not going to dismiss the possibility of other parts of this story. I like to think that once Reader figures out what's going on, she and Wanda would break up so we can have an angst-filled fresh start to the really happy ending they deserve (I'd finally get an exes trope story published, thank you!). I'd like to watch other Marvel projects, like Coven of Chaos, before continuing this though, to get more of the canon. Let me know what you think in the meantime.

Please don’t flag the work, thank you.

[saturnlee05]

Eyes Don’t Lie

18+, Minors DNI

pairing: logan howlett x reader — an ungodly amount of angst, mutual pining, friends to lovers, smut

warnings: language, alcohol use, smoking, sexual thoughts/scenes, self-destructive behavior, elements of su!cidal ideation/behavior, accident-related trauma, death (mentioned, not described i promise), general angst — this is really effing dark

summary: logan has known you for a while, but only started getting close with you a few months ago. now, he’s noticed your self-destruction is worsening, and so does logan’s concern as you inch closer and closer to the deep end…

a/n: this one’s really dark, so if you’re sensitive to any of the above subjects (in the warning), i recommend not reading this one. if you’re strapping in for the ride, be prepared: this one’s long, dark, angsty, and oh my god the ending is just *chefs kiss*

“Take it easy,” Logan said, pulling the bottle of Jack away from your mouth and out of your hand. You sat on the couch in the living room of your apartment, feet kicked up on the coffee table, leaned back with a lax posture. You glared up at Logan, who set the bottle down next to your feet and stared right back. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Yeah, sure,” you scoffed, grabbing the pack of cigarettes off the table and pulling a flame through your fingertip. Putting the foul-smelling thing between you lips, you held your finger to the tip of the cigarette and lit it. With a quick, deep puff, you blew smoke straight into his face, making him turn his head away and sigh. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“What the hell’s goin’ on with you?” Logan asked, sitting in the chair diagonal from you, elbows on his knees and his fingers interlocked. He leaned forward, his brows scrunched together by concern, glancing up at the faded scab on your forehead. “You’re not you lately.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re drinking a lot-“

“And you don’t?”

Shifting his eyes to the side for a moment, he brushed off your spiteful comment. “And you’re smoking now? C’mon, bub, you know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“What, are you my fuckin’ parent now?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Y/n-“

“You know what, why don’t you just get the hell out if you’re gonna be such a fuckin’ buzzkill?” You cocked your head to the side, challenging him.

“Fine,” Logan stood with a huff, glaring down at you. “I will.” Logan hurried to the door with rage tensing up his shoulders. He walked out, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving you to your thoughts.

~~~

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know?’” Logan barked, storming after Charles down the hall.

“I mean, I can’t tell what she’s thinking,” Charles answered, continuing down the hall and into one of labs. “I can’t get in her head somehow and I’m not sure why.”

“There’s gotta be something we can do. She’s on a downward spiral and I can’t get through to her.”

“If you can’t, how do you expect any of us to?” Storm chimed in, sliding down off one of the tables. Logan shot her a cold, side-eyed stare, his muscles tightening in anger. “I’m just saying. Of all of us, she talks to you the most.”

“That’s because she’s in love with him,” Jean added, standing in the doorway. Logan turned to her, his eyes softening but his brows still curled. He didn’t know what she meant. “What? You can’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

“Literally everybody knows that,” Storm added. Looking back at Storm, she could read the look on his face plain as day. “You didn’t know?”

Logan’s head raced with thoughts, memories of all his moments with you where, yeah, he should’ve known. One night, about two months ago, you were both at your apartment, sitting on the couch watching tv. Back when you were still, well, you. There was a half-drunk bottle of Jack on the coffee table, this time belonging to, and drank mostly by, Logan. He had had his arm splayed across the back of the couch with you curled up next to him, your head resting on the side of his chest. You looked up at him through your lashes, a sweet smile tugging at your lips. When his eyes shot back down at you with curiosity, you quickly looked away, your cheeks feeling warm as quick breath escaped you.

“What?” Logan asked with no specific tone of voice. You could feel the deep vibration of it on the side of your face through his chest. When a few moments passed without an answer, Logan repeated his question. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you smiled, refusing to look him in the eye again. He would catch on for sure. This way, he would remain blissfully unaware that you were crazy about him. Just being this close to him, leaning on his chest the way you are, your heart is racing. Your head is filled with thoughts of him, your heart overwhelmed by the sound of his voice so close to your ear. The smell of liquor and rich tobacco radiated off of him, but not too strong, the delicate texture of his t-shirt over dense muscle, the beat of his heart just barely visible at the base of his neck. You wanted nothing more than to stare into his dark hazel eyes all day long, but you knew the look you were bound to give him would give it all away. He would know everything. He would know how you only stumble on your words around him, how he makes you heart race, how you’re intoxicated by his smell, how every time you’re in the field you’re terrified that, despite the fact that he can heal from anything, someday he won’t come back. How he fills your dreams at night, whether they’re about losing him, or about his lips on yours, his hand trailing down to your waist and sneaking just his fingertips under your shirt, squeezing just enough to pull you flush to him, your hand snaking up the back of his neck and into his hair, him kissing you fiercely, a cloudy haze filling your brain as he lifts you up onto him—

“You’re nervous,” Logan stated, leaning away so you’re forced to look at him or give yourself away as a liar. Your heart dropped, then raced harder like it was running out of time. You kept your head down, but your body faced him. Your eyes would tell him everything. The eyes don’t lie. Not yours, anyways.

“No-“

“I wasn’t asking, sweetheart,” he said. You unwittingly shook your head and breathed a laugh out of your nose. “What’s funny?”

“You,” you looked up at him, cocking your head to side in a playful manner. “You don’t ask, you just know,” you mocked.

“You know what-“

“What?” You sat up more, playful.

“You’re just-“

“Yeah?” You swiftly pulled a pillow out from behind you and smacked him with it. He held his forearm up defensively, a smile inching its way onto his face.

“Hey!” He shouted, grabbing his own pillow and swinging it your way. You jumped off the couch, followed by him, ready to take him down with the throw pillows he thought were so stupid when you bought them. ‘What’s the point of a pillow you’re not supposed to use,’ he had said. With both hands, you tossed the pillow at his face as a diversion to your real intention— tackling him to the floor. With a little air knocked out of him, a big fat grin appeared on his face as he quickly threw you underneath him and strategically pinned you to the floor, his forearm just barely touching your neck to keep your head down.

“Rude!” You exclaimed with a smile. Logan chuckled, a smirk flashing down at you and your heart jumped. God, was he sexy. You just wish you could tell him that. He stood up, offering you a hand which you quickly took. He pulled you from the floor, and suddenly your face was only inches from his. You could feel his breath on your cheeks, his eyes peering into the deepest parts of yours. You held your breath for a moment, wanting nothing more than to throw yourself at him and kiss him ‘til your face hurts, but instead just standing there.

“Hungry? I’m in the mood for a burger,” Logan said, taking a small step back and waiting on a response. You motionlessly shook off your nerves enough to answer.

“Me too.”

“You didn’t know?” Storm’s question echoed in his head.

“No,” Logan replied gruffly. His face hardened with worry and self-frustration.

How had he been so blind to it? All this time, he never thought you’d want him the way he wanted you. He wanted to see your smile everyday for the rest of his life, but he kept it to himself so you wouldn’t leave him. He wanted to hold you when you had bad dreams, make you breakfast in the morning, and as stupid as he’d always thought it was, he’d bring you flowers because he knew you would love it. He wanted to show you how much he loved you, through gifts, through his actions. Through taking you to your room and laying you down gently, taking his time to kiss every inch of you so you knew he appreciated each and every one. But he couldn’t He could deal with just being your friend as long as it meant keeping you around… right? Guilt, shame, anger, and everything else he’d ever felt in his life hit him all at once, like a truck hitting a stone wall at maximum speed. All of it was written on his face.

“No, I didn’t.”

~~~

Back at your apartment, you remained rotting on the couch, a multitude of cigarette butts laying in the ashtray and the bottle of Jack in your hand again. You stared mindlessly at the tv, your eyes void of any feeling or thought. But your head, your head was full of thoughts. Thoughts of the crash. No one knew except for you about what had happened that night.

You were carelessly driving home from the bar after a few drinks, thinking you’d be fine for the five minute drive home. You grabbed your phone off the passenger seat, staring down at a text from Logan: ‘can you talk right now?’ Despite your confidence in the fact that this was probably regarding the drunk voicemail you’d left him two hours ago at the bar. You were smart enough to not drive home right then, but now you felt like you could. But the semi-sober shame hit you as you read his message.

Sitting on the couch, you remember every word of that message, not that it mattered now.

“Heyy Logan…. I juss wanted to call you cause-” you hiccuped. “I juss… I want you d’know that I really like you- cause like, you’re a really great friend, ann I’m sometimes notsogreat… but I love you and… oh my god I didn’t- I’m sorry, this is probably a lot. I’m sorry, I love you as m’friend and also-“ you hiccuped again. “-like not… y’know? I’m sorry, what ‘m tryna say is maybe we could sh-talk, er something, like later maybe… I don’t know, can you juss call me back? Or come to my apartmenn when I get home… ‘m not driving, by the way, I’m uhh… sorry, again, I’m sorry. Um, yeah.”

You remembered staring at Logan’s contact picture, but you don’t remember the light turning red. That’s the only thing you don’t remember. Something massive crumpled the front end of your car, you lurched forward only stopped by your seatbelt. You cursed god for letting you remember it that night. You wished you hadn’t. Tires screeched, and sound of metal tumbling down the street in front of you will never be erased itself from your mind. Some of it only exists in flashes, quick frames of the steering wheel as your head smacked it, the other, smaller car driving perpendicular to you, the faint screams of its passengers, the car rolling sideways.

You remembered jumping out of your car, dropping your phone on the seat with Logan’s picture still on screen, and running to the other car. You bent down to look through the upside down window, looking at the passengers’ terrified faces. ‘Is everyone okay?’ you asked. Stupid. You set your hand on what should be the underside of the car, though it was facing the sky at this moment, and instantly lit the whole thing up. You jumped back at the sight of the flames, and the passengers started screaming.

The last moment you really remember is getting back in the car and fleeing— only once the screaming stopped. Your phone was ringing, and Logan’s picture reappeared on screen. You sent it to voicemail and turned it off, throwing on your nightstand when you got home and fell into bed.

You lifted the bottle of Jack to your mouth again, drinking it like water until the last of it was gone. You looked down at your phone now as it started vibrating on the coffee table. Logan. You laughed soullessly, then swiftly threw the bottle at the tv and both the bottle and the screen shattered. You launched yourself toward the tv and began swinging your fists into the already-broken screen. You swung, and swung, and swung until blood ran between your fingers and started pooling on the carpet.

~~~

The closest Logan’s ever gotten to just telling you how he feels was in your apartment, unbeknownst to him, the night before the accident. You were laying in your bed, Logan beside you with his arm around your shoulders. He felt so comfortable with you, part of im wishing you were already together and he just didn’t know. To anyone else, that’s what it would look like.

You were laughing at whatever the hell was on tv, Logan didn’t know, nor did he really care. He was just happy to be laying next to you. You looked up at him, the tv light making your eyes shimmer just enough for him to fall just a little bit more in love with you. You could have sworn you saw some loving glimmer in Logan’s eyes in that moment, and he swore that you were looking at him like that through your lashes on purpose. He leaned his face just barely closer, and you did the same. He took a breath, forcing himself to be brave and just seal the deal right then and there.

In a blink, his lips connected with yours, a fire roaring through your belly like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Logan felt stupid for needing to be brave in this moment, your lips just felt so natural against his, like you’d done it a thousand times. He gently held your face in his hand, leaning in further and deepening his kiss. You instinctively leaned back, letting Logan’s wide frame tower over you on the bed. A deep groan rumbled in his chest, feeling so good to finally kiss you and have your hands tangled in his hair. He let one of his hands trail down your side, sliding onto your leg and lifting it by the back of your knee so it lay flush against his side.

For a moment, you felt so good, and everything felt right. You felt a long-aching throb hit your core, wanting more from him. This was everything you had ever wanted, everything you’d ever imagined it would be like. His hands felt the perfect kind of rough on your delicate skin, his dog tags grazing your neck in a way that made our head spin. The tip of his tongue barely touched your bottom lip, asking for more. All you wanted was more, god, please, more.

Suddenly, Logan broke away from your lips, letting go of your leg and pulling his hand away from your face.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said in a hushed, shameful tone. “I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry… I-… I have to leave.”

He stood up and grabbed his jacket off the corner bedpost closest to the door, trying to leave before you could get a word in. “Logan, wait-!” And he was gone.

~~~

“Hey, pick up the phone. Where the hell are you?” Logan said after getting sent to voicemail a third time. “Answer your damn phone. Please!”

He ended his message and slammed his hand into the steering wheel. He’d already been to your apartment and you were nowhere to be found. There was broken glass everywhere, a cigarette in the ashtray still burning slowly, empty bottle everywhere, and a thick trail of blood from the living room carpet that led into the bedroom and over to the bathroom. The bathtub was full, the water tinted red with what was probably more blood, and water all over the floor like you’d gone in the tub still wearing your clothes. Logan’s heart broke at the sight, knowing that wherever you were, you were not in the headspace of someone who had any intention on going back home.

His heart raced as he sped down the boardwalk-adjacent street, desperately looking out at the water trying to hopefully catch a glimpse of you somewhere- anywhere- within a few minutes walking distance from your apartment complex. Logan knew you couldn’t have gone far if your cigarette was still burning, so he drove the streets nearby in anxious search of you.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure just walking out of the lamppost light of the boardwalk. He slammed on the brakes and jerked the car onto the side of the road, throwing it in park and dropping the keys on the seat as he jumped out. “Y/N!!” The figure stopped- it was you. Logan ran towards you as you kept walking, headed straight for the dock. With a faint splash, Logan panicked when you vanished from his view. He bolted as fast as he could- an inhuman level of speed- and dove straight off the dock into the ice cold water.

~~~

“So, what? Water hurts you?” Logan asked, taking a quick drag off his cigar and you stood together outside of your usual bar. You stood next to him, both of you leaning against the wall, his jacket slung around your shoulder because, you being you, had forgotten to bring your own for after sunset when the cold hit. A few weeks before the accident, the two of you had done what you usually did- go to the bar and talk.

“Well, think of me like a match,” you said, tiny flames rising from your fingertips as you lifted your hand in front of you for you both to see. The light glimmered in small, almost invisible specks in Logan’s eyes. He was intrigued by it, the undeniably human instinct of curiosity towards fire drawing his head just barely noticeably closer. “You put a match in water…” The flames blew out into streams of smoke. “It gets burnt back.”

“Wait- then how do you shower?” Logan asked, genuinely interested in your answer. You scoffed playfully and smacked his arm just below the hem of his shirt sleeve.

“Dude- really? Your first thought is about me in the shower?”

“Not what I meant,” Logan replied, giving you a look that said, ‘really’. You rolled your eyes at him, pulling his jacket closer around you.

“Short answer: quickly,” you told him, your eyes falling to the floor. Logan tilted his head down and sideways to look at your face, his face softening as he looked down at you. You’d wished he’d put an arm around you to turn you towards him. You wished he would lift your chin so you’d meet his gaze. You wished he would just kiss you, push you into the wall of that dingy little bar with his hand in your hair so your head wouldn’t hit the wall. You wished he would just put his mark on you right there, kissing you with utmost passion, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pushing his body flush against yours.

You wanted him to take you to his car and throw you into his backseat, to eager to go anywhere else. To put his mouth back on yours and tease your bottom lip with his tongue as he pulled his own shirt off, tossing it to god knows where. To peel his warm jacket off of you and expose your arms to the chilled air in his car as his body heat alone fogged up the inside of the windows. He’d grab your waist and pull it up to his, pushing it right back down with is hips, all the while fogging your mind with his kiss. He’d pull at the bottom of your shirt, slowly dragging it off of your body and breathing across your jaw and down your neck until his mouth connected with the sensitive skin right by your ear. Your stomach would already flutter, your whole body sensitive to even the slightest touch. You’d shudder as he kissed his way back up to your lips, and you’d let out the smallest cry when he’d grab your waist again.

“And the long answer?” Logan asked, snapping you out of your thoughts and back to where you really were— leaning against the outer wall of the bar, still wrapped in his jacket as he stood beside you. Damn your thoughts. You were just friends, that’s it. No way in hell would he ever think those things about you- but you wish he did.

“It stings, that’s for certain,” you said. “But it’s not too bad as long as I’m not fully submerged. That feels like being set on fire, as ironic as that is, coming from me.”

~~~

Logan gasped for air when he finally resurfaced, one arm holding you up while you were completely limp in the water. He dragged you back up onto the dock, praying you weren’t dead. “Come on, dammit, breathe.”

You laid there on your back, your clothes soaked down to our skin, your hair slick with salt water. You looked so peaceful, the most peaceful that Logan had seen you in over a month. He dropped a fist onto your chest, forcing a little water from your throat out onto your face. He paused for a moment, swearing to whatever god there was that if they didn’t bring you back, he’d kill them. Logan felt like he was dying inside. You kept laying there, not moving, not breathing, not even twitching a muscle. Nothing.

“Come on!” He shouted. Still nothing. He screamed, slamming his fist into the wooden dock and jabbing his claws straight through it. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!!” He yelled, stabbing a hole through the wood each time he said the word. “FUCK!!”

His heart dropped into his gut. With the scraping sound of metal, his claws disappeared back into his knuckles and he stumbled to his feet. As soon as he stood up, he fell back down onto his knees and held his stomach as he wretched over the edge of the dock into the water. This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t lose the only good thing he’s got in life. You made every day worth living for him, you were his everything. Everything he did, all the good and all the regret for the bad, it was all because of you. You were his whole world. He was so deeply in love with you, he felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside out at the thought that he was losing you.

Logan ran a hand through his wet hair, pulling it back away from his face. Streams of water ran down from his scalp and burned his eyes, turning them a right shade of red as they filled with tears, and not just because they burned. He stumbled on his knees back to you, gently lifting you into his lap and cradling you against his warm chest. Your whole body was cold, unnervingly cold. You didn’t feel like you anymore, you just felt empty out him. Like there was nothing left and all the you had been scooped out and what looked like you was just hollow. Logan squeezed his eyes shut and pressed your head into the crook of his neck, hoping to bring some semblance of heat back into you.

“Please,” he prayed. He whispered the word again and again, holding you impossibly closer to him.

Sputtering and spraying water from your mouth, you coughed and opened your eyes.

~~~

You woke up face down on your bed, exactly where you’d fallen asleep late into the night, the midday sun peering in through the curtains and warming your cheeks. You’d almost forgotten the events of the night before, until you felt your shoes still snug on your feet and the stinging gash in your forehead. There was blood on your pillow- now you’d have to wash your sheets. The sound that had woken you from your sleep repeated, three loud thuds on the door to your apartment. You rose from your bed, stretching out your aching back as you dragged your feet to the door.

The lock clicked as your extra set of keys unlocked it from the outside, the door opening right as you reached and Logan entered. Upon seeing you standing in front of him, Logan’s shoulders dropped their tension and his face softened just enough to be noticed. He rushed to embrace you, resting his chin on the top of your head, mumbling thanks to god that you were okay. You just stood there and let him hug you, not doing or feeling anything.

In your head, you wanted to be pissed at him for leaving you two nights ago and not taking your calls since then. You’d spent those nights in the bar, drinking away the thought that he didn’t want you like you did, when in reality, he thought he was taking advantage of you. You didn’t know that.

“What the hell happened last night?” Logan asked, pulling away to look at you, but keeping his hands rested on your shoulders. “You left me a- very drunk- voice message and then you didn’t answer me. I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Logan-“

“And what happened to your car- no, your face!” Logan exclaimed, noticing the sizable cut down your forehead. He began trying to usher you to your bathroom, but you brushed his arm off of you and stood still. “Come on, let me get that cleaned up.”

“Logan!” He stopped in dead in his tracks. You’d never yelled at him like this before, not in this tone. Something was wrong, he knew that. “Can you get out, please?”

He furrowed his brows, never having once been asked that by you before. “What-“

“Get the hell out!” You yelled.

His faced dropped cold, and without a word, he left, slamming the door behind him.

~~~

The rest of the night happened in a blur. You have vague memories of flashing lights. Charles’ and Storm’s voices. Strangers talking next to you- or to you? Logan shouting at somebody, ‘You’re fucking useless, doc!’. Somebody grabbed your hand-

You swung a fist, hitting some poor, innocent nurse. You looked around, your vision foggy, seeing a tray of medical supplies next your hands. That nurse was trying to fix your hands. You looked down at the fist you hit her with, your knuckles were oozing blood again. More hospital staff rushed in, some helping up the nurse, and the others forcing you back down onto the bed.

You tried yanking yourself away from them, screaming despite how much your throat and how hoarse your voice was. You broke free for a moment and ran straight into the glass door, your vision so clouded that you couldn’t tell it was closed. You yelled out in pain, catching the attention of an anxious Logan in the hallway. He rushed to the door as the nurses threw you back onto the bed and began trying to cuff you to the bed.

