#i have a vision for a piece. i just need to make it exist

[cityofmeliora]

"Cardi" or "Copia"?

one of my controversial hot take behaviors in this fandom is my insistence on only using the names "Cardi" or "C" to refer to Cardinal Copia / Papa Emeritus IV / Frater Imperator, while probably 99% of the fandom says "Copia" instead, but i think it's weird that i'm even in the minority on this matter since, in the entire 7+ years since this character debuted, there's been a grand total of ONE time that a piece of official Ghost media has ever called him "Copia" (and it was the narrator in Metal Myths LOL), and off the top of my head, i know of just ONE interview where TF called him "Copia".

DISCLAIMER!!!! i'm not the boss of anyone and i'm NAWTTTT saying you can't call him Copia. i just have the autism that makes me need to Follow Rules and i think it's kind of funny that this phenomenon exists.

anyway. he's called "The Cardinal" / "Cardinal" / "Cardinal Copia" / "Cardi" / "Little Cardi" / "Cardi C" / "C" in interviews and official Ghost media, but never just "Copia".

TF prefers using the name Cardi for him–

TOBIAS FORGE: Cardinal Copia, or Cardi, as I like to call him, is not an all-around cool person, but that's what makes him so much fun for me to play. Visions (July 21, 2024)

and i'm sure his preference for the name "Cardi" is apparent from the way it's the most used name for the character.

it's used for almost the entirety of the Rite Here Rite Now opening narration–

NARRATOR: [...] Papa Emeritus IV, also known as 'Cardinal Copia', simplified within the clergy as 'Cardi', has been touring with Ghost for five years– two album cycles, which is double what any of his predecessors were allowed. As his numeral name implies, he should be the fourth in a row of Emerituses, but he's technically the fifth Papa since his father, Papa Nihil –'Nihil' meaning "zero"– was the first one. To make things even cozier, the Mother Superior of the Ghost clergy, whose name is Sister Imperator, is Cardi's actual mother. However, due to undisclosed circumstances in this particular story, Little Cardi wasn't aware of their family ties until quite recently. This may sound tragic, and maybe it is, but we'll just have to tell that story at some other time. Anyway, lately, there's been a lot of talk, or let's say insinuations, about death within the clergy, and Little Cardi doesn't like that one bit. Any notion of his time ending, or someone passing away, has been a trigger for him; his mind searching for ways to circumvent an untimely ending of his time in the limelight. You see, Cardi feels that since he is not only young –well, sort of– and able enough to carry on as the focal point of Ghost for at least a few more album cycles, Cardi feels that he is a better entertainer than the previous Papas and therefore he should simply be able to remain in his position, and not have to face the same fate as all the Papas before him. Cardi has no interest in being taxidermically propped up in a plexiglass coffin, to be displayed before the Ghost fans before they get the pleasure of seeing and hearing some new Papa frolicking around on stage. Cardi doesn't want to end this tour, simply because it might end in his ultimate and premature demise– his death. However, this is not a tale about death, but one of life. And Cardi is about to learn that the hard way. RITE HERE RITE NOW (2024)

other characters do call him "The Cardinal" and address him as "Cardinal" when speaking about him / to him in a professional capacity, as shown in Chapters 1-8 (2018-2019), when Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil only acknowledged him as a coworker because their family relationship wasn't public knowledge yet. and in the 2018 Special Sermon with Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator, they actually call him "Cardi C" LOL. weirdly, though, they also never say the full name "Cardinal Copia"– they just say "The Cardinal" / "Cardinal" / "Cardi C".

but after their family relationship was revealed, and when speaking to him personally, they call him "Cardi" or "C", as shown from Chapter 9 (2021) onward.

PAPA NIHIL: Cardi, can I see you a moment? RITE HERE RITE NOW (2024)

Cardi also refers to himself as "Cardi" or "C".

SISTER IMPERATOR: I mean, you'll always be– C, you'll always be my Little Cardi. PAPA EMERITUS IV: Aww. But that's– that's fine. I mean, I– when I'm back here in our abode, y'know, I always feel like... Cardi. Chapter 10: Home Coming & Special Guests (2022)

PAPA EMERITUS IV: Hello! This is uh, C. Uh, I'm doing auditioning tape for uh, for television, displaying acting skills. Chapter 12: Ghost Goes Hollywood (2022)

most people seem to interpret "Cardinal" as just his job title and "Copia" as his name, but for a long time, i've had the headcanon that "Cardinal Copia" is literally actually his legal given first name, and i wouldn't put it past Sister to have named him that, considering the fact that it's implied she legally changed her name to "Sister Imperator" (in Sister Imperator comic #2 she says "I'm keeping this name", and it's the name she uses at the hospital in Chapter 4 and it's on her prescription medication in RHRN and in the Skeletour VIP museum). this headcanon was partly a joke since it's a pretty silly idea, but i think there is some credibility to it considering the fact that his whole family calls him "Cardi" (including himself), especially woman who raised him, his aunt Marika (Papa Nihil's sister / Sister Imperator's adoptive sister / Mr. Psaltarian's wife).

like... i don't think his aunt Marika would say she's "always called him Cardi" if it was just a job title, since like... he probably wouldn't have had that job when he was a little kid.

MARIKA PSALTARIAN: And just so you know, Frater– Cardi, I've always called him Cardi. See, I'm actually his aunt, but he grew up with my husband and I basically being his parents. He'll always be my little boy. Chapter 20: Arrival Of A Secret Agent (2025)

when he was Papa Emeritus IV, he did want to be called "Papa" because that was his title, but he decided it was fine that his family didn't call him that, and he called himself "Cardi" / "C" too.

and after he became Frater Imperator, he asked people to call him by his new name / title, "Frater". but he still has the instinct to tell people to call him "C". so i don't think it's just about the titles.

FRATER IMPERATOR: Hello. I am Frater. JUDITH: Judith. FRATER IMPERATOR: Judith! Nice to meet you, J-Judith. You can call me… F. No– C! So– P! No, uh– Frater. Frater Imperator. Chapter 20: Arrival Of A Secret Agent (2025)

soooo... yeah. despite all this, i pretty much only see people calling him "Copia", not "Cardi" or "C" lol.

anyway, all of this could change with the big lore updates that are happening in Era 6, but this is what i've observed. haha.

i also always say "V" instead of "Perpetua" for similar reasons.

[ryuusei-boi]

one monday morning, Raimon students entered the school grounds to find hundreds of flyers pasted across the hallways and bulletin boards. they crowded around them to read what they said, asking each other if they knew the guy whose picture was on it and whether it was true.

when Minamisawa walked through the school gates, he was greeted with stares and people whispering to each other. he barely had any time to wonder what was going on when Kurumada and Hamano ran up to him. "no time to talk, senpai. let's go," the latter said, and they grabbed his wrist and hurried over to the soccer building.

1.2k words, panic attacks, some homophobic language

as his teammates pulled him through the hallways, Minamisawa barely caught a glimpse of a flyer with his face on it, tacked onto the wall. that's weird, he thought, but it was quickly forgotten as he tried not to trip all over himself in the rush.

"ah, you've got him." it was their captain, Sangoku, who was standing in the middle of the locker room. at the table were Kurama, Shindou and Kosaka, looking grim. but before they could explain to their teammate what was going on, the door opened again.

"I think that's everything in this building, captain- oh, senpai, you're here." Minamisawa turned around to Amagi and Kirino, carrying armfuls of flyers- the ones with his face on them. cold ice shot through his veins and he snatched one out of Amagi's hands to read. "Minamisawa-san, wait-" he tried, but it was too late.

"Minamisawa Atsushi is a filthy homo."

it seemed like the entire locker room held their breath as his eyes scanned the page. everyone watched as he started to tremble. this can't be happening. Sangoku approached him carefully and took the flyer from his hands. "Minamisawa-san, breathe."

he couldn't. static fizzled behind his eyes and his vision blurred. tremors wrecked his hands as they reached for his hair, pulling at his locks. his heart felt like it was trying to crawl out of his throat, he wanted to throw up.

Sangoku's calm voice echoed somewhere in his ears, but was drowned out by the static again. his head felt like it was going to split open and explode into a million tiny pieces- he wished it would, anything to not have to exist right there in that moment.

he wasn't sure if it'd been minutes or hours, but at some point his heart had stopped trying to escape his body and he could see again, if barely. he could make out Sangoku's hand on his shoulder, and- wait, why was he on the floor? Minamisawa guessed his legs had given out somewhere along the way.

"good, keep breathing, just like that." Sangoku spoke softly, keeping him grounded. there were tears on his face- when did those get there? he hurriedly wiped them away. then he looked around and realized that Hamano and Kurumada had joined them on the floor. "why are you guys..."

Hamano smiled awkwardly. "solidarity?" Kurumada tried with a shrug. Minamisawa let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Sangoku stood up and offered him a hand. that was when he realized Hayami and Mizumori had entered the room as well- both carrying more armfuls of flyers.

"listen, Minamisawa-san. I don't know who did this, but we're going to get to the bottom of it," Sangoku declared.

he frowned and looked at the piece of paper laying on the locker room floor. "...you guys don't hate me?"

"it's true, then?" Mizumori asked. Kurumada hit him on the shoulder. "it doesn't matter if it's true," Shindou spoke up. "a smear campaign like this is unacceptable. we need to tell coach Kudou and Otonashi-sensei."

Minamisawa was breathless. he wanted to say no, let's just keep this between us, but he knew it was too late for that. the entire school had already seen them, and the teachers no doubt had too- he would probably get called to the principal's office soon.

"and it goes without saying," Sangoku broke him out of his worried train of thought with a hand on his shoulder. "but of course we don't hate you. we all support you, don't we, guys?"

the team agreed, doing their best to shed their worried expressions in lieu of smiles. Hamano gave him a thumbs up. Minamisawa still felt a tightness deep in his chest. "...thanks, everyone."

"but who would do such a thing?" Hayami asked helplessly as he put the collected flyers down on the table. Kurumada looked at Minamisawa. "did anyone know about... about this? anyone who wanted to hurt you?"

he stiffened. "um... nobody. I didn't tell anyone," Minamisawa lied. then everyone went quiet as they tried to figure out who it could be.

"you know that's not true, senpai." Kurama broke through the silence as he stood up. everyone looked at him, but he only looked at Minamisawa. "I didn't want to say anything, but... I saw you guys together."

Minamisawa tensed up. ""you guys"? who?" Kosaka asked. Minamisawa ignored him. "what do you mean, you saw us?"

Kurama seemed hesitant to tell him. "...in the hallway, when he kissed you." the locker room broke out in wolf whistles before everyone remembered the situation at hand. "was it him?"

Minamisawa opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his tongue. his relationship with Kento was supposed to stay strictly secret- he knew that kiss was a bad idea... not that he'd even wanted it in the first place.

Kento had been pushy about it, he'd grabbed Minamisawa's arms to sneak a kiss before everyone arrived for afternoon training. he supposed Kurama got there early to see it. god, he wished his head had exploded during his panic attack earlier.

"is that true, Minamisawa-san?" Shindou asked. "could he be the culprit?"

"yes," Minamisawa snapped. "it was him, alright?" he turned around and walked towards the front of the room, his back towards the others. he didn't want to be seen like this. "I don't know what I expected. of course he'd get back at me. why wouldn't he?"

"get back at you?" the others approached. he wished they wouldn't. Sangoku hovered near him with a worried look. "did you two break up, is that why?"

Minamisawa didn't answer. he felt the static buzzing behind his eyes again.

"worse," Kurama spoke up again, voice gravelly like he actually felt bad revealing these things to the team. like he didn't think Minamisawa wanted to keep them to himself until he was dead and gone, living his life without ever having to admit his weakness to anyone. "Minamisawa-senpai was being blackmailed."

rage swelled up in his stomach and he growled, balled his fists and got in Kurama's face. "just how much do you really know about me, huh, first-year? have you been spying on me, is that it?" he spat, grabbing him by the collar of his training jacket. "I'll teach you to leave well enough alone, you little..."

"stop it," Shindou urged him as he tried to get between them. "this isn't like you, Minamisawa-san!"

"he's right. don't take it out on him," Kurumada put a hand on his shoulder. Minamisawa's fingers twitched and he grimaced, finally letting go of his classmate.

he looked at the floor and let out a deep sigh, then made his way towards the door, pushing past his teammates. "Minamisawa?" he ignored it. he needed to be alone.

[lohstandfound]

I need to draw the bolland sisters I need art of the bolland sisters

[blueheartedmayor]

OOC:

[asha-mage]

🌶️

The MCU's Spiderman is not a poor execution of Peter Parker's character concept. He's not even poor execution of Miles Morales's character concept.

He is a poor execution of Terry McGinnis's character concept.

Peter Parker and Miles Morales both have so many fundamental pieces to their characters that are just missing for the MCU's Spiderman. Familiar names are floating around him- Aunt May, Mary Jane, Ganke Lee- but the fundamental ideas that make up Peter or Miles arcs just are not there. Themes like Miles's family expectations, Peter's constant money struggles, and the balancing act of doing good vs trying to live your own life are all absent. Even the idea of power and responsibility isn't properly introduced until the THIRD MOVIE when that really should been the central theme from the beginning.

Rather the MCU Spiderman has way more parallels with Terry McGinnis. Both are young hot shot teenagers who end up being taken under the wing of established and experienced hero who is on their way out. Both have complex relationships with their mentor which in a lot of ways serves as the driving force of their character arcs. Both gain high tech suits which enable their heroism. Both are viewed (or at least supposed to be viewed in MCU Peter's case) as heirs to the legacy of this hero.

It falls apart when you get into how they are different. While Uncle Ben is implied to have existed and be dead by the time MCU Peter is introduced in Civil War it's never actually confirmed and never properly comes up. Meanwhile the death of Terry's father is essentially the inciting incident of Batman Beyond: it's what motivates and drives Terry and the murder and it's fallout are the main focus of the first two episodes of Batman Beyond.

