#everywhere they go you just hear this tiny whirring sound

[nocentis]

Reforged┆x791

╳┆The ground beneath them groaned, preceding its shift by mere moments. He prepared to leap from one platform to the next, but his borrowed attire got the better of him and he sorely undershot the landing. The ledge scraped him from shin to chest on his downward plummet, arms just barely catching the platform before he managed to sink toward oblivion.

As he began dragging himself toward safety, fighting the rotation of the still-turning maze, he felt someone grab his wrist and hoist him to relative safety.

“Stay on yer feet,” Gajeel snapped, irritation laden in both face and voice, “If yer gonna be embarrassing, do it away from me.”

“Right,” he agreed, just barely managing to suppress his mortification. Only the first event and he was already making a mess of things. Not using his own magic was going to be even more of a challenge than he'd already anticipated.

Blasted pants. It’s hard to believe there is any alternate version of himself that would wear these gravity defying monstrosities.

Belatedly, he tossed out an underbreath, "Appreciate it," as they turned to catch up with the others, who had taken the shifting map into stride and carried on without missing a beat.

Gajeel grumbled back, "Don't mention it."

╳┆As the third day's events began and the stadium came abuzz, he found his window to slip away unnoticed. The past few nights of aimless roaming about, catching whispers of that sour presence on the wind, have yet to bear fruit. All that time wasted was compounding; it made his bones itch. He hadn't attended these games on holiday — hadn't broken the rules and risked Fairy Tail's elimination just to suffer a humiliating forfeit and then sulk in the stands. No, there was something evil lurking about, and he fully intended to find it.

"They went that way."

Despite his prickly countenance, Gajeel seemed adept at sneaking about. Jellal barely heard him approach before he'd issued his offhand comment, pointing in the opposite direction in which Jellal originally intended to go.

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Gajeel cut him off to explain, "They stink."

Jellal nodded, remembering the reaction he received upon his last expression of gratitude, and shifted his stride accordingly. "Tell me how the day goes."

"Nah," Gajeel called behind him, "I ain't yer fuckin' parrot."

[dreamsclock]

Hi!

I don’t know if you know the Dreams Chat as butterflies Headcanon but I am literally in love with it. So combined with the protégé AU I think that could make a pretty cute situation?

Hope you have a nice day!

PROTÉGÉ TOMMY AU / BUTTERFLY CHAT AU

Tommy wakes up to a beautiful orange butterfly perched on his nose.

His gut reaction is to slap at it, but it flutters high above him before his hand connects, and so he only really succeeds in hitting himself in the face.

“Dreeeeeaaam,” he groans, head flopping back against the bed, “go the fuck to sleep, man.”

warnings: ambiguous / hurt/comfort ending

His only answer at first is the sound of a man at the end of his tether turning over in bed.

“Dream.”

“How’d you even know I was awake?” A familiar voice grouses from across the room. “You’re so creepy. You’re like— stalking me or something. Monitoring my breathing.”

Resigned to the fact he won’t be sleeping any time soon, Tommy flips on the light beside him. He doesn’t particularly care if he wakes Punz: Punz is an idiot, and he sucks, and yesterday he’d tripped him up and made him look like an idiot in front of Techno, so yeah, Tommy hopes he wakes up. And he hopes he’s pissed.

But thoughts of smug vengeance die quickly when his attention is drawn to something much more pressing instead: namely, the roof of their base.

Or what had been the roof of their base. Tommy can’t actually see it anymore because it’s become the joke of thousands and thousands of tiny butterflies, fluttering their wings innocently, but he’s certain the roof is still under there somewhere. Hopes it is, anyway. Last thing he needs is for their roof to have been completely destroyed by a bunch of stupid ugly butterflies he doesn’t even like.

“Your fuckin’ Chat,” Tommy scowls, “don’t blame me. Maybe if you had a normal fucking version of your Chat that wasn’t seventy thousand butterflies— Jesus Christ, man, they’re just creepy. They’re everywhere and they’re creepy and they’re fucking orange.”

“They’re not all orange.” Finally gracing Tommy with his presence, Dream sits up in bed. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark rings under them. There’s a butterfly nesting in his unruly hair that he gently lets land on his finger, a small green one, lined with silver spirals. “Nat isn’t. Don’t tell me you’re colourblind or something.”

Tommy stares. “You named them?”

“No— what?” Dream splutters. “Tommy, it’s— Your Chat all have names. You’re not being serious. You knew that, right?”

From underneath Tommy’s bed, there’s the sound of a mechanical, sad whir from his Chat. He tries not to think about it too much. “I— Yeah, course I knew,” he says, breezily, “they— all of them? Like there’s multiple names?”

“You’ve been neglecting your Chat.” Incredulously, Dream shakes his head. “That’s fucked up, Tommy.”

“Not neglecting!” He protests. “Just not—”

“Jesus Christ,” Punz snaps, “can both of you shut the hell up?”

From the doorway, Punz appears like a rabid animal, arms crossed, tapping his foot as if he’s the most long-suffering person on the planet, which in all fairness, Tommy thinks, he might just be. Dream takes one look at his ally and flips back down into bed with a groan, hands covering his face like he’s the second most long-suffering person on the planet, which in all fairness, he might just be. “Sorry,” Dream mumbles, “Tommy is just—”

“Don’t speak.” Punz tells him. “I don’t wanna hear the kid’s name before eight tomorrow morning. I want a— these are my Tommy-Free hours, okay. You wanted him here, so you keep him for the night.”

Tommy squawks. “I’m not a pet!”

“Shut up, Tommy,” Dream and Punz say in tired unison, before offering each other a reluctant grin.

—

By the time they actually settle down to sleep again, the butterflies have settled down. They’re calm, shrouding Dream’s body in a soft multicolored glow that surprisingly, doesn’t annoy Tommy as much as he’d assumed. His own Chat has fallen asleep again, making soft little hums as it sleeps, and, heavy-eyed, Tommy finds himself following suit.

“Dream?” He yawns. “Why were you still awake earlier?”

For a moment, he thinks Dream might already be asleep. But then his voice rings out in the darkness, quiet, tentative.

“I… was thinking,” he admits, “about tomorrow.” And then he says, “I… was scared.”

Tommy’s eyes snap open.

“What?”

Dream doesn’t reply. For once in his life, Tommy doesn’t push the subject. But he doesn’t fall asleep that night either, plagued with thoughts of the morning to come. Because the morning brings a new day with it, and the new day brings the staged disk finale with the rest of the server.

Which brings with it, the prison.

When dawn breaks, Tommy sits up in bed, quietly, and locks his gaze on Dream’s sleeping form across the room. Without his mask, in the pale light of early morning, he looks vulnerable. The butterflies crowding round him aren’t beautiful, anymore. They’re protective.

I was thinking. About tomorrow. I was scared.

Tommy’s lips pull themselves into a tight, tight frown.

When Dream wakes, he says nothing. But before they part ways to play their respective roles, Tommy seizes his arm roughly, pulls him close.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, voice thick, “trust me, man. You’re gonna be fine.”

Dream, expression hidden behind his mask, doesn’t speak for a long moment.

“I know,” he says finally, and the words come out resigned, tired, “I’m always fine, Tommy.”

There is a lone butterfly in his hair when they separate, and Tommy hides it under his helmet. The rest remain with Dream until the bitter end.

Tommy’s butterfly stays with him when Dream is locked away, and Tommy keeps it safe, fluttering right over his heart.

send me prompts via my askbox!

[ddejavvu]

The House at the End of the Lane - Vampire!Regulus Black x Fem!Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: The house at the end of the lane is ridiculously overgrown, and you’ll be damned if you let the recluse inside keep living like that.

WC: 1.4K / navi

Your shoes tap incessantly on the weathered pavement as you knock, moss already staining the soles from where you had to trek through the front yard. The house is disgusting, completely buried beneath years and years of failed botanical experiments, trees growing this way and that, vines threatening to block the windows that are always shut.

You stop frowning at the overgrown, dried out foliage when you hear the door open, and you're met with a tall, pale man, black curls obscuring his face, leaving tiny gaps that his eyes peer through as they scrutinize you.

"Your garden is obscene," You spare the man no mercy, gesturing to the expansive yard put to waste by the dead plants everywhere, "You've gotta do something about this."

He blinks confusedly at you for a moment, whatever cold remark had been poised to launch from his lips completely silenced as he processes your words. He finally manages to stutter out a weak, "What?" as he stands awkwardly at the door, the power and control he normally felt having drained from his body.

"I mean really," You scoff, "Look at this! There's dead leaves everywhere, and that tree is rotten, it's completely tipped over! And what about those vines," You gesture to the side of his house that looks as though it's been eaten alive by the invasive plant, "That's ridiculous! This place is an eyesore."

Regulus stands dumbfounded on his doorstep, one hand tightly clutching the door to ground himself while you speak. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? In his 700 years of living in this house, no one has ever come up to him, much less berated him for the way he lives.

Your condescending tone finally restores some of his usual haughtiness, though, stubborn pride at match with your own, "I'm not a gardener. If you don't like looking at it, then don't."

"I can't help it, none of us can! No wonder children are scared of you, this place seems straight out of a horror novel!"

"Why are you here? Just to insult my botanical skills, or is there some deeper purpose within you?" Regulus leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as his jaw locks tight in a frown.

"I'm here to tell you to shit or get off the pot," You huff, "Either get out here and fix this yourself, or I will."

"What?"

You roll your eyes, hands tossed in the air frustratedly, "What's not to understand! If you don't start tending to your garden, I will."

"Go away," Regulus sneers, backing into the dark doorway of his foreboding home, door already half shut, "And don't come back."

Regulus is awoken the next morning to an invasive whirring sound coming from his side yard, stumbling out of his grandiose bed and peering through the curtains. Light streams through the gap in the fabric and he grimaces, ignoring the sting on his skin as he tries finding the cause of the disturbance.

Of course, it's you. Regulus doesn't know why he didn't expect it, you'd certainly been bold to show up and tell him off in the first place. But he'd assumed his ice cold nature would be enough to scare you off for good.

But no, the sun hat on your head and the overalls over your torso prove that he hasn't been cold enough, the weedwhacker in your hand demolishing the foliage debris on the pavement.

He slides on a silk robe, too prideful to step outside the confines of his house in his emerald green sleepwear, stalking to the front door and yanking it open.

"What are you doing here?" He spits, glare locked onto your form as you turned to face him.

"Well, it's about time you noticed me. Heavy sleeper, aren't you?" The bright grin on your face is not what he hoped his chilling glare would bring, expression as bright as the sun that burns his skin.

"Get off my property," Regulus drawls, "I'm getting very tired of asking you."

"Then don't keep asking." You fire back, triumphant grin on your face when you were able to frustrate him into silence, "And get dressed, you're helping me. You can start on the vines."

Regulus stands in the doorway with his mouth slightly ajar, confused gaze locked on you as you turn back towards your work. He stands for only a few seconds more, until he unfreezes and pivots back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

He intends on going back to bed, burying a pillow over his face and ignoring your annoying presence, but his feet betray him, leading him to the window that stretches the entire length of the foyer. They settle him on the cushions of his lounge as he peers through them, eyes trained on you as you work.

He notices your fatigue early on. He has no idea how long you've been there, but you seem to be taking frequent breaks from being hunched over, leaning back against his rickety iron fence and closing your eyes.

No amount of pain seems to be stopping you, though, as you persist through the yard, cleaning out an entire corner of decaying tree branches, dead leaves, and persistent ivy. Regulus is reluctant to admit that his yard looks completely unrecognizable as you walk away from it, grass still a pitiful sight but sidewalk swept clean and fence standing tall, unobscured by plants. Each tree branch that you'd cleared is hastily tossed beyond the gate, lingering on the curb in a heap of misery.

Something deep inside Regulus itches to join you, a split second urge that he scolds himself for in the moments after it surfaces. He'd asked you multiple times to leave, you were trespassing on his property. He should not want to help you. But the satisfied smile on your face when you dust your hands clean, wiping them on your overalls and reaching for a single, almost empty water bottle laying on the sidewalk does him in.

He's upset at your persistence, but admires it all the same. He's never met anyone in the neighborhood that's even tried approaching him, let alone demand that something be done about his house and then do it themselves when he purposefully ignores them.

The sun beams hot in the sky, rays scorching Regulus's skin as he surveys you. He finally lets the curtain go, glancing at the elegant clock in the corner of his foyer and seeing that it's ten in the morning.

All you have out there is that measly water bottle, barely any liquid left inside, but you show no signs of stopping. Regulus's own throat is parched from simply sleeping, he can't imagine how thirsty you must be out in the blazing sun.

He only spends a moment deliberating, finally rising from the lounge and gathering the cheapest of his fine china. If he's going to offer you hospitality, it'll be begrudgingly.

He brews a steaming pot of tea, filling his cup with much more of the brew than your own. He takes a deep breath before swinging open the door, intent on setting your cup on the flowerbox and shutting himself inside once more, but you bound eagerly up to him, an exuberant grin on your face.

“Did y’come to join me?”

“No,” Regulus sighs, holding the tray out to you like it would explode if he kept it too close, “Take the cup.”

“Oh,” Your eyes light up brighter than the sun, the damned sun, as you scoop the tea cup off of the platter, “You brought me tea?”

“You don’t have much water left,” Regulus gestures with his free hand to the bottle on the sidewalk, “And I didn’t want to be responsible for you if you passed out in my- hey!”

You don’t even wait for him to finish his sentence before you’re slipping past him into the house, rushing eagerly over to sprawl yourself across his lounge, teacup held delicately in your palm.

“Cool couch,” You gush, draped dramatically over the furniture, “It makes me feel like I’m in some old romance movie.”

Regulus finally breaks out of his frozen trance, spluttering indignantly, “What are you doing?! Get out, you can’t just go into someone’s home without an invitation!”

You scoff, lips wrapped around the rim of the teacup as you sipped gracefully, still laying over the couch, “What am I, a vampire?”

[gaiuswrites]

Original Sin | Darksaber!Din

Pairing: Dark!Din x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ older for the love of all things holy)

Word count: 3.4k~

Summary: Things change after Grogu leaves. People change. No one is exempt.

Warnings/tags: DUB CON?¿, masturbation (m and f), inappopriate use of darksaber, sex toy (...), Dark!Din, Dom!Din, sacrilegious references, really dark shit, i am so sorry

Update: This should go without saying, but as it turns out, it’s in need of being said: every word written in this fic is my own; any likeness to any other work is coincidence, regardless of how bizarre. I don’t mean to offend anyone or raise suspicion, as I am certainly not a plagiarist (literally couldn’t be even if I tried: I am equal parts too incompetent, too busy, and too lazy to steal from someone else. Fellow writers can attest, I’m an absolute garbage reader and fall behind on almost everyone’s work. There’s an embarrassing amount I haven’t read.) Please reach out to me personally if you have any concerns. I respect everyone here like you wouldn’t believe. Sending love to you all. Be well. ✨

Notes: When I go to hell (it really is only a matter of timing, and not so much a question of if anymore), this fic will rank number one on the list of reasons why I’m sent to my eternal timeout. This... I'm twisted. I have issues. God help us. Seriously, this is basically a horror show. I bow down to the Darksaber!Din content creators who came before me, and the original artwork that inspired me to write this— thank you for lighting this (descending, dirty) path. I HAVE TAGGED A FEW PEOPLE HERE WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE INTERESTED but really— REALLY— there’s absolutely no pressure. Cheers friends x ( gif credit: @skyshipper )

Masterlist | Read it on Ao3!

The days stretch long like morning yawns—hours passing on creaky bones, slow and congealed inside the metal womb of the Crest.

It wasn’t always this way.

They used to be filled with pitter pattering— with wily antics and vanishing acts that could baffle even the most veteran of illusionists— with prying frogs from tiny, green hands and giggling as blocks and baubles floated through the hull. Laughter. There used to be laughter here.

But that was then. The child is gone now. The Razor Crest is quiet.

Time fills itself like this; there’s little for you to do now but wait. Wait for the dusk to blur into the dawn. Wait for your food to cook. Wait for the shower to warm. Wait for the parts you ordered to arrive at the port. Wait for Din to come back—to come home.

Home. You used to be so certain—you’d bite the head off anyone who questioned otherwise— but you’re not so sure this is home anymore. Its not that anything has changed. No, the galley, the carbonite pods, the cockpit, the deck—it’s all still here. The scuffed walls, the durasteel, the littered crates and packed arsenal. But—

It’s different. It feels different. Something is...

off.

You can’t quite put your finger on it. Its intangible, but it’s everywhere—like gas. Invisible to the naked eye, but encircling you all the same. Choking you.

Killing you.

There’s no good explanation for it. You feel eyes on you when there are none. You find yourself glancing over your shoulder, knowing full well you are alone. Something keeps snagging you, pulling at an unseen thread. The corners of your peripherals tugging at you. Beckoning.

Was that a shadow? No.

Is someone there? It’s just you.

There is a tickle at your ear - a constant - dancing along the shell of it. Wherever you go, it follows.

Home home home. It only feels like home when Din is there, safe and sound at your side. But even then, even Din—in all of his plated exterior—even Din has succumbed. Even Din has

changed.

The truth is, Grogu left and a part of Din left with him. There’s less of him now— more, too: there’s less where it matters, and there’s more where there shouldn’t be.

You don’t remember when it started—when he first disappeared. When the spark in him died, and he was reignited anew.

When this Other became.

On multiple occasions you’ve caught him murmuring into the bellied dark of the Crest with a bent spine, hunched over himself as if he’s shrinking—enveloping in in in as far as the beskar along his chest will allow him to cave. You can never pick up what he mutters, but you catch the sounds of his teeth and lips brushing together, hissing. It’s not Basic; you’d recognize it if it were. You don’t think its Mando’a either. It’s too sharp— too vile. There’s none of his language’s elegance in it.

“Did you say something?” You asked once, poking your head around the doorway, eyes resting on the shine of his helmet.

A beat—and slowly, he unfurled, rearing to his full height and like a sentinel he swiveled, pivoting to face you.

“No.”

Your throat bobbed. “Oh, I-I thought I heard-”

“Come here, mesh’la.”

And you did. You always do.

The darksaber appeared on his belt one day, shortly after the child went away. It came, only once, and there it stays. Indistinguishable - inseparable - there is no dismembering the two. It accompanies him in all things; when he pilots, when he hunts, when he eats. It sleeps by him.

By you, too.

Din has always been stoic—of scant words and physical timing—but now he is a golem. A silent, shrouded figure. His Creed is broken, and you wonder maybe - briefly - if Din is broken as well. He is never unkind to you. He is never threatening. But he is never him. His eyes— the oaky comfort you once found in them— have blackened. He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man.

And within that pit he has born rage. Immaculately, it has sprung from him as woman did by Adam’s rib. Like mold growing upon stale fruit does he have this—this wrath. It crept through him. It stalked along his soft flesh— his tawny hide—and it waited; patient, there in the shadows, it waited for him. Waited for him to turn his back, to close his eyes and drop his guard— leeway, an entrance— as to slip in undetected.

To inhabit.

The virtue and love that once thrummed within the heart of him has burned away. Charred. Only this of him remains; this insatiable lust— for blood sport, for the promise of split knuckles and fractured bone, for you.

