#and there has been one constant through it all and that constant is him

[mariasont]

HI i have an idea and its making me really giddy

ok so reader is a translator for the bau and they’re always reading and translating texts or calls or anything like that. and the reader to spencer is basically like penelope to derek. they flirt all the time and all of those lovely things.. and it’s kinda just where they’re flirting on the phone and morgan teases reid about it and reid gets all flustered

IDK IF IT CAN WORK I JUST LOVE FLUSTERED SPENCER :(

anyway i’ll probably be in your inbox a bunch uhhh so call me h or something

-h

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it. 

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility and pregnancy

♡ FEM reader

♡ P1: The Bunker

Your ankle feels better after a little over a week.

The one initially against you staying has been giving you medical check-ups every day—something about wasteland toxins and underlying, possible contagious sicknesses he’d like to keep a weathered eye out for. 

You hadn’t refused. After all, such precautions were only warranted.

When you first encountered them in the wasteland, they were both wearing hazmat suits and gas masks. And though you had already been put through the standard disinfection and the basic check—eyes, teeth, and tongue—before they’d even let you in, you can’t blame them for taking extra measures—no matter how meticulous the check-ups have been since, comprising of endless spit, blood, and urine samples.

Somehow, you actually appreciated the thoroughness. It was just one more thing that reminded you of the past. The way he sat there, behind the desk like a doctor, and you opposite, like a patient, waiting for your results.

You’d gotten more or less used to it now, so it didn’t feel as awkward anymore. And, if you were to say so yourself, you think he’s even warmed up to you a little bit too.

“You’re all clear. No detectable toxins,” he states after a moment, mulling over the data, more or less the same outcome he’d come to for the last four or so days. He scribbled a few things into the file he’d been conducting, a focused furrow between his brows as he worked. You felt inclined to inquire about what exactly he’d been jotting down all these days of running tests but then decided against it—explaining things to you would probably only vex him. He was a man of as few words as possible, after all.

He sighs, then informs, “We can stop checking every day now.”

“Really?” you light up—feeling excited for some reason. Suppose you took it as a sign of improvement even without knowing entirely what any of it actually meant. In any case, lesser checks must be good, right?

“Yeah. You’re way healthier, thanks to all our produce and not consuming any of that wasteland trash.” He pulled a grimace before his face settled back into that constant look of dour solemnity. “Blood pressure, heart rate, vitals—everything looks good.”

It almost seems like such a silly thing to even bother caring about. Only a few weeks ago, you hadn’t cared for any such thing as health as long as it meant you weren’t starving or freezing—and here you are, celebrating such a privileged thing as blood pressure.

You sniffle, can’t help yourself, balled fists quivering in your lap as a few tears start to drop, “Thank you—truly. I’d have died if it weren’t for the two of you.”

He must think you’re ridiculous, too, crying over something so small. You wipe your eyes, only to notice him holding out a tissue for you. You can only laugh at yourself while accepting it.

“You’ll help me in the greenhouse today since your ankle is all better,” he states while getting up.

You spring to your feet, too. This would be the first time you’d been asked to help out. “What about—”

“He’s busy doing inventory,” he answers before you get the question out. “We’ll have to change a few things since you’re staying.”

This stills you, breath caught in your throat. You look at him wide-eyed, scared you’d heard him wrong. Voice weak as if scared to ask, “I’m staying?”

“Tch—” It’s his turn to chuckle, though he does so much differently from you—mockingly, a way he often does at both your and the other's expense. Though, you’d taken to find it rather endearing. He gives you a look—it’s very almost soft. “You didn’t think we’d waste our resources on something we planned on chucking back out again, did you?”

A tug pulls your wobbly lips back into a smile. “I guess that would be silly...” you sniffle again. “Still, thank you.”

This time, as you say it, you rush to hug him—tightly, with both your arms wrapped around his tough midsection and your head tucked against his broad chest.

It’s him who falls still now—stunted by the action and left both speechless and frozen in place. His arms hover mid-air, unsure of where to rest, before slowly lowering to settle atop your narrow shoulders—so much smaller in comparison. It’s crazy to think you’d endured out in the wasteland for so long.

He’s sure you’ve done things in order to stay alive you’re not at all proud of. Still, your survival is no less than a miracle.

He clears his throat. “Let’s hurry up,” He dismisses, then proceeds to nudge you off as if the hug was unwanted, but even you can spot the blush dusting his cheeks as he looks away with another grumble, “We’re making dinner before he’s done.”

The smile on your face is a sight for sore eyes, he thinks. You didn’t smile like that a week ago.

“Yes, sir.” You salute, following him in stride.

You’d said it innocently enough, but by God, if only you knew how it takes everything in him not to bend you over the medical desk right then and tell you all about how you’re in the perfect window for conceiving. 

He manages to steal himself. 

After dinner, he promised himself soothingly, calming the hunger in his gut—after dinner, they’d decided, tonight would be the night they’d finally make use of you the real way they’d intended—have you earn your keep.

When you’re done tilling the gardens, about a couple hours later, the two of you move on to the kitchen. You’d learn that the brash one was in charge of making most meals, as the other one was more than hopeless in the kitchen. It seemed you were replacing him as the helper, given simple tasks such as cutting, measuring, and fetching things.

It felt nice to be doing something again, especially something so trivial. Housework and domestic chores were something one could only reminisce about, and yet here you were, doing just that—cutting carrots as if the outside world wasn’t a badland of people killing each other for a can of expired dog food.

You really were so lucky you could hardly believe it. The tears start bubbling again.

“If you’re finished cutting, go to the cupboard over there,” he jolts you out of your thoughts. Not looking away from stirring the pot, he points with his other hand toward the far side of the kitchen.

You pad over and open it to find two dozen or more bottles of wine, all neatly shelved.

“Pick one out,” he calls out.

You blink, looking between the wine and him. “You mean—”

“Anyone of ‘em is fine,” he says. “Feel free to read if you’re looking for something special, though. It’s you were celebrating, after all.”

This time, you can’t stop the tears as they trickle down your face one after the other, soaking your cheeks.

Hearing you sniffle makes him sigh with rust. Scolding you with military toughness, “Quit cryin’ already—it’s getting old.”

You wipe your eyes and stiffen your lip. “Yes, sir.”

Turning your head back to the shelf, you can hardly believe the sight. It had been all moonshine and slop out in the wasteland. Dangerous stuff you were better staying well away from.

You can’t believe you’re going to drink actual wine again—your mouth waters just at the thought as you pick the first bottle you set your eyes on. But then you stop yourself—a guilty knot in your stomach twisting.

“Is it really okay?” you ask. “Shouldn’t we save it?”

“Tch—” he scoffs disapprovingly again. “You gotta stop doin’ that.”

You’re left looking at him even though he keeps his back turned, still busy stirring the pot. He lifts a spoon for tasting, then adds more spice to his liking before continuing as though he could tell you were confused just from the silence.

“You’re not in the wasteland anymore—” he states. “You can afford to live a little now.”

A concept like that had yet to have reached you. 

Suppose you were still settling in. 

“Besides, there are more in the cellar,” he reveals. “Even if we drank a bottle every day, it would take years for us to finish. So don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it, a’ight?”

Your grip around the bottle tightens—trying to toughen up to keep the tears at bay. But today was an emotional day, and it seemed there was no end to the blessings you were given. It was all so overwhelming, your heart swelled with happiness—a feeling you hadn’t felt in such an awfully long time.

“Something smells good!” comes a call.

It seems he’s returned from doing inventory.

“Oh no, why are you crying?” He instantly rushes over to you, holding your face to inspect the damage, then snaps his head to the other, who’s still busying himself with perfecting dinner. “Are you being too harsh on her?” he accuses. “You know, not everyone can live up to your cooking expectations—”

“Tch—I haven’t done shit,” he denies. “She’s just emotional ‘cause I told her we’re lettin’ her stay.”

“What!? You told her without me?” he cries then. “We were supposed to surprise her together.” His pout is instantly replaced with a blank look of surprise as you wrap your arms around him like you’d done with the other earlier—hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” you repeat to him as well.

You still couldn’t believe how nice they had been to you. 

After dinner is eaten, the three of you end up sitting there, chatting—about the past, most of all, how things used to be—how people would live in little houses with next-door neighbors they’d invite over for game night—little families with kids and backyards and pet dogs—college, marriage, careers.

You helped the stoic one clear the dishes while the chipper of the two opened another bottle of wine. You can hardly believe it when they bring out the record player and slide a vinyl on.

You end up crying again as the music plays. You even dance. Laughter fills the bunker while you get completely swept away with the feeling of utter bliss. And as the wine finishes and the conversation turns sloppy, the hands twirling your body to the music get a little touchier, a little greedier, until you’re suddenly kissed.

Between the two of them, the air becomes hot—steamy as you share breathes. 

Busy hands, large and strong and callused from labor, work on your button-up shirt. It’s gone before you know it, then the hands move on to your pants.

Honestly, after all the emotions joined by the wine and dance and being spun between the two, you can’t say you’re completely without lust, but at the same time, you’re just a bit confused. 

Despite not having seen them kiss in front of you, you’re certain they both go to bed in the same room every night—so all this time, you’d been under the impression that they were involved with each other and not interested in you that way. 

Not that it matters much what you thought, you think, you’re not against what’s happening so much as you’re a little hesitant about how it’s about to happen. It’s been a while since you’ve slept with anyone—willingly, that is—you’ve sort of forgotten how to enjoy it. 

If it were just one, you’d maybe find it a bit less overwhelming, but given there were two, you quickly found yourself feeling somewhat claustrophobic.

“Wait—” you stutter. Blocking the advance with your own hands, looking up into drunken and heated eyes and the soft look of arousal painted on the face before you. 

“Don’t worry,” he comforts with that kind smile. “You’re the most valuable thing we have—we’re gonna be gentle.”

You almost bite, almost give in, almost let it soothe you. But even in the drunk haze, the choice of phrasing finds you a little odd. And you’re unable to disregard that feeling that’s been nagging at the very back of your head ever since you stepped foot in the place. 

Something’s not right.

“Valuable?” Sure, you could choose to understand it as them saying they care for you, but somehow, it just doesn’t feel as if that’s all. “What does that mean?”

“You know…” he utters softly—his kind smile curling into something different. His eyes fall downward as he licks his lips before finishing, “This.” 

He’s laid a hand atop your belly where his gaze is set—his palm flat and firm as he rubs tentative circles into the softness.

It takes you a moment before you shudder. “You…” 

You needed to be rational about this. Some part of you always knew there was something going on, didn’t it? Why else would you be here? Why else would they let you stay? The cameras in the bedroom, in the showers, all those medical checkups—you’ve known there was something. And still, you hadn’t left. You hadn’t even so much as humored the thought even once.

There is no life for you out there. You don’t just want to stay—you have to—you need to.

And is it really so bad? Hadn't they been nice? Haven’t they been more than generous? Don’t you owe them so much more than what they’re asking in return?

But what are they asking? It’s not just intimacy. It’s something else—something premeditated.

“You want to use me to…” The realization makes you shudder. “To make you a child…”

Like an incubator.

They don’t deny it.

You want to back up—create space—room to breathe, but the other is just behind you with his big chest pressed stiffly against your back, keeping you close, trapped before the one in front.

“It’s true…” he confesses at your ear. “That is all we wanted from you in the beginning.” 

It sends a chill down your spine.

“It was almost too good to be true when we found you,” he continued while playing with your waist in big hands. “How a perfect candidate fell right into our lap mere days after we decided to go lookin’ for one.”

You suck in a hitched breath as the well of tears breaches, dribbling down your cheeks at the clinical word—candidate.

“But you’re more than that now,” the other reassures, bowing and fishing for your eyes as you’d taken to look down—too horrified to look him back in his. 

“We figured you’d be a savage, havin’ lived out there for so long,” the one behind says. He’d been the most skeptical at first, but he’d come to learn it was rather the opposite—your time out there hadn’t toughened your skin or hardened your heart but only made you timid and soft.

“In all honesty, we weren’t sure we were gonna keep you after the pregnancy…” the one in front whispers upon your lips. “But that’s all in the past now.”

He lifts your chin, taking in the all-too-soft look of despair on your face. It’s a strange thing to say he’d missed. It nearly makes him feel guilty for the hard-on in his cargo pants. But then again, tears are the allure of the gentler sex. It’s only natural for a man to enjoy the sight.

“We want you to stay.” He strokes your cheek, catching the tears on his thumb. “After all, it would be best for the baby to have a female presence—especially one as soft as yours.”

“And, well…” You flinch at the stubble being dragged upon your shoulder and neck, a kiss placed in the nook there along with his words, “We’ve grown to like having you around.”

His hands had fallen from your waist down to rub your hips, swaying you back against his crotch—and the bulge there, that now felt a little more like a gun being poked against your back. 

“It’s been a long while since we’ve had the company of a woman,” he continues while pressing himself against you. “It was unfamiliar at first, but… it’s nice.”

Something urgent takes over your body then—even though it’s beyond stupid. There’s no plan, no further thought than run—despite having no solid clue as to where. And yet, it ends up not mattering in the slightest. You don’t make it far.

You scream as their hands snag you. The grumpier one locks your arms, the chipper one grabs your legs—and they both lift and carry you back—laying you down on the little round table you’d had dinner on.

You struggle, but your wrists are pinned down to the metal with a strength you can’t hope to match.

“Don’t be like that.” He clicks his tongue dismissively like he so often does when you say or do something stupid. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“No—” you cry. “Please—don’t.” Shaking your head while squeezing your thighs shut. 

Never mind having sex, you could endure that much—but having a baby in this mess? They’re the ones who lost their minds down here. 

“I can’t—”

“Of course, you can,” the other insists, prying your thighs apart to make space for himself between them, already with his hands returning to undo the button of your pants, zipping down the fly and tugging them off.

“No—”

He’s back to console you just as quickly, “Shh-sh, don’t cry,” he soothes, cupping your face in both palms. He gives you that kind smile again, but it no longer serves as any source of comfort—now just a mouth full of teeth. “We’ll be gentle.”

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤshield ! reader ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤpart two !!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤULTIMATE REVENGE.

summary memories are reawakened with the arrival of soldier boy into your life again, but his presence is not the only new thing slipping its way through the cracksㅤㅤㅤwarnings feminine rage, light discussions of trauma, violence against men HAHAHA, me trying to mimic butcher's accent ( embarrassing edition )ㅤㅤㅤword count 2.1k

ㅤㅤㅤ"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY ANGRY WITH ME?" it was a ridiculous question to be asked, considering all that happened, but you'd let him talk. how deep of a hole could one man dig himself into?

you don’t dignify him with any answer. of course you were angry. it had been festering since you were created, switched between homes like a rejected foster child that no one really wanted, but got stuck with. it was bad enough knowing that the entirety of your long existence would be spent being a pest to the ones stuck with you; they did not need to find ways to torment you.

you shove the closet door open with your shoulder, having waited in the closet until soldier boy vanished. he didn’t deserve any of your attention, and didn’t deserve any indication that you knew him. that was another irritant to your fury.