What's more MCU Peter's relationship to Tony is grounded in the fact that Tony just shows up one day and essentially taps him to join the Avengers. Bruce by contrast initially tosses Terry out on his ear, and when Terry turns up seeking justice for his father Bruce can't offer him anything but 'go ask the cops for help', and when that goes exactly as poorly as Terry said it would, Terry breaks into the manor steals the Batsuit and goes to stop Powers himself. Terry has active agency in his own choice to be a hero, which helps define his relationship with Bruce and to heroism. While MCU Peter was doing his own superheroics prior to Tony showing up in Civil War (not that he ever does much of that in future movies) his relationship to Tony is defined by Peter's dependence on him and his quest for Tony(/the Avengers)'s approval. And because they don't even bother name drop Uncle Ben or flashback to him, we're left with the impression that the main thing driving MCU Peter is that quest for approval. His motivations are never more complexly explored, and we don't even really see him just running around Queens stopping muggings or car crashes or anything that hints he enjoys or feels the need to actually help people.

And I think that gets into the final and most important difference between the two. Gotham not only needs Batman, it visibly and obviously and terribly needs Batman. Batman Beyond leans into this because decades without a Batman have left Gotham a cyperbunk dystopian hellscape. The city needs someone to stand up to the darkness, to be a symbol of hope, to be aspirational. Terry taking up that mantel means fighting supervillains, yes- but mostly it means doing what the original Batman did. Solving murders, stopping muggings, rescuing people from burning buildings or fighting off street gangs like the Jokerz.

But even in the earliest MCU movies, New York only needs superheroes when the current world ending threat shows up. Otherwise the city is all bright shinny clean streets filled with haplessly content citizens. This is the only reason that Vision's position of 'Our very strength invites challenge' in Civil War makes any sense- because the only purpose of these Superheroes is usually to fight a threat they where somehow responsible for creating. And this problem hits 'friendly neighborhood Spiderman' the hardest because he only has a responsibility to use his great power to solve problems, if their are problems in need of solving. Most of Peter Parker's (and Miles Morales's, Gwen Stacy's, or any other Spiderperson's) day is not fighting alien armies or netherworld gods. It's stopping break ins, rescuing people from car crashes, or dealing with other small scale local threats, that none the less benefit from someone with his abilities to make them better. Either New York in the MCU is an ideal utopian city where the police have everything handled apparently (which ha!) or Peter is apparently not interested in stopping bad things from happening. He spends so much of the first movie basically begging Tony to give him superhero things to do, not realizing that he could go outside and find people that need help on his own.

In conclusion MCU Peter Parker isn't 'regular Peter Parker but not an underdog', or even 'Miles Morales but white'. He's 'Terry McGinnis but without any agency in his own heroism'.

[satoshy12]

The Titan's Second Life Clockwork is Kronos

What many people don’t know is that Kronos had always known most of the Time-lines. He played with Time, since he learned he had that power. 

The moment he first laid eyes on his newborn daughter, Hestia, he knew what would come next. The visions came to him just as he was about to eat her and seal her in his stomach. 

They showed him all the futures in fragments. Like the hands of a clock moving forward, he saw his life as Kronos - from that moment on, his other 5 children, his downfall, Rhea's betrayal, the war, and how he ended up in Tartarus with his body cut into thousands of pieces.

It was an inevitability written into the fabric of time and time itself. And as Titan of Time, he would know best.

Once he tried to fight his fate. In his paranoia, he had devoured his children in the desperate hope of stopping the cycle and the prophecy. But now he remembered.

Not just glimpses of the future, but memories of an entirely different existence - one he had had long after his fall on Grace, one that was beyond even the immortality of a Titan.

He also remembers his future, of being, Clockwork. An Ancient of Time, in his new home, the Ghost Zone. His Titan soul and body had been destroyed and rebuilt in this place, so that he hardly looked the same. He wasn't even sure if he was still the son of Earth and Sky as Clockwork.

And he remembered the young Halfa, the young Daniel Fenton/Phantom. 

Kronos allowed a small smile to creep across his face, remembering how he had reacted when he had learned who he really was while still alive.

Flashback

Danny hovered in front of Clockwork, staring at the Ancient Ghost with wide, skeptical eyes. "Huh? You're the King of Titans Kronos!" His voice was incredulous.  

Clockwork's ever-shifting form barely responded, the red glow of his eyes steady. "Yes, young Daniel. I was the Titan you read about in school."  

Danny gave a low whistle. "Wow... So you really were crazy!" He laughed and shook his head. "Wait-hold on. How much meat is on a baby god?"  

Clockwork tilted his head slightly, anticipating the question. "Why do you ask?"  

Danny shrugged. "I mean... if you really were the Titan, and Kronos ate his children and a stone, how come you never tried to eat me?"  

Clockwork's expression remained unreadable. "You have no flesh."  

Danny frowned. "And a baby god does?"  

Clockwork's grin was almost imperceptible. "Have you ever seen one?"  

Danny blinked. "No...?"  

"Trust me. They have more."  

Danny opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, clearly not sure what to say, but he knew he had lost. In the end, he decided to let the whole baby-god-snacking thing go. "You know what? Never mind. I even had an idea for a new adventure!" He grinned and floated closer. "I was thinking... Maybe you could take me back in time? You know, help me out with my history class?"  

Clockwork chuckled, his staff shifting in his grasp. "Ah, history. You may find it more complicated than your textbooks suggest, young Daniel."  

Danny grinned. "Yes, but that only makes it more fun."  

Clockwork sighed and shook his head in amusement. "Very well. Let's see where time takes us now."

Flashback End

Yes, as he found out. He just made some new jokes and that was it. Still saw him as the same mentor as before.

Kronos was still looking at baby Hestia when he left the room. He would not eat her or any of the others. He shouldn't change the timeline that much. He needs them for destiny. 

Instead, he ignored them. He did still his old hobby or well future hobby of looking into Timelines. 

His siblings did notice, him doing that much more. Rhea after a time gave up to pull him away from doing that or being in his laboratory. While he didn't treat her like before, she is happy he didn't tried something like their father on their children. With that prophecy... But this way.

Hestia grew up in the shadow of his disregard and her mother's care, learning to keep herself. Demeter was left to flourish with the plants and crops, fairly untouched by her father's coldness, she learned quickly to ignore it. Hera felt the sting of his lack of interest, but she was strong-willed and sought comfort more from her mother, Rhea. 

Hades, the brooder in his last life, took it with stride and retreated to the underworld to build his own kingdom with the help of his uncle Iapetus. And Poseidon, the youngest of them at the moment, found solace in the vast oceans and swam in Ocaenus' kingdom.

Zeus then was born last, and by then all his children, long accepted their father and king's indifference to them. He barely glanced at the baby, his gaze lingering only briefly on the tiny fingers and toes that would one day wield thunderbolts. He knew what was to come, and he let it happen without a fight. 

He was to be Clockwork, the keeper of time, not a player in the game. And he was able to notice, his titan body too did took the changed. The titans noticed how his Golden Eyes turned Red, and his hair turned white. Same with his skin to change color to Blue.

Years passed, and the children grew into their power. 

After talking to others about their father. They saw their father's lack of concern as a lack of fear, a sign that they were not important enough to be considered a threat. Little did they know the truth behind those unblinking clockwork eyes.

As Zeus approached the teenage years for a god, Kronos said it was time. He knew it was time for his children to challenge him. 

Kronos did not plan to stand in the way. He had seen his end, and it was not at the hands of his own children.

One quiet evening, King Cronus called his children to him for the first time since their birth. 

They came, curious and wary. "I have decided to abdicate my throne," he announced, his voice echoing through the halls of the throne room.

Their eyes widened in shock. Hestia stepped back, her hand to her mouth. Demeter clutched the arm of her brother Hades. Poseidon looked out to sea, his mind racing. And Zeus, always the strategist, felt the first spark of hope in his chest.

"You are all strong in your own right," Kronos continued, his gaze sweeping over them. "I trust you to rule when I am gone."

The children and Rhea, like his siblings, didn't know what to say or had time to say anything. 

For Kronos had disappeared, leaving them all to fend for themselves again. 

Zeus had stepped forward, his blue eyes blazing as he looked at his siblings. "Let us show him what we are truly made of," he said, his voice resonating with newfound power. "We will not be ignored."

Time moved on, 

Iapetus would stay to help, moving to the underworld with Hades to serve as an advisor to the younger immortal.

In time, a new kingdom was built as they left behind their father's kingdom. And they built their own, now called Gods, as the Titans retired and moved on with their lives.

For thousands of years, no one was sure what happened to Kronos, for they could never find him. And most of his brothers searched for him. 

They talked about how Kronos must have done something with his experiments with time. They were never sure if he was still Kronos, or if he had messed up his time control too badly.

For Kronos, his body had changed, the familiar gears of time reappeared within him, and soon he was Clockwork again.

It was what he had chosen. The freedom of the Ghost Zone, his lair, had already appeared.

Clockwork smiled to himself. Here, in the Ghost Zone, he would watch time and move with his life.

Clockwork stood before a time portal, watching the swirling flow of moments. His past as Kronos seemed distant now, at least to him. 

Danny Phantom entered the room and Clockwork's face lit up with joy. "Ah, Daniel. It's good to see you again."

Danny smiled. "You didn't think I'd be back so soon! You did! I surprised you!"

Clockwork chuckled quietly. "Time has a way. I knew you would come, but not right now, maybe 1 or 3 minutes later or earlier..." He watched as Danny settled down nearby.

As the portal flickered again, Clockwork looked at him as he whispered, "All is as it should be.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Smut Challenge 2025, Fic One: Squirting with Sirius

Pairings: Sirius Black x reader Summary: Sirius is determined to make you squirt. Tags: fem!reader, reader has chronic pain, smut, oral sex (F receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, implied soft dom!Sirius, established relationship, Sirius being an attentive lover Main Masterlist | Smut Challenge 2025 Masterlist

The room is a cocoon of warmth, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows that dance across the bed where you lie, exhaustion settling deep in your bones despite the anticipation that hums beneath it. Your muscles ache, the familiar stiffness clinging to you like an unwelcome guest, but tonight, Sirius is here, and he always makes it better.

He looms above you, his dark hair falling around your vision like a curtain. His eyes are intent, the corners crinkling slightly as he focuses on the task at hand. There's always been something captivating about Sirius when he's in this state, head bent over some intricate piece of magic, but tonight, his concentration is solely on you.

"Relax for me, love," he murmurs, the rough timbre of his voice sending shivers down your spine despite the heat radiating from his touch. His hands move with purpose, tracing the contours of your body with a familiarity born of years together.

He knows the spots that seize up with pain, the places where the ache lingers long after the day is done. His fingers press with practiced care, working into the knots that have burrowed deep, a silent understanding passing between you as he soothes the tension locked within your body. It's not just stress, it's pain, constant and unrelenting, but Sirius always handles you like he knows exactly what you need.

His lips trail after his fingers, a warm path that lingers on your skin. Each press of his mouth is deliberate, unhurried, igniting a slow burn that stirs you beneath him. He pauses at the hollow of your throat, teeth grazing delicately before the soothing sweep of his tongue.

A soft sigh escapes you as Sirius' hands knead at your hips, smoothing away the tension of the day. His touch is patient and reverent, never rushing, even as heat pools low in your belly. He loves this part--the watching, the waiting, seeing you unravel and respond to his ministrations before he's barely even begun.

Sirius' lips continue their journey, trailing light kisses across your abdomen, before he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark, but there's a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he catches your hand flexing in the sheets.

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your skin.

You nod, breathless, and he chuckles, the sound sending a warm shiver down your spine. He places another reverent kiss just below your belly button before trailing lower still.

"You've been hurting today," Sirius murmurs, his fingertips tracing slow, deliberate patterns along your thighs. "I can feel it in you--the way you hold yourself, the way your hands keep shaking. Let me take care of you, love."

His words are sincere, solidifying the trust between you despite the building tension in the air. He's not just here to make you feel good--he wants to take care of you, and the realization brings a pang of pleasure that's more than just physical.

The first touch of his lips to the inside of your thighs is feather-light, almost non-existent. But you feel it, a jolt of electricity that promises of what's to come. Your heart races as he plants soft kisses on your sensitive skin, moving ever so slowly upward. Each one sends a wave of anticipation crashing through you, leaving you breathless and hungry for more.

When you squirm, he places a large hand on your hip, steadying you. The heat of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of your panties, branding you with his desire.

"Easy there," he says, voice deep and husky with arousal. "We're just getting started."

And then, his mouth is on you. The first sweep of his tongue is slow, deliberate -- a promise fulfilled. It sends a shock of pleasure through you, so intense that your back arches off the bed. He groans, the vibration against your core sending another wave of desire coursing through your veins.

His tongue moves again, tracing a path that leaves you trembling. Your fingers clutch at the bed sheets, drawing them up in tight fists. His hands grip your thighs with a firmness that is both commanding and reassuring, holding you open to him as he continues his exploration--a dance of patience and urgency that has your nerves alight with anticipation.

"God, you taste incredible," Sirius murmurs against the heat of your core, the vibration of his words sending shivers up your spine.

He uses his tongue to part you further, finding a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. The flat of it glides over your sensitive flesh, while the tip teases just inside, coaxing more of those sweet sounds from your lips. His mouth closes around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with an intensity that has your back arching off the bed. The pressure builds, a crescendo of sensation that threatens to sweep you away.

You can't contain the sounds that escape you, nor the way your hips buck up to meet his mouth, seeking more of the exquisite pleasure he's offering. Every stroke of his tongue is a promise, every breath he takes a testament to the desire that burns between you.

"Sirius," you moan, your fingers tangling in the dark locks of his hair. The sound he makes against you vibrates through every nerve, making your muscles clench around nothing.

The sensation is almost too much, circling tighter and tighter until you're straining against it, aching for release. You can feel the familiar pressure building, but there's something holding you back, some knot inside you that won't untie, no matter how much you tug at it.

He understands without needing an explanation. Of course, he does.

"Are you going to come for me already, love?" Sirius teases, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. You want to answer, to tell him how close you are, but the words catch in your throat when his lips return to their task, relentless and unyielding.

