#down to the exact shape and shade

[jewishbarbies]

In the starting I was completely team Depp and team Amber Heard had a Gone Girl plot. (I never posted on social media about anything related to this case though). But more and more information came up and I came to the conclusion that ok he is not a good person but was still abused but now.. it really completely looks like she was the one who was abused. I can send the links if you want to give them a read? If you don't want to engage in this discussion that's ok too but I genuinely was always looking at it or at least trying to look at it through the lens of evidence and unbiasedness and rn I can't shake the feeling that an abused person has faced the worst social media bullying and I basically believed all of it.

that’s fine if that’s the conclusion you’ve come to, I’m not gonna try to change your mind. for me, there’s no one else’s opinion that will sway me after the way she acted in court. seeing her behavior live firsthand and the evidence in combo with it will always trump a think piece for me. no victim pretends to cry on the witness stand for sympathy. that’s just where i’m at.

[faunabel]

anyone have any drawing tutorials who ppl who kinda suck at everything?? like idk, anything for drawing basic anatomy such as the face and the ways it can vary? also poses. these two r what i struggle with most. i can copy from reference but have no damn clue how to freestyle and i always give up quickly when my sketch looks like ASS.

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[mooncleaver]

Love Is The Reason

ღ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader, familial fushiguro megumi x fem!reader

ღ warnings: MAJOR JJK268 SPOILERS. pls don't read if you don't wanna know!! slightly cannon divergent

What the hell.

His ears didn't stop ringing as he brought his body up from its position on the surprisingly soft surface, feeling every ache known to man throbbing all over. Megumi felt the cosmic numbness ebbing away like a flash, and suddenly, he could discern the warm cotton wrapped around his upper body along with the linen sheets that lay beneath him. The three—out of many—scars on his face pulled his skin tautly, so close to his eyes where that devil's face wore his for however long this limbo period was. It hurt to open his eyes. Well, it hurt to do anything, but he's thankful that he can see the world through his own view.

Megumi's ears perk up to the sound of poorly attempted hushed arguments. The sound was so familiar that for once in his life, he was relieved to hear it. To feel that irritation ticking in his chest, the mindless crease that's fully starting to make itself known on his forehead and that growing scowl—he could truly cry at the return of bodily autonomy.

Nobara was trying to fit herself inside a present-shaped cardboard box while Yuji stood next to the thing, pushing down the lid on top of her head, which ruffled the strands like crazy. Of course, the girl would not stand for this butchering of her beauty. She spent a lot of time trying to look presentable. Not that this pink-haired fool would understand.

Megumi is hit with a deep sense of dejavu as he sits up against the headboard, looking back at the memory of Gojo doing the same exact surprise tactic to announce that Yuji was, in fact, not dead after his literal heart got ripped out of his chest. The boy can feel a smile forming on his lips, and he makes no move to try and stop it.

"What are you two doing?"

He sees Yuji and Nobara freeze in their spots, both eyes widening comically. A second passes before the two let go of whatever it was they were contending about, rushing forward to stick their faces into Megumi's. The former vessel looks—well, he looks like he's had better days. He's thankfully clean of all the blood oozing out of his skin when he fought Sukuna for the last time, his usual uniform with the red hoodie looking incredibly pristine, absent of any rips or blood. Still, some are sticking onto his face, notably a darker shade cutting down across his eyebrows as the dried blood clings onto his wounds. Nobara looks happier. God, he thought she died. He was ready to mourn her with all the losses he'd suffered, but for once, Megumi was glad to hear her voice. He welcomes it. She's wearing a black eyepatch on top of the eye that she lost fighting Mahito, and her uniform is equally as clean as Yuji's—Megumi can tell that she's relieved by that fact.

Finally, they're back together again. The trio of first years with lost dreams who've gone through horrible, terrible things now have found hope again—hope that never died within each other.

"Fushiguro!!" The two yell in unison, going in to hug him despite knowing he didn't usually like that kind of thing. But to their honest surprise, Megumi returned the gesture, fully and truly, closing his eyes and letting out a breath. Yuuji and Nobara didn't hesitate to tighten their arms around the spiky-haired boy, be damned the near-death exhaustion clinging to their bones. They may be battered and bruised, but they survived.

After a quiet moment, the momentum was back again as Nobara looked at the two boys with a disgruntled expression, her exaggerated self on display at the lack of reaction to her return. "You know, the class's Madonna, who everyone thought was dead, by the way, turned out to be alive?! You two should be either wetting yourself or crying with joy!"

Megumi didn't even bat an eye, unlike Yuji, who was scrambling out of his mind, replying to her in his usual stoic and flat voice. "I see. My bad."

"So, the bastard is dead then." The Fushiguro didn't phrase that like a question, more so stating a fact. The fact that he was here in his own body, alive and breathing, undoubtedly meant that the curse was dead. It was still surreal to utter, knowing that this was the one thing they'd all been fighting for since forever. Maybe now, everyone who was gone didn't die in vain.

Nobara sounded like she was still in disbelief, shaking her head slightly while she grinned and exclaimed, "Ha! Yeah! Itadori beasted that guy like it was a piece of cake!"

"Eh.. well, it was pretty tough, I'm not gonna lie. I cried a little when resonance was hit." Yuji himself could only scratch the back of his neck at the rare praise, his eyes crinkling into thin lines as he admitted his own emotions. It was kind of daunting to be the one who killed Sukuna with the fact that he used to be the curse's vessel. But out of everything, making that final blow was something he didn't once hesitate on. Yuji was going to finish all this madness. It all started with him and ended with him—the way it should be.

Megumi didn't sound too surprised at the boy's admission, only giving him a look in response. "I know. I saw everything happening inside Sukuna."

"Ugh... don't even remind me. Well, at least you two have the shared experience of being a vessel now." No matter how sour the fact was, it was true.

Breaking his thoughts, Yuji suddenly lit up as he shifted through his pants pockets, haphazardly pulling out the crumpled pieces of paper in his hand. "Oh, wait guys. I have something for you two. It's from Gojo-sensei. Gojo-san, too, I think."

The pink-haired boy grew incredibly sullen at the mention of both his teachers. He'd miss calling out to the two Gojo's, mixing the couple up despite your previous urgings to the students of simply calling you by your first name. Of course, your husband would not absolutely have that, sneakily going behind your back and basically forcing his students to call you Gojo, too. If he couldn't get the second years to follow, he'd make his own kids do it. The man would not pass on the chance of hearing people call you by your shared last name.

"A letter.." Megumi looked shocked at the fact. His sensei (and self-proclaimed dad who stepped up) never did this kind of thing—seriously, that is.

Growing up with Gojo and his wife, Megumi knew the white-haired sorcerer never strayed away from being lighthearted and childlike. Despite witnessing the lanky heir change from the bratty 18-year-old who approached him as a child in the streets into the mature, married man he was the last time, it just wasn't in his nature to be doing some sentimental things like this. That was more like something you'd do. From the daily lunch notes, deep-meaning gifts (that he still kept to this day), and the affectionate texts you'd always send, he would wager that you might've been the one to drag your husband to write the letters. But, knowing that Gojo probably had a feeling that he wouldn't make it out of the fight, it's not impossible that this truly came from him.

Nobara chuckled at his tone of voice, silently agreeing with his disbelief. Gojo was definitely not the type to do this.. it unsettled her.

"I feel you.. this is totally not like him. It's slightly gross to even imagine him writing letters.."

Though, after reading, she crushed the piece of paper in her hand, pursing her lips. Yuji noticed this, facing her to ask what it said. With slight hesitation, Nobara revealed that it contained information about her mother's whereabouts. To be honest, she wasn't sure how to feel. Some part of her still longed to feel her love.

"Oh, did you even want to know in the first place?"

She shook her head as she looked down, leaving no room for the topic to be continued. "Not at all."

Suddenly, they heard the very, very rare sound of Megumi's laughter ringing out from the bed. Gojo would've bawled knowing he made his son laugh. It took a moment for them to snap out of the shock, seeing the fresh face of their friend's smile. He looked like a brand new person—content, young and carefree. It was refreshing.

Megumi hasn't felt this happy in a long while. He expected that the message wouldn't be some deep, meaningful thing, but out of everything, it was a joke about how he killed his biological dad. He wasn't sad, surprisingly. Megumi never really knew the man that left him and his sister to fend for themselves, and the memories he had of him weren't great. At least he found some closure. The boy shook his head, reading the familiar and large handwriting of his father figure. You'd think that it'd be messy, but as the former heir of the Gojo clan, Satoru was a trained guy in the art of handwriting. He wouldn't be caught dead with scribbles.

Unfortunately your father isn't around anymore!! Cuz I killed him!! Sowwy!! :P

Short, simple, and kind of foolish.

He bit back a grin. Even in death, the man couldn't take anything seriously.

Beneath it was a softer and more serious note. From you, of course. Megumi did not doubt that you wrote this to make up for your husband's short message, writing a heartfelt one that he could sense even before reading. The two of you must've known that this was not a fight you would come out of. And as much as that hurt him, Megumi was glad that he was in your last thoughts. It meant a lot to know that you and Gojo believed he, Nobara, and Yuji would live through everything.

Firstly, don't take this idiot too seriously. If you're reading this megs, we're probably gone, but hey, you're okay! Live your life fully okay? Don't forget that you're still a kid in the end. We're always looking out for you, sweetheart. ♡

There was a chibi doodle in the bottom and a sweet greeting that said,

— Love you beyond infinity, mom & dad

Megumi could tell that this was Gojo's handwriting. It was meant as a joke (the boy didn't call Satoru dad very often, despite calling you mom. It was kinda cringe.) but he accepted that sincerely. You two were his parents, biological or not. He loves you so much.

And he'd promise that for you. For Satoru, too, to be honest.

To live life fully.

Ever since he knew what living meant, he never intended to live a proper life. The absence of his biological father and the death of his mother left an untreated wound in his heart, altering his mind in a way that left him isolated—a recluse from the world, almost. The only thing that used to keep him going was his sister, Tsumiki. Now she is really gone. But then, everything shifted when he first saw Gojo Satoru.

It was a big change to have people to look up to. To have a mother. Megumi called you mom way before he even considered Satoru as his father figure, and it was one of the most precious things in life. You never took that for granted, always spoiling him and treating him like he came from your own womb. You knew you'd never take the place of his biological mother, but you wanted to be someone the boy could rely on in such a cruel world. It was a bit strange when Satoru first brought up the idea of raising the Fushiguro boy. You were both still 18, barely even adults with so much pressure and responsibilities. But you knew, from the moment you saw this poor boy getting dragged home by your boyfriend, that you'd love him like no other.

You and Satoru gave him and Tsumiki a home. An unlikely one, but a home nonetheless. You gave him a love like no other, an unconditional, wholehearted, and absolute kind of love, even when the two of you were struggling. It was a type that couldn't be described by words and only felt. That, along with the friendship and true family he found within Nobara and Yuji, made him realize that even if he didn't live his life for himself, there were others in the world. Other people, whether that'd be a mother, a father, a sister, or a brother could give everything meaning. A reason to keep going.

At first, he only lived for Tsumiki. To use everything he had to save her. But then he found himself living for you, for Satoru, for Nobara and Yuji. Once more, he would try again. This wasn't a chance he'd take for granted.

Reading the note made Megumi feel a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. The kind that he last felt when you hugged him tightly and kissed his forehead before everything in Shibuya happened. That was probably the last time he saw you happy and alive. The world was dull when you died. A victim of that son of a bitch curse Mahito. That was a loss like no other, so incredibly painful and numbing.

At least you died in an honorable way.

After that, he didn't know how to function. Tsumiki, Nobara, and now you. The boy felt half of his soul chip away.

Your husband was even worse. Inconsolable. Watching his wife die in front of his eyes before getting sealed the second after. When the man came out of the prison realm, anyone could tell he wasn't the same. There was no chance the old Gojo would ever return. And sure, he was still lighthearted, but Megumi could tell there was a weight in his gait—the heavy burden of the loss of his darling wife dragging down every word that came out of his mouth. He saw the sadness, longing, anger, and pure vengeance in his eyes. It never did go away. Not even when Sukuna butchered the man in half. At least now, the two of you were together in the afterlife. Megumi truly hoped that. He didn't believe much in that kind of stuff, but for his mother and his father, he prayed for a final peace to be granted.

That hope—along with the one amongst the living pushed Megumi to go on. To not just survive but to really live. Even beyond that, there were others too. His cousin, Maki, who was thankfully alive, and even Toge and Panda.

This was love. That unanswered purpose of life. It's to give love and find love in others. Love is why people do crazy things: to sacrifice the world, to sacrifice themselves. That's why he kept living even when his own dad disappeared or why he kept fighting to keep his sister alive. Love is why, despite the grief, Satoru still fought for you, for your memory, and for your efforts. Love is the reason he's alive.

And if anything, Megumi learned that when you have people in your life, you'd do anything to keep them in it. That's what you and Satoru taught him. Waking up in his own body again and greeted by the sight of his best friends—that was one of the biggest blessings he has ever received.

For his family, he would do anything.

i'm fucking crying. like actually. 3 chapters to go until this manga ends and i still can't fathom everything happening bruv

btw, this is what i imagine the letter would look like haha. half cannonical cuz it's the panel translation!! excuse my handwriting um

also sorry this isn't really proofread lol, i really wanted to post!!

dividers @cafekitsune @i-mmaculatus

[infictionalwonderland]

hot physiotherapist | j.potter

SUMMARY, james has a rugby accident and has to take physiotherapy - he’s pretty down about, but all that depressions forgotten as soon as he sees you, his physiotherapist. why had he not done this sooner?

James Potter was miserable.

A very odd occurrence, although it did happen (evidently). He was pouting the whole way as Remus drove them to the physiotherapists, Sirius was giggling to himself in the backseat the whole time—Remus, ever the angel he was, tried to cheer James up by giving him complete control over the music in the car and even greeting him with his coffee order and a chocolate croissant.

James was still miserable.

“Have fun, darling boy!” Sirius chirped out the window as James got out of the car, “try not to break any bones on your way in. God forbid you need physiotherapy.”

He burst out into borderline manic cackles and fell down completely into the row of backseats, never one to wear his seatbelt as he hated being constricted—James glared with upmost venom and hatred at the backseat windows, Tarzan looking cunt.

“I hope everything goes well.” Remus’ voiced gently, shooting his boyfriend a blank stare even as he tried to stop his own amusement. “D’ya want me to fetch you any food or anything for you when you come out?”

“No. Thanks.”

Remus winced.

James was still miserable.

He trotted his way indoors, cursing inside his head at the shooting pains all up his back and his hips, with the largest pout there ever was he made his way over to the reception and told them who he was—why he was here, before behind asked to take a seat in one of the rooms where he would be joined shortly by the physiotherapist.

He sat, frowning at the large room with equipment and soft turquoise coloured walls for a short about of time and then the door opened.

And then his world stopped.

In you stepped. . your hair was tugged into a low ponytail, front strands out of the pony to frame your face. He had died, he was certain. Your skin looked so soft, the beaming white lights giving you the most heavenly glow, he was sure you were an actual angel. Your eyes gleamed beautifully, and he was lost in the exact shade of them—trying to pinpoint every little detail and speck of colour. Your lips were pulled into such a fucking lovely smile, he could’ve melted (he did melt). Even from where you stood in the door, he was greeted in the pleasant aroma of your perfume and he felt like he was floating.

Your mouth was open—oh my god he was missing an opportunity to hear your voice—wait, what had you been saying. Balls.

“Um—h—muhuh?”

Double balls.

Your beautiful smile didn’t even waver in the slightest, though, amusement weaved it’s way into your eyes and created a mesmerising pattern into your irises that he forever engraved into his memory.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Potter! My names Y/N and I’ll be your physiotherapist for the foreseeable future.” You grinned, walking closer to him, “Hopefully.”

Wha—was that flirting? No! You had said it in a normal tone, like Hi I hope I stay your physiotherapist because it is literally my job, James and I enjoy it. But—yeah, no. It was like that. You were so close to him now—so so much more beautiful up close, he didn’t think that was even humanly attainable.

“Yeah—i—I hope so too, ma’am.”

MA’AM?!

Somebody sedate me, he thought.

You didn’t seem thrown off or even slightly offended, or disgusted by him. Which was, good, really, really good.

Instead, you let out this little bubbly burst of laughter and fucking hell, James knew from that point he was gone and could never return. His eyes were probably comically wide and maybe in literal heart shapes but he could truly care less. He look at you in awe—your nose scrunched when you laughed, your eyes squinted and to James you just became even more perfect.

“Please, call me Y/N—Ma’am sounds overly American anyway—“

“Would you prefer Miss?”

I’m never leaving the house again.

You blinked.

He almost stumbled to his knees in apology though that would obviously only give you the impression he was more of a creep than you already thought he was—but—hold on. He watched, mouth falling open just slightly, as your cheeks flushed a very very pretty pink and your mouth formed into the cutest smile he’d ever seen in his entire life.