For all of you.

Now, Din goes out on bounties like he needs it—like it’s oxygen. He lives off it. He’s sustained by the rush, by the adrenaline laced chemicals pumping through his arteries. He’s gone for days and weeks on end and when he returns, he fucks you like he’s been starved. Out in the wilderness without a morsel to eat, he devours you. He’s ravenous as he tears his way across your body—all too pliant for him, all too willing—letting him feast on the nectar dripping from your heat.

You can feel it in his foot steps as he storms the ship, the bassy echo of it. You can see it in the pitch of his visor. You can feel it in his cock as he slams into you, night after night after night—ceaselessly. Tirelessly. Unnaturally. The number of orgasms he wrings out of you is countless—his need so incurable, you have to fight to stay above it all; you have to war against your urge to slip away completely.

Din is one grey choice - one hair trigger - from coming undone.

And you should be scared. You should be terrified—he should terrify you. Like scalding water, you should flinch away at the mere sight of him—at the warning steam that rises from his pauldrons. This predator, unhinged and off his leash—a great, crushing beast at which you are at the mercy of.

But— you aren’t.

You couldn’t place it at first: the gnawing. The gnawing at your insides like maggots festering upon a grizzled carcass hanging limp at a wet market. You couldn’t name the tremor in your gut. You gave it epithets as best you could, you gave it placeholders - fear, worry, intrigue - all until one day it spilled. One day it seeped past the tremble of your stomach and sank lower, lower,

lower.

It settled in your cunt—the gnawing. And you named it Want.

You want him. You want this—you’re addicted to it. This sin like led-lined velvet, you want to roll in it until it poisons you, until you’re smothered with it, just like it’s smothering you now— blanketing you as you mewl naked in your bed, knees knocked together. Your eyes roll back into your skull as you frantically work circles into your clit with the all consuming thought of him: his teeth at your shoulders, his hand around your windpipe.

You’re nearing your finish, the promise of that tight coil unraveling there - there - right before you. You’re so enrapt in it—in this dizzying, wanton act—you don’t register the ramp lowering. You don’t hear the carbonite chamber whir, his quarry freezing over, or his foot falls sounding their way to your bunk.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You gasp, frightened eyelids wrenching open as his baritone timbre crackles through the hull. The Mandalorian stands there, backlit by the glow from the galley and he looms—expressionless. Haunting. You blink at him rapidly, batting away the desire that’s glazed over your eyes.

“Y-You’re back,” you stutter lamely. You try to smile. You try to distract him. “I uhm, I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you wouldn’t be back until, u-until..."

Your excuses fade, mouth parched dry. The film of his visor gives you nothing. He is unknowable, but you feel it - sense it - that energy—unbridled and rippling off of him in sick, suffocating waves.

“I’ll ask you again,” Din starts.

“What-" he steps towards you, darksaber hanging heavy at his hip, “do you think-" you shimmy up your cot, shoulder blades digging into the steel sidings, “you’re doing?”

Your heart thunders against your chest, beating until you’re sure it’ll burst.

“I’m-"

I’m sorry you almost say, and you have to force yourself to gulp down the apology. You know he doesn’t want it, and he knows you wouldn’t mean it even if you offered it to him.

Your brow wavers. “I-"

He rips away the sheet you had drawn up over you and reflexively you jerk back, revealing the gloss on your fingers and the patch of hair above your mound, shimmering shamefully—exposing you, mocking you under the dim lights.

“What’s this?” he asks, and fuck he’s patronizing you. He’s smirking—you don’t have to see it, you can hear it in the curving lilt of his voice as he drinks in the sight of your very obvious indiscretion, laid bare before him. You can’t bring yourself to answer him—you can hardly look at him—and you bristle, hair on your arm prickling up.

“You fuck yourself speechless, little one?”

Your cunt throbs, burning and contracting around the orgasm that was snatched away from you and fuck, you’re drowning in him. Din is tar—he’s an oil slick, and you’re plummeting through it—gasping for air, for the surface, for sunlight. He’s everywhere—his broad frame, his voice, his scent like copper and smoke. You can barely breathe through the thick of him.

“Answer me,” he growls, leather croaking at the clench of his fist.

“Yes—yes,” you utter, proceeding with honesty, no matter how pathetic. “I missed you,” you squeak out.

Din cocks his head, a smug look scowled onto his visor. “You missed me?” he purrs through a sneer and you nod, precious and small, worrying the inside of your lip.

He sinks one leg and then the other onto your bedroll, just between your parted feet, kneeling before you. The flimsy spring mattress squeals under his weight—all of that armor, all of that boiling soot trapped within him.

“How much?”

For a moment, you must look confused. Puzzled. Your eyebrows furrow as Din unclips the saber from his belt, rolling it over in his hand. You rake your gaze up from it, dilated pupils landing on the unforgiving black panel there.

“You claim you missed me. Prove it.”

Your cunt bottoms out.

He crouches over you, tracing along your inner thighs with it's steel shaft and you bury your fists into the cot. You don't know which to look at: Din or the rod in his hand. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you trust me.”

Fuck, it feels like you’re going to rattle apart. There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t humming—isn’t seizing up wild. “I-I trust you,” you mouth softly. And you do, whether you should or not—you trust him with your life, to make or ruin.

“Fuck, you’re wet mesh'la,” he appraises darkly, leaning in to run a leathered digit through your seam, parting your curls. Your legs twitch, heels of your feet digging into the bed. “So ready for me. So eager."

Your eyes dance frenetically down to the handle and back up to him as he aligns the saber with your pussy. The blunt end of it touches your lips and you shudder, instinctually fidgeting away from it. Din splays his hand on your knee, anchoring you in place. “Shh,” he coos, rubbing a thumb soothingly into your skin. It doesn’t feel sweet. It feels sickly, cloying— like arsenic.

You don’t dare breathe as he prods the shaft into you, inch by terrible inch. It doesn’t matter how slicked and wet you are from touching yourself, your walls strangle the foreign intrusion. Your body resists.

“Fuck,” you sob. Your throat, your pussy, all of it— it’s all compacted. It feels so fucking tight, both words and air fighting to get out and in all at once—everything inside you constricting.

“Show me,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Show me how much you missed me.” He drags his gloved digit over your clit, pressing down onto it until you see stars, fizzing in front of your vision. “I know you can take it, sweet girl. Be good and show me.”

Be good. Be good for him. Be his only vice.

He continues to swirl at your bundle of nerves and you’re nearly thrashing with it— with all of this— hair fanned and mussed against the pillow as you writhe, swallowing his saber to the hilt. Fuck, you’re so full. Maker, you’re stuffed with it; with the cold, uneven edges, the ridges woven into the grip of it— and he slowly - tortuously - delves the handle in and out of you, hitting against your cervix with every thrust.

You can only mumble. Your lips have gone slack, your mind is cavernous. All you can do is quiver and beg— beg for release. Beg for it to end.

Beg for more.

“Oh gods, oh g- Maker, please—”

Your bleary eyes shoot open as you’re silenced by the grip of his gloved hand.

“No.” Din pinches your jaw in the web of his palm, fingertips dimpling your cheeks. “No, your God isn’t here,” he seethes, low and deadly, graphite venom dripping from his lips. “Pray to me.”

Fuck.

Trembling, your lips pucker ugly and sloppy as you babble uselessly in his stony grasp, chin crinkling with a whimper. “D-Din.”

He inhales sharply, mouth snaking into a wicked grin behind his helm. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

He’s deboning you as he would a fish. Practiced, he plucks you into messy pieces—gutting you through your open maw. His ministrations are crawled. They’re slothed and carnal with arrogance and pride and it’s not enough—its all together too much, but still—it’s not enough. You’re hungry. You paw at him, scraping over his breastplate.

“Din, please—more," you gasp feverishly, eyes blown wide.

A blip of static huffs through his modulator. “You want more, you filthy little thing?” He gives you another squeeze, indenting scorch marks into your face.

You nod—you try to, his grasp is too firm, rooting your neck to still. “Yes.”

Din groans, all but obliging you as he begins to fuck you harder, pistoning through you as he thumbs your nub with his rough pad.

“Din-”

You’re whining now, tinny and depraved. It’s wrong. Every part, every second of this, is wrong. Immoral. But you can’t stop the way your body convulses at his every touch—you can’t stop the heat roiling in your core.

“Din, Din baby- fuck fuck fuck-”

It’s like he’s trying to split you in two—all of you. Your pussy, your mind, your soul—he’s bisecting you. Divvying you up to bits of nothing. It’s only then that horrid realization occurs to you, winding through your addled haze as he fucks you deep and splintering: you’ll never be whole again.

And scarier still—you don’t think you want to be.

No, you want to be these loathsome shards. You want to be broken glass. You want to draw blood.

You want to be possessed by him.

“Fuck yourself,” he pants, his cock straining violently against his trousers, begging for relief. “Be good and fuck yourself. Let me watch.”

Be good be good be good

He leaves your clit and you whimper at the loss. Your face is stained with tears. The salty trails cascade down to mingle into your hair, into the sheets. You’re vibrating, but you do as he says and you reach down, recoiling when you touch the chilled metal tip. Tentatively, you pad along it, settling on the end that’s peeking out from you.

A pained sound rumbles through Din as you wrap your fist around the saber, and your eyes flit up to meet his, hidden somewhere behind his helm. Hurriedly he unbuttons his pants in a flourish and removes himself from his constraints. He’s pulsing and proud, flexing up against his stomach, the veins choked to bulge along the angry, silken shaft of him.

Finally, you begin to move the hilt—finding an aching, undulating rhythm and he can’t fucking take it. He rips his helmet off, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Din,” your pray, “Din, I think I’m going to-”

You’re wrecked – fried like a livewire– as you look for him, as you search and search—for that warmth, for a trace of him left there. The Din you knew, the Din you agreed to fly with all those months ago, the Din you love. You think you see it sometimes—in the slant of his mouth, the bridge of his nose— but here, now, he is gone.

He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man, and you want nothing more than to fall. Standing on the ledge of him, staring down into the abyss—you want this. You want to fall. You want to jump.

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me, sweet girl— tell me.” He’s fucking his fist raw, humping into his palm as desperate as an animal.

“I’m yours,” you mewl. Furiously rubbing your clit with one hand and spearing yourself on the rod of his saber with the other, your hips buck and spasm. You snap. A blinding light sears through you, ricocheting off every scrap of muscle and tendon sewed up in your body. “Just for you,” you cry, “I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours—”

Your ragged sobs mix with the lewd slaps of skin as Din pumps himself, hot ropes of his release spitting onto you— painting your pussy, the divot of your navel, coating along the slope of your tummy.

“Look at you—fucking, look at you,” he moans throatily, easing through his rough strokes as he softens.

Your chest is heaving and you feel dumb, empty—like a puppet, arms and legs moving on phantom strings. Din removes the handle from you with a wet squelch; a viscous strand of your juices clings on, obscenely connecting your pussy to the base of it, and you rasp—the wind punched out of you with its gaping absence. You gush. It dribbles out the slit of you, leaking past your abused hole and soaking into the bedroll.

When he unsheathed the saber from your scabbard, he took a part of you with it. You’re so fucked out—you’re practically a parsec away— it went unnoticed.

Undetected.

It brushed past you. You didn’t feel it—you didn’t recognize the whisper that has slithered in in it’s place, nestling within your swollen folds.

Breeding there.

“Beautiful,” Din murmurs, placing it on the mattress beside your head, the chrome of it gleaming with your slick. He bows his head to lick a path up your cunt, laving you clean as he climbs higher and higher, tonguing off his seed from your stippled skin. “Fucking beautiful, mesh’la,” he growls. “Mine—all fucking mine.”

You’ve gone heavy. You’re too heavy to keep your eyes open—you’ve been hollowed out and you’ve got nothing keeping you tethered here. You start slipping under in slow motion—intervals between languid blinks lasting longer and longer. You’re spooled in a knot of tangled limbs with Din’s mouth, fervent and needy, flaying you open as he sees fit— with his hot mouth and teeth, suckling your breasts, biting at your nipples and bruising your pretty neck.

It’s not long before you hear it again, as you have before— as you always do: the faint caressing of speech, of lips forming language you cannot understand—made indecipherable in your strung out high.

“D’you say something?” you mumble, half conscious—half dreaming.

Din laps a long stripe up your throat, his stubble sanding your skin. “No.”

You sigh, breathy and girlish, as his fingers find your mound, dipping into you once again. He makes you cum twice more that evening. You barely have the strength to watch him do it.

/

Finally, when he’s satisfied—when he’s spent with driving you mad, making you rile— he grants you respite. He permits it – generous, charitable - and you sleep like the dead, soundly through the night until—

until you don’t.

Eyes. You feel them somewhere— there are eyes on you. You stir, stuttering in your sleep to squirm in the dark. You don’t know what you’re listening to at first. It’s a sound of some kind, a noise. There is a hiss—

A frigid hand seizes around the bloody organ pulsing in your ribcage.

No, not a hiss—it’s a voice. It’s— no-

You pat around for Din beside you but he’s gone—he’s long gone and his vacant spot has grown cold without him—and your nails dig into the sheets, desperately clawing into the fabric.

Inside you.

The voice, the sharp hush of it—it’s inside you. It speaks from inside your own mind, its forked tongue fluttering against your ear.

‘Wake up, sweet girl.’

/

Tags (IM SO SORRY): @djarinsbeskar @pedros-mustache @krissology @keeper0fthestars @read-and-rec

[awanderingdeal]

An unfair race

I finally finished this! This fic is kind of a follow on to Endless Nights. Note: That fic is rated M and contains some sexual content, but you do not need to read it for this to make sense. I wanted to combine Finn talking with Heather, and an aspect of the discussion after that fic, where we talked about athletes in particular using exercise as a coping mechanism, and how this can sometimes turn unhealthy.

Some content warnings for this one: over exercise (if you'd like to skip the explicit description of this, skip to after the first stars, although there are a couple of mentions throughout), food mentions, self-depreciation and mentions of coming out/being outed.

Rating: T

If you feel I missed any content warnings or need to change the rating, please drop me a message!

The characters in this fic are from the sweater weather universe and belong to @lumosinlove

Finn’s entire body ached as his feet pounded against the path once more. His form was sloppy now, shoulders too hunched over and his strides falling without any real control. He forced himself onwards, breaths coming in fast pants, the straining muscles of his quads screaming desperately for more oxygen. And yet, his brain still whirred, obnoxiously loud thoughts pushing their way back to the forefront each time Finn managed to grasp a few blissful quiet seconds. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d passed the statue of the girl and her ducks, the smile on her face that he normally found so comforting becoming more and more irritating with each meeting. As he came to the gates of the park, Finn contemplated going home, but even just the reduced speed had brought the taunting thoughts back with a vengeance. One more go.

***

"H, has her jacket on. Has everybody got their game faces ready, boys?" It had been at least 30 minutes since James had made the joke as they all tumbled from the locker room, yet the sound of bright laughter still rang in Finn's ears.

He watched as Heather tugged her suit jacket more tightly around her, their eyes meeting for the third time in short succession. Fuck. Finn pushed his tongue against his mouthguard, sinking his teeth into the hard plastic. Later, self-inflicted as the need would be, he would complain about the new one he’d have moulded, each guard always feeling slightly different. For now, the rhythmic clench of his jaw was soothing.

Finn forced a breath through his nose, trying not to react too visibly as Heather dipped her head once more to add another scribbled note to the small, black book she carried everywhere. He forced himself to look away, knowing his constant glances were giving away his unease. Whilst Heather didn’t come to every training session, not even most, it wasn’t that uncommon to see her hovering around the edges of the ice, and ordinarily, only the very newest of the team paid any attention to her beyond an initial greeting.

“Earth to O’Hara!”

Finn held up his hand in apology, shaking himself back to the training session. Kasey’s eyes bored into him. It wasn't his usual intense stare, but something more concerned and Finn waited for the inevitable question. After a long few seconds, Kasey's eyes dropped to the puck, passing it back to Finn to take another shot.

The numbers on the clock inched forwards, slow and heavy like the sweet sticky molasses Leo was so fond of. Still, when Coach finally dismissed them for the day, Finn found himself wanting to take another lap. If he could get his thighs to burn enough then his head would race a little less, and it wouldn’t be too suspicious; Finn’s record of being last on the ice was surpassed only by Sirius. Before Finn could really consider it, Leo was next to him, knocking their shoulders together.

“Hey,” Leo cocked his head slightly, hair ruffled from the mask he’d recently pulled off and his pale skin glistening with sweat. He looked as beautiful as ever. Illogical as it was, it somehow made the dull ache in Finn's chest worse. "Everything good?"

"Yeah," Finn tried for a smile. "Busy brain today, that's all." There was no point brushing the question off completely; Leo was scarily observant. He and Logan often joked that he had eyes in the back of his head. Finn had no doubt he had caught the many pucks he had missed over the last hour.

"That sucks," Leo said, scepticism leaking into his voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Finn followed his glance behind them to where Logan was tussling with Jackson, loud rumblings of French intertwined with their laughter. "Or Lo, perhaps?"

"I like it when he looks like that,” Finn sighed.

"Mmm, me too” Leo hummed, his features softening. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that change of subject though, Sir. You don’t have to talk to me about it, but please don’t bottle it all."

Finn slumped into his stall, smiling as Leo lifted his hand to press a kiss to the knuckles. “I’m dealing with it.”

“Baby,” Leo started, his next word morphing into a stunted exhalation of air. His eyes closed briefly, his shoulders squaring before he relaxed them. He opened his mouth again, the sentence uttered clearly not what he’d originally planned on saying. "I'm going to take my padding off and head to see Lars. I think Loops is sticking around so I can get a ride with him if you two want to go home?"

Finn thought back to the quiet look of concern on Logan's face after he'd got home from his run the previous evening, and to the creased lines of worry at the corners of Leo's eyes earlier. "I think I might go and see Heather," he shrugged.

"Thank God," Logan appeared, wrapping his arms around Finn's waist. "Your runs were getting ridiculous."

"You didn't say anything?" Finn turned in Logan's arms, to rest his chin on top of his head.

"We were going to give you one more day. Leo wanted to speak to you this evening, only I had faith.”

"Oh, fuck off," Leo laughed. "You were just avoiding the conversation."

“I’m offended that you would even suggest that,” Logan burrowed into Finn’s chest. The sweat soaked gear they wore didn’t smell great, but neither of them seemed to care.

Moody huffed as he veered around them, his arms filled with tape. “No canoodling in the locker room.”

***

“As lovely as this chat has been Finn, if you really did just come in to catch up then I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ve got a couple of sessions this afternoon, and a mound of paperwork to complete,” Heather shifted in the forest green bucket chair. They were new since Finn had last been in here, replacing an ugly leather thing that Heather had always complained was too stereotypical. She’d removed her jacket now that she was back in her heated office, the item hung on the back of the door where it rightfully belonged.

Finn, freshly showered and changed, sat cross legged in the chair opposite. He reached forward to grab more pretzel sticks from the bowl on the table between them, puckering his lips as his tongue protested another injection of salt. “You know there is something I could do with your opinion on.”

Despite the reaction being minute, Finn saw the tiny upwards quirk of Heather’s lips. “Go on,” she encouraged.