His tongue presses harder, moving in slow, deliberate circles that have you gasping for breath. Your legs begin to quiver, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it feels like you might snap. He groans against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure coursing through you, pushing you closer to the edge.

Your body tenses, pleasure warring with the dull ache that never quite leaves you. But Sirius knows how to tip the balance, how to chase away the discomfort until all that's left is sensation--pure, electrifying, and all-consuming. When the tension finally snaps, it's not just pleasure that floods through you, but relief, leaving you gasping, shaking, feeling lighter than you have in days. The world narrows down to this one moment, this one sensation, and you cry out, clutching at the sheets beneath you.

Sirius doesn't stop, his movements only slowing as you twitch from overstimulation. His eyes are dark with desire as he watches you come undone, his fingers still gently stroking your trembling thighs, keeping you grounded as the aftershocks ripple through you.

He pulls back, with your taste still on his lips. His eyes, usually so teasing, now are darkened by desire. He gives you a slow, appreciative smile that doesn't quite reach those stormy eyes--eyes that speak of a hunger not yet sated.

"Perfect," he murmurs, punctuating the word with a soft kiss to the inside of your knee. His voice is barely above a whisper, yet it's full of conviction--a blend of admiration and playful defiance that dares you to believe otherwise.

You shiver, the aftershocks of your climax still dancing along your nerves. It's overwhelming, the intensity of such pleasure, but Sirius has always been tenacious when pursuing something--or someone--he desires. And tonight, there's a determination in his gaze that leaves you both breathless and curious about what might come next.

His fingers trace back down your body, slipping between your thighs. They find the slickness he's caused and he lets out a low growl of appreciation. "So wet for me," he murmurs, his touch driving you to the brink of insanity as he explores your folds.

"Look at you," he breathes, meeting your gaze with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His fingers move expertly, finding all the right places that make your breath hitch. "So eager… so responsive."

A whimper escapes your lips as your body arches up into his touch, seeking more. Your thighs tremble as he circles your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what could come next. The sensation is electric, sending sparks of pleasure through every nerve ending.

Sirius' lips press lightly against the inside of your thigh, the coolness of his breath contrasting with the heat of your skin. Goosebumps rise in response, a shiver running through you despite the warmth. "One more," he murmurs, so softly that you almost miss it over the thunderous pounding of your heart. "I want another orgasm from you before I make you squirt for me, love."

Your chest heaves as you suck in a ragged breath, anticipation mingling with the remnants of your climax. His fingers trace a path along your folds, teasingly slow, before two slip inside you. They curl upwards, finding that sweet spot that has your back arching and a strangled moan escaping your throat.

His mouth latches onto your clit again, tongue flicking over the sensitive nub. The sensation is overwhelming, yet not enough, a paradox that makes your mind feel foggy with pleasure. Your hands scrabble at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as Sirius expertly works you towards another peak.

"Si-Sirius," you gasp, your thighs quiver, almost closing around his head as he continues his relentless ministrations. The pleasure is too much, too sudden, but he refuses to stop.

"You can take it." His voice is muffled against you, a hint of amusement threading through the seriousness. "Trust me to know what you need. Let me make you feel good."

His promise hangs heavy in the air, a guarantee that wraps around you, holding you together and breaking you down all at once. His fingers curl inside you, finding that sweet spot that makes stars burst behind your closed eyelids. At the same time, his tongue presses into your clit--soft yet unyielding--and the world narrows down to the overwhelming sensation coursing through you.

The pressure builds rapidly, a tempest gaining force within you. Your body, already exhausted from the previous climax, teeters on the precipice, kept there by the surety of Sirius' touch and the focused attention he bestows upon your pleasure. A low moan escapes him, vibrating against your sensitive flesh and sending shivers up your spine. His fingers move with purpose, determined to draw out yet another release from your overtaxed nerves.

A keening cry catches in your throat as your body tenses, fingers tightening in his hair. The world narrows down to this single point of pleasure, all-consuming and overwhelming. Then it crashes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you breathless and shaking, your thighs quaking around his head. You can do nothing but ride the wave, surrendering to the onslaught as his name spills from your lips in a broken plea.

But Sirius does not let up, his fingers slowing their rhythm but refusing to cease altogether. His tongue continues its dance over your hypersensitive clit, coaxing out every last tremor from your quivering form. A whimper of protest--or is it a plea for more?--escapes you, your body too spent to resist the aftershocks coursing through it.

When your breathing finally starts to calm, the ache in your limbs a dull hum beneath the lingering pleasure, Sirius pulls back just enough to look at you. His face is flushed, eyes dark and hooded, but his expression softens the moment he takes you in--body trembling, exhaustion settling in deep. Without a word, he shifts, his hands ghosting over your hips, your legs, soothing the muscles he knows must be screaming from strain. It's not just about pleasure with Sirius; it's about you.

"That's two," he murmurs, sounding far too pleased with himself. Then, with a wicked grin, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh before moving lower, spreading you open further. "Now," his voice is a low rumble, his breath fanning over your wet and sensitive flesh, "let's see how many more times I can make you soak these sheets for me."

His mouth quirks upward against your thigh, and his gaze is triumphant when it meets yours, finding the glazed look of shock and pleasure that he knew would be there. He knows you, every curving line of your body, every breathy gasp, every secret shiver of delight. He also knows that you can do this, for him, with him. You've done it before.

The first time was an accident, really. He'd been down here, just like now, his fingers moving in those same, sinful patterns, his mouth hot and persistent, and then… then you'd come apart so completely that you nearly sobbed with it, drenching his hand, the sheets, even a good portion of his chest. You'd been mortified, hiding your face behind your hands while your body continued to jerk and twitch uncontrollably. But Sirius? His eyes had lit up as though you'd just handed him the secret to life itself.

Ever since, it's been a mission.

And now, as he gazes at you with those determined eyes, his cheeks flushed from the heat of desire and the exertion of his movements, his pupils dilated as if to capture every detail of your euphoria, it's clear he won't stop until he achieves it.

"Do you remember that first time?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, igniting goosebumps along your inner thigh. His fingers continue their slow, torturous dance inside you, coaxing out every last shudder of pleasure. "How you soaked me through? I almost lost control then."

A soft whimper escapes your lips, your body still humming with sensitivity as your hips buck involuntarily. There's no escaping his touch, nor do you want to. He presses his palm flat against your lower belly, just above where his fingers are buried deep within you. The pressure is just enough to add a delicious edge to the pleasure radiating from your core.

"I thought about it for days," Sirius confesses, his voice a low rumble against your skin as his mouth hovers just out of reach from where you want him most. "The way you tightened around me… how you reacted."

A blush creeps up your neck at his words, but it's overshadowed by a sense of anticipation that makes your heart pound in your chest. You can feel Sirius watching you, taking in every tremor and gasp that escapes you, and the knowledge only fuels your desire.

"Bet I can make it happen again," he murmurs, sounding more like a promise than a mere speculation. His confidence is both alarming and alluring, leaving you breathless with anticipation. "Bet I can make you come undone completely this time. Want to see you let go for me, love."

His movements are swift, practiced. His mouth is back on you in an instant, tongue tracing circles around your clit that start slow and deliberate, but soon quicken to match the rhythm of his fingers working inside of you. You gasp, feeling your body respond despite the aftershocks still reverberating through your muscles.

The sound you make is enough to encourage him further. Sirius hums against you, a low vibration that sends waves of pleasure rippling across your sensitive flesh. His hands are everywhere, exploring every inch of you, learning the contours of your body as if committing them to memory. He seems to take note of every shiver, every hitched breath, every involuntary twitch that betrays your mounting desire.

"That's it," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper as he pulls away just enough for the words to brush against your clit, making you squirm. "Don't hold back. Just let go for me."

Your breathing becomes ragged, punctuating the silence of the room with sharp intakes and shaky exhales. The tension coiling within you grows tighter, more demanding, an unspoken plea for release. Sirius knows--he can feel it in the way your body tenses beneath his touch, in the subtle tremors that run down your thighs, in the slight upward tilt of your hips even though you're trying to stay still.

"Fuck, Sirius, I..."

"Shh, love, let it happen," he murmurs against your skin, but the words are edged with a tangible urgency, a hunger that matches the wild rhythm of his fingers and tongue. Each stroke is more confident, more daring than the last, coaxing the tension in you to coil tighter, tighter still.

And then, Sirius presses a firm hand to your lower stomach, anchoring you to the bed, to this moment. His mouth descends to where you need him most, focusing on that sweet, sensitive nub of nerves that sends shockwaves through your entire being--and--

The world fractures.

It hits you then, all at once, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you breathless and shaking. Your release drenches Sirius's hand, his mouth, the sheets beneath you. You cry out, your body convulsing, bucking against his mouth. Your vision goes white, all other sensations replaced by this one overwhelming sensation, this shattering release.

"Sirius," you gasp, your voice barely audible, lost in the roar of your own pleasure.

He moans deeply, not stopping, his tongue still flicking over your sensitive nub, his fingers still curling inside of you. It's an unending cycle of pleasure, a cascade of sensations that leave you breathless and writhing beneath him. He seems insatiable, relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure, and it only makes the waves crash harder, stronger, pulling you under.

"Very good," he murmurs against the soft skin of your thighs, his lips brushing lightly over the sensitive flesh. "Just like that." His voice is a low rumble, the sound vibrating through you, adding to the sensations already threatening to consume you.

And finally, when he pulls away, letting you collapse onto the soaked sheets, you're a trembling mess, and not just from pleasure. Your body is spent, the exhaustion seeping into every muscle, the dull ache creeping back now that the haze of release is fading. Sirius sees it, the way your limbs twitch not just from sensitivity but from deep-seated pain, the way your breath hitches not just from bliss but from the struggle to recover. He shifts immediately, pressing slow, grounding kisses to your stomach, your hips, your thighs, his hands smoothing over your skin in quiet reassurance.

"You're… incredible," Sirius whispers, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh, but there's something softer in his touch now. He knows what comes next. The way your body protests after too much strain, the way the deep ache settles back into your joints once the endorphins start to fade. He doesn't rush you--he never does. Instead, his hands drift lower, massaging the muscles he knows are screaming, working gentle circles into the stiffness left behind.

You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and warm, but you can't bring yourself to open your eyes just yet. The world seems to spin around you, and for a moment, you simply surrender to the sensation, letting it wash over you in waves.

When you finally manage to crack open your eyes, the sight that greets you makes your heart stutter. Sirius is watching you, his expression unreadable, his grey eyes dark with something that looks a lot like awe. He's propped up on his elbows, his black hair falling into his face, and there's a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"That was…" He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair, his mouth slightly agape as if he's at a loss for words. "I think that was the best thing I've ever seen."

You attempt a scowl, but it comes out more as a grimace, your face still flushed from the orgasm. "Don't get too smug, Black."

His grin is wicked, eyes sparkling with mischief as he settles down beside you, but even as his fingers draw lazy circles on your skin, there's care in the way he touches you now. His grip is lighter, knowing too much pressure might send a flare of pain through your already-overworked body. He watches your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, any tension in your brow. When he sees it, just the smallest wince as you shift, he tugs you closer, his hands moving instinctively to rub at the small of your back, the exact spot that always seizes up after nights like this.

"And can you blame me?" He shifts, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, and finally the curve of your neck still flushed from exertion. "You made quite the mess, love."

Your groan is muffled against his shoulder, but he feels it, his chuckle a low rumble in his chest as he pulls you closer. His arms wrap around you, strong and reassuring even as they threaten to undo you all over again.

"You know," he murmurs, fingers drawing lazy circles on your bare hip, his touch so gentle now it's almost reverent, "now that I've got the technique down, I might have to make this a regular thing." But then his gaze flickers down, catching the way your hands flex slightly, your joints stiffening in the aftermath. He shifts again, rolling you against his chest, one strong arm slipping beneath your back as he kneads the tension from your shoulders. "And after, I'll make sure you're taken care of properly. Can't have my girl hurting too much to let me do this again, can I?"

A shiver races down your spine at the promise laced within his words--part anticipation, part exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Sirius merely smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in satisfaction.

You're in so much trouble.

[astrologysaysno]

I saw an Omegaverse fanfic, thought of SVSSS and thought, why not mix them both.

So I offer to the masses the idea of a Second Gender-less Shang Qinghua.

I have a vision that pre PIDW, he had written a lot of books before that, some of which I can imagine are Omegaverse fics

So why not have the PIDW world collide with the Omegaverse and just give everyone secondary genders.

Not Shang Qinghua though, he's special like that.

I imagine that for his formative years, he freaked out constantly regarding the day he presents his second gender. He was really hoping to be an Alpha or a Beta to spare himself the travesty and possible karmic retribution of throwing away his original plans for PIDW by experiencing heat as an omega.

As the years go by, and every teen in his village starts presenting, it just never arrives.

Everyone is clueless. They initially think he's just a late bloomer, then after half a decade of when he was supposed to present, he's still not showing any signs, people just slap the Beta label on him and call it a day.

Going with the flow and not causing a scene, he goes through the Cang Qiong entrance exam, and he gets in.

Most of the people of the sect are immediately off put by him.

For a starter, he is completely alienated to all things scent.

He doesn't give off a smell that any secondary gender has. It's like the equivalent of the taste of water, no flavour, just the scent of his nervous sweats and whatever he accidentally spilled himself with that day.

His stuff gets confused for unused supplies constantly, which is a real hassle, getting his mattress from storage whenever a newbie finds his bed and thinks it's an extra that was never used.

He doesn't seem to recognize scent either. Senior disciples have tried using their scent to drive off Qinghua like they do all juniors, but it doesn't work since he can't smell their haze of intimidation, forcing him to learn tells of behaviors through visual observation alone.

This causes him to become incapable of the process of scenting, unable to smell or be smelt. All attempts for his peers to give him a piece of their scent, it is ultimately washed off like dirt under the pressure washer.

In this scenario, it's the reason why he has never been caught as a spy for Mobei-jun. The King of the Northern Desert has tried to mark him with his scent to declare his ownership, but it fades by the end of the day at most. This frustrates Mobei-jun as he can't seem to get Shang Qinghua to make him his in this manner.