He was definitely leaving the house again, and it was going to be to come here everyday.

“Just Y/N is fine, thank you for being so considerate though.” You laughed teasingly.

“Can I be upgraded to just James?”

“Oh? You don’t want to he called miss? Or Ma’am?” You grinned at him, white teeth glistening from under your full lips, cheeks turning a faint rosy shade under the strength of your grin and a strand of hair swooping in front of your eye. He was in love. “Or, Sir maybe?”

Jesus Christ of Nazareth.

James is one hundred percent that he would’ve fallen over fast first had he been standing and he’s never been more thankful he’s not. He can feel his cheeks turn red—his face heating up to an embarrassingly tomato red state at an embarrassingly quick rate.

“Nah—Ju—Just James, please.” He huffed out, moving the material of his shirt dramatically off his chest and fanning himself. “Is—um, is it hot in here or is just you? Me! Is it just me?!”

You smile at him, adorably crinkle eyed and slightly pink cheeked, looking every bit the goddess and the angel James already knew with certainty that you were.

James Potter was, as it turns out, no longer miserable.

In fact, he can’t wait for his next appointment.

[jittersbitters]

The Long Game pt.1 [Doodles]

{Viktor from Arcane Smut Story}

Warnings: Smut, light dom!vik, Fingering, Exhibitionism, AFAB reader, Doodling kink?, Established acquaintanceship so there is some length to this first part, the words- note, pen, doodle, and others associated come up a lot due to the plot, sorry!

Word cound: ~4.5k (25-40 minute read)

Story plot: A holistic healer from NW Shurima works privately for Councilmen Hoskel as a sort of assistant. Viktor and her meet years before the events of Arcane and have an up-down relationship that takes shape over the course of many years. Starting all the way back in their academy years, first knowing each other as respective transcribers for their council mentor/patrons during meetings. Maybe they should have stayed in that room?

Chapter Summary: You work as an assistant for Hoskel and are attending one of the meetings as his note-taker. However, you have a horrible habit of getting distracted during said meetings and not completing notes, instead doodling. Viktor, a peer you have a growing bond with, only within the council chambers, over the last few months decides to try out positive and negative reinforcement. Perhaps taking it to far this time and taking your playful acquaintanceship to a different level.

| Part 1 | Part 2 | • Viktor Masterlist •

MDNI NSFW below cut (Far below)

Spending all day at a council meeting wasn’t the exact plan I had for my day, but it wasn’t the worst place I could be. I could be stuck outside in the winter storms that started to blow in a couple days ago. Instead, I sat in the warmth of the council chamber with lukewarm tea in a paper cup at my feet and a half-eaten cheese bangle on the bench to my right. The council heater was on above us, keeping the chill at bay as the snow outside transformed the red brick and golden frames into a picturesque white wonderland. I could appreciate it from the window rather than braving the elements to run errands for my patron in town. 

However, as the meeting dragged on, my ears began to feel numb—not from the weather leaking in, but from the endless topics blurting through the air. It was one of those informal meetings that seemed to stretch indefinitely, so much to do as the cold months approached with the dauntingnes of the holidays. Salo always complained about how the undercity's activities affected his business, while Medarada would steer the conversation toward broader trade relations. My pen had begun to wander absent-mindedly over the page, searching for blank spots to occupy. While I had come to enjoy my time in the council chamber, I found little interest in the discussions about transportation, ordinances, or tedious changes to department funding. This time spent here had become enjoyable for an entirely different reason.  

As we neared the two-hour mark, doodles began spilling flagrantly into the margins of my notes, my random scratches hidden amongst the sharp sounds of pages flipping and other assistants transcribing. Starting with simple loops and circles in the corners, they quickly grew into intricate flowers with winding vines and leaves that had crawled up the negative space. By now, I had, obvious to those around me, lost track of the meeting entirely, and my attempts at shading the petals were becoming increasingly elaborate. 

 “Don’t you think you’re playing with fire?” a hushed voice broke through my filibustered concentration, an amused lilt peppering the words. I turned to find Viktor leaning into the edge of my metaphorical bubble, his eyebrow raised as he scrutinized my embellishments. His expression blended playful scrutiny with genuine curiosity, much like a cat trying to determine whether a new toy was worth the effort. The way his brows furrowed slightly as he concentrated only made it harder for me to suppress a smile, especially as his gaze danced from my paper back to my face, a weird mix of anticipation and amusement bubbling within me. 

Having becoming Hoskel’s ward a few months ago, Viktor had made it his mission to sit next to me during these meetings. He seemed invested not only in keeping me engaged but also in observing the increasingly elaborate designs that filled Hoskel’s notes, much to the merchant's dismay whenever I handed them in. I still vividly remember my first day—nervous energy radiating from me as I tapped my foot incessantly while the other academy students settled into their seats across the room. I knew no one besides Hoskel, which made me retreat into my own small world, avoiding eye contact and trying to shrink into my bench as if it might protect me.  

By the time the meeting started, I had chewed my nails down to stubs and added the frantic clicking of my pen to my growing list of anxious habits, blissfully unaware of the glares directed my way. I scanned the room, desperate for something—anything—interesting to focus on, completely lost to the mundane political discussions swirling around me. That’s when our eyes locked. I was momentarily frozen by his intense, assessing gaze. Golden pools looking from my shoes to my hair. It wasn’t until he placed a hand on his chest, took a deep breath, and flashed me a reassuring smile that I realized I had forgotten to breathe.  

By the next meeting, he had claimed the seat beside me, casually convincing the girl on my other side to switch places with him. He became my new distraction, despite his best efforts.  

“Chairman Hoskel doesn’t, uh, exactly seem like a pagonia man,” he remarked, head tilting slightly to the notes I had filled with random foliage. 

 I pursed my lips, forcing back a smile as I lightly bumped my leg against his. “It’s begonia. Like the bergenias I drew last week."  

Viktor clicked his tongue before flipping the page of his own notes. “Your language is most confusing. I don’t understand how you manage all the, eh, nuances and rules.”  

I couldn’t help but watch him—the way his jaw tightened slightly before he licked his fingers to shuffle his papers. My thoughts wandered to less than respectable places while I jotted down something about lifting restrictions for a project somewhere. “My language? I learned it on the boat ride over-” I was interrupted by the curt shushing from those around us. I risked a glance across the benches and noticed several peers watching us. I sheepishly went back to my notes, feeling my cheeks flush. Viktor shook his head as he mirrored me, neatly correcting his misspelled words while returning my knee bump, keeping his leg pressed against mine. 

Since Viktor had settled into his spot next to me, we had developed this little game. Whenever I got distracted, he’d give me a little nudge. It started subtly—just a light bump of with his shoe when I stared into space for too long. Soon after, he began tapping my paper with a finger to bring my attention back; perhaps that's when I develop a bit of a staring problem when it came to his hands. Eventually, there came a day where he took my pen away when my doodling became too extravagant. I remember staring at him wide-eyed in embarrassment, but he simply handed back my pen with a clever grin. I was careful to keep my doodles subtle and less conspicuous until a month or two ago, when he leaned over and whispered that my sketch of his boss resembled an ‘overindulgent gerbil’. His word’s not mine.  

After that, the atmosphere in our meetings shifted significantly. The dean’s assistant, whose name I learned through conversations with Hoskel, became increasingly daring with his ‘tactics’, and as the hours dragged on, we began to seek our own ways to pass the time. Our exchanges grew bolder; Viktor’s playful teasing and my daydreaming became hinderances that were hard for either of us to ignore. Each time I got derailed—or tried to—Viktor would lean in to correct me or chuckle at my notes, seamlessly bringing me back into the moment.  

We both knew, in the back of our heads, there were very few ways this was going to end. 

I tried to refocus, again, on the current discussion about suggesting new tax policies— but with the words "withdrawal" and "ordinances" swirling around the room like a fog it wasn’t long before my pen began dancing across the page once more. I’d rather pay more attention to flowers instead of the dull, useless to me, topics of the day that seemed to never end. I tried to hide it for several minutes, drawing tiny butterflies flitting around, like the ones I saw in the courtyard when I arrived this last spring. 

It was like clockwork. As soon as I started to lose track of the meeting Viktor leeeaned in closer, his foot slowly sliding toward mine before lifting up to step on my toes lightly. “If I remember this was the theme for the last meeting, was it not?” he whispered, smirking as he eyed me trying to turn a butterfly into a weirdly shaped lizard.  

“Perhaps,” I replied, equally quiet, “but it distracts from the gloom, though, don’t you think?” I smiled proudly when he chuckled. His gaze lingered on my page; his own notes momentarily forgotten as he rubbed his chin in thought. It didn't take long for me to notice that he was still staring, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his small lecture table. When I glanced over, I caught Viktor, lips relaxed into a half-smile, his eyes flitting between me and…  

...Was he judging my lizard?  

The bench creaked as he scooted closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. The unexpected scent of caramelized sugar wafted as Viktor’s breath brushed down the side of my neck. He craned in, trying to get a good look of my entire drawing. His face was so close that, even as he mumbled to avoid drawing attention from anyone else, I could hear every drawl. I had to force myself not to shiver as goosebumps erupted along my neck, as if his words were grazing my skin. “Is that a... curved... pastry? Odd thing to be in a garden, wouldn’t you agree?”   

Even though Viktor was mummering, I could still catch that sly tone beneath it... He was judging my lizard.  

I shook his foot off mine, willing the slight chaff in my voice to no take over the volume. “No, it's obviously a lizard. Why would there be a pastry-” 

“Will you two please keep it down,” We turned to see our neighbor to my right on the other side of the pew divider, her irritation palpable even through her whispered shout; her expression sour enough to make me giggle nervously under my breath. The sound seemed to shock her even more, compounding my embarrassment. 

“Sorry...” I shifted in my seat, suddenly acutely aware of how much I had begun to slouch and returned to writing. Insecurity creeping into my shoulders and causing some muscle spasms I tried to shake off. He wasn’t usual so talkative or suggestive in his actions, something was different today. Perhaps there was a point to be made about needing to curb whatever this dynamic was... 

Tick... Tock... Tick.... Tock  

Just as my pen started to wander, Viktor seized the moment to step on my toes again. The ever-increasing pressure was a blatant warning this time, igniting a spark of irritation within me that was dangerous when in a pen drop quiet room. If he was hoping to regain my attention, he was failing spectacularly, a gem I made sure to whispered in his direction just to make sure he got the message. 

“You’re still not taking notes” He chided, making me lift my foot and step on his toes like I was a child, a fact that I tried to look past. “Your patron might start to think you’re a bad girl- hamph~” He tried to mask his obvious laugh at my humiliated retaliation - via backhand to the chest - in an ill-timed cough. The unnatural, suspicious sound only succeeded in silencing the room, the discussion between our superiors halting instantly. 

I hadn’t meant to smack him, especially not in a way that drew everyone's attention, but something about those words wrapped in his Czech accent did all the wrong things. It stirred feelings that absolutely had no place in a council meeting. And, oh, the way Viktor smirked, concealing it with his hand—he knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. 

Always pushing boundaries, and he called me the unfocused one. 

All eyes from the council shifted towards our row, centering on Viktor and me. My patron’s face twisted into a scowl, far grimmer than the Yordle scientist beside him, who regarded his assistant with a mix of curiosity and concern rather than outright anger. I did my best to avoid his probing gaze, focusing instead on fidgeting with the edge of my papers.  

I had become accustomed to this sort of thing after spending nearly six months with Torman Hoskel. Unlike many of the more complex socialites in Piltover, Hoskel stood out as one of the most one-dimensional people I’d encountered, if not the very most. Stubborn and quick to temper, he occasionally displayed brief flashes of hope, only to have them shattered by his narrow-minded perspective. Hot and cold, blunt to snappy—he was like an emotionally detached father figure. One I couldn’t just run away from. 

“My sincerest apologies, sirs, ma’ams,” Viktor began, clearing his throat as he addressed the council on our behalf. I hadn’t even noticed he had stood up, seemingly unfazed by the hushed murmurings from our peers. “Just had a bit of a cough but we—I will remain perfectly silent,” he added, shooting a playful glance over his shoulder, “for the rest of the meeting.”  

“I trust that's the case,” Heimerdinger’s high-pitched voice echoed through the chamber, cutting off the whispers and signaling that the session would continue. He glanced at me, suspecting something, but let it go in favor of moving to the next topic on the docket.  

Viktor sank back into his seat, a horribly satisfied smile spreading across his face. He took my hand gently as he sat, pulling it away from fidgeting and pinning it between our thighs. His thumb pressed against the back of my wrist, his fingers wrapping around my pulse. As he adjusted the scattered pages on his fold-up table, dissatisfied murmurs floated among the council members, but they soon began to find their footing again. I let their words drift through one ear and out the other, jotting down whatever I could grasp, my handwriting becoming progressively less legible.  

I went to lay my arm on my table, getting comfortable again, but Viktor's grip only tightened around my wrist, pressing it firmly into the wood beneath us. “Don’t even think about starting to draw again,” he chided, sliding his fingers closer to the base of my wrist, feeling my pulse quicken beneath his touch. “Or, maybe, I should worry about potential cardiac arrest?”  

“That is yo—” I cut myself off, noticing the smug expectation in his gaze. I wasn’t ready to unpack the tangled feelings our banter stirred up. “I’m not having a heart attack, now let go.” I attempted to snap at him, keeping my voice steady and hushed.  

“No,” he said, testing the limits of my patience.  

"You’re just trying to distract me, now" I shot back, reaching the end of my rope with his antics today. This side of him was new.  

Viktor shrugged, “You need to learn how to focus. It’s an important skill.” 

 “I can focus,” I bluffed, unwilling to let him point it out. “I just… choose not to.” I felt his gaze linger on the side of my head for a long moment, watching my scribbles. His eyes eventually flitted to the chaotic lines that filled my pages, and I could see the way he tapped his pen against his notebook, his jaw tightening with a definitive look in his eyes. 

I was taken aback when his grip relaxed around my hand; I had anticipated a stronger reaction. But it didn’t take long for him to make his move, his hand gliding up to brush his knuckles lightly against my knee. My gaze shifted to his hand as it deliberately nudged the loose fabric of my long skirt aside, revealing more of my bare leg through the split. 

I tried to shift my thigh away, looking up at him, surprised by his boldness - his hand following after. A flush of warmth settled in my stomach, mixed emotions bubbling up my throat as I struggled to swallow them back down. I could feel the intensity of his gaze as I quickly looked back to my paper.  

Viktor turned his hand over, tapping a gentle rhythm on the top of my thigh like he was playing piano. “If you just needed a little motivation,” he started, leaning close as if studying my notes. His taps slowly moved to drag up and down, callouses start to scrap the goose flesh building up as he made sure to linger along the remaining hem of my skirt's slit. His intentions were unmistakable. “Then all you need to do is pay attention and write your notes.”  

I could only swallow hard, aware of the game we'd been playing over the past few months. The exchanged glances, light touches, the foot games, the playful teasing. It all began the day he took my pen, and since then, the tension had only grown, with neither of us trying to pull back, but rather escalate it.  

He kept tapping my thigh, expectantly waiting for my response or a sign.  

I glanced at Viktor again; his golden eyes sparkled with wanton glee, sending my heart racing as I thought of the possibilities and the ramifications of being caught. We rarely interacted outside this room, so I wondered what the harm could be... right? 

I tightened my grip on my pen, my ears red as I tried to focus on the concluding topics of the meeting. I held it over the page for a brief moment, granting myself a fleeting pause before I began jotting down notes. The letters started off a bit shaky as I wrestled with the distraction of his fingers nonchalantly roaming across the expanse of my exposed thigh. He watched me patiently, allowing me time to get used to the feeling - exactly the length it took me to use the rest of my page before I had to turn to the next. 

Viktor's little finger brushed against the fabric, the others following slowly as they curved around the inside of my thigh. He played delicate patterns into the supple flesh, his touch steadily gliding further and farther up. The anticipation swirled in my stomach, it increasingly difficult to breathe unless I told myself to. He closely watched the slight movement of my brows, jotting down short notes —my reactions holding his full attention. 

He was moving at a painfully slow pace, each moment stretching out longer than the last. His carefulness was more distracting than anything else, and being careful not to attract attention to his hand. The thought of being caught sent a bolt of unexpected heat through me right to my core, causing me to bite my thumbnail with my free hand in a desperate attempt to regain my waning concentration. My cheeks were burning as he halted right before where I expected... wanted. My thighs wanted to twitch, to jerk in response. I had to breath, letting out a long breath, as I gradually shift them further apart without making any sudden moves. He smiled, yet remained utterly still, offering me nothing more than his presence. 

I heard a faint chuckle from above, his eyes fixed on me as I began to squirm in place, waiting impatiently. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped writing until his fingers lifted away, leaving the spot cold and making me whimper without meaning to. I quickly stifled the sound, biting my lip enough to cause a mark as I shot a glare at Viktor from the corner of my eye. 