“It’s dumb,” Finn muttered, drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair.

“Thoughts don’t have moral value Finn, it’s what we do with that’s important.” Heather pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the table, holding them out. “Tap away, but please spare the upholstery.”

“Sorry,” Finn grimaced, cleaning his hands of the salty residue.

“No need to apologise, I’m just still a bit precious about the new furniture.” Heather smiled. “Why do you think your issue is dumb?”

“It’s -” Finn tugged at his sleeve. “I can just never be happy with what I’ve got can I? I spent 8 years saying that if Logan could just love me back then I’d never complain again. And now I’ve got Logan and Leo and I’m still not happy.”

“What’s making you unhappy?

Finn breathed in deeply, scrunching his eyes shut. He’d spent weeks stuffing the pain into the tiniest box he could in his brain, and now here Heather was asking him to just - talk about it?

“Finn, look at me?” Finn did as he was asked, lifting his head to find Heather’s kind eyes. “I’m going to reiterate something I’ve said before. You can say anything you want here. It doesn’t matter if it’s selfish or unkind or if you think it’s stupid. Unless I think you’re a danger to yourself or anybody else, then nobody is going to hear about it.”

Finn bit his lip, wiggling his toes beneath his legs. “I get jealous,” he rushed out. “I get jealous of Cap and Loops and Potts and Lily and all those other couples who just get to hug and kiss and tell the cameras how stupidly in love they are.” He paused, the panic of having told somebody matching the relief, but now the words had started tumbling out he couldn’t stop. “I get so angry about it. Sometimes, for the tiniest second, I hate them. All of them.” he whispered, barely able to admit it. “And then I just feel worse. Because I love them too and it’s not their fault. Cap and Loops didn’t even get a choice in the matter. How messed up is it to be jealous of somebody that got outed?”

“Emotions are complex. It is possible for you to have sympathy for Sirius and Remus, whilst still feeling jealous that they now can be more open about their relationship.”

'I don't like it," Finn huffed. The sentence had come out mimicking a toddler having a tantrum. Finn wanted to act like one too, to throw himself on the floor and scream.

“Have you spoken to Leo or Logan about it?”

“No,” Finn frowned. “It would just make them sad and I don’t want them to pressure them. I don’t want them to know I think such horrible things.”

“Okay,” Heather nodded. “Imagine one of them came to you and told you everything you’d just told me. What would you say to them?”

“Wait.” A distressed noise fell from Finn’s lips. “Do they talk to you about this too? Both of them make a comment here or there, but we talked about it not long ago and we agreed that we weren’t ready.”

“Finn, you know I can’t tell you about what I discuss with Leo or Logan.”

“It was worth a shot,” Finn shrugged.

“So, what would you say?”

“I’d say they are entitled to be jealous. I'd say it’s not fair we don’t get to do everything the others do just because the world is homophobic and close minded and can’t imagine the three of us could love each other exactly the same as every other more traditional couple. I’d say that I know they don’t hate Cap or Loops or Potts or Lily, they hate the situation and that’s completely understandable. It fucking sucks and they can be angry about it." Finn drew in a hulking breath, Heather's outline a little blurred through his wet eyes. Each word had sent an aching pain through his body, similar to when he ran, only now he felt like was chasing something cathartic rather than running away.

"Earlier you said what you had to tell me was dumb," Heather said. "Can you explain why you think that it's dumb for you to feel that way, horrible even, but if it were Leo or Logan their feelings are valid."

"Maybe it's not dumb," Finn looked down at his hands, tracing over the freckles there. "But that doesn't change the fact I don't like having those thoughts. Especially when I don't want to act on them. I’m okay with waiting to tell people about us, if we ever do. They're not ready. I'm not ready."

"That’s something we can work on. Helping you to reframe those thoughts, I mean.” Heather slipped her notebook from where it had been tucked beside her and made a note. Finn leaned his elbow on his leg, tucking his chin onto his fist, trying to make his attempts to see the page surreptitious. Capping her pen, she gave a small chuckle, “I’m just leaving myself a reminder of what we’ve discussed. You can always ask what I’m writing, I’m not trying to keep secrets from you.”

Finn sat back, the book no longer quite so interesting now that it wasn’t forbidden. “So? That’s it?”

Heather hummed. “For today. I think you’ve got a lot to think about already. I’ll schedule some more sessions with you over the next few days, okay? It’ll give me a chance to get some new pretzels.”

"Thanks," Finn laughed, then gestured at the empty bowl. "For the pretzels. And the talk."

“That’s what I’m here for,” Heather said. “I’m just going to ask one thing of you before I see you next. Please try to keep your evening runs to a reason-”

“Who snitched?”

“There was no snitching, as you call it. We’ve just known each other for a while now, Finn. And as an employee of the Lions whose job it is to make sure you’re at top playing ability, I don’t want you to injure yourself. As your psychologist, I want you to have healthy coping mechanisms and exercising to that extent is not healthy.”

“I know,” Finn unfolded his legs, stretching them out. They’d gone stiff after being sat on for so long, the sensation coming back with an uncomfortable tingle. “I’ll try to keep the runs in check, promise.” His gaze fell on the closed door, steeling himself to leave. He stood, sending Heather one last smile. It was safe in here, but his boys were out there.

“See you soon, Finn.”

Stepping out of the office, Finn closed his eyes, giving himself a second to compose himself. A rustle of movement to his left caught his attention, startling a little at the sight of Leo and Logan. They sat on the floor, Leo’s hand resting on Logan’s knee where they were hunched to his chest.

“Sorry,” Leo scrambled to his feet, his arm outstretched to let Logan pull himself upright too. “We didn’t want to wait too far away. In case, well, I don’t know, you needed us.”

Finn joined them, immediately finding Logan attached to his side, his familiar warmth exactly what he wanted right now. “I’m okay,” he assured. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it with you guys just yet. I need a bit of time to process, but just you being here makes things better. I’m going to see Heather a bit more too.”

“Proud of you.” Leo flanked him on the other side, taking his hand. Finn didn’t get to be in the middle often, Logan usually claiming the spot, and he felt like he had a kind of shield. “We just want you to be happy. And safe.”

“Can we go home, please?”

“Ouais, home,” Logan agreed.

[heli0s-writes]

Saga*

Summary: Bucky is in a mood.

A/N: HELLO. Here is the much-awaited bunny saga. How did I get here. Why did you guys do this to me? Thanks everyone who cursed me with this, especially @softbiker​ who put the bath-time idea into my head and had me dry-heaving about it. 🧡

Warnings: Smut! 18+ DomBucky. Rough sex. Mild comeplay. Anal fingering. Over-stimulation. Crying. Possible Dubcon. Please I don’t know. 2.5k words.

It’s nine-thirty and hazy when you get home. Another day spent poring over paperwork and e-mail chains, tracing lines of command to seek the right department head to question and scrutinize. Senators and budgets. Bureaucracy and posturing. Your affixed scowl and bared teeth when you berate men making wrong decisions for half the free world.

Most of the time, your job is fulfilling and fits you perfectly. However, it’s been an entire week of fuck-ups to resolve and you’re overwrought. Sleep-deprived. Pissed-off. Permanently on edge. Thank God the house is quiet, at least.

You break the silence almost guiltily, calling his name. Nearly seventeen hours you’ve been gone—and it’s been like this too long. Now it’s Friday and you texted him near lunchtime you’d have to be in tomorrow, too.

Radio silence ever since. Naturally, you’re anxious.

Down the hallway, Bucky’s voice echoes. “I’m in the bath, sweetheart.”  

Instantaneous relief.

-

The door swings open and buttery vanilla greets you first. Then notes of garden rose cuts through the cream. Moisture hangs heavy in the air. Thick. Warm. You marvel at the view.

He’s leaned back, shoulders and chest exposed above the swirling bubbles, hair tied up with a smile on his pretty lips. His reflective left arm rests on the smooth edge of the porcelain, motioning you forward with shimmering candlelit fingers. Silver bowing to an orange-golden glow.

“Been waiting for you.”

Droplets roll down his neck, gather in the space between his collarbones. It’s heavenly. You slip in the tub and heave a sigh. Oh, he’s good. Always so good at taking the day from you. Always known what you needed.

Since the first time he caught you grilling Tony at the compound, flicking off Steve on your way out in half-jest half-sincerity because their levelling an entire block meant a mess-ton of work on your end and a headache into next year, he’d known. He asked you out, then, as an apology. Something about the mission being his fault. Lemme get you a coffee, please. And you had snapped up yours, Barnes, but met him the next day anyway. Twenty minutes turned into two hours and by the time you were leaving for home, he was coming along with you. One broken bedframe later and you were gone for him.

Exactly what you needed.

“Buck...” You rest your head on his shoulder now, grateful. “Mm... Sorry I haven’t been home much.”

“I know you are.” It’s a mysterious reply, but you’re too worn to raise questions.

Bucky’s breath fans over your shoulder, hotter than the water on your skin. A kiss to your throat. His torso rubs against your back. His legs and arms shift, rearranging himself around you purposefully and it feels like you’re being eased into a trap.

A groan when you discover his game. Exasperated and on edge, reflexive with attitude because you’ve spent all week telling men what to do, you put on that voice you reserve for work: sharp. Commanding. “I have to be up early; I need to sleep.”

Petulance is his reply. Equally decisive. Even sharper.

“I don’t care.”

Under the flickering glow, Bucky sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth, peers up from behind darkening eyes, and you feel your entire soul tremble.

“Go lie down.” His timbre is steady, indifferent, as if he’s got the entire situation in the center of his palm. He rumbles from deep in his chest, and the trap is revealed. Turning gears and metal mechanisms clatter. Bucky’s finger on the trigger. “Be good, bunny.”

Fuck. You bite down a wince. That pet name. He only uses it when he’s feeling a certain way— dominating, maybe even vengeful. Tired of missing his girl and chasing her shadow. His pupils are blown wide and hounding your every move. Voracious and predatory and you feel very much like his prey now. Defiance flees. You’re barely audible.

“Bucky—“

His tongue flicks over a canine and your stomach leaps into your throat.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

The cage door crashes down. Locks itself shut with you ensnared.

-

Harried thoughts about how to escape his wrath swim through your mind on the bed. You love him. Jesus Christ, do you love him, but you have to get more than three hours tonight. Your eyes are still shut when you feel big hands slide under your calves, behind your knees, lifting you up and right onto his face.

Leisurely licks despite his urgency. Up. Down. The pad of his tongue wet and loving, slicking you up with kisses and spit. His tender affection tucked within impetuous craving. A bruising grip to your hipbones, settling your body, ignoring your pleas when you attempt them.

“Haven’t gotten to touch you in days. You know what that does to me?” Another long, soft suck as you quiver. You can hear his mouth. Smell your own scent threading through the rose and vanilla atmosphere. Sweet and tangy. Alive and keening. Undeniably eager for him. Your pulse feels attached to every effort of his fingertips.

“Gonna have you all night---” Low timbre, curling deep. “—till you’re falling apart for me—” You try to catch your breath. “—shaking the goddamn bed—oh--”

At the first clench of your orgasm, Bucky smiles against your clit, flicking sharp lines as you jerk the tender bud away.

“Stay still.”

His left hand wraps itself around the base of your throat, pressing enough to keep you compliant. The plates shifts and clicks. You break out in a shudder at the sound of it whirring. His other fingers begin their real work, heel of his palm hitting your throbbing clit with every manic shove. Squelching. Smacking. Your desperate whimpers. And then a final loud yelp and you go slack for the second time.

On the comedown, your bones melting into the mattress, you attempt to swat him away, but he’s faster— of course he is— and in a flash he flips you. A crack of his palm and agony shoots up your side like fire.

“I said, stay still.”

You yelp when he does it again, squirming helplessly because he’s barely touching it now— the swollen skin on your ass blistering. He’s dancing on the edges, teasing, lifting— and then—

Another one. You’re stuck in his grasp. Your vision blurs. He leans forward to kiss newly formed tears at the edge of your eye into his devilish mouth. Your spine is electric like a live wire.

Tracing your inflamed wound with his finger-- light touches around the edge of the hurt-- he dips past your flushed cheek with a grin. His tongue is hot when he licks the salt between your teeth. That teardrop he pulled from you, traded from his mouth to yours.

“Cryin’ so pretty, baby.” Bucky praises against your trembling chin, tasting another droplet collecting along your jaw, “You’ll be good now, won’t you?” A weak nod. Captured game spellbound by all his power.

“Get up there with your fucking face in the pillow.”

Metal grasps the back of your neck, tangling your hair, pressing your cheek into the cushion. A slow nudge, he parts your entrance, giving just a tiny bit of him, making you squirm and clench already around his cockhead. Beneath his grip, you pant, nodding, inhaling lungfuls of fresh detergent on the sheets, steeling yourself.

Another mindful lean. He’s so thick. You shimmy desperately, throbbing for more. “Needy fucking girl.” A scrape of his teeth to your shoulder. “Jesus, you got me all slicked up and wet.”

He sinks in-- all the way—easily and so, so deep you swear the air’s been punched clean out of your body. Bucky holds you beneath him, dick pushing deeper and deeper and god how is he doing this.

“I’m gonna fuck you hard, baby—” A grunt. “--maybe too hard, huh?” His breath chases a shudder down your back. “I’ve been wound up—can’t help myself anymore.”

You struggle, shake your head, feel yourself choking up another sob, toes curling until they feel stuck.

“Come on it,” he commands, “Squeeze my cock, sweetheart. Make it filthy with your pussy.”

“Ngh— Buck, you’re gonna—“

A wilted cry tears itself free, smothering itself out on the pillow beneath. You’re still reeling when he picks up his pace, hands gripping your ass, spreading you to admire the sight of him welded inside. You’re trembling-- twitching, overstimulated and overwhelmed—sniffling quietly. You’re shivery and hot, raw and exposed.

He drives in again.

“You ain’t going back to work tomorrow. You’re gonna stay right here— all— fucking—day.” You punctuate his syllables with gagged moans—lilt high like you’re injured, fisting the blankets, tears catching in the pillow.

“Sweet girl,” Bucky croons, wolfish, “Does it feel good?”

He sticks his fingers back in your mouth, thumb under your tongue where spit has collected and drags out a line of it. “Look at you… drooling everywhere, bunny. You’re so fucking messy for my cock.”

Bucky drags his hand down your back, takes his time traveling over the swell of your ass, into the dipping line and prods gently against your tight hole. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Yeah?” A wiggle of his hips, “Tell me you want it.”

Your brain is—not quite working. A little crinkle of static here, a little drone of magnetic humming there, realizing how embarrassed you feel. Submissive and helpless, sloppy and displayed, but you have enough bearing to nod. Get a quiet agreeance out. “Y-yes.”

And it’s enough for him. A lazy kiss to your shoulder, stilling his cock, spreading what’s smeared around your pussy and his base up to your hole, driving in slow and deliberate. The little sense you have flees entirely. You want it so bad, lost to him.

Grinding, grinding, grinding. Deeper and deeper. Dragging all the way out and then back in.

“Too much? Hm? You’re gonna take it, though, aren’t you? Yeah--” He’s harder now. Stiffens up with his own goading, you tensing beneath him, sheen of sweat on your brow and back. “Fuck, I love your pussy. Love your ass. Gonna fill you up at least twice.”

Sometimes the pros of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex. Sometimes the cons of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex, too. Twice is a walk in the goddamn park for Bucky. It’s a promise and a threat.

One finger becomes two, hooking slightly, rubbing the back of his knuckle down, feeling the stroke of his cock through your swollen layer of muscle.

“Oh,” you whine, “Bucky—ah—ah.”

It hurts like the way a long morning jog does— aching muscles, worn and overworked, thrumming voltage and adrenaline— and you’re high on it. Clumsy grunts and gasps, blabbering compliance, head spinning. Your vision bursts white. Or black. Or stars—whatever. You’re finished, that’s for sure. Gone for him. Like always.

But not Bucky. Hell, he keeps going, crams another finger inside of you, other arm underneath your belly now, elbow crooked, thighs splayed around your hips, shoving himself in so fucking furiously it rattles the entire room.

The realization dawns that you’re not coming back down. It feels like you’re being torn apart. Skinned and stinging and the most incredible sensation in the whole damn world with him wrapping your entire being around his desire as he fucks into you. You feel claimed. You feel owned. You feel infinite.

“Jesus, baby.” He grunts, “Jesus—fuck—yeah. Fucking good-- all mine.”

Near inarticulate and filthy. He gets this way when he’s close-- tongue-tied as much as Bucky can be, because he’s always got the kind of clever vocabulary that makes your entire body burn without ever having to touch you. So now, when he’s stuffing you full and saying those kinds of things, you don’t stand a chance.

Bucky grips your hair and peels your throat exposed, sucking a mark on the pulse point, and comes so hard he knocks you both into the headboard with the back of his hand cushioning the blow.

His cock is covered when he pulls out, still half-hard and stroking himself, using it like lube. You push your palms over your face, move your knees together but he wedges them apart so wide they smart.

His ruddy cheeks glow beneath the searing blue ring of his eyes, a microscopic corona encircling the darkness of enormous pupils. He holds you frozen with a single look-- ravenous. At least twice floats into your head. Oh, god.

It doesn’t take long the second time, like he’s propelled straight through his first and pitched right into the next. He buries his face into your neck, jerks to a halt with heavy pant, hair splayed over your collar. The sound of it, the smell of it, the feel. His cock, painfully hard. His come, shoved deeper. Your insides, bruised tender and sore, throbbing, stinging, still fluttering for more. Pleasure blurs into pain and back again.

He pinches your nipples hard. Squeezes your jaw, your cheeks. Fucks your mouth with his hand and smears your spit down your sternum.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” He leans into a thrust, “Tell me.”

Bucky sits you up into his lap, wraps his limbs around you lovingly. The world is hazy and incoherent. You let him do as he pleases, making only choked-up sounds and half-attempted replies.

“Yeah.” Quiet crooning, shushing in your ear, soothing your frantic heart, “I got you. I got you, baby. I got one more for you, alright? And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? You’re gonna learn your lesson.”

You sob his name with each thrust, chew on your lip distraughtly. You can’t. It’s too fucking much. Stop, you think, please. More, you think, please. Every time you feel thrown off one edge, he takes you to the next one, even higher. He fucks you raw and open and loose and when he finally comes for the last time, you dig half-moons into his arms, curl into the shape of a wounded animal and tremble in pleasure.

-

He cleans himself up. Cleans you too. Soft caresses on the parts of you he marked up, nuzzling his nose into your cheek, imprinted with the creases from the pillowcase. Bucky lays you down slowly, brushes the damp hair from your jaw, settles in next to you with sweet kisses and mindful aftercare.

God, he’s good. Always known what you’ve needed even before you realize it for yourself. Your man.

Wrapping you up his arms when you need warmth. Giving you space when you’re feeling restless. Loving you slow when you’re withdrawn. Loving you hard when you’re aching.

And oh, you ache.

Your body sinks into the sheets. Every synapse shutting down, feeling a rest so deep every cell hums.

“What’re you gonna do tomorrow, bunny?” Gentle prodding, just a little sharp. Hypothetical, of course because he already knows your answer. Already knows you belong to him for the rest of the weekend.