“i told you to stay in your space.” it’s the only defense that the legend has, so he milks it, stresses the points of it as if that can deter your frustrations. “i told you that this is the risk i was keeping you from, dammit—”

the legend doesn’t have to get it, and so he never will. still, you can’t help but feel the need to try. “you knew it was a risk,” you say it slower, as if that will make it click in his rotten head, “and you did not tell me. you knew that soldier boy was alive, and could come back, and kept it.”

“look at how you’re reacting!” his hand shoots up toward you, hovering in the expansive closet’s entrance. “you decked him. you crushed his nutsack—”

“not. enough.”

“plenty enough, indy.” your name is always a weapon in men’s mouths. no one ever looked at you and thought you were something worth whispering or promising. you were a gun, your words the bullets, the safety always off. and nobody wanted a girl in a constant state of misfire. “i get what you’re going through, and what is going on inside of your head—”

“you do not.”

his lips thin in his frustration. “are you going to let me finish a single fuckin’ sentence today, indy, or are we going to argue around each other because you don’t listen?”

your jaw clenches tightly, teeth grinding together. “you do not get anything that is in my head. you are just an old man minus a leg.”

“you are old too,” he shoots back at you, wagging his finger in your face. you shove his hand away with a scoff. “just because little miss indestructible doesn’t physically age doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here as long as i have. so you should know better than to act like an insolent child.”

it’s so easy for a man to flip the script on you and blame you. you were not asked for permission before you were created. you were not ever treated kindly in the tests you endured after it. you were shaped and molded into something as strong as you’d been as a manmade shield, and then punished for what evolved from that.

“i would know better if i was not locked away.”

somehow, his thin lips press together tighter. you’ve got him. you always get him on that point, and still, the legend doesn’t ever listen to you. it was so useless to have a voice when it did nothing for you.

the bell to his door rings, and your head snaps in that direction. you can see the front door now, from where you stand — considering the fact you’d broken down the hinges to that side of the penthouse, and soldier boy had dismantled your door.

multiple shadows stand on the other side. you see their outlines, big and broad, through the glass walls surrounding the doorway. your eyes narrow. “soldier boy has brought guests.”

“i hardly doubt he will come back.” the legend steps around you, back into the living room, with a glance over his shoulder. “i’d highly suggest sitting this one out.”

“you cannot keep me away anymore today.” you stalk after him, following him again through the broken mess of doors scattered around his living space. “the door is ruined. you have to let me see.”

“i don't have to do a thing.”

he never listens to you. you’ve been stuck with him for forty years and he does not listen. he’s the cruelest sort of captor, controlling everything of your life down to the rooms you’re allowed to take up space in.

you shove past the legend, grabbing the doorknob before he can, tugging the locked, heavy door open with an agitated growl. “go away. you are not wanted here.”

the man in the center on the other side raises his eyebrows. “sassy lass, ain’t ya?” he has an accent, just like you, except his is much more pronounced and nothing like how yours sounds. “i didn’t know the legend kept around girls that can beat him in a tongue lashin’.”

sickening how every single man you’d had the displeasure of meeting assumed you were one of the legend’s playthings. this was the consequence of his containment. you faced the scrutiny of his choices.

you dash forward, grabbing the gun he had poorly concealed at his hip. you release the safety and step back before any of his crew can process the barrel of the pistol pressed against the center of his chest. “mind your mouth.”

his hands raise in mock surrender. “alright, love. i don’t think we should be playing with things we don’t know how to—”

you’d known how to shoot a gun since you learned how to grip. you cock a bullet into the chamber and point it backwards, pulling the trigger at the two feet distance between the legend’s cane and your own feet.

the tall, lankier man in the back of the group shudders out an, “oh my god.” the one next to their assumed leader grimaces at the ringing echo of the bullet. behind you, the legend is seething, hissed curses falling out of his spluttering mouth.

you press the warm barrel to the man’s chest again. “tell me i am too stupid to work a gun again.”

the corner of his mouth tilts higher. “my apologies, lass,” he says, raising his eyes from your face to behind you. “might i speak to the man of the hour?”

“he has nothing worthy to say,” you say, finally dropping the hand holding the gun to your side, “not unless you like idiocracy and long-winded tall tales.”

the man shrugs. "i'm afraid that's all this lot has got to offer, anyways, yeah?"

you don't give the gun back. you untuck your shirt from your pants and stuff it in the waistband, offering a smile to the group of men waiting outside. "i can tell," you hum, turning on your heel, walking back the way you came from.

the basketball game is still on, but it's wrapping up — as far as you can tell, anyways, through the giant black hole in the center of the screen. you weren't in any sort of mood to get in another argument about the channel after what you'd gone through, so you drop down onto the couch again with only a huff of protest.

expectedly, the men follow afterwards. expectedly, the legend is apologizing on your behalf to men that don't deserve it, using words you'd never use. she's really sorry. no you weren't. she's always been crueler than the other of vought's creations. the familiar sentence, still stings all the same.

"she's a supe, then?" the lanky one asks, like you aren't even there. he catches your eye when you turn to glare holes into his temple, and his face flushes a little. "you're a supe?"

your face twists up. "i hate soup."

"oh." he nods a couple of times, clearing his throat in the process. "well. that answers... nothing."

the irritable, disgusted scowl becomes one more laced with anger. "i am not one of the heroes." the legend's reaction is proof enough to an unanswered question you had. that, no, before soldier boy's departure, he did not inform the hero of who you really were, and he was dancing around it now. you'll spare him from the science lesson. "i was created in laboratory. by the vought man." he's never been doctor frederick vought to you, because he never acted as a doctor, only an enforcer. "a someone out of something."

the lankier of the men blinks his surprise, somehow not deterred even with the look you gave him before. "created how?"

no one has ever addressed you in these conversations. usually legend apologizes for you, and they talk about you like you don't exist, and you are expected to stand down even when the order is not enforced. a long silence passes before you speak, unwilling to answer if he was not genuinely asking. but his eyes don't stray from you, and so you nod slowly in acceptance.

"you know of soldier boy?" his name is poison in your mouth, the only thing that has ever hurt you. "the great american hero with a shield?" there is no point of you explaining the world's first hero to these people. they probably know more about him than you ever would. "i am the shield."

the original man, the one with a smirk permanently plastered across his face, turns to you, then, abandoning whatever plans he'd come with. "bullshit."

"you are bullshit." you don't need any of them to believe you. trying to convince others of what you knew to be true was pointless. you slump backwards against the couch again, your eyes zeroing in on the shattered television screen.

it's the lanky one that comes to sit next to you. the legend doesn't even sit as close to you as he does, and he'd lived with you for forty years. "vought does some crazy shit." his shoulders lift in a shrug, letting out a little hum. "doesn't seem so off base that they turn a shield into a girl."

"the shield is with him," you clarify, finding it hard to actually meet his eyes whenever he's watching you with more understanding than anyone had bothered to offer. he wears the same curiosity that you saw in soldier boy's, which simply wouldn't do. "it is just useless now."

"does he know?" the original man, his rugged voice giving way to its own sort of morbid curiosity. there are too many men around you, and not enough space for you to feel safe and secure.

you shake your head, shooting a pointed look at the legend, balking on the other side of the room. "he did not tell him."

"ben is not going to be doing anything with that shield to warrant knowing its truth—"

frustration pours out of every orifice of your body. "soldier boy is a ticking bomb." he has always been volatile. a man cannot change simply because the man was locked away for decades. from what you saw of him, there wasn't any ounce of growth from him at all.

"she's right." the man sitting beside you turns to look back at the legend, and for once, you feel seen. someone else sees the hypocrisy of the man you were stuck with and is not afraid to reflect it back at him. maybe the legend would listen this time, now that a man was telling all of his sins to the choir. "he's a ticking time bomb."

"don't start, hughie," the rugged brit says, his voice nothing more than a growl.

"no, she's right." he gives butcher a long, hard look before he shakes his head, glancing sidelong at legend. "you know what we're planning to do. you know that we're trying to use him for it. and you sent him into the world to die."

the confirmation makes your stomach feel leaden. you should not care at all about what that means. you shouldn't care that soldier boy could die. and you don't. it's just—

"and what do you want me to do about that now, huh?"

the room is quiet, the only sound being the distorted audio coming from the broken television. you know where this is going. you sense it in the way that the man that isn't hughie stares at you, piecing together everything that the options laid out for them offered.

hope was a bitter thing in your mouth. this could be your sole chance of freedom, finally getting to see a breath of the world you'd spent your entire life locked away from. it just came with the added downside of—

"hand over soldier boy's shield," the man finally says, his eyes never leaving yours, "promise with every inch of my wee heart we'll take good care of 'er."

notes. indy beat up all men ever era !!! billy butcher EAT UR HEART OUT. just a heads up that this !reader has a structured timeline vs baby & lore not <3 u can still send asks abt her if u wanna but in my head this lil lady is all plotted for ... i dont wanna say it in case i abandon it midway ... so just know there's a proper number of parts oKAYYY thank u 4 reading love u bye

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @jensenacklesballsack @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra @h8aaz @mahi-wayy

[asterkatt]

ISAT ACT 5 SPOILERS!!

okay I said I was going to give more thoughts on act 5 of ISAT and then uh. I didn't. oopsies. but we're here now!!

I loved Odile's friendquest in this act SO much. one of my favorite things about the way the game handled Siffrin's actions throughout the entirety of act 5 in general is that everyone's reactions to him were so DIFFERENT. but not only were they different, they had reasons for being different. it wasn't just "Siffrin says something messed up, hurts someone's feelings, pushes it down, rinse and repeat". each "breakdown" was specifically tailored to be character specific. to fit in with how they've behaved in the story thus far, as well as how Siffrin feels about them/tends to respond to them in particular. with Mirabelle, it really was entirely accidental. Siffrin didn't even realize how their wording might come across in the moment. It wasn't him lashing out in any way - just him genuinely trying to cut corners. Odile?? Odile's was very different. it's easy to see that there's a lot of tension between Siffrin and Odile - more tension than there is with anyone else. Odile has been a thorn in Sif's side - constantly observing and watching and theorizing about why they're behaving strangely. I did the sus quest. Sif knows that she has the ability to figure it out. Consequently, they have to be way more aware of her than anyone else. (side note that's not entirely relevant to this but I want to bring it up - the fact Siffrin believes that her constant eye on him is because "she doesn't trust you" makes me sick. because that's not it at all. they might pretend it is. hell, she might act like it is. but it's not and she knows that. she knows it's because she's worried because she cares and Siffrin can't understand that.) so I feel like they took the "mistake" of messing up with Odile harder than they took any of the other interactions. because how could they be so stupid. how could they forget. how could he forget that she always figures it out.

so of course he lashes out. not only are they being faced with the same blinding mistake they've made over and over and over again, it's also a reminder that she doesn't trust him. (and why should she?).

and then she goes and makes it all worse by calling him a "friend". because they know that's not how she sees them. he believes that she doesn't trust him. so it must seem like she's directly lying to his face - and she thinks they're too dense to see through it.

I love that Odile doesn't back down. she doesn't shy away when they start yelling at her. she doesn't let it slide just because she made them upset (Isa and Mira both probably would - though Isa would try and get them to talk about it later). she pushes, because that's the only way she's going to get any answers.

the way you can feel her anger when Siffrin hits her where it hurts the most (without even seeing her face) is just AUHGSKJDHFKJSH. the writing of this game. the details. never cease to amaze me. I love the way she snaps back. she doesn't get angry, she doesn't yell - and yet somehow it hurts just as badly.

I also love the way Siffrin reflects on it - the way they acknowledge that "she was only worried about you!!!" because deep down he knows that their friends do actually care about him. the way Odile handles the situation afterwards as well - at the clocktower?????? I love that you can tell she's trying so hard to make the "right" choice to not endanger them when it's not what she wants. she doesn't want to leave Siffrin behind. If they weren't going to take on the King the next day, I guarantee you she'd be using anything in her power to figure out what was going on with him. I don't have the exact quote rn but at the end of the sus questline she mentions that she can't let something go when she finds it odd - and this is BEYOND odd. but she has to put the safety of the whole group and their mission first, and I love seeing that side of her.

[nimbusclan]

Moon 6

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Cold wind whistles through the rocks Moonstar and Fogfreckle are hunched under, bringing the crisp scents of first leaf-fall. With a shiver, Moonstar presses closer to Fogfreckle for warmth, but startles back as he lets out a pained hiss. She rests her gaze on her brother for a moment, eyeing the bristled, spiky fur of his pelt that sticks up around the cobwebs she did her best to wrap him with, stiff with dried blood.

The talon marks that are sunk into his back worry Moonstar. She wishes she had listened better when she was an apprentice, when their old medicine cat, Loudtalon, had been rambling on about herbs. She doesn’t want to try mixing a poultice for her brother in case she gets it wrong; she wouldn't even know where to begin. The most she can do is change his cobwebs when the blood starts to soak through and pray to StarClan that infection doesn’t set in.

She’s been doing her best to keep his wounds clean, but he’ll need new cobwebs soon. With a heavy sigh, she rises to her paws as much as the rocks crushing in around them will allow, her shoulders brushing the ceiling. Her ears have been pinned to her head for so long now that she thinks they may get stuck that way.

Moonstar moves towards Fogfreckle to give his ear an affectionate lick before she leaves, but he ducks away from her, wincing at the movement.

Moonstar halts and pulls back, chin wobbling.

Puffing her fur against the biting wind, unseasonable for this early in leaf-fall, she squeezes her way out of their makeshift den in search of three thing: cobwebs for her brother, fresh-kill for the both of them, and someplace they can finally call home.

With Fogfreckle injured, her search is limited.

Moonstar pads across the mountain, eyes sharp for the movement of prey but mind elsewhere. Before Fogfreckle was confined to his nest to heal from the eagle attack, they were constantly on the move. So far, they haven’t found anywhere that would make for a good camp. They’ve slept in abandoned dens, up in the branches of trees, tucked under scrubbly, thorny bushes – but a place big enough for two cats to sleep is nowhere near large enough for a camp.

They will rebuild NimbusClan. StarClan decreed it – StarClan chose her as leader. It has to be for something, she has to have something, some trait or destiny or something that StarClan can see that she can’t, or they wouldn’t have chosen her. Her stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought.

Her mind strays to worse thoughts, the sharp glide of golden wings slicing through the air a constant in her mind this past moon. She can’t shake how odd it was – sure, it’s not strange that a mother would want to protect her eggs – but the way it shifted its beady black glare from Moonstar to her brother seemed tainted with something more than just a mother’s protection.