“Try again,” he whispered, tucking his ‘T’ as his fingers gently tracing the skin just above my knee attempting to encourage me. 

I inhaled through my nose, closing my eyes for a brief moment to regain myself - and stow irritation- before writing again. I anxiously waited for his hand to return, ignoring misspellings in favor of getting out as many words as possible in the hopes that it might hurry him along. Coincidence or cause, I still had to stop myself from rolling my hips into his hand when his fingers finally returned, going farther than before.  

At first, his fingers only gently pressed against my covered cunt, experimenting with small gliding motions before gradually increasing pressure. My eyes fluttering a bit, teeth biting down hard at the dead skin of my lip. The split focus between his hand and the meeting was excruciating already; our cat and mouse games from the past meetings winding me up.  

My thigh spasmed a bit as he pushed my underwear aside. I hiccupped out stagnate breath, sniffling a bit, to keep myself as silent when his rough fingers collected the wetness that had been dampening the cotton. Spread it around as I turned the page, feeling the edge of my thoughts become increasingly hazy — exposed by the ink of my words. 

“You’re doing so well,” Viktor cooed softly, almost mockingly. I caught a sparkle in his eye that made my hips roll forward again, becoming desperate.  

“Please,” I begged near silently into my hand, covering my mouth. Viktor seemed as though he wanted to request more, but ultimately settled for this meager display of mine given the circumstances we found ourselves in.  

Obliging finally, he slowly pushed one of his fingers into me with a second following soon after the first knuckle. The sensation, the sudden bit of stretch, making my hips roll and lift slightly from the bench to meet him. I was warned to sit back down with a foot returning to stepped on my toes. Another silent whimper escaped from my throat as I obeyed, tilting my hips slightly to make up for the pressure I lost. 

My mouth hung open, pen cutting into part of my page, as Viktor started to slowly push in and out. Curling his digits and dragging the pads against somewhere that made the muscles in my legs quiver. My struggling breath was hard to hide as all I wanted to pay attention to was the circles Viktor’s thumb drew around my swelling nub, joining the delibrate and leisurely strokes of his fingers. His motions were so methodical it made me wonder how long he had planning this. 

 The first day? Week later? Last month? I don’t fucking care. 

My heart raced, skipping a few beats, while my eyes threatened to close once more. The tightness in my stomach intensified, and I could feel the warmth pooling and spreading through me. My sight starting to blur as my lids became heavy, feeling the fringe right before the fall. It made my knuckles white around my pen as my other nails dug into the edge of the bench seat. I struggled not to clamp my legs around his hand when curled fingers swiped back and forth.  

I was so close; I only needed a little more. 

“That seems to conclude everything submitted for this meeting,” Professor Heimerdinger cheerfully called out as he closed up his file. Glancing around, he spotted what seemed to be his assistant charming Hoskel's new ward. He raised a fluffy long eyebrow, observing their peculiar interaction as Viktor stood. 

My eyes widened as my head shot forward, my palm pressing against my agape mouth. I let out a pitiable moan that came out more like a strangled cough at the sudden absence of Viktor's fingers. Offering me nothing but that infuriatingly smug smile of his while quickly standing to gather his belongings, leaving me feeling cold and vulnerable. I shot him a pointed glare, crossing my legs tightly as I began to pack up, actions expressing my dissatisfaction. I shuffled my papers into their leather binding and stuffed the remainder of my cheese bagel into my mouth to muffle my verbal lashing. 

“Need a hand?” Viktor extended his offer, his eyebrow arched playfully as I squinted back at him. Hesitating as I picked up my now cold tea and rolled my tongue over the inside of my lip, before I took his hand and stood up with a gentle pull from him. Though I found myself being drawn closer than I anticipated as he held onto my hand. The air between us crackling with tension; he leaned down, observing the blush that crept from my cheeks to my ears and raced down my neck. His thumb brushing over my wrist as he turned it over, sending my pulse racing again as his eyes darted across my face, gauging my reaction. “Sense we skipped proper formalities—” 

 Hoskel’s snap of my name cut Viktor short; his approach forcing me to jerk my hand away from Viktor’s. The atmosphere soured further as Viktor took a step back, his demeanor slightly withdrawn now. With a soft huff, I attempted an awkward smile, clinging to the flutter in my stomach as I turned away. Biting my lip, I trailed after Hoskel, who immediately began reprimanding me for interrupting the meeting. Oddly enough, I found myself too flustered to care. 

 I stole one last look over my shoulder, catching Viktor gathering his things again as he waited for Heimerdinger. Upon noticing me, he waved and, before I could return the gesture, he raised his fingers to his lips with a mischievous wink. My breath caught in my throat again as I watched him glide his fingertips across his lower lip, his tongue peeking out just to taste— “ 

I jolted at the sound of my patron screeching my name again, following him as he hurriedly exited the council building, clearly not a man of academics. 

~~<3~~

Viktor hummed, pleased, to himself as he packed the last of his things up. He hadn’t meant for things to develop today the way they did; he had jumped forward in their little game. Not that either of them minded, but it was going to make the next time they saw each other a little more interesting.  

“Viktor, come here.” The elder’s voice brought him back to the present making he straightened. After grabbing his cane from where it sat, he stepped forward — struggling to separate his thoughts still tangled in the recent encounter. As he approached the table, Heimerdinger looked up, his wizened eyes observing the slight differences in his assistant's demeanor. He was no fool, he saw the young infatuation between the two young humans. “I wanted to discuss your latest project before the day leaves us. I’ve heard the most promising feedback.”  

Viktor’s eyes widened, remember something mentioned this morning before the meeting, “Thank - thank you, Professor.” Viktor hurried toward the round council table, snapping open the buckles of his bag again to retrieve the information for this little presentation. “I’ve been refining the prototypes. I believe if I just upped the electrical imput I could, potentially, maybe—” Before he could continue his unpracticed rambling, Heimerdinger peered closer at him. The Yordl looked at Viktor with narrowed eyes, sensing a depth, something different, in him that hadn’t been there before today. Viktor just saw his boss waddle towards him with a (kind?) stare that could unsettle Noxian soldiers. “Professor?” 

 “You seem... distracted. Is everything alright?” The question hung in the air, the short creature watching the seven stages of grief flicker across Viktors face.  

 Viktor’s mind flickered back to their blush, the rush of their connection. He cleared his throat, shaking himself back to the task at hand. “Yes, quite alright, Professor. Just eager to make progress.” 

 With a nod, Heimerdinger gestured for him to elaborate, but Viktor felt the nerves in his stomach tighten. He needed to focus. Perhaps later, once the day’s work was done, he might see where this new... path took him with the ward. But for now, he pushed aside these unprofessional thoughts, diving into the technical matters at hand, trying to channel these intense feelings into the brilliance of his inventions. 

(idk how much I like the name but were going with it because that's what won the google coin toss! Plus if I can make it to the ending I have planned I got a nice piece of dialogue to go with it. Media literacy and symbolism and all that stuff.

MOSTLY I just wanted to right Vik smut!)

[i4oba]

nct dream as… / times of a day 𓈒✳︎🚃

[— might be a little suggestive here and there!]

✰ 6:45 am .. jaemin

helios, through the half lidded eyes of yours was there to greet both of you at the same time—you could feel its hands coming near your bare body, the rays of the sun hugging your shape perfectly, casting such beautiful silhouettes behind, you and jaemin blending all together in your hazy state. you could feel the weight of his arms on your waist, hugging you so tight, sweet nothings leaving his lips, barely above a breath, hoarse voice laced with sleep. his scent, the sweet fragrance is dizzying, the warmth of him engulfing you just as much as helios’ breath of the morning; the sky is rosy, as if it was blushing while taking its time to fully wake up, faint shades of orange and yellow dancing through it endlessly. it’s such a beautiful way to start a day, with your lover all over you, deeply ingrained in your existence.

✰ 1:20 pm .. chenle

with the fierce determination of hermes, an arm slung around your waist; you were there—sun burning the uncovered skin of your shoulders, sweat making its way down on your temples as you took a look at the beautiful postcard in your hands, quickly snatched from a souvenir shop you passed barely twenty minutes ago. with such beautiful words and phrases, cursive letters and the scent of blooming flowers, you handed it over to your lover, hands aching to intertwine. he takes it, honest smile on his face, mumbling something along the line of “i’m the luckiest guy around”, wanting nothing but strolling around the foreign city for the rest of the day, stopping just for a minute in front of a pastry shop. there are freshly baked croissants!

✰ 3:25 pm .. jisung

was it all just a coincidence or did he know about all of it, you cannot be quite sure of but you, in fact enjoyed the way he pulled you straight into the sudden dancing flashmob. the sun was shining, birds singing endlessly along with the folk music played by a kind-looking band of teenagers, flute and harp harmonising together with the occasional sound of the guitar; you did not know how to dance or what kind of dance you should think of, but your lover pulled you closer to himself and took the lead, precise moves following one another as you felt yourself become a gracious nymph all of a sudden, trapped in a human’s fragile body. “honey, you’re doing so great,” jisung beamed happily, hands travelling lower on your skin, smile so wide and heartwarming. “i love you, so much,” he mumbled into your ears, voice losing the battle against the beautiful music.

✰ 7:05 pm .. jeno

with dionysus musing in your ears, you take a sip of the rich, sweet red wine your lover poured a few seconds before. the important event you two should have gone to long forgotten, with absolutely lust filled intentions you touch jeno’s rosy lips, tugging at his messily made tie, thighs rubbing against each other as you pulled him closer to yourself. the voice of dionysus slowly fading, you could feel the inviting hands of eros, guiding every movement of yours with extra care, fully planned with a hint of sinful acts. you sighs against your boyfriend’s mouth, not caring about consequences, reputation nor anything else, as you put his hands on either side of your hips. you wanted him—you needed him at that exact moment, the taste of his lips intoxicating, almost too permanent.

✰ 8:50 pm .. renjun

with lips slightly parted, tongue darting out to wet them quickly, renjun focused on the way your bare body looked behind the canvas. he couldn’t keep his eyes off of your curves, the way your hands did such a bad job at hiding yourself, timid reflection making it all too complicated to even think about anything but you. he felt drunk, as he watched your neck, the beautiful thighs of yours, wanting nothing more than to look deeply into your eyes and touch you, touch you everywhere he can and everywhere you’d let him to do so; you were everything and even more, compared to helen of troy, magical and enchanting, alluring. “can you please finish that painting, my junnie…” you mumbled quietly, shaking your head slightly. “i need you.”

✰ 10:45 pm .. haechan

“you should never come back to this studio, man, taeyong will kick your ass,” you laughed so hard, tears were about to fall out of your eyes, replaying the freshly made song of your boyfriend. he was a self proclaimed master producer but the thing is—it was rather funny than good. of course you appreciated his effort in making a lovesong for you, to confess for the hundreth time and once more. you were his muse supposedly and even if it was unlistenable, you loved it. at least more than taeyong, who would be furious if he knew you two were there, late into the night, making out on the couch of his studio until your lips were swollen, out of breath and with only one thing in your mind: love, love and love. you would never do anything else, even if it meant taking the risk of battling twelve times like heracles.

✰ 11:35 pm .. mark

being faced with the rolling credits after god know’s how many movies being watched, you slowly rested your head on mark’s shoulder. you reached out for his hand so you could take it in yours, not caring about silly actors’ and actresses’ love affairs or the world ending in front of you. all that mattered was the two of you, the adoration you felt for him, how he needed to have you close to him. his hair falling into his eyes, you tried to brush it away from there cautiously, caressing his cheek ever so lightly. you’ve never wanted to kiss him more than you did at that moment, every rational thought vanishing from your brain at the beautiful sight of him, as if he was the long lost son of the oh so wonderful aphrodite. “do it, love. kiss me and i’m yours,” was all he said quietly.

[dioslesbianwife]

Here are some jojo villains headcannons for receiving gifts on their birthdays!

You’ve somehow found out the birthdays of every villain in the house (except the Pillar Men because their age is…hard to tell) and make a big deal out of celebrating them. Whether they love or hate it depends on the villain.

How You Find Their Birthdays:

Kira’s Journal: You snuck into Kira’s room and borrowed his neatly organized personal planner, which he kept for his old life. Naturally, this included his birthday.

“Kira, I know your birthday’s coming up! Do you like cake or pie better?”

“…How do you know that?”

Pucci’s Notes: You peeked in one of Pucci’s journals during one of his long monologues and found a note about his birthday in the margins. He now keeps all his writings locked up.

Dio’s Ranting: Dio casually mentioned his birthday during one of his speeches. Later you ask for the exact date. You immediately jotted it down.

Doppio/Diavolo’s Documents: You’d have to have hacked into Diavolo’s personal records because he would never divulge that information. Diavolo is still trying to figure out how you did it.

Valentine’s Records: You grilled Valentine over dinner about his “human side,” pretending to be fascinated by his patriotism. He gave that sob story about his dad and the handkerchief.

Reactions:

Dio Gift: A custom mirror engraved with “To the world’s most perfect being.” You even add a few rhinestones because you know how much Dio loves to sparkle lol.

Reaction: Dio basks in the attention. Deep down, he loves the gift, though he’ll never admit it.

“Hmm. You’re an odd creature, but this is… acceptable.”

Kira Yoshikage Gift: A pristine pair of leather gloves and a bouquet of roses to match his aesthetic. You also bake him a hand-shaped cake. He’s horrified.

Reaction: Kira begrudgingly accepts the gloves (because they are high quality) but refuses to acknowledge the cake. He spends the entire day avoiding you.• “I don’t know how you know my birthday, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

Diavolo Gift: A limited-edition Italian silk scarf in his favorite shade of crimson.

Reaction: Diavolo is suspicious, thinking you’re trying to gain leverage over him. He eventually accepts the gift when Doppio convinces him it’s harmless.

“Tread carefully. I don’t trust your motives.”

Doppio Gift: A pink rotary phone because it matches his vibe.

Reaction: Doppio adores it and spends hours pretending to make calls with it. Diavolo later destroys the phone out of sheer annoyance.

“You’re the best!”

Pucci Gift: A first-edition copy of a rare theological text you found.

Reaction: Pucci is conflicted. On one hand, he appreciates the gift. On the other, he’s uncomfortable with how much effort you put into finding out his birthday.

“Your persistence is… unsettling.” He keeps the book locked in his room.

Funny Valentine Gift: A custom pocket watch with an engraving of the American flag on the front and his initials inside.

Reaction: Valentine is both touched and suspicious. He accepts the gift with a stiff nod and politely thanks you. He later examines it for tracking devices (just in case).

“Your thoughtfulness is appreciated. However, I will not tolerate any schemes.”

Pillar Men: They are spared from your birthday obsession because you couldn’t possibly figure out their birthdays. This doesn’t stop you from giving them gifts anyway.

Kars: Gets a gemstone-encrusted hairbrush because his hair is so gorgeous. He throws it at you.

Esidisi: Receives a set of scented candles because you thought they’d calm him down. He cries tears of rage.

Wamuu: Gets a polished silver armband. He accepts it graciously and bows, earning him the title of your favorite.

The Aftermath: Most of the villains are deeply unnerved by your stalkerlike knowledge of their birthdays, but your gifts are always so perfectly tailored that they can’t bring themselves to refuse.

You celebrate with so much enthusiasm that even the grumpiest villains (like Kira and Diavolo) eventually start tolerating you, though none of them will ever admit they secretly look forward to their birthdays now.

[cryptidclaw]

Star Firesight!

Bonus! Healer/Second Firesight:

And Outsider/Apprentice Rusty/Fire:

Design Notes:

I redesigned him again despite saying I would stop doing that... Prev design and old bio here.

He still has a lot of the same features as my previous design, i mostly just changed his pattern and coloring! I wanted him to be a rustier color!

I also changed his cheek fluff to be round, mostly just for an interesting face shape! his cheek fluff hangs a little more flat when he's older just to give him a more matured look (hes been thru some shit, his cheeks hath deflated)

Character Bio:

Star Firesight

(Fireheart/star)

Bisexual & Polyamorous; Trans Tom; he/him

Age as of 1st arc's beginning: 7 moons; 11 Hyrs

Age as of 1st arc's end: 2 cycles, 5 moons; ~26 Hyrs

Title meaning: -sight = this cat can spot things that others cannot; a cat with a close connection to the Stars; this healer receives many signs from the Stars; the healer may also be very good at spotting illnesses or injuries.

Outsider -> Healer -> Second -> Leader of Thunder Order

Mentor: Redtail (died) -> Spottedleaf

Mother: Nutmeg

Father: Jake

Sibling: Sapheart (Princess)

Half Siblings: Socks; Ruby: Tinyclaw

Mates: Sandstorm; Shriketail

Kits: Squirrelflight (sire: Sand); Leafpool (sire: Shrike); Foxleap (sire: Sand); Icecloud (sire: Shrike)

Grandkits: Star Hollyleaf; Falconstrike; Jaywing; Alderheart; Sparkfire

Other notable kin: Cloudtail (nephew); Snowshoe (nephew); Mistletoe (niece); Spiderleg (nephew); Shrew (nephew)

Notes:

Firesight has chronic pain (and mobility issues later in life):

Fire has the Scottish Fold breed's mutation which effects cartilage in the body, this causes his ears to fold, but it also causes chronic joint pain and can progress into swollen and inflexible joints.