“Hey, get the fuck off her!” Logan shouted as he pushed past them all to get to you. You swung at him, wailing hoarsely as you did only for Logan to catch your arm and use it to pull you into his arms. You struggled against him as he sat down, only holding onto you tighter until you slowly stopped fighting him. Tears streamed down your face as you coughed, your throat dry and burning from how raw it’s become. Logan ran one hand down the side of your head, his other arm wrapped tight around you. You leaned into him- he was so warm- and let your hot tears soak into his shirt as everything went black again.

~~~

“I’m taking her home, now,” Logan stated, staring down your doctor as Storm stood beside him with Charles close by.

“Logan”

“Storm-! No,” he cut her off. “She’s done being stuck in here. She’s been here a week already in some fuckin’ psych room and she’s going home. I don’t care what this fuck’s gotta say about it. She’s going home.”

“She’s-“ the doctor said nervously, jumping slightly at the death stare Logan was giving him. “She is clear to go home, but she needs someone to be with her to make sure show won’t be a danger to herself. She’s still mentally fragile.”

“She’s not fuckin’ fragile,” Logan growled. “Give me the damn papers.”

~~~

Two nights back at your apartment, you and Logan were stuck to one another like glue. You still couldn’t say much as your vocal cords were still strained, but all you wanted was for him to be wrapped around all day and night. And he did exactly that. He refused to leave your side.

On your third night home, Logan took you to the shower, much to your dismay. “Logan,” you croaked.

“Y/n, please,” Logan pleaded. “Just let me help you. Please.”

As you undressed, Logan faced the door, letting you get in the shower without his eyes on you. This isn’t the way either of you had ever pictured him seeing you bare for the first time. After the curtain closed, Logan heard a faint hiss, causing him to rush across the small room and peek around the curtain, keeping his eyes only on the back of your head. You turned your head towards him, looking at him with begging eyes. Without a second thought, Logan climbed into the shower fully clothed. He didn’t care about the water soaking through his jeans and shirt or filling up his boots. All he cared about was that you were taken care of.

Reaching around you with his head turned away, he grabbed the shampoo bottle and dumped a glob into his hand, massaging it into your scalp. He did the same with your conditioner, and only let himself wash your back, still only focused on your face or the wall. Making sure you were rinsed completely, he let you shut off the water when you were reading, your skin red from the sting of it. Logan stepped out, his boots soaking the shower mat while he blindly handed you a towel, waiting until you pulled o his arm to turn him around.

“You need one too,” you said quietly, handing him another towel from the two hooks nearby. He smiled softly, stepping out of his boots and ruffling his hair with the towel. As he peeled off his socks and discarded them on the edge of the tub, he glanced up at you with gentle eyes.

“You know I don’t have any clothes here,” Logan joked, though it was true. You offered a light smile back at him, grateful that despite him now knowing what you’d done, he still wanted to stick around. You didn’t even care that in this moment, he could see all the raw emotions in your eyes, your endless love for him glowing. As he pulled his shirt off, he kept smiling down at you, the same glow in his eyes reflecting back at you.

“Logan-“

“Y/n, wait,” Logan interrupted softly. He threw the towel over his shoulder and gently held your shoulders in his hands, ignoring the goosebumps that rose under his touch. “There’s something I gotta say first. And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner, but dammit I-…”

You looked at him with soft, curious eyes. God, he wanted to say it so bad and this was the less-than perfect moment to say it, but that face. He couldn’t not say it when you looked at him like that. The words froze to his tongue, but he clenched his teeth briefly and braced himself to say it.

“Logan, I love you-“

His lips on yours silenced you, his hands gliding up onto either side of your face, your ears tucked between his thumb and pointer finger. Your hands held onto his thick torso, pulling him closer as he kissed you harder. “Fuck,” he groaned, your fingers pulling his belt undone. You tossed it to the floor and Logan’s hands lifted you from the backs of your thighs, your legs wrapping around him, but awkwardly squashed by your towel. Effortlessly, Logan walked you out of the bathroom, still kissing you like he would never stop, as if you ever wanted him to.

Already in your bedroom already, Logan sat on the edge of the bed with you in his lap. He snaked his hand around to the center of your bare back, the other pulling you further into his lips by the back of your head. He groaned again, pulling away from the kiss when he felt his jeans tighten.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice soft but deep. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Never,” you answered, leaning back in for a kiss, only for him to pull away further.

“Wait.”

“Logan, I want this. Please. I want you.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes darkening with lust, but still gazing lovingly at you. “I just wanted to say something… I love you, too.”

He pressed his lips firm to yours, quickly teasing your lower lip with his tongue then gently biting it. He shamelessly moaned when you let the towel slide off you completely, leaving you naked before him for the first time while facing him. Tracing your curves with his hands, Logan was eager to see what he’d been missing, but patient enough to let you let him see it. You leaned to the side, letting Logan know you wanted to lay back, and he gently turned you over until he was above you. He still hadn’t looked yet, so caught up in the fact that he was kissing you again.

“Logan,” you whined between breaths, reaching for the wet waistband of his jeans, tugging the button free and pulling the zipper down. He got the message, swiftly stepping out of them and finally pulling away from your lips and looking down at the sight before him.

“Fuck sake,” he growled, his boxers tightening more. “Woman, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, y’know that?”

Quickly wrapping your legs around his waist, you surprised him by pulling him back down on top of you. His hands explored all the new places on your waist and legs and chest that he had seen. He wanted to just touch all of you, feeling every inch of your skin forever. You shivered under his fingertips, your hips pulling themselves upwards as if they were magnetized to his. Logan’s head tilted back in pleasure at the feeling, a quiet moan slipping from your mouth. That’s all it took for Logan’s mind to cloud up completely with the thought of fucking you.

He stripped himself of the last of his clothes and pulled your naked body up the bed until your head was resting on the pillows. “God, I just want to tear you up right now. But I’m gonna take my time with you, cause I want this to be perfect.”

You tangled your fingers in Logan’s hair, pulling his mouth back down to yours with haste, wanting him to cut straight to the chase. His dog tags dragged softly along the center of your chest, grazing your breast just enough to elicit another moan from you. As soon as the sound escaped you, Logan was inside of you, just enough for you to feel him and set your belly on fire with need. You bucked your hips up again, only for Logan to pull the little bit that was inside of you right back out.

“Darling, I’m getting there,” he smiled, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Just gotta get you warmed up to me first.”

“Logan, please,” you begged. God, he just wanted to push all the wat into right then and just go all night until you couldn’t walk, but he knew he couldn’t do that yet. He wanted to take his time with you. “I need you. Please.”

He leaned down further, his facial hair grazing your cheek and his cold dog tags resting on your breast completely. “I’m going to show you just how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered into your ear. “And I’m gonna go slow. I want it to be perfect… for you.”

A chill ran down your spine as he pulled his head back to look in your eyes as he gently pushed the tip back in, your whole body sensitive enough that you could feel every nerve ending. Your hands gripped his hair tighter, causing him to push all the way in and your eyes to roll back for a moment. He moaned loudly, his forehead dropping against yours as a bead of sweat already rolled down his temple. Somebody let out a mumbled ‘fuck,’ and Logan began slow, deep strokes.

As he struggled to keep his hips slow, he focused on your neck, trailing kisses and small bites across every inch of it he could reach. His hips accidentally jolted as deep as he could go, eliciting a loud moan from you, causing his eyes to go dark and his hands to gently pin your wrists on either side of your head. You clenched your fingers into fists, not being able to touch him driving your nerves crazy. Logan snapped his hips again, leaving long pauses of him just sitting deep inside of you between strokes, both of you unable to contain all the noises you siphoned from one another.

“I’m gonna go faster now, okay?” He said, asking for permission which you granted through a dazed nod. He let go of your wrists and picked up the pace, forcing your body to curl up against his until you were chest to chest. With a gentle swoop, your were on his lap again and you sank onto him impossibly deeper.

He bucked up into you, hitting that sweet spot inside of you that made your hips roll instinctively. From there, you both became desperate to go faster, and Logan went hard and deep. He hit that soft spot over and over until a fire roared inside of you, begging to let go.

“Let go, sweetheart,” Logan told you, pulling gently on your hair to leave love bites on your chest. He scooped the curve in your back closer, hitting that spot at a new angles and causing you to collapse on top of him, all that fire and tension falling apart in a sweet release that melted your brain.

Logan guided you quickly back down onto the bed, never letting up on his pace, still hitting that spot until tears welted up in your eyes from how sensitive you’d become. Logan groaned with each thrust, silencing himself by kissing you again, his tongue finally letting itself all the way into our mouth. His kiss was more needy this time, his need to breathe coming quicker now between connections. Suddenly, he pulled away and pulled almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside of you again.

You whined at the near-emptiness, tightening around what was left of him just slightly. At the feeling, Logan let out a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting his head tilt back in pleasure again. “You’re gonna kill me, woman.”

He pushed right back in again, picking up his previous pace again in a millisecond. You cried out, the burning sensation coming right back as you neared that blissful high again. Your arms wrapped under his arms and onto his shoulder blades, gripping him so tight until your nails began to dig into his back. He moaned very audibly at the feeling, shoving his tongue back into your mouth just the enough to keep you wanting more. You curled up towards him again, and he picked up the pace until he was pounding into you and rocking the headboard into the wall over and over and over.

You felt the tension wind up again, and Logan could feel you tightening around him again. He yelled out at the feeling, which brought you to another high, your areas washing over you again. Logan felt the grip you had on him, not just with your hands, but everywhere. He cried out again at how good it felt to be inside of you, gripping him so tight that he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he loved it.

“Oh-… fuck- where?” He growled.

“I don’t care- oh!” You screamed from pleasure, a third high hitting you like a ton of bricks, barely letting you comedown from the last one. Logan cried out again, his hips faltering and shaking as he released inside of you, the feeling more blissful than anything he’d ever felt before. His claws shot out into the mattress as he finished, but not drawing your attention from the pure pleasure that flowed in waves through your body. His hips stopped, but he stayed inside of you when he collapsed on top of you, drawing his claws back in.

“Holy- fuck,” Logan groaned, lifting himself off your chest as you both gasped for air. He looked down at you with loving eyes, stroking the top of your head to push the sweat-stuck hair off of your face. He smiled bigger than he ever had before, and you returned one just as big.

“Logan?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You owe me a new mattress.”

You both laughed, and Logan pushed all the way back into you. You moaned lightly again, looking at Logan with a questioning glance.