With effort, she shakes the subject from her mind and sets to canvassing this section of mountain. She doesn’t want to stray too far from where Fogfreckle is, so she’s been going out in a different direction each day in the hopes she’ll find something suitable. Today, she pokes her head into a shaded clearing of pine trees, only to be met with the blinking eyes of several racoons peering through the needles – sniffs around the opening of a fox den that smells very clearly occupied (hurrying away as quickly and silently as her paws with allow) – and shrinks back into the shadows of a leafy bush when a pair of twolegs turn a corner onto a twolegtrail, speaking loudly in their foreign tongue and likely scaring away all the prey in the area.

She only manages to catch one meager mouse – but that’s fine, because it’s Fogfreckle’s favorite, and with a cobweb-coated twig cradled carefully between her teeth, she doesn’t think she’d be able to carry more than one piece of fresh-kill at the same time, anyways.

Fogfreckle stirs as she presses back into their den, her head angled awkwardly so she can get through with the stick clamped in her jaws. He glances at her as she pushes the mouse towards him, and then looks down at his paws as she sets to working clearing the old cobwebs from his fur. She tries to be gentle, but she’s no good at this medicine cat stuff. Fogfreckle grimaces the entire time and lets his mouse go cold, not sharing a single word with his sister as she rasps a tongue over his wounds, cleaning the dried blood from his fur.

Moonstar goes to sleep when she’s done, stomach rumbling, and tries not to cry.

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

[wendichester]

✮⋆˙ coach teague,

summary. there's a new coach in town and suddenly football has become interesting!

pairing. jason teague x reader

wordcount. 459

notes. happy jackles day .ᐟ 🩷

You never cared much for high school football. The roaring crowds, the sweaty players, the constant sound of whistles—it had always been more background noise than anything else. That is, until he showed up.

Jason Teague.

Your brother’s new coach.

Tall, built like he was sculpted from something divine, with a voice that somehow made discipline sound attractive. You noticed him the second he stepped onto the field—whistle hanging around his neck, that confident, easygoing smirk making all the moms and cheerleaders alike swoon.

You should’ve been above it. Should’ve been mature.

But then he rolled up his sleeves one afternoon, revealing forearms that had no right being that distracting, and you decided right then and there—football practice just became very interesting.

And if your brother found it weird that you were suddenly interested in the sport he lived and breathed? Well. That was his problem.

You sit on the bleachers, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes flicker up every time Jason moves. He’s pacing along the sideline, calling out plays, his voice commanding yet warm. The players respond to him with sharp nods, clearly eager to impress him.

Yeah. You get it.

You watch as he steps up behind your brother, claps a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to murmur something encouraging. Whatever he says makes your brother grin.

It’s unfair, really. A guy like Jason? He shouldn’t be able to pull off intimidatingly attractive and genuinely nice at the same time. There ought to be a rule against it.

A sharp whistle blows, signaling the end of practice. The players start scattering, heading toward the locker room, but Jason lingers on the field, chatting with a few stragglers.

You mull over, an internal fight with the voice in your head that tries to push you to stand up and talk to the damn guy. He's only a couple of years older than you anyway. You finished high school. It'd be totally normal. Right? Right?

But your thoughts are cut short when a throat is cleared.

“Miss Harris,” Jason greets, his voice smooth as ever.

Your stomach does a little flip as you look up—God, he’s even more unfairly attractive up close. Slightly sweaty, but in that rugged, worked-hard-today kind of way.

He flashes an easy smile. “Your brother says you're not a football fan.”

You shrug, hoping you look way cooler than you feel. “Think you might be working him too hard.”

Jason’s gaze lingers on yours for a moment, amused, like he sees right through that completely truthful answer.

“Well,” he says, smirking, “we gotta work hard to impress you.”

And just like that, he walks off, leaving you staring after him, heart pounding.

You exhale sharply.

Yeah. You’re so screwed.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

[4drianaaaa]

can u make a hamzah x reader where they’ve been together since like high school? Reader was with hamzah during freakshow but just never revealed her identity cuz she’s kinda shy abt it and her and hamzah just keep it private online but one day during the pod hamzah slips up abt something to do with her and him and Martin forget to edit it out and the fans figure out he has a gf? 😭

"Keep us a secret..." | Hamzahthefantastic

fem reader + sfw! wrd counter: 1.5k

It was the summer after graduating when you were able to finally hang out with your boyfriend Hamzah. You both grew really close together and he ended up asking you out one random morning on a Friday with a small cute teddy bear and your favorite drink - any energy drink ever.

After all those years you two were glued to each other like crazy. Hamzah ended up taking the streamer/entertainer thing more seriously after a crazy pay check. You on the other hand went to college studying what ever you were studying.

When quarantine happened, it was the worse for him. Ever since you both started dating he's always been clingy. He loved when you were around him. Just your presence gave him an awe. He loved when you would be all over him although he hated to admit it. And so did you. Because the two of you were inseparable.

He began a small streaming idea with some of his friends which gained him hundreds of fans. Although during this time there was so many rumors about his dating life that had to do with members in the small streaming culture and even outside of the group due to him having a lot of girl products in the background, especially during his streams.

Because of this he wanted to take his content creator lifestyle more seriously. He decided to move to Toronto, Canada. Where he also invited you to share a small apartment with him. The relationship was so true you couldn't say no.

Now, you both live under the same roof with two small cats, red and blue. He loved the fact that he was living the life he is with you.

Although there was always, always, speculations about Hamzah being in a relationship It was never you that was targeted which made Hamzah very nonchalant to the constant rumors that surrounded his love life.

He loved the fact that he was able to get home to see you and his two favorite cats in the whole world. He loved waking up every morning seeing you by his side. He also loved the way he was able to have you all to him self. He loved moments like that, he's always dreamed of them especially with you.

Memories with you were engraved deep into his mind. It was the little things he can never forget.

You, Martin, Hamzah, Mandy, and Freddie have all grown very close together. You all liked to spend time in the office thinking of ideas as well as the other people working in the office. This was also because Hamzah always begged you to come with him.

You and Hamzah were in the office by your self's waiting for Martin to arrive. You laid on the couch of the podcast as you saw Hamzah walking towards you with a small digi-cam. You turn and hear a click with a flash as you sat up.

"What was that!" You said clicking your phone off as he plopped beside you showing you pictures he's taken around the office, "Just things to keep around here" he smiled as he pushed his glasses back going through the very random pictures. You looked up at him as he seemed very intrigued to the camera. You hated to admit it but you loved his blonde hair. You noticed the small dark roots pop out which only made you more excited about what it would look like fully grown out. As well as his Glasses. His nose complimented them so well.

"I'm a big fan of this combo here" you said as your finger traced the side of his glasses, He looked up at you with the smallest cheesy smirk he always does. "You like it?" he said cheekily as you nodded, "I love it" you said in a more teasingly voice. His cheeks a faint pink as his hand met the outside of your thigh, "Yeahhh?" he hummed as his lips met yours. You giggled due to him towering on top of you. His hands met all over your waist until you both heard the door shutting.

Your lips parted from each other suddenly as you got up from the couch knowing it was Martin.

"We'll continue this later." Hamzah winked as you rolled your eyes jokingly pushing him off you as you made your way to a seat behind the camera.

"Hey guyss!" Martin wiggled his fingers in the air as he set his laptop down and his backpack. They both set up for the pod as you were practically controlling the camera. Because the fact you were here almost everyday, you slowly were taught how to use their equipment. You were able to record properly, sort of fix technical issues, and open software's to edit.

"Alright babe, ready?" Hamzah asked as he sat beside Martin. You threw your thumbs up as he nodded.

"Hello? Is this thing on?" Hamzah said into the Microphone as he jokingly snorted pushing his glasses up as Martin laughed at his reference.

You laughed behind the camera.

"Dude have they seen you in this Combo here on the pod?" Martin questioned as he pointed out Hamzah's glasses. "No actually they haven't." He looked at the Camera as he noticed your smile.

"Actually I think I was posted up in this exact outfit on Valentines Day!" He laughed as Martin scoffed, "Ah hell nahhh..." he backed up a bit from Hamzah. "Honestly to be fair it actually doesn't look bad. With and without the glasses It suits you man- the blonde." Martin explained as Hamzah nodded. "It's always a little experiment I've been wanting to do. I was just super bored one day." He spoke into the mic, "Actually not even like an Hour ago y/n said she likes what's going on here" he said circling around his face with his finger as he raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah it's not to bad at all" Martin added into the topic as Hamzah rambled about how it was something you were gonna hate.

"And guess what, she ended up LOVING it" He explained as Martin nodded. "Yeah Honestly Mandy didn't really care, plus we told her like months before so yeah.". Cluelessly they name dropped like crazy. It was like if you weren't even there or as if the Camera wasn't even recording.

"And that is it slushies. Make sure to go subscribe to us AND the patreons to have full access to the documentaries and Hamzah's exclusive podcast only on patreon! Okay byee!" Martin and Hamzah both waved at the Camera.

You all decided to order food and chill out in the office. You were sitting on the chair beside Hamzah of course and you skipped through the middle of the episode after they were done name dropping. "I'll finish if you want y/n, I'll continue at home." Martin offered editing the rest of the podcast as you agreed too.

It was as a couple hours later after releasing the new episode of the podcast. You woke up to a bunch of notifications on Hamzah's phone. You sat up from the cozy bed as he was still sound asleep. You reached for his phone and unlocked it, You saw the most jaw dropping message ever.

Martin: They know about Y/n...

Your heart dropped to your feet as you read the message. You didn't wanna wake up your peacefully sleeping boyfriend but it was something he was scared about revealing too.

"Babe! Wake up!" you shook him as he groaned in response as he slightly opened his eyes. You pressed on the messages as he read it with his eyes barely opened. After reading the message his eyes widened like crazy. He quickly got up as he grabbed the phone from you texting Martin back urgently.

"Did I do something?" you said lowly as he placed his hand on your lower back, "No of course not princess, It was Martin or one of our editors...I dunno'". He said calling Martin. He opened his socials to see your Instagram everywhere. He expected this day to come eventually and he was obviously planning on revealing you to his fans but this was the most unplanned way.

You looked over at Hamzah who seemed stress every time his finger swiped down on his phone. He placed his phone down as he took a deep breath.

"Well, I guess your free from being anonymous!" He said in a defeated tone as you looked at him un-amused. "Look I'm sorry if it was too quick baby I'm really sorry." He grabbed your hand as he kissed your hands. "It's okay I just can't believe it!" you said in shock as you felt naked in a way. Later on a ton of people's speculation and rumors became true. Obviously not specifically you but the 'dating since high school' thing was definitely a score in a bunch of people. Since then, you've finally had the liberty to be able to make cute videos with Hamzah, appear in videos, and even be in Mandy's vlogs. It definitely was a relief at the end of the day.

-

I hope you guys enjoy! Lowk confident abt this one ;)

[shianis]

Starscream giving tiered Megatron a massage. But not romantic, calm and quiet one ,no, the harsh sport massage he personally likes, the one where you can hear hiss inner organs move, the one where you hear the human equivalent of bones cracking. He learned it back on Cybertron and it was good except it's painful during and 10 minutes after massage. It feels good after but It's painful for Megatron since he's old and Starscream likes listening to Megatron's "bones" cracking and his struggle not to cry. (It would be funny if it's prime since he has pointy elbows)

"Megatron vs. The Train"

There were few things in the universe more awe-inspiring than the mighty Lord Megatron in the heat of battle.

The Autobots had learned this lesson many times.

And today?

Oh, today was no different.

The fight had been fierce—blaster fire lighting up the sky, Energon staining the battlefield—but Megatron had grown bored.

So, naturally, he did what any warlord would do.

He picked up an entire train and hurled it at the Autobots.

Why? Because he could.

And it was glorious.

The Autobots scrambled. The train crashed down in a spectacular display of destruction. Smoke and debris filled the air, and Megatron allowed himself a satisfied smirk.

“Flawless.”

Then he took a step forward.

And immediately regretted it.

Pain shot through his back strut, straight up his spinal relays. His entire frame locked up.

The great and mighty Megatron, conqueror of Cybertron, flinched.

And that was when he knew.

He had made a grave mistake.

---

"Knockout’s Expert Medical Advice (a.k.a. ‘Suffer, My Liege’)"

Back on the Nemesis, Megatron sat on his throne, vents hissing as he tried to find a comfortable position.

He failed.

Knockout, the ever-enthusiastic Royal Medic Who Really Should Be Fired, stood beside him with a datapad, not looking as concerned as he should be.

“You threw a whole train, my lord.”

Megatron glared. “Your medical expertise astounds me, Knockout. Fix it.”

Knockout hummed, scanning him. “Mmm. Yeah. Looks like you strained something.”

Megatron’s optic twitched. “That much I know even without you!”

Knockout smirked. “Oh, I wasn’t sure. You’re usually more graceful with your train-throwing.”

Megatron growled. “Fix. It.”

Knockout sighed dramatically. “Alright, alright. Here.”

He casually handed Megatron a container of painkillers.

Megatron frowned. “…That’s it?”

Knockout shrugged. “Eh. You’ll live.”

And with that, Knockout left.

Megatron stared after him, betrayed.

---

"Starscream’s Hopes and Dreams (a.k.a. ‘Is He Finally Dying?’)"

For hours, Megatron suffered in silence.

Well.

Mostly silence.

Every few minutes, a low grunt or pained ex-vent would escape him.

And, naturally, Starscream noticed.

The seeker had been lurking around the throne room all day, listening to Megatron’s suffering with a growing sense of hope.

By the third pained grunt, Starscream was positively gleeful.

Finally. Finally. Was this it? Was one of his poisons finally working? Had he actually managed to do what no Autobot ever could?

His wings twitched in excitement.

But after several hours, it became clear that Megatron was not dying.

Just… suffering from back pain.

Starscream’s disappointment was immeasurable.

Still, the constant grunting was getting annoying.

So, with a long-suffering sigh, Starscream stepped forward. “Oh, for the love of—Do you have to suffer so loudly?”

Megatron shot him a deadly glare. “My patience is already thin, Starscream.”

Starscream smirked. “Yes, yes, I can see that. And hear it.”

Megatron growled. “Leave me.”

But Starscream had another idea.

“Oh no, my lord. I insist on helping.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “You? Help?”

Starscream’s smirk grew. “You do know I have excellent servo control, don’t you? Precision movements, light touch…” His optics gleamed. “A massage, if you will.”

Megatron stared at him.

Everything in his very soul told him this was a trap.

But his back strut hurt.

And he was getting desperate.

“…Fine.”

Starscream beamed. “Oh, I will enjoy it so much.”

Megatron instantly regretted everything.

---

"Massage (a.k.a. This is most definitely not a trap’)"

Starscream’s claws pressed into Megatron’s back plates.

Megatron flinched.

Oh no.

Starscream worked with military precision, his servos moving in strategic patterns. His control was impressive. His technique was flawless.

But there was one, minor problem.

Starscream was all sharp angles.

It was like being massaged with knives.

Megatron bit down on his denta, resisting the urge to yell.

“This… is not pleasant.”

Starscream scoffed. “Oh, relax, lord Megatron. You’re so dramatic. It isn’t even an assassination attempt. This time.”