For Fire, he is has the heterozygous version of this mutation, which means that his disability progresses more slowly, as a young cat he does experience some joint pain, with some days being worse than others. He is able to medicate with his own chronic pain herbal mix he created as a Healer. However as Fire grows older his joints will worsen, and by the time of his old age he will be unable to jump and some days is unable to walk.

He is able to still use his medication to aid him and is able to lead a happy life, but he is disabled and I didnt want to leave that out of his character! It's important to have disability rep (and spread awareness of the issues with the Scottish Fold breed) and I hope I serve him justice!

Character Summary:

In Progress (to be added later)

...

[Image 1 ID: a digital drawing of Star Firesight, an AU version of Firestar from Warrior Cats. He is standing with his left side showing and has a proud and happy expression with a smile. He is a short, chubby and round shaped rusty orange and red tabby tom with small folded ears and green eyes. his chest, underbelly and paws are all a lighter shade of orange, and he has a red stripe down his back as well as a single red swoop shaped stripe on his side. He has red to orange striping on his face and red freckles on his cheeks. His right ear is brownish-black, he also has a small black spot above his nose and a black stripe on his back. He has a white flame shaped spot on his chest, a white muzzle, white paws and a white tail tip. He wears yellow flowers and green leaves in his pelt and a simple crown rests on his forehead made up of a diamond shaped red stone and a small teardrop shaped white stone below it./End ID]

[Image 2 ID: a digital drawing of Firesight, an AU version of Fireheart from Warrior Cats. this drawing is almost the exact same as the first image, but in this he has no crown./End ID]

[Image 3 ID: a digital drawing of Fire, an AU version of Firepaw from Warrior Cats. this drawing is almost the exact same as the first image, but in this he has no crown, or flowers and leaves adorning his pelt. his face also seems younger and he has a brighter happy expression on his face with his mouth open in a smile like he is talking./End ID]

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter 3

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns who to trust in the Red Room

W/c: 5.2k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Someone I once loved gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift - Mary Oliver

You'd learned a lot of party tricks since you became Dreykov's best girl. You'd been trained by some of the world's deadliest martial artists and snipers. You knew how to make an arrow pierce through the toughest skin. You could crush your enemies' windpipe without your bow's help. You could use a man's tie against him and bring him to his knees in seconds.

You had learned early on that survival in the Red Room wasn’t just about strength or precision—it was about illusion. It was about shaping yourself into whatever they needed you to be, bending and twisting your identity until you could barely recognize your reflection.

When you were twelve, one of the older Widows taught you makeup—not just how to wear it, but how to weaponize it. Lipstick wasn’t just a shade; it was a story. A bold red screamed confidence and control. A soft pink whispered innocence. The faintest hint of gloss could disarm even the sharpest of men.

The etiquette classes were the worst. Hour after hour of balancing books on your head, learning the perfect angle for a smile, the exact tilt of your chin that would make you appear approachable but not too eager. You were drilled in dining etiquette, how to sip champagne without smudging your lipstick, laugh at jokes you didn’t find funny, and dance just close enough to your target to keep their guard down.

They taught you how to pretend to be smart—not too smart, but just enough to stroke a man’s ego without intimidating him. You mastered the art of asking questions you already knew the answers to, of feigning curiosity to keep the conversation flowing.

Every lesson was a reminder that you weren’t being prepared to live. You were being prepared to infiltrate, to seduce, to kill.

You still remembered the first time you saw yourself in the mirror after they finished with you—a little girl’s body dressed up like a woman. The makeup made your face look older, the heels forced your back straight, and the dress clung to you like a second skin. You didn’t recognize the person staring back.

"You’ll grow into it," the instructor had said, adjusting a curl in your hair. "By the time we’re done with you, you’ll be perfect."

Perfect. That’s what they wanted. A perfect soldier. A perfect spy. A perfect party trick.

And they had almost succeeded. Almost.

You had become everything they wanted you to be, yet somewhere deep inside, you had kept a piece of yourself hidden—a touch of defiance, a spark of who you were before they took you.

You didn’t need a party.

You didn’t need their approval.

You needed freedom.

And one day, you were going to take it.

****

After the meeting with Dreykov, you felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you. You tried not to scratch at the skin of your arms. You tried not to focus on the places he’d touched. You walked briskly through the cold, sterile hallways.

As you reached the nearest bathroom, you pushed the door open and slipped inside, grateful for the reprieve from everyone. The bathroom was small, with harsh lighting and chipped tiles, but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the outside world. You leaned against the cool metal sink, slowly closing your eyes to collect yourself. Opening them, you felt heavier than before. The mascara smudged as you rubbed at your eyes.

Your reflection in the mirror looked exhausted, pale, and drawn, as though someone had taken a paintbrush and erased all the color. With one hand, you gripped the sink, and with the other, you shoved it down your throat.

You gagged as bile rose into your mouth, hot and burning. Your stomach contracted and heaved.

This particular party trick only helped you.

********

She hadn’t seen you in a while. Four days, thirteen hours, and twelve minutes, to be exact. It wasn’t like she was counting. You weren’t friends or anything. Widows in training came and went all the time, whether for training, on missions, or worse.

Death.

Natasha had learned not to become attached. Your presence had annoyed her since the first time she spoke to you. You were like an unwelcome buzzing in her ear. You didn’t listen like the other girls. You talked back. You were defiant. You got into trouble. You had resilience and determination in ways the other girls didn’t. Something she wished she could be. Natasha had drive and determination. She was the best in her class. She moved up an age group since returning from Cuba. She was good with a gun, she was fast on her feet, and she could quickly pick up new skills. The one thing she hadn't mastered was her poker face.

Her eyes scanned the room as she ate alone. It was time for a day meal. An hour where the girls were able to let loose just a little. Everyone sat near their favorite colleagues. The word friend should never be in a Widow’s vocabulary. Natasha didn’t have many. None that she wanted any. It made things more painful when she had to pull the trigger.

As she ate, she looked for two people in the room and didn’t see either of them as expected. The first one is you. Your absence had caused quite a stir in the commons. The widow's gossip about you and what’s become of you. Some girls in your age group had mentioned dishonorable things that Natasha didn’t care to replay in her mind. Though she thought nothing of you, she refused to believe bad things. The other person was Yelena. It had been a few months, and her former mission mate would be seven now.

In the years before, Yelena’s birthday was spent in the comfort of their own home. Alexei would grill burgers. Melina would decorate the den with balloons, streamers, unicorns, and pony things that the little girl liked. Natasha was always in charge of keeping her sister occupied. They would run around the backyard until the parents, Melina and Alexei, would come out with a cake and candles for her to blow out.

It was a good memory that Natasha allowed herself to hold onto. It was stupid. None of it was real. Yet everything about it warmed her heart. Memories like that kept her sane. One day, she would be free, and she could make memories like that again if she got the chance.

Natasha looked down at her tray. Lunch consisted of Pirozhki, a stuffed roll with minced beef and rice. There were also a ton of vegetables that Natasha wasn’t fond of. While the Red Room was another hell on earth, the girls were fed well. Their bodies needed it to remain healthy and strong enough to fight.

Natasha took her time biting into her food. Despite the lump in her throat, she chewed her food while keeping her eyes up. She only ate half before she decided it was not for her. She stood, walking over to the trash bin, before clearing her plate. She wiped her hands against the leg of her black sweatpants. She eyed the two guards at the entrance of the cafeteria. Demetri and Igor. They’d worked there for as long as she could remember. She approached the door with an excuse already at the tip of her tongue.

“Kuda ty idesh? (Where are you going?)” Igor’s hand pressed against Natasha’s shoulder, his voice sharp.

Natasha paused but didn’t look at him. “I am going to the infirmary,” she said in English, her tone clipped. Since returning to the Red Room, she had refused to speak Russian unless necessary. It wasn’t defiance—not entirely—but a quiet rebellion against a country that allowed men like Dreykov to exist unchecked.

Igor’s brows furrowed, and he exchanged a glance with Demetri. “Zachem? (Why?)”

“I have my period.” Natasha’s voice was steady, and she met their gazes without a hint of embarrassment.

Both men immediately looked uncomfortable. Demetri muttered something under his breath and opened the door. Natasha didn’t wait for a formal dismissal. She slipped through before they could change their minds, her steps quiet on the worn linoleum floor.

The hallways were dimly lit, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Natasha passed several doors before she reached the infirmary. Her hand hesitated on the knob. She shouldn’t care about you—not here, not now. But she did.

Turning the knob, she opened the door just enough to peek inside. Voices drifted through the crack, low and tense.

“You need a break,” Nora’s voice was firm, though tinged with concern. “She’s been pushed too far, Madam B. Her body can’t keep up at this rate.”

“She’s fine.” Madam B.’s tone was clipped, her frustration evident.

“Widows are made of marble, is that it?” Nora countered, sarcasm dripping from her words. “She’s not marble. She’s flesh and blood, just like the rest of us.”

“Enough!” Madam B. snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “We do not coddle here, Doctor.”

“She’s still a child,” Nora shot back, her voice firm and determined. “A growing girl who needs her rest if you want her to carry out any of her duties.”

Madam B. stilled, her lips pressing into a thin line. The word child hung in the air like a taboo, an unwelcome reminder of the humanity the Red Room sought to erase.

“She ceased being a child the moment she stepped into this place,” Madam B. said coldly, her eyes narrowing.

“And yet her body hasn’t caught up to your expectations, has it?” Nora’s voice softened slightly, though it didn’t lose its edge. “You can push, break, and mold them—but they are still human. Y/N needs time to heal, or she’ll collapse in the middle of your next mission.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Madam B. said sharply, her gaze flickering to you where you sat on the infirmary bed, silent but seething.

“I wouldn’t,” you said defiantly, your voice cutting through the tense exchange. “I don’t need a break. I’m fine.”

Nora turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, this isn’t a competition. It’s your health—”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. “Widows don’t need rest. We don’t break.”

Madam B.’s gaze lingered on you long before she returned to Nora. “You see? She understands the stakes. Weakness is not an option.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Nora muttered under her breath, though not quietly enough.

Madam B.’s sharp glare returned to the doctor, but a quiet creak drew their attention before the tension could escalate further.

The infirmary door was slightly ajar. Natasha stood frozen in the opening, her green eyes darting between the women.

Madam B’s eyes narrowed as she glanced toward the door. “Watch her,” she commanded Nora before letting out a sharp huff and storming out of the room. The door slam echoed through the infirmary, leaving a tense silence.

Natasha pressed tightly against the wall outside and held her breath. Her heart pounded as she strained to listen for footsteps fading down the hallway. She waited—one second, two, three—until she was sure Madam B had left.

Carefully, she peeked around the corner to ensure the coast was clear. Satisfied, she stepped closer to the infirmary door. Her hand hovered over the knob, hesitating.

Inside, Nora sighed as she adjusted the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around your arm. “You really need to care more for yourself,” she muttered as she scribbled notes on a clipboard.

“You really need to stop worrying about me,” you replied, shaking your head.

“I’ve been worrying about you since you were four years old,” Nora said sharply, her eyes meeting yours.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Nora had been the closest thing you had to stability in this place. Her care had always been a confusing blend of warmth and frustration, a kindness wrapped in thorns. You could never understand why she cared so much. Why did she care at all?

Before you could think of something to say, you changed the subject. “How’s this love story with the scientist going?”

Nora froze, her brow furrowing as she shot you a pointed look. “Melina Vostokoff is a respected Widow who is incredibly smart,” she began curtly. “There is no love story. And you know it’s dangerous to talk like that.”

“You know Melina?” Natasha’s voice cut through the conversation as she stepped into the room.

Nora spun on her heel, her expression hardening as her eyes locked on Natasha. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, her tone sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Natasha hesitated, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I just—”

“You just nothing,” Nora interrupted coldly, stepping forward. “Do you think this is a game? That you can wander wherever you please? Do you even understand the danger you’re putting yourself in by being here?” She gestured toward you, her anger flaring.

“Nora,” you said softly, sitting up straighter.

Nora ignored you, her eyes still fixed on Natasha. “You have no idea what she’s been through—what we’ve all been through. And now you think you can just walk in here and—”

“Nora,” you said again, more firmly this time.

Nora finally looked at you, her jaw tight.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice steady. “Let her stay.”

Nora’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger dissipating into more like exasperation. She glanced back at Natasha, her eyes narrowing. “If anything happens, it’s on you,” she muttered before returning to work.

Natasha stepped closer to you, her movements careful, almost hesitant. Her eyes flickered to Nora, who was now busying herself with the clipboard, and then back to you.

"Hello," Natasha whispered.

"Dobro pozhalovat (welcome)," You said, not looking at her.

Natasha didn’t know why she came. Curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper she wasn’t ready to name. She stood stiffly in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as she scanned the room.

You were sitting in bed, your posture slouched but tense, eyes staring ahead as if avoiding any attempt to connect—whether with the walls, the room, or anyone.

“Are you sick?” Natasha asked, her voice soft, though her eyes were sharp as they scanned your body for any signs of injury. There were no bruises, bandages, or anything that would explain your absence.

“I wish,” you muttered with a sigh, fingers tracing aimlessly over a loose thread in the blanket that covered your lap. “Just getting evaluated,” you excused yourself, trying to shrug it off.

“You’ve missed all your training sessions.” Natasha pressed, her gaze intense as she approached cautiously.

“Keeping up with my schedule?” You raised an eyebrow, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are you my new handler?”

“No,” Natasha replied quietly, her throat tight momentarily. “I thought we were friends.”

You didn’t answer right away, your lips pressing into a thin line. But you didn’t deny her, either. The silence between you two stretched, uncomfortable in its weight.

Nora kept her eyes on your chart from the corner, deliberately avoiding any direct attention. She'd never seen you regard anyone with such softness. You weren’t open with anyone other than her.

“You’re not going to go and report this to the other widows, are you?” You finally broke the silence, eyes narrowing slightly.

“The other widows are not my friends,” Natasha said, calm but firm. She let her gaze flicker toward Nora momentarily before returning to you. “You know Melina?”

Nora's response was clipped, her words tight and minimal. “She’s gone,” she said when Natasha asked about Melina’s whereabouts. “Don’t know where, don’t need to.” She didn’t look up from your chart as she spoke, not offering any more information. Her gaze remained focused on the paper in front of her, the lines of your vitals there, as if pretending not to notice the growing tension in the air.

After a long pause, she finally sighed, rolling her shoulders back as she stood up. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she muttered, making it clear she wasn’t interested in offering anything more.

With a curt nod to Natasha, she stepped toward the door, leaving you and Natasha alone in the sterile quiet of the room.

Natasha stood there momentarily, unsure of what to do, her thoughts swirling around the brief, cryptic exchange. She glanced back at you, her expression softening just a little.

“Is that your mom?” Natasha asked, her voice low and tentative, though the curiosity in her tone couldn’t be hidden. She didn’t wait for an immediate answer; she just leaned against the wall, her eyes still on you, waiting for a response.

"You see the resemblance?" You said flatly. "Nora is not my mother. Though she likes to pretend she cares."

"She seemed soft with you," Natasha offered, watching your reaction closely. "Not like the other Widows. Not like the guards."

Natasha shifted uncomfortably, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned against the wall. She looked at you, her gaze unwavering but uncertain, as if trying to piece together her own reasoning for being there.

You huffed, shaking your head. “Softness is just another strategy. You know that.”

Natasha didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes flicked toward the door where Nora had exited moments ago and then back to you. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s different.”

You scoffed, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it. “Why are you here, Natasha? You’ve never been one to check up on anyone.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes as if trying to read her. “So why me?”

Natasha hesitated. It wasn’t a question she’d asked herself before walking into the room, but now it hung between you, heavy and unavoidable. She shifted her weight, her fingers brushing over the edge of the wall she leaned on.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice almost too soft to hear. She looked down briefly, her lips pressed into a thin line, before meeting your eyes again. “Maybe I was curious. Or... maybe I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why would you care?” you asked, your tone blunt but not unkind. “I’m just another Widow, right?”

Natasha shook her head, stepping closer to the bed. “No, you’re not. You’re... different.”

You raised a brow, leaning back slightly. “Different, how?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She stood there. Finally, she said, “You don’t let this place break you. I’ve seen it. You don’t let them win.”

Your gaze softened, but your walls didn’t crumble entirely. “And what about you?” you asked. “Are you letting them win?”

Natasha didn’t flinch at the question, but its weight settled in her chest. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I’m trying not to.”

"I am to train you,"

"You?" Natasha blinked, her surprise evident. "Aren't you too young?"