“Oh, honey, we’re just getin’ started.”

~~~

~~~

~~~

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 24: His Hands Hold My Heart & He Won't Let Go Until It's Scarred

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

“You’re going to sell me to Mephistopheles?”

“Well,” he glances at his nails, eyes half-lidded in bored disdain. “I doubt he’ll take you in the flesh. Look at you—pitiful. But your soul? That, I imagine, might interest him. Perhaps he’ll melt you down and turn you into something more useful. A coin, maybe. A miserable, worthless coin.”

You know you should feel fear, maybe even anger, but all you feel is amusement—dark, hollow, and bitter. It claws its way out of you in a dry, rasping laugh. He thinks he’ll gain something from the sale of your sorry soul? What a joke. You’ve already promised it to someone far worse than Mephistopheles could ever dream of being.

It is a long way to Cania from Avernus. At the very least, it gives you time to bring Astarion home to himself, and you will be inching toward your target in the meantime. What you will do if you arrive at Mephistar still bound and tethered by the leash of compulsion is something you can consider later.

“Think I’d make a fetching coin?” You quip, a sardonic smile playing on your lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling.” Astarion taunts darkly. The malignant red of his eyes swim with an amalgamation of cruelty and malevolence. “You will at the very least be worth something.”

“At least slot me into Karlach, will you? It would tickle me to assist her in killing you.”

Your words are reckless, but instead of backing away, something within you shifts—a gut-wrenching desire to protect him flares up. It’s poisonous, invasive, and you feel disgusted by it. Is this the compulsion Gale warned you about? Twisting you inside out until you can't even tell friend from foe?

Astarion’s laugh is sharp and jagged, like glass shattering in your ears. “You’ve always been amusingly deluded. I could snap your neck right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. Mouthy little spawn like you? There’s no shortage of your kind. If you don’t shut up, I’ll tear that tongue out of your skull.”

You groan with an exasperated roll of your eyes and lay your head down on Shadowheart’s pack like a makeshift pillow. It does little to cushion your head from the stone that somehow retains the sweltering heat, like the fires of Avernus are burning just below it, despite the fact that you’re in a cave.

“Fine, kill me. Or don’t. I’m tired.” You roll your eyes and turn your back on him, though the tense atmosphere and the heat baking the air in the cave make rest seem impossible.

You close your eyes and try to get yourself to drift into some semblance of a trance.

“You cannot be seriously thinking of resting now.” His sharp, derisive scoff cuts through the silence like a whip. “It’s still daylight out.”

You open one eye and glare at him. “There is no day and night cycle here, master.” You mock him openly and marvel at how little fear you possess, even though the grim reaper stares at you with dark eyes and ashen skin as pale as death. "If you want to stay awake and brood, go ahead. I’ll be here, meditating.”

For a moment, Astarion’s gaze lingers on you with something between loathing and interest. His lips curl as if he’s mulling over the quickest way to silence you for good. You flop over dramatically, turning your back to him, and you can feel him behind you, feel his cold eyes boring into your back, but nothing happens.

Keeping your eyes firmly closed is difficult, and you have to make a conscious effort not to open them and check to see if he’s prowling behind you with a dagger in hand. Instead, you focus on his beating heart, offering you the ability to estimate proximity, which has neither increased nor decreased for some time.

Minutes stretch out into an awkward, oppressive silence. And then—without warning—he lays down beside you and presses his back against yours. For a moment you stiffen and wonder if you should pull away, but the steady rise and fall of his breathing are known, soothing even, and you quickly find yourself slowly fading from your weary mind into your trance.

Unfortunately, Astarion’s body heat only adds to the blistering heat, and sweat drips down your face, stomach, arms, and everywhere else you can possibly sweat from. It makes Shadowheart’s clothes, which do not fit you quite right, stick to you and you shift uncomfortably.

“Are you awake?” Astarion murmurs, the words brushing over you like a chill.

You hesitate, not knowing if you truly want to answer. “Yes.”

“It’s hot,” he states, almost accusatory, as if it’s your fault.

“Well, we are in the Hells. This place feels like Grymforge all over again,” you state truthfully in a mumble. Despite your draconic blood, this constant inferno is unbearable.

Your psyche dances closer and closer toward the peaceful oblivion beckoning you as your breath slows and eventually ceases, and you push yourself further into him. You tell yourself that you’re doing it for safety, but the truth is, you’re just wishing for comfort.

He speaks again when you’ve already sunken so low into your trance that your limbs are starting to feel weightless and your head feels like it might be floating above your body.

“I could keep us cool, you know. Just say the word.” He offers, and you recognize the heft of weighty weariness in the lowness of his voice. At first, you’re perplexed, but then you vaguely remember that he can control his body temperature.

In your state of near unconsciousness, you forget which Astarion you are talking to, and your tongue numbed by fatigue answers as if this is your Astarion. “Yes, my love,” you sigh.

Astarion doesn’t answer, but the change in temperature is immediate. His body cools to an almost unnaturally low temperature, relieving you from the relentless heat. Despite your better judgment, you find yourself turning toward him, seeking that comfort. His arms wrap around you, but there’s no warmth in the gesture—just cold hands that grip a little too tight, holding you like a possession. His fingers dig into your back with casual cruelty.

“You are positively pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with malice. “Clinging to me for comfort like I’m still the man you used to know. Foolish little thing. I could crush you.”

Even in the haze of exhaustion, his words twist into you like a knife in your gut. But your body is too heavy, too numb to react. You’re trapped in this toxic push-and-pull between him—the monster—and the shadow of the man you loved. For now, you let the coolness lull you into a fitful trance, knowing full well you’re lying in the embrace of something dangerous.

When your eyes flutter open again, you can’t even begin to estimate the time you were asleep. Minutes? Hours? Enough time for your body to stiffen. The muscles in your legs burn, and your feet scream with pain as soon as you try to move. You blink through the grogginess and find yourself still entangled with him, his icy presence anchoring you to the sweltering cave floor.

You catch a short glimpse of Astarion more or less in his trance and tilt your head slightly. It never ceases to surprise you when you see that he still looks like himself. In your mind’s eye, you’ve conjured up a monster, but it’s not a monster that lays holding you.

It’s still just Astarion.

He shifts slightly, his brows pinching when your fingers curl into him a little too hard, and his eyes slowly open. Cold eyes meet yours only for a moment before they dart to the cave mouth. The land is pebbled with cooling, molten balls, some still in their spherical shapes, others merely shrapnel spread chaotically, but no more rain down.

Astarion glances back at you with heavily lidded eyes that fall to your lips and hover there. You think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him until he tosses you off him roughly as if you were simply a convenient blanket or maybe a fleshly, undead shield.

“Get up,” he commands. “You’ve wasted enough time lying there like a corpse. We move now.”

Astarion stands abruptly in a way that makes him almost appear frightened, but of what, you cannot say. He tugs his shirt on with hasty movements as if you’re making him uncomfortable, and you reflexively turn around to give him privacy.

Now that shock and adrenaline have abandoned you, the agony that radiates up your legs is nigh-on unbearable when you try to put weight on your feet. You screw your eyes shut, half stooped over, palms braced on your thighs, and pray that you can keep the tears at bay.

Pushing through the pain, you crouch down and stuff what you have back into Shadowheart’s bag, positioning it across your body and standing. You don’t realize your body has betrayed you and tears are clinging to your lashes and vining down your dirty cheeks until you see Astarion’s ugly smirk twisting his lips as he takes in your struggle.

“You look like hell,” he taunts, crossing his arms. “I could compel you, you know. Force your body to ignore the pain. But why would I? Watching you suffer is much more entertaining.” He leans forward slightly, in the way he used to do when he was trying to seduce you in those early days and months. “I will enjoy watching you toil in the consequences of your choice, as I did for centuries. You should count yourself lucky that I haven’t skinned you alive and forced you to walk on the raw, exposed nerves.”

You grit your teeth and stand, barely able to meet his gaze without wanting to snap at him. But snapping at him would only give him more fuel, more satisfaction, so you swallow the pain. "I'm fine. Lead on.”

He chuckles darkly as he strides ahead, not even bothering to slow his pace for you. It turns out you were right about the silk. It didn’t stand a chance against the sawtoothed terrain and is chewed up as easily as your feet were. Every step is agony as you limp after him, the rocks and jagged ground tearing at your flayed feet. You bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, but Astarion notices.

Of course he does. He always notices when you’re hurting.

“Don’t fall behind, little lamb,” he calls over his shoulder, voice dripping with mockery.

He keeps walking, the distance between you growing as you struggle to keep up. The silence that falls between you is heavy and burdensome, filled only with the sound of your laboured breathing and the distant crackle of molten lava.

As the journey stretches on, Astarion’s cruelty does not wane. When you stumble, he laughs. When you try to rest, he sneers. He takes every opportunity to remind you of your weakness, of your insignificance.

No matter how hard you try to shake it, that feeling of twisted loyalty remains, poisoning your thoughts. And Astarion, ever the predator, revels in your torment, savouring every moment of your slow, painful descent.

You walk for what feels like hours, but in this heat, it could have only been minutes. It’s just you, Astarion, and this landscape of ruin and death as far as the eye can see. The bones of the fallen crunch beneath your feet, and soon, the towering skeleton of a dragon looms ahead, its massive ribs arcing over the desolate ground like the decaying remnants of an ancient titan.

“An ancestor of yours, perhaps?” He arches a brow, his lips twisting in a cruel grin as he watches you squeeze through the dragon’s ribcage.

You shrug, keeping your tone flat. “I’m an orphan. I don’t know my family.”

Astarion stops abruptly, his eyes narrowing in exaggerated surprise. “Oh, an orphan, are we?” His voice is laced with venom. “Well, that does explain a few things.” He lets out a cold, hollow laugh, loud enough to startle you, and you can’t help but wince.

Shit. You forgot that this version of him didn’t know.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, even though you already know you’re walking right into his trap.

He smirks, baring his fangs just enough to be menacing. “It’s just so perfectly tragic, isn’t it? A lonely little orphan, so desperate for affection that she couldn't even recognize the poison behind a pretty face. Easy prey, really. You never stood a chance against me.”

The truth of his words stings more than it should, but you press on, determined not to let him see the hurt it causes. “What’s your point, Astarion?”

“My point?” He steps closer, his tone now gleefully mocking. “That you’re a fool. Did you really believe for even a second that I—he—had feelings for you? A naive little orphan, finally tasting affection for the first time, only to be used like a pawn in a game you were never equipped to play.”

Yes.

You try not to answer and just keep walking forward, between bones, ruins of great weapons, and craters, with your eyes firmly anchored to the ground. If you can keep your mind focused, maybe you will not cry.

“When he held you,” Astarion continues, his voice taking on a cruel, sing-song quality, “when you fell asleep in his arms... did you really believe that meant something?”

“Yes!” You snarl, but keep yourself turned away. He’s opened an old wound that never quite fully heals, and it bleeds through your eyes in the form of tears. “I thought I had finally found someone who cared about me. I was naive, and I didn’t recognize it as a trick at the time. You got me good. Are you happy now, Astarion? Is that what you want to hear?”

He sneers, his expression a twisted mask of disgust. “Pitiful wretch,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker of something—almost imperceptible—beneath the scorn in his eyes.

You squeeze through the ossified jaws of the dragon and wonder what the beast would have looked like alive, which brings you to a more concerning question: what in the Hells could have killed it? The only consolation that allays any true unease is that the beast has been dead for countless years. Whatever took it down is hopefully long gone.

Astarion takes the lead once more, and you realize he has not used his compulsion to force you to follow. You consider running, but where would you run to? He’s already taking you where you need to go, or trying to, at least. If you can make this version of him trust you, it might give you a chance to bring back your husband in time for a honeymoon in the hells.

How delightful.

The soles of your feet are little more than flaps of hanging skin. Your legs are wobbly as a newborn colt, and you stumble more frequently now, the heat, blood loss, and fatigue all merging into one sickening blur. You’re barely holding on.

You eventually come upon something that resembles a forest, but the trees are gruesomely twisted with orange leaves that seem to be constantly searing around the edges. When you peer between the trees, the gloom that clings between the trees feels unnatural, like a living thing, waiting to devour anything that strays too close.

Astarion looks around for a moment. “It will take us much longer to go around at your plodding pace. We will have to go through it.”

“No.” You grab his arm, voice high and desperate, and shake your head. “This isn’t a good idea. We have no idea what lives in there. We should just go around.”

He grins, a dark gleam in his eyes. “Oh, are we frightened, my little pet? Don’t worry. With me by your side, what could possibly harm you? Besides, of course, me.” He winks, and then without another word, he strides in, disappearing almost instantly.

You consider going around. If Astarion wants to die in there, that’s his business, but once again, that feeling squirms in your gut, leaving you rooted to the ground and unable to move unless it’s towards him.

A moment later, glowing red eyes pierce the gloom, and Astarion emerges with an irritated scowl. “Are you coming, or shall I make you?” His voice is laced with the threat of compulsion.

That is enough to coerce you to reluctantly step forward and into the gloom. You conjure a flame in your hand to light the way, but the shadows swallow the light almost instantly. It’s not long before you start to see the calcified corpses and strange-looking fungal pods that this place is made of. There is an eerie breeze, though it does not cause the trees to ruffle, that sounds like the wailing of tortured souls.

Without warning, Astarion grabs the back of your neck, his fingers like iron. You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, dragging you forward as if you weigh nothing. You sigh in resignation. It’s pointless to fight him.

Looking at the ground, you allow him to lead you around by the neck. “Why do you even bother with this?” you ask quietly. “I’m not going to run.”

“It would not go well for you if you did.” Astarion sneers. “I’d rather not take any chances with my little pawn.”

You trudge through the dark, each step heavier than the last. You’re exhausted, and the pain in your feet is becoming unbearable. You can feel the skin hanging loosely, blood trickling down with every step.

“We should leave, Astarion. We can’t even see where we are going. It will take us longer to get through this than to just go around it.”

Astarion chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Scared, pet?”

“Yes,” you admit, the word coming out as a shaky whisper.

The pompous arrogance of Astarion’s expression is made of slips momentarily, and you swear his eyes flicker. He grabs his head, shaking it furiously from side to side. When his eyes come back up, the flickering has ceased, and your heart feels like it drops from whatever decaying stem it hangs from and into your stomach.

“Fine. We’ll go around.” Astarion finally says, but his words are slowed, almost slurred, like he’s trying not to say them. “But don’t think I’m doing it for you.”

The two of you attempt to retrace your steps, but the landscape seems to have shifted. The trees, the bones, the shadows—they all look the same.

“Can you follow the trail of my blood?” You ask him.

Astarion scents the air, his brows furrowed. “There isn’t a trace of it anywhere.”

You walk around aimlessly for some time before Astarion stops for a moment in another attempt to get his bearings. You lean up against one of the calcified trees, trying to get some weight off your feet, and a twisted face juts out of the bark. It’s mouth wide open in a perpetual scream, and you jolt away from the tree and stifle a scream of your own.

Astarion is beside you in an instant, his dagger gleaming. “What is it?”

You point, your voice shaking. “There are… people stuck in the trees.”

You grab his wrist and find your way back to the white-barked tree, bringing the flame to it.

Astarion swallows. “Well, that’s not unsettling at all.”

Instead of your neck, Astarion grabs your hand, trying to pull you as quickly as possible through the bends and twists that often end up in completely dead ends. The pace is brutal, and the pain in your feet makes you bite your lip to keep from crying out.

You do not know what this version of him will do if you tell him you cannot walk any longer. Will he leave you in his place? Will he laugh and simply compel you to do it until your feet are chewed to the point that only bone remains? He may also just revel in your pain and ignore your pleas. It seems likely given his mood today.

You want out of here; this place feels wrong, and every instinct you have tells you to run as far from here as possible. When you run up to another dead end, it suddenly dawns on you.

“It’s a maze,” you caution with a shudder.

“Shit.” Astarion sighs, wracking his fingers through his dirty hair. His eyes drop to your feet, and he grimaces, cocking his head. “We’ll rest here,” he declares, his voice tinged with annoyance.

“Here?” You glance around uneasily. At the very least, you are backed up to a dead end, but there’s no telling what horrors are roaming this place.

“If you have a better idea,” he snaps, “I’m all pointy ears.”

The only better idea you have is that you could use Hellfire to burn this place to the ground, but the warning Asmodeus cautioned with still sits heavily on your consciousness. That, and you would rather Astarion not know about that particular power you possess.

“No,” you say, defeated, sitting down on the still remarkably hard ground. “I don’t have a better idea.”

“I thought not.”

Astarion sits while you keep several orbs of fire that form a ring around you. Another one of those tense silences seems to thicken the air between you. You’re tired, but you don’t think rest will come in a place such as this where the wind echos with pained voices and the shadows appear to twist and undulate as if something is moving through it, just out of sight. Beyond that, you can feel there is magic at work here — old magic — which is only used by a handful of creatures, and none of them are good.

Reluctantly, you grab your ankle to get a look at the bottom of your foot, only to realize it’s been flayed by the land. Your skin hangs in gruesome flaps, and you’re pretty sure you can see the bones. You sigh, picking out shards of obsidian and slivers of crystal and quartz.

You don’t need to look up to know that Astarion is once again watching you with a strange intensity. When you bring your eyes up to look at him, you realize that he’s not exactly staring at you but also through you, leagues away from here. It’s not a look you’ve seen on the Ascendant much before, and it concerns you. Is he listening to the call of Cania? Is the song still howling in his skull, icing over his soul, and infecting his thoughts?

Trying to fit the pieces of your skin together like a grisly jigsaw puzzle is beyond horrific, but you eventually get it as good as it’s going to get, and you press your palm up against the skin and let fire burst forth to cauterize it. You whimper under the pain of it, but bite your tongue to keep it as small and muffled as possible.

“You need blood,” Astarion muses while pointing at your feet, “to heal.”

“Are you offering?”

Astarion chuckles. “The answer will be no until the end of time.”

“Ah, so just making another genius observation then,” you retort. “Where am I going to find blood around here?”

“That’s very much a you problem.” Astarion counters with a smirk. “Take the healing potion.”

You’ve considered it, but it’s the only one you have, and you’re not keen on wasting it. So far, you’ve been lucky not to run into any of the denizens that inhabit this plane. You’re very sure that luck will run out sooner or later.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I quite enjoy watching you suffer. Now, get some rest. I’ll take first watch.”

For once, you do not want to argue with him, and you once again fold Shadowheart’s pack and lay your head on it. It’s hard to find enough peace to rest. You toss and turn for what feels like hours before Astarion groans.

“Will you stop flopping around like a dying fish?”

“I’m trying.” You sigh and gesture to your surroundings. “It’s a little difficult to get comfortable. Maybe you should rest, and I’ll take first watch.”

“Fine by me.” Astarion says, balling his coat up and putting it under his head.

His heartbeat slows and his breathing becomes shallow while he seems to easily slip into his trance despite the disturbing scene around him. Although you wonder if two centuries of being under Cazador’s yolk was worse than some unnatural darkness.

Despite the bawling wind, there is a surreal silence that is as bottomless as the shadows. Your knees come to your chest, and you wrap your arms around yourself while a shiver runs down your spine. It feels like the faces in the trees are watching you through their calcified eyes.

You almost reach out to Astarion to wake him, if only for company, but find yourself enraptured in watching him rest deeply in his trance. The vulnerability of it on this version of him appears almost alien, and for some reason, it seems improper to watch him that way you are.

His eyes move under his closed lids, his brows twitch randomly, and soft sighs sidle from his slightly parted lips. What does this version of him meditate on during his repose? Does he dream of blotting the sun from the sky for his children? Does he hear the whispers of Cania and all the lowly creatures begging to serve?

Like you, because that’s what he sees when he looks at you, isn’t it? Just another lowly creature who awaits his commands with bated breath. Is he wrong though? Even when he isn’t using his compulsion, you still follow him around like a good pup. It doesn’t matter what he’s done to you in the past or the threat he possesses now; you still continue to follow on his heels.

Time slips away from you in the maze, consumed by the crushing darkness and the twisted, calcified trees that seem to shift behind you when you’re not looking. As lost in your thoughts as you are, you don’t realize that Astarion is staring at you until you catch the sharp, predatory eyes that are so listless they almost appear black, glaring at you with unsettling intensity.

“That was quick.”

“I do not require much in the way of sleep any longer,” he says blatantly. “Would you like to get some rest or can you walk?”

You flex your foot experimentally, wincing as you rise to your feet. The ground, even here in this hellish maze, still feels like knives underfoot, but at least you can walk again—albeit clumsily and slowly.

Astarion watches you with a curious mix of contempt and something that almost resembles concern. Almost.

“Don’t overdo it, little spawn,” he mutters. “I won’t carry you if you collapse.”

You shoot him a glare, unwilling to show just how close you are to faltering. The ground beneath you feels like it's slipping away with every step, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you weak.

“I don’t need your help,” you snap, the words coming out sharper than intended. “Let’s just try to get out of here.”

As the maze tightens its grip, the world twists in unnatural ways. You fight to keep pace, the domineering pall wrapping around you like a second skin, while the gnarled trees loom overhead, their branches curling toward you as if eager to pull you in. Every misstep feels heavier, like the earth itself is conspiring to drag you down, but Astarion presses on without a flicker of concern for your struggle. You stumble, and for a split second, his eyes flash back to you—less in worry, more in cold amusement.

Your legs ache and the whispers in the air grow louder, more insistent. They slither through the trees like venomous words, some in voices you almost recognize, others purely monstrous.

Astarion, ever vigilant, leads with the confidence of someone who pretends to know where they’re going. Yet the truth is clear: you’re both lost. But he’ll never admit it. Not to you.

“Stay close,” he commands sharply, his tone leaving no room for defiance. He halts suddenly, his form taut, listening to something you can’t hear.

“What is it?” You whisper.

He throws you a withering glance. “Quiet.” His hand rises in a gesture that isn’t so much protective as it is condescending, as if you’re some child who needs constant supervision. “Something’s coming.”

The flickering orbs of fire you summoned seem to ebb, flickering as if they wish to go out no matter how much power you use, as though whatever approaches has the ability to snuff out even the smallest light. You strain to listen, but the silence of the maze is thick, like it clogs your ears. Then, from deep within the shadows, a whisper reaches you—soft, insidious, and eerily familiar.

“Turn back…”

You freeze. The voice… It sounds like someone you know, though the tone is distorted, twisted by the magic of this place.“

“Turn back…” The whisper repeats, this time louder, clearer. And now, unmistakably, it is your voice.

You glance at Astarion, who remains rigid and alert, though you can tell by his expression that he has heard it too. But he does not acknowledge the voice. Instead, his eyes narrow, and his lips curl into a snarl.

“Do not heed it,” he commands, stepping closer to you. “It’s this place—an illusion meant to draw you in, to confuse you.”

But even as he speaks, the whisper persists. “Turn back… before it’s too late...”

The words slither around you like serpents, and when you look ahead, you see a shadowy figure emerge from between the twisted trees. It’s you—or some twisted version of you. Astarion’s gaze hardens, but there’s no sympathy in it. He steps forward, his fingers curling around your arm, yanking you harshly toward him.

“Do not let it fool you,” he snarls, his grip firm, too firm. “It’s just another trick. This place preys on weakness.”

You try to shake free, but his hold tightens. The figure between the trees steps closer, her hollow eyes locked on yours, pale skin almost glowing in the gloom, clothes tattered and burnt.

“Don’t look at it,” he hisses. “It’s not real.”

“I know,” you say, your voice wavering despite your efforts to stay calm. But the apparition doesn’t disappear. Instead, it steps closer, its movements slow and deliberate, as though it’s stalking you.

“He’s lying to you,” the figure whispers. “He always has.”

You feel a chill run down your spine. The words are not unexpected—Astarion’s lies have always been part of your story—but hearing them from this twisted version of yourself is somehow far more unsettling.