Bucky tugs up the comforter around your shoulders, slotting himself behind your body, enfolding both of you safely. Your lids flutter shut. All the stars in the sky pitch themselves out. The night closes black and endless, eats your mind until you’re lost to sleep.

He pulls you tight to him. Possessive. Caged in. One final scrape of his teeth over the back of your neck like a warning before he muffles a satisfied moan into your hair.

You’re trapped. You’re caught. It’s heaven.

[eloquent-vowel]

Part 5 "Comfortable" Bucky X OFC (#043)

Description: A series of attacks on Russian diplomats lead to Fury dispatching some members of the avengers to defend them. There they meet a very new threat- one they have never seen before.

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Slow burn, very much a slow burn. Bucky Barnes x OFC, Winter Soldier X OFC

Warnings: Canon typical violence

Thank you all for reading this far! Here is a little time skip for you and the first time some of the Avengers meet Eris. Time is probably going to be very disjointed after this part! <3

Part 4

Bruce stared out of the Avenger's tower window, New York looked so small from up here. Looking down everyone seemed so unimportant, there were hundreds of people walking to the same place they always did, dressed in the same clothes they always wore. Were they happy with their lives? Were they living their dreams? What did they regret?

"See anything interesting Doc?" Tony's voice broke Bruce's trance. "Seen any muggings? Street fights? You know, I once saw a pigeon fly down and steal someone's sandwich right from their hand, the whole thing." Tony came into view, two cups of coffee in his hands. His eyes sparkled with the usual joy but under it all there was the slightest hint of concern.

Bruce took the offered coffee cup. "Buff pigeon."

"Perhaps it was a tiny pigeon hulk."

Bruce huffed a laugh before sipping is coffee. "The Incredible Squawk?" Despite Bruce's attempt at humour his voice came out as bitter as his coffee. Bruce watched the steam slowly rise before letting out a broken sigh. "She would have been 24 today."

Tony placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder, there was silence for a while. He had to think about what to say next, "We'll find her, Bruce. We won't stop looking I can pro-"

"Tony." Bruce turned to face Tony, the bags under his eyes were deeper than usual. "Thank you for trying to cheer me up but, let's be realistic, its been 20 years. The truth is either she doesn't want to be found or never will be."

"You are aloud to be realistic, Bruce, but don't lose hope."

The two shared an understanding stare, Bruce looked like he was going to say something but was interrupted by Natasha entering the room.

"We have a problem."

"When do we not?"

"Funny, Tony." Nat approached the two of them, she was staring down at the tablet in her hand very intently, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "A Russian diplomat was murdered at his safe house last week."

"And this concerns us how." Tony's tone was flippant.

"Because he as an informant for Shield but before he could talk he was beaten so badly they had to use dental records to confirm his identity."

Nat handed over the tablet to Tony who flicked through the photos of the crime scene. It was brutal. The guards that were put in to defend the diplomat were beaten to death, violently. It was obvious, even to his untrained eye, that whoever did this used their fists and no other weapon. Most of the guards had dents in their temples and some had broken knees. The path of the killer was followed by a nice trail of beaten corpses. Until they lead to the bedroom of the diplomat. Just like the other corpses, his body was beaten with blunt objects but unlike the others the killer really wanted to make sure he was dead. There was practically no skull that remains intact and there was blood everywhere. Tony blanched a bit and returned the tablet to Nat.

"What exactly do you want us to do? Bring a guy back from the dead?"

"No." Nat sounded tired, stressed, Tony kicked himself slightly for not being able to be serious. "We are being tasked for protecting someone we strongly suspect to being a second target." She turned the tablet around to show another angry looking man.

"Who pissed in his cornflakes?"

Nat ignored Tony. "This is Panin Rostislavovich, Russian ambassador here in America and more importantly mole for Shield. We think there is a large possibility he will be attacked at some point this week. Fury has asked that we personally see to guarding him. Something about improving relations with Russia."

"So, we sit in a room with someone and get paid for it?"

Nat just raised her eyebrow.

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

"Getting comfortable there, Mr. Rostislavovich?"

Tony quipped to the stern man who was currently pacing violently up and down the length of the room. Normally he wouldn't have commented on it but his footfalls were terribly annoying and Tony was nursing one hell of a hangover.

"Would you be comfortable in this situation? Would you Mr. Stark." Tony fought the urge to roll his eyes. "When your colleague has been beaten to death in his apparently 100% secure and safe house!"

"Panin, buddy, listen- we are just here on a hunch no one said for certain that they were after you."

Tony made eye contact with Natasha and Steve who were standing guard by the door. They both shook their heads, no signs of intrusion at the moment. They were in direct contact with the guards outside the house and inside of the house, if Tony said so himself, this place seemed pretty impenetrable.

"Team Delta. Team Delta, report."

Him and his big mouth,

Nat's voice was panicked as she began to check in with all the teams around the perimeter of the house. She got more and more intense with each team name.

"No one on the perimeter is responding. Tony get him to the safe room, be ready to take the back exit."

"You don't have to tell me twice, come on buddy, let's not get you killed."

With that the escorted Panin to the solid metal safe room leaving Steve and Nat to do what they did best, beat people up.

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

Natasha turned to Steve, he looked calm but the tight grip he had on his shield gave him away. The sound of fighting and violence started to be heard through the door.

"Hide and we get the jump on them." Nat whispered as she ducked behind one of the large sofas, Steve look up place adjacent to her. She began to count her bullets, double checking that she had enough ammunition.

There was silence for a moment.

Then a massive crash as the door flew off its hinges and into the wall behind Steve. She couldn't help the slight gasp that she let out as Steve slowly moved away from the rubble.

"I can hear you." A female voice, gravelly and harsh spoke in perfect Russian. It sent shivers down Nat's spine, Steve looked at her questionably. She just gritted her teeth and shot at the doorframe. She watched as Steve leapt out once she ran out of bullets. She reloaded as quickly as possible to cover Steve, as soon as she aimed her pistol over the couch she was stunned into inaction.

She could hardly keep track of who was hitting who as Steve fought the intruder. It was evident that this person was the same as Steve, they were a super soldier. Nat tried to find a pattern in their movements, an opening to fire a shot but every move they made was unexpected and chaotic. They were covered almost head to toe in black tactical gear, the only exception being their legs that reflected in the low lights of the room, metal legs? Whatever they were made of their legs were definitely strong as one well placed kick threw Steve back against the wall to joint the door.

Nat didn't hesitate to engage. Vaulting over the couch and throwing her gun by the window, she went immediately for a choke hold, swinging her legs over the other woman's neck. Nat felt some sort of pride as she succeeded to bring the intruder down to the floor, she squeezed tightly in an effort to choke them. Until the glint of metal over the intruder's fists slammed right into the back of Nat's knee, it didn't quite dislocate as intended but the force was enough to let the intruder get free.

The two women stood up once more and took a moment to size each other up. Nat realised that this woman was as tall as Steve and looked as strong. The bottom half of her face was covered in a protective mask and her hair was wild, perhaps from a previous scuffle? Now that Natasha had a good look she realised that both of the woman's legs were made of a shining metal, they whirred and clicked as she stood up. She glanced at Steve who was just beginning to stand up, clutching his ribs- the two exchanged a quick nod and together began to try and take down this new threat.

Unfortunately it was not as easy as either of them thought. Their opponent was brutal, unpredictable and yet seemed to predict every move they made. Steve would attack from behind and she was sidestep, only to throw a devastating punch at her. It was down right terrifying that one woman was able to take on both Steve and herself at once. Even worse was that this woman didn't seem to tire, while Steve and the woman were able to breathe normally Nat was beginning to falter. The intruder saw this and with one well timed switch kick Nat saw stars as a metallic leg collided with her temple.

Steve watched in horror as Nat fell, his opponent showed no sense of regret and did not hesitate to begin her brutal assault on him once more. Thrown by Natasha bleeding from the head it didn't take long for the woman to have her arms around his neck in a less than friendly way. Black spots danced in his vision, he thought this was it. He began to run through ways to get out of this but every time he struggled the edge of the brass knuckles dug deeper into his throat.

He thought he was gone until he felt her shift slightly and then let go of him altogether. He fell on the floor gasping and turned to see where the woman had gone. He saw her pick up Natasha's pistol and making a running leap out of the window. Shattering the glass into a hailstorm of chaos.

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

Tony had little warning other than the sound of glass shattering and the violent bang of a gunshot. The man who he had previously been talking to about his plans for the future fell to the ground, a bullet hole directly through the centre of his brain.

Tony turned around violently to just catch the sight of some meta glinting under streetlights and a figure darting off into the dark.

Fury was going to be so mad at him.

Part 6

[husbandomail-archive]

Heya Miss Jo~! So I am back on a Pokemon kick xD and since it’s been over a year and I am still not over Hop agshdjf May I please request a Scenario where - it’s basically like his Twilight Wings episode - but instead of racing everywhere trying to find Wooloo, he’s racing to find the MC?

I don’t know if that makes sense lol sorry!

It’s just been one of those months where ya need a comfort character to come runnin for you and show you they care so much more than you believed anyone would ♡

God I love that episode,, I wanna live in the Pokemon world so badly dfghjkjhgfdsa

she/her for the reader lmao

Hop goes to tug his phone from his pocket, although as soon as his fingers wrap around it, the Rotom inside flares to life and drags the device into the air. That’s always a bit of a shock— with a startled laugh, Hop runs his finger over the tiny Pokémon's head and grins. “Hold still, will ya? I need to read her messages again.”

Rotom bobs in the air and the text app flashes across the screen. Hop leans in close— you’d agreed to meet him in Motostoke, but the arranged time had already passed. You hadn’t called to let him know you’d be late, and no new texts had arrived.

Hop rocks back on his heels and hums in thought. “D’ya think somethin’ happened to her? She doesn’t usually go silent like that,” his voice trails off. Rotom’s only response is an electronic buzz.

For the next few minutes, Hop paces back and forth, constantly pausing to peer down Motostoke’s wide brick streets— there’s no you in sight. He snatches his phone up and sends off a quick text, asking if you’re on your way— no response.

The nervous energy pulsing through him comes to a head. Hop begins wandering off in the direction of the city’s edge, at first walking at a brisk pace, but it isn’t long until he breaks into a jog, and then he’s sprinting around street corners. He stumbles to a pause at the entrance of every alleyway and side street, calling your name and waiting for your voice— he glances through the windows of every passing shop, hoping to catch a glimpse of your familiar silhouette.

Maybe you’d just gotten caught up in something and lost track of time. Maybe you’d lost your phone again. Maybe he’s just overreacting— but he can’t help it. Not when you’re involved.

There’s a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, a streak of bright red that’s suddenly keeping up with him. When Hop glances to the side, he’s startled to find Kabu matching his pace.

“Is there a reason you’re panicking in the streets?” The older trainer isn’t even winded.

“I’m l— I’m looking for—” Hop wheezes, stumbling to a halt, resting his hands on his knees and taking heaving breaths. Kabu stops with him and waits patiently. Eventually Hop is able to bite out your name; Kabu tilts his head, the approaching sunset glancing off his salt-and-pepper hair, and raises his hand to point.

“I’m so sure I saw her by the canals in that direction.”

Hop stares up at the gym leader for a moment, his brain still whirring blankly as it tries to catch up with him; Kabu drops his hand to the boy’s shoulder and snaps him out of his daze, nudging the younger trainer forward. “You’d better go catch up. Let her know you were so worried.”

New determination rising in his chest, Hop nods and takes off again, a second wind practically lifting him through the city streets— he takes the steps two and three at a time, bounding down the stairways until he’s standing on the narrows that line the city’s lower waterways. The dying sunlight reflects off the water’s surface, flooding the quiet area with an intense orange glow that carries an endless warmth. Hop takes a few steps forward, trying to decide which way to go from here— and then, over the gentle sounds of running water, he hears it. A quiet sniffling.

He wanders after the noise, only having to round one more corner before finding you, crouched on the wet brick, the heels of your hands pressed to your eyes as if you’re trying not to cry. He darts forward immediately, kneeling next to you and pulling you against his chest before you even realize it’s him.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” he mumbles, his voice low and concerned.

You shake your head and don’t look up at him. “Today has been— this entire week, actually— it’s all so—”

Hop just runs his hand through your hair and keeps you close. “Y’don’t have to think about it right now. I’m here.”

[sherlollydramoine]

Buzzkill

Prompt 27: “give me that”

Fandom: The Pacific/HBO War - Modern AU

Pairing: Dad!Snafu 

Word Count: 1154

Warnings: Honestly, this is just pure comedy. 

For my loyal readers, please accept this as an apology for the super angsty piece that I posted yesterday that may have broken a few hearts.

Fun fact: This exact scenario actually happened to me when my son was about four. Oh the joys of parenting!

Special shout out to @edteche2 and @diasimar for the assistance and suggestions. I hope that this is as funny for y’all as it was for me.

Also I only chose this GIF because this is the exact face I imagine Snaf making when he realizes what is going on.

“Baby girl where are you?” he called out looking for his daughter. They had been playing a game of hide and seek which was interrupted by a phone call that he had to take. Now his daughter was nowhere to be found as she was an excellent hider just like he’d been as a child. He’d searched everywhere that she usually chose to hide. She wasn’t in the living room, her room, the kitchen, or the backyard and he was about to freak out thinking she’d been kidnapped by some creep when the sounds of giggling and an odd buzzing sound hit him which was vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

As he approaches his room curious to know what could be bringing his daughter so much glee he tries to mentally prepare himself for anything. She was a wild child and the odd noise he was hearing could be from the hair clippers that he kept in the main bathroom; Lizzy was obsessed with them and had cut half of her hair off once with them. 

Upon his approach to the bedroom, the buzzing sound gets louder and is accompanied by the gleeful shouts of his daughter yelling “Take that!” and “Buzz off bad pirate guy!”

The second he crossed the threshold into his room, his jaw went slack as he caught sight of his four-year-old daughter jumping on his bed, her wild curls flying in all directions with her tiara firmly on her head, clutching her mother’s large bright purple vibrator in her tiny hand. There is nothing he could have done to prepare him for this as the shock rolls across his face. 

“What are you doing in here baby girl?” he asks, which startles his daughter out of her fantasy world causing her to yelp in surprise. She stumbles backward and nearly falls off the bed, as he rushes forward to catch her.

She narrows her eyes at her father in irritation as she hauls herself back up to resume her bed jumping while waving her mother’s sex toy around.

“I asked you a question little darling, what are you doing in here?” he asks again.

She glances back over at her father, still bouncing excitedly as she launches into her explanation.

“Arrrrrgh I’m a pirate daddy. I have a magic purple sword. See?” she stops bouncing for a moment and holds up the object that has quit buzzing momentarily so her father could get a closer look. Snafu was truly at a loss for words, not sure exactly how to respond to this. There was nothing in anything he’d ever read about parenting that tells people how to deal with this kind of situation. Sweat began beading on his brow and swipes at his face in embarrassment and frustration as she continues her explanation,” I’m fighting away the bad guys by stabbing them with my magical purple sword that shoots laser beams out of the end. I just have to push this magic button,” she says pointing at the power button on the toy,” and then it activates but you better watch out daddy or the laser beam is going to get you.”

He watches in horror as she pushes the power button on the toy making it resume its vibrations. Lizzy giggles at the sensation against her hand as she returns to bouncing on the bed swatting at the air as he can do nothing but watch in absolute anguish. His sweet innocent daughter, casually playing with a device meant for absolute sin completely clueless as to the intended use for the large purple object.

Running his fingers through his hair forcing himself to take a few deep calming breaths. She’s only four; she has no clue what the object in her hand really is. His mouth turns down into a deep frown until his daughter whirls around on him pressing the tip of the buzzing object into his nose. His mouth falling open into an ‘O’ as the sensations tickle his nose, in absolute shock that his daughter would brazenly press the object into his face. 

“Arrrggggg… I’m Lizzy the Fiercest Unicorn Princess Pirate on the High Seas, and you daddy are accused of high treason for stealing my cookies so you have to walk the plank or die by magic laser beam!”

Throwing his hands up in mock surrender he backs away from her resisting the urge to grab the whirring object out of her hands so that he can put it away somewhere more secure.

“I’m Daddy the Pirate, the Meanest Strongest Pirate on the High Seas, and I demand to know where you got your magic purple laser beam sword!” his eyes sparkling with amusement as he knows exactly where she retrieved it from and he mentally chides himself for not fixing the lock on the drawer when his wife asked him to a month ago. If he wants to get the object away from his daughter without causing a massive tantrum all he has to do is play her game until he can spin things in his favor.

“Arrrrgggghhh… I’ll never tell you that! I’ll die before I reveal my Unicorn Princess Pirate secrets but I will tell you there is a blue one in a drawer that looks similar to this one if you want to fight to the death but the blue one doesn’t have magic laser beam powers,” she informs him, pointing to the bedside table on his wife’s side of the bed, her blue-green eyes sparkling clearly enjoying her game. 

How long was she in that drawer for? Wait, what the hell else is in that drawer? Oh my God! My wife is gonna kill me! I’m fixing that damn lock tonight! 

When his jaw dropped and his hands fell down to his sides, he realized he had to think fast. Somehow his four year old had maintained the upper hand through this little game.

“Arrrgghhh... Hard bargain you be driving there Miss Lizzy the Fiercest Unicorn Pirate Princess on the High Seas, but how about we go to McDonald’s to sign a peace treaty? First, though, all you have to do is give me that pretty purple laser beam sword,” he offers.

Her bouncing stops, as she contemplates his offer before letting out a squeal of delight that nearly bursts his eardrums. His daughter never failing to surprise him tosses the still buzzing vibrator at his face as she jumps down off the bed and sprints out the door. He stumbles backward in pain, clutching at his face hoping that he wasn’t bleeding as the offending object thuds on the hardwood floor at his feet happily still buzzing as it slowly makes its way under the bed. 

Ascertaining that he wasn’t bleeding and his nose wasn’t broken he bends down to pick up the fallen vibrator switching the power off and then hiding it on the top shelf of the closet. His wife was either going to kill him or laugh her ass off at him when she hears about this misadventure. 

“Lizzy you better be getting your shoes on because we’re leaving!”

@xmxisxforxmaybe @ramimedley @stewielover95 @safinsscar @itswormtrain @r-ahh-mi @itslula1991 @w0lfglrl17​ @txmel​ @hazeleyedbeth​ @flipper-kisses​ @itsme690​ @the-real-ramimalekpeen​ @alottanothing​

[zrtranscripts]

Season 9, Mission 14: Fort Knox

Tour group

~

JANINE DE LUCA: All right Runner Five, Mr. Yao. There is only audio surveillance in this room and I have muffled the microphones. We can talk freely.

SAM YAO: I really don't like this, Janine. I mean, okay, they did let us into Van Ark's mystery base, but then they stuck us in this tiny room, insisted we take medical exams. Peter and Maryam still aren't back from the med bay. I can't believe we let them just inject us with tracking devices.