"They say I'm the best,"

"Then, why not use your talents on a mission?"

"Leaving this place is too much of a privilege," You shrugged. "I am meant to be here. I am meant to be his."

"Does he hurt you?" Natasha asked.

You paused, your expression unreadable. You didn't want to answer. It felt like admitting weakness, like giving in. "I'll live."

"That's not what I asked,"

Natasha frowned, her curiosity gnawing at her despite your apparent resistance. “You’re not like the others,” she said cautiously, watching for any shift in your expression. “He treats you differently.”

You let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You ask too many questions. You’ll do best not to in the future.”

“I just want to understand,” Natasha pressed. “How did you become so close with him?”

“If I had a straight answer, you’d have it,” you muttered, your voice low and even, your fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “But if I were to guess, it’s probably because I’m a good fighter. Maybe the best. That’s all that matters to him.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “He doesn’t treat you like a child.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you replied, your tone sharp, almost cutting. “What is it that you really want to know? What happens when I meet with him? It’s private.”

“It’s not nothing,” Natasha said softly. “I can see it. It’s not.”

“No,” you agreed, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “It’s not. But it’s none of your business.”

“You’re too young to—” Natasha started, but you cut her off.

“I am young,” you said sharply, sitting up straighter, your gaze hard. “And I’m the best. That’s a gift and a curse. He gives me gifts, and I give him something of myself in return. I’ve gotten used to it.”

Natasha’s stomach turned at your words, but she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure she wanted to push further, not when you were unwilling to share.

You sighed, your shoulders relaxing just slightly as you glanced at her. “I’ll train you,” you said, your voice softening, “but I won’t tell you things about my life. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Natasha hesitated, her mind racing with unspoken questions and uneasy thoughts, but in the end, she nodded. “Okay,” she said quietly.

*******

The door to Dreykov’s office loomed taller than Natasha expected, its dark wood heavy and foreboding. She hesitated before knocking, her fist pausing mid-air. No one talked about what happened inside. Girls went in and came out changed—quieter, sharper, colder.

The door opened with a groan, and Natasha stepped inside. The warmth hit her first, different from the biting chill that filled the rest of the Red Room. A space heater purred softly under the desk, and the faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air. She didn’t know what she expected—something barren and clinical, maybe—but this wasn’t that. Shelves lined the walls, packed with books she doubted he read. A globe sat in the corner, and photographs she didn’t dare look at too closely caught the light from the desk lamp.

“Natasha,” He greeted, not looking up right away. He sat behind a wide desk of polished mahogany, his large hands resting flat on the surface. His tone wasn’t harsh but didn’t invite ease, either. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

Natasha did as told, tucking her hands into her lap.

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes roaming over her body before resting on her face. His gaze was unnerving. It reminded her of a hawk eyeing a mouse, calculating and cold.

“You’ve been doing well,” Dreykov began, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were sharp and calculating, making her feel like he could see through her skin. “Top marks in marksmanship. Hand-to-hand combat. Strategy. Impressive for someone so… young.”

“Thank you, sir,” Natasha replied carefully. Her voice was steady, even though her heart was pounding.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the desk.

Natasha hesitated. She didn’t know. Not really. “No, sir.”

Dreykov smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve caught my attention, Natasha. That is not an easy thing to do.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

“But,” he continued, his voice softening in a way that somehow made it more dangerous, “attention can be fleeting. Do you know what keeps it?”

“No, sir.”

“Loyalty,” he said, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the desk. “Obedience. Dedication. Do you have these things?”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha answered quickly.

Dreykov studied her for a long moment, the silence thick and uncomfortable. She wanted to look away but didn’t dare.

"You're familiar with y/n?" Dreykov asked.

She didn't know how to answer the question. She didn't know how much he knew. If he knew, she would be in trouble, too.

"She is a fighter and the best of the Red Room," Dreykov continued.

"Yes, sir," Natasha answered, swallowing hard.

"And do you respect her?" Dreykov's eyes bored into hers, unrelenting.

"Yes, sir," she said, forcing herself to maintain eye contact.

Dreykov was silent for a long moment as if contemplating her answer.

"She is to train you," He finally said, his gaze not wavering. "You will report everything back to me. Your training, your progress, her attitude and treatment of you."

"I don't understand," Natasha said, her brows furrowing. "Why?"

"Because you're special," Dreykov said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I have plans for you, and I need to ensure y/n does not interfere."

Dreykov’s gaze didn’t waver as Natasha processed his words, her thoughts running a mile a minute. How could you interfere? What could you possibly do to derail his plans? Natasha didn’t understand.

The confusion must have been written all over her face because Dreykov chuckled—a deep, humorless sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“Ah, you’re wondering, aren’t you?” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. “How could she possibly get in the way?”

Natasha didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to speak, her jaw tightening as she forced herself to remain composed.

Dreykov smirked, the expression cold and sharp. “Y/N is… how shall I put this? A jealous little thing,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “She doesn’t like to share. Especially not with me. You trust her?"

"I do,"

"Don't. Don't trust anyone,"

"Not even you?"

Dreykov laughed. "Especially not me."

Natasha didn't answer. She didn't know what to say. Her mind raced, the warning ringing in her ears. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the words stuck in her throat. A knock at the door broke the tension before she could muster the courage to speak.

“Come in,” He called smoothly, leaning back in his chair, his smirk firmly in place.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside. Natasha barely recognized you. Gone was the confident fighter she’d seen earlier in the training halls. In your place stood a girl—more petite, somewhat more fragile, with your shoulders held high. Your dress was simple, patterned with tiny flowers, its soft colors highlighting your youth. You looked pretty. Beautiful if she dared to think it. For the first time, you looked your age: fourteen.

Natasha watched as you crossed the room without sparing her a glance. It struck her as deliberate. You kept your eyes forward, focused solely on Dreykov, and your expression was carefully blank.

His smile widened as his eyes roved over your appearance, a glint of satisfaction gleaming in them. “Perfect,” he said, gesturing toward you. “Doesn’t she look like a proper child, Natasha? A flower among thorns.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted at how he spoke and appraised you as though you were nothing more than a tool he’d shaped with his own hands.

“Someone will teach you how to blend in,” Dreykov continued, his gaze shifting to Natasha. “How to act like a child. Then, how to act like a woman. It’s a skill, you know. One you’ll need.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed. The idea felt foreign to her—learning to act like something she was supposed to be. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly, daring to speak despite the tension thickening in the room.

“Of course, you don’t,” Dreykov said, his tone condescending. “But you will. There’s a reason I’ve paired you with her.” He nodded toward you, and Natasha caught the faintest flicker of something—an emotion she couldn’t place—across your face before it disappeared. “She’ll show you. Watch her. Learn from her.”

You finally spoke, your voice softer than Natasha had ever heard it. “What do you need me to do, sir?”

Dreykov’s grin returned. “Everything you already do, my dear. And perhaps a little more. Natasha will shadow you for a time. Set an example for her. Show her how to be... convincing.”

You nodded stiffly, your movements almost mechanical. Natasha couldn’t tell if you were resigned or simply afraid.

She watched you with a growing sense of unease, unsure of what she was seeing. She couldn't pinpoint the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way you moved, the way you held yourself. You were afraid of him. Truly afraid of him. Every display of bravado she'd seen of you with others was thrown out of the window. You were small. Fragile. Vulnerable.

It scared her.

******

As the door shut behind you, the silence was almost unbearable. You walked ahead, your steps quiet and purposeful, refusing to meet Natasha’s gaze. She followed you down the hallway, barely able to keep up with the pace you set.

Finally, Natasha broke the silence. “Do you always wear dresses like that for him?” The words came out sharper than she intended, her voice laced with something between curiosity and accusation.

You stopped abruptly, turning on your heel to face her. You looked less fragile momentarily, the fire she’d seen in the training halls flickering behind your eyes. “What do you think?” you snapped, your tone cutting.

Natasha stared at you, searching for an answer, unsure of what she was looking for. “I don’t know. You won’t tell me anything.”

“And I don’t plan to,” you shot back. “You’re not here to know me, Romanova. You’re here to watch and learn. Do that.”

Natasha felt the sting of your words, but she refused to back down. “He thinks you’re jealous of me. That you don’t want me around.”

You flinched at that, just barely, but it was enough for Natasha to notice. “He doesn’t know anything,” you muttered, your voice quieter now, tinged with bitterness.

“Doesn’t he?” Natasha challenged, stepping closer. “He’s got you wrapped around his finger, hasn’t he? Playing dress-up, doing whatever he tells you to do.”

Your jaw tightened, and for a moment, Natasha thought you might lash out. Instead, you smirked, though there was no humor in it. “And you’re any different? Do you think he doesn’t have plans for you, too? You’re just another piece on his board, Romanoff. Don’t kid yourself.”

The words hit harder than Natasha expected, but she kept her expression neutral. “At least I’m not pretending I have control,” she said evenly, her eyes narrowing.

Your smirk faltered, and Natasha caught a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or anger. “You don’t get it,” you said quietly, almost whispering. “You don’t know what it’s like to be... useful. To matter.”

Natasha opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t know what it was like—not really. But she could see the weight of it now, the burden you carried. And for the first time, she wondered if Dreykov’s warning wasn’t about jealousy but the cracks in your armor that he didn’t want her to see.

You turned away before she could say anything else, your steps brisk as you returned to the training hall. “You don’t need to understand,” you said over your shoulder, your voice cold again. “Just keep up.”

Natasha watched you go, a knot tightening in her chest. She didn’t know if she wanted to follow yr fight you, but she knew one thing for sure: Dreykov was right. You were dangerous—but not in the way he thought.

[rooksspite]

Marks of Love

Davrin x f!Rook (unnamed)

summary: after a night of too many drinks, Davrin finds Assan covered in kisses.

yes this is based off of that one meme of that girl who came home drunk and was really excited to see her cat

Davrin wakes one day with a headache and little recollection as to how he ended up in bed.

He remembers Lucanis inviting him and Rook to talk about old jobs again over a shared bottle. or 3. Honestly it could’ve been more he just couldn’t remember. After that it’s all a blur. He’s surprised he made it to bed in the first place.

With a groan he stands from his bed, wincing as he faces the open brightness of the fade. Moving sluggishly to throw on a shirt and pants before yawning and making his way to open the door of his room.

“Assan,” he calls out to the griffin sitting his usual spot. The wooden stairs creaking under his steps.

When Assan turns his head to look at him, it makes Davrin pause midstep, “what in the…”

There were specks of red dotted across Assan’s face, two on his beak, a couple on the sides of his face, even more across his forehead and the top of his head.

Davrin steps closer to get a closer look at the griffin’s face, “what happened to you buddy?” he asks softly, still struggling to fight off the last remnants of sleep. He had a number of ideas of what the marks could be, maybe the griffin snuck into the pantry to snack on berries again, or maybe he got into Emmrich’s inks.

Assan squawks as Davrin squats down to take his face in his hands, his eyes widening in realization. The spots were a very similar shade of berry red, in the shape of lips he’s grown to know all too well.

Davrin huffs out a laugh and hangs his head, “someone got some love last night.” Davrin muses, Assan only replies with a happy noise and a flap of his wings.

“Davrin,” he hears a familiar voice call. He looks up and sure enough there she is, just leaving the light house and making her way towards him. wearing the exact same shade on her lips that decorated Assan’s feathers.

“Rook,” Davrin greets, letting go of Assan’s face and standing “seems you got a bit excited to see Assan last night.”

To be fair, Rook always got excited seeing Assan, always showering him in hugs and pets whenever she walked by him. Though it seemed that alcohol released her from whatever she was holding back when it came to giving Assan affection.

“What do you- oh…” Rook pauses when she takes in the sight of Assan littered in kisses, her eyes move up to look at Davrin and he raises an eyebrow when he sees an obvious flustered look take over her features.

“Something wrong?” Davrin asks

Rook goes to speak but is cut off when the both of them hear the familiar clank of Neve’s prosthetic hitting the stone ground, “well good morning you three, have fun gossiping over your alcohol?”

Before either of them can answer, Neve takes in the scene before her and an amused smile crosses her face, “my my, just what were you two up to last night?”

Rook looks away flustered and Davrin’s confusion only grows, “what are you talking about?”

Neve smiles innocently, “nothing, I just think it’s adorable how similar you and Assan can look sometimes.”

Neve begins walking away towards the kitchen and Davrin can only furrow his eyebrows at her comment, “similar?” he turns to look down at assan again, “what are you even…” he trails off, his eyes landing on the splotches of lipstick sticking to Assan’s feathers as a look of realization crosses his face.

Suddenly he remembers drunken giggles as him and Rook leave the dining room, a cooed, “Assan!” followed by a shocked squawk and exaggerated kissing sounds.

He remembers leading Rook to her room, her turning towards him and reaching for his face, the sight of her lips moving towards him.

Slowly, Davrin reaches a hand up to his cheek, swiping at it before moving his hand back into view.

Sure enough, his fingertips were smudged with the very same berry red that covered both Assan and Rook’s lips.

“Looks like someone was also excited to see me last night.” Davrin hums with a hint of amusement.

Rook lets out a flustered laugh, her gaze still on the ground, “is it bad that I don’t even remember?”

Davrin chuckles and shakes his head, taking a step closer to room before placing a finger under her chin to make her meet his gaze. Rook lets out a surprised noise as Davrin leans down to press a kiss to her lips.

Just as quickly he pulls away, a new coat of her red lipstick smudged against his lips, “I think you ought to help us clean us you mess hmm?”

Assan squawks loudly from beside the two and Rook laughs, leaning her head against Davrin’s shoulder, “I suppose it’s only fair.”

[ushouldwatchhaikyuu]

Could you make headcanons abt a confident!chubby!poc!reader. Like when i search up haikyui x chubby reader all i get are hurt comfort stories about being insecure, and like everyone gets insecure but it gets to the point where people think everyone who isnt built like a coke bottle hates themselves 🙄. AND DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE ONES MADE FOR POC!!! Cause why are they all so stereotypical?! Like just because im black doesn’t mean im sexy redds clone😭🙏🏽.

Anyways back to the main plot🤭. I was thinking like reader with a style that has y2k/mcbling aspects (lowrise jeans, crop tops, chunky jewlery, etc) and is super bubbly. And back to he chubby thing, like ok. When i read x chubby readers, its always like fat ass and a lil bit of tummy, which is fine cause some people are built like that but not a lot🧍🏽‍♀️🧍🏽‍♀️. Like i have thighs, big boobs(pray for my spine🫡🙏🏽😭) and tummy, but I also have hipdips that dig into my butt bro. So like yea🧍🏽‍♀️. Haikyuu headcanons (you can pick the characters you think will fit🫶🏽) x confident!chubby!poc! reader

(i apologize for the yap session i have lots of opinions on this topic)

Chubby!POC!Reader x Haikyuu Headcanons

ft: literally like half the team members of all the main teams

warnings: cussing

oh pal dw about it lmfao i get what u mean!! i hope these hcs satiate ur cravings 👍

since u didn't ask for any specific characters i just came up with a few hcs that i think could apply to multiple characters lol

credits: divider .

He lowkey likes it when people look at his partner and assume he can't carry them, but then he just goes "oh yeah? lemme just-" *picks u up and puts u on his shoulder without a single hint of struggling* 👍

Ushijima, Bokuto, Kuroo, Atsumu, Sakusa, Iwaizumi (but he wouldn't say it outloud lmao).

Can't pick you up? No problem, they wanna be the ones getting picked up anyways.

Yachi, Yamaguchi, Kenma, Tendou (u cant convince me he doesnt like getting picked up)

Can't pick you up? unacceptable. They're begging your forgiveness and spending hours at the gym until they can do it. Just give them a few months.

Nishinoya, Hinata, Hoshiumi, Kageyama, Terushima, Levi.

Became an absolute pro at finding your exact foundation shade. Like, has your exact match pinned down. Could just look at a foundation color and go "yeah that's their shade". Some may think it's a bit weird, but honestly it's so helpful sometimes.

Ushijima's autistic ass, Tsukishima, Sugawara, Asahi, Yachi, Sakusa and Osamu maybe?

Gets so excited over fashion, makeup, jewelry and all that stuff. Goes shopping/thrifting with you, pays for your nails and is very enthusiastic whenever you ask for their opinion on your outfits. Also lets you give them makeovers sometimes. They will absolutely serve cunt if you ask them to.

Hinata, Nishinoya, Atsumu, Yamaguchi, Tendou, Kuroo, Bokuto, Oikawa, Yachi, maybe Levi lmao. Hot take but Ushijima would absolutely do it too.

Does encourage your passions and interest and stuff but their sense of fashion is that of a rock. If rocks wore crocs with socks. Still go shopping with u tho and they make up for their lack of advice by paying for all ur stuff. They spoil u so fricking much.

Tsukishima, Kageyama, Akaashi, Iwaizumi, Suna, Daichi, Sakusa, Ennoshita, Kenma.