Megatron made a sound that was definitely not a pained yelp.

Starscream pressed harder.

Megatron seized up.

“This is agony,” he hissed.

Starscream grinned. “Good! That means it’s working.”

Megatron suffered. For twenty agonizing minutes, he endured Starscream’s precision torture.

By the end, he was this close to throwing Starscream off the ship.

When Starscream finally stepped back, he dusted off his claws, looking very pleased with himself.

“There. You’re welcome.”

Megatron took a very long, very deep ex-vent.

“…I will have my revenge for this.”

Starscream smirked. “Ohh sure you will.”

Megatron glared.

Then—POP.

His back strut suddenly shifted back into place.

The pain vanished.

Megatron froze.

“…Wait.”

Starscream tilted his helm. “Huh.”

Megatron shifted his shoulders. His optics widened.

“…It actually worked!”

[fukunagas]

Comforting Luigi when he has a nightmare 💝

link to his givesendgo <3

pure fluff

not proofread literally just off the cuff in my notes app and copy pasted here because i’m twisted

A loud gasp left Luigi’s mouth as he was woken up by a nightmare.

Panicked emotions stuck with him in the waking world as he tried to steady his breathing. You were curled up in his arms, warm and soft and such stark contrast to the memory fueled jail cell in his dream. Luigi’s hand reached for yours, pulled it to your chest, and started rubbing your knuckles with his thumb to self soothe. He knew he was safe here, but the fear and anxiety wouldn’t go away. Grounding techniques from years of therapy pushed themselves into his head, and he took another deep breath as he attempted to come back to reality. He could hear the hum of the floor fan, his own heart beat, the whistle of the wind as it blew between apartment buildings. Luigi focused on smell now. Hints of the pine incense that you burn in the living room combined with the jasmine, cinnamon, and musk; the smells of your perfume. The smells of you.

you, you, you, you, Luigi thought to himself.

Without even thinking he buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking in a deep, shaking breath. the smell of perfume is faint but still there, mixed with your olive oil bath soap and your natural scent. His hand continued to play with your fingers as he drank in your presence, only broke from his reverie by the sound of your soft giggles.

“Whiskers, ‘Gi,” you mumbled sleepily, referring to his face scruff. “tickling me.”

Guilt immediately flooded through Luigi for waking you up.

“Sorry,” he croaked, his voice immediately betraying the emotions he’d been feeling for the past 15 minutes.

As soon as you heard the strain in his voice you turned to face him, instinctively reaching one hand up to card through his hair, feeling the anxious sweat on his forehead.

“‘smatter baby?” you mumbled out, half awake.

Luigi didn’t answer immediately.

“Bad dream?”

“Yeah,” he replied softly, situating himself so his head is on your chest.

You offer the hand not playing with his hair for him to hold. Luigi fiddled with his own hands when he was nervous, but playing with yours was different, more comforting to him. They were so you. These hands that held him, comforted him, cared for him. He swore he memorized every line, every crease, the perfect softness, the lighter callous on your thumb, the uniform length of your nails, how your hands were so small and so easily enveloped by his. You pressed a few loving kisses to his temple, encouraging him to relax and open up to you.

“It was the one I always have. It just felt extra real this time. The cold, the isolation, the constant yelling of other inmates…” Luigi trailed off.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry for waking you up. It’s the same shit every time, I just need to push past it. I hate that i’m bothering you with this over and over again —” Insecurity and shame edged his words, but you cut in before he could lay into himself, instantly more awake now.

“But Lu, you don’t bother me—“

“Y/N, please, a grown man waking up anybody at 2 in the morning crying is embarrassing and annoying.” Luigi snapped.

His voice is thick with frustration and he internally winces at how harsh he came across.

“Good thing I’m not anybody then.” you retorted, silently vowing to be more stubborn than your boyfriend in this moment.

Without pushing him off your chest, you reach out for the bedside lamp and flick it on.

“Luigi, look at me,” you don’t give him the option to comply as you tilt his chin upwards.

Exhaustion and sadness is written all over Luigi’s face. Glassy brown eyes gaze up at you from underneath his long lashes. You can tell he’s been chewing on his lip, and his cheeks are flushed.

“Sweetheart…” You murmured. Your gaze was soft as you met his.

You deserve someone stronger, Luigi thought, and as soon as the idea entered his mind he felt the floodgates start to open.

His chest tightened and lip quivered, and he moved to hide in the crook of your neck, but he knew you could feel his tears on your skin. His big arms were wrapped around you now, as if any moment you were going to get up and walk away. Your hands rubbed soothing circles along his big shoulders as he shuddered against you. It was quiet for a bit, the only sounds being the drone of the fan and Luigi’s quiet sniffles.

“‘m sorry for pushing you away, ‘n being stubborn. I love you so much Y/N. I just wish being with me was easy.” he mumbled, removing his face from the crook of your neck and resettling on your chest.

“I love you baby. But I don’t want easy. I want you,” you drive your point home with a forehead kiss.

“But —“

You shut him down with your thumb against his lower lip, and he looks up at you with slightly widened eyes.

“But nothing Luigi. And besides, you need to be nicer to yourself,” you murmured. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about, you know.”

The corners of Luigi’s mouth quirked up in a small smile. You were his favorite intellectual sparring partner for a reason. You always knew just what to say to leave him speechless. It was begrudgingly impressive when you were winning an argument, and awe inspiring when you were shutting down his negative thought spirals.

“You’re the best.” He whispered.

A steady but comfortable silence fell between you two. You were running your nails over Luigi’s back in up and down motion, how you knew he liked. His eyelids started to feel impossibly heavy, both from exhaustion and your soothing caresses. Just as he was almost out cold you shifted him gently, moving him from your chest to right beside but facing away from you. Your arms wrapped around his middle and he felt the tops of your thighs against his butt. Often times the size difference between you two made you both swoon, but something about the way you would spoon a big man like him man his heart soar.

“Goodnight, my little jetpack.” he murmured, smiling when he heard your soft giggle in reply.

“G’night Gi.”

Unbeknownst to Luigi, you stay awake. Once you hear his soft snores and evened breathing, you press your lips between his shoulders and let sleep take you.

[lyriane]

(2.2k words short fic, again; based on the Peak of Truth, Despair Not Bond Story)

The Sage of Truth may have descended from the Peak of Truth, but the unknown Cookie before that had to ascend. To reach and grasp the pinnacle of Truth. To witness it in its finest.

Let us rewind the time, shall we?

Back to the time before the Sage of Truth was called by that title– before he could even be called the Sage of Truth. He couldn't accept being called that without his life’s greatest accomplishment.

And to attain that, one must reach the peak.

To say nothing of the trials and hardships that comes with the ascension would be too dismissive, but like with every Truth, it has to be unknown. Otherwise there would be no point seeking it, no?

When he finally reached the last steps to the peak, there were no heavenly light gracing him nor golden bells ringing harmoniously for his greatest achievement. Nothing at all. Did that disappoint him? Admittedly so, as it's simply a natural instinct to seek validation after such a deed, but not so much.

What truly drove him though; to keep trying, to go through many ordeals, was the thrill of seeking the Truth.

Are you surprised? Oh don't be.

It's always been fascinating how such basic instincts can drive any Cookie to the point of obsession. Desire, Greed, Love, Passion, and oh so many more. After all, aren't you also driven by curiosity right now?

Now that's mentioned, there was another thing aside from thrill-seeking. There's always curiosity as well. Of the years that have gone by, fleeting time as it is, there's been a constant within the endless change.

The Cookie that stood at the top of the Truth and never came down— the Hermit of Truth, the Truthless Recluse.

He wanted to meet that Cookie so badly. To see if the rumors are true, to appease his neverending curiosity, seeking the Truth in every way and form.

To meet someone who can understand him.

Yet what greeted him was nothing, nothing waited for him at the very peak of Truth.

"Stop pretending. You know all too well that there is nothing at the Peak of Truth.”

Is this truly the Truth that he has long sought for? Nothing? Nothing at all?

Eyes of yellow and blue brimmed with sorrow, despair curled around possessively, like tight noose.

“I, too, once made the same mistake, and for that, faced despair upon the Peak... There was no Truth expecting me. No Truth to save us all. And I cursed myself hundreds, thousands of times over for my folly.”

Liar. Deceiver.

There was something– no, someone at the Peak of Truth.

Would've been unnoticeable too, if he wasn't looking thoroughly for a speck of anything. Ironic, considering the Cookie’s bright white clothes. The Cookie’s stature looked small with their back turned, their clothing seemingly oversized on them.

“Hmm? Oh! My apologies, I thought I was alone here.” The Cookie finally turned around. Long golden locks of hair cascading down. A soft angelic smile greeting him.

Perhaps it was a good thing that the white Cookie's eyes were closed or else they would've seen the way he was gaping in surprise, completely shell shocked. Though unfortunately the silence from him was too obvious.

“Um..?” The white Cookie tilted their head in confusion, yet patiently waited for his response.

This.. This is definitely not the Truthless Recluse he has heard from the rumors.

He shook his head, trying to regain his sense of self. How embarrassing of him to lose composure in front of an audience!

“I apologize, this humble scholar was simply just dazzled by your beautiful appearance, good.. sir? ” He trailed off, looking at the Cookie in front of him. He couldn't tell. He just hoped that his words weren't taken as an offense by the other.

Luckily, the Cookie merely chuckled in response, even taking the compliment in stride. “Sir is fine, do not fret.”

“Though I must apologize again for not noticing you sooner. I am currently unable to see, for the staff I use as my aide is still being fixed at the moment.” The Cookie continued to softly speak, expressing himself in movements gentle and graceful.

He nodded, then quickly stopped in embarrassment. That explains a lot. He only now arrived here though, yet he didn't clear up the misunderstanding the other had. He was too curious about this enigmatic Cookie.

“That's completely reasonable. I can not fault you for that. I must ask, what is your name? If you don't mind me asking, of course.” He asked, respectfully, keeping his hand behind his back like a gentleman.

The beautiful Cookie chuckled again, surprisingly taking his respectful yet dramatic attitude, almost in a fond way. Then he bowed, playing along. “It seems I've forgotten my manners. My name is Pure Vanilla Cookie. Yours is?”

Pure Vanilla Cookie, he mouthed, testing. He almost didn't respond immediately, a little too awestruck if he had to admit. The name felt, familiar, somehow.

His name though? “Call me the Sage of Truth.” he announced, taking off his hat and bowing in return. The name rolled off his tongue effortlessly, sounding right and true.

Then he paused, momentarily feeling confusion as well as a growing sense of uneasiness. He wasn't called that, no one called him that, and he didn't have that title— Not yet.

Huh?

“Sage of Truth? Are you feeling alright?” A gentle melodious voice called, worrying for a stranger. Pure Vanilla’s hand was raised in front of him, as if wanting to hold him steady but was unable to accurately find his position

The Sage(?) shook his head, feeling off-centered, but he didn't show it. “Ah, no worries. I'm as perfectly fine as I could be!” He wouldn't admit it. Not in front of Pure Vanilla. Not in front of an audience.

Something is terribly wrong here.

Pure Vanilla didn't take his words at face value, didn't take it as the absolute truth. That seems wrong. Why is he not following the script? He still looked worried. The Sage was about to reassure him again, to lie—

“... Do you feel its influence too?” Pure Vanilla’s words shut his mouth closed. Influence? Of what, exactly? He didn't need to ask as Pure Vanilla thankfully elaborated his words.

“Here, time and space are intertwined. The future of the past and present coexist.” Pure Vanilla spoke in a wistful tone, as if fondly recalling a memory. Weirdly enough, it did feel like that. Everything seemed like it has happened before, here, yet it hasn't passed, not yet.

The Sage could not find the usual words he would say. In fact, what should he say in the face of such concept? It's the Truth. Pure Vanilla spoke of no lies. The Sage instinctively knew, and felt it too.

That Truth revealed the core of everything. Answered the familiarity, the distortion between time and memories, the feeling of not being himself— and Pure Vanilla Cookie’s presence at the Peak of Truth.

The Sage plopped down on the ground rather ungracefully, he couldn't keep himself afloat anymore. When did he start floating again? Ah no, don't question it. He sighed rather tiredly, perhaps the whole ordeal of climbing a seemingly endless peak has finally caught up to him.

Pure Vanilla Cookie only chuckled, only becoming at ease after hearing the Sage’s sigh. He too, sat on the ground, gracefully sitting down in a seiza position. Not even a single speck of dirt staining his white robes. How envious.

“.. This is all really confusing.” The Sage of Truth finally admitted, his lips thinning in annoyance. Pure Vanilla only chuckled in response, that traitor.

The Sage’s face soured, pinpointing the unusual feeling, the feeling of betrayal(?) that he shouldn't be feeling that intensely at the very moment. He shook his head, again, trying to keep his mind back on the track.

This anomaly intrigued him, of course, but by the Witches, is it so frustratingly mind-boggling. How is he meant to keep a calm enough focus to thoroughly analyze this if it kept influencing his mind, personality, thoughts, his everything down to his very soul?

Ugh, he shuddered, it was rather invasive and violating now that he thought about it. Is this really the Truth he worked so hard to get to? Then he glanced at Pure Vanilla, who was just patiently humming to himself.

Does he feel that too? Those lapses of insanity, disorientation, and feeling so unlike yourself? Thank the Witches that his memories haven't gotten influenced yet– or maybe it already has and he just hasn't noticed? Ugh, how annoying!

Perhaps it's just the Sage of Truth feeling this way. Only him. After all, he can notice it now. The sense of distortion around Pure Vanilla Cookie, he wasn't meant to be here. He's not from this time.

“.. Do you think I'll be able to meet you?” The Sage couldn't help but ask, some of the words left unsaid. His voice was placid, void of the dramatics. He has to ask as many questions as he can before Pure Vanilla goes back, he reasoned to himself.

Pure Vanilla hummed, already knew what the words that were left unsaid. The Sage of Truth solemnly stared at the broad night sky. The stars shone brighter here, at the Peak of Truth. Nothing else was brighter than the one beside him though.

“I'm sure you will meet me again.” Pure Vanilla softly whispered in the dead of night. He looked away but the Sage of Truth listened closely like it was the Truth he has always sought for.

“You and I are meant to be together.”

"Stop teaching about the Truth."

How bold of them to demand such a thing.

Yet the Sage of Truth could not help but entertain it anyways. It's always better to hear out demands, he was interested in what kind of reasons this visitor of his had to say such words.

"Why must I?" he asked instead, probing for answers.

The guest stepped closer. The ray of light illuminated his visitor’s face, revealing the dark robes and shadows hidden within. It couldn't erase the golden locks of hair, the gold and blue eyes, and the oh so dreadfully familiar face.

The Sage of Truth could not stop himself from exclaiming delightedly, like he was greeting a beloved old friend of his.

‘Pure Vanilla Cookie, I've finally met you.’