JANINE DE LUCA: We had no choice, Mr. Yao. It was take the subcutaneous trackers or leave Red Scorpion Base. General Bakari claimed he would meet us on arrival, but so far we have only been escorted by soldiers. The security here is intense. Barbed wire fencing, perimeter guard towers, patrols in unmarked uniforms. If our operation goes wrong, escape will not be... [door creaks open] Someone's approaching. [loudly] Which is why they'd better pay well for this job! Don't you agree, Sven?

SAM YAO: Uh... yeah. Yes. Mercenaries, us. Money, ooh, we want it.

GENERAL BAKARI: You can relax. I've relieved the guards in this section, shut down the cameras.

JANINE DE LUCA: General Bakari, there are others in our team -

GENERAL BAKARI: - still in the medical bay. We can't wait. The trackers you've received are a new security provision powered by bioelectric energy. They didn't tell you this, but it takes about 40 minutes for a tracker to stabilize in its new host. We've got that long before your every movement is monitored. That's just enough time. [drops bag on the floor] There are maintenance uniforms in the duffel bag. Put them on.

JANINE DE LUCA: General -

GENERAL BAKARI: I trust you weren't counting on a sentimental reunion, De Luca? There's a mission at hand. Red Scorpion Base has a secret you're going to help me liberate. All of you, out into the corridor. No time to dawdle.

~

SAM YAO: This place is just a maze of metal hallways, isn't it? Shh. Hey, do you guys hear that?

[distant metallic footsteps]

GENERAL BAKARI: A patrol coming from the intersection ahead. Duck into that store room, quick. [cloth rustles, footsteps pass] They've passed. Those maintenance uniforms will help at a distance, but the patrols here know all the authorized faces. Come on, this way. Speaking of faces, it's Runner Five, isn't it? You gave me this gammy leg. My own stupid mistake, I admit, chasing you on that motorcycle.

JANINE DE LUCA: Perhaps if you had not sided with Prime Minister Hakkinen, General, you might have avoided injury.

GENERAL BAKARI: Is that reproach I hear, De Luca? You were always so quick to judge. Sigrid was a monster, but with impressive ambition. It seemed folly to oppose her, so i toed the party line loudly when she was listening. Soldiers served their country, after all. I hear there's a thief in charge these days. Not sure your vote turned out much more righteous than mine.

SAM YAO: Hey!

JANINE DE LUCA: Don't let him needle you, Mr. Yao. The base, General. It is in excellent condition, especially given we have seen evidence it predates Z-Day.

GENERAL BAKARI: Very good, De Luca. Yes, Red Scorpion Base has been here for many years. Once we get to the next intersection, you'll see where it came from. Where's Tom, Janine? I was sure he'd be with your team.

JANINE DE LUCA: Tom... Tom was killed in action some time ago.

GENERAL BAKARI: Unfortunate. He had a weak heart, that boy. I saw it every day I sheltered you two after your parents passed. Thought I taught you to watch out for each other!

I'm not authorized for this part of the base. I've stolen passes, but if we're caught here, we will be shot. Do you see the turrets bracketing the door ahead? Machine gun emplacements, automated. Look at the symbol on the turret mountings below each gun barrel.

SAM YAO: Those are stars and stripes. Flags, American flags.

[door rattles open]

GENERAL BAKARI: And past the door, a flag painted on the wall. They're not allowed to fly one outside. Red Scorpion Base was established by the American military 20 years before Z-Day. Black ops research, top secret, and they're still very much running it today. Quickly, all of you, there are a lot more patrols in the next section. Follow the corridor branch left, on the double.

~

SAM YAO: Look, Five, by the water cooler. That's the portrait of the last US president. God, this is crazy. There's still a US military and they're hanging around a base in Tunisia!

JANINE DE LUCA: A base somehow connected to Ernest Van Ark and V-type fungus.

GENERAL BAKARI: You already know about the local fungus, eh? The US military heard rumors of it decades before Z-Day, whispers unearthed by archaeologists in North Africa. They thought it had martial potential, set up a base here to dig for it. They hit on caves of the stuff underground. There's an archive room on our way. I'll show you what they found.

SAM YAO: Wow! Janine, look! Down the corridor to the right, that looks like the war room from, well, every movie with a war room ever. Ah, there must be a hundred screens in there.

JANINE DE LUCA: All cycling through images of landmarks. The Brandenburg Gate, Times Square full of zombies, a toppled Eiffel Tower. General, are these images current? What reach does this army have?

GENERAL BAKARI: Honestly, the US isn't what it was, but the man in charge of Red Scorpion Base likes to keep eyes everywhere. [drones whir] Come on, there are surveillance drones in these corridors. I hear some coming. Forward.

SAM YAO: [whispers] Likes to keep his eyes everywhere? Yeah, yeah, that sounds like Van Ark, doesn't it, Five? If the Americans are running Red Scorpion Base, is he backed by their army? The others are getting ahead. We'd best speed up.

~

[door rattles open]

GENERAL BAKARI: We're in the main research annex deep underground. This is an archive room, oldest on Red Scorpion Base. If you want to know about the fungus, this is the place.

SAM YAO: But it's just a room full of dusty filing cabinets. Oh, and Polaroid pictures of scientists stuck up on the wall. Scientists in a cavern full of black ash.

GENERAL BAKARI: Certain branches under the Department of Defense saw huge promise in the fungus. They dreamed of perfecting a symbiosis to make humans faster, better, stronger. The early experiments went poorly. People died. The decision was made to destroy the fungus after it nearly escaped containment, every trace burned away.

JANINE DE LUCA: General, the glass tank in that corner, the blackened lump inside...

GENERAL BAKARI: A relic. This room is a memorial. The old research data is all locked away. The lump is a museum piece, scorched rock from a once red cave, long dead now.

JANINE DE LUCA: Then... the fungus is not why you summoned us?

GENERAL BAKARI: Not at all, De Luca, though not a bad guess. What I have for you is much more important. Come along through the far door. Incidentally, you see the old photo on the left, the one showing a team in bulky armor scouring rocks with flamethrowers? They still call Red Scorpion’s emergency response the fire team. These days, they wear powered exoskeletons, flamethrowers integrated. They're what comes for us if we make a mistake. We're short on time. Go.

~

SAM YAO: Loads of fancy computers in here, Five. Must be in a sciency bit.

GENERAL BAKARI: Ancillary data storage. From here, we can access files from the Red Scorpion's latter day experiments. Listen carefully, De Luca. The base contracted your team on my recommendation. Since Z-Day, Red Scorpion's been short-handed. They sometimes recruit outside personnel. Three months ago, one of my aides went MIA. Any deserter is viewed as an unacceptable security risk.

SAM YAO: Did you kill him?

GENERAL BAKARI: Fellow took a bad fall. I disposed of the body, arranged evidence of his flight to the mountains, suggested we needed help to locate him. Obviously, no one's ever going to find him outside, and our security head is getting desperate. Once she briefs you, she'll send you into the mountains to hunt down the deserter. There, you'll divert to designated coordinates. You'll find buried parts of a vehicle I've had hidden. Assemble it and escape.

JANINE DE LUCA: You are not coming with us, General?

GENERAL BAKARI: I'm rarely allowed off the base, and I don't intend to return to the UK to stand trial. I know you're thinking it, De Luca.

JANINE DE LUCA: You betrayed your nation. It would be my duty.

GENERAL BAKARI: And you always loved duty. As a child, you used to turn your night light out on principle. [computer beeps] Give me a minute with the computer. I'll get what you're here for.

SAM YAO: Um, which is what, exactly?

GENERAL BAKARI: Research from Red Scorpion Base, something that can change the future. The file I'm giving you is encrypted, I can't open it. Did you bring a computer expert?

SAM YAO: Sort of. We, um, lost our equipment, though.

GENERAL BAKARI: The file is too big to transmit without powerful equipment. If you were able to decrypt it, you might have been able to send key details out. As it is, you'll need to get this thumb drive to the UK intact. If anyone suspects you're smuggling data off the base, you're dead, understand?

JANINE DE LUCA: General, if we leave you here -

GENERAL BAKARI: I'll be fine, so long as the operation succeeds. Humanity, kin, and hope, De Luca. That's what this is for. Do not let me down. The head of security just pinged me. The rest of your team is done in the medical center. She wants to brief you all, stat. We need to get back. There's one more thing I need to give you. Through the door on the right. The doctors should be on their break. This way, run!

~

JANINE DE LUCA: General, is this a hospital ward?

GENERAL BAKARI: It's an emergency care area. Ah, here it is. Five, give me your arm. My research indicates you'll be the best subject for this.

SAM YAO: Wait, what-what are you doing? You can't just inject strange substances into people!

GENERAL BAKARI: The bio data in the injection is a crucial component of the information in the files. The only way to transport it is inside a living host.

JANINE DE LUCA: It's long past time you explained exactly what this information is, General.

GENERAL BAKARI: It's a cure, Janine.

SAM YAO: For what?

GENERAL BAKARI: For everything. Every ailment that plagues humanity, every virus, every infection. A panacea.

JANINE DE LUCA: That's impossible.

GENERAL BAKARI: No. It may take years, even generations to formulate a usable vaccine, but the germ of it is here. The zombie plague has brought such pain to humanity. I accept I played my part in it. But this data, the antibodies in Five's blood, and the files on that drive, they may be the one worthwhile thing to come out of all that death.

JANINE DE LUCA: Then I leave the decision to you, Five. Very well. Proceed, General.

SAM YAO: I'm just gonna, um, not be here watching that. Injections always make me feel queasy.

GENERAL BAKARI: Your trust will be repaid, Janine, I promise you.

JANINE DE LUCA: I hope so.

SAM YAO: Oh my God. Janine, Five, over here! There's a door with a little porthole. On the other side, it's-it's Van Ark! He's unconscious, hooked up to, well, it's like a giant dialysis machine. Looks like it's draining him.

GENERAL BAKARI: I was saving him until last. Good bait to get you here, but if I explained too soon, you'd only get distracted.

JANINE DE LUCA: Is Van Ark running the research department? What are the Americans giving him through those tubes?

GENERAL BAKARI: Van Ark running the place? [laughs] Not at all. The fellow at the top, no one ever sees. Nasty piece of work by all accounts. But Van Ark here, he isn't in charge of anything. Van Ark is one of the experiments.

~

[wednesdaywrites]

ryan wakes up in a strange place surrounded by dangerous creatures and familiar people. can she keep it together long enough to get out alive?

leon s kennedy x oc

warning: canon typical violence

lowercase is an aesthetic choice

masterlist

her eyes fluttered open like a scene in a movie.

        she lifted her head with a soft groan, taking in her surroundings.

        she definitely wasn’t in her bed.

        she pushed herself into a sitting position. the room was faintly lit and dust attacked her nostrils.

        something about the room seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

        to her left, she took note of a bunch of couches.

        why couldn’t she have woken up on one of those, rather than the cold-ass ground?

        she struggled to her feet, cringing at a sharp pain in her side. poking at the area gently, she found the tips of her fingers covered in blood. she was bleeding—why was she bleeding?

        she couldn’t take the time to inspect the wound. a deep sense of panic was urging her to move.

        the way behind her was blocked by a shutter door, like the ones used to close up stores at the mall, and she couldn’t get her fingers under to even try to lift it or fit her arm through to feel for a switch.

        this place seems really familiar, she thought, looking at the massive room on the other side.

        she turned back to the way hidden behind a room divider. the sense of panic spiked. she took a step in that direction. more panic. fuck it, and with that thought, she swung around the divider. she slowly pushed the door open, finding herself faced with a long, dark, extremely terrifying corridor. she knew she had no choice but to go this way, so she continued. she detected a faint metallic scent, and even in the dark, she could make out a form slouched at the end of the hallway.

        “hello. . . ?” she called softly, approaching slowly. the sound of static, and a frantic voice, hit her ears.

        “hello?” she repeated, but she knew it was pointless. it didn’t take an idiot to know the man was dead.

        the voice on the walkie talkie on his shoulder promised a touchdown at rpd.

        rpd?

        curiosity got the better of her, and she carefully lifted the dead man’s head, gasping in horror at the sight.

        the flesh on his face was cut deep from edge to edge and his throat looked like it had been torn open. his jaw started to sag from the rest of his face.

        she made a noise of disgust, falling back on her ass. she barely noticed the body flinging itself against the window in front of her.

        the glass shattered like it was paper-thin, and the body flopped in practically right on top of her.

        she couldn't help the scream that came from her mouth—big mistake.

        there were angry snarls down the hall to her right.

        she scrambled to her feet as the body before her reached for her, taking off the way she had come. she heard the march of the dead behind her as she hit the room divider, nearly falling through it as she slammed the door shut. she took the table on the other side of the divider and dragged it in the way. she rushed to the window and tried frantically to get it open. she was met with another body flinging itself against the glass.

        with a cry, she toppled backward over the couch behind her. she heard the dead trying to bust the door down.

        she was trapped.

        “hello?”

        she looked to see a boy—man?—not much older than her looking in at her.

        “hello?!” she scrambled to the shutter door, pulling at it pathetically. “h-hey! open the door! please open the fucking door!”

        “hold on!”

        the door gave way, and she heard the dead hit her barricade.

        “hurry!”

        “i got it!”

        the door whirred, but it was too slow for comfort. it barely cracked when the first body flopped over the barricade. she kicked the body in the head, turning back to the door. once it was open enough for her to get through, she swung her legs under, grabbing the bottom and pulling herself under.

        if she was gonna die, she figured getting her throat torn out would be quicker than getting eviscerated.

        gentle but frantic hands grabbed her arms and pulled her away just as rotting hands reached under the door.

        “take this!”

        the boy—man, shit—pressed a knife into her hands, and her instinct took over.

        she knelt as heads appeared under the door, stabbing swiftly as the man shot.

        once she was sure the last was dead, she let herself relax.

        “thank you. . .” she breathed, holding out the knife.

        “keep it. . .” she looked up to see him offering his hand; she took it and he helped her up. her ankle hurt from falling over the couch. “at least until we find you a gun.”

        “i’m ryan. . .” she offered weakly.

        he cracked a polite, comforting smile. “leon.”

        leon. . . suddenly it all made sense. . .

        she was in fucking raccoon city. . .

        “how long have you been here?” he asked, giving the place a quick scan.

        “i. . . i don’t know. . . i just woke up here. . . i think i’m way far away from fucking home. . .”

        “hey. . . breath, alright?” he grabbed her shoulders. “we're gonna get out of here, okay? you, me, and claire.”

        “claire?” she mused rhetorically.

        he nodded. “i just met her. she should be here any minute.”

        “we should look around, right? try to find a way out of here?”

        “yeah,” leon said. “i was about to check the cameras when i heard you.”

        she followed him to the computer on the front desk, peering over his shoulder at the screen.

        “there has to be someone here. . .” he said, bringing up the cctv control.

        “hey. . .” she pointed to the fourth camera, which showed another officer firing at an unseen threat.

        probably more dead.

        “not good. . .” leon switched angles as the man ran down the hallway.

        “david! marvin!” the officer looked into the camera. “you there?!”

        “i found a way out!” he continued, showing a small notebook to the camera. “it’s in here!”

        she couldn’t look as the dead got closer.

        “send reinforcements! east hallway!”

        leon brought up a map of the east side of the building. “we gotta find that guy.”

        “after you, officer friendly. . .”

        they turned to another shutter door, painted blue with rpd stenciled on. . . with a card board sign reading “keep out" taped over.

        “inviting. . .” she quipped dryly.

        leon shook his head, clearly amused but trying to hide it. he pulled the lever beside the door; it creaked open, getting stuck with just enough clearance to be crawled under.

        “into the rabbit hole we go. . .” ryan gagged as leon shined his flashlight under the door, revealing a thick puddle of blood. “blech!”

        leon said nothing as he crawled under the door, shining his light down the hallway. he gave her a thumbs-up under the door and, with a whine, she followed him through.

        “okay. . .” he breathed, facing the dark abyss in front of them.

        it took everything in her not to cling to his arm like a goddamn child. the dead weren’t new to her, but this environment was.

        she turned to the wall, where a fuse box was perched, missing a fuse. “looks like we have some searching to do. . .”

        “we'll look later—we have to hurry.”

        “right.”

        as they navigated the darkness of the hallway with his disturbingly-bright flashlight lighting the way, she had to resist the urge to take point. back where she was from, she usually led these kinds of operations.

        “you got this. . .”

        she almost cried at his tiny self-pep talk; she probably wasn’t supposed to hear, but she did.

        there were gun shots from deep in the darkness and they broke into a run. turning the corner, they found their path blocked by a tipped filing cabinet.

        nearby, she noticed a boarded-up door creaking as if something was pushing up against it.

        “i don’t like the sound of that. . .” she commented aloud.

        leon grabbed the cabinet. “c'mon, help me move this.”

        she ducked between his arms, grabbing the cabinet herself and helping him hoist it back into place.

        “nice, helping me feel useful.”

        “let's go.”

        to their left, the hallway was blocked with an assortment of stuff, but she knew that wasn’t the way. back in the darkness, more gunshots rang.

        “c'mon!”

        she took off running, braving the dark for someone she knew was doomed. she heard him behind her as she stopped at a desk embedded in the wall, groaning at the sight of bodies on the floor.

        “jesus!”

        tell me about it, she thought.

        “open up! hurry!” she spun to face the room. “open up! open this goddamn door!”

        she pushed past leon and forced the door open, sliding over the desk and landing on her knees in front of the shutter door.

        “hold on! we got you!” she squeezed her fingers under the door. “leon!”

        “we'll get you out!” leon assured, helping her lift the door.

        “help!” a hand shot under the door. “please! help me!”

        “give me your hand!” leon took hold of the hand, trying to pull the man through. “i got you.”

        ryan tried to keep the door open enough for him to come through without resistance.

        “give me your other hand!” leon said as the man turned, reaching for him.

        suddenly, he screamed in pain and blood erupted everywhere. she closed her eyes as his screaming threatened to force memories to the front of her mind.

        “leon!”

        “hang in there!” she wasn’t sure if he was talking to the poor cop or her.

        almost as suddenly as it had started, the screaming stopped and something told her to let go of the door. right as she did, a dead hand thrust itself under the door, being severed by the heavy metal door.

        “oh my god. . . jesus christ. . .”

        she turned to the scene beside her, whimpering slightly. she had seen worse, but being so close. . .

the poor guy. . . the dead had torn into him so brutally it bisected him at the waist. . .

she felt sick.

        the sound of banging on the door brought her back to her senses with a sharp gasp.

        leon picked up the tiny notebook that had fallen out of the officer’s hand and shoved it in his pocket, crawling over to her, grabbing her shoulders, and lifting her with him.

        “we could have saved him. . .” she mumbled numbly.

        “hey, hey. . .” he lifted her chin. “there was nothing we could have done.”

        she could tell he wanted to believe it, but she knew he was beating himself up, too.

        the door behind them busted open and leon pushed her behind him, raising his gun at the offender.

        “stay back!”

        “leon, shoot!” she cried.

        he pulled the trigger and hit the uniformed walker between the eyes. it barely moved it, so leon just shoved it aside, keeping himself between it and her as he backed them out of the room.

        the corner window busted inwards as a walker rammed itself in.