Paints/writes/does photography and will make the most beautiful jaw dropping mouth watering gorgeous absolutely stunning works of art portraying you in such a beautifully realistic way. They get your colors and shapes and curves so perfectly well, it's incredible– it shows just how much attention they pay to every little detail about you, and how much they love all of it.

Daichi, Asahi, Ushijima, Osamu, Ennoshita, Sakusa, Yamaguchi, Yachi, maybe Kageyama.

[marlsswrites]

Summer camp AU, part 11!!

July 11th <3

Essential - @jegulus-microfic - words: 960

First part Previous part

"It is essential you stick with your partner!" Regulus heard the camp leader holler before leaving all of the volunteers to find their pairs. He was sat with Pandora, her head on his lap as they chatted, ignoring everything going on around them.

The girl flicked her shockingly pale blue eyes up to his, wearing a suspicious smirk. "So..."

"Oh no." Regulus groaned at the mischievous glint in her eyes.

She cleared her throat loudly and flicked him on the knee, Regulus letting out a sound of annoyance before flicking one of her platinum braids in the air. Letting out a giggle, she rolled her eyes and carried on. "So! How's your partner doing?" She spoke with an eyebrow wiggle.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He grumbled.

"You know exactly what I mean." She patted his leg. "You never hang out with us anymore, and when you do it's always 'James' this and 'Potter' that!" 

He paused, letting the thoughts run through his head. He supposes he does talk about him a lot, but he just needs to get it out of his system. There's just so much about James that he could talk about, the good, the bad, the strange, the attractive, all of it! There's so much he feels the need to say about him, because other people need to understand why James is so captivating. It isn't just him, right? 

He settled on denying everything, he can't deal with his own feelings right now. "No it isn't."

"Then how come I know exactly what shade of brown his eyes are, the shape of his waist, what you want to do to said waist..." She trailed off with a loud cackling laugh, shoving a dark skinned hand in front of her face when Regulus swatted her on the arm. "...and his favourite movie?" She finished with a sheepish smile.

"What's his favourite movie then?" Regulus questioned in triumph.

"He says it's the fast and the furious-" She answered quickly.

Regulus cut her off, both now spoke at the exact same time. "But it's actually Footloose." He looked down at her with an exasperated expression, she wore an amused and pitying smile on her lips.

Giving a shrug, Pandora tutted as he groaned and threw his head back onto the solid wood behind his head, trying his best to ignore how much that actually hurt. "Fuck."

"You finally figured it out?" She spoke in a soft tone.

He nodded into his hands, trying to stop the string of thoughts from rushing into his head and drowning him in everything James Potter, crashing away any other thoughts even lingering there. All he could think right now was purely one regrettable thing, one that he would quite like to forge,t but that didn't seem to prove possible.

He likes James Potter, doesn't he?

-

Two minutes into Regulus' mental breakdown, almost perfectly on time, over comes James Potter, skipping over to them with a wide smile. He pretty obviously wasn't aware of the mental turmoil he'd caused the dark haired boy in front of him, looking like he'd just found out something utterly tragic.

Slowly removing his fingers from his eyes, Regulus saw James looking between him and Pandora with an almost... annoyance to his face. Before the look flickered away, but not entirely, he looked purely uncomfortable when he looked at Pandora, who offered him a smile in welcome that he didn't respond. 

That's odd, James always smiles. Regulus couldn't help the itching feeling inside him to put a smile back on the older boys face, the bright, the stunning, the heart curing smile that ultimately made Regulus question absolutely everything.

Pandora slowly picked her head up, looking from James to Regulus multiple times, before jumping her knee up to her red painted lips to hide the wide grin that had taken over her slim face.

"I've come to collect Reggie." Regulus jutted a leg out to kick at the older boys ankle with a grumble. "What were you two talking about-"

"You." Pandora stated.

"Barty." Regulus spoke at the exact same time. 

The smile that took over James' face had to be blinding, the way his tongue darted out to trail over his bottom lip in amusement made Regulus' heart skip multiple beats, aching out of his chest. Oh, that's what that feeling was.

"Oh really?" He spoke in his curious, low voice. Regulus purposely trained his view on the floor in front of James' feet, but he could still feel a pair of lit up eyes in that specific shade of brown that Pandora was talking about, flit over him, all of him. He was sure the flush to his lightly freckled cheeks was showing even more now. 

Finally, he had the nerve to tilt his head up and let his gaze meet the other, shrugging. "I was telling Pandora about how Barty tripped you up." Regulus responded casually, thanking the gods that he managed to keep his voice clear and confident, because as much as he felt practically transparent right now, he most certainly didn't feel confident.

The smile seemed to dim slightly, much to Regulus' confusion, and even more when Pandora's head dropped right back into his lap. He swore he saw a twitch to James' normally soft eyes when Pandora smiled up at him.

To Regulus' shock, James marched even closer and hooked a hand through his elbow, pulled him up, and watched with a triumphant look as Pandora rolled off his lap quickly. "We have to go, we can't be late." James spoke, the twitch now gone and the lightness back to his face.

Regulus bid goodbye to Pandora, watching her waltz over to Lily with a bemused expression in her eyes, flicking her hair over her shoulder and giving one last wave before looking away.

That was... strange.

Next part

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON) - CHAPTER ONE: CLOSURE

“IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME, AND SEEING THE SHAPE OF YOUR NAME STILL SPELLS OUT PAIN.”

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: strong language, angst, alcohol consumption, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.1K+

☆ A/N: this will make a whole lot more sense if you've already read the one shot that this entire series is based upon! and thank you to @fracturedarkness and @munson-blurbs for beta-reading <3

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

It had taken nearly two hours, and even as the aerial platform is finally lowered from scaling the side of the building, there are still remnants of the graffiti paint scattered across the crumbling brick. 

You’d watched the workers scrub at the rusted shades for ages, ignoring the new emails beginning to pile up in your inbox on the screen, only to be left completely dissatisfied. You hadn’t really thought the graffiti was ugly so to speak – it was just there. It was blatant and something that demanded to be seen, a stain on that stretch of wall that made up your desk’s entire viewpoint each and every day. And it wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t pretty. 

You’d even been a little excited when you saw the cleaning crew. A little hopeful. 

But the hope had been wasted, as it always was, as you watch the crew give up the battle and the paint win the war. Go figure. Another day and another stain that can’t be erased. 

“You know, I’ve heard of dreadfully boring people watching paint dry, but never seen someone look so enticed by paint being removed.” 

You look up quickly from where your dead stare had zeroed in, a chipping splash of vibrant scarlet that hardly stood out against tired and faded red-turned-pink bricks, to face your coworker. 

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan, spinning your office chair so your entire body now faced her, “Have you ever considered a career change, Romina? Maybe you’re better off a comedian rather than an event planner.” 

Romina, your coworker, only smiles brightly at the monotone joke. She holds a mug of coffee in her hand as she rests her hip against the edge of your desk, lips pursed as she takes a slow sip from her steaming cup. The sharp, bitter scent of the coffee wafts across the space before she lowers the mug right onto your desk – completely disregarding the coaster available. 

Sure to leave behind a stain; a ring of light brown on your pristine desk. You can’t help but cringe. 

“Apparently they sent out an email about that new secretive project,” Romina continues on without addressing your sarcasm, “Said whoever’s got the account has been notified.”

“Awesome.”

“I didn’t get an email.”

“I’m sorry?”

Romina sighs, realizing you weren’t going to take the bait. “Have you received an email?”

You shrug in a silent succession of, probably not. 

Your pessimism keeps your hand from reaching out and wiggling your mouse as an attempt to wake your desktop computer back up. You highly doubt you were the one to be elected for this new project that had the entire office buzzing. You’d only been working here for a little over a year, hardly earning any attention with the small weddings and local business grand openings you had taken on during that time. 

And that was fine.

You were fine flying under the radar for the time being. It’s not that you weren’t good at your job — you were excellent at it, even — but whatever this top secret project was was the farthest thing from your expertise.

You didn’t do secretive projects. You did simple. You did small. The exact opposite of what you’d heard about this elusive opportunity. 

“Have you even checked?” Romina presses, leaning down and tapping your space bar herself, making the screen come to life before you could protest, “C’mon, babe! Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?” 

Another honest shrug. “Truthfully? Not at all.” 

She makes no move to grab her coffee cup as she pushes herself off your desk, standing over the screen now with intent and focus. All you can really think about is that damn faded ring that’s going to be left behind.

You really wish she would have used the coaster.

The login screen stops her in her mission, making her take a step back and wave you forward, pointing excitedly at your keyboard, “You know, I heard it might have something to do with a very popular band. One rumored to be dropping an album soon. Possibly the album release party. Doesn’t that sound dreamy?” 

Your stomach drops.

Romina is all wistful sighs and dreamy eyes as she says it, still pushing that keyboard closer to you as she looks out the window you had been before her arrival. It’s clear she’s looking right past that stained wall. She probably doesn’t even notice the evidence of graffiti that was left behind. The marks are lost on her eyes; but she hadn’t spent hours waiting for it to all be cleaned away, to be fair. No, it’s clear the only thing on her mind is this popular band.

And you know which band it is. It’s not just the prospect of a larger project that has kept you out of this rumor mill — it’s the prospect of the client.

Everyone knew you didn’t care for the band. Or at least, you said you didn’t care for the band.

Nearly a year ago, several coworkers had invited you to a sold out show. They had an extra ticket, and had so kindly extended it to you. A flag of friendship billowing in the wind, outstretched to you in such a welcoming manner. And you’d shot them down — you’d lied, and you’d said you had plans before you’d spent the entire night throwing your own personal pity party.

“I don’t think I’d be the first choice for an album release party, Ro,” you murmur as you finally tug your chair in closer to your desk. You ignore the knots forming in your stomach, that heavy weight that presses into your chest. There was no way you’d be assigned the project. You’d simply log in, show Romina, and then maybe she’d leave you alone, “I usually just take on weddings. That’s my forte. Not arranging open bars and booking rooftops for some shitty band.” 

Romina scoffs, “Some shitty band? I know you don’t like them, but Corroded Coffin is not just some shitty band.”

Corroded Coffin. The weight makes your ribs creak, makes your lungs ache. 

You swear she’ll notice the way you freeze in your typing. The mere mention of them, of him, curls around your body and easily triggers your fight or flight response. 

Well, fight or flight or freeze. A new option, a new and drifting cold, has made itself clear as ice keeps your knuckles from continuing to type in your password. 

It’s funny. You used to fight for them, then you’d flown as far away from him as your pathetic diner wages could get you. Clearly, only moving across a city you once thought to be so vast wasn’t far enough. You could move across oceans, and something in your gut tells you his ghost would only be a few steps behind. 

“You know, I still don’t get your issue with them, by the way. Are you just not big on rock music?” she asks, and you can imagine his offense and correction that it was metal, not just rock, “I get it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I don’t know. Just seems a little personal, the way you avoid them like the plague.”

It is personal.

Your vendetta is so, so very personal when it comes to Corroded Coffin. 

When it comes to Eddie Munson.

His name echoing in your mind finally has your fingertips slamming keys again, suddenly eager to bring up your email and prove Romina wrong. To get her as far from your desk as possible and end this conversation before you can spiral.

“I’ve never been a fan of that type of music,” you lie through your teeth. You had been. You had been their goddamn number one fan once upon a time. 

Your work email can’t load fast enough when she continues on, “I’d argue they have at least one song for everyone. You just gotta give them a chance.” 

No, the voice in your head screams. I do not need to give them a chance. I gave him a chance, and he blew it. 

“I’m sure there is,” you grit out, those knots in your stomach wound so tightly they might just snap, “But not for me.” 

Never for me.

They don’t know. No one in your life now knew about your past, about your ex, about the truth between you and Corroded Coffin. 

They didn’t know that you’d been their first fan, standing in that stuffy garage at the Emerson’s residency through the scalding Hawkins’ summers. They didn’t know how you’d spent every Tuesday and Thursday night occupying a stool at the Hideout that had all but your name engraved into it. They didn’t know the way you’d packed up your entire life, the way you’d only moved to this cursed concrete jungle to see all of their wildest dreams come true. They were unaware that Corroded Coffin had nearly turned down the tour that triggered their breakout for you. All because their leading rockstar hadn’t wanted to leave you behind.

Funny how life works out.

Romina is unaware of your discomfort as she leans down over your shoulder to peer at the list of new emails you’d received this morning, “Oh, oh! That one! Click that one!” 

Her long, blood-red stiletto nail taps at the screen excitedly, pointing out an email from your boss with an eye catching subject line.

Meeting at Noon — New Project Assignment. 

“Holy shit!” Ro exclaims, getting ahead of herself before you’ve even clicked on the email. You can’t click on it. You’re petrified. “Oh, holy shit! You definitely got the project! Are you fucking kidding me?” 

For a moment, you’re silent, staring at the screen in buzzing shock. It rings in your ears and it blurs the edges of your vision, the weight of the possibility finally causing the first snap within your chest. 

No. No, no, no. 

You don’t want this project. Not the rumored client, and certainly not the attention that it has attracted from all your peers. No.

“We don’t even know if it’s going to be what everyone says it will be,” you choke out, white knuckling your mouse. Romina can’t see your face — she can’t see the year of practiced indifference crumbling so easily, “It- It probably won’t be Corroded Coffin, Ro. It can’t be. They wouldn’t assign me something so huge. Th-They probably just have another wedding for me. Maybe another bakery opening up in town — I think I heard about one on Third Street-“ 

Ro’s hands come down on your shoulders, giving what should be a reassuring squeeze, but it only smothers you during your breathless rant.

“Babe,” she emphasizes, “This is a good thing.” 

It’s not. It’s really, really not. 

But you don’t know if the project is what everyone has been murmuring about. You don’t know for sure that the email has anything to do with it. The contents of what your boss had written to you have little to no specifics; nothing more than a request to come to her office at noon to properly discuss the details of this assignment. So you convince yourself it’ll be fine, that it really is just about that bakery opening up on third street. You convince yourself to shake away any thoughts of chestnut curls and honey brown eyes. You convince yourself to untense your shoulders and smile up at your coworker, faking enough enthusiasm to satiate her until she’s walking away from your desk giddily, taking her coffee cup with her. 

Your eyes avert to the expected coffee mark that had formed a perfect ring on your stark white desk. 

Stained. What a pesky thing to become. 

—

“I’m not going out tonight,” you repeat yourself for the millionth time over the line, pinching the phone between your shoulder and ear as you opened your fridge to dig around for whatever leftovers you might be able to salvage into a dinner for the night, “I don’t feel well.” 

“But we need to hear about the new project!” Ro’s chirp comes over the line. You can hear the buzzing of a bar in the background. Glasses clinking, strangers chatting. Hell, you could probably pinpoint the song playing lowly if you focused hard enough.

You weren’t focusing on the call, though. It was the last thing you wanted to offer up your dwindling attention to, desperate to get off the line and resume your very exciting night of cold pasta with a side of whatever sitcom was running old episodes on the television. 

The phone nearly slips from your half assed attempt to keep it against your cheek as you sigh, “It went fine. I already told you guys it did. Nothing exciting, okay? It was the bakery on Third that’s opening up, just like I thought it would be.” 

A lie.

The meeting went anything but fine. Your boss, Lydia, has just been plain secretive. And normally, that wouldn’t bother you, but it meant your worst fears were coming true. 

The bakery on third wouldn’t have needed such secrecy, and they sure as Hell wouldn’t have insisted on you signing an NDA prior to even meeting and discussing the event you’d be planning. 

“It’s all just precautions,” Lydia had insisted as she slid that damn paperwork over to you, “Just to protect the client. They’re a bigger name than we’re used to dealing with. If you sign, we’ll have a proper meeting with them tomorrow and dig into all the nitty gritty.” 

“You phrase it like I have a choice,” you had muttered before picking up the pen.

You knew you didn’t. And Lydia’s smile had confirmed it. 

Romina continues on with more convincing, but you’ve stopped listening. There’s not a single thing she could really say now that your mind was made up — you were staying in tonight. 

“Ro,” you finally snatch the phone back up into your hand, straightening out as you pick out a random tupperware that you think holds chicken parm from that fancy lunch date you’d gone on over the weekend, “I’m not coming out. I’m sorry.” 

Complete silence on her end. You worry for a moment that you had been too harsh. 

“Okay,” she finally gives up.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” the word continues to echo back and forth between you two, “That’s fine. I’ll just have to bother you about it tomorrow. At work. Where you can’t use bullshit excuses to escape me.” 

You consider snapping back about how you absolutely still could, until you consider the fact that you have a real excuse, “Good luck with that. I have a very real meeting with… with a client.”  

You don’t even know the name of the client, technically. You can only guess. 

You still hope you’re wrong.

“Right,” she laughs over the line, “See you tomorrow, babe.” 

“See you tomorrow,” you repeat back, staring at your now closed fridge before you’re relieved by the sound of a dial tone, signaling that she’s finally hung up. 