Astarion’s eyes flicker, but his expression remains stony. “Ignore it. You’re stronger than this.”

But the figure steps closer still, her gaze unrelenting. “He’ll betray you. Just like before.”

A knot tightens in your chest. The figure’s words sting because they echo thoughts you’ve tried to bury. You’ve known all along what Astarion is capable of, yet here you are, following him deeper.

He watches you closely now, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not seriously considering this drivel, are you?” His tone is razor-sharp, almost mocking, as if daring you to believe the apparition over him.

The figure shifts, flickering like a candle about to go out, then speaks again, but this time in his voice: “I never cared.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the maze itself seems to hold its breath too. Astarion’s eyes narrow to slits, and he steps in front of you, blocking the figure from your sight.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he growls, dagger in hand, as he slashes at the illusion. But the figure only fades into mist, reforming just a few steps away, untouched and unbothered by his fury.

Astarion’s frustration is palpable, but before he can attack again, the figure speaks once more—again in his voice: “I never loved you.”

You wince, the words striking deeper than any blade could. It’s not just the sound of his voice, but the way the words reverberate in your chest, reminding you of every moment you doubted.

He turns back to you, his expression a mask of cold disdain. “This is pointless. If you’re going to fall apart every time this place plays with your mind, perhaps I should leave you here.”

The maze may twist reality, but you won’t give it the satisfaction of breaking you. Not now. Not here.

But as you step forward, the apparition lingers just out of sight, whispering truths you’d rather not face, all the while Astarion’s impatience grows sharper, like a knife pressed against your throat, daring you to falter.

Straightening your shoulders, you push past him. “Let’s keep moving,” you say, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. “We’re getting out of here.”

Astarion watches you for a long moment, and for the first time, there’s something almost resembling respect in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of ice.

The path ahead narrows as the shadows seem to close in tighter, wrapping themselves around the air like suffocating tendrils. Every step is a struggle, your legs heavy, your mind foggy with doubt. But still, you press on, unwilling to let the maze swallow you whole. Astarion, ever graceful and composed, moves beside you, though you can feel his growing impatience.

“This place reeks of desperation,” he mutters, his voice barely more than a hiss. “Everything here is clinging to life, yet everything is dead. It’s enough to drive even the most sane souls to madness.”

“It’s a good thing neither of us are sane then,” you say idly.

There is a strange pull in the air that you cannot quite place. It feels wrong somehow, abhorrent, like its presence corrupts anything that dares near. It calls to you like a harpy’s song, though whether it promotes salvation or doom, you cannot say.

Probably doom.

“Something is up ahead,” you whisper as low as possible, grabbing Astarion’s shirt to pull his ear closer to your mouth. “Something powerful.”

“I can feel it too,” he murmurs with a foreboding, flicking his dagger until it rests in his palm comfortably.

As you round a bend in the path, the path shifts and becomes laden with the smell of old blood and decay. You retch, pulling off the side of the path, with your body wracked with heaves. There is nothing in your stomach but bile to vomit. “Stop breathing, idiot.” Astarion grunts.

With the burnout settling into every crack in your being, there is a brief moment where you want to get on your knees and beg him for mercy. You wonder, if you get on your knees and beg him to pretend, if only for a little bit, that he is your husband, would he?

The answer only sends you further into despair. He would laugh and not hesitate to remind you of how fucking pathetic you are.

You say nothing back, not trusting your mouth not to plead with him for just a moment of peace.

A couple of steps, and the trees part just enough to reveal a clearing bathed in sickly green light, and in the center, hunched over a cauldron, is a figure. Her form is grotesque—long, spindly limbs draped in tattered robes, her skin a mottled shade of green, stretched tight over her bones. Two milky, blind eyes jerk toward you at the sound of your footsteps and seem to see straight through you. Her mouth, lined with broken, yellowed teeth, curls into a wicked smile.

A night hag.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Well, this is going positively swimmingly.

[hwaightme]

Come fly with me

✈️ pairing: pilot!yunho x gn!journalist!reader ✈️ genre: fluff, love at first sight, bit of angst, slice of life ✈️ summary: Aerophobia - the fear of flying. And clearly, something that your boss has no idea exists. While you curse the universe and the metal bird, your handsome seatmate ponders if it is possible to redirect this flight, from Gwangju, to your heart. ✈️ wordcount: 9.0k ✈️ warnings/tags: language, general cuteness, a lot of hand holding and stealing glances, panic/anxiety, aerophobia, discussion of past trauma, mention of grave injury (side character), you never really know what someone has been through ✈️ a/n: Hello!! Here is a lil one shot bc Yunho is renting out my brain. Thank you so much for your love and support, all reblogs, notes and asks welcome! Much love and big hugs (P.S.: not me reading FAA docs and flight handbooks lol)

The chances of dying in a plane crash are one in eleven million.

The odds of a plane crashing are one in one point two million.

Between the years twenty twelve and twenty sixteen, there was only a one in a one point three seven billion chance of dying in a commercial plane crash, and a one in twenty million chance of being on a commercial flight and experiencing a fatal accident.

But there were fatal accidents.

In those same years there were crashes where people died.

And what about those planes that disappeared?

What about the malfunctions?

What if something happens and two planes just fly into one another?

What if the wing breaks off?

What if one of the windows breaks?

What if something happens to the pilot?

What if everything on the plane just malfunctions?

Those odds… still not in my favour.

Damn this work trip.

And damn how packed it is.

Damn this window seat.

Right. By. The. Wing.

Damn that flappy shit on it that looks like something is about to break off.

Why do I have to keep this blind open goddamn it I am having a stressful enough time as is with the plane vibrating like a hungry beast.

Your mind was racing at the speed of light as you cursed your workplace over and over again for sending you on a business trip. On a plane. Of all modes of transport. The mode of transport that had a track record of making you ill, and one time made you faint. Actually, that had been the best flight of your life since you had been conked out for the most of it. No, this was the one mode of transport that seemed to be fine, but just as you would begin forgetting that planes equaled mass destruction, you would check your colleagues’ freshest news reports and once again, crash, burn, genocide.

It was not that you were a scaredy-cat, not by any means. You were a journalist, for fucks sake. You could handle pretty much anything thrown your way. Well, anything except planes. They were not a pseudo-activist who you could expose for not knowing what they were fighting for. They were not an official figure whose corruption you could bring to light. They were not a dog that you could interview for a fun ‘alternative news’ segment. They were a machine made to trap people for set periods of time, can them like sardines, pop their ear drums, and if all went well, regurgitate them on some other metal bird playground, and lie in wait until another bunch gets loaded up for a ride.

But of course, out of all the people in the office, including those who would kill to get out of Seoul and those who were basically known as the nomadic reporters, your boss had to appoint you to go on a three-day trip to Gwangju. The one person who almost exclusively worked in the capital. Who had no experience in working abroad. Hell, the one person who had literally refused to attend a social event because it was held in Busan and the travel plan included flying there. You were the antithesis to such trips, but your boss could not give less of a shit, apparently.

He even had the audacity to praise you in front of your colleagues and say you were ‘just the right person for the interview’ – all when the topic, and the professional background of the individual you were to be meeting, were so far out of your regular scope and within your nightmare space that no amount of reading would make you neither proficient, nor truly appreciative. You were convinced that the universe was out to get you. An alarming interpretation had crossed your mind – perhaps this was your boss wanting to find an excuse to fire you?

A new wave of panic settled in as you made feeble attempts to play a mental game of ‘whack-a-mole’ with your not so friendly musings. Why couldn’t you just exchange the tickets, take the train or a bus, or event drive there yourself? Why did you have to follow orders at your own expense? Just as you were beginning to transition from using familiar curse words to describe the situation to recalling anything and everything you had ever heard either in a foreign drama or in real life, you were gently stirred from the activity by a change in lighting.

You peered to your left – the culprit was a man, broad-shouldered, on the taller side, clad in a stylish sheepskin coat with a white turtleneck and some well-tailored trousers to match. You couldn’t quite see his face fully, but you guessed it would happen sooner than later, seeing as he was in the process of fitting his carry-on into the luggage compartment above where you were sat. Not wanting to intrude any further with your stares, you glanced away, instantly regretting it and exhaling sharply as your eyes were met with the metal wings of doom outside.

An airplanes wings are designed to flex up to ten degrees, and during the average flight the flex can reach up to seven degrees. The wings have been stress-tested time and time again so they cannot break off and the plane will stay balanced and-

But what about the Lockheed L-188 Electra II? What about the Lockheed C-141C Starlifter? Their wings just decided to go on holiday why can’t the wings of a commercial liner do the same? Oh, and the second one had a fuel leak – when do people check that? Did they check for this one? What if something happens and the fuel tank explodes?

“Would you be willing to switch seats by any chance?” a calming voice suddenly interrupted your nervous flow, and you snapped your head in its direction.

That man. Oh no, he was handsome. Dark hair, which was the tiniest bit tousled, kind eyes that you swore glinted at you, and a heart-stopping million-dollar smile. Now you had to keep up appearances too, to not seem like a total wuss, at least for the duration that you had to sit in this can. You heard his question loud and clear, but to allow your mind to process, you asked him to repeat with a quick:

“Sorry?”

He tilted his head and pointed towards the seat closest to him, “Ah, well, technically, this seat is mine, but… would you want to switch?”

Who was this man and why was he reading your ;mind? Was the universe pitying you finally?

“Yes, let’s do that!”

You shot up from your seat, nearly hitting the one in front of you, and slid out to give way to the brave soul who could look out of the window. As you two were settling down and he was giving you his thanks, you were not sure whether your heart was beating fast because of your fear of flying, or because of how you lucked out on your seat mate. Probably both.

It was hard to resist stealing a couple more glances at him while he was checking something on his phone. He had a reassuring aura about him and judging by how well-practiced his motions had been as he was settling in, he appeared to be quite a frequent flyer. He was so relaxed it made you envious. But you had no better way to get back to muting your phobias aside from absent-mindedly fishing out the airplane safety instructions manual from the pocket of the seat in front and reading it with the intensity of a final year student preparing for the KSAT.

You pored over the calls to fasten your seatbelt, to check that there was in fact, a life vest under your seat, to be prepared to pull on some random strings on an air mask if they were to be ‘made available’…

Abandon everything and run ‘in an organised manner’…

No high heels…

Someone probably would try to wear them still, even if we all had to go down that inflatable slide.

Slide down in the Dracula position…

You heard a chuckle to your right, and upon turning a little, you noticed your seatmate studying you, his lips threatening to curl into a grin. He looked you up and down, from the safety manual that you were now gripping a little bit too strongly, and finally locking eyes with you.

“Thought so.” he came to some cryptic conclusion, leaving you perplexed.

“Thought what?” you could not help but give into your curiosity.

“Aerophobia?”

“Is it that obvious?” you groaned and shut the manual to return it to the pocket. You felt as though you turned into a child who wanted to be taken more seriously, with your body refusing to suppress a slight pout. Yes, planes, for all their bird-imitating glory, were never going to be your wingmen. It was hard to ooze attractiveness when you were on the verge of having a mental breakdown.

“Well, there were some signs, but I only noticed them because I was paying attention,” before you could respond to the subtle flirtation, he continued by introducing himself, “I’m Jeong Yunho. Yunho is completely fine though.”

“L/N Y/N. Then Y/N is fine by me too. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. You might just be giving me a run for my money with those deduction skills!” You complimented him, delighted when you could elicit and even brighter smile. This flight was slowly but surely becoming a little bit more enjoyable thanks to the outgoing eye candy in the window seat.

“Are you an investigator, better yet, a special agent out on a mission?” he wiggled his eyebrows, further lightening the mood.

“I doubt I would ever be able to pull Brad Pitt-level stunts and board the plane in an unconventional manner like he did, but the mystery aspect is enticing. I’m a journalist and reporter.”

Something you could only describe as recognition flashed across his face as he clapped his hands together. By now, he had his body turned to the greatest extent possible towards you, his knees nearly touching your thighs. You had to admit, you were worried that a flight attendant would come and scold him, or that this would end up being a hazard during takeoff. But at the same time, the attention was a welcome relief.

“Oh wait! I have seen you before! You mainly cover local news, right? Or at least spanning Seoul Capital Area?”

“Funny to use ‘at least’ there, but yep, that’s me-”

“Your exposé on the fitness center money laundering scheme was amazing, it was like watching an action thriller.”

Well, that fell short. You giggled. Yunho was evidently trying to impress you by praising your work, but mixed things up right at the end. As you were still a junior, the times where you were allowed to as much as breathe in the direction of a live broadcast or even a pre-recording were few and far between. So far, you had only made a couple of appearances, and most definitely not in the crime segments – though you had indeed helped write the script.

“That’s not me. Close enough though. My mentor was the one on the screen.”

The utter confusion on his face spelled disaster for your composure, so you bit the inside of your cheek lightly, eyes sparkling. He covered his face with his hand out of embarrassment, and, once he had regained at least some of his courage, apologized, assuring you that your name did ring a bell and that he had heard it announced.

“Okay, I’ll give you that one. I was one of the writers.”

“Score! Otherwise, I really don’t know how I would be apologizing to you aside from buying you a drink.”

“Something tells me that you were a step away from messing up intentionally.”

“I wouldn’t do that on a short-haul.” Yunho was back to being his cheery self, his only distraction from you being the need to turn his phone on to airplane mode.

This action, meaningless on its own, but in context… left a sour taste in your mouth – a reminder that you were still in a tin can with planks glued onto either side, and that it was about to start grumbling and rumbling across to take off. You saw attendants start preparing for the safety announcement, making you retract into your seat and sigh. How you wished you were as carefree as this charming stranger.

“You know a bit about me, since you are so attentive, but I am intrigued as to who you are.” You inquired, trying to take your mind off what it considered to be imminent danger.

“I don’t want to spoil the fun! Give me a little taste of your own deduction skills.” He challenged playfully, though his tone revealed fleeting notes of concern.

You paused. You had already taken him to be a frequent flier, though for what reason was beyond you. You did not have enough experience racing through airports to be able to distinguish between different types of passengers. But what did stand out to you, was that comment about the reportage – the event that had been covered occurred within the Incheon Metropolitan City area, thus was presented through local branches only.

“You are in Incheon pretty frequently, right?”

“Terrifyingly accurate comment, but yes.” He confirmed while nodding. You felt proud of yourself for managing to have at least some of your skillset still intact.

“And what is bringing you to Gwangju? If it is okay to ask, of course.” You resumed your miniature interrogation, rushing as the announcement began to resound across the cabin, and a flight attendant was demonstrating how to put on the life vest, top up the air, where the emergency exits were… a flurry of information streaming right at you.

“Visiting my parents.” Yunho’s calmness had not changed a single bit since he had boarded the plane, and he was answering you in a level, measured out manner.

“Not during a standard holiday?”

“Here’s the hint: my line of work limits annual hours of… redacted for now.”

“That just makes me think you work abroad most of the time!” you exclaimed, recalling the shock you had when you had first entered the workforce and experience the full package of overtime, minimal breaks, and high demands. There was no guarantee that it was not the same in other countries, could even be worse, but as the old saying goes: ‘the grass is always greener on the other side’.

After he shook his head, shattering your theories, you fell quiet. Everyone had settled in their seats, and now information that was sending adrenaline to pump right through your veins was being shared. Even the demonstration of the flashlight on the vest was ominous. Once the routine had been completed, the rumble of the engines grew a little louder, and you were still making no move to return to the conversation, Yunho leaned over and exclaimed in a low voice:

“I’m a pilot. Indeed, am based in Incheon, and being abroad is very much part of the deal so I would say your logic was impeccable.” 

“No wonder you look to be right at home.” You stated, albeit it came across as a little jealous. The air-mobile and your personal panic inducer began to demand more attention as it steered from the airport, leaving a still outstretched landing bridge behind.

“Maybe you are right. I do spend more time in planes than in Gwangju.”

“Sounds like the triangle between me, my apartment, and the office.” You concurred – at least locally the enforce workaholic culture was universal.

With your fingers, you tapped out an abstract rhythmic sequence with your fingers, then moving to feel for the position of the different buttons, side-eyeing them to make sure your seat, nor the electrics were broken. You were tempted to check if the seat could lean back but you were convinced that if you did that the world would collapse. Or at least you would be in trouble. As it turns out you had a flight law enforcement representative right next to you. A good-looking and so far, so sweet, but still.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you crack the Incheon bit?” he detracted you from your near scratching of the synthetic material, and you pressed your hands into your lap to supress their light tremor.

“Ah, you gave it away when you mentioned the news. That was only shown in Incheon.” You curtly responded, your concentration escaping you after you felt the metal bird jolt.

It was crystal clear to Yunho that your phobia was getting the better of you. After not having flown since at least a decade ago, each one of your senses was going into overdrive, screaming catastrophe. Your eyes were slightly widened, breathing becoming more shallow threatening to turn into hyperventilation, and, of course, you not knowing what to do with your hands (or really, yourself) sealed the deal. He needed to help you. Using whatever technique that came to him. And quick.

“Lightheaded?”

“Uh huh…” you could not deny it. That was just how it was. You, alone with your uncontrollable palpitations and a lump in your throat were on the verge of just control alt deleting your consciousness for take-off.

“Uhm… may I… wait, this might be very tactless, and you have every right to tell me to go- …wherever, but may I hold your hand?”

“What?” you snapped out of your thoughts and gaped at Yunho. What strange form of crisis-based moves-making was this? Or was he making fun of you? The engines were becoming almost deafening while you were still struggling to isolate your seatmate’s voice.

Even though he had not shown any signs of malice, you still expected the worst. Always did when it came to discussing travel, since the majority of your interactions often resulted in your conversation partner revealing some aggression-based schadenfreude. They were happy to pity you and diminish all of your other qualities just because you were scared of this one thing. But even though you were actively searching for any form of darkness, you could only find a caring soul, wholly preoccupied with your wellbeing.

“It is so you know that there is someone here with you. Just by feeling. Kind of like a grounding technique?”

“Oh, I would kill to be on the ground right now.” You twisted his words spiralling into dread.

“Sorry, I’d like to live another day, so you’ll have to bear with this. May I?”

Spooked by some noise from outside of the airplane, you did not dare raise your voice and instead resorted to nodding back your confirmation. As soon as you gave the sign, you felt his steady, warm and soothing hand tentatively touch yours, moving it a fraction and intertwining fingers until the palms were pressed together. Yunho gave yours a quick squeeze, as if in mute encouragement.

“This is so embarrassing...” you mumbled, shaking your head.

After the plane had come to a halt before the final turn onto the runway, you felt feverish, and overwhelmingly guilty. You had convinced yourself that you were ruining this wonderful man’s entire flight, by acting like such a child. And on top of this, he was a pilot, so if anyone had the right to consider you ridiculous it would be him.

“If it is the hand holding then I totally understand I can-”

“NO PLEASE THAT HELPS-” you yelped, practically yanking his hand back with yours and returning them to resting between you, “oops I said that too loud didn’t I…” this really was one moment of humiliation after another. Heat rose in your cheeks as you pondered whether it was too late to stop the plane or not.

“You should hear me scream on roller coasters. Now that’s loud.” He countered your insecurity, making you chuckle. You felt Yunho’s thumb brush over the back of your hand – it was not unpleasant. At all. “I must say, you are already doing really well.”

“Funny.”

“No, really.” Now, the engines were really starting up and you gripped Yunho’s hand a little tighter, this led to him making a split-second decision – a final resort. “But how about this. You close your eyes, okay?”

“What are you trying?” you raised an eyebrow, meeting his confident gaze with your own panicked one.

“Just, I know I am a stranger but, trust me for the next couple of minutes, okay?”

“Sure…” you did not have any of the forcefulness and pride left in you, so you quickly agreed and shut your eyes, but that led to you beginning to hyper fixate on the quietest, most insignificant of noises, blowing their impact out of proportion.

“Now, listen to my voice only.” Yunho instructed.

He was alarmingly close, almost right by your ear as he whispered:

“Let me guide you.”

Your heart fluttered, as you tried to push at least some thoughts to the back of your head, in order to focus on Yunho. This surely had to be one of the most original and thrilling ways you had ever been hit on. And terror-promoted-

Oh you had not even recounted the statistics for hijacking and for those types of attacks yet. How foolish of you! How were you going to remain safe if you did not have the likelihood of you perishing because of an air criminal or air pirate in the front of your mind!? You raked your brain for the 'fun facts' you had enjoyed reviewing last night, when Yunho cleared his throat and tapped your intertwined hands with his free one.

“Okay, so, first, let us set the scene. There is this neat thing called the Pilot’s Operating Handbook, which helps the pilot of a given aircraft determine whether it is safe to fly. And they would not do anything until all checks are done."

Where and what was the guarantee of that? You wanted to ask, too aware of the vibrations that were travelling from the floor of the cabin and turning into your jitters. But Yunho sounded so sure of what he was saying... damn it, he was using ethos-based marketing against you. What if he had lied about being a pilot?

"Also, the runway, the wind speed and direction, and a grand bunch of other things are all checked, one by one, to make sure that everything works as expected. You following me so far?” he informed, and paused to check up on you.

Yunho was using the opportunity to study you to the fullest. The little squint as you were fighting against the desire to shoot your eyes open and search for invisible troubles. The slightest hint of a pout etched on your rosy lips, signifying displeasure with your surroundings. He could not control his smile as he was admiring your battle spirit.

It was hard for Yunho to imagine you being as vulnerable as you were with him right now, due to sheer circumstance. Had anything been different, he might not have even had the chance to introduce himself to the beautiful stranger in what originally was the window seat.

“Yes but… what if something does not work?” as much as this experience was exposure therapy, in the moment, you did not give a shit and was sticking to your ways.

“That is not in the job description. And the engineers do a damn good job too. Just like you are now, okay, Y/N?” Yunho scolded softly but finished with more encouragement.

“I am so sorry again-”

“Nothing to be sorry about."

Of course, you would not know just how much you were reminding Yunho of himself in the distant past. How, when he had been a child, he was not able to even stay on airport grounds because of the noise, and the images that would flash in his head. He only hoped that for you it was a 'lighter' phobia, not stemming from true disaster.

"You know how the plane was just turning right now and making some noise?” Yunho cut his rumination short and returned to his miniature lecture.

“Yes.”

“Well, this is the pilot using rudder pedals, kind of like pedals in a car, pedals on a piano... whichever is closer to home for you, to steer the plane. Basically, we must make sure that the nose of the plane is well-aligned with the centre of the runway. And now, release of the brakes…”

Just as he said it, you could pick out a distinct change in the mechanical cacophony. You chuckled - it was like Yunho was conducting the actions of the beast.

“Now, do you hear this rise in sound? This rumble? Quite ominous, isn’t it? But it is just the pilot advancing the throttle gently to take off power, while keeping their feet on the rudder portions of the pedals and their eyes on the super cool engine instruments.”

He almost sounded like a technical kid getting a DIY kit for their birthday. The excitement in Yunho's voice did not falter as he continued to dive into more and more detail. Did you understand any of it? No. Was it more than pleasant to listen to Yunho having the time of his life explaining it? Yes.