The other big thing is that he has none of the instincts that having a secondary gender would give him, a key one would be on the realm of romance.

My belief is that because of his biology, he was chosen to be head disciple.

The An Ding Peak Lord was going through performance reviews, found Shang Qinghua with no record on any sexually aligned misdemeanors, gets his work done faster, and thinks, "Let's make this boy my disciple."

Again, condolences to Mobei-jun, but I need him to remember that words exist cause his beloved is incapable of being courted by normal means, he needs to be told that you like him romantically or all attempts will go out the door.

I think about how in this AU, Shang Qinghua probably thinks he's a complete outsider that puts everyone off because he can't connect to them in the same way, but the rest of the Peak Lords look at him like:

"Hello, here is our socially inept sibling who we can't do normal ABO things with, but he's incredibly good at organising stuff, so there's that, I guess."

[monicfever]

sound and vision. 𝜗𝜚 matt murdock.

on a quiet rooftop, matt lies beside his girl as she traces constellations with her voice, painting the stars he can’t see.

matt murdock had never truly mourned the stars.

there had been a time, long ago, when the idea of losing them — their sharp, distant shimmer, the way they blinked into existence in a velvet-dark sky — felt like one of the smaller heartbreaks nestled quietly inside the larger one.

but grief has a way of softening around the edges. over the years, he forgot to miss them. forgot what it felt like to look up and see. he learned to look inward, to trace the world with sound and scent and the subtle shift of air currents against his skin.

he hadn’t realized that he’d replaced starlight with other things. the click of her shoes across his apartment floor. the way her heartbeat quickened when she was lying. the warmth in her laughter when she wasn’t.

she never tried to fix what he couldn’t have. never flinched at what was missing. but she did have this tendency to share what she could — to narrate her world in a way that made him feel like he hadn’t lost a thing at all.

that night, it was a blanket thrown over her shoulder and a mischievous smile in her voice. “come on. i have a surprise.”

he didn’t ask questions. just followed.

they climbed the stairs slowly, her hand brushed against his every few steps like punctuation, like she couldn’t help making sure he was still there. she smelled like citrus shampoo and something sweeter, something sun-warmed and familiar.

the door to the roof groaned when she pushed it open. the air changed immediately — cooler, lighter, tinged with the city’s distant hum.

she laid the blanket out with the kind of precision reserved for small, sacred things. crackled open a bag of popcorn. popped the cap off two sodas with a practiced flick.

“okay,” she said, settling beside him, legs crossed like a kid at storytime, “i know you can’t see them. but they’re here. and they’re gorgeous tonight. want me to describe them to you?”

he turned slightly, smiled. “i was waiting for you to offer.”

so she did.

she spoke the constellations into life — drew orion and perseus and lyra with the lilt of her voice, every star mapped out like a heartbeat. her words were delicate, deliberate. she didn’t rush. didn’t pretend he needed her to fill the silence — he just liked when she did.

matt laid back slowly, the gravel of the roof pressing into his shoulders, the city pulsing around him like something alive.

beside him, she shifted — her knee bumping his thigh as she mirrored his posture. the blanket rustled softly beneath them, the scent of buttered popcorn mixed with the faint, crisp cool of the night air.

“okay,” she breathed, like she was about to tell him a secret. “the sky looks like... spilled sugar across black velvet. but not perfect sugar — some pieces clump together, some scatter way out on their own like they’re being shy. and there’s this huge one, low in the sky, almost yellow. it kind of glows like the streetlamp outside the bodega near your place, you know the one?”

matt smiled, just barely. he did know. it buzzed faintly in the evenings.

“and there’s this long stretch — like someone took a paintbrush and just swiped it across the sky,” she went on. “that’s the milky way. it looks fuzzy. a little messy. like a kid did it. i always thought it looked like someone smudged the stars with their thumb.”

her voice had that unfiltered wonder in it again, the kind that made him feel like he could see it too, just in a different way. she described the sky not like she was reciting facts, but like she was telling a bedtime story — full of colour and strange comparisons and joy so tangible he could almost reach out and hold it.

matt turned his face toward her, though his eyes were still closed. he just wanted to catch more of her voice, the little vibrations in the air, the way her pulse fluttered a little faster when she got excited.

he let the silence stretch, not because he had nothing to say, but because he was a little too full of it all. of her. of this domestic kind of magic she carried with her, the way she turned a rooftop and a blanket and a few whispered descriptions into something sacred.

she was precious in a way that crept up on him. not just because of how fiercely she loved things, or how she always brought snacks, or how she narrated the stars like they were old friends. but because she shared it all. with him. without hesitation. without pity.

he could’ve told her. right then. just blurted out I love you. but instead, he reached for her hand, interlaced their fingers lazily, gave her the smallest squeeze.

she squeezed back. said nothing.

the city murmured around them — traffic rolling slow a few blocks away, a dog barking hoarsely in the distance, someone playing jazz out of an open window three stories down.

matt turned slightly onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his fingers still twined with hers. the gravel was digging into his arm, but he didn’t care. not when she was still talking, not when her voice was this soft, low-laughter kind of lovely.

“you’ve got popcorn in your hair,” he said, reaching up with his free hand to pluck it out with mock precision.

“no i don’t.” she said, but she was grinning.

“you do,” he insisted, holding up the offending kernel triumphantly, “evidence.”

she leaned over and swatted at him, missing entirely, and laughed in a way that made his chest ache. not in the sharp, bruised way he knew too well. but in that strange, aching tenderness that always came with being close to something — someone — good. something real.

“you think you're clever, huh?” she said.

“i do.”

“you’re lucky you’re cute.”

he smirked. “i’ve been told.”

she rolled her eyes audibly, somehow, and flopped back onto the blanket, tugging him down with her. his hand found her waist automatically, like it always did, like it knew the way better than he did.

they didn’t say anything for a while. just breathed in rhythm, letting the stillness settle like another blanket over them. it was easy with her. he didn’t have to chase the silence away or fill it with half-hearted distractions. she didn’t expect anything but what he gave.

after a few minutes, she spoke again, her voice quieter now. “do you ever wish you could see them? the stars, i mean.”

he was quiet for a second, thoughtful. “not really.” he said finally. “i think if i could id be too focused on what I was missing all these years. i like it better this way.”

she shifted slightly, turning to look at him. he felt the movement, the small puff of her breath on his cheek. “this way?”

he smiled. “hearing it in your voice. feeling how much you love it. it’s better than the real thing, probably.”

there was a pause. then she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth — light, barely there. “you're such a sap.”

“only for you.” he replied, completely deadpan.

she snorted, and he smiled wider, because he liked making her laugh like that — unguarded, a little surprised. like she hadn’t expected it and couldn’t help herself.

“you know,” she started, voice laced with that familiar teasing, “for someone who’s all serious and broody in court, you’re kind of a softie.”

matt turned his head toward her. “broody?”

“yes. absolutely broody. you sit in court with your tie all perfect and your jaw all tense like you’re in a crime drama.”

“i am in a crime drama.” he muttered, deadpan.

“see? exactly that energy.”

he huffed out a laugh, the kind that vibrated more in his chest than in his throat. “you don’t think im mysterious and cool?”

“oh no, you’re mysterious,” she said, dramatic. “like that one neighbor no one sees during daylight hours.”

matt gazed at her with mock offense. “you think I’m the creepy neighbor?”

“i think you might be batman, honestly.”

he bit back a laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “im flattered. but I don’t do capes.”

“suspicious answer.”

“you watch too many movies.”

she grinned, triumphant. “and you dodge questions like someone with a secret lair.”

he reached over, slow and playful, nudging her shoulder with his. “If I had a secret lair, you’d be the last person I’d tell.”

“ouch.”

“you’d try to redecorate it.”

she gasped like he’d wounded her. “that is not true. I would simply add a little mood lighting. maybe a throw blanket or two. some ambiance.”

he tilted his head toward her, pretending to consider. “you want to add candles to my non-existent lair. that feels like a fire hazard.”

“you’re impossible.”

“so you keep saying.”

she rolled onto her side, shoving him lightly. he let himself be moved, dramatic about it, like she’d knocked him clear off balance. her hand stayed on his chest for a beat longer than necessary, resting there like it belonged.

“you’re lucky you’re charming.” she admired him.

“and modest.”

she snorted. “deeply.”

matt’s smile softened.

“you’re kind of dangerous, you know,” he said quietly.

she blinked, surprised. “me?”

“yeah.” he leaned back onto the blanket again, hands folded behind his head like they were just two regular people stargazing and not… this thing that felt like more. “you make things feel easy. like I could stay here forever and not worry about anything.”

she didn’t respond right away. just curled up beside him again.

“good.” she said. “i hope it always feels like that.”

and for a man who could no longer see the night sky, matt murdock had never felt closer to it.

started 4.20.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[perfectlyoongi]

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who offers you flowers whenever he sees you. whenever you had a planned outing, whether it was a simple trip to the shops or dinner at a restaurant somewhere in the city, the truth is that before you left the house, you would place a bouquet with the most beautiful and colorful flowers there were. you could call Namjoon a gentleman, an old-fashioned one indeed, but that didn’t stop him from carrying out his ritual. it’s just that, secretly, Namjoon counted the time away from you through the withered petals of the flowers he offered you. without you knowing, he bought the same bouquet for himself, placing it on his kitchen counter and consulting it whenever he got home. sometimes the flowers would fade overnight and Namjoon didn’t have any plans for you – but that didn’t stop Namjoon from staying away from you. after all, you didn’t need to leave those four walls to have a good time. “i know it’s short notice, but do you want to go out to eat? we can go to that museum opening before we go home.”

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who likes to have long conversations with you all night long. talking to you was like listening to odes from the most talented poets in this world. it was incredible how your perspective on the universe was able to captivate Namjoon. you could be talking about your day, complaining about little things that made you tired of living; you could be discussing an artistic vision of the same book you were reading; you could talk about all the probabilities that existed in the stars – it didn’t matter. with you, the words flowed like the freest rivers in the world, falling in a waterfall of enthusiasm, forming a small lake of fascination in Namjoon. having you there, with you lying next to him, your head resting on his torso, your hands spraying Namjoon’s skin with the tranquility that only you could provide – there, in that moment, Namjoon swore that both of you were one poem. “tell me about your day. tell me everything you liked and tell me what you want to repeat. talk to me and tell me how your day was and how it only started to make sense when we met.”

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who has a personal chef cooking breakfast when you slept in his house. when you spent the night at Namjoon’s house, he wanted to enjoy every minute of it. as much as he enjoyed falling asleep with you in his arms, he had to confess that he felt better when the first rays of sunlight peeked through the window and welcomed you to a new day. it was at that exact moment, before the day really began and everyone went their separate ways, Namjoon truly enjoyed your company. rubbing his face against your skin, wanting some of your essence to stay trapped in him, Namjoon pressed you closer to him. for some reason, it was in you that he found the strength to get through the day. as such, every minute was precious and he would enjoy every second of it – even if he needed to hire someone to make you breakfast. “just five more minutes and i promise i’ll let you go. let me enjoy just five more minutes. that’s all i need. you are all i need.”

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who gifts you your favorite artwork. visiting museums and galleries had been a norm in your relationship. going to as many openings as you could, scouring the country and world in search of new pieces of art, you and Namjoon enjoyed each other’s presence as tornadoes of emotions and messages surrounded each smile of yours. in the vibrant colors of each painting, you and Namjoon discovered new feelings; in the forced curves of each sculpture, you and Namjoon discovered new beauties; in the tenderness of each word exchanged, you and Namjoon shared eternal moments that would forever be blessed by the most ethereal gods. and to immortalize what was already glorious, Namjoon made a point of thanking your company by offering you the paintings and sculptures that had caught your attention. “what do you mean you don’t have space in your room? i know you want to turn down the painting, but all i’m hearing is that you need a new house with more space. tuesday we can start looking at some houses.”

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who loves to give you designer clothes. sometimes, the parcels that appeared at your house were so rare that you had to turn to the internet to decode that shirt or belt. often, the parcels that appeared at your house were from a collection so recent that you felt invincible when you wore them. every time, the parcels that appeared at your house had a note written by Namjoon to remind you that, even if you didn’t ask, even if you didn’t even know, he would always take care of you. you just needed to accept it and Namjoon would give you the world. “see it as an early birthday present. you don’t have to thank or reciprocate. this coat is for you. use it when we go to lunch on saturday.”

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who makes a point of giving you a kiss when others are looking at you. Namjoon enjoyed your company, it was obvious. as such, Namjoon liked to take you to work parties or friend gatherings or really anywhere where you could show off the new outfit he had gifted you. wherever there was an event that called Namjoon, he was quick to hold your hand and take you with him without any prior notice. these nights of get-togethers seemed divine in Namjoon’s company; there was something about his laugh that tied you to the moment; the way he spoke to his acquaintances made you curious to know more about all subjects, even though he had already told that story to you; the way he looked at you, eyes bright and bathed in tenderness, erased everything that was happening around you; and the way he kissed you, slowly, softly, right on the corner of your mouth, teasing you just a little, made you wish the day would end. “patience. we haven’t greeted the birthday boy yet. i promise just one more hour and then we can go home.”

SUGAR-DADDY!NAMJOON who introduces you to everyone as his ‘special person’. e v er y   s y l l a b l e of these two words was marinated with the most intense pride in the universe; ea-ch--tim-bre of these two words was intoned with the greatest fascination of the cosmos; those two words were Namjoon’s favorite words. ‘special person’. yes, he could have said that you were his partner or even a friendship that had been going on for years; of course, but all those words were empty. and you were special. you were special to Namjoon and he wanted everyone to know that. and that’s why he introduced you with pride – how lucky he was to find someone as amazing as you; that’s why he named you with fascination – how lucky the universe is to have someone as divine as you; that was why ‘special person’ sounded so good when uttered by him – how lucky you were to be the only one blessed by the gods. “if you don’t feel comfortable, i can call you something else. but, honestly, i don’t think anything i would call you would equal the importance you have in my life.”