        “go, go!”

        she took off running, followed closely by leon. she turned the way they had come, almost making it to the end of the hall before another door busted open.

        two walkers came at her, and she just barely managed to get the knife out as they came at her. she stopped the one to her left with her arm under its chin, bringing the knife up so the one to her right stabbed itself in the head. the knife got stuck as the walker fell, nearly taking her down with it.

        “ryan!”

        she used the force of the other walker pushing against her to throw it to the side. “come on!”

        they hurried back to the door, but part of it had fallen so only one of them could get through at a time, and they didn’t have time to lift it.

        “go!”

        she wanted to protest that his life was more valuable than hers, but decided against it and scrambled under as quickly as she could.

        leon crawled out after her, but right before he got his legs out, a walker grabbed them, trying to pull him back in.

        “leon!” she got her arms under his shoulders, kicking the walker in the head as she helped leon pull himself free.

        suddenly, a man came out of nowhere, forcing the shutter door closed on the walker's head with his foot.

        she looked up to see a deathly pale dark-skinned man looking down at them, holding onto his side.

        “you’re safe. . .” he said, “for now.”

        “thanks. . .” leon said, relaxing back against ryan, who realized she still had her arms around him.

        oops?

        “marvin branagh.”

        marvin. . .

        “leon kennedy.” leon pointed over his shoulder at her. “this is ryan. . . ?”

        “branson,” she finished awkwardly.

        “there was another officer. . .” leon said. “we couldn’t. . . i couldn’t. . .”

        there was the beating up. . .

        marvin came to them, holding out his hand. “here. . .”

        leon took his hand, and the injured man helped the perfectly fine man to his feet. he turned to help ryan up, but she had already stood on her own.

        “i’m sure you did what you could, leon,” marvin said, making his way up to an area blocked off by privacy screens.

        as leon changed into his uniform, ryan wandered around the hall. the whole place was so beautiful—so ornate. it was hard to believe it was a police station. she walked behind the front desk, taking note of a typewriter sitting atop the desk and a large storage box standing next to the computer they had checked the cameras on.

hm.

“ryan?”

“here—” she called, hurrying around the desk and back up the ramp to the back of the hall.

leon looked relieved that she hadn’t run off.

        damn, he looked good in uniform.

        shut up, ryan.

        “does anyone know what started this?” he asked.

        “not a clue,” marvin said, looking at something on his tiny nineties computer.

        ryan came closer, trying not to look at leon too much.

        “but honestly,” marvin continued, “all you need to know is that this place will eat you alive if you aren’t careful.”

        “you’re telling us. . .” ryan deadpanned.

        leon ignored her. “yeah, well. . . i was supposed to start last week and i got a call to stay away. i wish i’d come here sooner.”

        “you’re here now, leon. that’s all that matters. and your girlfriend, too, i suppose.”

        “she's not my—”

        “i’m not his—”

        the mistake didn’t faze marvin, who turned his attention to the notebook leon had taken off the dead officer.

        “okay, lieutenant, i’m ready.”

        what a sweet boy, ryan mused internally. the whole city’s gone to shit and he’s still keeping with formalities. 

        “hopefully, you’ll be able to find a way out of this station,” marvin said. “that officer you met earlier—elliot—he thought this secret passageway might do the trick.”

        leon took the notebook from him, turning it to examine it; ryan peeked over his shoulder to get a look at the tiny drawings.

        “this is good news,” leon said. “we can get you to a hospital.”

        she and marvin shared a knowing look.

        “no.” marvin shook his head. “no. i am not the priority here.”

        “lieutenant, i’m not just gonna leave you here—”

        “i’m giving you an order, rookie,” marvin snapped. “you save yourself and that girl first. i’d come with you, but i’d just slow you down. . .”

        leon looked away for a moment.

        “now. . . you’ll need this.” marvin pulled a knife sheath from his belt.

        “i can't take—”

        “stop.” when leon went to take the knife, he pulled him close. “and don’t make my mistake. if you see one of those things—uniform or not—you do not hesitate. you take it out. . . or you run. got it?”

        leon nodded. “yes, sir.”

        marvin looked at her and she quickly nodded. “got it.”

        he sank back down to the couch, grunting in pain. she moved forward to help, but how she could help, she wasn’t sure.

        as leon walked away to assess their plan, marvin waved her over.

        “you keep his ass in line, okay? you look like you’ve seen some shit—you know, he doesn’t.”

        she cracked a weak smile. “yes, sir.”

[mendesficsxbombay]

i never knew, just what it was | s.m

Inspired by Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop

A chilled whistle of wind blows past him making him bury his nose further into the muffler he wrapped around his neck. He should’ve known better than to walk to the café on impulse, even if it was just ten minutes from his apartment. Their apartment. He couldn’t stop the smile that grew on his face, feeling his cheeks burn brighter. Maybe it wasn’t just the harsh sting of winter anymore, and maybe he didn’t really care of what someone would think after seeing him grinning like an idiot. The streets were mostly empty anyway, not everyone just up and walked out their house during such weather.

Seeing the familiar redwood door come into sight he silently thanked the gods above for not freezing him alive on his way here. Quickly stepping in, he did what he always did, moved straight to the electric fireplace in the far right of the room and settled himself on the table right next to it. He had moved past the status of a usual at this point, the staff knew who he was, the usuals knew who he was, maybe the boutique owners next door knew who he was, too. Safe to say he loved this place. If he had the option of living there and basking in the aroma of cocoa and vanilla beans forever, he knew what he would choose.

His eyes moved over the cafe, finally having gained some warmth to focus on his surroundings. He leaned over a little, trying to glance over the cash counter in the middle of the room to know if the pretty girl with the kindest eyes he’d ever known was still behind the counter. She wasn’t. In her place was a boy in the coffee shop’s familiar apron quietly thumbing through a book he knew was their record of accounts. It’s okay. Pretty girl must be around, somewhere. He found himself leaning towards the fireplace again, a subconscious way of restraining himself from marching over to the counter and asking for the one person who kept him coming back here.

It’s been a few years since he moved into his condo, and soon after he visited this coffee shop for the first time ever. The memory was burned in the back of his mind and it was his favourite to rehash. Walking here when he did was a chance thing of sorts, just like everything else that followed it.

He had his usual coffee place figured out within just days of moving everything into his new place, the tiny urban café was just round the corner from his building and he’d never known a pleasure as simple as picking up a coffee for himself every time he walked out of the house. That one time before he left for tour, though, the café was closed. There was a notice stuck to the door, he remembers. Hi! Sorry for not being available to you, our owners are having the place remodelled, we may remain closed for a few days till we fix the new plugs for our coffee machines! We apologise again for the inconvenience, we’ll be up and brewing again in no time!

He was thrown off kilter for a few moments, he never bothered exploring his options around here, he never had to. Quickly pulling out his phone and checking for surrounding coffee shops on the map, his next best option was somewhere 10 minutes away. It was a warm looking place, at least that’s what the photos looked like. It was further into the neighbouring commercial area, though. The chances of him being recognised were high. But he needed coffee. And he couldn’t make coffee. He was a man on a mission with very limited choices. Little did he know it would end up being his best decision, too.

He checked the route once again before locking his phone and setting it in his pockets, quickly setting off in the direction of the coffee he was convinced he’d be dysfunctional without. When he grew closer to the place, he could see why it was one of the top rated in the area. The café had bay windows, sprawling vines over the glass separating the inside from the outside, from what he could see the place was just as beautiful inside, a beautiful redwood door stood between him and his goal. He pushed the door open, the bell above letting out a chime and he winced slightly, so much for not grabbing attention. Anyone who may have seen him got right back to their work though, there’s a life beyond a pop star standing in a café’s doorway. He quickly looked around and made his way to the counter to place his order. His steps faltered as the person, the girl, behind the counter turned around to spot him. There were two large books - textbooks? - face up on the empty space beside the till, a colourful collection of highlighters to go along with. When her eyes landed on him, she inhaled sharply - this isn’t what her dad prepared her for when he said she should start spending more time looking after the family business.

Yes she was wearing the café’s apron, yes the colourful sleeves of her jumper were very much visible. Colourful sleeves of her jumper from his merchandise.

He’s real, she thought. A real human, fully functional, standing in her dad’s café. He chose her dad’s café for coffee? He drinks regular people coffee?

A snorting laugh came out of his mouth before he could stop himself - “Yeah, I do drink regular people coffee.”

Oh. Her thoughts weren’t just thoughts after all if she can’t stop herself from saying them out loud.

“I’m.. so sorry,” her eyes widened and she started pressing buttons on the till quickly pulling up a space to punch in a new order, “What can I help you with, sir?”

“Sir?” If he kept smiling at her like that she was sure she would not be standing upright for too long, was the room getting hot or was it just her? “You don’t have to call me that”

“It’s uh, café policy…,” she winced.

“Alright, ma’am, you can get me a tall Americano…,” he trailed off, still smiling while he read from the large chalk written menu on the wall above the counter, “with an extra shot of espresso.”

“That’s a lot of caffeine,” she muttered out before she could stop herself her hands quickly working the till. Her eyes widened at the sound of him chuckling again, “I didn’t - I’m sorry is the coffee to-go?” She busied herself with writing his name on the little sticky notes her dad taught her to use, physically refraining from writing “s.m.” like she usually did for everything related to him.

I WANNA STAY, his mind screamed, the words came out of his mouth before he realised. Guess he’s staying then. She nodded, moving fast to get his order ready. She was the only one behind the counter, there was a door in the brick wall behind her, a kitchen, he assumed. She worked the machine swiftly, a soft whirring sound being heard before the dark liquid poured out. She put his coffee in a clear glass looking to her left as a man walked out of the kitchen to join her behind the counter. He was wearing a pristine white apron, and moved to reassemble cookie jars on the far right after setting a fresh batch down.

He was old, grey hair and grey beard, washing his hands before patting her on the shoulder, “Sab theek chal raha hai na?” Her eyes moved to the prettiest man on the other side of the counter before telling her dad that yes, things were going fine. Her dad brought her another tiny glass to serve his shot of espresso in, before bringing it over to Shawn. “Hello, Sir, here’s your order.”

Yep. Definitely her dad. He thanked both of them before moving around to find a place for himself. There were pretty marble tops everywhere, high chairs by the side of the counter he was leaning against just moments ago, two seater tables along the bay windows he walked past, big cushioned sofas, and - an electric fireplace? He walked over to the tables surrounding it, a little ways from the counter but he could still see her so it was all good, no matter how creepy he thought he was being.

Behind the counter, her dad was pulling her to the side - “is this the guitar boy you like? He’s very handsome” and she nudged him away because “shut UP, papa, vo humein sunn sakta hai, you know?” She reminds him he can probably hear the two of them before making work of cleaning up an already pristine work space just to have something to do with her hands. She kept stealing glances at him over the course of the hour he sat there, occasionally writing something on his phone, but otherwise just looking at her.

The next few times he came over were all the same until he walked in looking like a “baby squish that she’d want to fit in her pocket and give all the kisses,” her words, not his, and wrote her number on his bill that he threw without seeing the digits. The next time she slipped her number on a tissue that, again, he used without really seeing, in his defence he was busy looking at her. By the third time she wrote her number on a tissue and left is on his table while walking past and he didn’t stop looking at her face, she spun around and sat in the chair opposite him.

“I have been trying to give you my number for two weeks now and you haven’t paid attention so can you please give me your phone so I can save it?”

He was shocked to say the least, handing his phone over without a word and taking it back as she was done. He waited till she got back to her usual place behind the counter before texting her.

Am I allowed to ask a barista out for coffee? Asking for a friend. It’s me. I’m the friend.

He blinks and he finds himself at the very same table. Some 10 minutes later she walks out of the kitchen, 2 fresh trays of muffins stacked on top of each other and ready to be put on display. She pauses right before pushing the trays onto the display shelves, she senses him because she sees him. Rolling her eyes, she adjusts the muffins the way they’re supposed to be before turning around to make a tall Americano with an extra shot of espresso, a little “s.m. <3” written on the side.

He sees her go through the process, he says it’s basically intoxicating seeing her do what she does best. He grins lazily, sauntering over and leaning on the counter when she turns to face him again.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she quirks, eyes raking over his tight fitting shirt and hair pasted into a quiff she quickly learned to love, “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, actually…” his smile grows wider, cocky almost, “got a hot date. This pretty barista down the road who makes the greatest chocolate chip muffins.”

She pretends she’s not affected by him standing there looking like a wet dream come to life, “Doesn’t sound like she has too much character, you know? Anyone can make muffins,” she murmurs.

“She has a fancy business degree, too,” he nods quickly, “she’s way smarter than me.”

“That’s not very smart,” she deadpans.

He’s about to start whining before her dad walks out and it all feels too familiar. Except 3 years have passed, her dad’s hair is a lot greyer, she’s now running the café and wears diamonds on both her ring fingers. Her dad comes around to pull him into a hug and talk to him about the promo trip he just got back from and asks her not to trouble him so much. She whines about the two of them ganging up on her again before a loud beepbeepbeep goes off - the muffins she re - heated for him are ready. Her dad says goodbye to the both of them before heading home for the day, along with the new boy he saw earlier.

He makes sure the cafe is empty when he goes behind the counter crowding her space and pulling her closer as she playfully pushed him away in vain.

“Customers aren’t allowed behind the counter, sir,” she giggles as he resorts to pressing loud smooches all over her face, holding both her hands between them.

He quickly pulls back feigning offence, “So I’m gone for two weeks and suddenly I’m just a customer now? What about all that sickness and health? Was that a lie?”

“Oh no, how did you figure out, I’m so sorry honey but you’ve been punked.”

She feels him whine in protest as burrows himself in her neck, “I woke up and you weren’t there do you know how much that sucked.”

“I told you I would only come home for lunch, it’s not my fault your jet lagged ass dozed off right after - and for the record I did actually wake you up before leaving and gave you kisses. And then you passed out again.”

“Okay but I’m super awake now and you haven’t given me kisses,” and then he gets the kisses he asked for, lots of them. When she pulls away, his eyes are glazed over and he has half a mind to ditch the plans he made for the two of them and drive her car right back home. But she looked so pretty and she deserves to be well fed and well fucked so the driving back home part would have to wait.

“I thought you wanted to take me out?” She speaks into his skin before pulling his bottom lip between both of hers and suckling sweetly, he doesn’t think their bed back home could be more tempting if he tried. They’re both horndogs when it comes to each other, maybe that’s why they fit so well.

“You? Who said anything about taking you - oh? You thought I was talking about you?” He teased running his hands up and down her back before settling on the curve of her ass, “sorry, love, tough luck, can’t have you thinking I like you too much, have to keep my options open.”

She narrows her eyes at him, a dangerous glint shining through and making him weak in the knees just like she always did, “What makes you think I like you at all, hmm?” She snipes, biting down on his lip to hear him moan delicately.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Mendes, you did choose to marry me after all, it was a very pretty wedding you wore a pink dress and your hair was curled up and you had highlights back then and then I took you in the bathroom outside the ha-“

“Shut the fuck up, jeez, Shawn do you have a filter at all?”

“We are literally the only ones here, babe,” he says motioning around to the café, before he lowers his voice and moves his head to nibble on her jaw, “Wanna go to the backroom? Pizza can wait.”

She pulls his head back, “Pizza?” He hums, “Backroom, then pizza,” still dazed, leaning back in to love on her a bit more.

“Baby, you shouldn’t have said that, we have to leave now.” He whines as she slips out of his arms, gathering her things and fixing her hair, “I love you but pizza is pizza.”

“But the backroom-“

“We have a whole bed with your Egyptian cotton bedsheets, babe, I’m sure that’s much more comf- wait. Bed reminds me why are you here?” She looks out and as she assumed it’s snowing, “Why’d you come here? Please tell me you didn’t walk here.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, eyes to the floor, “It’s almost a storm outside, honey, why’d you come here? I would’ve come home just fine, you know that.”

“But I missed you,” he said it like it was the most obvious thing ever, “And then I decided that I should take you out to the pizza place you like, the one with Georgian pizza?” Because Italian pizza has nothing on Georgian Pizza, she’d said. She sighs before kissing him again, running her hands up his arms, squeezing one last time before letting go. “You’re such a loser,” she says kissing the corner of his mouth, “Let me grab my things, I’ll just be a minute.”

He picks up the last cup she used for him, drying it and putting it away. Walking around, he can’t help the butterflies he has existing in a place that’s so her, such an accurate representation of her. Any nerves he had on the way here seep away, he realises there’s no time as perfect as now.

As he waits by the front door, twisting his platinum band around his finger, he pulls his phone out.

Do baristas like buns in the oven? Asking for a friend.

———-

HELLO I LOVE CAFÉS AND I LOVE SHAWN I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS ♥️

[hereisleo]

#1. It Goes Down Down, Baby

w/ j.yh

g/ steampunk!au

a.n/ and so we begin. i actually was at 2.3k words but decided to discard 1k in here. i’ll use it elsewhere or not. fingers cross this don’t flop. let’s see if you could figure out who the rest of the characters are. (i think there’s only one who i didn’t mention)

t.w/ gun

recommended playlist:

Celestial Aeon Project - Vampire Masquerade

The Fiechters - Council of the Steampunk Nobles

SIXC - 움직여 (MOVE) (Prod. by Zico)

The Summer Masquerade Ball was what Yunho called a boring hoax. 21 years of his life was spent inside the glimmering confines of the silver-spoon upbringing. The chandeliers twinkled above him and the orchestra worked their beautiful tunes. He wasn’t an entirely spoiled brat, he acknowledged the finesse of upper-class life and appreciated it but he had enough. Oh, how his parents were going to be tremendously disappointed by him. Yunho made his way to the dance floor, down the majestic staircase step by step and all eyes fixed on to him. Nobody knew who he was even if he was the last guest to arrive. His hair was now a striking light blue from the previous soft golden shade, half of his face covered by a simple elegant mask. The intricate beading of pearls and crystals on his black velvet jacket caught the light. He heard the awed whispers spread. The wives, daughters and sons of the nobles were all gathered here. The fathers were not present at the moment, the patriarchs that ran the country were hidden in the council room. As hidden as it could be, Yunho knew every nook and cranny of this gilded golden cage.

Yunho exchanged formal courtesy with the gentlemen and ladies of the council, voice two octaves lower than his usual register. He was a good actor. He glided across the dance floor and around, he memorised the faces of the noble offsprings, he wasn’t stupid, he knew exactly which ones were the kind that could bring forth trouble and which would bring the most insider information. He wasn’t the only one who was trembling in excitement. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the War Child and the Advocate. He figured the Fox was somewhere unseen, eavesdropping on hidden conversations. The waiting hour of the night had come and the crowd were buzzing, he made sure he had socialised with most of the participants that he slipped away from the grand ballroom with ease, they would be pointing here and there to find him only to notice he was gone long after.

He felt the summer night breeze ruffling his clothes, the distant chugging of steam-powered trains made his being sing. The sound of freedom. Yunho shed his jacket, hooking it near the burning candle, hoping that the wind would blow in the right direction and lit the expensive fabric. A mellow distraction just as planned. The shadow moved and the Street Rat emerged, footsteps quiet on the linoleum floorings, walking beside him. He glanced sideways and his newfound companion was already looking at him, eyes glinting with grim mischief. Yunho knew he was smirking behind the mask. The glint of admiration in the other’s eyes was enough for him to preen slightly, he was always a rebel.