“As the speed picks up, there is more pressure on the controls, but more specifically the rudder and elevator. Then we quickly transition to having the plane being flown more than it is taxied and having three axis manoeuvrability. What is really cool about commercial aviation, and pilots like the one flying this plane, is that we are actually able to feel plane controllability and are able to adjust pressures to make take off just right.”

The take-off procedure was being presented to you like a picture book. A straightforward scheme of a few steps, a celebration of a pilot's mastery. You daydreamed of how your seat mate would look like in the famous uniform, doing exactly what he was recounting to you.

“Okay so we are passing this stage now… and here we are approaching lift off. How we call the angle at which the plane takes off the ground is quite funny: the attitude. And after this… we are going to adjust the pitch just a little to make sure we get the best climbing rate.”

Yes, keep on talking this odd terminology that you were not even attempting to get a grasp on anymore. Probably would have been a good idea in light of your interview, but you could barely remain conscious as your inner world was experiencing high magnitude worry-quakes.

“Now, do you feel that? this is the pilot beginning to apply back-elevator pressure, and this is done to lift that little wheel at the front of the plane up. This is the attitude being created, we call it the rotation for lift off. Ah there it is now he is adjusting… adjusting… now the wings are being levelled, and the plane is remaining right on track, aligned with the centreline of the runway.”

Good for the plane. Good for the pilot. Good for Yunho. You just did not want to die. You squeezed Yunho's hand harder and harder, an action on which he did not comment. On the contrary, he resumed the soothing motion with his thumb that he had tried a bit of time ago.

“And now… we keep on going and… we are going steady.”

You eased off the grip, cringing at how forward, how ridiculous you likely seemed. It was hard to open your eyes back up again, so you took it slow. One eye. Then the next. You were still there. In the can. Which was now in the sky. Zooming across it at whatever speed. Yunho was still there. And still holding onto your hand.

Thanks to his guidance, you had not gone into a full-blown panic, nor had you passed out – an achievement really. But as you were regaining your senses, returning to a more neutral mode of worry, your need to show that you were an independent adult and did not require support returned, and you gingerly tried to remove yourself from his hold, as much as you wanted to stay in the same position for the duration of the flight.

Though Yunho allowed you to do so and waved off your numerous apologies. He was of the same mindset – the contact had been near electric, making this one of the more exciting of his flights. He would be lying if he said that the thought of finding an excuse to hold your hand again did not cross his mind. But he was drawn in even more by the contrast between the you from a few minutes ago and you who was boring holes in the seat in front, evidently counting seconds as you were measuring out your breathing. He was in awe of your perseverance, and how brave you had been to even book the tickets. To be in the cabin. To just, be there.

He was perplexed by why you were going to Gwangju by plane if you had a phobia. His own mother, over a decade after the life-changing incident his family had experienced, still had not gotten over it. Sometimes, looking at the racing clouds in the sky had caused her to tear up, and choose to spend the day shut indoors. Such was life. Even though his father was still alive, and had recovered for the most part, the fear of planes, the roar of the engine – a lethal predator, of flying like Icarus, too close to the sun, remained.

Flying was in his family. His grandfather, his father, him… had all committed themselves to the life of a pilot. And his younger brother, too, was in training. The lineage was to continue, despite the close brush with death that had nearly made Yunho’s father one with the world above. Prior to sustaining grave injuries, he had been a test pilot with a stellar reputation, and one successful flight after another. He was known for being able to land planes that had exhibited faults mid-flight, was able to tame high-speed jets that grew unstable, and was a gifted aerobatics master when he could unwind and choose a trusty steed for himself. His father was his role model. Regardless of what had happened.

It had been a freak accident. A miscalculation resulting in a catastrophe. Better yet, the company that had commissioned the testing had managed to keep the accident under wraps, and only after his mother near rioted and escalated the conflict to the local government and threatened to take it to the media, did his family receive compensation and as laughable charity, some physiotherapy courses. Nothing could compensate a broken heart of a person who had been told that they would not be able to do what they lived for anymore, however. Yunho was just a child then. But the fear that had had come to occupy his home was ageless.

It was not easy, living every day not sure whether his own father would be able to walk him to school. Play football with him. Stand together with him for a photo during a family trip. It was not easy on his mother, who had almost totally turned into a carer, splitting herself in pieces to raise two boys, to work, and to be her husband’s strength, both mentally and physically. Her sleepless nights, when Yunho had caught her bawling silently in the kitchen, trying to hide away from the rest of the family, had imprinted themselves in his mind.

The bitterness in his father’s words as he cursed everything related to the event, and the forlorn gazes he sent the awards, the books, the photographs in his office. Although he had been able to walk again, after years of forgetting the feeling, his meaning was only a memory. This was what had shaped Yunho’s initial impression of the world of flying. That it was a place of misery, hurt and false promises. He had vowed then to never, ever step onto a plane. Never once to approach an airport. Never once to give himself up to that dream that he had been born with. His personal ‘fear’ was not quite that. It was more the rage, the sense of injustice – why did it have to be his father? Out of spite he did not want to continue the dynasty.

His mother had been relieved when Yunho had announced at the dinner table that he wanted to be an engineer. And he made a pretty good job of convincing himself that this was what he really wanted. He had even gone to cram school for mathematics and physics and participated in some competitions. Not that he had ever felt purpose or found joy in it. He was just riding the wave of stability. And simultaneously cursing it.

As time for the national exams was fast approaching, and he needed to specify what kind of engineering he was going to do, he had been stumped. How could Yunho pick between a variety of subjects which he had virtually zero interest in, and pursued because of childhood trauma? So, he did what he could only call an act of desperation and approached his father for career advice. Yunho had assumed that the discussion was going to go nowhere. That his father, who had become a consultant and trainer (though permanently grounded), would only dismiss him and say something along the lines of ‘it did not matter anyways, everything could fall apart at any moment’. But surprisingly, he was responsive. Moreover, he had reminisced with Yunho about his early days, ones where he had not been sure what to do.

Then, he had posed Yunho a question: what was it that his heart wanted to pursue? If he were to forget everything, any and all external influence, what would he pick? After much deliberation, he peered at the poster of a Boeing-777 that hung across from him, and merely stated:

“Flying.”

After years of fooling himself. Running away from what his inner self was yearning for. Only this path seemed right. That night, his father and him had made a deal. To not disappoint his mother, and gain some basic understanding of aircraft, he was to pick aero-engineering, and in secret, simultaneously begin flight lessons. His father had activated his network, and once Yunho had gone through that first year, made a smooth transfer to become who he was now. A fully trained commercial airline pilot. True to himself, his dreams and his future.

When his mother had first found out, she was in hysterics. It was as though someone had brought the news to her that her son had passed away. Maybe that would have hurt less – less than the fear for what could happen, the anguish she would be experiencing every time Yunho would lift off. But he had made up his mind. And would indeed rather die than face the prospect of being anything else than a pilot. This was what he was made to do, and it felt right.

On the one hand, the reason why he wanted to help you was because he wanted others to feel the same way he did about flying. It had become his mission to bring comfort to passengers, to inspire future generations of pilots, and to share just how fun it could be. On the other, he had learned the hard way about what phobia and detestation was and could not bear to see you experience it. He had grown far too good at detecting its approach, so much so that he could live through it with you.

Maybe this was a strange way for him to cope and process his own life’s events, but it sure was damn near magical when he saw that he could take away at least a fraction of the weight you carried. After all there was only so much baggage you could bring on board with you.

Yunho’s heart was conflicted. When he had just boarded and got to his row, he had told himself that he lucked out, having an attractive seatmate and one who appeared to be as curious in him as he was in them. And now, he was almost feeling attached to you since he had helped you overcome the take off. It was inexplicable. A little irrational. But he wanted to talk to you. And to keep on holding your hand if you were okay with it.

When you considered yourself to be more or less recovered you sighed in relief. Having Yunho logically talk you through what you had labelled as horror film material had done what you thought was impossible – made you reconsider if planes really were as terrible as you thought. At least the ones where Yunho could be with you and chant plane speak over the screeches and groans of the engines and brakes. You turned your head a little and noticed Yunho watching the Earth transform through the window. He was leaning back and appeared to be deep in his mind palace. You tapped him lightly on his upper arm, which made all his attention come back to you.

“I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for helping me through this, really. You did not have to, Yunho, but you saved me just now.”

“Really, as I said, it is not a problem, Y/N.”

“But still. As you probably can tell, this really is nightmare fuel for me-”

“I am more than happy to continue, just so you know. If you need me, I am right here.” He offered, flustering you.

The sincerity of his words made you dwell on his desire to help. He was nothing short of respectful, but you felt that the story ran much deeper. Perhaps because he knew what it was like. But you were not about to force him into sharing all the potential skeletons and sprinklings of trauma, if anything it would make you appear ungrateful and downright prying. The atmosphere was just right for now, thanks to Yunho.

“You best be worried, because I might just pick you up on that offer, since I have a lot of revision to do before actually doing the job I was sent to do.” You answered, running a hand through your hair. You wondered whether you should use the rest of the flight to actually do some preparation for the interview or… the second option won out immediately, and you were back to enjoying Yunho’s company.

“Ah, so you are on the flight not by your own volition?”

“Yep. My boss is rather creative when it comes to picking out his entertainment.” His chuckle made a dopey grin appear on your face.

“And what do you mean by revision? Will you be joining the ranks?” he realised he barely knew anything about you aside from the odd mix of bare bone basics and auto-completed nonsense, courtesy of his imagination.

“Probably not, still need to sit as a passenger for a long, long time before that, you know, learn by observation!” you joked, attempting to conjure a vision of yourself as a pilot, but the irony of it was too much. “I am going to be doing a mini-documentary and interview with Hwang Taehyuk. He is a recently retired pilot with many accolades and, apparently, a very exciting professional life so-”

“This really keeps on getting better.”

“What keeps on getting better?”

“I had the chance to co-pilot with him a couple of times. Absolutely the most amazing guy on the planet. Total goofball too.”

“Why am I not surprised?” you threw the rhetorical question out into the air, but almost instantly continued, “You know, you are making me glad that I took this flight.”

“Like I said, if you need a plane nerd rundown of what’s going on at any point, just let me know and I can even draw some diagrams for you on a napkin.”

“Not just that, though now you promised me some diagrams and I do want to see them. It’s just, the beauty of how things have aligned. That makes me... quite happy.”

“Seconded.”

For the hour that it took to fly from Seoul to Gwangju, you were in deep discussion with your seatmate, turned acquaintance, turned to something that could not exactly be called a friend – an ‘interest’, rather. It was a process of progressive mutual discovery, stepping beyond first impressions and learning that, in fact, both of you only wanted to know more and more as the minutes and stories flew by.

Feverishly you shared your lives with one another, in a manner not dissimilar to that of someone retelling a missed episode to make sure that from then on, everyone would be moving forward together, at the same pace. You and Yunho explained your dreams, your hopes for the future, whilst inadvertently looking for, and finding similarities in them. You soared through conversation and landed being much closer than either of you could have predicted.

Everything was on the table – from embarrassing stories to going through each other’s camera rolls (under strict supervision, but that was a given). To prove to you that Yunho was truly a pilot and not just a plane nerd, he had shown you some photos of himself in uniform, zooming in to show you that the epaulettes were very much real and that he was earning his stripes. You commended his determination and had even taken an interest in how the career ladder functioned, but really what you could comprehend the best out of that discourse was that he chose the right job even if just for how handsome he looked in the attire. Yunho really was one of a kind, inside and out. He reminded you of a day in early spring, when the days were steadily growing longer, and the winter breeze finally departed, instead letting the budding leaves and blossoming beauties take over and instil a happier sense of tomorrow. He was the one to start to thaw your previously deadest perceptions and blood-curdling associations.

It went without saying that your fear of flying did not go without mention. A dreaded topic for you, you had initially tried to brush it under the table, but it was pointless to do before a person who had just seen you through take off, and for the duration of the flight sometimes paused your dialogue to check in with you. In addition, if he noticed your concentration drifting because of a foreign noise, or because of a little tilt or turn, every time Yunho would explain the reasoning behind it the best he could. Though it would take much longer to get over the phobia, his dedication made you swoon.

You had revealed to him that you had been diagnosed with aerophobia back in early primary school. It was genetic, with your father’s family line showing particularly strong symptoms – so any reunions were either planned with military precision, or simply did not happen, because Jeju Island was not so ‘all modes of transport’ -friendly. Back then, you had no idea how serious your condition could be, seeing as you were minimally exposed, but the times you were had been haunting you since. Your choice of work had not helped with your condition either, since you were constantly exposed to the worst locally, nationally, and globally. Though you had to be an objective messenger and remain unperturbed, aviation-related accidents often left you a whimpering, misty-eyed mess. At least you had become an expert in reading and responding to emails while your vision was blurry.

This was probably the first time ever that you had shared this aspect of you without either being interrupted or misunderstood. With Yunho, he listened carefully, and bewilderingly, drew parallels between your reality and his. It was obvious that he was holding back on some more upsetting facts out of care for how you would react, but you could figure out that his path to becoming a pilot had been on the bumpier side. He did end up drawing some free body diagrams for you and explaining the aerodynamics involved in a flight, lighting up every time you would ask him a question, or even when you would lean in, so your heads were almost touching, brows furrowed and processing.

Yunho had provided you with more anecdotes about the pilot you were going to interview, and even suggested that he could come along to introduce you – apparently the guy liked to keep his circle small and was not one to trust outsiders until they gained his respect. There was something surreal about being on the plane with Yunho – it made you believe that you two would last forever, and that what he was initially proposing, and then downright promising you to do, would really happen. Here was to be hoping that you would not part ways and at least be able to recognise one another in a crowd.

Landing went a little smoother for you than take off, perhaps because you had automatically searched for Yunho, and gingerly placed your hand on his lower arm. Too shy to do the same as before, you had remained in that position, focusing on the fabric of his coat. Meanwhile Yunho was frozen, like a person who had been chosen by a cat as the perfect napping spot. He remained close to your ear, once again whispering through the steps, though seeing your lowered anxiety, allowed himself to veer off the script a little more and crack a couple of jokes.

You left the plane as if you had been companions to begin with, checking if the other had left anything behind, chatting as you made your way across the jet bridge. Unlike the rest of the passengers who had decidedly become track and field athletes as soon as they were hit with airport air conditioning, Yunho and you moved slow, off to the side of the giant glass corridors, just so that time would not pass by you. For the first time, you were grateful that the line for passport control had gotten quite long by the time you reached it – all the more time to sneak glances at one another, kid around, and act like you had known each other forever. When you had reached the front of the line, the border control officer had even mistaken you as a couple and let you through together. Not that you would correct them.

Baggage claims. A time to reminisce, as it turned out. Standing side by side, you recollected each other's musings and theories as though you were revising, flipping through cards and supporting each try at a response with ripples of laughter. This was a plane that neither of you wanted to land, and kept on praying, repeating the same wish like a mantra: may this last.

If only this damn luggage could continue spinning forever, or would just be lost in the metal bird's belly. Somehow, life on the ground appeared to move faster than that high above. The hustle and bustle, people moving to and fro with their identities shoved into flimsy wheeled boxes, kept together by duct tape and overpriced cling film. Everyone had to have a plan. A destination. Up in the air, that could be removed. Troubles minimised for the duration of the flight. The only direction being to a random dot of choice, labelled as a city, town, base, important only because of plans that resume upon landing.

To Yunho, this was the biggest disillusionment he had experienced in his first flight. When he had been a little boy, he believed that everything radically changed after such a journey. That pilots were like wizards. But, as it turned out, he was only serving other people's plans. Just like this time, he was following a specific agenda. But you had made it colourful. Meaningful. The time suspended in mid-air well spent, and in need of a ‘to be continued’. As you made your way closer and closer to the airport exit, after having collected your belongings, he only had one thing on his mind. How could he prolong this metaphorical flight with you?

Without any prior agreement, nor any feat of telepathy, you and Yunho halted. It was time to part. Both you and him knew it, and yet neither of you were making the decisive move to do so. Instead, you chose to dawdle and stand, facing each other in the middle of Arrivals, luggage by your sides.

“Are you... going to be taking a taxi? Or is someone going to meet you?” he broke the silence with some small talk, while his heart was threatening to burst out of his chest – somewhat comical, now it was his turn to be panicked.

“I’ll catch a taxi. Yeah. And yourself?” You asked, not caring for the response, but for the prolongation of time that it brought. You were not looking forward to departing from this bliss between destinations. Back to rushing somewhere. Trying not to lose yourself amidst the events you had to pursue.

“Car rental.” Yunho swore he could hear turbine noise in his head as he was dashing from one idea to the next. Was he about to lose you?

“That’s neat.” You kicked the air with your foot, and stuffed your hands into your pockets, readying yourself for an unwanted goodbye.

You raised your head and faced him. Two people, fumbling for a way to stay like this. Were both of you waiting for some divine intervention? For a third person, a passive observer to suddenly step in and give you a friendly nudge? All the signs were pointing to a sure-fire success, and yet hesitation, doubt and insecurity remained as the devil on both your shoulders. Perhaps this was not meant to be, and you merely served one another as a time passer, a cure for boredom, and eventually destined to bid your farewells. Your lips parted, and you inhaled, about to say the dreaded words, when-

“I can drive you.”

“Huh?”

“If you want.”

He officially short-circuited as he could not wait any longer. Had Yunho been a poet or a writer, hell, maybe even if he had stayed an engineer, he could have come up with something more impressive, but at the end of the day, the message would be the same. Let’s go together. Let’s go anywhere together. Come fly with me.

Now, it was one thing to hope, and a wholly different one to expect, and you sure as hell had not been doing the latter. So, when Yunho took the leap and reached out to you, and to your future self, you needed to take a moment to internally squeal. And then try your best to keep it cool and answer like a proper adult, rather than the inner giddy schoolchild who was on their umpteenth celebratory somersault.

“I would want that. But aren’t your parents waiting for you?” your response was light and breezy, and an attempt to showcase, once again, that you had paid attention to him and could recall why he was here in the first place.

“Well, I mean, I don’t usually do this… but if you are into meeting parents so early…”

“Oh, come on!” you giggled, playfully hitting Yunho’s upper arm as he grinned wide.

“Totally serious, Y/N, I am totally serious.” He responded, sarcasm dripping from his words.

He pointed in the direction of the car rentals and took the small suitcase you had brought with you in his free hand. Ever the gentleman.

“And if you are free at any point, I would love to show you around.” He continued as you ambled on, barely any space between you.

“As long as it is by foot or car, I am free today and tomorrow afternoon.”

“I wish I had the car from Back to The Future so that I could impress you with my piloting skills, alas, I’ll have to disappoint you with… are they advertising new Kia models? Y/N, not all is lost!”

“Now to figure out which one looks most like a Yunho-mobile.”

“We’ll figure it out, take an online test that matches MBTI to a car or something.”

“Don’t tempt me, or I might actually do that.” You warned in jest and proceeded to take out your phone to make a point. This seemed to have an effect on Yunho, as he stopped abruptly and began searching for his own device.

“Oh! That reminds me! Your five-star guarantee Uber driver would like to have your number. You know, for announcing his arrival, of course.” As you typed in your digits, and then proceeded to save his number on your phone after he had texted you a string of airplane emojis you ideated out loud:

“I can already see the review I shall write: car may or may not take off and grow wings during journey. Passenger discretion is advised."

“If that’s the case, I’d be more than happy to hold your hand again, or maybe something more serious to protect against turbulence?” he winked, and you felt heat rising to your cheeks.

“I think I’ll have to write a piece about your methods.”

“Just make sure to mention that they are exclusive to Jeong Yunho, your private pilot,” well that was an original, yet explicit expression of interest, “and speaking of reporting, I am taking you to teacher Hwang’s for some proper networking.”

“Yeah, and what about my crew?”

“Pilots are no strangers to crews, trust me on that.” he answered promptly.

“I can imagine.”

You and Yunho stood still, eyes locked. Your 'spring' ahead of you.

“Now, shall we be off?” he gestured towards the rentals office, but not removing his gaze.

“Go on ahead, be my guide.”

Given half a billion potential soul mates, your chance of finding your true love is one in 10,000.

1 in 50 airplane passengers meet the love of their life on board an aircraft.

And when it came to you and Yunho, the probability was simply 1. 100%. No other way.

Perhaps it was a good thing that you were scared of flying.

[brucewaynehater101]

Santa AU

Gun batman is unhinged and doesn't notice he lost his gift, his own deductive skills have degraded significantly but he's too arrogant to really realize, none of that group realize because they're so caught up in their own heads and trauma

Tim's ability to realize what someone wants most isn't just a matter of looking at the person and having it pop up in his head, he needs their name and has to actively want to know what the person wants, otherwise it would be too obvious and too overwhelming, and once he thinks of what the other person wants, his own deductive abilities fill in why whatever thing is definitely the answer

kon doesn't know why some people give him rancid vibes, which is why he points them out to Tim, he gives his bird enrichment and he starts to trust his own judgement a bit more so it's a win-win all around and kon does eventually start to figure out who he can trust without the vibe knack as he gets more experience with people, the knack just makes things easier

Cassie, again, is pretty sure her sudden talent with languages is because zeus and zeus is a jerk who is totally fine with stealing someone else's credit

Bart hasn't really ever kept track of how much he eats at any given time, he can make a general estimate if needed, but that he needs to eat less sometimes hasn't really registered, and no speedster is going to race another for no reason since no one wants to risk falling into the speedforce or whatever because they were curious about who's the fastest so no one knows Bart got an extra edge in speed

People being naturally inclined to trust Greta only works as long as Greta doesn't do something that would hurt that trust in her and since she's basically a decent person, she's good

Cissie figures that blonde girls are a dime a dozen and that's why people don't spot her and she needs to work harder to stand out in acting if that's the case but she's fine with that, she's always worked hard anyway

Anita doesn't realize her illusions that make people happy have some extra oomph and she doesn't actually like gingerbread enough to make it very often.

Slobo is super strong already, being able to pack away more things and balance them on one another isn't something he thinks to do very often or need to do very often so it goes unremarked

The gifts santa gave them are powerful but subtle, little things to give them an extra edge but nothing they'll rely on like a crutch, but things that'll definitely help them make their delivery to apocalypse and survive to do it again the next year