[bamboozledbird]

oᥒᥴᥱ ι'm ყoᥙrs ι'm ᥲᥣᥕᥲყs ყoᥙrs //stiles stilinski imagine characters: stiles stilinski, fem!reader, mentioned malia tate pairing(s): stiles x you word count: 4k tags: exes to ???, hurt some comfort, set in s5 warnings: some light emotional cheating, i think that's it, sad boy hours, *pats stiles’s head* this boy can fit so much trauma in here

a/n: long time no see. i've missed you my babies, and thank you so much for all the love while i was gone. i'm back with my usual overdose of angst and em dashes. i can't help it; i have a sickness. also, the timing of when stiles and malia got together is a little fudged, so they probably started dating in 4b.

It’s an icy slice of fear that wakes you up. A white flash of ‘fight or flight’ behind your sleep-sticky lids. A rattling that doesn’t belong to the pitter-patter of sleet or the whiplash of wind against your bedroom window. You sit up on your forearm, peek out from behind your fleece blanket, and pray until you’re nauseous that there isn’t a pair of glowing eyes waiting for you on the other side of the glass. 

The sleet leaves angry rivulets in the dirt-smudged panes. Sad little lines of streaming water, flooding in time with the choppy squall—you can’t help but think it looks like weeping.

A soft sigh falls from your mouth and stirs the stilted air in the room: No skulking eyes…but a foreboding sense of unease still looms above your head like the plumes of steely clouds outside your window. They swallow every trace of starlight and shift every so often in your peripheral vision, almost like they’re alive.  

The rattling sounds again, soft but deafening in the darkness. It’s a familiar sound, someone scrambling on the loose tiling of your roof, but a forgotten one. It's strange, sweet-sharp, and out of place in your current reality.

A noise that shouldn’t exist outside of a memory. 

Stiles spills into your room and lands on his knees, dripping water onto the hardwood floor. His hair is plastered to his forehead from the storm outside, and the dark clouds are a mocking reflection of the look on his face. 

The moon has eclipsed all the sunlight in his eyes, and it feels so, so cold.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming, or maybe you’re still stuck in that luminescent oil slick spill between sleep and consciousness. Stiles looks like something from a dream—from a nightmare. He’s a boy, but he isn’t. He’s there, but he isn’t. He’s lost to something you can’t see, swept up in the storm and turned into something else.

The glow of your phone illuminates the pinch of your brow, the squint of your bleary eyes. 3:27 am. Stiles used to sneak in through your window a couple times a week, even during the day, just to avoid the parental inquisition. He still does sometimes, rarely, only when Beacon Hills is on the verge of collapsing—and it always seems to be 3 in the morning. 

He only ever needs you at 3 in the morning now. 

It makes you feel a little sick, the reminder that the only string tying you together now is barbed wire.  

You sit up in your bed and wait for Stiles to say something—to move—but he doesn’t. He just sits there, soaked to the bone on his knees, and stares at something beyond the shifting shadows on your bedroom walls. 

“Stiles?” 

Stiles doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even make a sound. 

You crawl out of your bed and sit down on the floor next to him, draping a woven blanket over his shoulders. It almost matches his flannel, blue and checkered. It’s a little thing that would’ve made you smile before, mostly because Stiles would get this warm look in his eyes when you did: so fond it felt like worship. 

It’s fall. The air smells like apples and earth. You watch the shadows of little fish swim in jagged circles through murky lake water. Stiles is a warm presence against your side. 

He buries his nose in your hair and hums, “You like the pieces.”

A fish breaks from the group and bubbles near the surface. Its silver scales gleam in the setting sun: a piece of a fractured landscape, a detail that steals all the color in your peripheral vision. 

You watch the fish swirl for a moment, almost like it’s dancing, and then shrug with a little grin. “I guess.”

You feel Stiles smile against your temple.

“Me too.”

Now, the only color your retinas can detect is black. 

Stiles’s pupils swallow his face, and they stick to everything like tar. Seep into the room and stain the moonlight until the blue haze over his skin looks more sickly than luminous. He looks alarmingly corpse-like, so still on your floor, slimy from the storm keening outside—hollowed out from the storm rotting inside. 

You sigh after a moment; a soft little sound to break the surface of strained silence coating the room. “Come on.”

It doesn’t take much prodding. Stiles bends to your guiding hands mindlessly and sits down on the edge of your bed without so much as a grunt. Pliant and robotic in the same breath. Ever the paradox, your boy is.

Though. 

He’s not, really. Yours, that is. 

Not anymore. 

Not for a long time. 

“Everything’s so fucked up.” 

Stiles is quiet, but his whisper still startles you. His voice is raw—and maybe, you’d really convinced yourself that he was dead. It feels like he is sometimes. At least, a version of him. Stiles, in the mole-speckled flesh, he’s a ghost of the boy you knew, a killer of the figment boy you never lost. A paradox. So difficult to read. Impossible to hold on to. 

Stiles doesn’t notice that you’ve gone silent, but he doesn’t really seem to notice anything beyond the wet film over his eyes. 

“I don’t…I don’t see a way out this time. I don’t know…” he scrubs a hand over his face and looks infinitely older than eighteen, “I don’t think I can fix it—any of it.”

You’re reminded, briefly, of the night he broke up with you. When you looked up, saw the look on his face, and you knew. You have the same sick feeling in your stomach now, and you want to crawl inside yourself until the flip-flopping of your intestines stops—to wring them into little knots until there’s nothing left. 

Stiles looks like he feels about the same, so small on your bed for such a lanky man. 

“What?” You pull your knees to your chest and hold onto your shins so that you don’t reach for him. “The Nemeton? We’ll find it again…eventually, and—”

“No,” Stiles grits his teeth and closes his eyes, “I mean, yes, but it’s…everything. Everything’s falling apart.” 

“Not everything. You’ve always got—”

“Not anymore.” Stiles gets that dead-inside look behind his eyes again, and your stomach turns. “You and me…and Scott—”

Your sheets whisper against your legs as you shift towards him. “Scott?”

You’ve seen Stiles wear pretty much every expression under the sun—backlit by shitty diner lights, laughing; tangled up in navy sheets, panting; drenched in sweat, sobbing—but god. The way Stiles looks now, like his soul has been bleached from his bones, drained from his eyes with a power drill, it’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen. Worse than the when the Nogitsune stole his face, because it’s Stiles. Whatever this skeleton on strings is, it’s him.  

“I fucked up.” Stiles whispers so softly you can barely hear him over the cracks in his voice, “I fucked up so bad.”

It takes you a second to realize that he’s talking about Scott. Dumb, considering you asked, but you’ve imagined him saying that to you so many times it almost feels like a memory—like he’s talking about you. 

You clear your throat and pull at a loose string on your blanket until it snaps. “He’ll get over it. He always does.”

Stiles just shakes his head, keeps his eyes trained on his muddy sneakers. “Not this time.”

Your fingers twitch with the impulse to grab his hand. “What happened, Stiles?”

“I…” Stiles rubs his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the taste of his thoughts. He swallows and then stands, tugging a little on his wet hair until it sticks up in random tufts—it would be cute under any other circumstances, if Stiles didn’t have a disturbingly manic look in his eyes and a desperate tumble of words flooding from his split lip. “The ends justify the means was just a thought experiment, right? Machiavelli was an academic, not a soldier—you know what kind of people actually practice Machiavellianism? Stalin, Mao—Peter ‘fuckin’ killed my own niece’ Hale.”

Your brow scrunches as you try to find the invisible path connecting all his seemingly disjointed thoughts. “Stiles—”

“And I know I rag on Scott all the time for being too soft,” Stiles sneakers squeak against the floor as he continues pacing, without a breath or so much as a glance in your direction. He might as well be pontificating to the darkness. “I mean, fuck, how many times have I said it’d be easier if we just killed the psycho? A dozen? Definitely enough for one of those stupid fuckin’ ‘take a shot’ memes.”

Stiles stops abruptly mid-step and finally looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time tonight. His Bambi eyes look so big right now, completely open and boundless on his sweet face, like the child he hasn’t been since sophomore year. “I didn’t…I don’t really mean it, you know. I don’t actually want...” 

His voice is so small it breaks your heart.  

“I know,” you say softly, coaxing him to stay here with you, in the moment.

Stiles blinks at you slowly and hangs his gaze on your face like it’s the moon. “I know it would kill him…feeling like this.” He spits it out like ‘this’ is something vile, poison on his tongue.  

Your stomach sinks, and a prickling sensation of hot-cold settles through your sinew. You lick your drying lower lip and methodically rub your clammy palms up and down your thighs. “Feeling like what?”

Stiles’s momentary dip into the present fades with the next blink of his clumped lashes. 

He starts pacing again, bending and flexing his fingers with twitching gestures that clarify little and worry you greatly. “I get it, totally support it as a concept. I mean, the greater good outweighs a scumbag or two—conceptually, because how do you really define scumbag? And that’s if you use a qualifier; real consequentialists think it’s totally fine to kill whoever the fuck you want as long as it’s in the name of a good outcome.” 

You blink a few times and drag your tongue over your teeth, “Right…killing innocent people: bad. That’s the general consensus.”

Stiles’s eyes dart back to your face. “What if they aren’t?”

“Aren’t what?” 

Maybe, if it weren’t almost four in the morning, you’d be able to follow his tangential breakdown. Maybe, if you hadn’t become dependent on his quiet sleep-babbling to fall asleep at night, if he hadn’t become the only thing capable of bleaching the nightmares from your eyelids, your temples wouldn’t be throbbing so violently. But it is almost 4 am, and you haven’t fallen asleep next to Stiles in over a year—no matter how right he looks when he sits down next to you on your bed.

Stiles’s throat bobs with his swallow before he says, “What if they aren’t innocent?”

“Stiles,” you grab one of his hands and search his face, scan every solemn line and curve for some semblance of meaning, “what’s going on?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip and lets out a ragged breath, going stiff—bracing himself for the fallout. His voice is thick with fear when he finally whispers, “What if they were going to hurt someone you care about?”

You let out a heavy sigh and study his expression, eyes flickering across the unrelenting question written in his pinched forehead and glassy eyes. “Do the ends justify the means?” 

Stiles nods and bites down on his jagged thumbnail, “Yeah.”

You hold Stiles’s gaze so that he can see your eyes, so earnest they almost look pained, and nod, slow and definitive. “Yeah.”

It takes a second, but when his body catches up with his brain, Stiles collapses in on himself. Turns into a ragdoll of relief and wet clothes, and drops his head into his shaking hands. 

“F-fuck,” Stiles exhales and wipes his face dry with cruel scrubs of his hands. “Sorry—I just…” he digs his thumbs into his temples and trembles, “I’m losing my fucking mind, and I didn’t know where else to go.” He glances up from his hands, looks so devastatingly lovely as he peers up at you through his wet lashes it hurts, and murmurs, “There wasn’t anywhere else…anyone else. Nobody…” 

Stiles shakes his head slightly and clears his throat, but his words are still syrupy with so much meaning when he says, “I don’t really feel like I’m…me anywhere else.” He pauses again, and you forget how to breathe when his gaze refocuses on your eyes. His tongue flicks over his split lip, and then he whispers, “I’m not me unless I’m with you.”

This boy. This boy. He can wreck you without even trying. 

You have to reorient yourself before you get stuck on the drizzle of honey in Stiles’s eyes. They’ve always been so…alive. There’s an entire ecosystem in his irises, savanna grass swaying under the glow of sunset. A blackhole in his pupils, bending and distorting your every thought to Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.  Stop. Breathe. Count your fingers. 

Your arms are around your shins, the air is cold, and Stiles has someone who isn't you.

You still wake up with the taste of him sticking to your teeth, sweet honey and sharp cloves, but it’s never enough. Lately, it lingers like a cavity.  

You spent so long thinking you weren’t supposed to be friends, and you weren’t. You were supposed to be together—now you don’t know what you’re supposed to be. How can you belong to a memory?

What does Stiles think when he looks at you now? Does a thought even come? 

Does he ache for who you were that Friday at the lake? Does he still love that girl in his arms–orange and warm under the setting sun, blissfully unaware of the end? 

Oh, he does.

Stiles aches for you, thinks of you, constantly. He meant what he said; he only feels solid when it's just you, him, and the shiny little bubble that keeps out the rest of the world. He doesn’t feel…real when he’s around other people, pretending like everything’s fine. Like he hasn’t lost every shiny piece of the life he had before his mind was stolen. 

That’s how it is for Stiles now; there’s before, and then there’s after. He can feel the schism widening with every single fucked up thing he does. Lately, it feels like that’s the only thing he does: completely and catastrophically fuck up. 

The thing is, when they finally got him—it��out, Stiles thought that would be it. Happily ever after. Evil expunged. Demon defeated. End-stop. No page turn. Cheers to the Nemeton. Stiles learned, very quickly, that you can’t purge darkness. It always leaves a mark. 

The days after…everything, Stiles discovered that rotting was a real human emotion. He still can’t believe people don’t smell it on him. The remnants of Stiles haven’t stopped putrefying in the Nogistune’s absence, and he just knows, somehow, that something this malignantly alive is contagious. He didn’t want to ruin you—doesn’t, Stiles corrects himself before he can finish the thought—doesn’t want to contaminate something so good with something so sick. 

Or maybe…maybe it was because Stiles knew that you’d see it. You’d see it, and you’d leave. 

The only clean thing he has is memories. He can’t stain the past. The figment girl in his mind can’t hurt. Can’t die. Can’t run. Stiles keeps you there—or, at least, some version of you, a you he can keep underneath the shelter of his ribcage, where you can watch the sunset turn fish scales into topaz in his maroon jacket, happy, forever.

Stiles can’t really remember the last time he saw you, the real version of you, happy. You must have laughed without him at some point, but he can’t think of anything other than when you were with him. Well, that, and the end. Stiles remembers the end with painful clarity. 