The Fox sidled up on Yunho’s left. He always wondered how a man as beautiful as the Fox ended up on the other side of politics. He was sure the Fox was of the same upbringing as him. “We need to mobilise. They’ll launch the attack in a fortnight,” the Fox’s announcement halted his and the Street Rat’s strides. “A fortnight! That’s too soon!” The Street Rat clicked his tongue. The ball was held ahead of schedule, he should have figured it out sooner. The clocktower at the plaza was visible from the palace, the arched ceiling-to-floor window filtered in the moonlight. The full moon hung on the dark sky, it appeared bigger than usual and the stars weren’t as easy to gaze as when he was a child. If he let himself loose, he could hear the grinding of the cogs, the hissing of its special engine and the ticking of its finer mechanisms. No, he heard it right now, loud and clear within the corridor behind him. Yunho took a deep breath, three seconds and the smell of burning reached him and the alarm blared. He only had one word, “Run!”

Mechanical knights whirred to life, the stomping of its steel legs was distinct on the linoleum. Three full suits of armoured knights chased them down the hall. “To the platform!” One train would arrive in five minutes and their estimated time of arrival whilst running was seven minutes. At this point, the guests in the ballroom would have panicked and the council meeting interrupted. “What of War Child and Advocate?” The Fox snipped out as he turned a sharp left. “Worry for yourself first, Fox,” the Street Rat chided, “War Child and Advocate are in the perfect position, they won’t attract any suspicion.” Yunho screeched to a halt, his long fingers latching onto the burnished gold frame of an oil painting of the city skyline and heaved it to the side, he bypassed the security dial in record time. “Don’t stop running!” He barked and the two shadows jumped into motion.

One minute. They weren’t going to make it and even then Yunho hoped there were no knights on the other side of the secret passage. The back of his hands were littered with tiny cuts and splinters, the pathway was narrow. The Street Rat drew his flintlock, the ornate cogwheel and tarnished gold finish was unmistakable, anyone in the Resistance knew whose weapon it was. The clanging of metals behind the door to their freedom grew louder and the Street Rat did not hesitate to hail the knights with bullets once the door opened. The cogwheel whirred furiously and smoke started to drift up from the heat and friction. The partially automated gun packed more firepower than the usual flintlocks in the shadow market. It made perfect sense in his mind when he saw the cogwheel glow and the red energy lines thrummed through the etchings on the body of the flintlock.

The chugging of a train starting to depart from the platform gave Yunho and his companions a fresh surge of adrenaline. The Fox brought out his grapple gun, squeezing the trigger as he gained momentum by leaping off the railing. Yunho followed suit behind him and the Street Rat hot at his heels. A leap of faith made as the clocktower rang midnight. The weightlessness Yunho felt was unlike any others, he prayed his hand at least managed to hold the ledge of the window. His heart hammered viciously against his ribcage, his muscles screamed under the strain and that was when he realised he made it. The impulse of force slammed him against the shell of the train with an extra weight of a grown man hanging on to him. How he wished he had one of the Fox’s grapple guns, he wasn’t going to complain, surviving the leap was a feat in itself but his fingers were burning and starting to slip from the ledge. The Fox was quick to grab him and hauled him into the luckily empty cabin. Their brush against death remained in his bones. A recurring event sure to follow the Resistance and its fighters everywhere they went.

Yunho hit the cabin floor knees first, the Street Rat next to him, their legs in a tangled mess but not a word was exchanged and neither did he shied away. The adrenaline wore off from their systems. The Fox was splayed on the cushioned seat. The cabin was filled with the sound of laboured breathing and emanating body heat. He almost drifted off to sleep if it weren’t for the Street Rat’s next plan of action, “We need to send a telegram to the Resistance about the accelerated plan and get to the High Port.” They needed to mobilise whatever troops they had and rally support from the citizens themselves. “Fox, you go straight to Whistleblower. Unchained will retrieve both of you when you finish planting the seeds.” A garbled noise of agreement told him the Fox was still out of it. The Street Rat finally moved to sit up, eyes piercing his grey ones, “And you need to go back to the palace...” Yunho didn’t hear the latter half of the sentence. All his mind registered was being sent back to the gilded cage.

next>>

ateez main masterlist | wt: masterlist

[fandomoneshots-imagines]

Experiment - Part 6 (Platonic!Avengers x Hybrid!OFC)

Warnings: a bit of fluff, Kat gets angry, language

Shuri and I talked for a little while then a loud beeping went off, “Ok, Kat, I need you to start looking for everyone. Do whatever you need to do to find Tony, Peter, Nat, Clint, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and T’Challa. Got it?” Wanda and Bruce decided to stay back and get dinner ready.

“Got it!” I grinned and held up my thumb. I stood still for a moment listening to the noises of the woods and taking in the smells. In less than a second I could hear the plates of Bucky’s arm ticking and whirling. As quietly as I could I stalked in his direction. I knew he’d be able to hear me coming as well as before I got too close I climbed up into the trees, leaping silently from branch to branch. I got to the tree Bucky was hiding behind and giggled looking down at him peak around the large oak.

My giggling made his head shoot up but I hid behind some branches and leaves, “Come on kitten. I heard you up there.” He stepped away from the coverage of the tree and I balanced out onto one of the limbs as his back was turned to me then let my body drop and land behind him with a soft thud.

“I found Bucky!” I jumped on him, making him let out a squeak of surprise.

“The arm gave me away didn’t it?” He chuckled as I slid off.

“Mmhmm,” I hummed, “Very loud.” I nodded and knocked my knuckles against it, making the man shake his head with a smile on his face.

“Who ya going after now?”

“Tony tummy thingy noisey too.” I whispered pointing in the direction it was coming from. “I saw Petey in trees but I’m not gonna let him know. He was swinging.”

“She is using the abilities of the others to help find them.” Shuri mumbled as her and Bucky followed me in the direction of where Tony could be heard. He was just casually leaning up against the side of a tree, playing on his phone. I motioned for Shuri and Bucky to stop and moved to where I would be coming at Tony from straight on. He still hadn’t noticed me even when I was a few feet away. I stood directly in front of him now where I could see the screen to his phone. He was playing some game, which made me pout.

“You said had no games!” I screeched, making him jump and fumble his phone.

“Holy shit kid!” He yelled, placing his hand over his heart. I crossed my arms over my chest and kept the pout. “We’re putting a bell on you.” I just huffed and turned away from him.

“I think you pissed her off Stark.” Bucky chuckled and I grumbled stomping off in search of my next target.

“It’s not a game. I’m making repairs to the suits. I haven’t gotten down to the lab lately and I’m doing it remotely.” Tony explained with a groan but I ignored him.

I paused in the middle of a little clearing trying to listen for any familiar noises of anyone else. However, I couldn’t hear over Tony’s and Bucky’s griping. I let out a loud snarl escape from my lips and my tails flicked back and forth. The two of them immediately shut up.

I was able to focus on the sounds again and let my ears twist around in all directions. I felt the wind change directions and with it flowed a familiar scent. I whipped my body in that direction and took off after the scent. She was also running, no doubt able to hear me following behind. I was quickly catching up though.

I skidded to a stop as the scent grew heavy. She was staying in one spot. Aggravated noises rumbled in my chest. I couldn’t place where she was. She moved quietly but it was like before I caught up to her she had run in circles to throw my nose off.

“Nat,” I whined, stomping my foot. “Not fair!”

I heard her melodic laugh as she dropped down from a nearby tree and came forward wrapping me in a hug. I hugged back and buried my head in her chest, wrapping my tail around her leg, “You did so good, Kotyonok.” She whispered, kissing my curls, “Who else have you found?”

“Bucky and Tony.” I grumbled the later, “Both loud. Sammy is everywhere. Always singing. Petey is swinging through the trees watching but he doesn’t know I know.” I whispered and giggled.

“So you still have to find Steve, Clint, T’Challa, and technically have to nail Sam down.” Nat hummed, “Honestly the hardest one to find will be T’Challa. Shuri made these noise reduction shoes. Buuuut, I may or may not know of a hideout Clint likes to use.”

My head perked up and we met up with Tony, Bucky, and Shuri. Nat informed them that I could hear Sam from everywhere. As they were talking a shadow of a small bird zoomed across the forest floor, catching my attention. The bird shadow was making loops and was darting into shadows to disappear then reappear out of a different shadow. The same aggravated noises I made earlier escaped and I snuck up on the shadow as it came to hold still. I was about to attack when the stupid thing moved again!

Instead I attacked a fallen tree limb, scratching at it with my claws and holding onto it with my teeth. I heard a whirring sound and looked up and saw a small red bird plane thing. It was swaying side to side like it was dancing. My eyes locked onto it. I rose up from my tree limb readying myself to pounce.

“Don't even think about it sweetheart.” Sam’s voice came from the bird.

“Sam?” I cocked my head at the head at the bird, moving closer, “Can fit in tiny plane?”

“Not really,” he laughed, “His name is Red Wing. He’s my sidekick. Can see things I can’t get my eyes on.”

“But where you?” I asked then heard metal flapping and a thud behind me. I spun around and Sam was wearing large metal wings. “Sam can fly!” I ran over to touch his wings.

“Hey I found you before you found me sweetcheeks.” He laughed as I played with his wings.

“Nuh uh,” I shook my head.

“Yeah I did. That was Red Wing you were chasing.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

T

“No,” I shook my head and matched his stance.

“She’s right Wilson.” Bucky laughed.

“She could hear you all around just couldn’t place you.” Nat agreed, cleaning some dirt off my face.

“Prove it.” He challenged.

“Oh yes wait a minute Mr Postman. Waaaaaait mr postman.” You mimicked the singing he had done earlier. “Ooooooooh, baby love, my baby, I need ya, oh how I need ya. But all ya do is treat me bad.” You mimicked another song he was singing when I had found Bucky.

“Really Sam?” Tony looked at him, “The Marvelettes and the Supremes?”

“They’ve both been stuck in my head.” He said with a simple shrug, “But alright you win this time.”

“Can find Clint now?” I turned to look at Nat, who gave me a soft smile.

“Let’s go kitty kat.” She and held out her hand. I grasped onto her hand and we ran forward ahead of everyone. I’m not sure how long we ran for but we soon came to this little cabin. “This is Clint’s favorite place to hide out. He’s definitely going to be in there.” She whispered softly.

The closer we got to the cabin the more I could hear the soft sounds coming from the things Clint keeps in his ears. The two of us snuck up and peered inside one of the windows and saw Clint sitting on the couch playing on his phone. From where we were we could see that his ear things were sitting on the table beside him.

“He won’t be able to hear you sneaking in. You’d be able to scare him really well.” Nat said, still speaking softly.

“Why can’t hear?” My eyebrows scrunched at the question.

“Maybe we’ll tell you the story another time.” She smiled like she was remembering something.

I nodded and lifted myself over the windowsill, slowly walking up behind the man. His head stayed down the entire time, not looking up at all. I looked back at Nat and saw that the rest of the team had gathered around and Sam held his phone up to record with Shuri recording once again as well. Once at the back of the couch I looked over Clint’s shoulder and saw him playing a game and pouted. He said he didn’t have any games either. I huffed and tapped on his shoulder making him let out the loudest, most feminine scream ever. Everyone at the window started laughing loudly.

“GOD DAMMIT! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” He yelled. He grabbed his ear things and put them back in, “When the fuck did you get in here?”

“LANGUAGE!” The team yelled from the window.

“Clint has games.” I crossed my arms, growling deep in my chest, “Petey said liars pants get fired.”

“My pants aren’t gonna catch fire.” He held out his phone, “But here, have at it kiddo.” I squealed and took his phone, taking over the game he was playing.

“All that’s left is Steve and T’Challa.”

[pinnithin-writes]

I Realized. Then I Couldn’t Stop Realizing.

Chapter 6: Pleck

Depending on where he looked, it had begun hundreds of years ago.

The Allwheat hit him hard that day. After waking up on the couch next to C-53, feeling warm and soft inside, Pleck wandered to his cleaning chamber for a shower and was immediately assaulted.

It hurt this time, the mocking voice loud and harsh in his mind, and it was all he could do to remain standing under the spray of hot water. He sucked in a breath, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the handicap bar.

“Shut up,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

He ran through his affirmations, tried to fling his thoughts out to something else, but the demonic entity bore down on him viciously until its voice broke his mind open like an egg. His legs gave out and he slammed painfully to his hands and knees, shuddering.

YOU’RE A FAILURE YOU’RE WORTHLESS ALL YOUR FRIENDS HATE YOU THE ALLWHEAT WILL CONSUME EVERYTHING MY POWER IS INESCAPABLE YOUR PATHETIC LIFE IS JUST A MONUMENT TO YOUR FAILURE AND YOUR FRAGILE MIND WILL BREAK UNDER THE WEIGHT OF IT ALL YOU'RE TINY YOU’RE NOTHING YOU’RE USELESS-

Pleck crouched and shivered and took it. His head split with pain. It was so unbearably loud, so relentless and all-consuming. It blacked out his eyes and burned in his ears, assailing him until the water ran cold.

When the voice finally withdrew, his muscles ached from tensing up and one of his knees was bleeding from its impact with the tile. Pleck raised a shaking hand and cut the water off.

“Juck…” he exhaled weakly. He had let his guard down, gone complacent in the presence of his friends. It only made sense that the Allwheat had returned with a vengeance.

Trembling, he stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and gingerly dressed himself. In the weeping surface of the mirror, he caught his own reflection. One of his eyes was heavy with fatigue and the other was plain ruined, gazing back at him like a spectre. His unshaven jaw was tense, his shoulders pulled in tight. He looked every bit as exhausted as he felt.

Why was this just his life now?

He hadn’t asked to be chosen. He especially hadn’t asked to be chosen for something so galaxy-shattering. Why couldn’t he have been the guy who was chosen to tell stupid jokes, or write a novel that he abandoned halfway through? Why did it have to be him?

When Pleck had found Derf on that barren rock of an asteroid, he was dazzled by the stories the old man wove about the Space. It seemed like an impossible fantasy at the time - him, Pleck Decksetter, a nobody of a tellurian from a backwater planet in the middle of nowhere, destined for greatness. After he’d joined the Federated Alliance, he had quickly learned that ambassador work was just as mind-numbing as farm work. Discovering he was chosen for something bigger than himself put stars in his eyes (he’d still had both of them at the time). It didn’t matter that his crew didn’t believe him or that his wood saber snapped in two.

He was going to be somebody. He was going to help people.

Of course, it was only fitting that Pleck Decksetter, tellurian disaster, would be indoctrinated into an order of other disasters. He had wandered blindly under the vague and largely unhelpful tutelage of Old Derf, clinging to the hope that all this searching would be worth it. He wanted it to be real. He needed it to be real, so the sheer nothingness of his life actually meant something.

Traveling to Zima Prime may have been disappointing, but at least it was proof - evidence that his stubborn hope paid off. The Space was real. He was chosen.

Now, it was all too real, the burden of responsibility weighing heavy on his shoulders. Perhaps he had defeated the Emperor, but at what cost? The Allwheat was ripping apart the galaxy, and it was his fault. His fault. Pleck’s. Is this what it meant to be chosen?

Pleck stared numbly at his reflection. Slowly, he started to comb through his hair with his fingers. He looked horrible, white-faced and shaken, but he could at least try and offset the effect with some grooming. He didn’t bother to shave, but he did tie on his eyepatch as an afterthought.

Sometimes, he wished none of this had ever happened. He wished he had stayed on Rangus Six, ignorant and safe, mind undisturbed by a hateful, mutant ghost. It was better than having breakdowns in the shower. It was better than being unable to trust his own thoughts.

But no, he considered, watching the condensation run lazy tracks down the mirror. He wouldn’t trade this for anything. Not if it meant he’d never have met his crew. His friends. Dar, who’d slowly come around from actively disliking him to being a literal shoulder to cry on. Bargie, with her spirit and her strength in the face of everything she’s endured. Nermut’s passion for all that he was involved in. AJ, whom Pleck deeply loved. His curiosity. His verve for life.

He wouldn’t have met his noob without the Space. He wouldn’t have met any of them. It was destiny.

And then there was C-53, the constant, supportive presence that never left his side. The pragmatic droid had never believed in the Space. When Pleck first learned he was chosen, C-53 had challenged him at every turn. In all fairness, he had been newly freed from his restraining bolt, and Pleck couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at the droid for ramming his shins repeatedly, goading him into a fight. He had actually found it delightful - C-53, flooded with newfound emotion, had decided to bother Pleck of all people.

The fact that C-53 had come around to believing in his Space-sensitivity was new to him, and he was still fighting an instinct to flinch away when he asked about it. He couldn’t forget that the droid had been the one to pull him out of the Cone of Silence a season ago, when Pleck’s heart was full of hate.

It’s me, C-53, talking to you. Your best friend. It echoed in his memory even today.

Now he was so much more than that to Pleck, and he had no idea how to approach it. C-53 had remained close to him despite his best efforts at isolation, watching over him when he couldn’t watch out for himself. Pleck felt so strongly for him, sometimes it physically hurt to keep it inside. Every time he was near the droid, he felt transparent, as if everyone could see the undercurrent of longing beneath his skin.

He loved all of his crew, but with C-53, he was in so deep he would be happy to drown in it.

Pleck managed to tie his hair back and let out a sigh. A thin line of blood traced down his shin from the fresh cut on his knee. He should probably go get the med kit from the kitchen and clean this up. That is, if his shaking hands would hold still enough to let him do it.

Barefoot, he trudged to the common room, willing for it to be empty. Upon entry, he saw that AJ had cleared out, but C-53 was still resting next to the couch in low power mode. Pleck paused in the doorway, eyeing him warily, but when his colleague didn’t stir, he tread carefully through the lounge and to the kitchenette beyond. He found the med kit in a cabinet by the fridge.

With trembling fingers, he reached up to retrieve it, biting back a curse as it slipped out of his grasp. It clattered loudly to the linoleum floor, popping open and scattering medical supplies everywhere. Juck my life. He knelt sorely to pick up the mess.

A smooth shift of machinery from the couch told Pleck that C-53 was stirring, making his pulse climb in alarm. He didn’t want his friend to see him like this, pale, shaking, kneeling on the floor with rolls of bandages slipping through his fingers. Hardly able to think. Brimming with heartache.

“Pleck?” C-53’s footsteps were heavy as he approached. “Are you okay?”

“Hey,” he made a weak attempt at levity. “Just uh, picking up all this stuff I dropped… Clumsy me, right?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Pleck’s laugh sounded more like a panicked hiccup. “I’m fine, I just - I just slipped in the shower. I’m-” the bottle of hydrogen peroxide he tried to grasp fumbled out of his hand.

There was a long, agonizing pause as it rolled across the floor and bumped gently against the foot of C-53’s frame. Pleck kept his eye on the linoleum, unable to look at his friend.

Then he heard whirring, and a loader claw clamped onto the back of his robe, hoisting Pleck into the air.

“Whoa, C-53, what are you-”

“I’m making sure you’re paying attention,” C-53 spoke over him, carrying Pleck easily to the coat rack on the nearby wall.