What you should do now is plate the leftovers, arrange yourself on your sofa, and numb your mind with The Office reruns. What you should do is leave well enough alone and continue in your delusion. 

You don’t. 

It starts innocently; you do transfer the cold chicken parm onto a plate and you do curl up on your sofa before flicking on the television. You do set the channel to the reruns. You do – and you swear you do it all with the best intentions. 

But then your mind wanders. 

As you stare straight ahead at the television, you’re not processing a single image that flashes across the screen. Your thoughts are a bit preoccupied with different images, movies and snippets from a point in your life that now feels like a lifetime ago. Conspicuous dimples making an appearance from across the room at a joke you had made, unkempt curls flying recklessly in the driver’s seat beside you on late night drives with the windows down, wild eyes shining like sunlight through a whiskey bottle as he catches your gaze from a stage much smaller than what he must be used to now. 

Everything from before. Before the not-fight, before the fame, before the move. Images of when Eddie had been yours and only yours, not yet a precious gem to have to share with the world. 

“Are you busy tonight?” 

Your locker had been slammed shut by a hand that didn’t belong to you, knuckles adorned with familiar rings and distinct callouses along the fingertips. 

“Hello to you, too, Eddie,” you smiled as you clutched one of the unnecessarily heavy textbooks to your chest, turning to face the boy who stood impatiently at your side. He was all jitters, rocking on his heels and nearly incapable of standing still as his body buzzed with excitement.

It rolled off him in waves, contagious as he leaned into you, “Yes, yes. Hello, sweetheart. How was your day?” you opened your mouth to answer him, but Eddie comically steamrolled right on, hands waving erratically, “Good? Good! Excellent! Now, are you busy tonight?”

“I was planning to study for O’Donnel’s test-“

“So you don’t have plans!” he exclaimed, throwing an arm around your shoulders as one of the annoying warning bells chimed. He may have been in an interruptive mood, but he knew you hated being late to class — less about being anal about punctuality, and more about the stares you’d practically burn under from the attention of other students when you’d barge in on the teacher mid-sentence, “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. In that case, I have fantastic news!” 

You allowed him to guide you amongst the bustling student bodies, only gaining a few stares from fellow peers, “You do, do you?” 

He nodded before he reached out and snatched that heavy textbook out of your arms, “Here, let me carry that for you, darling.” 

“Darling?” your nose scrunched, “Oh, no. You’re trying to sweeten me up. What did you do?” 

“Nothing!”

Liar. The crack in his voice would have given him away if his hyperactive energy hadn’t already done so.

“Oh, really? Then what’s your fantastic news, rockstar?” 

His grin that broke at your nickname for him could have destroyed the Earth you walked on just as easily as it could have mended it. Something groundbreaking, something to churn the dirt and raise the dead. Something made of pure sunshine and static happiness. But the only thing that cracked was your chest as it tried to contain the residual joy it felt for him in that moment. 

“Well…” he trailed off, leaving just enough room for a suspenseful pause that could have suffocated the room without that damn grin on his face, “Let’s just say you’re looking at the frontman of the Hideout’s newest Thursday night entertainment.” 

You took a moment to catch on, Eddie keeping you pressed closely to his side as the two of you stopped outside of your next class. 

“Thursday nights?” you questioned, brain working overtime to piece together what he’d just said, “Wait, I thought you guys only played Tuesda-“

When you had processed what he had meant, all that animated elation that had been consuming him became shared. Every jitter in his bones became your own, your own lips speedily spreading into a proud smile to challenge his own.

“Oh, holy shit,” you gasped, “You guys got the gig.”

One more bounce of his heels, curls quivering with the movement as his arms fell from you and the two of you faced one another.

“We got the gig.”

“You got the gig!” 

People had been staring more obviously at the sudden rise in volume from you, but you hadn’t cared. Because in that moment, all you focused on was the eager boy in front of you, and the way your broken chest mended from the same grin that had burst it wide open, only for it to swell with inexplicable pride.

“We got the fuckin’ gig!” he shouted right back, laughter slipping from between his lips that started to echo your own. 

You were the one bouncing then, hands instinctively reaching out to press on his shoulders in gentle slapping motions, unable to contain or conventionally express this pounding excitement. 

“You got the fuckin’ gig!” you were just parroting each other now, but you were just as delirious as he was as that final bell signaling you were late rang out. That certain embarrassment you were sure to have to face had become a distant memory.

Eddie had wanted this for a while. He’d been bugging the owner of the bar on the edge of town about Corroded Coffin earning a second night of residency for months, only taking the repeated rejections as encouragement to ramp up his convincing charm. You’d seriously doubted it would work, but had never voiced the concern aloud to Eddie. You’d always figured that the worst that could have happened would be another no, fuck off, kid. But the best that could have happened had been this — he would be told yes and secure his band two weekly performances at the Hideout rather than just the single one they played before. 

You didn’t know it then, but it was the first step down the path that would lead to inevitable heartbreak. 

“I haven’t even told the guys yet,” Eddie admitted once the two of you calmed down to the best of your abilities, “I… Uh, I wanted to tell them after school today. Was wondering if you might, I don’t know, maybe- do you wanna be there when I do?” 

And that made sense. Eddie inviting you made sense when you attended every single band practice in Gareth’s garage as religiously as he did. When you knew every word to their whole three original songs even better than him at times. 

He wanted you there. You were important to him, to the band, and he wanted you there. 

“I- Is that even a question?” you stared at him in disbelief, “Of course I wanna be there, you fuckin’ idiot. I can’t believe you told me before you told them, honestly.” 

His demeanor softened, the ghost of his exuberance still stubbornly lingering. But your eyes were on him, glowing with such high regard that it was impossible to not let it creep beneath his skin and trigger a blush across the bridge of his nose. All that love, all that pride. So genuine it could have made him cry. 

“Of course I told you first,” he whispered in a finally empty hallway, “You’re always the first person I tell any good news to, sweetheart.” 

When had you stopped being the first person he shared his forthcomings with? 

Probably the day you had decided to leave him, leave the entire life you two had built together, under the guise of best intentions. 

The TV continues to play as you stare at the wall, mind and heart alike locked up with nostalgia. The plate of leftovers has long since been sat down on the coffee table. 

You hadn’t let yourself reminisce like this since the very first night you had spent in your apartment. That first night, you’d allowed yourself to wallow. You had sat on this very same sofa, the entire apartment pitch black as you weren’t brave enough to turn on a single light and face yourself, and told yourself that any and all tears or regrets had to be purged that night. A funeral for all that you had lost, a single night to mourn all that you had left behind. 

Clearly, one night was never enough to let go of years of memories – of love. 

You don’t shut off the TV as you impulsively grab your phone, not thinking the action through before you do the one thing you had forbidden yourself from over the last few years; you’re going to Google search Eddie Munson. You’d created the rule as a make-believe step in the right direction. You told yourself if you didn’t google him, if you didn’t track down his every move after you’d left behind the damage done, then you could move on easier. 

From the first headline, you realize that it might have never been about moving on. 

FINAL NAIL IN THE COFFIN? HAS EDDIE MUNSON, LEAD SINGER OF CORRODED COFFIN, FINALLY GONE TOO FAR?

EDDIE MUNSON — ARRESTED AGAIN?

HOTEL COMES FORWARD ABOUT DAMAGES DONE BY ROWDY ROCKSTAR EDDIE MUNSON

HOW TO BURY A CAREER: A DETAILED TIMELINE OF CORRODED COFFIN’S EDDIE MUNSON’S DOWNFALL

“EDDIE MUNSON GAVE ME A CONCUSSION” - VICTIMS OF THE ROCKSTAR’S CLUB TANTRUM COME FORWARD.

Each headline sends your head reeling, eyes widening impossibly without even clicking on the stories. 

The boy you had known wouldn’t have done half of the things these accusations stated. Violence, trashing hotel rooms, public temper tantrums taken too far — it doesn’t feel as though you’re reading about someone you once knew, someone you once loved. The man in these paparazzi photos is a stranger, completely unrecognizable with his red eyes and middle fingers held high. 

A particular photo catches your attention. He’s standing outside what you assume is a club, in handcuffs. His hands are locked behind his back, an officer not far behind and his face bathed in glows of blue and red lights flashing from a car half blocking the camera’s view of him, and he’s grinning with dead eyes squinted to the sky. It almost looks as if he’s midlaugh — as if the entire scene was funny to him.

The one time he’d nearly been caught while pedaling drugs for Reefer Rick back home in Hawkins when you’d still known him, he had nearly burst into tears. Had panicked as he scrambled to shove everything, even just the weed, into every possible hiding place within his van. He hadn’t laughed in the officer’s face; he had been petrified, face transforming to that of a terrified little boy as you had told him to calm down and play it cool. 

You should stop scrolling. But you can’t.

Another photo, one that makes your chest echo with another hollow pang. It was clearly taken without him realizing it, the quality atrocious as the camera had attempted to focus in on him through a balcony sliding door of what must be a hotel. But despite the terrible blur, you can clearly pick out the details that were meant to be exposed. 

A speckle of white coating the ring of his nostril. Made even more obvious by that midday sun shining in on him. 

It was clearly the middle of the afternoon, and Eddie had clearly been caught snorting cocaine.

It’s a bit much. You haven’t even scrolled far enough to catch sight of all the pap photos of him with different women, or the photos of him clearly inebriated at major events that had been meant to celebrate him and the band’s success. You lock your phone, you set it down on the table with the screen facing down. You hardly recognize him. 

The reality is you had never googled Eddie for the same reason most won’t look at the corpse of loved one’s at open casket funerals – you wanted to remember him when things had been good. You had wanted to convince yourself that you still knew him, some version of him, and that he hadn’t become a total stranger.

But, really, you’d known the moment you had walked out of that once shared apartment that you had lost the privilege of knowing him. Of loving him. The moment he had stopped telling you that he loved you, you had known something between the two of you had died. Losing Eddie hadn’t been a sudden thing — it had been a long, painful, torturous process. When all that love and all that promise had died, it hadn’t gone down without a fight. He had smothered it, but you had provided the extinguisher. You had pushed him to chase after his dreams, and you should have never been surprised when he did exactly that.

You should have never been surprised that one day, the space you’d claimed residency in in Eddie’s heart would become nothing more than an annoying prick to him. A thorn in his side, sharp and threatening all that he had worked so hard to achieve.

So you’d left. You’d left, told yourself it was for the best, and exited with more love for the memory of a man than the tangible person on the other end of that terribly lonely dial tone – on the rare occasions he did call. 

You didn’t know him. It’s a truth you should have long since swallowed, but hadn’t. Not yet. Not in the last two years.

Your appetite is gone as you stand from the couch and grab the leftovers, only pausing on your way to the kitchen to scrape the waste off into the trash can. What a waste. As you put away the plate into the sink, not bothering to wash or even rinse away the crumbs, you immediately grab one of your few wine glasses and set it on the counter. Drinking wasn’t the wisest idea, but your body has begun to move on autopilot. And it seems convinced that feeling the buzz from alcohol would be better than the feeling of nothing at all. 

You didn’t know him anymore. And the space you’d still let him occupy in your memories, whether you’d wanted to admit it or not, was now hollow.

You turn your back on the glass, still numb and still reeling as you open the fridge and pull out a half empty bottle of merlot, cork half peeking out the top of the bottle. You can see that stained bottom half, almost half hidden in a weak attempt to preserve the wine inside. Maroon. Deep, deep maroon bleeds up and feathers at the edges of that cork as you pull it out fairly aggressively, carelessly tossing it onto the white countertop and not watching it bounce as you pour yourself a drink. 

In your hollow staring off into the distance, you don’t realize you’ve missed the glass in your pouring until the chilled liquid splashes at your knuckles – until it’s too late. You panic, grabbing at paper towels and rinsing off your hand in the same breath, but it’s clear that it’s a useless battle in cleaning up the mess you’ve made. 

The damage is already done. As you soak up the wine and swipe away, a pink-tinged blotch is still left behind. 

Stained. What a pesky thing to become.

ghost's taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @figmentofquinn @bebe07011 @barbedwirebats @ayooooo0 @neverlearnedcivility @munson-enthusiast @digwhatudug @wow-cam @daddysmodifiedprincess2 @cancankiki @gothmingguk @nix-rose @thesesuggestedblognamesbegreat @chevelle724 @madaboutjoe @take-everything-you-can @josephquinnsfreckles @conquerwhatliesahead92

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain

[alienoresimagines]

What if John was never shot down ? (John edition)

I've been thinking a lot lately about what would've happened if John hadn't been shot down over Münster so here are some HCs 😊 Warning : Lots of angst lol (Gale HCs here)

Let's imagine for a second that, after meeting with Bucky, clearly grieving, a bit drunk and all in all not fit for being on a mission, Harding decides not to have him on the Münster mission

Instead, he sends him to the flak house which was a decision he'd already thought about after Dye's party but Gale had convinced him to send John on a weekend pass instead

So Bucky is ordered to the flak house despite his best efforts to convince Chick he can be on the mission

He's so angry at everything and everyone : Buck for having left and being shot down, the 100th for acting as if Buck was dead (he's not, Bucky'd know), Chick for sending him to the flak house instead of giving him a chance to let him join Buck, either down below or even higher in the skies, the world for having taken his Gale from him

Most of all he's mad at himself because he left Buck, he wasn't there with him, instead he was spending the night with Paulina and while he was doing that Buck had already been shot down and he didn't know

He's in a strange place of grieving Buck but also convinced he's not dead because if he is, then there is nothing more for Bucky to do in this world

He lashes out at pretty much everyone but is somewhat grateful the doctor doesn't try to make him talk, and lets him be morose and quiet in his corner

He doesn't try to socialise with anyone and tries to drink as much as he can but there's only so much alcohol to be found in the flak house

He barely sleeps because all he can see when he closes his eyes are images of Gale bleeding, Gale unconscious as his plane goes down, Gale exploding with his plane, Gale pierced by flak, Gale terrified and alone

He'd be sitting somewhere and feel a ghost of warmth where Buck would usually be seated, close enough for Bucky to sling an arm around his shoulders except the space is empty

The Münster mission goes as it does in the show : only Rosie's crew make it back and that's the last straw for Bucky

Not only Buck's gone but now almost all the men he flew from the US with, Brady, Murph, Crank, his boys

Chick hasn't put a time limit to his stay at the flak house because even if he needs a Major now more than ever, he knows Bucky can't do that right now

Bucky can't bring himself to talk to Rosie's crew when they arrive at the flak house, too busy with his own grief and anger (a bit like he was at the Stalag except there's no Buck to check on him and pull him out of his own head)

He can't even look at them because why couldn't it be Buck who came back unscathed ? He immediately hates himself even more at the thought because it's unfair to Rosie and his men but also because Buck would never in a million years want that

He'd rather be the only one to go down if it means all his boys make it back rather than the other way around and Bucky knows that

More and more he can hear Buck's voice in his head, which isn't a good sign so he doesn't mention that to anyone, but he clings onto it like a lifeline. He refuses to forget what Buck's voice sounds like, not when he's already starting to forget the exact shade of blue of his eyes no matter how long and hard he stares at the picture he has of him and Buck from flight school or how long he stays awake at night picturing Buck's face not to forget it

Still Buck's features become blurry and John hates himself even more because can he even say he loves Gale if a few days were enough for him not to remember the exact shape of his jaw, the curve of his nose ?

Except that Buck's voice doesn't just sound like his voice, it says things like Buck would say

Encouraging Bucky to drink a bit less, to go to sleep even if he can only close his eyes without falling in Morpheus' arms, to eat more, not to give up on himself and not to give up on Buck

Voice!Buck encourages him to go talk to Rosie and his crew, not even to be Major Egan but just someone who knows what they've been through, someone they can talk to

And Bucky knows that's what Buck would want him to do. Knows that from wherever Buck is, he'd be worrying about his men and about Bucky

So he does the only thing that he can do for Buck at the moment and tries to pull himself in a semblance of a man

How ironic is it that even though he's not there, even though he's been shot down while Bucky was enjoying a woman's touch, Gale's still the one to save him ?