"Aaahh, if it isn't the Truthless Recluse himself. To what do I owe such a pleasure?” is what the Sage of Truth said instead.

He continued to speak, ignoring the true words he wanted to say out loud. "It is said that the Truthless Recluse never descends from the Peak of Truth... How may this humble scholar be of service to you?"

The Recluse's eyes brimmed with sorrow, the sight caused the Sage of Truth to clench his fist tightly, restraining himself. Yet the words of the Recluse struck him more.

"Stop pretending. You know all too well that there is nothing at the Peak of Truth.”

‘Liar. Deceiver.’ rang in his head. ‘You were there.’ he didn't say. ‘Don't you remember?’ That would be pointless to ask.

What did you find when you reached the Peak of Truth? The Sage of Truth wondered as he looked at the Truthless Recluse. Did you truly find nothing? Or are you lying, like the Cookie of Deceit that you are?

Are you really the Pure Vanilla Cookie I met at the Peak of Truth?

The Sage of Truth did not ask. He knew the answer already.

He only pointed upwards and said, "Alas, the Truth is imperfect by design... and yet, one must not turn away from the light of one's own Truth.”

The visage of Pure Vanilla’s gentle smile overlapped with the Truthless Recluse’s sorrowful look. Unsightly. Imperfect, and yet the Sage of Truth could not turn away from his Truth.

And with a welcoming gesture, he added, "Not unlike yourself whose Truth is to protect others from anguish.”

You are still the same.

Yesterday's visitor was long gone. The Sage of Truth stared upwards, reminiscing that time at the Peak of Truth. It was so long ago.. He could still remember it clearly though. Further drove him to spread the Truth to seekers, so he could meet him, once again.

‘You already knew who I was and who'd you be, didn't you, Pure Vanilla Cookie?’

The Sage of Truth let out a sigh, it felt like it was merely yesterday when Pure Vanilla was beside him, chuckling so tenderly. Yet the perfect image he had of Pure Vanilla was stained by the Truthless Recluse, like ink dipped into clear waters.

Idly, he traced his fingers on his Souljam and remembered the same shape on Pure Vanilla, just tilted upside down and minus the slit of eye. Everything.. All the questions he had over that day.. It all clicked, when he finally met the Truthless Recluse.

Fitting, since the Truthless Recluse was who he sought to meet from the very start.

The Sage of Truth wondered, If Pure Vanilla and the Truthless Recluse are merely counterparts… Those intense feelings, the fondness that Pure Vanilla had for him..

Who was the Sage of Truth’s counterpart?

‘Was it me, who you had met at the Peak of Truth, Truthless Recluse?’

Did he want to know?

Did he dare to seek the Truth like always?

The Sage of Truth smiled. He found his Truth. “We'll meet again,” he promised.

“For you and I are bound.”

[cheesus-doodles]

More thoughts on Izana and Rindou's BFF, how did bestie deal with or find out about the aftermath of the battle against Toman? How did bestie react to Izana dying and Rindou going to jail once again? and how does Rindou feel about being separated from bestie once again? In canon the Tenjiuku members stayed behind and willingly got arrested, but in this scenario I can't imagine Rindou willingly staying behind and knowing he'd be separated from bestie.

why friend why would you make me think about this ;w; first and only time imma write about this because it's digging into memories in an uncomfortable place...

Rindo Tags | Masterlist

‎

tw: major character death, discussion about death & depression

I actually think that Rindo would willingly stay behind and go to juvenile prison with the rest of the remaining Tenjiku executives after Izana’s death, despite knowing that would mean a separation from you, his BFF.

My reasoning for this is that despite the way Izana has treated his subordinates, I think all the executives hold a lot of respect for the Tenjiku President and look up to him, either as some sort of role model or just in awe of his abilities. So no doubt that Rindo and the other executives would feel a lot of guilt over how they let things get so out of hand with Kisaki’s involvement that it resulted in his death, though I think the person bearing the most guilt would most likely still be Kakucho (after he had recovered), given he already knew how dangerous and poisonous Kisaki had been to Izana's psyche from the start.

Rindo's fraying at the edges at having been dealt so many heavy emotions and events to handle at the same time. Losing Izana was one gut punch, but the realization that he would have to spend even longer away from you - this time without anyone left to protect you on the outside - was another blow Rindo could barely take. The younger Haitani would spend a lot of time stewing over this, the sleepless nights only darkening his eyebags with every passing day, as Ran could barely force Rindo to eat, let alone call you to break the news.

Despite Rindo despising the closeness Izana shared with you, he still respected the tanned boy, and he knew that breaking the news to you would shatter your naive, glowing world, and it would be entirely his fault.

‎

Either way, you would eventually find out about it, one way or another, most likely through seeing Izana’s obituary in the local newspaper. Despite the beef between Mikey and Izana, I think Mikey did really want to reconnect with his long-lost brother, related or not, and the Sanos would treat Izana with the respect that Shinichiro would want him to be treated with. And despite being completely air-headed and naive, seeing who you thought was a good friend staring back at you from the newspaper would be like a punch in the gut. You'll have to reread it again and again, though it still didn't feel real.

Things become even worse when you happen across the article where you find out what really happened, a small blurb about a gang fight that ended with a casualty and a serious injury.

‎ Your world comes crashing down, the whole event leaving you stunned. You couldn't really accept it at first, even a week after the wake and funeral was over. Life went on as normal, you still attended school, ate by yourself, and then went home to struggle through homework, making sure to carve out time to visit Kakucho in hospital and Rindo in juvie. But then it was a regular sunny day after you had just visited Rindo that the sadness and grief began to set in, and you find yourself unable to stop the tears.

Your appetite crashes, and the nightmares became endless, not helped by the fact that Rindo couldn't be with you to scare off the darkness. The paranoia that settled in the base of your gut refused to be shaken, the constant whisper from the back of your head that you would lose Rindo, Ran, Kakucho in the same way.

It haunted your every thought, Izana's pale, lifeless body framed by the coffin, and your nightmares where you would see Rindo's face instead. Every bruise, cut and bandage he showed up with became another gnawing fear. You stopped going to school for a bit, taking a break to try and deal with the grief, to try and heal.

‎

Time does heal some wounds, and you eventually find yourself again, though that innocence lost never comes back. There's always a darkness in those eyes that Rindo couldn't unsee when you visit him, even though your jolly self returns, slowly. You aren't as trusting or open as you used to be, and though you stopped trying to convince Rindo to stop fighting entirely, Rindo notes that you started to track his bruises and injuries, the way your smile becomes more strained and you try to hide your clenched fists when he appears with new injuries.

[fidesvirtusobsession]

Echoes of a Thousand Nights

(Yandere Vampire x AFAB reader)

Prologue || 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9|| 10 || 11

Description: For centuries, Alaric has walked the earth, bound by the cruel hand of fate. A vampire of old blood, he has seen empires fall, lovers turn to dust, and the world reshape itself around him. Yet, through the endless nights, one thing remains constant—her. The woman who haunts his past lives, slipping through his fingers with every rebirth. She never remembers, never knows who he is, yet he finds her, lifetime after lifetime, only to lose her again.Now, in the present day, her scent resurfaces in the most unlikely of places—an underground auction house where humans are sold like cattle. But Alaric will not let fate steal her away this time. This time, he will keep her.

The evening sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the drawing room was quiet, save for the soft sound of the wind rustling outside and the occasional clink of silverware from the distant dining room. Alaric paced slowly in the hall, his thoughts still tangled with everything that had been weighing on him—the constant worry over (Y/n)’s safety, her relentless training, and the overwhelming emotions he fought to keep hidden.

He needed to do something. Something to remind her that she wasn’t just a weapon, that she wasn’t always going to be under the heavy burden of protection, of training, of the looming shadows that followed them.

The door to the study opened, and there she was—(Y/n), with her gentle smile, her eyes bright and full of energy despite the long days she’d been putting herself through. She looked like she needed a break more than anything.

Alaric took a breath, walking toward her with his usual composure, but there was a softness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

She was absentmindedly flipping through a book, her head tilted slightly to the side as she absorbed the words. Alaric, however, was watching her, his fingers lightly tapping against the armrest of his chair, his mind racing. He had been thinking about this all day, weighing his options, but now that the moment had come, there was an unsettling feeling in his chest.

Finally, after a long pause, he cleared his throat, drawing her attention. She looked up, her eyes meeting his with a soft, curious gaze.

“(Y/n),” Alaric’s voice was steady, though there was a faint tension underlying his words, “I was thinking... we should go out tomorrow night.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Go out?”

He nodded slowly, his usual composure shifting slightly as he leaned forward in his seat, a rare hint of vulnerability slipping through his facade. He hesitated for a moment, then let out a small breath. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ve seen it. The late nights, the exhaustion... You deserve a night to relax. To just... be yourself, without all the responsibilities hanging over your head.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I mean that I’ve arranged something for us. Just you and me. A break. A night where you don’t have to worry about the next fight, the next lesson, or anything else. Just us, having some time to ourselves.”

“There’s a ballet performance tomorrow evening. It’s supposed to be quite... exquisite. I thought it might be something you’d enjoy. It’s a chance for us to relax, get away from everything for a night. No business, no concerns, just... us.”

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ve seen it. The late nights, the exhaustion... You deserve a night to relax. To just... be yourself, without all the responsibilities hanging over your head.”

(Y/n) blinked in surprise, her heart warming at the thought. She hadn’t expected Alaric to suggest something like this, a night of culture and elegance instead of his usual reserved demeanor. “A ballet? That’s... unexpected. But I’d love to go with you, Alaric.”

The corners of his mouth twitched into the faintest of smiles. “I thought you might.” His gaze softened, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the world lifted, as if the night out could offer some kind of escape from the complexities of their lives. “It’ll be a night just for us—no distractions, no interruptions.”

There was a brief pause, the air thick with unspoken emotions, before he added in a quieter tone, “I promise, it’s just a date. No hidden agendas. Just you and me.”

(Y/n)’s brow furrowed as she looked at the card, but her heart gave a flutter at the gesture. “You’ve... arranged this? For us?”

Alaric nodded, his expression unreadable but with an underlying sense of determination. “Yes. I’ve taken care of everything. It’s just a small night out—nothing extravagant. I thought you could use the time to unwind, to have fun. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, (Y/n).”

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to process his words. Slowly, she nodded, her lips curling into a small smile. “I didn’t expect this... but it sounds nice.”

(Y/n) smiled again, her expression warm and genuine, not sensing the tension in his words. She hadn’t picked up on the layers that lay beneath his suggestion, only focused on the sincerity in his voice. “I’m looking forward to it, Alaric. Thank you.”

Alaric’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He felt a twinge of something deep within him—possessiveness, protectiveness... and a quiet anticipation. He wanted this night to go perfectly. He needed it to. As he nodded slowly, his eyes hardened with determination, though his smile remained in place, fragile but sincere.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, though his mind already swirled with thoughts of the upcoming night, and of the man he knew would be there—Valen. But for now, he could ignore it. For now, he would keep his focus on her.

She was his, and he would make sure nothing would ruin their time together. Not now, not ever.

“You deserve it,” Alaric said, his tone softening further. “You've earned a moment of peace, away from all the weight you’ve been carrying. Consider it a break, a reward for all your hard work. You don’t have to think about anything except the night ahead.”

For a moment, the usual walls between them seemed to dissolve, and Alaric allowed himself to show just how much he cared for her. His hand gently brushed hers, and for a fleeting second, he hesitated, wondering if he should say more. But then he shook the thought away.

"I'll take care of everything. We’ll have some time alone, just the two of us. You can relax, enjoy yourself—there’s no need for anything else tonight.”

(Y/n) smiled, a mix of gratitude and confusion in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Alaric. This is… unexpected.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and inviting. “You don’t have to say anything. Just come with me. Let me give you a night to forget about everything else.”

The intensity of his gaze softened as he looked at her, and despite the storm of emotions he was hiding, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace knowing she would be with him. For tonight, at least, nothing else mattered.

“Let’s get you ready. It’s going to be a night you won’t forget.”

And as he turned to leave the room, (Y/n) stood in the soft light of the room, still processing his words, her heart thudding a little faster in her chest. There was something deeper in his words—something more than just a night out. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

The room was filled with soft candlelight, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. (Y/n) sat in front of the vanity mirror, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her dress. She had been in the process of dressing for what felt like an eternity. The gown was beautiful, but it wasn’t the clothes that made her anxious—it was the overwhelming uncertainty about the night ahead.

She had no idea what Alaric had planned, but she could tell it was something important. He had seemed insistent, even more than usual, about her attending the event tonight. She could feel his gaze on her whenever they were in the same room, a kind of unspoken pressure weighing on her shoulders. But she trusted him, and somehow, that made the unease easier to bear.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Elera’s voice followed. “(Y/n), are you ready? I was told you might need some help getting ready.”

“I’m fine, Elera,” (Y/n) called back, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress. She couldn’t help but feel a little out of place in the extravagant outfit, even though it was meant to make her feel special.

Elera didn’t wait for a response before entering, her usual confident smile gracing her lips. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve already seen your battle wounds from the training sessions. Let me help.”

(Y/n) didn’t protest as Elera approached, sitting beside her and running a careful hand through her hair. “You look beautiful already,” Elera said with a grin, her eyes softening. “But we both know Alaric won’t let you out looking anything less than perfect.”

“I don’t know, Elera... I feel a bit... out of place in all of this.” (Y/n) gestured to the dress and the mirror, feeling unsure in her own skin. The thought of the night ahead only made the butterflies in her stomach worse.

Elera chuckled, her fingers moving expertly as she began to style (Y/n)'s hair, pulling it back into a soft, elegant updo. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’ve earned this, (Y/n). Alaric isn’t exactly the type to let anyone be anything less than perfect, especially you.”

As she worked, (Y/n) glanced at her curiously. “I don’t really know what’s going on tonight. Alaric was a little... secretive about it.”

Elera smiled, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Well, it’s not really my place to spoil the surprise, but I can tell you that you won’t be disappointed.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Ericsson asked me to the ballet, actually.”

(Y/n)’s heart skipped a beat. “Ericsson?” She couldn’t help the surprise that flashed across her face. Alaric had mentioned something about a potential political ally, but she hadn’t connected the dots yet. “I thought Alaric said we were going somewhere?”

Elera laughed, adjusting (Y/n)’s hair gently. “I’m sure Alaric has his reasons, but don’t worry. You’re the one getting the most out of tonight. He’s taking you to the ballet as well—although I can’t say he’ll be as pleased with the whole idea as you will.”

(Y/n) blinked, the news sinking in. “Wait, so this is a date?”

“More or less,” Elera answered with a playful smile. “I think Alaric wanted to surprise you with a bit of time away from all the... shall we say, usual activities. He wants you to enjoy yourself, even if he’s the one who’s overly protective about it.”

There was something in Elera’s voice that made (Y/n) pause. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was like there was something more she wasn’t saying. “What do you mean by ‘overly protective?’”