You were at a lake. The lake. Somehow, it only occurs to Stiles now how shitty that must’ve been for you. Anyway, you just sat there for a while, and he just listened to the silence wash over the world like a flood until the sun reached its peak. He remembers thinking: Holy fuck, this is what they meant. All those stupid songs and poems. This is what it means to break. Stiles couldn’t stand the way you kept your eyes closed, like you were afraid of seeing the inevitable car crash. If I kiss her, he’d thought, everything will be okay. If I kiss her, she’ll forgive me. 

Stiles didn’t kiss you. He just said, “I’m sorry,” and the words hung heavily over your heads. In the harrowing quiet, Stiles thought: I never realized cordial could sound so much like cowardly. 

“What are you doing here, Stiles? What is this?” 

Your voice drags Stiles from the gutters of his mind, and feels a fresh wave of shame when he hears how tired you sound. What is he doing here? Stiles knew it was a mistake before he even started his Jeep, but the flicker of doubt in Scott’s eyes drowned out his best intentions. 

“I just…” Stiles swallows, and his hand moves to scratch at his wounded shoulder reflexively. He…he just needed to be with the only person on the face of this planet that still knew him—who would get it.

You get tired of waiting, and when you speak again, Stiles feels about two inches tall. 

“You should be with her.” You say it nicely enough. Polite. No venom to fill the awkward hollowness. Cordial. 

Fuck. Stiles fucking hates cordial. He kind of wishes you would yell at him. At least, then, he’d know that you still cared. 

Stiles clasps his hands together between his thighs and leans his weight onto his elbows. He probably should be with Malia. No. He definitely should, but he’s not. And right now, like this, he doesn’t want to be. 

“She’s not good at…” Stiles clears his throat and sits up a little, “she tries, but she just…can’t.”

It’s not even her fault, and that’s probably the worst part about it. He doesn’t want to be another bad thing that’s happened to Malia Tate, but bad things just seem to be his specialty lately. 

“You know why you like her, right?” you say softly, not unkindly, but Stiles thinks he isn’t going to like the answer—mostly, because he’s sure it’s true. 

“No.” Stiles pauses and draws a circle on his knee with his pointer finger, “Well, I mean, yeah. Didn’t know you put so much thought into it.”

You don’t bother to dignify such a blatant lie with a direct response. That’s fair, Stiles thinks, and tries not to shrink in on himself.

Instead, you lift your shoulder like it’s made of marble and murmur, “She needs you.”

It’s innocuous enough—sweet, even, under different circumstances—but Stiles feels it like a blade. He clears his throat; it doesn’t help the dryness. He manages to arch a brow as he pushes out a raspy little, “So?”

The corner of your mouth lifts into a small smile; Stiles can still see it quiver. “You’re a control freak,” you bump his knee with your own, and it’s the first place on his body Stiles can actually feel, “and we both know she’s never going to be the one to end it.”

That’s just like you; even your jokes are wrapped up inside an argument. It always left him frozen in a maddening power struggle between quipping something snarky and kissing you. No one else has ever managed to keep him on the ropes like you, and maybe that’s why no one after has managed to keep his, admittedly, short-attention span for long. After all, Stiles has always liked his sweetness with a little bite. 

Of course, now there’s no sweetness between the two of you. It’s all uncomfortable silences and unspoken thoughts that leave his teeth aching for something more

Stiles’s jaw goes tight as he brings his lips to his knuckles, feeling a bit like bearing down on the bone. “That’s what you think happened?” He glances at you, eyes a little haunted, “I couldn’t control you, so I ended it?”

You tilt your head to the side, so sympathetic it makes Stiles a little nauseous, and murmur, “I think you realized that I didn’t need you; I think it scared the hell out of you.” You say it so softly, carefully—and it impales him in the heart, right through the fucking center. 

It would be one thing if you were angry; people say stupid shit they don’t actually mean when they’re angry all the time—but this? You look like you mean it. You look like you mean it, and you’re saying it for his own good. The look on your face, it looks a whole lot like the truth 

And.

Maybe it is. 

It’s not like you’re wrong. Stiles remembers thinking it, more than once. He remembers more than a few mornings where he woke up to the sound of your breathing, your warm breath washing over his neck, and he thought he’d probably die if you ever stopped. It felt like an epiphany every time, the reminder that without you his world would be irreparably changed. 

Dark. Without you, Stiles’s world would go dark. 

Maybe, the Nogistune was just an excuse. Maybe, Stiles had been leapfrogging over his heart since the moment you met. Avoiding the future. Wrapping the present around your body and constantly thinking: I can’t believe it's not over yet. 

Yet. Yet. Yet. 

Maybe, Stiles thought about it so much he tempted fate. Maybe, that’s why the Nogistune chose him. Maybe, he should stop scapegoating the devil. He did end up with Malia after all. 

It’s different with her. Not bad necessarily, just different. He takes care of her, and he’s good at that. Making the plan. Having the answers. 

Being in control. 

With you…that was different. 

Stiles is a cynic at heart, but when he looked at—looks at—you, he felt less lonely. When he was with you, he kind of got why his dad used to show up to work 15 minutes late because he got distracted by the way his mom made coffee and did the crossword at the same time. The simple domesticity, the comfort of a morning routine for the rest of his life, the concept of tried and true blue love: Stiles got it all when he saw you.  

You saw his happiness, and you gave it back to him. Every single time. That kind of love…it’s become abundantly clear to Stiles that kind of love is hard to find. Like maybe, once in a lifetime hard to find. 

Stiles swallows hard and shakes his head. “Whatever it was that I was afraid of,” his voice drops to a whisper, “this is so much worse.”

You’re still the only person he can really cry in front of. Stiles is reminded of that when his eyes burn and something wet drips onto his lips. He sniffles quietly, feeling so incredibly small when he realizes the sound is coming from him. 

Stiles can’t look up from his shoes—won’t—and then you speak. You’re so quiet he almost misses it. 

“Life’s a lot better when you’re in it.”

The corners of Stiles’s mouth twitch into a small smile. The first one in about a week. Feels like much, much longer. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[galactic-magick]

A Collection of My Viktor x Reader Headcanons

Here’s the long list of headcanons I have about Viktor and my self-insert OC that’s been sitting in my notes app. Many of these will likely make their way into and be more fleshed out in my fics. I just have so much love for him and so many ideas that I had to post them.

Most are gender-neutral besides a couple. All the fics I’ve written in this AU so far are in my masterlist and in a series on my AO3.

Enjoy 😊

Drinks his coffee either black or with a shit ton of milk and sugar, no in between. You’ll catch him drinking the darkest roast in existence and then the next day he’ll be drinking a sweet milk Frappuccino or something

If you’re the same size or bigger than him, he likes to steal your clothes. Especially when it’s cold, he’ll layer a bunch of your sweaters, claiming yours are “warmer” than his

He loves when you play with his hair. It calms him down and soothes him like nothing else

Sometimes he feels bad he doesn’t have the arm strength to pick you up, so one time he asked Jayce if he could borrow his gauntlets

He can be very forgetful, but it’s never because he doesn’t care. Be patient with him his mind is a crazy place

He gets quite the ego boost when he realizes “talking nerdy to you” turns you on. He’ll purposefully start explaining science shit and get you embarrassingly flustered

He’s definitely a cat person. If you guys got one they would be basically attached to each other, to the point the cat would escape the house and follow him to work in the lab sometimes

Also likes to steal your hair and shower products. He loves all the scents and how soft they make his waves and skin

He can play the Viola, a skill his mother taught him when he was a kid. He’s very rusty but he’ll play for you occasionally

His favorite way to annoy you is poking you with his cane. He’s a little shit about it too, mainly doing it when you’re in the middle of something

When he works longer hours in the lab, you like to bring him snacks, only to find out Jayce is the one who eats most of them after you leave

He likes to see your face when you’re cuddling, so spooning isn’t really the go-to position. But if he does he’s not really partial to being the big or little spoon

He still has the toy boat he made as a kid. It sits on the mantle over your fireplace

He technically needs glasses, but his vision isn’t bad enough he has to wear them. He considers getting them only because you told him he’d look cute with them

If you’re afraid of bugs, he has no problem catching them and putting them back outside. He likes to let them crawl on him for a bit first though, he doesn’t mind them at all

If you ever get in a fight, he can be very stubborn in his opinions, and he often tries to fix the problem before understanding your side. Once he realizes that sometimes you just want him to listen to you, though, misunderstandings become much more infrequent

He loves food with lots of spices and strong flavors. Especially if you’re the one who cooks it

He snores when he sleeps, and pretty loudly at that. If you’re not a deep sleeper who can sleep through it you’ll probably need a white noise maker or something

He uses you as a fidget toy quite often, playing with your hands, massaging your arms and thighs, twirling your hair. Sometimes he’ll mindlessly start squeezing your tits, not even in a sexual way necessarily, just cuz they’re squishy

Wants kids with you, but is terrified of leaving your children fatherless if his disease gets the best of him

Everything in your house has the potential to be a new invention, you’ve lost count of how many appliances have been modified in some way

He likes puzzles, on the rare occasion he has free time to do them for leisure. He can even do those crazy multi thousand piece ones

One of his main love languages is definitely parallel play. He loves spending time with you even if it’s in silence doing separate things

Loves when you lay on top of him. He doesn’t care how heavy you are, you’re his favorite weighted blanket

He likes to keep his personal life private from most people, but never in the sense that he hides you. Everyone knows you’re together, but very few know how much you actually mean to each other

He leaves marks and hickeys on you even when he doesn’t necessarily mean to, simply because his canines are so sharp

Whenever he and Jayce are asked to travel anywhere to meet with Hextech investors, he always brings you with him. You couldn’t afford a honeymoon when you first got married, so he makes up for it by turning work trips into vacations

He likes to leave you love notes sometimes when he wakes up and leaves before you, but his handwriting is so messy you can rarely read them. He usually says what he wrote when he sees you next anyway though

[daylightstring]

how to become the source of what you desire.

to become the source of what you desire, you need to stop seeing your desires as something separate from you. everything you want already exists within you, and your job is to live from that state as if it’s your natural baseline. here’s how to actually do that in a real, embodied way:

1. stop waiting and start being

a lot of people wait for the relationship, the money, the dream body, the recognition, thinking then they’ll feel confident, secure, safe, or happy. but the truth is, nothing on the outside will ever create lasting change unless it reflects who you believe you are. start now. stop saying “once i have this, then i’ll be…” and start asking “how would i feel, act, walk, speak, breathe if i already had it?”

2. create a stable inner world

to be the source, your internal state has to be stronger than your external circumstances. develop emotional self-discipline. that means not reacting when things don’t look how you want. feel what you need to feel, but return to your center. ground yourself through breathwork, meditation, or journaling. remind yourself daily that you are the creator, not the victim. your power doesn’t come from controlling the outside, it comes from mastering the inside.

3. shift your self-concept

your self-concept is the root of everything. if you still see yourself as someone who is unlucky, unwanted, behind, or insecure, your life will keep reflecting that back to you. every day, affirm the version of you who already has it. “i am chosen. i am adored. i am magnetic. i am respected. i am living in my dream life.” don’t just say these things, feel them. own them. let them become your new inner identity.

4. take aligned actions, not desperate ones

being the source means you trust deeply. you’re not chasing, begging, or forcing things. instead, you’re taking inspired steps that match your vision. if you’re manifesting luxury, how would you treat yourself now? if you’re manifesting love, how would you treat your body, your time, your energy? if you’re manifesting success, would you procrastinate or would you move like someone who believes their work is gold?

5. drop the fantasy, embody the version of you who has it

manifestation isn’t about daydreaming forever. it’s about closing the gap between what you want and who you’re being. embodying means making decisions as that version of you now. how do they dress? how do they speak? how do they hold themselves? how do they spend their days? start becoming them piece by piece.

6. detach from the timeline

the version of you who is the source isn’t checking the clock or obsessing over when it will come. she knows it’s already hers. when you detach, you’re saying “i trust that it’s done and coming in the most perfect way.” you move with grace, confidence, and calm because you’re no longer in lack, you’re in alignment.

7. live in the “of course” energy

you don’t need to prove your worth to receive. it’s not about deserving more, it’s about being more. the you who is the source doesn’t hope she’ll get it, she knows. she’s not shocked by her blessings, she’s grateful but unfazed. “of course i got the role.” “of course i met him.” “of course i’m glowing.” make this your dominant energy.

you become the source the moment you realize it was never about attracting, it was always about revealing. peeling back the doubt, fear, and programming until all that’s left is you, fully aligned with everything you’ve ever wanted. not because you chased it, but because you finally let yourself be it.

[solsticehymns]

MONSTER: ONESHOT

REMUS LUPIN X F!READER / ANGST + FLUFF

summary: too tired to keep your eyes open, you start murmuring your book aloud, frankenstein. remus finds he relates terribly to it, but he can't tell you, for you don't know his secret.

a/n: oh. my. god. this hurt to write, i took 2 breaks to sniffle. actually highly recommend reading the original 1818 text of mary shelley's frankenstein, she was incredibly ahead of her time. the whole point of the book, to me, is that EVERYONE can relate to the monster. everyone is ugly in some way: that is what makes us all beautiful, too. and secondly, in the end, all anyone really needs is love. - sunny ☀️🌻

wc (minus the book quotes cuz i didn't write that lololol): 1339

The warmth of the library is making you drowsy.

Or maybe it’s the candlelight, flickering in and out of focus as your eyelids droop. Or the weight of the book in your hands, pressing softly against your lap.

Or maybe it’s him.

Remus sits across from you, hunched over his notes, his quill moving in steady strokes as he tries to focus on the text in front of him. There’s something methodical about the way he works—thoughtful, deliberate, as though committing each word to memory with care. You’ve spent countless nights like this, existing in comfortable silence, each lost in your own tasks but never truly alone. It’s become a quiet kind of routine, one you find yourself looking forward to more than you care to admit.

Tonight, though, exhaustion weighs heavy on your limbs. The prose of Frankenstein blurs at the edges of your vision, dense and intricate, demanding more energy than you have left to give. Your head lolls slightly against the back of your chair, fingers skimming idly over the corner of the page. Without meaning to, you start to murmur the words aloud, your voice slow and hushed, barely more than a breath in the stillness of the room.

“Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me?”

You don’t notice when Remus’s quill stills, nor do you realize at first that he is no longer writing, no longer absorbed in his studies. He is listening, more intently than you can discern.

Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?

Remus would be lying to himself if he said this wasn’t a question he had asked himself before. It isn’t just the words on the page—it’s the way they settle into the hollow spaces inside him, the places no one else can see. The places that ache on the nights when he is alone, when he remembers what he is, what the world will always see him as. A creature, a thing to be feared. Something unnatural.

He wonders if the creature in the story feels it the same way—this awful, gnawing loneliness, the knowing that no matter how much kindness he has inside him, people will only ever see the horror of his existence. No matter how much he longs for warmth, for acceptance, he will never truly have it. Because people do not love monsters.

You keep reading, voice quiet but steady, each word sinking deeper into him, making it harder to breathe.

“Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend.”

Remus closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing against the truth of it. If he were different, if fate had not carved him into something wretched, could he have been good? Could he have been loved? Or had the universe decided for him before he ever had a chance?

If he let himself be seen—really seen—love would be out of the question. But it is just as impossible if he doesn’t. He can tuck the worst parts of himself away, hide them in the quiet corners of the world, but it won’t change the truth. He is what he is. And even if someone ever dared to love him, it would be a love built on a lie.

A sharp ache spreads in his chest, because isn’t that the cruelest part of it all? That he can never be known, not fully—without losing everything?

You turn the page, still murmuring aloud, unaware of the way he is breaking beside you. His fingers curl into his sleeve, gripping the fabric as though he can hold himself together by force alone.

But the words keep coming, and he can do nothing but listen.

You barely hear yourself continue, spilling out word after word of Shelley’s intricate and incredibly passionate prose:

“I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred—”

“Some people never get the choice, to be loved or feared. The world makes it for them.”

You nearly forgot Remus was sitting right there. You had no idea he was even listening.

The weight in his voice settles over you like a quiet confession, and for a moment, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. There’s something about the way he says it, something final and resigned, as if it’s a truth he has long since accepted. A truth he never expected to change.

Slowly, you turn your head. His eyes aren’t on you, but on the book in your lap, unfocused and far away. His fingers twitch where they rest against his parchment, as if resisting the urge to curl into fists. The candlelight carves soft shadows over his face, accentuating the tired set of his mouth, the crease between his brows.

You want to tell him he’s wrong. That monsters aren’t doomed to be alone, that love isn’t something they have to steal or fear. That the creature in the book is no different from anyone else, aching for kindness, for warmth. That maybe, if someone had just looked at him with softer eyes, he would have known he wasn’t meant to be feared. That maybe, if he let himself, he could be loved too.

But you know, deep down, Remus would never believe that.

Instead, you straighten slightly, gathering your thoughts before speaking.

“But he wasn’t doomed,” you say softly. “Not really. Not in the way that matters.”

Remus’s gaze flickers up to you, almost wary, like he is bracing for something he won’t be able to stomach. You hold his gaze, resolute, letting the warmth in your voice settle between you.

“He wanted love,” you continue. “He wanted companionship. And that isn’t monstrous. It never was. He didn’t ask to be made the way he was, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t deserving of kindness from anyone else.”

You watch the way Remus swallows, watch the way his shoulders tense like he is trying not to let your words sink too deep. But you can see it in his eyes—the way something small and painful cracks open inside him.

“I think,” you go on, your voice gentler now, “that if someone had shown him kindness first—just once—maybe everything would have been different, and he wouldn’t have felt so lonely.”

He shouldn’t react. But it strikes him, how you state it so simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it never even occurred to you that the creature might be anything but deserving of kindness. As if it isn’t even a question.

Something in him aches—something deep, something raw and untouched for so long he has almost convinced himself it isn’t there at all. He has spent years believing that there are conditions to love, that people only offer it when they don’t know the truth. But here you are, speaking of a creature cursed by its very existence, and somehow you still see goodness in it.

He wants to tell you. Not about the book, not about the creature—but about himself. He wants to ask if you would still look at him like that if you knew he was a monster, too. If you would still believe in warmth and acceptance if you saw him for what he truly is.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. Because if there is even the smallest chance that you might turn away, he can’t risk it.

Instead, he lets the words sit between you, heavy and aching, settling into the quiet spaces of his heart he has long since abandoned. Maybe you would not recoil. Maybe he is not as monstrous as he fears.

A soft nudge against his hand startles him. You close your book, fingers resting lightly on the cover.

“You’re not even studying anymore,” you whine, voice thick with drowsiness. “Can we go? It’s late.”

He blinks at you, as if shaking himself from some deep, unreachable place. Then, finally, he exhales, a small, almost imperceptible smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Let’s go.”

♡

☀️🌻 masterlist

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (12 - Red)

Chapter Summary: Unable to accept that she is now part of the team, you try to avoid Wanda Maximoff at all cost.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 4k+ | Chapter Tags: Age of Ultron!Wanda, Enemies to Lovers (sort of)

A/N: I got some interesting asks about Y/N's background. There are backstories about Y/N that will come up since Part 2 is purely a flashback. However, things such as how she became an Avenger is not covered, but you're welcome to ask me for headcanons (or give your own!). P.S. Someone asked how old Y/N is in the flashbacks, and she's actually younger than Wanda P.P.S get ready for some action too! it's my first time writing such a scene *_*// More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pretending Wanda Maximoff didn’t exist was easier than you initially thought.

You got good at avoiding her. It became part of your routine—timing your movements through the compound to miss her by minutes, memorizing her schedule so you could always be somewhere else. Sometimes you’d see a hint of her around a corner, a flash of the crimson jacket she usually wore or the dark fall of her hair, but you'd steer in the opposite direction without a second thought.

She seemed to reciprocate—or maybe she simply picked up on the hint. Either way, you both managed to coexist without the need to acknowledge the other. You, a lifelong night owl, suddenly found yourself becoming a morning person the moment you realized Wanda preferred the training room in the evenings. Working out before dawn felt like the safest plan. You told yourself it was working.

Meals, however, were trickier. The kitchen and dining area were unavoidable shared spaces, and schedules didn’t always align as neatly as you’d hoped. Some mornings, you’d find her already there, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, or she’d walk in just as you were finishing up. 

The team had a tradition—dinners together, a semblance of family in a life that lacked roots. You started to skip these, opting for protein bars or quick microwaves alone. It was easier than facing her across the table, being reminded of what she forced you to see back in Johannesburg. 

But then you noticed Wanda stopped showing up, too. On the nights you did show up, her seat was empty. The others didn’t seem bothered, but you couldn’t shake the feeling it was your fault. 

Despite having won the territory, you couldn’t shake the guilt that came with it.

—

Steve and Tony were at each other’s throats again.

Their arguments had become more frequent in recent weeks, and although you usually stayed out of it, they were beginning to take its toll on the team. You could tell lines were being drawn; team members quietly taking sides, aligning themselves according to whoever had a mission lined up. 

You walked into the meeting room, late as usual, pretending you hadn't heard them from halfway across the building. Steve stood rigid, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set like granite. Tony reclined with that maddeningly casual air that mostly irked Steve, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other animatedly waved as he spoke. 

Wanda was tucked away in the corner farthest from the door, partially shielded by Vision. Trying to avoid Wanda only made you seek her out involuntarily, as much as you wished not to.

“I'm telling you, Tony, allowing the government to dictate our actions undermines everything we stand for,” Steve said.

Oh. This again? The politics of it all was your least favorite thing about being an Avenger.

“Accountability,” Tony replied. “We can't keep making unilateral decisions without considering the global implications.”

Steve shook his head. “We've operated just fine without bureaucratic red tape slowing us down. Every second counts when lives are at stake.”

Tony snorted in a way that’s supposed to rile up Steve even more. “Operating 'just fine'? You call the messes we've left behind 'just fine'?”

You cleared your throat. “Sounds like a party in here.”

Neither of them acknowledged you. Your gaze unintentionally drifted toward Wanda, and you caught her eyes just as she quickly looked away.

“Since when did you become a fan of bureaucracy?” Steve asked.

“Since the paperwork started piling up from our little international incidents,” Tony said, pouring himself another shot of whiskey. 

You grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, leaning against the counter as their words volleyed back and forth. 

“Paperwork? Is that what this is about? You’re tired of paperwork?”

“I’m tired of taking the blame for all of us,” Tony said. 

“Well, you did create Ultron, didn’t you?”

Tony's eyes narrowed. If he weren't clad in his robe, he'd be suiting up right now. “Low blow, Rogers.”

“Truth hurts,” Steve replied.

You took a bite of your apple. “You two need a time-out or something?”

Tony turned to you, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, look who finally joined us. Got anything to say?”

“Nope,” you replied, chewing deliberately. “But could you tone it down? Your arguing is scaring the children.”

“You are the ‘children’,” Clint said with a smirk and you gave him a dirty look. 

Natasha hid a smile behind her glass. 

“I meant Vision,” you said, pointedly not looking at the synthezoid lest your gaze accidentally land on Wanda again.

Steve exhaled sharply. “This isn't a joke.”

Natasha set her glass down carefully. “Does this really need to be settled now?” she asked, her tone of voice indicating she’s taking charge now. “We gathered the team for a briefing, remember?”

“You're right,” Steve conceded. “We can discuss this later.”

Tony shrugged. “Fine by me.”

Clint leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “So, what's on the agenda?”

Vision, to your surprise, got up from his seat. You recalled that before becoming whatever he was now, he had been Stark's AI, which gave him direct access to global networks. He would be among the first to hear any distress calls.

“We've received intelligence about a potential threat escalating in Southeastern Europe,” Vision said.

You took another bite of your apple, listening but keeping your expression neutral.

Steve picked up a remote and clicked it, causing a holographic map to appear in the center of the room. Red markers dotted a specific region. “A rogue faction has been intercepting shipments of advanced weaponry.”

Tony arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess—Stark tech?”

“Sort of,” Steve allowed. “But they're not just shopping for tech. They're also headhunting for the enhanced.”

At that, Wanda shifted slightly in her seat at the back, her attention fixed intently on the map. You noticed but quickly averted your eyes, focusing instead on the holographic display.

“Any idea who’s leading this faction?” Natasha asked.

“Not yet,” Steve said. “But Intel suggests they're planning something big, and soon.”

“So what’s the plan?” you tossed out.

Steve's eyes swept the room. “We intercept them before they can mobilize. It’s in the rural mountains of Cilo,” he pointed to a spot on the map of Turkey. “Barely any civilians, but we still play it clean—minimal casualties.”

“I'll prep the suits and run some satellite sweeps. Maybe we can get a clearer picture of their operations,” Tony declared, and without waiting for a dismissal, he headed for the door. Steve watched him leave, shaking his head with a mix of irritation and resignation.

“Roles, then,” Steve started, raising his voice just enough to reach the corners of the room—a small gathering today; Rhodes was with the U.S. president on a diplomatic trip in Asia, and Sam was aiding Sokovian refugees settling into their new homes.

“Natasha and Clint, you'll handle reconnaissance. Vision, you will join Tony for air support. I'll lead the ground team.”

“Who’s on the ground team?” you asked.

Steve held your look. “You, me, and Wanda.”

The pit of your stomach clenched. “Fantastic,” you muttered.

“Problem?” Steve challenged.

You quickly schooled your expression. “Nope.”

“Good,” he said firmly. “We roll out at dawn. Meeting’s over.”

As you headed toward the door, Natasha fell into step beside you. “You okay with this?” she asked quietly.

“Why wouldn't I be?” you replied, not meeting her eyes.

She gave you a knowing look. “I know what you’ve been doing. Pretending Wanda doesn't exist isn't going to work on a mission.”

You sighed. “I'll be professional.”

“See that you are,” she said. “For everyone's sake.”

—

The mission was set for the next day, and you were mentally running through strategies, trying to anticipate every possible outcome. What you hadn't expected was a knock on your door late in the evening, well after Steve's usual bedtime of 9 PM. 

Normally, you'd peer through the peephole to check who it was, but your mind was elsewhere—fixated on a particular restaurant in Istanbul you hoped to visit if there was any downtime after the raid. You'd never confess this to anyone, but you were a bit of a foodie. Sampling the best cuisine in each country your Avenger duties took you to had become a personal quest. 

Without thinking, you stood and walked over, opening the door to find Wanda standing there, her hands nervously clasped in front of her. You looked down at your feet, waiting. 

“I need your help,” she said. These were the first words she had ever spoken to you, and you didn’t know why you'd taken note of it.

You didn't glance up. “Don't recall offering it.”

She slipped inside without asking, the soft soles of her boots silent on the floor—a detail that annoyed you. “Steve said he wants minimal casualties, and my powers aren't exactly…gentle. I need to learn how to fight without relying on it too much.”

“So go ask someone else.”

“There's no one else available right now,” she murmured. “Natasha is out, and Steve thought it would be good if we—”

You cut her off, finally raising your head to look at her. “I'm not interested.”

Wanda scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t be coming to you if there’s—”

“Then maybe Vision can help you,” you suggested coldly. “He seems to have taken a liking to you. I'm sure he can dig up some martial arts videos for you.”

She bristled. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like being civil is something that could actually make you sick.”

You met her gaze, unflinching. “I don't have time for this.”

Wanda inhaled sharply, and a strange energy coursed through your veins, the furniture in your bedroom shuddering as though caught in a miniature earthquake. But you held your position, unafraid.

“If you refuse to cooperate, I'll have to report back to Steve,” she warned. 

The threat was so feeble it almost made you laugh.  But you aimed to be more cruel than that.

“Go ahead,” you replied coolly. “Tell him I won't hold your hand.”

Wanda looked on the verge of an outburst. Good.

“Why are you being so difficult?”

You crossed your arms. “Why are you still standing at my door?”

Without another word, she closed her eyes briefly. Suddenly, you felt a subtle push against your thoughts—a whisper not your own. “Why do you hate me so much? We have to work together—”

You recoiled, anger flaring. “Get out of my head.”