I like how subtle the gifts are and how personally they fit. They aren't overt, and thus nothing that would become something they rely on. It makes sense that Gun Batman wouldn't have the gift, nor would anyone on his side.

Kon giving Tim cases is exactly the same as giving a bird enrichment. That's a perfect description of it ^^

Kon's morphing into him just eventually knowing without needing the power is fantastic. It probably still works, but he's got the initial step down.

The others not realizing why they have their powers on explained well. I probably wouldn't notice being able to pack things away well or the gingerbread houses (I haven't made any in years).

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Bengiyo's Queer Cinema Syllabus

Had a busy couple weeks, but here I am, returning to @bengiyo’s queer cinema syllabus. I am currently working my way through Unit 4: Heartbreak Alley, the totally light-hearted, definitely not agonizing section of the syllabus where I get to watch countless acts of violence be committed against queer people. Thank fuck I have Lesbians waiting for me at the end of this unit. The films in Unit 4 are: Bent (1997), Strange Fruit (2004), Boys Don’t Cry (1999), Brokeback Mountain (2005), Parting Glances (1986), Philadelphia (1993), The Living End (1992), Holding the Man (2015), Jeffery (1995), and Boys on the Side (1995).

Today I will be writing about

Strange Fruit (2004) dir. Kyle Schickner

[Run Time: 88 min, Available: had to purchase a DVD, Language: English]

Content Warning: lynching, racism, homophobia, rape, violence/gore

Summary: A New York attorney must return home to Louisiana to investigate the death of a childhood friend who, like Boyals himself, was both black and gay. 

Cast: 

Kyle Faulcon as William Boyals

Berlinda Tolbert as Emma Ayers

__

Well.

First of all, I guess, a thank you to @bengiyo is in order for discovering that Strange Fruit was available on DVD so that I was actually able to watch it. This has joined the likes of Mysterious Skin on my ‘definitely something I needed to watch, but can probably never watch again” list. 

I want to warn anyone that is considering finding this film and watching it that it starts with a lynching. I…. I’m not sure I have the words. Not to get too real on main, but I have some pretty major trauma related to hangings, and I am just desperately glad that I did not watch this last week, as that was the anniversary and I am not confident I would have been able to finish this film. As it is I have been sitting in complete and utter silence since finishing the movie because a) holy shit b) the rope burns on his neck c) holy shit. 

How do you watch a film like this knowing that lynchings still happen all the time? How do you watch a film where a gay Black man in a small, rural country town is brutally beaten, raped with a branch, and hung from a tree on screen while knowing that just last week a Black man was found hanging from a tree in a small, rural country town? For a movie that was filmed on a budget of only $250,000 (according to Wikipedia, the director was offered 6 million if he didn’t make the lead character both Black and gay and he turned it down) it is absolutely packed with very important, nuanced social commentary around queerness, around race, around homophobia in general and homophobia within the Black community specifically, around how the police uphold power, around the relationship between intellectualism and the South, and around how the queer community survives. 

(sorry for the abysmal photo quality, there are no photos of this film and I watched it on my TV so I was not able to take screen shots)

For as cheaply as it was made it packs a motherfucking punch let me tell you, watching Kelvin scream for help, call for his mother, was just gut wrenching. Watching William desperately plead with the Black men who were lynching him not to do so because they were perpetuating the cycle of violence done by white men to black men not that long ago. How some Black men were fine with that because Kelvin, because William were faggots. How others killed themselves when the dust settled, understanding the realities of what they had done. The speech at the grocery story between Mrs. Ayers and Mrs. Boyals about how desperately Mrs. Ayers had wanted to disown Kelvin for being gay and how grateful she was that she hadn’t because she lost Kelvin too young. 

The way small town loyalties and small town fears intersect, Matthew being so grateful that William protected him all the way back in fifth grade that he went against the orders of the other cops to tell William everything he knew, and how he was so afraid to be considered a homosexual if he stood up for a queer man. The way Sheriff Jensey was a racist, homophobic piece of flaming dog shit who still was doing everything he could to prevent people from knowing his nephew was gay. How he was reduced to ground meat for it. (Though, he can die, I have no remorse for him whatsoever). The way Mrs. Ayers calls out the fact that William can pass as straight but Kelvin couldn’t. The way that the queer community was silent in the wake of Kelvin’s death because that was the only way to guarantee the survival of community pillars. The fact that there was no new coverage of Kelvin’s death that we could see, but when the white man was lynched, there were news trucks all over the place because someone in power was affected. 

And perhaps my favorite example, Duane, who refuses to step foot in a gay bar for fear of looking gay when he first starts investigating his brother’s murder with William who is ready to throw hands at Sheriff Jensey’s nephew when he makes a homophobic comment, putting his parole at risk, who ends the film driving around in William’s rental car which has the word Faggot spray painted on the back. The way he was angry at William for the stupid, elitist shit he was saying, about how everyone in Louisiana had an IQ below 80, how he refused to call this place his home anymore. Duance handled those moments so beautifully. There are so many important scenes in this film, I don’t think I can count this one as my favorite, but I do need to acknowledge how happy I was that Strange Fruit let a Black man cry on screen. Like, so much of Kelvin’s murder, and William’s attempted murder was incredibly upsetting, but I felt very deep in my soul the pain, the grief, the nausea that Duane must have been feeling looking at the memorial to his brother at his murder site. 

I know because (again to get too real) for every day for months after my hanging related trauma I had to walk past a memorial for the person who passed, and let me tell you that shit was fucking brutal. 

There is so much more that could be said about this movie, but genuinely, I cannot find the words. The production team knew what they were doing when they didn’t put a backing track on the end credits, opting for a silence that was interrupted by only the chirping of crickets. Because that is what this movie is, that is what this movie does. I am not exaggerating when I say that the only thing I could do for thirty minutes after the screen went to black, was just sit on my couch, frozen, and feel the weight of the silence around me. 

Favorite Moment 

I talked about this a bit above but my favorite moment in Strange Fruit is when Mrs. Ayers and Mrs. Boyals run in to each other in the supermarket and Mrs. Ayers gives a very passive aggressively polite talking to to Mrs. Boyals about her homophobia, trying to get her to go back on her decision to disown William after finding out he was gay. I do think it is vitally important that we get a scene where a mother of a queer son, who just lost her child because of it, is able to admit that she struggled with his sexuality, that she desperately wanted to be rid of Kelvin, that she desperately wanted to forget he even existed. The way she was spared from having a major regret in her life because she ultimately did not do that. She lost Kelvin when he was too young, she understands at a cellular level the precious nature of time, and how easily it can be squandered and she is trying to spare Mrs. Boyals from that pain. I appreciate it strikes enough of a chord with Mrs. Boyals that she attempts to visit William at the hospital, even if ultimately she is not able to make it through the doorway to his room. 

Favorite Quote

“See that’s the thing about the bayou, no matter how much you try to push it back ‘ventually it’s gonna claim what belong to it. This is where you from man. This is where home is. Don’t matter how many degrees you got, you country.”

As a Southerner who did flee North, Duane’s words are still ring true. Even when my home state wants to dispose of people like me, even when states I have called home express their hatred of people like me, there is still a part of me that feels the emptiness of being away from home. I miss the mangroves, I miss the mountains, I miss the food, I miss the people I love who love me. It feels impossible to have the type of community I had back home up where I am now, and I am trying as hard as I can to cultivate it. I just love this line so much because I think it is important to remember where you came from, especially because William just before this was insulting the intelligence of people in the South, his people, from his home. I’m really glad he apologized for that. 

Score

8.5/10

If this was a grade based on just emotional manipulation, the film would get a 10 cause...fuck. But structurally I think it's probably like a 7 or an 8 so I am gonna give it an 8.5.

[witchthewriter]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐓 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

a/n: this is excluding the ones they have on the show. May have spoilers? The characters are a mix of both GoT show and the books. 

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ      

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒂 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒌

・You scoured high and low to find at least one dire wolf pup. It took you two years (and all that time you hid it from Sansa. You wanted to hide her from feeling the constant disappointment of it not working out.) 

・It started when you realised how much Sansa was talking about Lady, specifically how much she missed her. 

・Now that she was safe, away from the dangers of King’s Landing. Sansa now let all that trauma wash over her - it was the steps in moving forward to healing 

・And a part of that was realising how much she had lost. Particularly, how much she missed Lady. 

・So, that’s what sparked your desire to find one for Sansa. You thought she deserved another chance of connecting to a direwolf. And hopefully her warging abilities would work once again. 

・Two and a half years later, you found a litter of direwolf pups on the outskirts of Winterfell. Three to be exact. 

・The mother was on her death bed and you couldn’t bare to see her suffer. 

・You asked a maester to treat the animal (much to their dismay). But animals held a big piece of your heart. 

・Mirculously all four direwolves were healthy, and you felt overjoyed but overwhelmed. How would Sansa react? You were only expecting to present her one. But now four? 

    The Queen in the North found your note and trekked down to the stables, where the three pups and mother had been kept. 

・ “Wha-what is this?” Sansa was shocked. Not entirely comprehending wat was before her. 

  “A ... surprise!” You said half-heartedly. 

・And she was surprised. 

・And...she cried. 

・All those traumas escaped through her tears, and she did something you had never seen her do. 

・Sansa, who bowed to no one, who held her head high, stalked towards them (she wanted to run but didn’t want to scare them) and fell to her knees. 

・She sobbed as she held the babies, who howled and cried, nuzzling themselves in Sansa’s arm

   “I’m keeping them all,” she said through tears of both grief and joy. 

・You nearly started crying at the sight. And wanted to run over to her, but instead, you let her have her moment. She deserved it. 

・And in that moment, Sansa could feel her family. Her mother, Robb, Rickon, and her father. She stayed in that stable for over an hour. Sobbing into the fur of the mother direwolf. 

𝑱𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝒏𝒐𝒘

・Ghost was a good companion. A beautiful boy who followed Jon’s every move. And you both adored him. 

・So Jon didn’t actively go out looking for another pet. 

・ Especially since he’s now living with the Wildlings. 

・But being together with you, meant that animals would somehow be a part of your lives

・You love animals. And you can’t help but give aid to whatever creature needs it 

・You had that conversation with Jon before, and you both came to the conclusion that Ghost wouldn’t do well with another dog

・And you didn’t get another dog ...

・While travelling with the Wildlings you came across an interesting part of Westeros where they had animals called ‘ferrets’. 

・They were long, lanky things that made funny noises and you instantly fell in love

・When Ghost came up to the vendor, his red eyes glowing, he sniffed one ferret in particular and looked at Jon, did a certain motion with his head (that you told Jon was a nod) and walked away. 

・Jon was put off by the animal. He thought it looked too ... unworldly. 

      “Like a deformed cat,” Jon had said and you scolded him

“But it’s cute. And she can fit in my pack.”

・Jon sighed and paid the vendor, who thanked you generously and stashed the money without telling you one important bit of information

・The ferret was pregnant.

𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏

・There was a lot of space in the castle that Dany had usurped 

・And although you loved her dragons, they weren’t exactly the cuddling, interactive type

・Viserion was the most affectionate, but even he could become irritated with too much physical attention

・And Dany could see that you vyed for affection - she gave you as much as she could whenever she could

・But duties and responsibilities were constantly pulling her away from you 

・So on your nameday, she surprised you. 

・The small bun had the floppiest ears and you adored it the moment you set eyes on it

   “What ... is it, exactly?” You said in Old Valyrian.

“A rabbit,” she responded, stroking its’ white floppy ear. 

    “I love it!” 

・Dany had even set up a space in your rooms for it. Hay, food, water, a little home where it could hide away

・She had done all this while you were distracted by Missandei 

・And you knew you were the luckiest person in the world. 

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒆

・His outright answer was no. 

・No animal would exist on his land unless it contributed in one way or another 

・The horses were used for travel, the cows for milk and the chickens for eggs. 

・But you wanted a puppy so badly.

・And you told Sandor that the Hound needed ...  a hound

    “It’s funny!” You said one evening, rugged up in bed while he added wood to the fire. 

     He only looked over his shoulder and raised a brow. 

・But you weren’t someone who liked being told to do. Sandor knew this. 

・And at noon a few days later, you packed a horse and got ready to go into town. 

・He knew you too well

・Sandor was standing at the fence, leaning against the pillar. 

・You slowed the horse and jumped from the saddle

    “I thought you were milking the cows,” you said, crossing your arms

“And I thought you were collecting the eggs.” 

・You scrunched your nose and stared at him. He stared straight back. 

・ “I’m going to get one,” you stated, unclasping your arms and leading the horse back to your cottage

“I know,” Sandor muttered to himself, shaking his head

・A week later you awoke to a high-pitched noise

・Jumping from your bed you raced toward the sound, thinking a fox had gotten into the hen coop

・But the chickens were fine. Clucking at you in annoyance for waking them. 

    A mewling pup wiggled in Sandor’s arms, crying for its mother. 

“Sandor?” You said in shock. 

     “A hound for Mrs/Mr Hound.”

𝑪𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒊 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓

・A cat; wouldn’t matter if it was long-haired or short-haired. Cersei would make sure the servants fresh her daily

・Many might think Cersei would have a pet like a snake or something that represents manipulation. But a cat suited her perfectly. A creature that isn’t needy - doesn’t follow you everywhere, values its independence and cleans itself

・Like a Princess for a Princess 

・Everyone would be able to differentiate this cat from the others in King’s Landing because around its neck is a collar made of gold. Solid gold. 

・It’s not too heavy and is clasped in a lock which only Cersei has the key

・Joffrey never liked the thing. And that’s what he called it, ‘the thing.’ 

・Cersei’s eldest son never liked animals much, but he especially hated the one that held his mother’s affection 

・Every night the cat would find its way into Cersei’s bed, sleeping at the end of it. 

・However, if anyone else was in the bed besides Cersei, the pretty feline would not enter

𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉

・A dog. However, she didn’t go out of her way to purchase an animal or go looking for one. But a starving dog chose Brienne. 

・The poor pup was stuck in a trap, and with Brienne’s golden heart, she couldn’t leave it there to suffer

・So, she freed it. And for days, it followed her. 

・Brienne tried to shoo it away. She even resorted to throwing sticks at it (lightly throwing). But it didn’t deter the young wolfhound 

・By the end of the week, Brienne had started hunting for two, rather than one.

・She’d cleaned and wrapped its leg with a spare shirt, and hand-fed it her food.

・When she finally returned home, with a sheepish look on her face, you knew something was up. But you thought something awful had happened. Maybe she wasn’t able to reach Queen Sansa in time for the meeting. 

・But it wasn’t something serious at all. 

・Just a malnourished pup who had trusted a white-haired knight and ended up with the perfect family. 

𝑱𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓

・Honestly, Jaime wouldn’t want a pet of any kind. Not a dog, a cat, a rabbit or direwolf. He didn’t want anything reliant on him. 

・Jaime felt this way all through his childhood through his teens and early adulthood. 

・It wasn’t until he had personal growth, and a part of that was from meeting you. And the overarching factor of his growth was due to leaving Cersei

・Now that he’s ready to settle down, to have a life of his own, the thought of a pet was prevalent on his mind 

・Like a practice run for a baby

・Because he never got to look after the children he had with Cersei

・So with you, whether you bore his child or you both adopted one, Jaime wanted to take a step back and have a pet in preparation

・Together you brainstormed for weeks, thinking of the best pet. You wanted a dog, one that would grow big and strong. That would scare off anyone that would do you harm. 

・All Jaime could think of was the slobber, and the hair, and the size of the poops. 

    “Oh Jaime, please! It’d probably smell better than you,” you winked at him and he chuckled.

Smirking he snaked his arms around your waist and pulled you tight against him, “and yet, you still let me sleep in your bed.” 

・It was funny though, because you didn’t end up with a dog. Or a cat. Or a rabbit or even a mouse. 

・Somehow, you had adopted ... a fox

・The little red kit was crying for his mother, who had either abandoned him or died. 

・And it wasn’t even you who had found him. Jaime was out in the field, on the plane of land that you both lived on, and heard him crying. 

・He bundled up the four-legged creature and brought him inside from the cold. 

     “Y/n,” Jaime said hesitantly, and you could see the smug look on his face. A joke waiting to tumble from his lips. 

     “It’s a boy! You have a son!” 

𝑷𝒐𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑷𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

・Pod had never had a pet before, and when you suggested it, he was over the moon. 

・Every night before bed he deliberated. 

    “Do you like dogs? How about cats? What if it doesn’t like me?” His ramblings made you smile. God, he was the perfect personification of a golden retriever. 

“Honey, you’re fine, it’s fine. There isn’t one person in this world who doesn’t like you.”

    “Um that old lady in the village didn’t like me.”

“Because you bumped into her while you were covered in blood. Once you started talking to her, she practically fell in love.” 

・Pod blushed at that comment

・The very next day, you saw the same lady in the village, but she looked troubled.

・Pod instantly walked over to her and asked what was the matter

    “My old cat had a whole litter of kittens,” she said while leaning on her walking stick, “and I don’t know what to do with them!” 

・You and Pod looked at each other and smiled. 

𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝑻𝒚𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒍

・It was a shock when the sparrow landed on her window sill. He was jumping here and there, happily tweeting. 

・And then out of nowhere a large grey owl swooped from the hidden shadows and snatched the sparrow in its’ clutches. 

・Margaery gasped, and acted so swiftly, even retelling the stories she thought she misunderstood her own actions

・But her instincts kicked in

・And she snatched the owl’s leg and pulled it towards her. This loosened the owl’s grip and the sparrow flew away

・ “Now what was that!” She shrieked at the owl, who hooted angrily at the Tyrell princess

・She had been feeding the owl bits of feed and dead mice she found around the castle 

・But apparently it wanted to show off, yet Margaery wasn’t having a bar of it

    “That was very rude,” she said, but moved forward and stroked the owl’s soft feathers. 

    “But also very impressive.” 

[spooky-circuits]

Ok but since it looks like Bruce is the first brother I have to know the Snack Pack's reactions when it comes out that Branch isn't just some Brozone fan, but is secretly the most popular member of the group! Spruc had been the heartthrob, no doubts about it, but Bitty B being so cute and adorable had made it so his popularity skyrocketed over Spruce, he just didn't have any weird contests like Spruce had.

Tangent aside, I imagine Branch won't be able to immediately go for the throat because he'll be too busy fighting back a panic attack. The Vaycationers aren't a threat, but for someone who's only experience with larger sentient races were Bergans, and a severe trauma caused by said Bergans, it's a bit difficult to tell that fact.

Bruce, on his end, would probably be equal parts delighted to see his baby brother with a group of friends... and completely and utterly terrified and concerned over this group of kids. I imagine he probably wasn't quite a father yet, or if he was, he didn't have nearly as many kids and was still new to being a parent. So, seeing his 14 year old baby brother suddenly show up out of nowhere and be GRAY, with a group of half starved children following after him, well, it doesn't paint a pretty picture.

Bruce is in the middle of a lunch rush at the cantina when Bruce Jr runs up to him asking for a menu for his new friends. It isn’t an odd occurrence Bruce Jr has a bad habit of introducing himself to random tourists and bringing them by with the expectation that the food would be paid for. He doesn’t want to crush that generous spirit but him and Brandy are running a business and he needs to remind his son of that. He turns to hand him the menus (they could still be actual customers he isn’t going to be rude) and sees his son standing with a group of cowering troll teens… What is happening? Are those pop trolls?! He hasn’t seen pop trolls in over a decade. He’s about to ask them some questions but realizes that if they’re pop trolls they probably don’t want to be doing this around vacationers. He hates to put his wife on the spot like this but he knows she’ll understand once he explains it to her afterwards “Hey Brandy I’ve got a situation here I’ll be right back! Steve watch the bar for me!” And herds the kids out onto the beach. “Okay first question where are your parents? Because you guys look rough so they clearly aren’t doing their job right.” There are a couple of offended cries from the group but Bruces attention is caught by a face with an intense stare that reminds him of his older brother right before a brawl would break out between the two of them. The rest of the group also seems to notice the shift in the grey trolls mood when they all seem to pull out. Old Brozone magazines? Oh the kids were fans “Okay look I’ll sign your magazines or whatever but I’m really trying to put the boy band stuff behind me okay?” The teens all perk up at this and turn to Branch “Oh wow it really is him! Isn’t that great Branch!” And Branch just charges at him only to get held back by Poppy’s hair wrapping around his limbs. Branch still manages to grab one of Bruces arms and is yelling stuff like “How could you! Do you even know who I am?!” When Bruce Jr grabs his dad and yanks him out of Branch’s grip it leaves scratch marks but he’s not seriously hurt. The Snack pack are all asking him questions like “What the hell Branch?” “I thought you were excited to meet him?” And Creek with his “Oh I knew he wasn’t a fan!”

Bruce is watching the grey troll get surrounded by his friends when he hears one call him Branch. But that can’t be right. Branch is supposed to be at home with their grandma and Floyd. Not here looking beat up and grey with no supervision in sight. “Branch?” He pats Bruce Jr’s hand to signal that it’s okay to put him down. “Branch what are you doing here?” There are a hundred questions going through his head seeing his baby brother but he could only get out the one that definitely didn’t come across like he meant for it to come across.

The rest of the snack pack can tell they’re missing something but no one dares to break the tension until Branch finally speaks up. “I don’t know..” Branch seems to go slack “I thought I wanted to beat you up and maybe make you regret leaving.. but I can see this was a mistake.” He looks at Bruce and looks at his son standing behind him the similarities are so striking when they’re next to each other it’s impossible to miss what they implied. “I guess you found a better family to actually stick around for.” And the words feel like they actually stab Bruce right in the heart at the implication. Bruce is fully aware of how he’s hurt Branch in that moment.

Branch tries to shake off his friends to make an attempt to run off so he doesn’t have to see his brother keep looking at him like that.

[chronicallycouchbound]

About:

⌂ adult / over 25 ⌂ on/off homeless ⌂ disabled ⌂ mad ⌂ neurodivergent ⌂ queer ⌂ trans ⌂ DID system ⌂ currently precariously housed ⌂ multi-marginalized ⌂ writer ⌂ artist ⌂ zero income ⌂ mixed race ⌂ community organizer ⌂ abolitionist ⌂ pagan ⌂

Essays:

May Your Hands Always Be Loud

Sword Canes Aren’t Badass. I am.

What’s So Wrong With Having Heroes?

Unlucky: Protective Factors and Homelessness

Homeless Delicacies and Finding Unhoused Joy

Internalized Ableism As Means For Unhoused Survival

Let People On Food Stamps Eat Hot Meals

Intelligence Doesn't Equal Morality

Homelessness as Trauma: Transitioning Into Housing

Winter Solstice / Homeless Persons Memorial Day

Guides:

Unhoused Solidarity in Action (how to help out unhoused people outside of just care packs)

Coming into Disability (best for newly disabled people)

Interacting with People with Psychosis

How to Support People

Underrepresentation in Homeless Statistics

Houseism

Tags:

Original Posts - #chronically couchbound

Unhoused Joy (Story Series) - #unhoused joy

Informational - #info

Guides - #guides

Reblogs - #rb

Mutual Aid Requests - #Mutual Aid Asks

Asks - #asks

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Sometimes, I don’t have the ability to add alt text, image descriptions, and/or plain text versions of posts, feel free to go back and add them if you’re able to and see them needed. I have Low Vision, transient blindness and visual disturbances due to some of my conditions and often require IDs myself. I try to avoid reblogging images without IDs. I try to go back and add IDs when I’m able.

My blogs are photosensitive safe. I will never post flashing lights, jump scares, or April Fool's jokes/pranks on any of my blogs.

Occasionally I post sensory-enriched/dopamine-friendly versions of posts that I have previously posted.

Boundaries

I live in the United States so my posts at times are more specific to USA policies. However, in other countries many of the same restrictions, barriers, and systemic issues exist and I hope some of my posts can be a starting point to your own research about your local government policies and issues.

Inbox is open for mutuals, asks are open for anyone else.

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Other Blogs:

Hellenic polytheistic worship/main: @fireandfennel

System blog: @oleandersystem