Elera grinned as she finished styling (Y/n)’s hair, giving her an appraising look in the mirror. “You’ll see soon enough. Just relax and have fun tonight. Trust me, it’ll be good for both of you.”

(Y/n) studied Elera’s face, sensing that there was more to her words than she was letting on, but decided not to press the issue. There was something about Elera’s easy confidence that made her trust her. Maybe she didn’t know exactly what Alaric had planned, but she was beginning to feel a little more at ease. A night to relax, away from all the tension and uncertainty, was something she could definitely use.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, seeing the elegant, polished version of herself that Elera had created, she felt a flicker of excitement. Perhaps, just for one night, she could forget about the heavy burden of her past and just... enjoy being (Y/n).

“You look stunning,” Elera said with a soft smile, her eyes lingering on (Y/n)’s reflection. “Now, go enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

For the first time that evening, (Y/n) smiled genuinely, a sense of calm settling over her. “Thank you, Elera.”

With that, she stood up and walked toward the door, where Alaric was waiting, his gaze intense as ever but tinged with something softer—a quiet anticipation. As he extended his arm to her, she hesitated for only a moment before taking it, ready for whatever night had in store.

The hum of the city softened as the sleek black car pulled up in front of an elegant restaurant, its golden lights casting a warm glow onto the cobblestone street. Alaric stepped out first, his sharp suit molding perfectly to his frame, exuding the quiet dominance he carried so naturally. The driver opened Y/N’s door, and Alaric was already there, extending a hand to help her out.

“Dinner first,” he murmured, lips curling into the faintest smile. “You deserve more than a rushed evening.”

Y/N glanced at the restaurant, blinking in surprise. It wasn’t just any place—it was the kind people booked months in advance for special occasions. The name glowed in elegant cursive above the entrance, a place she’d only heard about in passing. She hesitated.

“Alaric… this is too much.”

He leaned in slightly, his hand still holding hers. “Nothing’s too much for you.”

There was no arguing with that tone—the kind that brokered no disagreement, but it wasn’t sharp. It was soft, deliberate. As if this evening wasn’t just a date but a promise.

Inside, the atmosphere was intimate, candlelight flickering across white linen tablecloths. A quiet melody drifted from a pianist in the corner. Alaric led her to a private corner booth, away from prying eyes. It was clear he’d chosen the spot deliberately—where he could see everything, where nothing could sneak up on them.

“You’ve been working hard,” he said after they ordered, his gaze never leaving her. “Training with Elera. Exhausting yourself.”

Y/N shrugged, tracing the rim of her water glass. “I don’t mind. I want to be ready… just in case.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “I won’t let it come to that.”

She sighed, meeting his gaze with quiet determination. “And what if you can’t always be there?”

His hand reached across the table, covering hers. The warmth of his skin was grounding. “Then I’ve already failed.” His voice softened, almost pained. “Tonight isn’t about that. No training, no worries. Just you and me.”

The waiter arrived with their first course—something delicate and artfully plated. Y/N picked at it, while Alaric barely touched his. His focus remained on her, watching the way her expression shifted with each passing thought.

“You’re hovering,” she teased, finally breaking the silence. “Like you expect me to disappear if you blink.”

Alaric’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Can you blame me?”

Her chest tightened. She knew the truth behind those words. The shadows that clung to his past, the enemies that circled like vultures. But tonight, she didn’t want to think about that.

“Tell me about the ballet,” she asked, changing the subject.

He leaned back, finally sipping his wine. “It’s an old production. Classic. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You’re not exactly the ‘ballet’ type, Alaric.”

His smile sharpened. “No. But I’m the ‘you deserve a night of peace’ type.”

The courses came and went, though Alaric barely touched his food. His focus remained on Y/N—how she smiled at the delicate dessert, how her eyes brightened when the waiter mentioned the wine pairing. She was glowing, and for once, there was no tension lining her shoulders.

As they finished, he stood, extending his hand once more. “Shall we?”

“To the ballet?” she teased, slipping her fingers into his.

He chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “To the rest of the night you deserve.”

But beneath his composed exterior, Alaric’s mind churned. He’d promised her a perfect evening, but the ballet was more than just a date. It was a trap—one he was walking into willingly, with her at his side.

As they stepped outside, the cool night air kissed Y/N’s cheeks. She shivered, and without a word, Alaric shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

“You always do that,” she murmured, fingers brushing the soft fabric.

His gaze softened. “Because you’re always cold.”

They walked side by side to the waiting car, Alaric’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The city lights blurred past as they drove toward the theater, but Y/N barely noticed. She was too focused on the rare calm that settled over Alaric’s features.

He looked… content. Almost peaceful.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, not just for dinner but for everything he never said aloud.

Alaric glanced at her, his hand finding hers once more. He squeezed gently.

“Anything for you.”

And for a moment, he allowed himself to believe that tonight could be just that—a night of peace, untouched by the shadows of the past. Even if it was fleeting.

The grand theater was bathed in soft golden light as Alaric guided Y/N through the towering arched doors. Marble floors gleamed beneath their feet, the chatter of the well-dressed elite echoing through the expansive foyer. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen raindrops, casting fractured light over the plush crimson carpet leading toward the main hall.

Y/N couldn’t help but pause, her eyes widening as she took in the elegance around her. “Alaric,” she breathed, “this is… incredible.”

Alaric, standing beside her in his perfectly tailored suit, allowed a rare smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “You deserve incredible.”

He didn’t let her linger long, guiding her forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. Heads turned as they passed—partially because of Alaric’s commanding presence but mostly because of Y/N herself, wrapped in a gown that shimmered subtly under the light. Elera’s doing, no doubt.

“Box seats,” Alaric murmured as they ascended a private staircase, avoiding the crowd below. “I prefer to watch from above. Less… crowded.”

Y/N hid a smile. Less crowded, yes. But more importantly, easier to protect. She knew Alaric’s habits by now.

Their private box overlooked the grand stage, the velvet curtains still drawn as the orchestra warmed up. The theater was breathtaking—golden filigree decorating the balconies, painted cherubs gazing down from the domed ceiling.

“Do you take all your dates somewhere this fancy?” Y/N teased as they settled into the plush seats.

Alaric glanced at her, one brow arching. “No. Just the ones that matter.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked away, pretending to examine the program in her lap.

Soft footsteps sounded behind them, and Elera swept into the box like a shadow, effortlessly graceful in an emerald dress that set off her sharp features. Beside her, Ericsson followed, looking far too comfortable in the lavish surroundings.

“Well, don’t you both look like a painting,” Elera drawled, sliding into the seat beside Y/N. “Alaric, you clean up nicely. Almost like you’re trying to impress someone.”

Alaric didn’t rise to the bait, his gaze fixed on the stage. “Ericsson,” he greeted coolly.

“Alaric,” Ericsson replied, equally smooth. His gaze flickered to Y/N, lips quirking in amusement. “I see you finally found a reason to leave the house for something other than bloodshed.”

“Careful,” Alaric said, voice deceptively calm. “I’m in a generous mood tonight. Don’t spoil it.”

Y/N glanced between them, sensing the undercurrent of tension but choosing to ignore it. The lights dimmed, saving her from the need to mediate.

The theater hushed as the conductor raised his baton. A breathless moment of silence hung in the air before the first note drifted from the orchestra pit—a delicate, haunting melody that wrapped around them like mist.

The curtains parted, revealing a moonlit forest painted in ethereal blues and silvers. The prima ballerina glided onto the stage, her movements fluid and otherworldly, as though she were a spirit dancing between worlds.

Y/N leaned forward, captivated. The way the dancers moved—light as air, perfectly synchronized—was nothing short of mesmerizing. She glanced sideways at Alaric, expecting him to be bored, but his gaze was fixed on her instead.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured.

His eyes softened. “Yes. It is.”

She flushed, looking away quickly.

The story unfolded gracefully—a tale of love, betrayal, and sacrifice. The ballerina, dressed in shimmering white, danced with her partner beneath an artificial moon, their bodies weaving together like threads of silk.

Elera, surprisingly quiet for once, watched with sharp eyes, though Y/N suspected her mind was elsewhere. Ericsson leaned back, arms crossed, more interested in the audience than the performance itself.

Halfway through the first act, Y/N noticed Alaric’s hand resting lightly on the armrest between them. Without thinking, she reached over, her fingers brushing his. He froze for a moment, then turned his palm upward, inviting her hand into his.

“You’re tense,” she whispered, squeezing his hand gently.

He didn’t deny it. “Habit.”

The lights dimmed further as the scene shifted to the tragic climax—the ballerina, betrayed and heartbroken, collapsing to the stage as her partner reached for her too late. The music swelled, strings trembling with emotion.

Y/N’s breath caught. The vulnerability in the dancer’s performance struck a chord deep within her, stirring memories she’d rather leave buried.

Alaric must have sensed the shift in her mood. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her.

As the final note hung in the air and the curtain fell, the theater erupted into applause. Y/N clapped along with the crowd, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“That was…” she began, searching for words.

“Intense?” Elera supplied, stretching languidly. “Tragic love stories always are.”

Ericsson leaned over slightly, voice low but firm. “A moment, Alaric?” His gaze flicked toward the upper balconies, where the dim glow of chandeliers barely touched the shadows. “He’s here.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He’d felt it too—the oppressive weight of an old, familiar presence. Without a word, he stood, smoothing down his suit jacket as his eyes swept the room. The ballet continued, dancers twirling in perfect synchronization, oblivious to the predatory game unfolding above them.

Elera, sitting next to Y/N, caught the shift immediately. “You’re leaving?” she asked quietly, her sharp gaze darting between the two men.

“Stay with her,” Alaric muttered, eyes softening for the briefest moment as they flicked toward Y/N. She was watching the performance, blissfully unaware. He hated keeping her in the dark, but this wasn’t her fight. Not yet.

Ericsson was already moving, weaving through the crowd with the ease of a man who’d stalked prey for centuries. Alaric followed, his steps silent but purposeful.

Up the grand staircase, past velvet curtains and gilded mirrors, they found him.

Valen.

Perched on the edge of a private balcony, wine glass lazily dangling from his fingers, he looked down at the crowd like a king surveying his court. The faintest smile played on his lips, cold and calculating.

He didn’t turn to face them. He didn’t need to.

“I was wondering when you’d come find me,” Valen drawled, swirling the wine in his glass. “You’re predictable, Alaric. Always chasing ghosts.”

Ericsson’s hand twitched toward the knife hidden beneath his coat. Alaric didn’t move, eyes locked on the man who’d haunted his nightmares for centuries.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” Alaric growled.

Valen chuckled, finally turning to face them. His eyes gleamed crimson in the dim light. “You had your chance. You wasted it.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “And now? I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Alaric’s blood ran cold. Instinctively, his gaze flicked down to the main floor, where Y/N sat beside Elera, still laughing at something the other woman had said.

Valen’s smile widened. “Tick-tock, Alaric.”

The moment Valen’s words left his lips, something inside Alaric snapped. A raw, primal instinct surged through him, drowning out reason, drowning out centuries of carefully restrained rage.

Before anyone could react, he moved.

A blur of darkness—too fast, too sudden. The very air seemed to shudder under the force of his movement. One second, Valen stood smirking, and the next, he was slammed against the cold stone wall with a force that cracked the surface behind him.

The wine glass slipped from Valen’s fingers, shattering against the marble floor. But he barely had a chance to care—Alaric’s hand was already at his throat, crushing, suffocating, pinning him in place like a predator tearing into its prey.

For the first time, Valen’s amusement flickered, replaced by something sharper. Wariness.

“You,” Alaric snarled, voice low, guttural—inhuman. His fangs bared, his eyes burning with a furious, molten glow. “You don’t say her name. You don’t breathe in her direction.” His grip tightened, nails pressing into flesh. “Or I swear to every god that still listens, I will rip you apart until there’s nothing left but dust.”

Ericsson took a slow step forward. “Alaric—”

“Stay out of this.” The growl that tore from Alaric’s throat was not meant for negotiation. It was the voice of something feral, something ancient and unforgiving.

Valen let out a strained chuckle, despite the pressure threatening to crush his windpipe. “Touched a nerve, have I?” His eyes gleamed, even as his fingers twitched at his sides, no doubt calculating an escape. “Didn’t take you for the possessive type.”

Alaric slammed him harder against the stone, making the entire balcony tremble. “She is mine.” The declaration was absolute. Unyielding. “And if you so much as look at her wrong, I will make what I did to Marquis look like mercy.”

Valen’s smirk wavered.

For the first time in a long, long time—he looked at Alaric and saw death staring back at him.

The tension shattered like glass as Valen slipped into the shadows, but Alaric was already moving. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Instinct screamed, and centuries of suppressed fury roared to life, drowning out reason.

“Alaric—” Ericsson’s voice barely registered as Alaric followed the faint trace of Valen’s presence, weaving through the opulent corridors of the opera house like a predator on the hunt.

Valen had underestimated him. They all did.

But this wasn’t just another political maneuver. This wasn’t about power or territory.

This was about her.

The moment Valen hinted at touching her—at taking her away—it was as if every lifetime of failure, of watching her slip through his fingers, came crashing down at once. Every scar, every moment of helplessness, ignited a rage so pure it burned away the centuries of restraint he'd built like armor.

Never again.

He burst through the side entrance, the cold night air slicing across his skin as he hit the dimly lit alley. Shadows danced across wet cobblestones under flickering streetlamps. Silence hung thick, save for the distant hum of the city.

Then—a whisper of movement.

“Tsk.” Valen’s voice drifted from above, lazy, arrogant. He stood on the rooftop’s edge, silhouetted against the moon, one hand adjusting his cufflinks like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Really, Alaric? Are we resorting to street brawls now? I expected more civility from you.”

Alaric didn’t answer. He was already there, faster than Valen anticipated, boots slamming onto the rooftop with enough force to crack the tiles.

Their eyes met.

And Valen finally saw it—the storm brewing within Alaric.

This wasn’t the cold, calculating tactician he’d known for centuries. This was something feral. Unrelenting.

“She’s not yours to take,” Alaric growled, voice rough with unfiltered wrath.

Valen chuckled, but there was an edge to it now, a flicker of uncertainty. “You’re acting like I’ve already stolen her away. Possessiveness doesn’t suit you, Alaric. Love makes you sloppy.”

Sloppy?

Alaric moved—blink and you’d miss it.

The first punch connected with bone-crushing force, sending Valen flying across the rooftop. He barely caught himself, boots skidding against loose gravel. The smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by something colder.

“Ah,” Valen muttered, touching the corner of his mouth where blood now trickled. His expression hardened. “So, it’s that kind of fight.”

He lunged.

Ancient strength met unyielding fury.

They collided like titans, each blow shaking the rooftop. Fists, elbows, knees—centuries of combat experience distilled into brutal efficiency. Valen fought with the grace of someone who’d lived too long, his movements precise, elegant, almost bored.

But Alaric?

Alaric fought like a man with nothing left to lose.