“I was just trying to—”

“I don't care what you were trying to do,” you spat, getting in her face. “Don't ever do that again.”

She reeled back slightly. If it weren’t for the fact that she was a hundred times more powerful than you, you might have thought she was intimidated. But as you drew near, you saw it wasn't anger in her eyes, but hurt—a wounded response to your harsh dismissal.

After a few seconds, Wanda nodded. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again,” she said softly.

Just then, Clint appeared around the corner. You gave him a questioning look. He might have seemed like he was just passing by, but you weren’t deceived. Clint had no reason to be in this hallway at this hour. It seemed more likely he had been eavesdropping on the last part of your conversation and chose this moment to step in.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked lightly.

“I was just looking for someone to help me with hand-to-hand training,” Wanda explained, already backing away from your doorway.

“I’m the guy for that,” he replied. “Head to the training room, I'll join you shortly.”

“Thanks,” she said, casting a final glance your way before turning on her heel and striding away.

Clint turned to you the moment you two were alone. “Got a minute?”

“Not really,” you replied, though you stayed rooted in your spot.

He leaned against the wall beside your door. “What's going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing,” he countered. “You're being pretty rude.”

You folded your arms. “She never apologized to the team.”

“And you think giving her the cold shoulder is going to fix that?” he asked. “Grow the fuck up, kid. Bullying the new recruit isn't doing any of us any favors.”

“She did some really awful things, Clint,” you reasoned. “She hasn't taken responsibility for that.”

He sighed. “And you've never screwed up? Never done something you regretted?”

“That's different.”

“Is it?” he challenged. “Because from where I'm standing, we all have our demons. You don't see the rest of us acting like we're better than anyone.”

You looked away. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

“Wanda showed me more than just a bad dream,” you whispered. “I—” You started to spill the details of your nightmare but stopped, the fear of appearing vulnerable, of seeming weak and worthless like your mother always made you feel, silencing you. When it became apparent you wouldn't continue, Clint added, “Ever thought that maybe she's dealing with her own nightmares too?”

You glanced back at him. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because we're a team,” he said simply. “And teams look out for each other. Even when it's hard.”

“I don’t know if I can—”

“No one's asking you to be her best friend,” he said. “But at least be civil. Professional. The mission depends on it.”

You nodded, standing straighter. “I'll do my job.”

“Good,” he said, pushing off the wall. “That's all I'm asking.”

“Good night, Clint,” you muttered, heading back to your room.

“One more thing,” Clint called out just before you could close the door completely. “You’re right—she never apologized to the team. But she sure as hell apologized to you earlier.”

—

The Quinjet touched down just beyond the rocky outskirts of the small Turkish village, three miles from the fortified base the team was about to infiltrate. The rogue faction had been using it as a stronghold to store advanced weaponry and conduct illicit operations. You unbuckled your harness and stood, adjusting your gear as the rear hatch lowered to reveal the arid landscape bathed in the golden hues of early morning. 

Natasha caught your eye as she secured her gear. “Play nice,” she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear. 

You gave a noncommittal shrug in response.

She arched an eyebrow but didn't press the point. Instead, she adjusted the strap of her Widow's Bite and headed down the ramp.

Clint was perched near a cluster of boulders, bow ready. He didn't speak; he just shot you a pointed look and nodded slightly. You'd never felt more babysat than you did at that moment. Trying to make an effort to improve your working relationship with Wanda (at their behest), you headed toward her without a clear plan for the conversation. A pep talk maybe? You weren’t great at those, but you had absorbed enough from Steve to last several lifetimes.

But just as you were mere steps away from her, she breezed past without a glance in your direction, heading straight toward where Steve was waiting for Tony and Vision's signal to advance. It was as if you didn't exist.

Fair enough, you thought. Two could play at that game.

You tapped the side of your headgear, bringing up the HUD that F.R.I.D.A.Y had uploaded with the mission parameters. A translucent map overlaid your vision, highlighting your designated route through the village's eastern perimeter. Your task was to secure the potential exit points and ensure no targets slipped through once the operation commenced.

“All right, everyone, we’ve got clearance from the air team,” Steve's voice trembled over the comms. There was an unusual distortion in the signal, and you silently hoped it wouldn’t cause problems later. “Check in.”

“In position,” came the succinct reply from Natasha

“Ready on the western ridge,” Clint reported.

“Copy that,” Steve said. “Wanda and I will approach the main entrance from the south. Y/N, you take the north side. Secure any escape routes and watch for patrols.”

You pressed a finger to your earpiece. “Understood.”

“Keep comms open and stay sharp,” Steve added, and with that, everyone moved into position.

You moved into position, the rugged terrain providing ample cover. The north exit was a chokepoint—a narrow path bordered by steep cliffs. Perfect for an ambush, but also a potential death trap.

“All clear on my end,” you whispered into the comm.

“Strange,” Clint remarked.

“Same here,” Natasha agreed. “It's too quiet. I don’t like it.”

Your instincts prickled. 

Then, a faint vibration underfoot. You frowned, kneeling to touch the ground. The tremor grew stronger, rhythmic.

“Do you feel that?” you asked softly.

“Feel what?” Steve's voice came through.

Before you could respond, the ground shook violently. From hidden crevices and camouflaged tunnels, a swarm of hostiles erupted, pouring into the pass like a flood. Dozens—no, hundreds—armed to the teeth and moving with eerie coordination.

“Ambush!” you yelled, scrambling for cover.

“Hold your position—we're coming for you!” Steve roared. 

It should have assured you, but for the next few minutes, you were on your own. You took stock of your surroundings. The pass was narrow—a choke point. It was clear now that it’s a trap, and the enemy got lucky that a superpowered didn’t end up scouting this area.

You opened fire with your dual silencers, taking down several men with precise shots. But for every one you dropped, two more seemed to appear in his place. They weren’t just attacking—they were herding you, forcing you deeper into the pass where the escape routes grew fewer and fewer.

Sweat trickled down your temple as you struggled to hold them off. Your muscles ached, and your breaths came in ragged gasps. An unexpected blow struck your side, slamming you against the rocky wall.

Gritting your teeth, you pressed against the cliffside, muscles taut. Outnumbered and isolated, and not to mention trapped on a dangerous corner, survival seemed impossible.

“Come on,” you muttered to yourself. “Think.”

Just as the closest attacker lunged, a surge of energy hurled him backwards. Wind seemed to come in every direction as Wanda landed on her feet beside you, her eyes glowing red.

Relief washed over you. “Your timing is impeccable.” You hadn't expected that seeing Wanda would make you feel so incredibly safe, but it did. It really did.

She gave a faint smile, eyes scanning the swarm of hostiles regrouping ahead. “We need to find a way out of this trap,” she urged.

“Agreed,” you replied, reloading your weapon. 

The narrow pass had become a funnel, channeling them straight toward you. Rocks jutted out from the cliffside, creating pockets of shadow.

“We're pinned down,” you noted, pressing your back against the cold stone beside hers. The space was tight, forcing you closer together. You could feel the warmth radiating from her despite the cool mountain air. 

Wanda glanced upward. “We might be able to climb to that ledge,” she suggested, her breath brushing against your ear.

“Worth a shot. I'll boost you up.”

Wanda gave a small, amused smile. “You don't have to do that. I can get up there myself.”

It took a moment for the realization to hit you. Of course—her psionic abilities allowed her to levitate. That's how she'd reached you so quickly earlier; she'd flown. Heat rushed to your face as embarrassment set in. “Right,” you mumbled, feeling a bit foolish. “I forgot you could... you know...”

If Wanda picked up on your discomfort, she kept it to herself. “I can give you a lift if you want,” she offered.

You looked up at the ledge, then back at her. Swallowing your pride, you gave a curt nod. “Sure.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “Just relax.”

That was easier said than done, considering the enemies that surrounded you both. But even harder than that was the idea of letting Wanda use her powers on you, even if it was just to help you reach that damned ledge.

“Ready?” Her eyes combed yours, fishing for consent.

“Ready.”

Her hands came up, almost invisible in their movement. A warm fuzzy feeling wrapped around you, and the ground fell away as she floated you up, effortless as breathing.

“Almost there,” she murmured.

She steered you onto the ledge, and when your feet hit solid ground, you exhaled a breath you didn't know you were holding. “Thanks,” you tossed over your shoulder.

She smiled up at you. “Don’t mention it.”

She joined you shortly afterwards, landing gracefully beside you. The proximity was unavoidable on the narrow ledge, and you were acutely aware of how close you stood.

“Now what?”

Wanda leaned against the wall beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. “We need to find a way to contact the team.”

You checked your equipment. “Comms are jammed.”

She frowned. “They must have a dampening field.”

An explosion rocked the ground nearby, showering you with debris. “We can't stay like this here forever,” you muttered.

Wanda took a deep breath. “There is... something I can try.”

You glanced at her. “What is it?”

She swallowed hard. “I can get inside their heads—like I did before—to make them stand down.”

Like she did before in Johannesburg—to you, to the entire team in this mission sans Vision. You saw the fear in her eyes—the fear of your judgment, of repeating past mistakes. It struck you then how much she regretted what had happened between you.

Another burst of gunfire erupted, making you both flinch. There was no time.

You looked her in the eye and nodded. “Do it.”

Wanda wasted no time further. She got to work, her hands moving like a spider’s legs weaving its web. Looking down, you saw the men freeze mid-step. One by one, they dropped their weapons, eyes wide with unseen terror.

Unable to help yourself, you asked, “What are they seeing?” 

Wanda kept her eyes on her work, pointedly avoiding your gaze. “Their worst fears and deepest guilts. They’re confronting the nightmares that haunt them most.”

For a split-second, you felt sorry for these people.

“Let's move,” you said, placing a reassuring hand on Wanda’s shoulder.

—

Reaching higher ground, you and Wanda were finally able to reestablish communication with the rest of the team. From his position, Steve was quick to inform the local authorities about the perpetrators that Wanda had incapacitated with her powers, ensuring they remained trapped within their own mental constructs until help arrived. Meanwhile, Natasha and Clint were busy collecting crucial evidence from the scene, items they believed would be vital in piecing together a solid case against the previously concealed masterminds of the operation. As for Vision and Tony, they razed the base to the ground. 

Back at the Quinjet, you and Wanda took up positions to oversee and secure the extraction route.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

She looked up, slightly surprised. “Y-You’re welcome.”

You shifted your weight, grimacing slightly at a bruise forming on your side. “Thought being a veteran would make this mission easier,” you mused, going over the jet’s controls to give yourself something to do while you both waited for the others. “Overestimated myself this time.”

Wanda nodded thoughtfully. 

Another period of silence stretched out, taut but not entirely uncomfortable. She seemed to wrestle with something before speaking again. “May I ask you a question?”

You hesitated, wary of where this might lead. “Sure.”

She took a slow breath. “Do you think... you might ever forgive me for what happened in Johannesburg?”

You exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the distant peaks. “Deep down, I know it wasn't entirely your fault,” you began, “but sometimes it's easier to face your fears when you have someone else to blame for them.”

She absorbed your words quietly. “I understand,” she said softly. She thought about Tony. For the longest time, she blamed him for everything.

“Wanda, I—”

Before the conversation could continue, footsteps crunched on gravel behind you. The rest of the team was coming down the trail, and Natasha was the first to pick up on the fact that you and Wanda had been left alone together without any fireworks.

She walked up to you with a sly grin barely lifting the corners of her mouth. “Good work out there,” she said.

You rolled your eyes and drifted to a quieter corner, away from the team.

Wanda had saved you. That much was clear, and it meant you owed her your life—a debt that sat uneasily with you. You were grateful, of course, but the last thing you wanted was to owe anything to anyone.

Especially not to someone who terrified you to your core.

[bitebitekxll]

Physical Catalyst

Notes: Years ago I read an isekai fic that referred to guns as ‘physical catalysts’ which is where I got the name from (haven’t been able to find it but I’ll link it if I do) but the rest are just my own musings about a reader with a gun in Teyvat. Also first attempt at making a divider, but I think it’s kinda cool

So whether it’s SAGAU or regular isekai, imagine reader is in Teyvat, no one knows they’re not from Teyvat, and they have a gun.

This in and of itself isn’t a big deal, most people carry weapons in this world and tons of them have guns. But the thing is, they’re not the same as real world guns, are they?

Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but every case of guns we’ve seen in genshin (pyro fatui skirmishers, Chevreuse) shoot out what looks like elemental energy. Maybe they’re bullets infused with elemental energy, like what we see with the arrows for the bow users, except the bow users can still shoot regular arrows. We never see the guns shoot regular/non elemental bullets.

Which is why my theory (that might be pulled apart in a future update but for now…) is that they don’t exist. Teyvat guns are capable of shooting elemental energy, maybe fuelled by the wielder’s vision/delusion or maybe using some kind of pellets, but they are not equipped to shoot with the force needed to make a regular bullet be of any use.

So when reader shows up and has a gun from their world? Oh boy. A handgun is no weapon of mass destruction, but anything that can take down a lawachurl in one well-aimed headshot will terrify Teyvat’s inhabitants. I mean, their guns do damage too, sure, but it’s a relative amount. A burn from a shot of pyro, a shock from a shot of electro. The concept of a gun that can instantly kill someone, quicker and easier than an arrow? Using a tiny piece of metal that isn’t even sharp and doesn’t explode? You are going to throw entire nations into chaos.

If word gets out about it, you’re gonna have law enforcement from across all the continent investigating you, not to mention the fatui— be prepared for the harbingers to be hunting down your ass trying to get their hands on such a powerful weapon

Of course that’s only if you let the cat out of the bag. Use your weapon away from prying eyes, and you’ll probably be fine. Dead hiluchurls tell no tales, after all. Or men, if you’re more chill with murder.

It probably wouldn’t be too hard to find a metalsmith who could take one of your bullets and make more. Though I wonder what explanation you’d give as to what it is, without giving away the ‘deadliest handheld weapon in history’ thing.

Idk I just think the introduction of bullet-operated guns in Teyvat is interesting, might write some stuff for the different characters reactions to it at some point