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And here’s my cripplepunk playlist to listen to while you scroll!

And if you’re interested in supporting me and my writing, here’s my wishlist. I am unable to work and have been fighting for SSI with a lawyer since 2017. I have zero income and live entirely off of government aid. Many items I need aren’t covered by insurance or charity programs. This is the only way I am able to receive outside assistance from others without my government assistance vouchers being taken away.

[ariadnes-red-thread]

The Last Word: Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO: THE WOLVES

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Fives/OFC

Chapter Summary: Flashback to a week before, Mal is faced with a big decision that could alter her life drastically. But is she ready to leave the safety of the Wolfpack and face the hard questions that she’s been hiding from?

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing and mentions of Umbara/past trauma

Chapter Word Count: 5.4k

Recommended Listening: The Wolves by Ben Howard

A/N: No Fives this time, but lots of our other favorites, I promise :) Thank you so much for all of the support on Chapter One! I never could have imagined how loving and positive the response would be. Excited to share more of this story with you all! As always, comments, likes, feedback, and reblogs are always so appreciated!

Ao3

Taglist

The transfer talk had started a week earlier. Four Venator-class Star Destroyers lingered as a fleet in the Expanse Region, the armies recollecting while their generals strategized and regrouped. Mal kept busy organizing the medbay. She and the 104th’s clone medic, Crux, worked in silence as they tried hard not to think about why they were all gathered in the depths of space and not on their scheduled leave.

The first sign that something was wrong had been Plo Koon. The General, normally extremely patient and even-tempered, even by Jedi standards, stormed onto the bridge with a thunderous call to attention. He pulled Wolffe away for a meeting that lasted hours. The first anyone heard from them was a crackling summons for Sinker and Comet. The venom in Wolffe’s voice, clear even over the comm, sent a chill down Mal’s spine. She’d never heard him like that, not even after Abregado. The officers disappeared, and the meeting dragged on for even longer. Mal waited with Crux, Wildfire, and Boost. They crouched around a communicator listening to the rumors that began to trickle in from other ships over private lines; stories of brothers killing brothers under orders, horrors that the clones couldn’t imagine. 

Mal, on the other hand, felt her heart begin to race as they listened. She knew horrors like these. They were the ones that haunted her nightmares and sometimes her waking moments, like ghosts that hung over her shoulders, their weight ladened with guilt. She never imagined terrors like this could reach her - or her friends - here, in the Republic army, far from the Separatists and surrounded by an army of brothers. She gripped the edge of the seat to stop her hands from shaking. When the comms finally went silent, no one spoke. 

Before anyone could find the words, the meeting adjourned, and the officers were back on the deck. It seemed whatever fury had been burning before had subsided. They all looked heavy now, older. It was the oddest on Wolffe. Though he usually chose his words carefully, the stoic quietness that had overtaken the usually grumbling Commander was new and darker. Sinker barked the orders instead. The Jedi cruiser immediately made its jump to the Expanse region to gather with other Republic ships. 

Three days passed before Mal saw Wolffe again. He locked himself in his office and didn’t respond to comms. Mal checked on him through Sinker, who made sure that he was eating for her. Satisfied that Sinker was doing his best to pester the Commander into taking care of himself, Mal found boredom creeping up on her without anyone to patch up. She and Crux did their best to stay distracted. The medbay had never looked cleaner. When Mal wasn’t restocking med packs or refilling bacta containers, she was organizing games of sabacc. Sabacc had always been a source of comfort for Mal, and it had been a downtime staple of the 104th since she joined. With the minimal stipends the clones got, Mal never let them play for real credits. Usually, they used ration bars or scraps of flimsi. It made it more fun anyway. There was more laughter and teasing, with nothing really on the line. Nothing on the line was a nice change of pace.

This afternoon’s game came about during a lull in after-lunch chores. Mal, Comet, Wildfire, Sinker, Crux, and Boost were huddled in a circle in the men’s barracks. Mal was in the middle of a roll when Wolffe called. The dice tumbled from her hand just as the comm on her wrist beeped, its final notes drowned out by a collective groan at the numbers she rolled. When Mal answered, Wolffe’s voice met her ears and brought a smile to her face. It was back to being its recognizable gruff timbre.

“Mal, get in here.” He snapped before he cut the call.

The message was short and to the point, as his comms always were. Mal knew she’d find him in his office, and before she could wonder why she was being summoned, the other clones began to make low whistles.

“Someone’s in trouble!” Comet chuckled.

“What the fuck did you do this time?” Boost shook his head at her with a paternal smile.

“Don’t worry, ad’ika. We’ll have Crux ready the medbay for after your chewing out.” Sinker elbowed the medic next to him, who quickly shuffled his cards away from the trooper and glared.

“The Jedi are probably finally giving me a medal for putting up with you all.” Mal sighed as she threw down her own cards.

Sinker leaned over the table, abandoning any pretense of subtlety, to stare at her hand before his gaze snapped back up to Mal. His jaw hung open, and betrayal was written all over his face.

“You’re a liar!” Sinker called out.

“It’s called bluffing. I know you’re not familiar with it.” She winked at him before she turned, leaving the rest of the soldiers to tease their brother about his bad sabacc face.

Mal wound the dark halls of the Venator until she reached Wolffe’s office. As the blast door slid open, she knew she’d find the Commander bent over a desk covered in flimsi, holos, and datapads. Mal had offered to clean it for him time and time again. Still, Wolffe always rolled his eyes at her and said it was organized to him, usually throwing in some colorful adjectives along the way. Mal wasn’t expecting an unfamiliar clone to be waiting with him. 

The new clone, a captain according to the rank on his chest, sat in one of the two chairs across from Wolffe, his left hand resting on the chair arm and the right laid on the helmet that was perched atop his knee. Mal quickly saluted the familiar yet unfamiliar man. She wasn’t officially military, not like the clones. Civilian medics were a subset of the GAR, but she held no rank, and the field training had been practically shameful. The role was created so there would be extra hands to help the clone medics and the medical droids in the medbay and the medbay only. 

Though she might not be officially GAR, Mal didn’t mind the military aspects of the job. The structure and the order of everything had seeped into her blood quickly. A part of Mal loved it. Craved it even. It felt safe. She just couldn’t stand being told what to do, not since Takodana. Luckily, Wolffe never minded if Mal took a little creative license with her scope. From the beginning, he had encouraged Crux to take her with him into the field. He respected her experience, and she also suspected that Wolffe knew she liked the intensity and distraction of it all, even if they never talked about it. It was one of the ways they were similar.

The captain smiled as Mal paused in the doorway. He had close-cropped blonde hair and brown eyes that twinkled even in the cabin’s dim light. She found that she liked the man right away. He radiated kindness, not a meek, differential kindness, but the warm kindness that comes from a confident, caring heart.

“Yes, sir?” Mal lingered at the entrance in case she had misunderstood the summons. 

“You’re suddenly all polite in front of company?” Wolffe winked his cybernetic eye at her, his brown one bright with glee. Mal instantly relaxed. “Have a seat. Captain Rex and I were talking about you.”

“You must be the Captain Rex talking about me.” She flashed a smile at the man as she settled into the third chair. “Nice to meet you.”

“My vod always had a talent for introductions.” He grinned at his brother, bringing a familiar scowl to Wolffe’s face. “I promise it was only good things.”

Mal glanced back and forth between the officers. When neither of them spoke again, her curiosity got the better of her.

“So, what’s going on?”

Rex’s eyes flicked to Wolffe. When the Commander didn’t speak, his brow seemed to set in determination. He turned back to Mal, facing her fully.

“I was asking the Commander if you might be open to a transfer.”

A black hole could have opened up and swallowed her at that moment, and she wouldn’t have been more surprised. Mal’s eyes flitted to Wolffe, hoping to see some sort of anger or shock that another battalion was trying to steal her away, but she saw nothing. That stung. She always knew Wolffe was less openly emotional about his attachment to her than the rest of the 104th, but Mal still thought their relationship meant something to him. She certainly never thought he’d push her out.

“I’m sorry to ask.” Rex quickly added, reading the shock on her face. “I wouldn’t like the idea of leaving my men either. Truth is, my troop is short on medics. I promoted my man Coric to CMO, leaving my Torrent Company with only one primary medic. And uh, frankly, we’re a little too reckless for that.”

Mal pulled her attention from the cool commander and back to the captain with the soft eyes. She could deal with Wolffe later.

“Wolffe brags about you all the time to the other COs. Figured if I was gonna go searching for a civilian medic, I might as well try to get the best.” Rex drummed his fingers on his helmet as he spoke.

Mal blushed at the statement before she quickly searched the Captain’s face. She was looking for flattery, but his smile was unwaveringly genuine.

“I promise you I’ll think about it,” she assured Rex. It was a lie, and Mal felt a pang of guilt after seeing how earnest he was.

“All I can ask.” Rex stood, tucking his helmet into his hip. “I need to get back to my ship. Can’t leave those di’kute unsupervised for too long.”

He let out a half-exasperated chuckle to himself before he nodded to her and then saluted the Commander. Rex turned on his heel without another word and marched from the room. Mal waited until the door was sealed shut behind him.

“What the hell, Wolffe?” She snapped as she spun back to him. “You’re trying to get rid of me?”

Wolffe leaned back in his chair as he raised an amused eyebrow at her, the corners of his lips turning up into a smirk. It was the look he always gave Mal when she got feisty with him. He enjoyed her hot-headed nature and entertained it the same way a loth wolf would tolerate the play-fighting of a pup. His lackadaisical response to her fury often made her laugh and soothed her, but sometimes, it irritated Mal, especially when she was really pissed off. This was one of those times.

“After everything, you’re just gonna ship me out?” Mal felt her voice start to rise as fear bubbled in her chest. She shifted to the edge of her seat, the world suddenly a little unsteady. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is bantha shit.”

“Settle down, ad’ika. I’m not kicking you out.” Wolffe crossed his arms, his voice even. “I’ve already found that you’re impossible to get rid of.”

“Fuck you.” Mal fired right back at him before she paused. His little quip helped temper the panic, but frustration still seethed from her. “Then what the hell?”

“Look,” He leaned forward, his voice dropping a half an octave. “Rex is with the 501st.”

Mal gasped, despite herself. Everyone in the GAR had heard of the 501st, the famously brave and infamously bold legion that fought under the command of General Anakin Skywalker. Stories of their more creative battle plans were told over shots of spotchka. In the last week, however, their name had been uttered in hushed tones and horrified whispers as the stories of what had happened on Umbara last week spread throughout the GAR.

“He was so…” She thought about Captain Rex’s smile. “... kind.”

“Always has been. Rex is the best of us.” He spoke without affection as though it were a fact. “The bravest, the most creative, the boldest. Even while he’s hurting right now, he’s only thinking of his men. For better or for worse. I think you can relate to him. In more ways than one.”

Wolffe settled back into his chair as he let the inference in his words sink in. The already small durasteel office seemed to shrink, closing in on Mal as she shifted in her seat.

“From the stories, they were tricked on Umbara.” Her heart began to pound at the implication.  “Not controlled.” 

“Didn’t say it was the same, ad’ika. Just said you might be able to relate.”

Mal’s frown deepened. Finally, when she didn’t speak, Wolffe rolled his eyes and sighed. She knew it was at her refusal to admit he might be on to something, but when he started again, his voice was softer than she had heard in a long time.

“Look, I know I don’t say it a lot, but I don’t know what we would have done without after….” Wolffe trailed off. Mal knew what he meant. He coughed. “You rescued Sinker, Boost, and me way back then.”

A silence filled the room for a moment as memories overwhelmed them both. The war had felt like years, but the weight of those early days never felt less heavy, especially if they looked directly at them.

“You rescued me first,” she quickly replied, giving him a small smile.

“Us finding you was luck, Mal.” He said firmly. “You came back, and you brought mirjahaal with you.”

Mal knew what he was implying. She had worked hard in the days and months after Grevious’ attack to make sure that the remnants of the 104th healed or at least knew that they would eventually heal, inside and out. It was the least that she could do. They had done the same for her not long before. And it seemed like Wolffe thought she could do the same for the 501st.

“I don’t know them.” She frowned.

“But I know you, and I think you can help them.”

“How can you ask me to leave you? To leave Sinker and Boost? After everything?” Her voice was starting to rise again.

“Because I owe Rex that. We all do.”

Mal didn’t say anything. What Wolffe was asking her - to leave the only family she had left- was impossible, and he should know it.

“It’s not just about the 501st, though. There’s another reason I think you should at least consider it.”  Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, the white and amber iris each focused on her. Suddenly, the air was tense, and Mal felt bare before her old friend. “I didn’t say anything to Rex, but this is also your chance for answers… if you still want them.”

Answers. She hadn’t thought about answers in a long time. Defense bubbled up in her chest. Of course, she still wanted them. Wolffe had to know that. She looked at him, half-pleading. His scar. Before Khorm. That was the last time they had talked about this. Before Khorm. Mal’s heart began to sink as she realized that it had been almost a year since she had looked into any of her leads. She didn’t realize it had been so long. What had happened to her family was easier to push down and push aside while she busied herself with making war. She pretended that fighting the Separatists was enough. She had ignored her oath to find out why everyone was dead, and she was ignoring the debt she owed them. She���d gotten comfortable. The oxygen was suddenly scarce as Mal tried to inhale. Cadex and Tynan’s faces flashed before her, their green eyes staring blankly into hers. 

Wolffe cleared his throat again, pulling her back to the present. Breath flooded her lungs as Wolffe waited. She mustered up the courage to respond. 

“I do.” Mal finally answered.

“Then take the transfer,” Wolffe repeated. “I will follow General Plo until I die, but his methods are slower… more precise. Skywalker will get you where you want to be.”

She didn’t say anything, the flame of defensiveness wetted by her guilt. It had been over two years, and she hadn’t gotten any closer to finding out what had happened or why. Mal had brought her story to General Plo Koon after she had first been rescued. The Kel Dor listened with interest and promised he would help. She knew he meant it, but the war raged on, and nothing had come of it. Wolffe was right. It was time for answers, and she needed to find a Jedi ready to help. She needed a Jedi who would be a little reckless.

“The decision is up to you.” Wolffe shook his head, finally breaking eye contact for a moment, just enough to let her breathe again. He brought his hands down to the desk, a tell-tale sign that he was closing the subject. “But you should know I wouldn’t give up my favorite medic unless I had a reason.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mal said as she stood.

This time, she meant it. 

Mal tried to think about it as she made her way to the mess hall, but the annoyance that had dissipated under Wolffe’s gaze was beginning to bubble up again. How dare he try to talk her into leaving? This was her family, the only one she had anymore, and she belonged here. A feeling of betrayal settled like a rock into the pit of her stomach as she collected whatever slop the GAR was serving. She sought out her friends quickly.

Mal spotted Crux first. The clone medic stood out with his shaved head, the practical choice he once told her, and the GAR medical sigil tattooed on the back of his neck. Sitting with him were two other unmistakable heads, one of silver and the other decorated with two long, maroon strips.

“Why the long face?” Boost asked as Mal set her tray on the table and plopped down on the bench across from him.

She told them about the transfer. She gave them Rex’s offer and Wolffe’s logic, and then she told them all the reasons she was furious. This was her home. Her family. She waited for them to be mad for her. She waited for the cries of outrage. They never came.

“‘S not a bad idea.” Boost rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced over at Sinker.

 Mal followed his gaze to see Sinker nodding. She snapped her head to her fellow medic, looking for support, but next to her, Crux shrugged in agreement.

“What is this?” She threw her arms up in the air. “Is everyone trying to get rid of me?”

“No one’s trying to get rid of you, ad’ika.” Boost quickly tried to assure her.

“Yeah, that’s impossible. We already tried.” Sinker snickered.

“That’s what Wolffe said, too,” Mal grumbled, shooting a glare at Sinker as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Neither of you are funny.”

“Look, be mad all you want.” Boost answered as he dove back into his meal, the shock of the news immediately wearing off in the face of a rapidly cooling dinner. “But Wolffe is right. If you want to be in the middle of the action, if you want answers, and you want ‘em quickly, the 501st is the place to be. And a spot with them isn’t going to open up every week.”

“You never know with their casualty numbers.” 

Sinker chuckled again as Boost shot him the glare this time. Boost shook his head at his brother before he turned his attention back to his meal. He sliced a piece of his protein cube off and found it with his fork before he turned back to Mal, waving his skewered food like a lightsaber.

“It’s your call to make, but the fact that Captain Rex asked for you is a compliment. You’re a damn good medic, and you’ve worked hard to get here. Done a lot for us clones in the 104th along the way. Now it’s time to get what you want. Don’t you think you deserve that?” 

You deserve to be happy.

“Tye would have told you to do it,” Sinker added, his joking tone suddenly gone.

Mal didn’t respond to that. She didn’t even look at Sinker. Instead, she turned to Crux, trying to ignore how her skin was starting to crawl.

“What do you think?”

The 104th’s medic was quiet, momentarily assessing as he always did.

“It makes sense.” Crux finally spoke. “Will we be short a medic for the time being? Yes, but the 501st has far higher mortality numbers than we do. Strategically, they need you more.”

“Aw shucks, just saw you’ll miss me.” Mal elbowed the stiff medic.

He grinned back.

“Well, that goes without saying.”

The conversation quickly turned to other subjects, but food quickly disappeared, and the meal wound down. As they gathered their trays and empty cups, She and Crux said their goodbyes to the other two before they started to wander back to the medbay.  Mal waited until they were in the empty halls to broach the subject again

She and Crux hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Their first few months together had been particularly rough. He didn’t trust her as a civilian, and she resented him for… well, for not being Tye. But it had been a long time since then. His even temper and logic in the face of blaster fire and carnage were a perfect balance to her emotionally charged reactions. He was the only one besides Wolffe who would know what the right answer was.

“Really, what do you think?” She slid her hands into the pockets of the grey jumpsuit as she prodded the stoic medic again.

“You really want to know?”

“I asked.” She shrugged, her long gently red braid bouncing on her shoulder.

“Yeah, well, I’ve fallen into that trap before, Mal.” Crux chuckled, and Mal knew that one of any number of memories of heated arguments was on his mind. “You don’t usually like being told what to do.”

“I just want your advice,” She said, “as a friend, not as my medic CO.”

“Alright.” Crux sighed before he spoke. “I think that, despite what it feels like right now, this war isn’t going to go on forever. You have to take the opportunities you’re given. Take it from a clone.”

Mal stopped in her tracks. Crux continued a few steps, not realizing he was leaving his companion before he looked to his side and found the space empty. He paused and turned back to where his words had stopped her in her tracks. Shame burned her cheeks. Here she was, oscillating over choices that gave her a power in her future that the clones rarely saw.

“I’m sorry, Crux, I-” 

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Mal.” He shook his head as he quickly cut her off. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just offering a different perspective. I don’t want to see you miss your chance to change your path.”

Mal bit her lip as she nodded, digging her hands further into her pockets. Crux gave her a small smile.

“Go get some rest, Mal. I’ll finish up in the medbay.”

Mal didn’t realize how exhausted she felt until she stripped off the jumpsuit, let her hair loose, and pulled on sweatpants and a sweater. It had sunk into her bones and laid heavy there. Still, neither rest nor clarity found Mal when she crawled into bed. As the lights flickered off on the living quarters of the Star Destroyer, Mal lay in a lonely lower bunk in the small and otherwise empty civilian barracks. The idea of a transfer had taken root in her head, and it was sprouting. She wished she was back on Coruscant, something that she rarely felt. Still, Mal missed the dingy local pool that she and Tye had found on the 576th level the week after she had moved into her off-base apartment. She wanted to swim. The future was always clearer in the water.

Instead, Mal stared up at the dim metal of the top bunk. The thought of leaving the 104th still made her pulse quicken and her breath rise. Leaving this battalion would be more than a transfer. It would be losing her family again. She owed her life to Sinker, Boost, and Wolffe. She had been with them when they had to rebuild. The idea of not having their back or them not having hers was devastating. Who would patch them up? Who would make sure that Wolffe ate something or that Comet slept?

Mal turned on her side, eyes looking out into the impenetrable dark. It was overwhelming. She was usually grateful that she didn’t have to share the bunk with anyone. She didn’t have to worry about upsetting them when the nightmares came, and she had always appreciated solitude. Tonight, Mal would have liked someone to talk to, though. She thought about comm-ing Wolffe or Crux, but a growing part of her realized that the one person she really wanted to talk to was Tye.

Tye. In the span of a lifetime, she’d only known him for a fraction of it, but he had a clarity and purpose that she’d never seen in anyone. She could use that clarity right now. The last time she remembered having it was when she made the decision to join the GAR as a medic so she could help the 104th. She had needed to give something back to all of the Wolfpack, but her debt to Tye weighed heaviest on her, and it was one she couldn’t repay. Not anymore. He was a corpse floating somewhere out in the Abregado system. All she could do was look after his brothers and hope it was enough. Now Wolffe was telling her his brothers needed help. Maybe this was what she needed to do to keep repaying that debt. 

And then there was the promise of answers. Wolffe was right. Mal had pushed that quest aside for a long time, focusing on the day-to-day battle instead of the questions always in the back of her mind. If this was the chance to finally find out what happened to her family, she had to take it. She owed it to herself and them, another debt to the dead. A hand wandered up to her temple and traced a familiar path into her hairline until it found the raised skin that lay beneath her auburn roots. Mal ran her fingertips over the small incision, long since healed and hidden. It had been hidden long enough. It was time for answers.

Sleep crept up on Mal like a nexu, springing out at her from the darkness and wrestling her mind into the abyss. She didn’t have any nightmares that night.

Mal woke up the next morning feeling rested in a way she couldn't remember being since before the war when rainy nights on Takodana would turn into bright mornings where the sun-kissed dew would fall from the overgrown canopy. Those mornings when she would take her boat to the lake and patrol the waterways were the last time she remembered having this kind of purpose. Despite the uncertainty ahead, it was fortifying.

Mal took a quick sonic shower in her private fresher before she braided her hair and pulled on her gray jumpsuit. She glanced in the long mirror as she ran her fingers over the 104th's emblem on her chest. She traced the aurebesh numbers and the small wolf emblem. With deft fingers, Mal took the pin from the fabric and pocketed it.

She stepped out of the fresher, and immediately went to see Wolffe. The hallways were filled with familiar faces and greetings, and she savored every one of them. Wildfire met her with her morning caf. They took it the same - one sugar, one cream - and after continuously switching cups in briefings, he finally just started to bring Mal her own, with an M on the lid. She surprised him with a hug as she took it and promised she would meet him at breakfast in a little bit.  There was something she had to do.

The caf tasted even sweeter today, and Mal smiled as she sipped on on the warm drink. She clasped her hands around the cup as she found herself stopping before Wolffe's office again. The blast door loomed before her for a moment. She knew that there were things on the other side that she might not like. There were no answers that would save her from her sins. One hand left its grip on the cup so she could run her fingers over the cool durasteel, tracing the fine lines until she found the control panel. Mal typed in the code she knew by heart, and the door slid open.  An affectionate smile crossed her lips when she spotted Wolffe. He was sitting behind his desk as he always did, behind a mound of flimsi and nose buried in a datapad. She realized she would miss his messy desk.

“I’ll do it,” Mal quickly spoke, not giving herself even a second to change her mind.

Wolffe kept typing.

“Our leave next week overlaps with the 501st. We’ll make the transition then.”

“You already talked to Rex.” She huffed. It wasn’t a question. 

He finally looked up from the datapad with a sly grin.

“I knew you’d say yes.”

Mal shook her head at the Commander as she rolled her eyes and sighed at his arrogance. The annoyance didn’t reach her eyes, though. With nothing else to discuss, Mal turned to go. Before she could make it to the door, Wolffe spoke again.

“You made the hard choice, Mal,” Wolffe called. “He’d be proud.”

Mal stopped in her tracks. She could ignore Sinker when he brought up Tye, but she couldn’t ignore Wolffe. Mal turned to him with an attempt at a smile, even though she knew it likely looked like a grimace.

“I know.”

“They all would be. Your father, Cadex, and Tynan too.”