Every strike was fueled by lifetimes of failure. Of watching her die. Of holding her lifeless body. Of hearing her screams and being too far away to save her.

He wasn’t fighting for dominance.

He was fighting for her.

Valen’s defenses began to slip. He was fast, but Alaric was relentless, every movement a calculated assault, pushing him further toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Valen hissed between ragged breaths. “You can’t protect her forever. She’s mortal. Fragile. It’s only a matter of time—”

CRACK.

Alaric’s fist slammed into Valen’s jaw, sending him sprawling. Before he could rise, Alaric was on him, boot pressing down on his chest, pinning him like an insect under glass.

“I will burn the world to ash before I let you touch her.” Alaric’s voice was ice, his face twisted into something dark and unforgiving.

Valen coughed, eyes narrowing. “You think this changes anything?” he rasped, blood staining his teeth. “You’re fighting fate, Alaric. And fate—”

Steel flashed.

Valen froze.

Alaric had drawn the dagger from his coat—a vampire’s dagger, ancient and deadly.

“…fate dies tonight,” Alaric finished, pressing the blade to Valen’s throat.

For the first time, true fear flickered in Valen’s eyes.

It wasn’t just about power. It was the realization that Alaric would do it. He would cross any line, break any rule, damn himself to the darkest pits of existence if it meant keeping her safe.

“Go near her again,” Alaric growled, his hand steady despite the fury burning through his veins, “and I’ll make sure you never walk away.”

Silence.

The city buzzed faintly in the distance, oblivious to the war waged in the shadows.

Then, slowly, Alaric stepped back, releasing the pressure on Valen’s chest but never lowering the blade.

Valen coughed, sitting up with a wince. His arrogance was gone, replaced by cold calculation. “You’re a fool, Alaric,” he muttered. “She’ll be your downfall.”

Alaric didn’t flinch. “Better my downfall than her grave.”

He’d tear it apart with his bare hands.

The streets were eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the city and the rasping sound of Valen struggling to catch his breath. Broken tiles and splintered wood littered the ground, evidence of the raw violence that had just unfolded. Blood—dark and glistening—pooled where Alaric had pinned Valen down moments ago.

Valen, the ancient, the untouchable, now leaned against a crumbling ledge, wiping the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. His usual smugness was gone, replaced by something colder. Calculating.

And standing at the edge of the destruction, eyes wide and lips slightly parted in disbelief, was Ericsson.

He had followed the trail of chaos—the shattered balcony railing, the dented cobblestones in the alley below—and arrived just in time to see Alaric sheathing the vampire dagger, his face carved from stone.

“Gods above…” Ericsson muttered under his breath, boots crunching over debris as he stepped forward. His sharp eyes flickered between the two men. “What the hell happened here?”

Alaric didn’t answer immediately. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, fists still clenched at his sides, knuckles bruised and bloodied. The rage simmering beneath his skin hadn’t cooled yet. It wouldn’t cool—not while the scent of Valen’s threat lingered in the air.

Valen chuckled bitterly, wiping more blood from his jaw. “Your friend here seems to have forgotten the fine line between possessiveness and madness,” he sneered, though there was no hiding the slight tremor in his voice. “All because I dared to mention the girl.”

Ericsson’s brows shot up. “Yn?” His gaze snapped to Alaric, and understanding dawned like a thunderclap. “…By the gods, Alaric. What did he say?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from Valen. “Enough.”

“More than enough,” Valen muttered, pushing himself to stand. He winced, clearly favoring one side. “You should leash your hound, Ericsson. Or at least remind him that wars have been started over less.”

Ericsson ignored him, stepping closer to Alaric. His voice dropped to something edged with rare concern. “You lost control.” It wasn’t a question.

Alaric’s eyes flickered toward him, the crimson hue slowly fading, replaced by piercing, predatory gold. “I don’t care.”

Ericsson blinked, momentarily taken aback. Alaric was always composed, always calculating, the one who strategized ten steps ahead while others fumbled through the first. But now?

Now, he looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to leap without caring about the fall.

“Alaric,” Ericsson tried again, voice firm but not unkind. “You nearly killed him.”

“I should have.”

The weight of those words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Valen scoffed, shaking his head as he straightened his collar. “You’re blinded by love, Alaric. It’ll be your undoing.”

Ericsson’s hand shot out, grabbing Valen’s shoulder and yanking him back before he could provoke Alaric further. “Enough. Walk away while you still can...”

Valen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. Not this time. He knew when the odds had turned against him.

“I’ll enjoy watching this crumble around you,” Valen muttered as he stepped past them, disappearing into the night like smoke on the wind.

Ericsson waited until the last trace of his presence was gone before exhaling sharply. He turned back to Alaric, studying his friend—the tension in his shoulders, the wild look that still hadn’t fully faded from his gaze.

“You’ve fought wars,” Ericsson said quietly. “Killed kings. Faced down entire armies without flinching. But I’ve never seen you like this.”

Alaric finally looked at him, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes made Ericsson’s breath catch.

“She’s not just another mortal passing through my life, Ericsson,” Alaric murmured, voice rough and low. “She’s the only constant. Every lifetime, every cruel twist of fate—she’s always the one taken from me.” His throat bobbed with the weight of the confession. “I won’t survive losing her again.”

Ericsson was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, once.

“Then we make sure you don’t.”

Alaric didn’t wait for more words. He was already moving, boots striking the rooftop with purpose as he headed toward the edge.

“Where are you going?”

Alaric paused, glancing back. The answer was obvious.

To her.

To the only thing that kept the monster inside him from consuming what little of his soul remained.

Tags: @yune1337 @mybones537 @yourhornysister @lilyalone

[silentsneezes]

Sick J/ayce Professor AU Part Two

did i stay up until 4 AM to write this last night? yes. is it edited or incredibly well written? no.

but i wanted to post it since it's been a couple of weeks since writing part one, so without further ado here's 1.9k of j/ayce being absolutely miserable

CW for descriptions of mess. they're not super graphic, but it's definitely prevelant

Jayce decidedly makes his way towards Viktor’s office. After all, it’s become a routine, and he knows Viktor will begin to worry if he doesn’t show up. In his feverish daze, he doesn’t register the biting cold outside, but the breeze cuts through his jacket like it’s nothing more than a flimsy scrap of fabric. It’s beginning to snow, the first flakes drifting lazily through the crisp winter air. It’s beautiful, really, but Jayce remains oblivious to nature’s performance. 

He’s too occupied with the task at hand: getting to Viktor’s office. His lungs ache with every breath, his hands moving to clutch his jacket tighter around his frame. Only a few minutes into his walk across campus, Jayce feels a trail of mess slip over his upper lip. He swipes his wrist across the base of his nose, cringing at how sore the reddened appendage has become. 

Sore and terribly itchy. The pressure to his septum was just enough to ignite a buzzing through the bridge of his nose. With a huff of annoyance, Jayce moves to cup a hand over his nose, his breath hitching as he walks along the haphazardly icey pathway. After a few seconds, he stops in his tracks, barely hearing the grumbled annoyance of the students that almost collide with his back. 

His breath is hitching in desperate, chest rattling breaths, every gasp more vocal than the last. He stumbles to move out of the pathway, keeping one hand steepled over his nose as he doubles over with a throat grating, “hHHH’RRSZXZCHh’HUew!” 

Jayce only manages to take a single breath before a second sneeze follows, nearly toppling him over, “hhHd’egh…hh–hHDD’HZSSCHHuhw!” His vision blurs temporarily with the force of the second expulsion, but he somehow, miraculously, manages to stay standing. His palm is coated with mess, two strings of snot clinging from the base of his nose to his hand. 

With a groan, Jayce straightens back up, pinching the strings of mess from his nose and flicking them to the side. He looks around, grateful that no one seems to have noticed the whole ordeal. 

Jayce stands still for a moment, feeling the weight of his exhaustion sink deeper into his bones. The cold has left his body shaking, but it’s the fever that makes his limbs feel so incredibly heavy. He rubs his nose again, trying to wipe away the mess continuing to stream over his upper lip. He has little success, of course, the recent double having done nothing to stop the constant dripping of his nose.

As Jayce continues down the path, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of a nearby window, but it only makes him grimace. He’s a mess— his hair disheveled, his cheeks flushed from the fever, his nose red and raw. God he looks terrible. 

Jayce forces himself to continue walking, stumbling along the icy path as his feet drag below him. The only thing keeping him going is the thought of being able to melt into the plush armchair in Viktor’s office, the one he’d bought purely for Jayce’s use. 

The rest of the walk passes in a bleary haze, and before Jayce entirely registers it, he’s walking down the hall towards Viktor’s office. He vaguely registers the warmth of the hall, his numbed hands finally regaining some feeling. Just a few minutes left, he reassures himself. 

Just as he turns a corner, though, his vision falters again, and a sudden shiver runs down his spine. His body stumbles forward, and instinctively, his hand shoots out to catch himself against the wall. The impact knocks the breath out of him, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. 

Jayce had forgotten what it felt like to be truly, utterly sick. Admittedly, he shouldn’t have ignored his symptoms the past few days, but stubborn as he is, he tried pushing through it. And now he’s paying the price; this supposedly “little” cold is hitting him like a fucking truck. 

"God…" he mutters, wiping a hand across his face– when had he started sweating? He shivers, his body shuddering despite the sudden feeling of a heat flash. His fingers brush his sore nose once more, and with another glance down the hallway, he starts moving again. He just needs to get to Viktor.

The door to Viktor’s office is in sight now, and Jayce feels a sense of relief wash over him. But with that relief comes another wave of dizziness. He stumbles forward again, but this time, he’s able to catch himself on the doorframe. The door creaks open slightly under his weight, and he’s met with a casually uttered, “Jayce? You’re early.”

Viktor doesn’t initially look up from his work, document in hand and glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. When he doesn’t receive a reply, however, his attention is immediately turned to his partner. 

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs, only needing a single glance at Jayce to know he’s miserably sick, “Come in, sit.”

Jayce does as instructed, his body moving as if it’s on autopilot and collapsing ungracefully into the plush armchair across from Viktor’s desk. With a swift motion, Viktor grabs his cane and crosses the room, standing over Jayce and placing a hand on his forehead. 

“You have a fever,” Viktor tuts, moving to hold Jayce’s chin and tilting it upwards so Jayce is forced to meet his gaze. 

Jayce looks up with glassy, hazy eyes, instinctively nuzzling his cheek against Viktor’s palm. Viktor can’t help but smile at the gentle affection, moving to brush his thumb over Jayce’s cheek. 

“I thingk–” Jayce starts, but he’s forced to pause and clear his throat with a phlegmy cough, “I mighd be coming down with somethi’g.”

“You think?” Viktor repeats with a slight grin, shifting his stance to apply more weight to his right leg– the cold rarely bodes well with his bum leg, often worsening its instability and pain. Even in his feverish delirium, Jayce notices the movement, reaching out and placing a hand on Viktor’s hip wordlessly. He knows not to ask, not to push Viktor to talk about his pain unless he wants to. 

“You are going to be the death of me,” Viktor murmurs fondly, “have you taken anything?”

“C’mbon V, id’s nod thad bad,” Jayce attempts to argue, ignoring Viktor’s question as to medication. Truthfully, he’d meant to take something this morning, just like how he’d meant to bring tissues to his lecture. Between his unbridled ADHD and his fever, it’s honestly a wonder he’s functioning at all– that is, if you can consider this to be functioning. 

Viktor takes out his handkerchief, handing it out to his partner, “Blow your nose,” he instructs simply, but there’s a fondness to his voice– the kind reserved solely for Jayce; Viktor isn’t necessarily a natural caretaker, but Jayce is the exception. As frustrating as his partner can be, and trust that Jayce can be beyond infuriating at times, Viktor knows him through and through. 

Jayce blushes, torn between denying the handkerchief and running the risk of his nose running incessantly or accepting the handkerchief and admitting how sick he is. Reluctantly, he accepts the handkerchief with a soft, “thangk you,” and turns away from Viktor as best he can. He barely manages to blow his nose, the action resulting in more of a congested snort than anything productive. 

Before Jayce can try again, there’s a soft rapping at the door, accompanied by Mel’s voice, “Professor Viktor?”

Viktor looks up in slight surprise, having entirely forgotten about his meeting with Mel upon seeing Jayce’s sick state. Initially, he had planned for Jayce to arrive after his lecture, but since he’d arrived unexpectedly early, their schedules were clashing.

“Oh, Professor Talis,” Mel says in slight surprise as she enters, not having expected Jayce to be there too. Her eyes linger momentarily on the handkerchief held in his hand before flicking up to his reddened nose with a sympathetic expression. 

Jayce offers her a tired smile and a brief wave. Usually he’d start a conversation; after all, he’s rather fond of Mel. They’ve grown close over the past few years of working as colleagues, and he considers her a friend. Luckily, Mel doesn’t take offense to his lack of conversation, instead turning to Viktor and asking, “Is this an okay time–”

Jayce interrupts Mel with a sudden, vocal hitch, “hhHH-” as a sudden itch buzzes through the back of his sinuses, pushing up to the tip of his nose. Despite his initial reservations about accepting Viktor’s handkerchief, he feels a rush of gratitude towards his partner for lending him the cloth. He steeples it over his nose just in time, pressing it against the lower part of his face in an attempt to muffle the encroaching sneeze. 

“hhH’MPDDSXXHCHh’uh!” 

“Gezhundiet,” Mel blesses with a look of surprise at the sheer force of the sneeze, “are you-,” she begins to ask, but she stops as Viktor shakes his head.

“He’s not done,” Viktor says simply, saving Mel from being interrupted again. 

Sure enough, Jayce is once again clutching the handkerchief to his face, turning his back towards his fellow professors as his breath hitches.

It’s a painful watch, his breath catching every few seconds only to build into a desperate false start. After a few particularly vocal hitches, Jayce finally snaps forwards with a throat grating sneeze, “hhHRRRSZZXCGhh’hhugh!”

The expulsion is strong enough to force his knee to jerk upwards, causing the armchair to creak in protest. 

“Bless you darling,” Viktor murmurs, frowning as Jayce’s shoulders remain slumped, the handkerchief held tightly around his nose. It’s evident that the kerchief is covering a mess of spray as Jayce snuffles, blushing crimson. 

Viktor turns to Mel, offering her an apologetic smile, “My apologies Professor Merdada, but now is not the best time. Can I suggest that we reschedule?” 

Mel smiles sympathetically, “Of course,” she heads towards the door without second thought, knowing Viktor’s priority is taking care of his partner, “and Professor Talis?” 

Jayce looks up, hidden sheepishly behind the handkerchief. 

“You should take the day off tomorrow. I’ll see to it that your students are informed,” she says curtly before leaving, giving him no opportunity to deny her– not that he would’ve, even he recognizes that he wouldn’t make it through working tomorrow. 