He flailed, resistant. “You don’t need to pick me up -”

“Oh, I think I do,” C-53 insisted. He placed the bathrobe, and the tellurian inside it, onto a free hook and let him dangle there.

Pleck stopped struggling, hanging pathetically in defeat. He was so tired.

“Pleck, look at me.”

Pleck looked at him. He was very close, the face of his frame filling his field of vision so that he was all the tellurian could focus on.

“Tell me what happened.”

Haltingly, Pleck recounted his attack in the cleaning chamber. He no longer saw a point in hiding it, incapacitated and laid bare by C-53’s scanners like this.

When he finished, C-53 drew back a little, studying him. He couldn’t tell what was going on in the droid’s cube - the face of his frame was still and passive. Blood continued to run sluggishly down Pleck’s leg, dripping onto the floor, loud amid the silence.

C-53’s voice was stern but gentle when he finally spoke. “The next time this happens, I want you to come find me.”

“I don’t think-”

“I’m serious,” C-53 cut him off. He was so close to him Pleck could hear the hardware behind his face plate humming softly. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately-”

Pleck went rosy from ear to neck. “You have?”

“-And I would like to say that I hate seeing you like this. You’re a good person and you have no business hiding away all the time when you’re clearly hurting. Pleck, you can talk to me.” His vocal modulator sounded almost choked, and it was strange for Pleck to hear.

“I would be a pretty terrible friend if I just stood aside and watched when I know you’re in pain,” he continued. “I’m here for you. You come to me when you need me. This,” he gestured between them with a claw, “is how friendship works.”

Pleck sagged, his chest feeling hot and complicated in the face of C-53’s words. “Th - Thanks. Thanks, C. I’m sorry. I’ll - I’ll come tell you next time.”

He hadn’t realized how closely the droid had been paying attention to him. It made his arms feel tingly - or maybe that was the lack of circulation from being hung on a coat rack.

“Do you think you could maybe, uh,” he laughed uncomfortably, breakably, “maybe put me down now?”

“Right, sorry.”

C-53’s loader claw reached up and delicately removed him from the hook, rotating to deposit him as softly as possible on solid ground. Pleck’s legs shook when he stood, but thankfully they held his weight. He tipped his head back, gazing up at his friend, a whole mess of words threatening to spill out. The Space really did mean for them to meet. He believed it with all his heart.

C-53 indicated his split knee with a heavy clamp. “You should take care of that,” he told him. “I mean, I’d do it, but I sort of lack the appropriate dexterity right now.” The clamp clicked for emphasis.

Pleck’s head went all foggy picturing C-53 bandaging his wounds, so he busied himself with the task before his blush could deepen. The disinfectant stung, grounding him a little more in reality.

“I think we should start looking at ways to solve your Allwheat problem,” C-53 said as he migrated toward the mess of medical supplies on the floor. “Treat the source, not just the symptoms.”

Pleck gave him a cautious look. “I don’t know where I would even start with something like that.” His fingernails scraped at the wrapper of a bandage as he thought about it. “Maybe I could look back at the scrolls? Y’know, see if I missed something. Oh, C-53, you don’t have to…”

“No, no, I’ve got it.” C-53 was picking up each fallen item one by one, depositing them carefully in the red plastic container like an oversized claw game. It was adorable. Pleck ducked his head so he wasn’t staring.

“I think the scrolls will be a good place to start,” C-53 continued, oblivious to Pleck’s furtive gaze. “Do you still have them somewhere?”

Pleck nodded. He could dig them out of where he’d stashed them in storage a few months back. He placed the bandage thoughtfully over his knee, pressing down to make it stick. “D’you think we’ll actually be able to…” he faltered, doubtful. “Fix me?”

C-53 paused to consider him. “Pleck,” he said. “You’re not broken.”

“Okay, I didn’t mean-”

“But if it means you’ll be happy again, I’ll try my very best.” The droid gave him a significant look. “Will you let me help you?”

Pleck crushed the bandage wrapper in his fingers, insides suddenly going soft. C-53 was going to melt him with his sincerity at this rate. When Pleck answered, his voice came out very small. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”

To be happy again. He wanted it more than anything.

Chapter 5 <-----> Chapter 7

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Hngh I want to know what happens next in superhero au so bad

previous part

they have a lair. they have an actual, real life lair. a superhero lair hidden underground about a mile outside the city, underneath an old factory that virgil wouldn't have looked twice at had he not been lead by the others through the gate. in the doors, down hallways, through yet another gate, down a long, long flight of spiral stairs, into a dark room, through a locked mechanical door that whirs open courtesy of codebreaker, and into the huge room that looks like something straight out of a science fiction movie. they have a lair, in 2019. virgil feels like he's just stepped straight into an alternate dimension.

"sit," the ringleader tells him as he walks by, cane tapping and echoing in the huge room at slow, uniform intervals. virgil’s wide-eyed wonder draws a giggle from the medic, of whom comes up to him with a hop in his step and peers at him with knowing eyes. he leans forward with his hands clasped behind his back, rolling back and forth from the ball of his foot to the heel in giddiness. his skirt swishes with the motion, seemingly just as lively as the man himself is, and virgil finds it almost comforting despite the simultaneous annoyance at the cheery disposition.

“want some nutrient-infused water? it’s got lots of vitamins and stuff that’s good for you in it! and it tastes like strawberries!” the medic asks, not stopping to wait for virgil’s answer before producing a small bottle the size of his palm from the inside of his cape. at first, virgil wonders incredulously if he keeps little water bottles hidden in tiny cape pockets for spur-of-the-moment use, but then the medic sticks his fist out to drop the bottle into virgil’s hand and his cape flutters open to reveal something that looks like a fanny pack strapped to his chest just above the bottom of his ribcage. it has a heart and cross symbol identical to the ones on his waist and shoes, and virgil realizes that it must be some sort of first aid kit or medical pack.

“oh, uh--” virgil starts, about to decline, but the small frown that forms on the medic’s face makes him feel too guilty to pass it up. with a laboured sigh, virgil accepts the bottle, bringing it up closer to his face to examine it. it looks pretty normal, like water that’s lightly tinted pink. the bottle itself is more like a vial, just without the rounded bottom. this could easily be poison, but they are superheroes, and virgil doubts that heroes would go as far as to try to kill him, even if they’re not completely convinced he’s not their enemy. 

as virgil pops the cap off sinks into the chair the ringleader provided him, the scent of the water wafts up toward him almost immediately. it’s potent, but it doesn’t smell bad, necessarily. artificial strawberry assaults his senses, overpowering him in a way that reminds him of the awful, cavity-inducing candies he used to steal from his grandma’s purse and munch on when he was younger. it’s not exactly like how he’d expect poison or chemicals to smell, but then again, a lot of poison isn’t supposed to smell like anything, so.

even though he really, really doesn’t want to drink this stuff, the medic is staring him down expectantly, bright blue puppy dog eyes boring into his soul. it’s like those eyes have picked him up and laid him in clouds, pulled a warm blanket over him and wished him goodnight. a crackling fireplace, hot chocolate and marshmallows, fuzzy socks and hardwood floors and fluffy rugs. it’s like looking into his eyes washes all of his worry away, like they pull out all of his sorrow and hardship and leave him with only pure warmth, and virgil realizes with a jolt that he’s already downed the whole bottle without even feeling it.

upon seeing the now-drained bottle in his hand, empty save for a few trace amounts of leftover liquid, virgil winces. he waits for something to go wrong, to feel a burning in his throat or a headache or to faint or even for him to just flat-out die, but there’s none of that. just the effluvious tang of an offensive mockery of strawberry flavouring coating his mouth and throat. virgil wrinkles his nose and glares at the clear bottle as if it personally threatened him.

“hey, med, come check the counter with me, ‘kay?” the prince says suddenly, an unreadable look flashing in his golden eyes as he watches the two of them before being masked by friendliness when his gaze meets virgil’s own. virgil’s suspicion goes nowhere, seemingly dissolves into thin air when the medic lays a comforting hand on his shoulder through the dark cloak. his touch almost burns with warmth, infuses him with calm, and virgil’s lashes flutter under the weight of his sudden onslaught of sleepiness. then the medic is gone, disappears through another one of those weird high-tech spaceship doors with the prince, and the haze over virgil’s mind slowly begins to clear.

“you say you are not the storm. who are you, then?” the codebreaker suddenly speaks up, smooth voice drifting over from his spot at some sort of panel. it glows brightly, so blinding virgil can’t make out any kind of images or words that it might display, and yet codebreaker somehow seems to be interacting with it effortlessly. he floats there in front of it despite there being a chair right beside him, back hunched and knees pulled up to his chest. his head is tilted, rests on his shoulders as if he’s too weary to hold it up, and his eyes only flit to virgil once before returning to observe the panel in front of him through his hologram face-screen thingy.

“don’t look at the console for too long. it’s not healthy. code-y over there is the only one who can actually see what’s on it. his holovisor has some sort of light filter, or something,” the ringmaster remarks to virgil’s left, leaning on his cane with an air of boredom that virgil doesn’t think is very fair to display. he inspects his nails like he has somewhere better to be, but he’s wearing gloves, so it just ends up making him look weird. then again, the michievous look in his eyes has a hint of knowing to it, so maybe he’s trying to look stupid on purpose just to fuck with him. 

“i’m… my name is virgil. im just a guy, man. like i said, i work at a shitty job and still live with my parents. i’m not some… crazy evil supervillain,” virgil tells them, and funnily enough, that desperation he’s been feeling this entire time seems to have completely vanished. he’s wary, but not afraid, which is completely different to how he was feeling just thirty minutes ago.

“virgil altera, born to a liliana altera and a harold whitman. mother is an authour who hasn’t been published in nine years, father is the ceo of an insurance company. you were kidnapped from a local park at age four and stayed missing for five years, until you randomly turned up wandering along a highway outside of a town hundreds of miles away. you were badly beaten and starved, yet were somehow able to walk almost perfectly despite your dangerous condition. you remembered nothing about where you had been, and there was no trail to determine the assailant or where they took you. the case went cold, you returned to your parents, and you were enrolled in middle school by the next year. you graduated from high school with no notable achievements, started working as an office temp, and have been presumably been doing the same thing ever since. an odd story for someone who claims to be a ‘normal guy’, don’t you think?”

okay then. so the codebreaker can just somehow get his whole life story in a matter of seconds. it’s fine. this is fine.

the ringleader raises his brow, the one that’s visible, and lets out a disbelieving snort. “kidnapped? beaten? starved? sounds like a villain backstory to me.”

“yes, well. i suppose we should hear from virgil first before making any rash decisions,” the codebreaker says, finally looking up from the screen and straight at him. virgil draws in on himself, pulse quickening with the amount of information they have on him this easily. the chair is hard underneath his legs, of which are slowly going numb, and virgil can feel the air slowly getting colder as his panic increases. neither of them seem to notice, or if they do, they don’t mention it. the ringleader taps a foot impatiently while virgil just stares, silent and fidgety as he tries to figure out what to say.

“i… i don’t really remember any-- any of that stuff. well, i kinda remember walking on the highway, and someone taking me to a police station, but not the-- not anything before that. i’ve tried so hard to remember but the most i got with my therapist was the word ‘hens’ printed on some sort of paper. that’s really all i remember, i promise,” virgil mutters, swallowing hard under the ringleader’s icy look. the codebreaker says nothing, only narrows his eyes slightly as if he’s contemplating something, and then he turns right back around with his coat flapping behind him as he resumes his position at the bright panel. the ringleader huffs once and rolls his eyes, leaning forward and hoisting himself up onto the raised platform the console resides on instead of walking around to the other side and using the set of stairs there.

the two seem to talk in hushed tones to each other, ignoring virgil’s presence completely, something that both irritates him and relieves him. although he wishes they’d stop being so secretive and just tell him what’s going on and how to fix it, he much prefers the disregard than the intense scrutiny. it gives him a moment to breathe, to try to rein in his frustration and panic. instead of speaking up, he decides to look around the room again, takes in the rows and rows of screens and buttons and switches. it all looks extremely high-tech, futuristic, almost, like he’s just boarded an alien spaceship and is now seeing the ship’s control room. glowing blue light comes from everywhere, enhancing the dim atmosphere with something clandestine.

“alright. if you’re not the storm, then why do you have the same powers? how’d you deflect my whips?” the ringleader asks loudly, snapping virgil out of his reverie. his face is mostly neutral, but there’s a hint of annoyance underneath that suggests a bruised ego. virgil jumps to  his feet and stands at attention, something in the ringleader’s tone making him afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t pay attention. “because from what we saw, the storm was fighting us like normal, and then suddenly stopped in the middle of an attack and just dropped out of the sky. we thought it was a trick, so we all fell in and approached together. but instead of an ambush, you were just standing there on the ground not even acknowledging us. i tried to attack, you blocked it, and then instead of dodging princey’s punch, you cowered. so if you truly aren’t the storm, then why do you look like him? why do you have the same body, the same clothes, the same face and voice? why can you use the same powers?”

and virgil honestly doesn’t know what to say. he fell out of the sky? how is he even alive right now?

“i… i don’t know, okay?! all i know is that i woke up standing on that street. you tried to hit me with those glow-y whip thingies, so i tried to put my hands up so it wouldn’t hit my face, and then fucking lightning came out of my hands! i didn’t do it on purpose! how the fuck am i supposed to know? if i did, i wouldn’t have walked this whole time with these stupid bandages on my feet instead of shoes! and now my feet have rocks in them and i’m bleeding and i think my leg is hurt somehow and i feel like i’m gonna pass out any minute and i’m just tired! i want to go home! i want to go back to my stupid boring desk job and live my stupid boring life! i’m not a villain! i’m not… i’m not a killer,” virgil chokes out, voice breaking before he can truly end his rant. and it’s true, his feet do hurt. they feel blistered, sore, sting with the specific type of pain reserved for a cut. his right leg is throbbing, shaky like it could give out any minute, and his arms are so weak he can barely raise them above waist-level. he’s hungry, and angry, and he just wants to sleep. he probably looks like a zombie right now, and he feels like it too.

“wait! you’re hurt?! why didn’t you tell me? that water just isn’t enough to heal you,” the medic’s familiar voice comes as a worried exclamation from the direction of the door he and the prince disappeared into, and virgil turns to see both of them re-entering the room. the prince looks confused, and the medic immediately jumps into action, fretting over him with small touches here and there that alleviate just a little bit of the ache. virgil is pushed gently back into the chair, and then the medic’s gloves are tapping indeterminable patterns into his blood-stained pant leg. it hurts for a moment, feels like a burning sensation as the little hearts on the pads of his glove fingers glow, but then he can feel an odd numbness taking over everything else. he can feel his skin stitching itself back up, his muscles releasing tension, the nerves calming down. it leaves him exhausted, the medic perhaps even more so, what with the way he lets out a strained breath and wobbles to fall down to sit back on the floor. the prince immediately shoots over and kneels behind the other superhero, propping him up to sit at a more normal angle while he catches his breath, and virgil almost feels kinda bad that he sacrificed so much of his energy to help him.

“hey, are you-- are you messing with my emotions?” virgil asks, and the medic looks at him inquisitively from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of the chair. his skirt is spread out around him, draped over his legs and the glassy, reflective black floor. virgil doesn’t really know how a skirt is practical in battle, but he’s not exactly the expert here, so.

“of course! that’s what i do. you were scared, so i made you relaxed instead!” the medic tells him, happy eyes and happy smiles and despite his previous calm, virgil feels annoyance prick at his chest.

“don’t do that. that’s not cool,” virgil says, voice hard, and this time, he feels even more guilty when the medic shrinks in on himself meekly. the prince narrows his eyes dangerously, posture raising in warning, and virgil doesn’t pay him a single bit of attention despite his own fear. “i get that you’re trying to help, but i don’t want you to do that to me without my permission. it just confuses me and makes me tired. please don’t do it unless i say you can, alright?”

his voice is much softer this time, less accusatory, and his gentler approach is obviously the correct one. the medic perks up again, eyes wide as he nods vigorously, and he squeaks out a small “sorry! i’ll be more careful!” before placing his fingers on another bruise and repeating the process of healing all over again. the prince slumps back, still on guard but less confrontational, and the quiet resumes.

eventually, after a couple more rounds of this, filled with the medic ‘tsk’ing at every scrape and gasping at the state of his soles, virgil feels like he can actually stay conscious again. the medic looks a little rough, like he could pass out any second, so the prince picks him up bridal-style with ease and says something about “saving the damsel in distress”. the medic’s weary giggles echo all the way down the corridor for a few long moments after the two of them leave, presumably to rest elsewhere.

“i have come to the conclusion that you are the villain known as ‘the storm’,” the codebreaker says stoically once the noise completely vanishes. the ringleader’s head snaps over to look at him, surprised enough to stumble a bit on his cane, although he rights himself and resumes his put-together appearance as quickly as possible anyway. the words are like a knife through virgil’s heart, an electrified death sentence. they didn’t listen. they didn’t believe him. there’s no way he’s making it out of here. he’s gonna be a prisoner the rest of his life, paying the price and enduring the punishment for a crime he didn’t commit. “the evidence put together all suggests that you are the storm, and you do have powers. you admitted to using them yourself, albeit unintentionally. by all accounts, you are a powered individual and the villain we have been fighting for the past three years.

“however, i don’t believe that this is the full story. i think there’s more to it, that there has to be something else we’re missing. although i have not come to an agreement within myself on whether i believe you are completely innocent yet, i believe that you believe what you are saying, and that you think your version of events is the truth. if you truly do not remember this, remember being the storm and fighting us and wreaking havoc, then many questions have been raised that must be addressed. why do you not remember your villainous activities? why were you unaware that you have powers in the first place? is this the work of someone else? if so, then who? what is their goal? why are they using you as an intermediary for their influence? there is much to think about, and i cannot waste any more time just standing around,” the codebreaker finishes, ramblings coming to an abrupt halt as his holovisor drops open in front of his eyes again and he starts swiping and tapping at the bright console for the third time. virgil wants to know exactly what it is he’s doing over there, but he doesn’t really think he’s in the position to ask at the moment.

“for now, i’d like you, prince, and medic to train him. show him how to use his powers, and how to fight. he could be a viable asset and potentially act as a stand-in to fight villains while i work,” codebreaker commands pointedly at the ringleader, of whom opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but decides against it and simply nods.

“alright. virgil, right? come with me. i hope you don’t have anyone waiting for you at home, because you’re staying here for the time being,” the ringleader tells him, a snarky grin plastered on his face as he turns to stride over to the same door that the prince and the medic left through. virgil just stands there, mouth agape, unable to process everything that’s happening. he’s staying here? in the weird superhero lair? he’s gonna live underneath an old factory in this weird sci-fi spaceship bunker until they… what? figure out why he’s the storm, why he has powers? are they going to help him finally figure out what happened to him when he was a kid?

“are you coming?” the ringleader asks, voice low and seductive, but not in the way virgil is used to hearing from his misogynist coworkers in the break room. his voice doesn’t promise sex, or money, or fame. it promises adventure, promises answers, and virgil groans internally when he realizes that there’s absolutely no way he could ever say no to that.

small taglist: @illogical-anxieties @kazykazu @sharp-as-hyalus @bookwyrminspiration @thekitchenpan @bunny222