So Bucky starts to pull himself together and is eventually sent back to Thorpe Abbotts

He's not even 75% alright but he can do his job even though he still drinks more than what's healthy

Chick was never scared Bucky would pull a suicide mission because he knows that no matter how deep in gried, Bucky'd never endanger his men like that, but he feels a tad bit more serene when sending him on missions

Bucky is absolutely burning with his want for revenge and justice

In December, he learns that Gale's alive and that changes things

It's like a weight was lifted from his shoulders and he can finally look up from the ground to look at the stars and hope

Which is strange because he's always known Gale was alive, too stubborn to die, but now nobody looks at him with pity anymore

And the thought that Buck is down there in a POW camp makes him even more determined

He sends Buck's letters even though he has no idea if the Germans will let it get to him but he still does (girl worth writing too and all)

In the meantime he kicks up a friendship with Rosie

He flies his 25 missions but he re-enlists because there is no way in hell he'll be going home while Buck is still a POW

No, he'll drop bombs until Germany's unconditional surrender and the liberation of the POWs

He gets a letter back from Buck and he has to go hide himself in the cockpit of B-17 to read it because he knows he'll lose control of his emotions

He absolutely cries in relief and because of course Gale would ask him if he's alright and hope he's holding up okay

Not so gently threaten Buck into taking care of himself and not be the sacrificial idiot John knows him to be in his next letter, even though he has little hope Buck will do it

But if Voice!Buck was enough to pull him out of his hole, maybe knowing Bucky is waiting for him will be enough to give Buck something something to stay alive for

Bucky you idiot Buck was fighting and staying alive for you all along

As D-Day gets nearer he's more determined than ever to really deal a blow and bring Gale closer to home

He doesn't fly as many missions as Rosie but that's okay with him. Even if he'd rather be the one flying with his boys as many times as he can, he knows the work he does is helpful to the cause.

He still doesn't take his lucky deuce back from Buck's footlocker though. The bunk stays empty, no one daring to even sit on it. Bucky dusts Buck's stuff often, makes sure everything's in top condition for when Gale comes back

As the Russians grow nearer to the POW camp, Buck stops answering his letters and while Bucky tries to rationalize, he's still going mad with worry

Especially when he sees how's the winter is treating Germany

The nightmares, which haven't ever fully left, come back in full force as all the different scenarios for POWs haunt him

He absolutely refuses to imagine he could lose Buck so close to the end

And then April 1945 comes around

Bucky was on a mercy mission of his own when he comes back to be greeted with Blakely and Kidd, smiling wider than he's seen them do in years

Immediately, hope swells in his chest, echoes of POW camps being liberated in his ears

He welcomes back Gale like in the show, guiding him to land the plane with tears in his voice then immediately steals Jack's jeep to welcome him on the runway

Absolutely gives him the tightest, fiercest hug ever seen

He doesn't let Gale out of his sight for even one second, devastated to see the effects of being a POW for so long had on his Gale but so damn relieved to finally have him back

Is a bit embarrassed to show Gale how he's been taking care of his footlocker but tries to make light of it

"I knew you'd be back. Told any loony trying to take your bunk that you were just MIA."

And "I've been expecting you back for more than a year, what took you so long ?" though he's choking on his tears by the end of it and Gale's eyes glisten too

They hug for a long time after that

More in the reblogs because I've somehow hit the characters limit lol

[dreamtheatre]

Say Don't Go

Pairing: Hunter (TBB) x Jedi!Fem!Reader Summary: After your meeting with Rex, you and the Batch thought that you would never have to worry about the inhibitor chips hurting anyone else again. Turns out you were wrong when Hunter's chip activates, causing him to turn against you and the rest of the Batch. Word Count: 3K Warnings: Heavy angst, hurt no comfort descriptions of injury

After meeting with Rex, an old friend of yours and the rest of the Batch, you didn't think you would have to worry about those damned inhibitor chips again. After all, Rex assured you that after the surgery the chips weren't an issue. Turns out he was wrong.

You should've realised something was wrong when Hunter started complaining about his head hurting. You had dwelled vaguely on it, but ultimately decided that it was probably just the weight of everything that had happened after the war - Order 66, finding Omega... it was a lot for anyone. Even a tough Clone Sergeant like Hunter.

You had met Hunter and the rest of the Batch during the final year of the Clone Wars, when you had been excused briefly from your role as Co-General of the 212th Attack Battalion (the other General was your close friend Obi-Wan Kenobi) to help Anakin Skywalker save one of his 501st troopers, Echo. You still remembered and reminisced the exact moment the strange clones stepped down from their ship onto the Coruscant ground.

The Marauder descended from the cloudy Coruscant sky as you stood on the landing platform with Rex, Cody, Kix, and Jesse, bouncing on your heels with anticipation as you awaited the arrival of the so called Bad Batch.

"So, how come I've never heard of this squad?" You asked, and Cody raised an eyebrow, but answered regardless

"Experimental unit Clone Force 99. They’re defective clones with, uh… Desirable mutations." Cody answered, "They call themselves the Bad Batch." The five of you lifted your arms to shield yourselves from the wind as the ship landed with a woosh on the landing platform, and your eyes lit up with curiosity as four clones, varying in height and build and sporting darker coloured clone armour, walked slowly down the ramp.

The tallest and largest one removed his helmet with a wide grin on his face. He sported a scar across the left side of his face, and one blind eye. "The cavalry has arrived!" He hollered.

Behind your back, you heard Kix whispering to Jesse about how the approaching squad didn't look like clones at all, and you couldn't help but agree. Following the first clone's example, the other members of the Batch removed their helmets. There was a lanky one with a datapad in hand and orange-tinted goggles covering his eyes, a tall, slim clone with a target-shaped scar (or maybe it was a tattoo, you couldn't tell) over one eye). The slim clone placed a toothpick in his mouth as he approached them, eyes landing disdainfully on the other clones.

The final clone was just a bit taller than average height, and muscular (not in the same way as Wrecker). He was more similar to the face of the other, regular clones, but he was so... different at the same time. The entire left side of his face was tattooed a darker shade with half of a skull while the right side of his face was left normal. He had sharper amber eyes that pierced into you, unlike the other clones, and had longish dark brown hair, kept away from his forehead by a red bandana sporting a small white skull symbol.

When his eyes met yours, you sucked in a sharp breath. You held eye contact for a second until Cody stepped forward and held out a hand, causing him to cease eye contact with you and focus on Cody.

"Sergeant Hunter. Good to see you again."

Hunter.

"You too, sir." The Sergeant replied earnestly. His voice was different from the clones too. It had just a bit of a smoother edge, like a sly fox, but still held the commanding tone of a commanding soldier. "Sorry we’re late, Commander. We were putting down an insurrection on Yalbec Prime when your comm came in. Had a few unforeseen… complications."

"Ever fought a male Yalbec?" The large, muscular clone asked loudly, holding his belly as he laughed.

"Can't say I have," Jesse answered before anyone else could

"Well, all those Yalbec males tried to eat us." The clone was cut off by the clone with the goggles.

"Ah, technically they were trying to mate with us." The clone rambled. "And, for your information, the stinger of a Yalbec Queen is a delicacy on some planets."

"They call him Tech." Cody told them.

"Yeah, he can fill your head with useless info for hours." Hunter explained, his amber eyes drifted away from Cody back to you. "Crosshair, on the other hand, is not much of a conversationalist, but when you have to hit a precise target from ten klicks, Crosshair’s your man." Hunter paused, and you took a moment to compose yourself before introducing yourself. "It's a pleasure, General."

"The pleasure's mine, Sergeant."

There was a small silence after that, and you swallowed visibley at the tension. You were a Jedi, you always knew how to interact with people without making things awkward... that was pretty much your entire job before the Clone Wars started. So why were you finding it so hard now?

"So, Commander, what kind of suicide mission do you have for us this time?" Hunter finally spoke, tearing his eyes away from glancing up and down your body to look at Cody. Cody cleared his throat, and began explaining the mission as you felt a small elbow on the back from Kix and Jesse. You turned around to see both clones sporting knowing smirks, and causing you to roll your eyes and shove both of their chest plates softly, nearly groaning at their antics.

"Let’s get going, men." You interrupted. "We’ll brief you on the way. There's no time to waste."

Now, standing in behind of Hunter as he suddenly froze, the only movement in the room being the flickering of a candle on a table and the slightest tremble of Hunter's body as he stopped, immobilised in a slightly crouching position.

"Hunter?"

The former sergeant didn't respond, only trembled slightly. Although you had cut yourself off from most of the force, using it being too dangerous after the events of Order 66, you could feel how his force signature was suddenly sucked out of him, as if he hadn't even existed in the first place.

"Hunter, what's wrong?"

Hunter slowly, almost cautiously stood up from his crouched position, not turning around, but still trembling.

"Hunter?" You quickly approached him, worry coursing through your veins as you placed a soft hand on his shoulder plate, frowning further when he still didn't turn around. "Just... wait a moment. I'll call Tech." You dialed in the com-channel with your free hand, one hand still resting on the former sergeant shoulder, not noticing at all that the trembling had ceased. "Here we go." Your smiled slightly in relief when Tech's voice's, but your heart immediately stopped when you focused in on what he was saying as he called out your name urgently.

"I've figured out the reason for the headaches." Tech was saying, his speech rapid and stressed. It was the most panicked you had ever heard him before. "It's his chip. You have to get out of there, now!"

Before you could react, Hunter turned around at the speed of light and pushed you so hard you were sent flying backwards into the opposite wall, the communication device . If it weren't for your slightly enhanced senses that being force-sensitive had granted you, there would've been at least three knives embedded in your body before you even had the chance to move. Luckily, you were flexible and able to move fast enough to grab two of his knives from the wall, one in each hand, and defend yourself when Hunter suddenly appeared beside you, slashing his vibro-blades in precise arcs towards you, only to be either dodged or stopped by the knives that you had stolen from him.

After a couple of minutes of defending yourself, you were beginning to tire out. It wasn't because Hunter was an extremely difficult opponent -you had faced Grievous during the war with only one lightsaber to fight against his countless ones, which you still considered your hardest duel to this day - but because you couldn't bring yourself to fight back. It was a one-sided duel.

"Hunter-" you tried, only to be cut off by dodging another strike. "Hunter, please-"

There was no response, only the continued whooshing of air that followed Hunter's calculated attacks. Slowly tiring out, you realised that you had to make your escape before things got bad. Slowly retreating, you gasped in pain as Hunter's knife finally made contact with its target, slicing diagonally across from your chin across your cheek. Dropping one of the knives instinctively to place a hand on your cheek, you couldn't make a sound as you felt Hunter kick the knife out of your other hand and wrap his arm around your neck from behind, slowly forcing your air supply to drop as you struggled in his grip.

"Hunter-"

"Your survival is in direct violation to Order 66," Hunter stated, and even though his voice sounded more emotionless than you had ever heard it before, you heard the slightest tremble in his voice... and that gave you hope.

Hunter's grip around your neck tightened, causing the world around you to slowly begin to dim as the corners of your vision turned black. In a final attempt, you closed your eyes, concentrating on the feeling of him around you as you delved into the Force for the first timed in what seemed like centuries, finding his mind and projecting your voice.

"HUNTER!"

Immediately, the former sergeant let out a sharp gasp in surprise as his arms loosened around you and he clutched at his head, as if trying to get the sound of your voice out. Taking the opportunity, you bolted towards the nearest window, not looking back as you quickly made your descent into the busy streets below, blending into the crowd to ensure that Hunter wouldn't find you.

...

"It's a risk-"

"A risk worth taking."

You were gathered in a small huddle inside the Marauder as Tech was giving his brief. It had been two weeks since Hunter's inhibitor chip had activated, even though you had all believed that it had been taken out. Tech told you that since Hunter was the last to remove his chip, the technology on the crashed Jedi cruiser might not have successfully removed all of the remnants, giving the Empire control over his mind.

You had been worried sick about him. What if Hunter had been killed by the Empire upon his return? Realistically, you knew the Empire wouldn't waste what they saw as a 'valuable asset', but you couldn't help but stress as your hand reached up to brush against the scar that had formed on the cut that Hunter had made on your face. When you returned to the Marauder, the bacta patch hadn't been applied quick enough and the wound was too deep not to scar. The bruises around your neck were just fading.

The Marauder had been your home for a while now. After Order 66, you had bumped into the Bad Batch coincidentally while they were on some sort of mission for their new employer, some lizard named Cid. You didn't really like Cid, so you had asked them not to reveal your identity to her. Ever since then, there was always a place on the ship for you. There were two spare bunks, which was perfect for you and Omega.

"I don't like this plan..." Omega spoke up, her wide-blown brown eyes filled with concern. "This puts everyone in danger."

"We're always in danger-" you were cut off as Omega continued.

"Especially you." Omega exclaimed, staring at you pleadingly. You sighed as you bent down on one knee in front of the small clone.

"Hey... we're going to be okay," you promised with a small smile. "We're always okay. Aren't we, boys?" Echo shrugged, Wrecker nodded his head enthusiastically, Crosshair continued polishing his rifle, and Tech shook his head. "Wow. Thanks to Wrecker and only Wrecker."

"You got it!"

"I'll keep an eye on our sarad," Crosshair told Omega, who didn't look a bit less stressed. Sarad, meaning flower in Mando'a, was the Batch's nickname for you. It had become more common to use the nickname than your real name, at this point.

"See?" You told Omega. "I'll be fine. Promise." Omega's eyes darted around the room as if looking for support, but each of her brother's expressions were just as determined as yours.

"We're going to get Hunter back safely." Echo exclaimed, and the rest of the Batch nodded in approval, even Crosshair gave the slightest bob of the head. At that, Omega sighed as she quickly ran over to you, still on one knee. She wrapped her arms around you tightly, and you returned the hug effortlessly. As a Jedi, you didn't really hug people often. You supposed this was one of the good things that came with the end of the Order - freedom with your own emotions.

"Stay safe," Omega whispered in your ear.

"Always."

...

Walking through the dense forest of some planet on the edges of the Outer Rim, you held on tightly to the blaster that you had brought with you. The plan to get Hunter back was simple. Tech had tracked Hunter down. He had returned to the Empire and was now in full service, going on missions to hunt down the remaining Jedi. As far as you knew, he hadn't caught any so far, but he would've informed the Empire of your survival.

Tech's plan was for you to go in alone, this time fully equipped if a fight broke out. He would stay with the Marauder nearby while Echo and Wrecker distracted the team that Hunter was sent with and Crosshair found a sniper's nest somewhere and watched your backs. All you had to do was stun Hunter with your blaster and bring him back to the Marauder so that Tech could perform a surgery to remove what remained of the Inhibitor chip.

As you continued to make your way through the forest, stopping at a clearing, you could feel his presence behind you. You had known that he was following you for a while, but you wanted to wait for him to attack first. What was curious was that he didn't. As you made your way to the middle of the small clearing, you turned on your heel to face him.

And there he was.

The trees cast a shadow over his body, and the only light that illuminated either one of them was the dual white moons that slowly moved over the clear night sky. You tightened your grip on your blaster as you stared at him.

Hunter's black and red armour had been replaced by clean grey armour, with no embellishments whatsoever. Your nose scrunched up at that. The Empire was disgusting for not letting its soldiers have personality... or control over their own minds.

Surprisingly, Hunter began to speak first. "It seems as if you came to me."

"What gave it away?" You retorted.

"A miscalculated decision on your behalf," Hunter continued as if he hadn't heard you. You shook your head at the way he was speaking. Hunter didn't talk like this... "You were quite easy to track, but it almost seemed as if you wanted me to find you."

"Hunter," You pleaded, a wave of emotion suddenly crashing over you. "Please. We just want you to come home."

"Home," Hunter mused mockingly, his head tilting to the side. Even through his grey helmet, you could feel his cold gaze on you. "What an idiotic thought-"

"It's not," You cut him off. "You have a home, and it's with us! With your Batch, and Omega, and..." you swallowed visibly. "And me." Hunter remained silent as you slowly took a step towards him, then another. And another.

"Don't think I didn't notice all those times you called me those nicknames." You continued as you got closer and closer. "Mesh'la, cyar'ika... I asked Echo what they meant and he said they were names that Mandalorians used to call their loved ones." You let out a quiet laugh. You were less than five feet away from him now. "And I don't know how exactly you feel about me, but I know how I feel about you." You sighed stopped directly in front of him. "Jedi's aren't supposed to form attachments, or feel things, or say these things to others but... I'm not a Jedi anymore. The Order is long gone, and I'm free to say whatever the kriff I want." There was a short pause. "Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum."

Both of you let out a quiet gasp at the same time, as Hunter immediately fell backwards and collapsed on the floor, the blue stun bolt shining across his body before dissipating into the air. You felt the blinding pain before you saw it. Two vibro-blades had pierced through your armour at strategic points, because Hunter knew where the weak spots in your armour were. One blade was in your stomach, and another was right in your heart.

You let out a choked breath as you stumbled back, helplessly trying to stop the flow of blood as you collapsed on your knees and landed on your side on the grass. You tasted iron as blood slowly began to fill your mouth from internal wounds. Hunter knew exactly where he stabbed you.

Somewhere in the distance, you swore you could hear Crosshair yelling at his brothers, telling them that you were hit, that you were down, but you felt yourself not caring as you began to feel... nothing.

The last thing you did was turn to see Hunter's fallen body and pray that the Batch was close enough to rescue the one that you had fallen for before the darkness came to bring you home.

"Why'd you have to lead me on?Why'd you have to twist the knife? Walk away and leave me bleeding, bleeding? Why'd you whisper in the dark? Just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screaming, screaming" - Say Don't Go (Taylor Swift)

end

... or is it? should i do a part 2? comment or jump in my requests if you want one! this is my first star wars fic so please be kind!! update : part two is coming! xx dreamtheatre requests are open!!