Viktor gives Mel a thankful glance as she exits, knowing she saved him the trouble of convincing Jayce to take a day off. After all, it’s usually no easy feat convincing Jayce to partake in any sort of self care when he’s sick– and yet he criticizes Viktor for doing the same when he catches cold. 

As soon as Mel’s gone, Jayce gives his nose a productive blow, finally having the privacy to mop up the aftermath of the double. Viktor waits patiently until Jayce lowers the handkerchief, his nose looking even sorer than before. 

“We should go home,” Viktor prompts, his voice soft. He reaches up and brushes his thumb across Jayce’s cheek, “you have quite the fever.”

Jayce nods dumbly, feeling like dead weight. He’s too tired to argue, and admittedly, all he wants to do is go home and have Viktor dote over him.  

“How is it you managed to go all day without telling me how terrible you felt?” Viktor chastises lightly as he begins packing up his things, “and you say I’m stubborn.”

that's all for now... eventually i'll (probably) write a part three, but with how little free time i have it will take a while. as always, any comments, tags, and reblogs are very much appreciated !!

[rakhalofthestars]

Sound

Chapter 3 of my mini-series "Stimuli"!!

Summary: Sounds are a constant reminder of the life that surrounds us. In fact, sounds evoke emotions. So what do you feel when listening to Boothill, a man who has constantly been surrounded by death?

Tags: Fluff, Bittersweet, Light angst, Gender-neutral reader, Established relationship, Soft Boothill, Boothill-centric

wc: 1.3k

There are a myriad of things that give our surroundings life. Blood, of course, is one. Without the life force coursing through the veins and arteries that most living beings were made up of, there wouldn’t be any life at all. Color is another, a pretty self explanatory factor even, one could argue. Without the splash of lush green foliage here and the dashes of red, purple, pink flora and fauna there, our surroundings would look dull. Depressing. Gray. Monochromatic. 

Another factor that gives our surroundings life is sound. Something that we take for granted. At times, something that even annoys us. The grating sound of nails on a chalkboard, the consistent noise of sirens bellowing all around, squeaky doors and hinges. There are an endless number of sounds that make us wish for the world to go silent for once, though the latter makes you fondly think of a certain cyborg after he had forgotten to oil his joints. Regardless, as annoying as these sounds are, a world that has fallen silent would feel suffocating. Terrifying, even. Like the silence that follows after the cannonfire from the heavens had extinguished all life, as if it were nothing more than just a candle. 

You see, sounds evoke emotions. Upon registering the vibrations that are carried through the air, our brains release a certain amount of dopamine or another hormone, depending on the sound. What emotions would be evoked if you listened to the sounds Boothill made?

There was no doubt about it, Boothill was loud. It's to be expected, when he carries such a heavy, metal body with him. It's only after months of trial and error that the cyborg had learned to walk carefully, to minimize the sounds he made, should the situation call for it. Normally, however, you'd hear heavy footfalls whenever Boothill would approach. Heavy with the sound of his spurs clinking against the ground.

Of course his footfalls would sound heavy. His body was made of metal, after all! Furthermore, Boothill was a grown man with a good 6 feet or more height on him. And yet, at times, his steps would sound heavier than usual. Heavy with grief, rage, loss, depression, anxiety. Heavy with the burden of safeguarding the precious memories of his tribe. Heavy with the burden of bringing justice to his people, both alive and dead. 

Try as you might, Boothill wouldn't ever let you carry this burden alongside him. He won't, shan't, can't. 

However, it doesn't mean you can't help alleviate the heaviness of Boothill’s symphony. It didn't tend to take much effort either. He couldn't wallow in the stormy ocean of grief forevermore. He had to keep going and live in the present whilst honoring the past.

“That's a lovely tune. Where'd you learn it from?” You ask one day, watching the cowboy strum his guitar. Despite the heavy material that his hand was constructed of, his touch was light. His fingers plucked the strings with ease, a skill that he had practiced and honed for years. 

“Ain't nothin’ special, amor. Jus’ a lil’ somethin’ Gra-....someone had taught me years ago.”

You think you hear his voice crack but perhaps, it was merely the crackle of the fire around which you and Boothill sat. It wasn't often the two of you could find a place to set up camp and wind down. 

“It sounds sweet. Like a love song. Why don't you sing it for me, my little songbird?”

Boothill blinks before scoffing. The scoff turns into a laugh. Bitter, like dark chocolate and the tobacco that he smoked, with the information that you weren't yet privy to. But also, warm, like melted caramel and a glass of warm milk that's often best when paired with steamed vegetables, with affection. Typical of you, to poke and prod at him until he warbled a few notes to appease your thirsty ears. 

“Well…ain't really a love song. Kinda morbid, really, the lyrics. Jus’ paired with a sweeter tune. Reckon it's so it don't sound too heavy on the ears, y’know?”

You suppose that description wasn't only limited to the song. 

The lighter, almost melodic, notes that echoed from Boothill’s spurs, the medallions on his chest along with the large zipper and the chains shackled to his pants, were all akin to the sound of wind chimes. Soft. Harmonious. Sweet. They hid the morbidity of the man sitting before you, absent-mindedly tuning the instrument held in his lap. 

“I never expected…that person would'a been the one to teach me this song. Thought it'd be Nic- someone else. She was always…more on the gentle side, though nobody ought’ta have underestimated ‘er. But…the other guy, ‘e was more…crude and gruff, I'd say. S'pose it's why this song right ‘ere had brought the two of ‘em together in the first place. ‘S a perfect mix of the two.”

“So it is a love song.”

Boothill snorts before nodding. He supposed he was euchred here.

“Sure, lovely. Reckon y'could think about it that way,” the cowboy smiles before beginning to strum the sweet and jaunty melody once more. He taps his foot in time, to keep track of the beat, whilst a familiar grin appears on his lips. 

“Come now, amor. We’ve filled out several blankets an’ smoked ‘em all an’ drunk our fair share o’ firewater. Least we could do ‘fore we hit the hay is sing an’ dance.” You blink and tilt your head to the side, hearing the desire for joy tinge the syllables uttered by him. 

“Dance?” “Yeah. Dance. Ain’t no rules to dancin’. Jus’ listen to what yer body wants to do,” Boothill replies. He stands up and sways to the melody that he was playing. You couldn’t just deny him like this. Not when he looked so eager for something to chase the dreary reverberations of nostalgia and loss away. 

So you stand up as well and dance to Boothill’s symphony, trying to match his own steps to the music. He sings like a robin, his tone matching the cheery melody although it was tempered with the effects of smoking, leaving his voice more gravelly and gruff than it used to be, perfectly accompanying the somber lyrics. 

For a long while, Boothill believed that he would never again hear the same crude words and the songs of yore ever again. Nevermore would he hear the joyful laughter that used to ring out when running in soft grassy fields or the tunes whistled when listening to the flowing water of the clear creeks. Yet, as he listens to the laughter that leaves your lips while you both dance, Boothill realizes that while nothing will ever replace what he has lost, life moves on. 

Every sound that you make, from your melodious laugh to the way his name rolls off your tongue with so much warmth and love, leaves Boothill thinking you’re something akin to the joys of life. He is reminded, simply from the syllables that travel from your lips to his ears, that despite everything, you and him were here now, in the present, alive.

The perfect world that Boothill once knew was long gone. Presumably, it would never come back. However, with your voice ringing in his ears, he reckons he can rebuild what he once had. Will it be the same as before? No. Will it last forever? No. Nothing lasts forever. All he can hope for is that long after you and him have left the realm of the living, memories of what once was would linger everywhere the two of you had set foot on. In the breeze that tousled your hair, in the trees that offered shade when the sun got to you, in the rain that steadily drummed against the earth after a dry spell. Everywhere. 

When Boothill pulls you close, his arm snug around your waist, he hopes the wind will carry the words that he whispers into your ear, followed by a kiss on the lobe. 

“Sił nzǫ́ǫ́.”

I love you. 

[currentlysleepingus]

Part 2? Of my previous post

The G.I.W.'s influence in Amity Park is almost.....cult like. They teach them to think a certain way and make those who object disappear. What of this started in full force when jazz was in elementary school. She has seen teenagers who objected and spoke up leave the town in body bags if they were lucky. Movements and advancements stopped because of what they G.I.W might do to them if they were found out. The teens leave for college and get taken to facilities for testing while the ones who were more public were turned into crazy people who were in kahoots with the ghosts.

Amity is the most haunted town in the US are you telling me that ghosts didn't exist before the portal. No, they existed just to a lesser scale. Curses and beings lurked everywhere, and the people were fine with that. They lived in content and almost harmony with that. I want to imagine that the town used to produce non humans, and witches and wizards back in the like 1600s or something. I want to imagine that magic is outlawed in Amity. That talk of people like that and to think positively of ghosts and the undead is forbidden. What if Sam's parents don't want her to be goth because some of the Salem witch trails happened there. Because the G.I.W treats those who seem to be connected to witch's and the like far worse, but they couldn't say because the town was under constant servailance.

Anyway, jazz was determined to actually leave the town and start a life, ahead just needed to fake her death and hide her body because the G.I.W are not above keeping amities corpses. The cemetery is empty. She could get a false one, but that'll take too much time. She needs to get in contact with someone from the outside and get a good relationship so they'll notice when she goes missing. That way, she can come back with people and bring Danny.

Anyway Amity park is backwards with ideals out of date so a lot of amities youth think things that are perfectly normal and there is absolutely nothing wrong with are horrible because they were indoctrinated into thinking so. They were raised on it when they were younger because the G.I.W is basically a cult. The town is unter its influence

I'm not bringing religion into it but just make it close to it.

I want danny to feel bad about liking tim. I want tim to reassure him and show him that it is fine. I want gothamites hearing stories about Amity from the kids and immediately getting to work undoing all of the bad stuff that they were taught and making them feel accepted. I want them to show them movements and history, and basically, the teens are discovering themselves while being free for the first time. They aren't being constantly watched and are safe(r) during the siege on Gotham.

I want hurt with comfort. I want tim being furious and calling Wally. I want Wally telling YJ, I want clockwork to drop ghosts and ellie and Dan in Gotham.

I want Dan reformed because that man had been through enough already. He is grieving and in a town like that and spiraling until he ripped out his humanity, tell me he doesn't deserve redemption. Anyway elle meets konnor and they are now best friends slash siblings because danny sees him gets a sticker, writes his logo on it, walks over to him, and puts it over his chest and says" your a Fenton or nightingale now"

Point is everyone is aware of Amity and the anit-ecto acts and does their best to help. The gothamites don't need help with the siege, though, nor do they allow it. It's personal now.

I want Dan to befriend waylon( killer croc) and help him. I want him to go ballistic on the G.I.W. agents who dares enter. I want temporary mayham, I want chaos. I want the villians to help purely because they are the only ones who are allowed to destroy and torture Gotham and her people. The joker and that pig guy stay in arkum, though. So do the other ones like them.

I want jazz changing her plan when she realizes that the youngsters are actually planning on leaving during one of her visits. She left that town as soon as possible but didn't want to leave Danny. Danny thought she was abandoning him, so he didn't talk to her at graduation. He knows that people who leave town don't come back. Tucker, however, does not and made her a private phone as a gift so she can talk to Danny and them. He makes Danny one as well.

Jazz speaks to Danny almost every day when he starts returning her calls. So when danny started to tell her their plan, she was all for it. She came back and acted like she was visiting before pursuing a different degree.

[joaosnovia]

Hey I love your work can you please do a fic with Gavi were the reader is a professional tennis player and they are trying to get to watch each others matches but it's like really difficult. That would be soo cool. And maybe the reader is like Pedris sister or something. And he wants to see every match of her even if it's in halftime and their like dating since their 15 . Thank you

❦ - love && war.

summary:: you’re both supportive of each others careers but obviously there’s obstacles. matches, opens, you name it. that’ll never let it stop gavi though.

warnings:: no

writers note:: i feel bad for spam posting but in my defense they’ve been marinating in my drafts for honestly a while and i still have loads to write so bare w me! i keep on forgetting to post but @cherryloveshs & sometimes @barcapix has to keep me humble 💔.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs

dating pablo gavi was a constant battle, not because he made things difficult (well, maybe sometimes), but because trying to align your schedules was practically impossible.

you were both professional athletes, both constantly traveling, both juggling training, matches, and media responsibilities. it was hard enough keeping up with your own career, let alone finding time to see each other.

but somehow, against all odds, you’d been making it work since you were fifteen.

‘where are you watching from?’

the text came through as you were tying your shoelaces, preparing for your next match in a wta tournament in madrid. you barely had time to check your phone before your coach called you over, but when you saw gavi’s name, you quickly typed back.

you: i thought you had a game?

gavi: i do. but halftime is soon. i’ll find a way.

you shook your head, smiling. of course he would. gavi had a champions league match tonight, yet here he was, making sure he didn’t miss your game.

true to his word, at halftime, when the rest of the team was getting their tactics from hansi, gavi was on his phone, sitting at the very edge of the bench so no one could block his signal.

‘bro, seriously?’ ferran torres raised a brow, watching as gavi adjusted the brightness.

‘shut up,’ gavi muttered, completely focused.

pedri, sitting beside him, leaned over to glance at the screen. ‘what’s the score?’

‘first set just started.’

pedri smirked. ‘you realize you have a game to play, right?’

‘yeah, yeah,’ gavi waved him off, barely paying attention.

this was normal by now. every chance he got, whether it was in a hotel room after a champions league away match, or during team flights, or, apparently, at halftime, he was watching your matches.

because if he couldn’t be there in person, this was the next best thing.

but when he could be there?

gavi would move mountains to make it happen.

which was exactly how he ended up flying straight from a la liga match in barcelona to paris, just to watch you play in the french open.

he landed at the very last minute, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face as he slid into the stands, next to pedri, who had made the trip as well.

‘you’re insane,’ pedri muttered, watching as gavi exhaled, still catching his breath from sprinting through the airport.

‘does she know you’re here?’

gavi shook his head. ‘not yet.’

he wanted it to be a surprise. and when you finally looked up after winning a crucial point, your eyes scanning the crowd, the second they landed on him, he knew you’d seen him.

your expression flickered between shock and something softer, something that made the entire exhausting trip worth it.

gavi didn’t care that he was running on barely any sleep. didn’t care that hansi was definitely going to have words with him when he got back.

all that mattered was this.

seeing you. supporting you. the same way you always supported him.

when the match ended, when you won, you barely had time to process it before you were running toward him.

pedri sighed. ‘madre mia, she’s coming.’

‘shut up,’ gavi said, already standing.

and then you were in front of him, sweaty, exhausted, but so fucking happy.

‘what the hell are you doing here?’ you demanded, out of breath.

‘watching you win,’ he grinned, his voice filled with pride.

you shook your head, laughing. ‘you’re crazy.’

‘for you? always.’

and then, despite the cameras, despite the entire stadium watching, you threw your arms around him, hugging him so tight it knocked the breath from his lungs.

but he didn’t mind.

because this, this chaotic, impossible, beautiful life you had together, was worth everything.