Mal’s eyes widened as the names left her friend’s mouth. Wolffe never mentioned her family directly. Even though he knew more about her than anyone else alive, he’d always respected her privacy. Bile began to rise in Mal’s throat. Could she still make them proud? She tried to nod to Wolffe. She stiffly lowered her chin just a little before she spun on her heel and double-timed her way back to her barrack. All along the way, a voice chased her.

You deserve to be happy.

It wasn't until she reached the mess hall that her ears stopped ringing, the noise of the hungry clones a reprieve from the thunderous voices in her head. Wildfire waved her over to a table, and Mal pushed aside Wolffe's final words. No one knew what she deserved, but she was ready to find out.

When Mal finally stepped onto the hangar of the 501st battalion, the morning’s distress had evaporated along with any remnants of a hangover. She had closed the book on her mistake. The clone, Fives, was a mirage now. He was nothing more than a memory at this point, a reaffirmation of her rules, and eventually, once the shame wore off, an embarrassing story for her to tell Sinker and Boost the next time she saw them. Mal had real things to worry about now.

Though the hangover may have been gone, the headache seemed to come right back as she stepped into the sea of blue and white troopers. Her new blue jumpsuit, swapped for her old grey one, matched the armor of the men who marched by her, but there were no signs of recognition. They swarmed around her, looking at their datapads, at each other, looking anywhere but at the nat-born who had just entered their realm. There were no greetings or hugs. There was no Boost to slap her on the back, no Sinker launching an airborne assault of loving insults in salute, no Wildfire with her morning caf. She shifted, all alone amid the Grand Army of the Republic. For the first time in a long time, the machine of the GAR ground on around Mal.

“Mal!” A friendly voice called out from behind her.

She spun immediately, thirsting for anything familiar. A vague feeling of disappointment settled in her gut as she realized the voice was attached to a pair of rapidly approaching jaig eyes.

Stop it. She chastised herself. You agreed to this. Time to make the most of it.

So Mal tucked away the ache and waved at the approaching man. He pulled his helmet from his head, revealing a sideways smile. Captain Rex held his hand out to her before he chirped over the din of the GAR’s machinations.

“Welcome to the 501st.”

Taglist: @twistedstitcher27 @sleepingsun501 @kaminocasey @baba-fett @wild-karrde @rexxdjarin @hugtherocks @lunaastars @clonecyaree @thefact0rygirl @wizardofrozz @jesjestraverse @fordo-kixed-rex @padmeromanoffs​ @xopancakeox @shellshooked​ @writingbylee​ @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamonds

[kvothe-kingkiller]

Edit: No longer looking for Alpha Readers but I’m keeping this up for posterity and info

I’m looking for alpha readers for an ongoing fantasy project which I am currently releasing chapter by chapter. I’ll also make a post when I finish it in case you are the type to prefer to read it in one go. 

You do not need to have editing skills or experience. I am only looking for basic commentary.

Blurb: In an unsteady time of peace following a generations-long war, Mila, an 18 year old farmer, finds herself unexpectedly thrust into the world of nobility upon discovering she can wield a power thought only to be possessed by the upper class. Struggling to find her feet in this new environment and shunned by those around her, she juggles learning about her abilities, her identity, and the truth of the war behind the propaganda. When her equally ostracized mentor gets a tip about a plot to assassinate one of the country’s leaders, it’s down the dysfunctional teacher with a shady past and his apprentice who can barely control her powers to prevent the country from falling back into conflict.

(This is adult fantasy, not YA)

tags/highlights/themes: non-european-based fantasy world, adult fantasy, many queer characters and relationships (including aces), discovering sexuality, struggles with mental health and addiction, physical disabilities, dealing with trauma and taking responsibility, race relations, eat the rich, government propaganda, political intrigue, war is for money, war hurts the most vulnerable, etc

more info under the cut but if you’re interested or have questions, please DM me

(scroll down for info about setting, plot, and characters. content warnings and ‘rating’ under plot)

General Info:

Like I said, no experience needed. All I want to hear about is what you like/dislike, what is clear/unclear and any theories you have (for foreshadowing). You can be as detailed as you want or you can leave a single sentence comment for each chapter, anything helps. 

This is a first draft to be clear. I want alpha readers so I can make large changes to plot before rewriting everything for the second draft. On one hand it’s still fairly rough, on the other hand you don’t need to know anything to help. I just need opinions on plot and pacing and characters and foreshadowing etc etc. Again I am still writing it, I usually do ish a chapter a month sometimes faster sometimes slower. The chapters are usually ~10k, and I already have 27 out. (it is long)

This is going to be done through google classroom (yes, google classroom) because I need it to be inaccessible to anyone not invited and because I want people to be able to comment without being influenced by others and google classroom was literally the only thing I could find to do that for free. This does mean that whatever name you have on google will be seen by me and possibly others, just as an fyi. Also I have to add you to the ‘class’ but I can send you the prologue first if you want to try-before-you-buy (tho be aware the prologue is a bit more action packed than the start of the plot)

misc. pros for doing this: it already has art! because I do be an artist as well and I only ever draw my characters because motivation be finicky. Also, if you get through the entire thing I’ll do a commission for you (for free). plus I’m always looking for art ideas so if you say ‘it would be funny/cool if x did y’ then chances are I will actually draw it lol. also, free book ig?

Setting: 

Magic: Low fantasy with scarce/rare magic. The magic is called forging and is basically element magic but I wanted to explain all the hand movements people do with those so I incorporated more rules and ‘science’ to make it more rigid. there are ten basic ‘facets’ (air fire water stone earth wood iron copper blood bone) and people can be born knowing any number, or special different ones, but it gets exponentially rarer with more facets. the magic is genetic and mostly confined to the upper class and has become a way of oppressing the lower class. this actually gets addressed rather than mentioned then ignored (cough, korra, cough)

Culture: The culture of the main country, Odrad, is based on african, middle eastern, and mediterranean cultures, with a bit of southern asian. However most of that is simply due to the setting being dry and hot, and so developing dark skin and loose clothing and making most things out of stone and plaster due to the scarcity of wood. Religion is polytheistic based around an all mother type goddess and the god of the sun with the biggest festival being the start of the wet season. Other important countries include Acrait, the biggest on the continent, which is more south asian based, and Sheiro, which is steppe-type culture. Odrad is an ex-monarchy ruled by a council that has morphed into capitalism and feudalism’s horrid little baby with ‘nobles’ controlling everything. 

Queer Culture: First of all I use the word queer a Lot lol so if you aren’t into that, might not be for you. There is oppression since I am one of the queers who prefers an overcoming story than a setting with no oppression, but it is similar to current western culture in the sense that it’s not Horrible (so no like legal death sentences for gay sex etc), not As bad as it used to be, is worse in rural areas, and is rapidly changing in the cities. for the most part people hide their queerness but there is underground culture. Most of the characters are queer so there’s a lot of rep including ace and nb

Plot:

So far, it is Long. I am 200k words in at chapter 27 and probably only halfway through and this is only the first book. A lot of the first bit is just Mila’s struggles at the school where she’s learning forging. It is taking a turn into much more political intrigue than I planned but I’m leaning into it. so just know that its long and not just constant action, there is a lot of downtime since I enjoy my character interactions and developments and fluff etc. 

It is very R rated. Mostly due to dark subject matter, blood/gore etc, and lots of swearing (I come from a family where they’re just used as emphasis words really lol, so that’s somewhat leaked in...and it’s a first draft so I can’t be bothered to spend that much time removing them). There is a Lot of discussion around sex but no actual sex scenes. It has many things which could be triggering so just lmk if you want me to warn you about anything specific. It is dark and has dark themes, however, it is not a grimdark vibe, the vibes are actually fairly light all things considered. The characters have a lot of bantz and mess around and have fun, so it’s much less constantly serious than most ‘dark’ adult fantasy. I wanted to make them more relatable as people rather than just ‘whatever badass magic user’ (they’re actually mostly fairly pathetic pft)

General CW list: violence, gore, emotional abuse, abusive relationships, child abuse, sexual harassment, bullying, homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism, frank depictions of mental illness, alcohol/drug use, addictions, intrusive thoughts, self harm, suicide ideation/attempts, war, war crimes, torture, mind control

CW list of things mentioned and discussed or that happen but not shown directly ‘on screen’: rape, pedophilia, forced pregnancy

Characters:

I’ll just give a very brief (and not great) description of the main three

Mila: (pron. ‘mee-luh’) the MC, disaster lesbian but more in a cringe fail way than a messy bitch way. tiny (4′10) but v powerful, just can’t quite use it yet. country kid way behind on the times. needs a break so badly

Ardev: imagine if you gave a wet rat the power to take over the world but he couldn’t be bothered. gay/ace and has so many things deeply wrong with him. short king

Endel: the only competent one. bi. BDE. femme. a slut. perfect at everything. his biggest flaw is that he likes Ardev. also has things deeply wrong with him.

thx for reading and again, DM if you’re interested or have questions <3

[scattered-winter]

Can you give us some details on your world building for the culture of the Galra Empire?

yea ofc!!

I'm still working out specifics, but ofc the galra empire is very focused on victory in battle (hence "victory or death" being one of their most common phrases) and general Conquering Of Enemies which is due both to how the galra culture has always been and also to ten thousand years of war and propaganda. the galra value strength above all else, though what defines strength varies depending on who you talk to. (zarkon, for example, values ruthlessness and sheer power as strength, whereas lotor recognizes the strength in collaborating with people of different skills, and drawing from many different places to find solutions for problems instead of using brute force. both methods of thinking make them strong + dangerous enemies and leaders in different ways that both conform to the ideal of Strength that the galra rule by.)

additionally, galra are fairly social creatures that rely on packs (family/found family units) for emotional needs and physical closeness. (another facet of Strength stems from Protecting The Pack, which is one of the most important expectations of a Leader). galra require physical closeness with loved ones in order to be happy and healthy, and so zarkon and his head commanders purposely use a lot of robotic sentries for the bulk of their crews and forces with only a few actual live soldiers here and there because separating the soldiers from their pack and keeping them essentially locked up with only robots to keep them company makes them crankier and generally more trigger-happy. (fun fact: this contributes to keith's initial prickliness at the beginning !! ofc a lot of it is also the Trauma and his personality but as he gets closer to A Pack for the first time some of the unhappiness lessens as his galra side starts getting what he needs <3)

the empire is, of course, largely dedicated to the war. resources, soldiers, and anything else of use is given to the empire. there are very few Civilian Galra because of the military draft, but those that are around are generally either too young or too old to be in the military. and, contrary to what the paladins see in their travels, quite a large demographic of galra aren't happy with the war, either. ofc propaganda and nationalism are a big part of the culture and so a lot of them are all about Conquering and Enslaving Inferior Races and all that shit but for a lot of them?? they're tired of war. they're tired of their children being sent to the front lines, and they're tired of being half-starved because of the demand for food for the soldiers. they just want to live their lives without having to worry about being drafted to enslave Another Planet when they literally have more than enough resources to sustain themselves. many of the galra who feel this way fled to join rebel groups scattered around the universe, or even the blade of marmora, but a lot of them are still in the empire itself (either because they have nowhere to go or because they're too scared to leave or advocate for change because disagreeing with the emperor out loud is a good way to die).

there's a lot of mixed races in the empire as well!! i mean as we've discussed in other posts, after 10 thousand years of conquering there's been a lot of interspecies mixing around going on. some mixed galra appear galra enough that they can escape some of the discrimination, but most of them are practically second-class citizens. lotor, being the only one of the royal family who's mixed race, gets the brunt of discrimination from the kingdom itself and his family because of how public a figure he is, and that's one of the reasons why his team is all mixed galra because they literally have nowhere else to belong but to each other.

and lastly, the language !! I think I said this in one of the chapter notes, but I'm ROUGHLY basing the galra language off of russian, ukrainian, et cetera. I don't think I'm smart enough to just pull a whole language out of my ass (side eyes jrr tolkien) so all the alien languages have roots in irl languages just to give me a place to start. but I'm pretty much just using basic spelling/words as a base and building on them with my own spelling/grammar stuff, so nothing should translate because I'm not trying to make it translate. I get the initial "translation" of what I'm needing off of google translate (which already makes it a pretty rough translation ahlskjgdh) and then from there I cut out pieces of words and add other letters and change pronunciations so on and so forth, and even compare different spellings across other languages with similar linguistic origins.

(just an example: znaniya ilo smeirk means "knowledge or death" in galran, and I got the base for the phrase from mixing and matching "znannya abo smert" [ukrainian*] and "znaniye ili smert'" [russian*] and kinda fucked with the spelling and pronunciation even further to make it sound harsher and more galra-like based on the galra words we actually hear from the show)

*both base translations came from google translate so they most likely don't translate to their language of origin even before I made the changes

[csb-writes]

Writeblr Intro

Welcome to all the bastard children of the Gods, princesses, psychonauts, and modern cryptids.

This chaos is something you'll get used to if you stick around.

I go by Cam, Cameron, or hey you over there because I was never given nicknames. My pronouns are they/he and I'm a disabled queer writer, poet, witch, college student, and small business owner.

About Me

I came out when I was 18 as genderfluid and oriented aroace (sex-repulsed, romance neutral).

I started taking writing seriously during the whole 2020 situation when I needed an escape to deal with some ~spicy feelings~.

My favorite genres to read are YA and NA fiction, fantasy, sci-fi, romance, and dystopian.

Anything that serves "call of the void" vibes, features 9000 shades of grey morals, or has characters actually face repercussions for decisions, I'm interested in.

My current book fandoms are Percy Jackson, Heroes of Olympus, and The Hunger Games. Some books that don't have official fandoms but I love anyway are Mr. 60%, Follow Me Back, and Here Lies Daniel Tate.

Other fandoms I'm a card carrying member of are Taylor Swift, Chloe Ament, Addison Grace, HTTYD, Criminal Minds, ATLA, TLOK, The Dragon Prince, and SPOP.

I'm currently reading Six of Crows for the first time, and I'm always down to make friends even if I am terrible about replying to messages.

About My Writing and WIPs

I've got 10 WIPs that are in various stages of production, nine of which belong to a collection, and one that was a fanfic that became original when I accidentally changed too much.

So I'll start with the only book that is not a part of that collection-- aka the ex-fanfic: SFRP. A multimedia queer tragedy told through letters, short stories, paintings, and prose. In comparison to some of my other stories, this one is light but I made myself cry for the first time in about two years while writing the plot, so do with that information what you wish. Trigger warnings include death, medical trauma, discussion of past abuse, substance abuse, and grief.

Fates Intertwined

This one's the collection, with two trilogies as bookends and three stand-alones in the middle. It's a NA generational fantasy featuring your traditional supernatural races that I've tweaked with my own ideas to give them some originality.

EIT. Featuring two rival Werewolf Packs and their respective heirs, dealing with where we draw the line between murder and self-defense. A mystery, corruption, destroyed found family, and fake marriage all come into play for Marcus and Faeth when they decide to dig deeper. Trigger Warnings: on-page DV, talk of CSA, grief, substance abuse, and murder.

GEA. Deep into their investigation of the death, Mark and Faeth are running out of time. The mismatching answers to their questions need to start lining up, or they risk losing all the progress they've made-- in the case, and with each other. Trigger Warnings: on-page DV, talk of CSA, grief, substance abuse, discussion of SH behaviors, and homophobia.

EAE. Eight years have passed, and too much has changed. But new information coming to light means they might finally have the chance they just barely missed. With old feelings bubbling up, Mark and Faeth have to keep it together one more time. Trigger Warnings: discussion of past murders, discussion of SH behaviors, grief, and homophobia.

IWWC. Begins the new generation and the three stand-alone books of the collection. Thomas didn't think that coming out would cause so many problems, but all it takes is one picture going viral. Trigger Warnings: homophobia, near-death experiences.

LAM. The darkest of the stand-alone books, and possibly of the whole collection. When Zach's fucks up bigger than ever, his punishment becomes a mission. Trigger Warnings: parentification of a child, abandonment, neglect, the mistreatment of patients in psychiatric facilities, gaslighting.

TBG. The last of the stand-alones, and while much lighter than LAM, TBG is not a light story. Grace knows her place and her future, or so she thought... until she meets Jess, and stumbles into a world of corruption. Trigger Warnings: homophobia, imprisonment, physical abuse and SA, medical trauma.

AHL. Begins the second trilogy and winds down the end of the collection as I currently have it planned. Being raised to hunt Supernaturals, Blair is hellbent on revenge, and she'll do just about anything to get it. So what happens when she realizes her worldview has been twisted into something that's not accurate? Trigger Warnings: cult membership, murder, kidnapping, medical experimentation.

AHS. Tyler never thought that he'd even be working with a Hunter, much less living with one. It doesn't help that said Hunter is not making things easy.

ATB. I may or may not have started planning this one... but it's here.

Eventually I'll post individual introductions for all of these, but for now, that's all I have!

[workscounselingcenter]

What is the Difference Between OCD and Clinical Anxiety?

As a therapist specializing in OCD and anxiety, I often have clients ask, “Wait, this isn’t what everyone else experiences?” when discussing both conditions. I’d like to take a moment to break down the differences between the two. This is not for diagnostic purposes, but I hope it provides insight into how your brain works and offers some validation for how we all experience life in our own unique ways.

Clinical Anxiety

I use the term “clinical anxiety” instead of just “anxiety” because everyone experiences anxiety. It’s an adaptive skill that keeps us safe. However, anxiety becomes less helpful when it turns into “clinical anxiety.”

To explain this, let’s look at the difference between anxiety and fear. When we experience fear or anxiety, we have both cognitive (thoughts) and emotional (feelings) symptoms. If you think, “Oh no, there’s a bear right in front of me” (cognitive) and your body tenses up (emotional), that’s fear. If you think, “I could run into a bear while hiking, so I should pack bear spray” (cognitive) and feel the urge to prepare (emotional), that’s anxiety. Fear is the response to a present, imminent threat. Anxiety is the response in anticipation of a potential threat.

Anxiety helps us prepare for future challenges in a calm yet motivated way. Fear, on the other hand, prompts us to react to an immediate danger—often not so calmly. Clinical anxiety begins when we confuse anxiety with fear. For instance, if the thought “I might see a bear while hiking tomorrow” triggers bodily sensations similar to fear (fight or flight, racing heart, hyper-focusing on the threat), then we’re entering the realm of clinical anxiety.

You might ask, “Wouldn’t being hyper-prepared for a bear make you safer?” Yes, it might. But you have limited cognitive and emotional resources each day. If you only have $10 of mental energy, and you spend $8.50 preparing for a bear, you won’t have enough left for other daily needs like feeding yourself or your family. So, while you’re more prepared for the bear, is it worth the cost?

OCD

I wanted to explain clinical anxiety first because OCD and anxiety can look very similar on the surface: anxious thoughts, over-preparing, and spending mental resources in ways that don’t feel purposeful. However, beneath the surface, different systems are at play.

OCD is caused by genetics. If you have the gene for OCD, it usually activates around age 10 (plus or minus a few years). Less commonly, it may activate closer to age 18. If untreated, OCD symptoms can worsen over time, as shown by brain scans. In childhood, OCD might look like fears of getting sick or a parent being in a car accident. As we age, the fears become more complex—doubting memories, feeling unsure about relationships, or fear of religious punishment. These fears come with compulsive behaviors, like hand washing, counting, or checking things repeatedly. Sometimes the behaviors aren’t directly related to the fear, such as counting to 7 to prevent illness. As adults, compulsions may become more covert, such as overthinking or ruminating on past scenarios. So in summary, OCD is categorized as specific fears (obsessions) that come with specific behaviors to soothe that fear (compulsions).

Key Differences

Cause: Clinical anxiety can stem from trauma, learned behaviors, or difficult life experiences. OCD is caused by genetics. Note that in rare cases, OCD can be triggered by health issues, such as strep or childbirth, but that’s another conversation. While almost anyone can experience clinical anxiety, not everyone can develop OCD.

Focus of Stress: Clinical anxiety causes generalized stress that can affect multiple areas of life with multiple dynamic fears. OCD, however, involves very specific obsessions—such as illness, harm, or perfectionism. OCD fears can change over time, but most people have one or two “big ones” that dominate.

Treatment: Treatment for OCD is highly regimented and direct. If you use the same approach for generalized anxiety, it might help, but it’s like cutting butter with a battle axe—it’s over the top. Anxiety treatment requires more personalized care, focusing on the life circumstances that contributed to the anxiety (e.g., trauma or learned behavior).

What Should You Do Now?

If you’ve read this and thought, “Oh no, this sounds like me,” reach out! If you want to learn more about yourself and how to manage your mental resources purposefully, contact us. You can call or text us at (615) 570-1190, or email us at intake@workscounselingcenter.com.

[ebelal56-blog]

Uncovering the Dark Past of Japanese Americans

During World War II, the United States faced a period of fear, paranoia, and discrimination that led to one of the darkest chapters in American history - the Japanese-American internment camps. It all began with the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, a day that would forever change the lives of thousands of Japanese-Americans living on the West Coast. In the aftermath of the attack, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 on February 19, 1942, giving the military the authority to designate certain areas as military zones. This paved the way for the forced relocation and incarceration of around 120,000 Japanese-Americans, most of whom were American citizens. The reasons for the internment were fueled by wartime hysteria, racism, and fear of espionage and sabotage. Many Americans believed that Japanese-Americans could not be trusted and might assist Japan in attacking the U.S. This fear and prejudice led to the forced removal of families from their homes, businesses, and communities. Japanese-Americans were given only a few days to sell their properties and pack their belongings before being sent to temporary assembly centers. From there, they were transported to one of the ten permanent internment camps located in remote areas of states like California, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, Colorado, and Arkansas. The living conditions in these camps were harsh and dehumanizing. Families were crammed into small, cramped barracks with inadequate facilities. The camps were surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by armed soldiers, creating a prison-like atmosphere for innocent men, women, and children. Some of the most notable camps included Manzanar in California, known for its size and visibility, Topaz in Utah, infamous for its harsh living conditions, and Heart Mountain in Wyoming, where internees faced high altitude and cold winters. These camps became symbols of the injustice and cruelty inflicted upon Japanese-Americans during this dark period. The impact of the internment was devastating for Japanese-Americans. They lost their homes, businesses, and savings, facing significant emotional and financial hardship. The trauma of being uprooted from their lives and confined in camps left lasting social and psychological scars on the community. Despite these challenges, many Japanese-Americans demonstrated resilience and patriotism. Some even volunteered to serve in the U.S. military, fighting for a country that had betrayed their trust and violated their rights. The legal and social aftermath of the internment was marked by challenges and struggles for justice. Landmark cases like Korematsu v. United States challenged the constitutionality of the internment, leading to debates about civil liberties and government overreach. In 1988, the U.S. government formally apologized for the internment and passed the Civil Liberties Act, providing reparations to surviving internees. Today, the Japanese-American internment camps stand as a reminder of the consequences of prejudice and the importance of protecting civil rights, even during times of national crisis. Memorials, museums, and educational programs have been established to remember the internment and educate future generations about this dark chapter in American history. The legacy of the internment serves as a cautionary tale, reminding us of the dangers of fear, discrimination, and injustice. It calls upon us to uphold the values of equality, justice, and compassion for all, regardless of race, religion, or background. The internment may be a painful part of our past, but it also serves as a powerful reminder of the resilience and strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity.