#instead of constant set up & backstory

[swordmaid]

in my hc the noble houses of menzoberranzan operate similarly to the houses in ice and fire where they’re constantly feuding with each other but instead of trying to take the throne/control of the whole realm they’re all fighting for lolth’s favour instead. and because they can’t outright declare war on each other (forgot the reason for why they can’t exactly do that but iirc lolth doesn’t like it?? she loves the drama I guess) and if they rise too quickly lolth casts them down so they have to be cunning about it. not to mention if they stay too long in power and do nothing about it that also displeases the spider queen so the nobility’s game of intrigue is constantly moving and working both for self gain and for self preservation.

shri’iia also plays the game but more of a pawn than a player. she’s not born from any noble house (she’s actually a commoner). the only reason why she has any foot in the game is that she’s taken in by the matriarch of faen tlabbar - one of the houses who fervently worships lolth to the point of zealotry - when they’ve heard word that she—a commoner—have managed to succeed lolth’s trials and gained her blessing. lolth blessings are rare to come and making someone a paladin is even more rare so for a zealot house, that’s a a sign they can’t pass up. so, the house matriarch takes her in and keeps in a tower where she’s supposed to pray and train to lolth day and night. the paladin oath that shri’iia swears is both for lolth and her matriarch; she swears to punish the enemies of her mistresses and forever keep her loyalty to them. her matriarch’s word is an extension to lolth’s will, so to disobey her will be disobeying lolth herself.

and ofc shri’iia being born poor with everything to give and nothing to lose, who thought that there is more to her life than a merchant’s daughter, to be known by the goddess she worship and noticed by one of the most influential houses in the city, swears herself to that oath. she never regretted that choice not even when she’s kept in that tower in complete isolation with her matriarch being the only person she could interact with.

[nevereclipse]

Never Again

Pairing: Tim Bradford x wife!reader

Word count: 2.7k

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Requested: yes, here

Summary: When your parents come to visit you, they're as a toxic as ever. But after coming back from a brief undercover operation, Tim finds out the true extent of your parent's cruelty.

Warnings: mentions of police corruption, physical/verbal abuse and discussed past child abuse, mentions of bodyshaming and accusations of cheating (from y/n's parents.) Use of y/n. Probably incorrect representations of American & use of the metric system because I'm Australian.

A/N: I may have gone slightly overboard with this one, hopefully it's what you wanted. I thought y/n having rich parents added an interesting bit of backstory and dynamic with Tim, especially in her reasoning as to why she didn't tell Tim the truth about her family.

---

Your hands were shaking slightly when you put down your phone. You’d just ended a call with your mother, where she’d demanded that her and your father come and stay for a week with you and your husband while they were visiting LA. It’d been about a year since you’d seen them – probably around last Christmas. With them living in New York while you lived in California, visits were rare. An intentional fact, something you’d chosen very purposefully when you’d decided to join the LAPD instead of the NYPD. Not that you would’ve ever joined the NYPD in the first place. Partly because your parents would’ve done everything they could to lock you out, but mainly because you had no faith in the department after hearing your entire childhood about how your parents could get the police captain to do ‘anything they wanted.’

You set your phone on the sofa and took a steadying breath. Your husband, Tim Bradford, would be getting out of the shower soon, and while he knew some things about what your childhood was like, he didn’t know the full story (and never would). It’s not even that you thought he wouldn’t believe you, you knew he would, but how could you possibly complain about your upbringing when his had been… undeniably worse? So, you took a breath to steady yourself, and waiting for Tim to emerge from your bedroom.

Tim walked out, predictably, in sweatpants and a dark green shirt, his usual sleeping attire. You stole that shirt whenever he was away, because his constant wear of it meant it always smelt like him.

“Hey, baby,” you said, glancing up. You ran a hand through your hair quickly and forced another deep breath.

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, and in an instant he was beside you on the couch, gentle grasping your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched yours.

You shook your head quickly, answering, “Nothing, Tim. I just got off the phone with my mother.”

Tim scowled. He’d never liked your mother, not since he’d first met her and had been forced to sit silently while she criticised you for how much weight you’d put on (it was less than a pound). Still, you insisted on maintaining a relationship with her, and with your father, so he softened his expression slightly and asked, “Oh?”

“She and Father are going to come over next week. Father’s in town for business, so they thought they’d… drop in.” You swallowed.

“And you’re okay with that, right?” Tim asked hesitantly. If you ever expressed even the slightest indication that you didn’t want your parents to visit, he’d call them himself and tell them to fuck off. But you nodded, and said it was okay, so Tim relented and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I love you.”

You ducked your head and whispered, “I love you too,” all while guilt and nerves settled into your stomach.

--

You were panicking. Not enough for the average person to notice, maybe, but enough for your husband to. Tim sat on your bed, putting on his fancy shoes, and watched you struggle to choose which dress to wear for dinner with your parents. It’d taken you an hour to do your makeup, a process which usually took half of one, max, and nearly another hour just to put light waves into your hair.

“Sweetheart.” Tim finally said, coming to stand behind you in the mirror. He rarely used pet names, and the sound of the word softened the tension in your shoulders. “You’re going to look beautiful whatever you wear. You always do.”

“Not beautiful enough for my mother.” You almost spat the words out, alternating between holding two nearly identical dresses in front of your body.

Tim gentled grabbed your waist and maneuverered you around so you were facing him. “What did we agree about dressing for your mother?” He asked, cupping your face so you were forced to meet his earnest, dark blue eyes.

“…Not to.” You admitted begrudgingly, a slightly flush coating your face at the intense eye contact. Even after three years of marriage and five of dating, Tim always managed to fluster you.

“Exactly. You are stunning. I promise. But if you’re worried, I would go with the darker one.” Tim carefully avoided touching your hair, knowing a single hair out of place would send you into another spiral of panic. He hated seeing you so stressed, hated it with every fibre of his being. Especially when it was caused by your parents; he knew all too well the pain a well time jab (verbal or literal) from a parent could cause.

You took a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” You got into your dress just in time for the oven timer to go off.

--

Your mother never knocked more than once. It was, she believed, completely unnecessary for someone of her and your father’s social importance to ever deign to bang on wood like deliverymen. So, when you heard the one sharp, precise rap against your front door, you knew exactly who had arrived. Your stomach dropped in preparation, and with one last fitful look at the mirror, then Tim, you opened the door.

“Hello, Mother. Father.” You said with a gracious smile, sweeping your arm to the side. “Come in, please.”

Your father embraced you in a quick, impersonal hug, but even as you hugged him back, your eyes were glued to your mother. She swept her gaze over what seemed like every inch of your house, searching for the invisible dust she would inevitably find. She glided a finger along a bookshelf, looked at it, scrunched her nose in silent judgement, before finally turning to you with a precise smile.

“Darling,” She said, quickly taking you in, “It has been too long since we’ve visited. God knows you don’t want to see your parents anymore, hmm?”

You forced a slight chuckle, refusing to take the openly dangling bait, “Yes, Mother. It’s been too long. Please, come join us for dinner.”

Tim watched the interact out of the corner of his eye as he made small talk with your father. On the surface, the two of them should’ve gotten along – both outwardly grumpy and work obsessed. But where Tim’s grumpiness and work obsession came from a desire to not get hurt, and to help people, your fathers came from a cold disinterest and casual cruelty. Tim had never managed to force himself to like your father, but he pretended to, for your sake. In Tim’s eyes, it was a miracle you’d turned out to be such a soft, kind person. One hand on the small of your back, the other gesturing as he spoke to your mother, he led your family into the dining room, where the meal you’d slaved away at for hours sat waiting.

--

“So, Timothy,” Your mother asked, setting down her cutlery, “How’s Y/n treating you as a wife?” The was a sharpness in her town that made your skin prickle – the kind of sharpness that came right before a criticism, thinly veiled in polite conversation. Your father had an ever so slight smirk on his face, but he chewed his food silently.

Tim opened his mouth to respond, to brag with great pride about how lucky he was to have married you, when your mother interrupted him.

“I mean, if this is the standard of meals she’s making you, I can’t imagine marriage is living up to everything you dreamed.” Your mother made direct eye contact with you as she said that, her eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul.

Your cutlery clattered to the table. Luckily, you were holding it only a few centimetres from the wood, and it barely made a sound. Just enough for Tim to reach out and clutch your thigh under the table, a silent comfort.

“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I love the food that Y/n makes for me. I’m very lucky to call her my wife.”

For a brief moment, a scowl flashed over your mother’s face. Then she laughed, the sound high and sharp, and utterly fake. “Oh, I jest, I jest, darling. I’m sure Y/n here wouldn’t dream of letting you down. Would you, dear?”

“Of course not, Mother.” You replied, the food you’d earlier thought so delicious turning to cardboard in your mouth. It was an effort to swallow.

Your father chuckled at that, adding, “Our Y/n always knows better than to let people down, hmm?”

Your smile was as weak as your response was noncommittal.

--

Things were… okay for the next few days. Not good, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Tolerable. Your parents were always nicer when Tim was around, covering their critiques with smiles and sharp laughter.

So, when Tim announced he had to run tac support for Lucy for a few days, and your parents had another five of their visit, you almost broke down in tears. You had no problem with him going undercover – he’d done it a couple of times before, as tactical support, and you knew it was relatively safe. But you hadn’t been truly alone with your parents for years, and you didn’t want to be now.

Still, you couldn’t exactly explain that to Tim, not without telling him a lot more about your past then you really wanted to, so you swallowed your fears, kissed Tim goodbye, and prayed that it would be a short assignment.

Things went downhill quickly. Your parents stopped covering their insults, and you woke up each day feeling like you were seventeen again, crumpling under the weight of their words and expectations. It wasn’t long until you were at the end of your tether, and a casual insult turned into a proper argument.

“You know, he’s probably cheating on you.” Your mother’s word were completely unprompted, the two of you sitting next to each other on the sofa, browsing Netflix.

Your blood chilled. “Excuse me?”

“Timothy, dear,” repeated your mother. “I mean, honestly, what do you expect? He’s spending all his time with this… Lucy woman, and you’ve really let yourself go since you two got married.”

You took a deep breath and tried to keep your tone steady. You ignored the insult and simply addressed the accusation. “I trust Tim, Mother. And I trust Lucy. She was at our wedding, and I work with her every day. They would never do that.” You pushed off the couch, walking around the lounge room.

Your mother hummed noncommittally, and of course your father chimed in. “Y/n, all your mother is saying, is that men… well, they have desires. And if Tim feels you aren’t satisfying him as a wife…”

“He doesn’t.”

Your mother plastered on a sharp smile, “Good, then. Because Lord knows it’s embarrassing enough for us to tell our friends back in New York that you’ve moved here to become a cop, instead of a lawyer, but to have you be divorced? It would be pathetic, even for you.”

You scoffed, the tiny bit of the patience you had left disappearing. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting divorced, then.” You winced at the snap in your tone.

The shift on your mother’s face was instant, moving from bland cruelty to cold anger, and she pushed herself off the couch You felt your head snapping to the side before you felt the sting of the slap. Your mother grabbed your collared shirt, pulling you close.

“How dare you speak to me in that tone. You are nothing. You’re lucky we didn’t cut you off when you abandoned your family and moved out here like a little shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How much of an embarrassment you are? Where did our perfect little daughter go, hmm? Why do you insist on being such a failure?”

You stared forward, tears welling in your eyes. Your cheek stung, and you could tell a red print was already forming. Before you could open your mouth to come up with a half-hearted defence, a cold voice cut through the room.

“Get your hands off my wife.”

Your mother dropped you instantly, and you turned to see Tim, a little dirty and a lot furious, glaring at your parents from the doorway.

Ever defensive, your mother spat out, “What did you just say to me?”

Tim stalked forward, towering over your mother, “I said ‘get your filthy hands off my fucking wife.” His voice was a low snarl. “Get out of our home. Now. Before I arrest you for assault and harassment.”

Your fathers jaw dropped, “Excuse me-.”

“I said GET. OUT.” Tim’s voice was so full of venom, that even not directed at you, it made you flinch.

Your mother grabbed her purse with a huff, and, with one last glare at you, scurried out of your house, your father following behind her.

Instantly, Tim was in front of you, leading you to the sofa with gentle hands and warm concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes flickering over the palm-shaped mark on your cheek.

You shook your head numbly, unsure what to say. You’d never wanted him to see this, and a few stray tears fell down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tim pulled you against his chest, gently rocking forward and backwards. The soft touch was all it took for you to start sobbing, clutching his shirt in shaking fists. All the while, he rocked you and stroked your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear.

When your tears finally subsided, you pulled back and sniffled.

“Has this happened before?” Tim asked, and even though he tried to soften his voice, he couldn’t quite hide the rage that was clearly racing through him.

Still unable to speak, you just nodded.

Tim cursed under his breath, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Has this been happening all your life?”

You pulled your knees to your chest and wiped the heel of your palm against your nose. No point in hiding it now, you supposed. You took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to say, “Yes. It has.” Tim glowered. “I don’t know… I didn’t want to tell you. You… you had such an awful childhood, your father was such a monster, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to one up you. Besides, I grew up so lucky, I mean, you know how loaded my parents are… I was worried… I…” Your voice broke. “No one ever believed me. When I was a kid. Even when I’d go to school with bruises, people would look at my parents and the circles we were in and assume I was just clumsy or deserved it. The only person I ever told laughed in my face. I guess I just… I didn’t want to be that stuck up little rich girl complaining about mommy and daddy being mean.” Your face was wet, and guilt writhed in your stomach. Guilt at lying, guilt at telling the truth, guilt over your parent’s words, but still, you continued to speak. Continued to pour your heart and soul out to your husband.

Tim’s face crumpled in time with his heart as he listened to you tell the whole sordid tale. When you finally stopped speaking, he was silent. After a moment of just staring at you, he just pulled you into another hug.

“I am so, so, sorry, my love,” he whispered, stroking a hand over your back, “I’m sorry that happened to you, I’m sorry you were born to such bastard parents, I’m sorry no one believed you, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me, I… I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And they’re wrong. You’re not pathetic. Or a failure. Or anything else they’ve ever said.”

At that, Tim pulled back slightly and looked directly into your eyes. Into your soul. “You are the most important part of my life, Y/n. I am here for anything, anything, you need, and it kills me that you were hurting in silence this whole time. But never again, okay? We’re going to deal with this together – whatever you want to do. I will never let those bastards hurt you again.”

And for maybe the first time, you believed him.

--

FIN.

hope you enjoyed :) i love protective tim

[lavilavs]

୨୧ ── Starts with a cliché, ends with a cliché

› Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader

› Scenario: Life is full of clichés, no? It just so happens that its favorite is Damian and the stuck-up rich heiress that he met on his first day of school. He can't stand being your shojo-manga-made love guru (that sucks, sadly) anymore if you keep on having angst as your genre.

› Warnings: Light cursing and light KMS jokes

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + Is it obvious I like friends-to-lovers? + 80% backstory, 20% present time (jk) .. 4k words

A sigh leaves his lips. It was difficult to finish one chapter without you popping inside his mind. You've been dancing around in his train of thought the whole day. Memories of the past have resurfaced without reason.

Perhaps he misses you that much.

Damian sets the first manga you've lent him with care by the side. The bustling street across his windows entice him to stand up. It's time to do something else other than read. Apparently, reading manga fuels his desire to visit you after a week of no communication.

You've been silent since you've fought with your first normal boyfriend.

Through his window, he noticed the old bookstore a few streets down to the west was now gone. Damian watches the cranes and construction workers build something new on top of it. That store had sentimental value for both of you. You used to sneak with him there after class to recommend some manga.

His reflection on the mirror adds another thought to his head. He's changed so much. Damian was taller and mature than he was before. Everything has changed since he went to Gotham. Even when he wasn't born, everything has changed.

Change is the only thing permanent in the world. Everyone knows that. Humans have lived and gone through change that nobody could disagree with. Damian learned and accepted change at a young age, believing that it is the only thing constant in a world that is different every day.

That's what he used to believe—until he met your annoying, spoiled ass one random Monday at school.

"You're handsome. I like you, you're mine now."

"What did you just say?"

"You're mine."

And it ends up being one of the famous last words of a spoiled heiress who just got thrown onto the floor by a boy who grew up being trained since he first learned how to walk.

You pointed at him and declared that with no warnings whatsoever; how couldn't he react harshly? If you expected him to drop down on his knees to solemnly pledge his love for you like the stories your nanny told you before bedtime, you were dead wrong.

In fact, your nanny was wrong about everything! Not all men who look like a prince act like one. Even the Beast would be put to shame if they cast this little twerp as his younger brother with rabies, if he had one. Sadly, he'll be scouted as a dog in romcoms who bites nuts instead. Because he for sure looks like he will when prompted to.

To think that a fresh 14-year-old Damian Wayne would be the one to forcefully push you out of your Disney princess phase and into your typical teenage girl fixations phase. Puberty held their hands up and slowly walked away on having their job stolen away.

"Hmph." 

He scoffed when he saw tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you dusted and straightened your blouse and skirt. The women in the League of Assassins was obviously much stronger and tougher than you, but it didn't make his disappointment any less.

Being surrounded with people who had a 'kill or be killed' mindset and then thrown into a normal society where safety is a given with all these superheroes protecting them... It's throwing him off.

It was apparent that you were one of those stuck-up rich kids with the way you acted. Judging with the book of cliches in mind, you'll cry about this to your parents later and have him arrested and put into a life behind bars for eternity. 

Good luck with that when he has Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul as his parents. Although, he can easily break out by himself.

But there was one mistake. One that cost him a life's worth of embarrassment in school. After all, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." That arrogance of his cost him his family jewels getting kicked by you. 

He missed the other cliché—crying makes you stronger.

Oh, and this backstory? Yeah, totally not related to the first paragraph. It's just Damian reminiscing back to the old days because he's appalled that you're still a hopeless romantic that makes him doubt that change is permanent. 

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul is sitting here listening to your girl problems. Not just any girl problem—it's your love problem! A recurring yet still difficult topic for both of you.

And how is it difficult, you may ask? Simple—the boyfriends you pick certainly aren't the brightest or the kindest, so even the logical Damian Wayne is troubled by how your boyfriend of the week is acting.

The use of their intelligence surpasses even his, and not in a positive way. How can he even begin to comprehend that one time when a guy who almost took you out on a date unhingedly recommended you not to search him up?

You must've thought, "Holy shit, is he a celebrity from another country?" and that would've been ideal if he weren't included in the local wanted list! That gorgeous specimen had charges of multiple felonies, arson, theft, and a lot more.

When you cried about it to him, you were more concerned about the fact that he specifically told you not to search him up. Like—just be quiet, bro. You didn't have to say all that. And the fact that he didn't even use a fake name? clever. Wow, Einstein would be turning in his grave from having his title of world's smartest man stolen.

With that pretty face of his, you wouldn't even think he'd do all of that, to be honest. But pretty privilege doesn't work on Damian. No matter who they were, they deserved a background check. Or perhaps a Google check would be fitting given the circumstances. Thank God he did. What could he have done when something happened to you?

Another funny, ironic cliché has happened to poor, little Damian. Fate rolled his dice of cliché, and it somehow ended up being the "the more you hate, the more you love" cliché that happens to characters that start off sour but end up falling in love with each other.

Only that it was one-sided—at the moment!—on his part.

His confession ended up being a total failure when he realized you didn't like him anymore like you once said you did. Damian still thought you did because of your words—those words of declaration you did 6 years ago, that is.

The flowers in his hand wilted downwards, saddened by the surprising rejection of their buyer.

"You told me I was yours?"

"Did I? I don't remember."

That stupid look on your face almost made him crash out.

"Do you even remember how we first met?" He groans, threading his fingers through his hair.

"What? You didn't just spawn in my life?!"

It was a miracle Damian didn't go berserk, Damian couldn't find the energy to be furious when that surprise in your voice was genuine. Did he throw you too hard, perhaps? If he did, he wanted to go back in time just to give you your own kick to the nuts. Not that you had one! Just figuratively speaking.

Damian dreads the thought of hurting you again. But if you were going to turn out less of a stuck-up rich kid and his friend? It was a small sacrifice to be made. But also... with a little hint of revenge 'cause that shit still hurts his pride.

Oh—so many conclusions in his mind that he's starting to laugh slowly like a maniac.

"None of that matters anyway! We're friends, Dami. This confession is the worst that could happen to us." You laugh at his face while having him in a headlock.

That chippy smile on your face looked so annoying to see, and yet, it also served as his tranquilizer.

How could he be mad when you already looked so happy to have him in your life? It slowly dawned on him that it wasn't that bad to be just your friend. 

Only until you went on a spree with love interests that were...

1.) Had the brain of a rock

Whether emotional or plain intelligence, the contenders could never have both. Having both was only a myth. A story you would only hear from your other girlfriends. It was amazing that they were blessed in the boyfriend department. Guess God really makes all of us equal with situations like this.

And the worst of the worst,

2.) Criminals

It's self-explanatory. If that's not enough to hear, Damian swears he wants to bash his head every time you tell him about your villain hear-me-outs. In exhibit A we had Poison Ivy and Arkham Knight. It was understandable at some point. When he asked you what part of them is attractive, he wasn't ready to hear your answer.

"First of all, are you too busy fighting for your life that you can't see Poison Ivy's gorgeous face? Dude, every stolen picture of her is totally hot! She's so photogenic."

"I could hear you out on Ivy, but Arkham Knight? Please, elaborate." He was so done with your bullshit. The way you even prepare yourself into that pose before you speak into an imaginary mic has him dumbfounded.

"I can't see his face."

"Pardon?"

"All aura. No face. Very hear-me-out material." You nod in agreement at yourself whilst the boy shakes his head sideways.

And then we have Exhibit B... Yeah, no. Not elaborating.

"Hear me out on Psimon."

Before Damian could process what you said, you had already passed by him with your friends. It wasn't of importance, just another hear me out. Then it clicked.

"The big-brained midget?!"

If only he wasn't in school, he would've yelled that with all of his might. The best he could do was whisper-shout with a disgusted look. It was just too shocking for him to not say it out loud. That information was something that needed to be spat out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, his ears perking up at that custom notification sound he set up for you.

: As if you aren't? :p

Damian suddenly felt cold. Have you developed super hearing all this time? How long have you had those powers? Oh, shit—if you have super hearing, then all the compliments he whispered into the air, you heard all of that? Okay, no need to linger on it any further, Damian! What matters is that she didn't understand the compliments you said in Arabic.

With the secret out, he typed back.

: Super hearing... That's impressive.

Within a few seconds he already got your reply.

: Do I look like Superman's secret love child? My parents are the blandest and most boring people here in Gotham, dude. How can I have powers?

: Besides, this goes to show that I know you well enough to know what you're thinking. <3

He erupts into steam, his eyebrows furrowing at the small heart at the end of the message. The warmth in his ears teases him, a reminder of his feelings for you. It wasn't even intended that way, and he still finds it cute.

Ah, where were we?

Right, going back to your dating history—it was either academically and emotionally challenged ones or plain criminals.

Have you dated the mentioned criminals above?

No, you didn't. It was just crushes.

Ask Damian about it, and he'll tell you that exhibit A and exhibit B would be far better than the criminals you actually date. Because they actually have brains that the exhibit C of criminals—don't! The Google guy about 46 paragraphs ago is one of the prime examples of exhibit C.

Either way, Damian Wayne is still your best friend through and through, even if you are... questionable. You're one of the first to have broken down his walls.

You didn't soften the devil child with love. It wasn't that you saved him from a dire moment either because let's be honest with ourselves—who'd win in a fight? A sheltered heiress who rebels or a child born from a lineage of assassins and skilled crime fighters? It was such a coughing baby vs. hydrogen bomb question. 

Everything started when you started reading shojo mangas after the incident with Damian on the first day of school. You were too preoccupied by your manga that you bumped shoulders with him making you drop it onto his feet.

Damian already recognized you as the girl who kicked his nuts. A grimace on his face when he looked at the book that was once in your hands.

He picked up what you were reading and was immediately entranced by the wonderful colors the panel had. The romantic dialouge that was written with heart and soul was speaking to him so poetically. There's no context or any understanding about the story and yet he felt every word in this new profound piece of literature.

"If you want one, go ask your mommy or daddy to buy you one, because I am not sharing with the likes of you." 

You really have a way of annoying him. 

The confident strut you have in your walk annoys him further. It has arrogance like his. The others weren't important as long as you had fun and remained yourself. Even so, he's drawn in. He made sure to find you in recess. 

Damian finds you alone in the center with that book up in your face. It was no smiling matter but he was glad there was less people around you. Guess people can't keep with your stuck-up attitude too, huh. His own attitude falters with each step he takes towards you, it was getting hard to approach you after all that planning inside his head.

Was he shy? No way! Damian Wayne Al Ghul can't be shy now. Especially not to a girl who has her head up high in the clouds. He's just here for those books of yours. 

He smoothly sits down across you, eyes meeting anything but yours. And when it does, you're both surprised at the softness it held. Your mouth wants to say something. Something mean, something sassy, anything to push him away.

"Why are you here?" Your mind wants him to stay. 

Otherwise, you wouldn't have questioned him.

"What's that book you're reading?" He stretches himself to get a closer look at the manga.

A big smile adorns your face. You repeatedly slap the seat beside you, getting him to stand up.

"I'm glad you asked! And correction, it's called a manga." Damian doesn't find your eye rolls annoying now that he knows there's a humorous undertone to it.

He receives the manga with a smile when you held it out for him. 

"I'm Damian Wayne. You are?"

And that was just the start of Damian Wayne learning more about romance. With the help of mangas and his family, he learned to care about others and that there was different kinds of love. There was no denying that you were a big factor in creating who he is now. Thanks to you and your 'weird' interests.

It's just ironic that the knowledge he got from it is now used as reference for your bestie therapy. Damian wants to joke that you might've gotten him hooked on shojo's to make him your own love guru. 

And let's face it—even if Damian was helping you by comforting and giving advice... his only experience with love was the time he liked you and prior knowledge about how couples act from shojo manga alone.

To put it simply, he wasn't the best love guru you could've picked.

Still, he tries his best for you. Damian still had you in his heart. No hard feelings if he was only your friend. All that he wants now is for you to finally find your match here in Gotham.

He once recommended you to try long distance relationships. The men in Gotham aren't exactly romancable when they have a chance of having a criminal record. And as your best friend and love guru, candidates involved in crime is a no-go.

But you refused, you only wanted a man from Gotham. 

"I mean, you and Dick are from Gotham, you're both decent. Along with Bruce... I guess. So, there's hope!"

When you finally found a decent boyfriend who graduated college and has no criminal record, it was as if the heavens have heard both of your prayers to find you a man in Gotham who lives like a saint.

And yet, you're here. Crying in Damian's arms more than ever. 

You clearly loved this guy more than everyone you dated. He was just a guy. And that's why you love him. And because he was just a guy, he had the balls to cheat—cheat on you of all people!

"Saint my ass, the only thing blessed about him is his looks. If he didn't have that, he would be nothing! Can you imagine waking up early in the morning to go to gym, go home, doomscroll, eat, and sleep? God, I'd kill myself."

He knows he shouldn't laugh.

"It's okay to laugh, that's how I get through knowing my roster of ex lovers." You show him a sarcastic laugh that slowly makes him cease. He puts his hands up in mock defeat with an apologetic smile on his face.

"I'm sorry. Just... still not used to your words like that. It cracks me up." He laughs again. Yes, this is your emergency contact as well by the way.

"I'd seriously kill myself if I lived like that, Dami. Imagine a life like that—imagine it was completely opposite to the one you have now—you'd kill yourself too, right?!" You were so adamant with your words that he can't stop laughing. That dead serious stare was too much.

Damian ceases his laughter for your sake, having enough of clowning the situation and focusing on the real issue at hand.

"I get that this is your coping, beloved, but you'll have to tell me everything that happened for me to help you." His soft voice almost makes you cry again. Damian's gaze has you melting beneath his sight, full of affection for you to handle just yet. You nod slowly.

"Okay, okay, but let's do that."

"We'll do that, don't worry."

Damian plops you down on his bed, shutting his blinds and locking the door before you felt the bed dip beside you from his weight. The blanket flies up in the air and landed on both of you. His scent on the fabric surrounded you, basking you more with his warmth.

It was too dark to see, just like you wanted it. He wouldn't see your face, you wouldn't see his. It was perfect to say everything without worrying about the other.

His hands search for your face, cupping it gently. As you felt his arms cage your body close to his, it was your sign to start talking. 

"I don't understand how he could betray me like that. How they all could betray me. I've thought about it a lot. I can't seem to find any reason for them to leave." You notice your words and Damian could already feel how nervous you are with your slip up.

"Not that I say that in a negative way, I just—" 

"I know. I know you. You've changed."

You haven't and Damian prays you won't ever change. 

He feels your hold tighten around him. You're scared to lose him too.

"I say that there shouldn't be any reason for them to leave because I know our boundaries, I support them whatever and whenever I can, I give them assurance, I earn their trust, and I love them with all of my heart." Damian pats your head as you ramble. 

You were tearing up, making a stain on his shoulder. He hears your hiccups beside him, struggling to contain it any longer. 

"Do I have a quality that I can't see that makes people leave? Is it that unlovable and hideous? Dami, can you see it? If you do... tell me why I'm so hard to love."

The silence is agonizing for you. Damian can't even speak about it. You're overthinking that maybe you do have a bad quality that's unnoticeable to you. Is he thinking how to sugarcoat it? That only makes it worse. What's the point of doing this if he'll turn back on the agreement of saying nothing but the truth?

"Before I answer you—may I ask you a question, beloved?" 

Happiness swells in your heart when you hear his voice. He smiles when he feels your nod against his chest.

"Do you think they know your worth if they treated you like that?"

You feel his eyes stare at you through the darkness. You'd know it was him based on the warmth it radiates. So intense... and it was all directed at you. He shifts you closer before speaking again.

"Even a real diamond loses its worth if its seen as a fake' heard that before, beloved? And I'm sure you've noticed the way they treated you." Damian's anger was evident in his last sentence. He was pissed that they let you think you were below them. 

"If it was up to me, I'd treat you right. Even better than them."

He feels your head snap at his words, gazing back at him in the darkness. This wasn't the usual advice he gives. It doesn't sound like it came from a manga. It wouldn't have been if it came directly from Damian's heart. 

He had no mangas to help you today, no mangas with wisdom to share about your predicament, no cheesy quotes to relieve you off your stress... just his heart. It was words written by his heart long ago. The unsent letters it wrote inside of him was about to be delivered by his mouth unrelentlessly.

"I'd love you right, until you're reminded of your 'worth'." Fuck, how you wish you could see him right now. You want to see his face as he tells you everything that will cure your anxiety. 

The horrible dating history has left you with fear that if you let Damian in, he'll also notice that bad quality of yours that makes everyone leave. It terrifies you to even think of it. You can't handle getting your first love and friend taken away from you too. People just leave when they get to know you... or after they get something from you.

You seclude yourself to avoid that pain again. Damian understood that overtime. He also failed to see who you really were beneath that persona you created for yourself. But now that he's gotten to know you a lot better. Best believe that he'll make you feel that the 'worth' you fret so much about is as high as his inhertitance combined.

"But, do not base yourself on that metaphor. You are no diamond with an unstable 'worth'. You are you; a person worth loving." He sounds apologetic for bringing that diamond thing in the first place, but surely, you must've understood his intentions behind it... hopefully.

"And...—" A sudden bright headlight seeps through his blinds, giving you a clear view of his warm face staring at you as if you were the most precious person he's ever laid eyes on. It was quick to disappear as it was to appear, the dark room had nothing but both of you in Damian's bed having a second chance with confessions.

Has your name sounded this angelic with his tongue before? Yes, many times.

His big hand clasps with yours, the other pushes a strand back in your ear.

"I'll have various words to replace the word 'hard' in the words 'You aren't hard to love'. Be it difficult, punishing, strenous, heavy, tough, tiring, hellish, complicated—and a lot more, but shit, how can it be when its so easy for me to love you?" 

Ah—don't cry, don't cry, don't cry! 

Too late, you're sobbing.

He chuckles while wiping your tears away.

"Love has different forms, right? I was content having a platonic one that made loving you a dream. But if the men who can't even dream of loving you like me can have you—then, stay by my side instead." As if that wasn't making you cry, Damian wasn't done.

"I'm not difficult to love as well. I'm happy alone with the thought that the woman who taught me how to love—has learned to love me back after all these years."

His body melts at your touch, gently caressing his face with the warmth he longed for.

"Dumbass. I learned that years ago." 

How cliché can this be? You've loved him all this time.

extra scene - 01

It felt right for everything to end and start this way. If only your taste in men wasn't questionable enough to make you question yourself if you're lovable, you would have been snuggling like this with Damian years ago.

He hears you grumble about it.

"We've always done this before, beloved?"

"Platonically we did!"

Okay, ouch?

Damian stays silent, trying to mask his laughter with fake cries. You feel a pang in your chest, feeling bad for what you said.

Damian doesn't stop with his noise that it starts to feel fake.

You know he couldn't see your deadpan face but he can hear you.

"Are you finished?"

The doors shoot wide open revealing Dick and Jason with their feet up high. Of course they're the ones busting down doors but why?!

At the far back, there was Alfred holding a sign that said—WHAT THE FUCK?

"Say no to teenage pregnancy, say no to teenage pregnancy!" Jason and Dick chant by the door until they walked and surrounded both sides of the bed. They both apprehended you. Dick easily held your hands behind your back with his own and Jason had to pull out ropes to keep Damian contained.

"What is this about?!" Damian tries breaking free.

"Master Dick said something about the curfew of having a girl in your room, Master Damian."

"We weren't even doing anything."

Dick flashes out a big, bright flashlight from his pants. You both look at him confused.

"I saw you both through the blinds. And Damian, your eyes... they never lie." The eldest brother gives him a questionable look.

Through the blinds? Damian's eyes? What is he saying—then the flashlight seemed oddly familiar. Damian figured it out before you.

"I thought it was just a truck."

"You don't know what it is 'til it hits you, kid." Dick smugly grins at him.

"You climbed up until the 3rd floor?"

"That's not the issue here, beloved..."

Damian groans. "I am not that type of guy anyways."

Jason laughs at his younger brother then goes silent in a flash.

"I know what you read." Damian gulps.

"What is it?" You pop in. "No—Todd, wait—"

"Best friends to lovers, 20k words, slow burn, romance, fluff, misunderstandings, light angst, heartbreak, hurt/comfort, and eventual smu—"

"TODD!"

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 4

Danny didn't go back into his room until well after dawn. At some point, he'd heard rather than seen a jet of some kind landing in the middle of a rush of water.

For being so careful with where the Batcave - and Danny stands by the fact that that's a stupid name - is, they make quite obvious entrances to it. He has to admit, begrudgingly, that it being under their own house is clever. And a bit funny.

Throughout the night, Danny had been texting Dani. They were in sending increasingly ridiculous pictures to each other, eventually morphing into a GIF war. It was still ongoing, but she had to go to school, something that had taken nearly a year for he and the others to convince her of, so they had to call a temporary truce.

His next message was to Jazz, just to wish her a happy birthday.

There was still shit covering the sky, preventing any blue from coming through. Somehow, though, there was a bit of sunlight illuminating Gotham as a whole.

Still invisible, as he'd been since Jason left him alone, he flew back into his room via the broken window. He didn't bother to clean up the glass. Instead, he checked for any evidence that anyone had been in there. The furniture in front of the door was undisturbed, though some of the glass had been crushed under foot. There was also plastic and tape to use to cover the window left on the bed. as well as a note.

He didn't bother to look at it. He did cover the window, though, using the extra to set a simple - Talia and Deathstroke would call it archaic - detection trap on the other window in the room.

There was a knock on the door. He paused, but didn't respond. "We missed you at dinner," Bruce Wayne said, "Will you join us for breakfast?"

He walked over to the bathroom, opened the door, and slammed it behind him. They would have to drag him kicking and screaming from his unmarked grave before he joined any of them for a meal.

There was a very faint, even to the slightly enhanced hearing, sigh as Bruce Wayne walked away from the door.

Danny sat on the floor.

What made Talia think that Bruce Wayne was a good person to send him to? He's not even related to him!

No, he doesn't count Damian. He refuses to count Damian. As far as Danny' concerned, he doesn't have a brother. He has two parents who, despite him not being thiers, love him and two sisters whom he loves. They're all the family he needs; all the family he wants.

Who does Talia- who does Damian think he is? He can't just appear and claim him like some-some pet!

And Talia and Deathstroke? Can shove their shit up their asses!

But he can't say any of that, so he's hiding in a bathroom.

No, he's not hiding. He's... hiding.

So, he's hiding. He's hiding in the bathroom of an apartment sized bedroom in the mansion owned by probably the richest frootloop in the world- And there are people claiming to be his new siblings, trying to replace the family he built and painstakingly tried to hide!

He cried into his arms, his knees pulled to his chest. He cried, and he sobbed, and he hiccuped because it's so unfair.

First, the only people he's ever known make him very aware that he is and will never be anything more than a clone. Then, the people he's told donated their genetic code to bring him to life want nothing to do with him. Next, while in hiding, he fucking dies and everyone he knows is constantly denying it! Add that on top of the constant battles he doesn't want to be fighting. And while all that's happening, Talia barges in and carts him off to Gotham City on the other side of the country telling him that's going to be spending the summer with his brother and her Beloved.

He's so tired. He's exhausted.

Danny thinks it's unfair that he has enough tragic backstories for several lifetimes. He's technically only four years old, so why is this the hand he's been dealt?!

He stands, however long later, and leaves the bathroom. The glass has been cleaned up, the detection trap on the second window was taken down and is now in the bin by the door. There's new stuff to redo it on the bed that's been moved back to it's proper place. The dress's been moved, too, and the door's unlocked.

He locks the door again and hides in the closet.

Part 6

[damienkarras73]

An essay on Furiosa, the politics of the Wasteland, Arthurian literature and realistic vs. formalistic CGI

Mad Max: Fury Road absolutely enraptured me when it came out nearly a decade ago, and I will cop to seeing it four times at the theatre. For me (and many others who saw the light of George Miller) it set new standards for action filmmaking, storytelling and worldbuilding, and I could pop in its Blu Ray at any time and never get tired of it. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was deeply apprehensive about the announced prequel for Fury Road's actual main character, Furiosa, even if Miller was still writing and directing. We didn't need backstory for Furiosa—hell, Fury Road is told in such a way that NOTHING in it requires explicit backstory. And since it focuses on the Yung Furiosa, it meant Charlize Theron couldn't return with another career-defining performance. Plus, look at all that CGI in the trailer, it can't be as good as Fury Road.

Turns out I was silly to doubt George Miller, M.D., A.O., writer and director of Babe: Pig in the City and Happy Feet One & Two.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is excellent, and I needn't have worried about it not being as good as Fury Road because it is not remotely trying to be Fury Road. Fury Road is a lean, mean machine with no fat on it, nothing extraneous, operating with constant forward momentum and only occasionally letting up to let you breathe a little; Furiosa is a classical epic, sprawling in scope, scale and structure, and more than happy to let the audience simmer in a quiet, almost painfully still moment. If its opening spoken word sequence by that Gandalf of the Wastes himself, the First History Man, didn't already clue you in, it unfolds like something out of myth, a tale told over and over again and whose possible embellishments are called attention to in the dialogue itself. Where Fury Road scratched the action nerd itch in my head like you wouldn't believe, Furiosa was the equivalent of Miller giving the undulating folds of my English major brain a deep tissue massage. That's great! I, for one, love when sequels/prequels endeavour to be fundamentally different movies from what they're succeeding/preceding, operating in different modes, formats and even genres, and more filmmakers should aim for it when building on an existing series.

This movie has been on my mind so much in the past week that I've ended up dedicating several cognitive processes to keeping track of all of the different ponderings it's spawned. Thankfully, Furiosa is divided into chapters (fun fact: putting chapter cards in your movie is a quick way to my heart), so it only seems fitting that I break up all of these cascading thoughts accordingly.

1. The Pole of Inaccessibility

Furiosa herself actually isn't the protagonist for the first chapter of her own movie, instead occupying the role of a (very crafty and resourceful) damsel in distress for those initial 30-40 minutes. The real hero of the opening act, which plays out like a game of cat and mouse, is Furiosa's mother Mary Jabassa, who rides out into the wasteland first on horseback and then astride a motorcycle to track down the band of raiders that has stolen away her daughter. Mary's brought to life by Miller and Nico Lathouris' economical writing and a magnetic performance by newcomer Charlee Fraser, who radiates so much screen presence in such relatively little time and with one of those instant "who is SHE??" faces. She doesn't have many lines, but who needs them when Fraser can convey volumes about Mary with just a flash of her eyes or the effortless way she swaps out one of her motorcycle's wheels for another. To be quite candid, I'm not sure of the last time I fell in love with a character so quickly.

You notice a neat aesthetic contrast between mother and daughter in retrospect: Mary Jabassa darts into the desert barefoot, clad in a simple yet elegant dress, her wolf cut immaculate, only briefly disguising herself with the ugly armour of a raider she just sniped, and when she attacks it's almost with grace, like some Greek goddess set loose in the post-apocalyptic Aussie outback with just her wits and a bolt-action rifle; we track Furiosa's growth over the years by how much of her initially conventional beauty she has shed, quite literally in one case (hair buzzed, severed arm augmented with a chunky mechanical prosthesis, smeared in grease and dirt from head to toe, growling her lines at a lower octave), and by how she loses her mother's graceful approach to movement and violence, eventually carrying herself like a blunt instrument. Yet I have zero doubt the former raised the latter, both angels of different feathers but with the same steel and resolve. Of fucking course this woman is Furiosa's mother, and in the short time we know her we quickly understand exactly why Furiosa has the drive and morals she does without needing to resort to didactic exposition.

Anyway, I was tearing up by the end of the first chapter. Great start!

2. Lessons from the Wasteland

Most movies—most stories, really—don't actually tell the entire narrative from A to Z. Perhaps the real meat of the thing is found from H to T, and A-G or U-Z are unnecessary for conveying the key narrative and themes. So many prequels fail by insisting on telling the A-G part of the story, explaining how the hero earned a certain nickname or met their memorable sidekick—but if that stuff was actually interesting, they likely would have included it in the original work. The greatest thing a prequel can actually do is recontextualize, putting iconic characters or moments in a new light, allowing you to appreciate them from a different angle. All of season 2 of Fargo serves to explain why Molly Solverson's dad is appropriately wary when Lorne Malvo enters his diner for a SINGLE SCENE in the show's first season. David's arc from the Alien prequels Prometheus and Covenant—polarizing as those entries are—adds another layer to why Ash is so protective of the creature in the first movie. Andor gives you a sense of what it's like for a normal, non-Jedi person to live under the boot of the Empire and why so many of them would join up with the Rebel Alliance—or why they would desire to wear that boot, or even just crave the chance to lick it.

Furiosa is one of those rare great prequels because it makes us take a step back and consider the established world with a little more nuance, even if it's still all so absurd. In Fury Road, Immortan Joe is an awesome, endlessly quotable villain, completely irredeemable, and basically a cartoon. He works perfectly as the antagonist of that breakneck, Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote-ass movie, but if you step outside of its adrenaline-pumping narrative for even a moment you risk questioning why nobody in the Citadel or its surrounding settlements has risen up against him before. Hell, why would Furiosa even work for him to begin with? But then you see Dementus and company tear-assing around the wasteland, seizing settlements and running them into the ground, and you realize Joe and his consortium offer something that Dementus reasonably can't: stability—granted, an unwavering, unchangeable stability weighted in favour of Joe's own brutal caste system, but stability nonetheless. It really makes you wonder, how badly does a guy have to suck to make IMMORTAN JOE of all people look like a sane, competent and reasonable ruler by comparison?!?

…and then they open the door to the vault where he keeps his wives, and in a flash you're reminded just how awful Joe is and why Furiosa will risk her life to help some of these women flee from him years later. This new context enriches Joe and makes it more believable that he could maintain power for so long, but it doesn't make him any less of a monster, and it says a lot about Furiosa's hate for Dementus that she could grit her teeth and work for this sick old tyrant.

3. The Stowaway

Here's another wild bit of trivia about this movie: you don't actually see top-billed actress Anya Taylor-Joy pop up on screen until roughly halfway through, once Furiosa is in her late teens/early twenties. Up until this point she's been played by Alyla Browne, who through the use of some seamless and honestly really impressive CGI has been given Anya's distinctive bug eyes [complimentary]. It's one of those bold choices that really works because Miller commits to it so hard, though it does make me wish Browne's name was up on the poster next to Taylor-Joy's.

Speaking of CGI, I should talk about what seems to be a sticking point for quite a few people: if there's been one consistent criticism of Furiosa so far, it's that it doesn't look nearly as practical or grounded as Fury Road, with more obvious greenscreen and compositing, and what previously would've been physical stunt performers and pyrotechnics have been replaced with their digital equivalents for many shots. Simply put, it doesn't look as real! For a lot of people, that practicality was one of Fury Road's primary draws, so I won't try to quibble if they're let down by Furiosa's overt artificiality, but to be honest I'm actually quite fine with it. It helps that this visual discrepancy doesn't sneak up on you but is incredibly apparent right from the aerial zoom-down into Australia in the very first scene, so I didn't feel misled or duped.

Fury Road never asks you to suspend your disbelief because it all looks so believable; Furiosa jovially prods you to suspend that disbelief from the get-go and tune into it on a different wavelength. It's a classical epic, and like the classical epics of the 1950s and 60s it has a lot of actors standing in front of what clearly are matte paintings. It feels right! We're not watching fact, we're watching myth. I'm willing to concede there might be a little bit of post-hoc rationalization on my part because I simply love this movie so much, but I'm not holding the effects in Furiosa to the same standard as those in Fury Road because I simply don't believe Miller and his crew are attempting to replicate that approach. Without the extensive CGI, we don't get that impressive long, panning take where a stranded Furiosa scans the empty, dust-and-sun-scoured wasteland (75% Sergio Leone, 25% Andrei Tarkovsky), or the Octoboss and his parasailing goons. For the sake of intellectual exercise I did try imagining them filming the Octoboss/war rig sequence with the same immersive practical approach they used for Fury Road's stunts, however I just kept picturing dead stunt performers, so perhaps the tradeoff was worth it!

4. Homeward

Around the same time we meet the Taylor-Joy-pilled Furiosa in Chapter 3, we're introduced to Praetorian Jack, the chief driver for the convoys running between the Citadel and its allied settlements. Jack's played by Tom Burke, who pulled off a very good Orson Welles in Mank! and who I should really check out in The Souvenir one of these days. He's also a cool dude! Here are some facts about Praetorian Jack:

He's decked out in road leathers with a pauldron stitched to one shoulder

He's stoic and wary, but still more or less personable and can carry on a conversation

Professes to a certain cynicism, to quote Special Agent Albert Rosenfield, but ultimately has a capacity for kindness and will do the right thing

Shoots a gun real good

Can drive like nobody's business

So in other words, Jack is Mad Max. But also, no, he clearly isn't! He looks and dresses like Mad Max (particularly Mel Gibson's) and does a lot of the same things "Mad" Max Rockatansky does, but he's also very explicitly a distinct character. It's a choice that seems inexplicable and perhaps even lazy on its face, except this is a George Miller movie, so of course this parallel is extremely purposeful. Miller has gone on record saying he avoids any kind of strict chronology or continuity for his Mad Max movies, compared to the rigid canons for Star Trek and Star Wars, and bless him for doing so. It's more fun viewing each Mad Max entry as a new revision or elaboration on a story being told again and again generations after the fall, mutating in style, structure and focus with every iteration, becoming less grounded as its core narrative is passed from elder to youth, community to community, genre to genre, until it becomes myth. (At least, my English major brain thinks it's more fun.) In fact there's actually something Arthurian to it, where at first King Arthur was mentioned in several Welsh legends before Geoffrey of Monmouth crafted an actual narrative around him, then Chrétien de Troyes added elements like Lancelot and infused the stories with more romance, and then with Le Morte d'Arthur Thomas Malory whipped the whole cycle together into one volume, which T.H. White would chop and screw and deconstruct with The Once and Future King centuries later.

All this to say: maybe Praetorian Jack looks and sounds and acts like Max because he sorta kinda basically is, being just one of many men driving back and forth across the wasteland, lending a hand on occasion, who'll be conflated into a single, legendary "Mad Max" at some point down the line in a different History Man's retelling of Furiosa's odyssey. Sometimes that Max rips across the desert in his V8 Interceptor, other times driving a big rig. Perhaps there's a dog tagging along and/or a scraggly and at first aggravating ally played by Bruce Spence or Nicholas Hoult. Usually he has a shotgun. But so long as you aren't trying to kill him, he'll help you out.

5. Beyond Vengeance

The Mad Max movies have incredibly iconic villains—Immortan Joe! Toecutter! the Lord Humongous!—but they are exactly that, capital V Villains devoid of humanizing qualities who you can't wait to watch bad things happen to. Furiosa appears to continue this trend by giving us a villain who in fact has a mustache long enough that he could reasonably twirl it if he so wanted, but ironically Dementus ends up being the most layered antagonist in the entire series, even moreso than the late Tina Turner's comparatively benevolent Aunty Entity from Beyond Thunderdome. And because he's played by Chris Hemsworth, whose comedic delivery rivals his stupidly handsome looks, you lock in every time he's on screen.

Something so fascinating about Dementus is that, for a main antagonist, he's NOT all-powerful, and in fact quite the opposite: he's more conman than warlord, looking for the next hustle, the next gullible crowd he can preach to and dupe—though never for long. For all his bluster, at every turn he finds himself in way over his head and writing cheques he can't cash, and this self-induced Sisyphean torment makes him riveting to watch. You're tempted to pity Dementus but it's also quite difficult to spare sympathy for someone who's so quick to channel their rage and hurt and ego into thoughtless, burn-it-all-down destruction. When you're not laughing at him, you're hating his guts, and it's indisputably the best work of Chris Hemsworth's career.

It's in this final chapter that everything naturally comes to a head: Furiosa's final evolution into the character we meet at the start of Fury Road, the predictable toppling of Dementus' precariously built house of cards, and the mythmaking that has been teased since the very first scene becoming diagetic text, the last of which allows the movie to thoroughly explore the themes of vengeance it's been building to. A brief war begins, is summarized and is over in the span of roughly a minute, and on its face it's a baffling narrative choice that most other filmmakers would have botched. But our man Miller's smart enough to recognize that the result of this war is the most foregone of conclusions if you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention, so he effectively brushes past it to get to the emotional heart of the climax and an incredible "Oh shit!" payoff that cements Miller as one of mainstream cinema's greatest sickos.

Fury Road remains the greatest Mad Max film, but Furiosa might be the best thing George Miller has ever made. If not his magnum opus, it does at least feel like his dissertation, and it makes me wish Warner Bros. puts enough trust in him despite Furiosa's poor box office performance that he's able to make The Wasteland. Absolutely ridiculous that a man just short of his 80th birthday was able to pull this off, and with it I feel confident calling him one of my favourite directors.

[muletia]

I just saw your post about merformers got anything for merformer smokescreen

Alright, I’ll try cooking something up

Just saying upfront — he’s going to be obsessed with you because I am physically incapable of not making every character down bad for reader lmao.

Since my concept of the lost civilization on the island mostly revolves around Optimus and maybe Ratchet (Optimus stayed because he’s delusional and lost his mind, while Ratchet remained as a loyal friend to keep him company), and the rest of their pod swam away (maybe in search of food?), Smokescreen is going to need a slightly different backstory.

Canonically, in TFP, he was captured and put on a Decepticon transport ship. So what if we adapted that for this AU? Except instead of a ship, he accidentally gets caught in your fishing nets after straying a bit too far in search of food after the rest of his pod left the island.

Smokescreen has always been fascinated by humans and desperately wanted to have a mate, but since he was still young when Orion was next in line, he wasn’t allowed one yet. He understands now, though — he's not on the island anymore. The era of human mates is long gone. The elders warned him about humans — about their cruelty, their tendency to hurt anything unfamiliar, so naturally, he’s hostile toward you. He hisses, growls, thrashes, trying to free himself from the thick, unyielding nets, but it’s no use.

But… you don’t want to hurt him?

You say something to him, human gibberish, completely incomprehensible, but your voice is gentle and soothing. It reaches his spark, calming him just enough for you to cut the nets and set him free. You even give him a big fish as an apology! But… does that mean… you’re initiating courting???

And just like that, Smokescreen is smitten.

You don’t see him, but he follows your tiny fishing boat all the way back to the small port, only revealing himself when you finally notice that the siren from before has trailed you all the way here.

From that day on, you see each other every day.

Smokescreen helps you fish, herding schools of fish straight into your nets, and you keep him company. But you quickly realize that the pearls and beautiful shells he brings you, the serenades he sings when you go swimming together, and his constant need to be close to you — to the point where you've spent several nights out on the open ocean, pressed against his chassis because he refused to let you go home, are not entirely platonic…

[fraugwinska]

Could you do a backstory to Hard Day? Like, how Al decided to give up control, and the first time it happened 🥺🙏

Ummm... well, I may have gotten myself a bit lost in this one :D Idk, It's gotten quite out of hand, 2,5 k words... but...um yeah :D Praying you like it :> Attention - we cook with Chili, not salt today! (MDNI)

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

The hardest Day

„That's so unrealistic! I mean, in what world would a lion eat bugs instead of the fucking fat juicy PIG?!“

„It's a kids movie, asshole, shut up!“

The gang was sprawled out in front of the TV, blankets and popcorn everywhere. Charlie got her hands on a rare copy of 'The Lion King', and invited everyone to a 'nice, unproblematic, quiet' movie night. She didn't account for Angel's constant commentary, Husk's annoyed retorts to him or Niffty's gleeful giggling at the most unfitting scenes. Vaggie, frustrated by them, started adding to the chaos, sending scolding remarks in intervals at either of them, while Charlie tried to mediate in between songs – which she always sang along with.

You, however, were highly entertained – even though you didn't catch anything from the movie, just watching them was amusing enough. The only one missing was Alastor, who had 'business to attend' and was gone since breakfast ended.

He would've hated it anyway, you knew he had no interest in movies, let alone modern ones, and group activities like these were often straining on his patience. Although getting in the hotel last, you were the one who grew the closest to him. Why? You couldn't say definitively. Maybe it was because you never took his veiled jabs by heart. Maybe because you didn't treat him the way the others wanted you to – with care, with ignorance, with suspicion; but instead with respect, an open mind and without judgment. Maybe it was because you could challenge him – discussions about books you both read could last hours, with points given to either side equally – no winner, no loser, both richer.

You liked Alastor. Really liked him. You also had a silly, little crush on him, for a while now, but you kept that to yourself, nothing going further than a few flirtatious moments 'in good fun', calling each other 'doe' and 'buck' with a laugh. A joke between friends. Friendship, you decided, was enough for you, if it was for him.

The entrance doors slammed suddenly, making you all jump in your seats. Alastor stood at the door, looking... different. Stressed? You cocked a brow when you saw his eye twitch, while he sauntered over to the group.

„Al, do you want to join us? We're watching a movie!“, Charlie said absent-mindedly, her eyes glued to the scene of 'Can you feel the love tonight'.

Alastor gave the TV set a judgmental smile and waved his hand. „Tempting, but it has been a rather hard day, I'll just take a drink and retreat to my room, dear.“ He left the group and went to the bar, your pair of eyes the only one following him. Something was NOT right. His smile was tight, his eyes wider than usual, his movements almost jagged instead of fluid. Niffty had jumped to the bar too, insisting on helping Alastor by retrieving a glass for his whiskey from one the higher shelves. In her eagerness to climb and get it, she didn't watch her steps careful enough, resulting in a few delicate wine glasses sliding from the shelfves and breaking into a hundred tiny pieces. Alastor's reaction was as unexpected as it was worrying – he always had a soft spot for Niffty, laughing over her antics and chaotic energy, often encouraging her even to produce more mayhem. This time, however, he started to scold the maid, who blinked at him with a big, guilty eye and trembling lips.

„Such indignation, really Niffty. Clean the shards at once, and try not to remain to be such a clumsy clot.“, he almost hissed, grabbing the bottle and a simple crystal glass before striding away hastily. Your eyes followed his figure until he turned the corner to the staircase, then you got up and comforted the little demon, helping her sweeping up the glass pieces while she sniffeled tears away.

You let your gaze swipe over the group, completely ignorant about what happened with Niffty, and Alastor. Ignorant of the blatantly obvious bad mood of the deer demon.

Turning to Charlie, you whispered to her that you had a headache and would be going to bed, to which she just nodded. No one acknowledged your leave, all eyes on the screen and still bickering noisily. A bunch of friends, you are, you thought annoyed with a shaking head.

Three flights of stairs later, you reached Alastor's room. You pressed your ear to the door, and heard dull bangs, like something was thrown, and a muffled voice. You knocked, and the room instantly stilled.

„Alastor, it's me.“, you said loudly, brows furrowed. „Are you okay?“

A few seconds of silence. „I'm just fine and dandy my dear.“

You put one hand on the door. He normally would open it, to speak with you directly, face uncomfortably close to face, just the way he liked it. But it stayed close.

„You didn't look fine.“, you stated. You were ever so stubborn.

„Well, I am fine. Now shoo, darling, good night.“

You stood in front of the wooden divider, contemplating. You could just go. Leave him be, wait until tomorrow. See if he would talk to you then. But then, there was your gut. And it told you Alastor wasn't well. And that just didn't sit right with you.

„Alastor. Please, let me in.“

No response, just hint of the prickling feeling of static electricity on your skin.

„I know something is bothering you, and I'm worried.“

No response. You breathe in and out.

„I'm not going anywhere until you open the...“

The door flew open, a hand wrapped around your arm and pulled you into the room, violently. You stumbled and fell against a bookshelf, catching the fall with your hands to keep you upright. You heard a slam and a click – door closed, door locked. The static was everywhere now, flushing in waves over your body. You turned around -

Alastor was pacing like a wounded animal, he seemed fluffed up, as if every hair on his body had decided to stand up. His scleras were dark pits, blackest black, and in it his irises burned angrily in crimson flames, now focusing solely on you. The prey.

„So you came to test my patience too, dear?“, he snarled, his voice so distorted it ached in your ears. „It's not enough that that waste of cables destroyed two of my radio towers. Not enough that dozens of my most profitable souls have been rendered useless by an angelic bomb. Not enough that I not only had to put the disgraceful flat screened wretch back in his place, but also his vulgar boy toy and their brazen, attention-seeking brat.“

He grew in size as he ranted, you watched him reaching the ceiling, antlers scraping along the walls. „I manage my weakening territories, manage these imbeciles who think they can play overlords, I manage this sad excuse of a hotel, I manage the princess's unattainable ideas, and now, I also need to manage you, too, of all people? What a disappointm...“

„Stop.“

You held up a hand. Alastor growled, fluffing up even more, limbs cracking and static popping. „How dare y...“

„Stop.“, you said again. Your tone was calm, void of anger, or fear, neutral and steady. He stared at you, and you held his gaze. „Breathe, Alastor.“

You saw him fighting with himself. He fought against his instinct to oppose, to command, to put you into your place, to rip you apart. His elongated claws scraped over the floor, ripping deep ridges in the wood.

„Breathe.“, you repeated, firmer this time.

Slowly, gradually, Alastor shrunk. Breathed. Crumbled. Until he was back to his usual size and form, only with an exhausted expression.

You studied him – you've never seen him like that. He never allowed anyone to see him as something other than 'the radio demon': Powerful, unshakeable, quick on his feet and always one step ahead. How exhausting it must be. To always have the control also meant to always carry responsibility, to always fear impending failure.

Your heart whispered to you, and you followed it's advice. It could be the most stupid thing you could do, but you decided to do it anyway.

„Come here, Alastor.“

He looked at you, unsure, suspicious. You sounded commanding, but not harsh. Inviting. Like a hand, reached out to someone trapped. For a moment, you almost thought you ruined everything – his eyes left yours, they fell to the ground as he shifted on his feet.

But then – steps. Coming closer. Stopping right in front of you. And suddenly..

His head on your shoulder. His breath on your neck. His voice in your ear.

„Sometimes I'm so sick of it all. Sick of maneuvering, sick of ruling, governing, planning...“

You touched his neck, he let you, caressing the soft skin, heated from his outburst, trembling slightly at the contact. It was intimate, baring this vulnerable part to you. You heart broke for him.

He pulled himself away from you, searching for your eyes. Finding them again, he took your hand, bringing it up to his face, guiding your fingers over his lips. He just said one word.

„Please.“

So much was said with this please. You heard every message. Giving up control, just for a bit, just with something he didn't care enough about to insist on ruling, could be a small bit of freedom. Letting himself be guided instead of leading.

“Kneel down, Alastor.”

His ears pressed flat against his head, but he did as he was told. He couldn't look you in the eyes. For once, you were the one towering over him. You took his face in your hands, pulling it so he looked up to you, seeing your warm smile before your lips met his.

His breath hitched, stuck somewhere in his throat.

You slid one hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, the other caressing his cheek as you tilted your head and deepened the kiss. Slowly, the rigidity melted away, he started to shift, lips no longer stiff but soft and molding against your own.

He tried to stand up, but you pushed him down, gently, definitively.

“Trust me to guide you, buck.”

He breathed, one, two, three times, eyes closed, grin tight.

“Yes, doe.”

Your own excitement took a back seat. You were filled with pure energy at the thought of crossing the line with him, having Alastor in a way you only dreamed about, convinced your relationship would never come this far. But. But this was not about you, for now. Maybe, another time. If another time ever came.

You lowered yourself on him, straddling him, so you were still 'taller', and rejoined your lips. You took his hands and set them on your hips, let them rest there while you buried yours in his hair, tugging lightly to bend his head back. His initial resistance lessened, and he gave in, exposing his throat, gray skin peeking out of his high collar. You let your mouth travel to his jawline, down to the small patch of delicate, thin skin, right next to his jugular. You felt him tense, felt his rising urge to protect himself from your potential strike. You let out a soft hum as you started to lick it, sucking gently, just a bit, just to make him shiver at the sensation. And how he did.

A moan, low and sweet like the strumming of a cello, escaped him, his hands crushing your hips by the force of his grip. It hurt, but you decided to ignore it. Little steps.

“Can you take more, good boy?”

His eyes snapped open, burning furiously. You met them with calmness, with a soft matter-of-fact-ness. Not smug, not mocking. A question. Proceed or Stop?

Alastor swallowed hot saliva. You could see he was getting overwhelmed, overstimulated, and yet, he had such a longing in his eyes, such desperation.

“Yes.”

One simple word. One spark, setting your body on fire. You tried to force your trembling fingers to steady, lifting yourself slightly off him to open his trousers. With every button, his breaths grew heavier, his grip on your legs grew tighter, claws already digging in your skin and drawing blood.

“Careful, buck. I'll need these in a moment.”, you said, placing both hands on his chest, pushing him flat on his back on the ground. He let you go, arms falling useless next to him.

You leaned forward, thanking any deity that would listen you decided to wear a skirt today, and placed a hand on his growing bulge. He hissed at the touch, cracking the floor as his fingers clawed into the wood of the floor instead your fleshy legs.

Freed from it's cage, Alastor's dick was already dripping with beads of precum, a sight to behold. You wrapped your fingers around it, feeling the warmth and bloodflow, it twitched in your hand. You stroke him, eliciting the most sinful noises from the demon under you.

You took a deep breath. One more, one question more, to make sure that he wanted it.

“Look at me, Alastor.”

He sat up on his elbows, looking more helpless than you've ever imagined he could. Even his smile wavered, threatening to break. You were looking for any signs of hesitation, disgust, resistance, regret. You only found desire. A want, a need, almost pleading eyes.

Your free hand pushed your panty away, enough to expose your lips, and you lowered yourself onto him, his length slowly entering you. He was big, you were tight. A bittersweet combination. Sparks flew before your eyes as he stretched you, but you were hypnotized by his eyes.

They were blown wide, returned to black, but the irises now flickering into dials, turning, left to right as he groaned. You moved, guiding your hips up and down, feeling yourself molding to his shape in the most delectable way, and getting drunk off the look on his face.

You increased the pace on which you pushed yourself on him, adding a little tilt of your hips to take him even deeper. His voice was reduced to a static-y mess, hums and groans and moans bleeding into each other. You placed both of your hands on his chest for more support, inevitably pinning him down. His hands flew to yours, threatening to push them off him, but instead, he entwined his fingers with yours, panting heavily.

It didn't take long for him to feel the pressure, unbearable and urgent, his release approaching at godspeed.

“Doe, I can't...”

Panic in his tone. He tried to put his hands on your waist to pull you off. You understood immediately – an upbringing in conservative times, decades of living by the rules of a gentleman, he was resisting against the thought of cumming inside you. You pushed his hands away.

“Yes, you can.”, you stated, smiling at him, a hint of wickedness in your eyes. “And you will.”

Your skilled movements and dedicated demeanor sent him over the edge immediately. Protests were futile as he came in you forcefully, you felt his cock pumping his seed deep into you, hot and thick as you rocked him through his orgasm. Your own high wasn't worth chasing, too far away to matter. You didn't even think about it – nothing could feel better than this.

Alastor ran his hands over his forehead, sweeping away beads of sweat as his breath calmed down.

His hand shot out to grab you, and, still impaled by him, he pulled you into his chest, invading your mouth with his tongue to kiss you possessively. As if to transfer the command, the control he had given up, back to him. Taking it from you.

For a moment you were scared. The positions had reset to their default. Would that mean he'd push you off? Say goodnight and never talk about this night again? Returning to the Status Quo. Friends, the end.

Alastor pulled your chin up to look at you. His thumb ran over your cheek, tenderly and full of care. His eyes answered every question in your mind. You weren't scared anymore.

[lostinwildflowers]

Trust Me

Sierra Six x Reader

Summary: You and Six have a long history. When things go awry on an unusual mission, rooms are tight and tensions run high.

Word Count: 14K (I am so, so sorry.)

Warnings: very slight enemies to lovers(in the backstory), mentions of pain, injuries(including temporary hearing loss), blood, guns/weapons, mentions of panic/anxiety/insecurities, angst, swearing/kinda harsh language at times, but fluff, lots of pining, hurt/comfort if you will, one-bed trope, dum dum feelings, and my inability to skip a backstory, no beta we die like men

A/N: Hello my darlings! I am here with a fic I have been very nervous and excited to write and to post. This is my first time ever writing for The Gray Man/Sierra Six, but the Ryan Gosling brain rot was too much for me to handle. Please give me feedback on this!! - Birch <3

Important Info:

-Reference #1 - Inspiration for the Croatian house, not exact

-Reference #2 - Six's light blue suit

-Reference #3 - Sunset drive

-Reference #4 - Inspiration for the bed and breakfast

The weight of the gun in your hands was a steady constant as your feet tread noiselessly but confidently over the slate-tiled floor. The laces to your boots were tied down tightly, the pressure on your heels and ankles a comfort when you were at work.

You found solace in the rifle strapped to your back, and relief in the throwing blades tucked into your belt. Skill and years of training have made you adept at weaponry of all forms.

Capable of killing a man with a soup spoon and a shoestring, you were undoubtedly deadly. However, your choice of weaponry always landed on armaments with lethality at a distance.

Being one of the best shots in your division had your name floating around the CIA. Typically working with different groups of people as needed, you were never stuck to just one set of people.

When news started floating around that the Sierra Program was looking for partners for some of their agents, people started wondering as to who would be chosen. You didn't bother with the gossip, instead focusing on honing your craft and getting better.

Thus, when you were first sat down and interrogated about your knowledge of the Sierra program, you were surprised. You knew as much as the next person from the gossip in the office - agents who usually worked alone and got their hands dirty when no one else could.

The officers that questioned you were leaving bits and pieces out of the conversation. You could tell there were gaps in their questions and the answers that they were looking for from you.

Slowly, you were starting to piece it together.

You would be an ideal partner for the infamous Sierra Six. While the CIA recruit was skilled in all facets of, well, murder, it benefitted him to have someone who could watch his back from a distance.

Sierra Six was known to always be about the job. He focused on getting in and getting out. No injuries. No casualties. None of his blood spilled. Just eliminate the target and move on to the next one.

With Six being as skilled as he was, a man who almost always worked alone, you were nervous to accept being his partner. However, you knew this could be your chance to step up a level.

Apprehensively, you agree to a mission with the CIA operative. And frustratingly, the first time you met Sierra Six was in the field.

On your initial assignment with Six, you had asked Carmichael for a general description of the man so you knew who not to shoot at if things got dicey.

Tall. Muscular. Bit of facial hair. Super helpful, right?

You still remember the first words you said to his face. You had thought about getting reassigned.

---

"I'm in position and I've got eyes on the target, Six do you copy?" your voice came out as a quiet whisper. Laid out on your stomach in the dense woods of Croatia, you had sweat dripping down your forehead and chest.

Having your first mission be in the hot, dry summer of the Mediterranean country probably wouldn't have been your first choice with your new partner, but it could have been worse.

Focusing on the task at hand, you could see the target through the scope of your rifle, a wealthy "banker" who was selling drugs across borders in an attempt to disturb government agencies. You didn't really care too much about why you were there, just that you did your job and got home.

As Six's backup for this mission, you were camped out on the edge of a wooded area that had a view of the banker's private house. The target was hosting a large party that would act as a cover-up for business deals and shady operations.

The house was gorgeous, in your opinion. You had seen the open floor plan, the back porch that connected to a gazebo, and the huge deck. Then, it had a two-story pool and plenty of tables full of booze that seemed like a dream vacation for an average person.

And that is why you and Six were to strike at this party. It would be busy with people from all over the world to get in on the banker's dealings, allowing for you and Six to slip away from the property unnoticed.

With your spot in the trees, you had the natural cover of foliage. Six, on the other hand, had to attend the party as if he wanted to partake in business.

You didn't know what he would be dressed in or how you would be able to pick him out. All you knew was that you would have to rely on your instincts and the few words of description Carmichael gave you.

"Repeat, I've got eyes on the target. Six, do you copy?" There was more of a bite to your words this time, a little bit of your nerves peeking through your composure.

Despite having been a part of hundreds of missions, not knowing anything about the man you were supposed to trust to get you out of there was unnerving.

A few seconds go by before you hear his voice slide in through your earpiece. "I heard you the first time, sweetheart," it's deep and ever so slightly, rough. A wave of butterflies tickles your insides at the slight drawl to his voice, as well as the pet name, but you push them away as you try to regain your focus.

At the time, you didn't know he was actually talking to a woman at the party trying to get his attention. Six's response acted as a defense from the Italian woman trying to get him to sleep with her, and that he heard your voice over the coms.

But not realizing this, frustration was starting to well up in your throat, "Well if you heard me, answer. We only have 7 minutes to get out of here once you eliminate the target."

Again, it's quiet over the line until you hear the baritone voice again, "This isn't going to work unless you let me do my damn job."

This time, the anger started to surge red-hot. You knew he was good at his job, he had never failed a job in all of his years at the CIA, but this? He was already a pain in the ass.

You open your mouth to retaliate, but another voice cuts in, "Knock it off, you two. We put you two together because you are both the best at what you do. Play nice and you'll have your 7 minutes in heaven."

Carmichael, you think to yourself as you take a steadying deep breath. Neither you nor Six reply as the banker moves away from the house and out onto the open deck.

"The target is approaching a woman in a black dress," you inform as your eye narrows in through the scope of your gun, "There are only four people outside other than those two."

Six's voice comes quicker than you expected, "Copy that. I've made it to my position." His dialogue is short and overly direct, and you can't help but let your mind wander.

Is this how Six behaves normally? Is he always a man of such clipped words, or is it because I'm here? Does he not like the idea of having a partner?

A snap in the woods behind you makes you pull back from your scope, your eyes flitting from tree to tree, brush to brush. You don't see any large movement, no one trying to sneak up on you.

Instead, you are met with a small blue-rock thrush sitting above you, chittering its song out into the world. A deep sigh falls through your nose as you try to relax your tense muscles at the small animal.

The whole job had you on edge, but seeing the small blue-feathered bird flutter about its day was helping to ease your nerves when your partner seemed to be the one causing them.

Back at the house, Six was positioned in the gazebo, his gun tucked into the waistband of his light blue suit. The woman berating him had finally gone inside, leaving him alone.

Although you didn't have eyes on him, you knew where he was supposed to be. So you let your (colored) gaze return to your gun, a shaky breath escaping you as you aim the firearm back toward the house.

You could see the banker and the woman in the black dress moving closer to the top pool. The man leaned in close to the woman and whispered something into her ear. She turned away with a wide smile and rushed into the house.

"The woman in the black dress is headed back into the house, coast is clear once she passes you," you murmur into the com. A moment later, you see movement to the left of the banker. A man wearing a light blue suit appears from the gazebo, sunglasses covering his gaze.

The first thing you immediately notice is the dark goatee on the man's face. Another rush of nerves fills your stomach as you take in the angle of his jaw, and the curl of his dirty blonde hair on his forehead.

And the gun he was revealing in his hand.

Carmichael's voice cuts in, "Light it up Six, we need to get you out of there." Walking with an already brisk stride, the man in the light blue suit, evidently Six, masterfully gets behind the man, raises his arm with the gun, and lines up his shot.

At the same time, you train your rifle on the target's head, using your peripheral vision to keep an eye out for anyone who isn't supposed to be there.

You don't hear the shot ring out, and you have to assume Six is using a gun with a silencer. The banker didn't stand a chance against Six's deadly aim, slowly falling forward before crashing into the pool.

You see Six immediately take a step back into the gazebo while wiping his fingerprints from the gun, throwing the weapon into the pool after the target.

"Target eliminated," Six's voice comes out gravelly. Carmichael cuts in, "Your 7 minutes have started, get out of there, Six."

The Sierra agent doesn't reply to Carmichael, and you pull back from your gun with a huff leaving your lips. It's go time, you think to yourself as you efficiently collapse the gun stand your rifle was sat on, gloved fingers working with an ever-so-slight shake.

You glance down at your watch as you finalize your belongings, the 7-minute timer on your wrist now counting down. Your eyes widen as you watch the digits rapidly decline and you say, "Six, we're down to 5 and a half minutes. Are you out of the house yet?"

There is no reply.

You curse under your breath as you look back at the house, debating on what to do. You sling the firearm over your shoulder, making sure nothing is left behind from your cover.

You force yourself to take a deep breath as you start to pick your way toward the escape vehicle, aiming for the other side of the woods where you had stashed it. You try the com again, "Six, where are you?"

Again, silence. This time, your internal fears are rapidly echoed by Carmichael's voice, "Six, get out of there now. You only have 4 minutes left before your cover will be blown."

You make it to the black get-away car after another minute of hustling through the thick Croatian forest, ungracefully throwing your rifle into the back seat. You debate getting into the driver's seat and pulling up to the house, but you know that might only make things worse.

After another few seconds of nothing in your ear, you slam the rear driver's side door shut before a grunt crackles through the com. You hear a low moan of "shit" followed by a couple of deep pants.

"Six, we need to go, now!" you harshly whisper through the com, your head on a swivel to make sure no one from the road can see you. This time, you get an answer.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm working on it," Six hisses out. Another curse falls from your lips, and you rip open the door you had just shut, grabbing the rifle you threw down. Just as you start to make your way toward the house, you see a flash of light blue and white.

Six is running toward you, his light blue blazer and sunglasses seemingly missing. It's left him in a fitted white t-shirt, his matching light blue suit pants, brown Redwings, and a watch adorning his left wrist.

"What the hell happened?!" you rush out in anger as he approaches the car, chest heaving and sweat making his tanned skin shine. Six doesn't answer, moving toward the driver's side as he orders, "Get in, we gotta go."

You stare at him in disbelief as you repeat, "We gotta go? You are the one who took forever to get out of here. We might get caught because of you!"

Six stops at the driver's side door, throwing over his shoulder, "Yet you're the one standing outside of the car."

A groan of frustration rips its way out of your throat, and you open and close the rear door for a third time to slam the rifle down. You don't wait to hear if Six has a smart remark, instead, you clamber into the passenger seat and shut your door.

"Is that gun loaded?" Six asks you as he starts the car, not taking his eyes off of the dash as he takes the car out of park. You stare at him incredulously as you remark, "Yes, it is. I thought I was going to have to go in there and save your ass."

Six immediately hits the brakes on the car, causing you to lurch forward. You catch yourself with your hands at the last second, an angry gasp escaping you.

"What the hell, Six?!" you yell as you turn to face the agent for the first time. Now, you can get a good look at him.

His hair is a deep, sandy blonde. The strands seemed to have once been slicked back, but have fallen out of place from the... events of the job.

Next, you see the tan of his skin and the shine of sweat beading down his forehead from both exertion and the heat of the Mediterranean sun. You are instinctively drawn to the dark facial hair surrounding his mouth, and you can't help but think it makes him look tough.

His lips are parted to catch his breath and are a pleasant pink color. Only then do you realize his mouth is moving and is saying words to you. It draws your gaze up to meet his eyes.

Those eyes... such an intense, stormy blue. Sharp and deadly at first glance. Hypnotizing and mysterious the longer you maintain eye contact.

Damnit, he was attractive.

"What?" you state at him, trying to shake the haze from your first view of the Sierra agent from your mind. Six wipes at his face with his free hand, his left hand resting on the steering wheel.

"You don't throw a loaded gun, everyone knows that!" he hisses out as he turns to face the dash again. He is about to say something else, but Carmichael's voice cuts in.

"I said to play nice. Six, get the two of you out of there."

You clench your jaw down to avoid saying anything else, not wanting to get reprimanded for trying to do your job. Six must have thought something similar and moves to shift the car out of park again and begins driving the two of you away from the house.

It's tense in the car, and no one says anything. You have to build some courage up to sneak a glance at Six, who is staring straight ahead, eyes trained on the road in front of you.

This was going to be one hell of a partnership.

---

After the initial tension between you and Six, the two of you slowly developed a working relationship. You eventually realized that you could trust the Sierra agent, even if he was a smartass at times. He was the best, and despite being a man of few words, he was good at what he did.

For Six, his trust wasn't something you earned right away. You worked as his long-range attack partner for countless missions over the last three years, and you still didn't know if you fully had his trust.

You had to believe he had some solid belief in your ability as a marksman. On one mission about six months after your initial meeting, he watched three men stop and fall in their tracks before he had to intercept them, a bullet lodged in each of their chests. He had paused and tilted his head like it may have impressed him.

Now, three years into being partners, a new threat appeared that you and Six were assigned to. One that required you to be one step behind Six and fight hand-to-hand as needed.

It's not that you weren't capable of close-range attacks. You practiced all types of moves and attacks, but you were exceptional when slightly removed from the throes of action with a long-distance rifle.

Now here you were, just a few strides behind Six, the slate-tiled floor beneath you doing a good job of concealing your nervous footsteps.

The tall man in front of you could tell you were uneasy. He could feel a heavy tension lacing the air, more than he was used to. It took every minute of his training to keep his own thoughts at bay to focus on the mission.

The two of you were in the field for a stealth-type mission rather than just a hit-and-run. The plan was to stick to the shadows in tactical gear, rather than blend into the crowd with the sharp suits Six was accustomed to. It was one of the only parts of the mission that you felt fully at ease, donning your usual gear and weapons.

Six's broad figure pausing in front of you rips your attention back to the present. The hallway the two of you were sleuthing down had come to a T junction. You can see Six's head swivel left, then right.

You come to a pause just a pace behind him, and you adjust your grip on your rifle. He rotates his body quietly so his back is toward the wall and so that he can semi-face you.

"I'll go to the left to start toward the target. The right side has one door at the end of the hall, make sure there is no one in the stairwell waiting to ambush us," his voice comes as a low murmur. His gloved hands were loading his gun, his choice a Heckler & Koch USP pistol.

You give him a nod and whisper back, "On you." Six just gives you a silent glance that confirms your words. With his pistol drawn and loaded, Six moves.

You've always been in awe at how such a muscular man could move with such grace, but Six managed to pull it off with ease. As his figure disappears around the corner to the left, you drop in position to cover his back.

Your footsteps have grown more unnerved now that you are on your own. In the back of your mind, you know that Six is behind you, headed in the opposite direction. But now? You were making the calls for yourself.

You force yourself to take a deep breath through your nose, slowly exhaling through your mouth. You bring your pistol into a firing position, the 4th Gen Glock 17 pressed tightly into the palm of your right hand.

There are no doors on either wall in the right-wing you begin to traverse down. There is just a large, tan-colored door at the end of the hallway with a small pane of glass. Red letters spelling "Emergency Stairwell" are printed just below the small window.

As far as you can tell, there are no lights on in the stairwell. You force yourself to pick up your slightly sluggish pace to get this part of the mission over with. You stick to the right wall as you approach the door, your eyes trained on the glass in an attempt to spot any figures hiding on the shadowy stairs.

You don't spot anything as you peer through the glass, no movement, no people. Your gloved fingers try the door handle next, but it is locked. A sigh of defeat slides through your nose, and you pull your arms back to your chest, the pistol pointed toward the ceiling.

As you turn your head back to the direction you came, you are met with an empty hallway. No Six. You can see the endless array of doors, knowing that Six could have easily slipped through any of them as he chased down the target.

You don't hear anything from your com, and you quietly say, "Nothing at the door. Heading to you, Six." You begin to move away from the tan-colored door, footsteps gaining confidence as your mind finally clicks into work mode.

You only make it a few steps before you hear it.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Then a beat of silence.

As you turn back to the door, a loud blast rings out. The door is blown off of its hinges and the explosion from the stairwell sends you flying.

The air is ripped from your lungs as you are thrown into the wall you were following before you land unceremoniously on your back. Your mouth falls open in shock as your nerve endings fire pain signals over and over again.

It starts with your chest aching at the way your lungs are fighting for air, the impact with the wall, and then the ground leaving you breathless. From the stress of it all, your heart is beating erratically, slamming against your ribcage uncomfortably.

Then, the pain travels upward to your throat, where it is burning from the lack of oxygen and the smoke now filling the hallway. A dull throb begins to radiate from the back of your head where you know it slammed into the ground.

You can barely make out the sting of a cut on your cheek, too concentrated on the way your hips and legs shake to add to the overwhelming sensation of pain.

In the midst of your agony, you slowly start to realize the world is too quiet. You can only hear blood roaring in your ears, but not the debris falling from the ceiling where it had been torn open. You can't hear footsteps you know are bound to be heading toward you.

You can't hear anything.

The weight of your realization terrifies you. The pressure in your chest from lack of air terrifies you. The whole mission terrified you.

You can feel panic start to set in as your lungs burn due to the lack of oxygen in your body. I can't breathe. I can't hear. I'm alone. I'm going to die here. Alarm bells are going off everywhere in your body and before you know it, your body forces a gasp out of your throat followed by a shuddery deep breath.

The sudden rush of oxygen makes your throat feel raw and sore, but this time it's more manageable. You blink wearily as dust and smoke start to curl around your body, the air is thick and you can't see much.

As you start to come to your senses, a coughing fit forces you onto your side, your body screaming at you not to move. The force of your coughs makes you dizzy, your head spinning and your vision blurry as you try to make out your position.

You can tell there is a gaping hole to your right where the door used to be, but you can't make out any figures or people moving toward you. Tears start to build up in the corner of your eyes, blurring your already worsening vision.

You swing your head to the left, a sharp pain stabbing at the back of your head from the sudden movement. "Shit!" you hiss out, your now empty right hand reaching behind your head to your hair, shaky gloved hands revealing a dark red liquid oozing onto the black material.

"That's not good," you slur out, your balance wobbling as you shift to get up. Your vision once again tries to focus on the left wing of the hallway, where through the smoke and dust, you start to see movement.

Despite being fairly disoriented, the movement causes your heart to skip a beat and your stomach to drop. You try to stop moving and remain as still as possible as the figure gets closer.

You still can't hear anything, so if the figure says something, you can't tell. Your heart's rhythm begins speeding up as the person continues to get closer, but eventually, you can start to pick out defining pieces of the person.

Tall. Muscular. Bit of facial hair.

"Six!" you try to cry out, your mind willing your voice to work even though you can't tell if sound is coming out. The cry catches and breaks in your throat, only managing to come out as a garbled whisper to the outside listener.

At the faint sound, the figure instantly stops moving. A second passes and you try to repeat, "Six, over here..." but your voice gives out and comes out as an indistinct whimper.

The figure, now identified as Six, catches sight of your limp body sprawled on the ground. "Oh, shit," he states, but you can only see his lips moving as he rapidly approaches you.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his blue gaze flickering over your dirty and bloodied body as he stops next to you. You just stare up at him, watching the dirty blonde through a glazed view as he takes note of your visible injuries.

There's a cut on your cheek, a deep gash on your arm, and some other small scrapes on your exposed skin. It makes his blood boil and he wants to kill whoever did this, but he knows he has to shift priorities.

"Y/n, are you alright?" he repeats, this time kneeling down to get closer to you, his eyes trained on your face. Again, you watch as his lips move soundlessly and the usually stoic look on his face shifts to concern.

You open your mouth to respond, one of Six's large palms coming up to grasp you on the shoulder, and you cry out at his touch. Pain shoots through your body and your eyes snap shut.

This time, the cry comes out more clearly, and you don't hear Six ask you where it hurts. Only when he gently lifts your jaw with one of his hands do you open your pained (colored) eyes.

"Where. Does. It. Hurt?" he asks slowly, each word coming out methodically and calmly to try to minimize your panic. You watch his lips move, and the tears that had gathered at the edge of your vision begin to slide down your cheek as you stutter, "I- I can't h-hear you."

The words are slightly off-tone and garbled as they reach Six's ears, and his eyes widen ever-so-slightly in realization. He gently releases your jaw and looks down for a second, his hand coming up to his ear as he says over the coms, "Aborting mission. L/n is out of commission and I can't get in there without her."

You then realize your com has been knocked out of your ear and is somewhere in the rubble surrounding you. Not that it would help you now. Six drops his hand from his head and regains eye contact with you, blue eyes stormy with an unreadable emotion.

He reaches down and grabs your empty hand before placing it on his chest. Six ensures you are looking at him as he mouths, "Trust me." You do your best to read his lips, and you feel a small flutter of relief as his words click in your head, and you give him a pained nod.

Six pulls your hand from his chest and wraps it around his neck and shoulders, and you do your best to help him situate you. The quick movement makes you dizzy and your vision gets black spots as Six adjusts you so he can haul you to your feet.

Your arm tightens around his neck and your other hand grabs onto a piece of his bulletproof vest in an attempt to steady yourself. Six murmurs in your ear, "I gotcha, I gotcha," but you are none the wiser.

Carefully and methodically, Six maneuvers you so that he can have his gun drawn in his right hand and his left hand wrapped around your waist. He holds you flush to his side as your right arm wraps around his torso as firmly as you can.

Without dawdling, Six begins to guide you down the hallway you initially came from, his whole body on edge as he tries to get the two of you out of the hellhole you found yourselves in. Thankfully, it seems as though the building has been vacated or never had many people inside to begin with.

He helps you down the few flights of stairs painstakingly slow before you reach ground level, your chest heaving and limbs trying to give out. The two of you approach an exit door that leads out of the building, and a little wave of relief washes over you at the thought of getting out.

As he starts to peer out the door in search of a get-away car, a quiet ringing sounds out in your ears. You try to focus, but the ringing sound grows louder and louder, worsening your pre-existing headache. You close your eyes in an attempt to will it away, but nothing happens.

Six's grip tightening on your waist grounds you, but does little to ebb the pain building in your skull. He tugs you to try to get you to move, but when you don't budge, he knows something is wrong.

He gently pushes a piece of hair out of your eyes, the touch making you shiver and loosen some of the tension building in your face. It makes your eyes flutter open and you see that stormy emotion in his eyes again as your gaze meets his.

"Jump," he mouths and points up, moving to stand in front of you, parting your legs with his boot. You balance yourself on his broad shoulder, your left arm throbbing where the blood is gathering down your arm.

You do your best to jump and wrap your legs around his waist, but Six's hands are right there to guide and shift you as he wraps his arm around your back. He once again draws his gun, and in a fluid movement, pushes through the door and takes off toward a car he spotted near the end of the building.

You know he's trying to be as careful as he can, but each time his feet hit the ground your body is wracked with pain. You can't stop the whimpers you know that fall from your lips, but you try your best to bury them in the junction of Six's neck and shoulder.

The Sierra agent hears every single one, and he internally curses at how poorly the mission has gone. He stumbles to a stop on the passenger side of the random car, placing his gun on the roof while he pries the door open and gently urges you inside.

Once he sees you're safely inside, he grabs the gun, shuts the door, and jogs around to the driver's side. He slides in, setting his gun in the center console, starting the car as he closes his door with a huff.

Through your pain and bleary vision, you can't see any injuries on Six, thankfully. If anything, you think he looks annoyed as he pulls the car away from the building and the failed mission.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, trying to focus on stopping the pain from radiating all over your body. You know the adrenaline that had been coursing through your body is wearing off, making the pain much more real.

Beside you, Six's left hand is clamped down on the steering wheel, his fingers pale from the strength he was emitting from his grip. His right hand sat in his lap, balled into a fist that you interpreted as an anger response.

To Six, his hand twitched with the want to grab your thigh, cup your cheek, to ask if you were okay. He knew you weren't bleeding out, you wouldn't have made it this far if you were. But he could tell you weren't comfortable, and he didn't want to bother you until he came up with a game plan to get you somewhere safe.

Carmichael's voice in his earpiece was another annoyance he was done dealing with, so he pulled the small black com out and threw it out the window. He needed a plan, and he needed it fast.

---

Six was driving as far as he could get with the stolen vehicle. The sky was darkening, the heat of the day lowering to a twinkling, cooler sunset. Tones of orange and pink washed over the dash of the car, drawing his eyes to where you were fitfully resting.

You had fallen asleep about an hour into the drive, initially making Six concerned. But, the blonde-haired man could tell you were still alive by the shaky breaths every couple of seconds.

Despite being covered in dried blood and debris, the rays of the sun made you glow in a way he could have never imagined. Similar to how you had initially thought Six was attractive, he had similar opinions about you.

He could picture you yelling at him on that first mission in Croatia, furious he was late. At the time, he thought you were a pain in the ass, but somehow cute when you were mad. But now, with you toying with death in the glow of the dying sun, you had never been more beautiful.

Locks of (colored) hair were warmed by the orange hues refracted through the car's windshield. Pink tones crept along the edges of your features, softening the hardened and pained look on your resting face.

The car hit a small bump and you shifted, Six's attention snapping back to the road for a second to ensure he wasn't going to run off the side of the highway. Then, he peers over at you, gauging the look on your face. It had contorted in pain, and then your eyes fluttered open.

You had to blink against the harsh light of the sunset, and as you come to your senses, you realize that the ringing in your ears has faded into the rumbling of the car's engine.

Your head wobbly turns to look at Six, who has a pensive but blank expression on his face as he drives. His grip has relaxed on the steering wheel, and he again glances over at you as you start to sit up.

You wince at the tugging in your arm, a gasp falling from your lips. Your reaction is cut off when you hear Six's voice rumble lowly, "Easy there." You turn to look at him, surprise on your face as you ask, "W-what did you say?"

Six glances at you again, surprise also lacing his features as he regards you, "Easy there... you feeling better?" A smile tugs its way onto your lips as the sound of his baritone voice fills your ears. Your headache seems to have dulled with the nap too, and you reply stiffly, "Y-yeah, I think so."

The agent stays quiet for a few moments, his gaze focused on the road as it shifts from a highway to a thin road, a town coming into view. A small, family-styled store appears on the side of the road, and Six murmurs, "Hold on, I'm going to get some stuff."

He pulls the car into the parking lot with an easy, nonchalant look. The car rolls to a stop and the rumble of the engine cuts out as you manage to sit the whole way up. Six turns to face you, his eyes stormy looking again.

Without saying a word, he changes his focus to the center console and pops it open, digging for any loose money. He reaches down into a small cubby within the center console, his fingers fiddling around for a second before they reappear with a wad of cash.

Six nods toward the store as he unbuckles his bulletproof vest and removes his weapons, "I'll be right back." He quickly throws his gear into the back seat, and you give him a nod of confirmation you don't know if he sees. You choose to settle back down into your seat as you watch his figure disappear into the store.

Now that you are alone and awake, you finally can assess your injuries with decent enough judgment. You flick down the sun visor, finding the small mirror you prayed would be there.

You are taken aback by your appearance. There is a thin slice across your cheek, likely from a chunk of the door flying by your head. It has left a trail of dried blood on your cheek, as well as dirt and grime over your other features.

There are some other small scrapes on the edges of your face, but thankfully nothing major. Your gaze flicks down to your torso and arms next, glad to see that your bulletproof vest kept your vital organs safe. You also note that your chest and stomach have stopped hurting from the lack of air, which you are grateful for.

Must have just been because I got slammed against the wall and ground, you think to yourself. Your left arm is then brought to your attention as the dull throb comes back to life. You see the gash that led to blood pouring down your arm, and you grimace. While the gash hurt, the pain was dulled compared to when it first was injured.

No, there was something else that hurt on your left side.

Pulling back the part of your bulletproof vest that was closest to your shoulder, you felt a surge of pain. You could feel a rush of warmth from your shoulder seeping down your chest, and your mouth parts as a pained gasp erupts from you.

Your fingers instantly release your vest, the pressure from the vest helping to stop the bleeding. Shit. Shit. Shit. How do I tell Six? You flip the sun visor of the car back up, and as you pull your hand back to sit on your lap, fresh, bloody fingerprints smeared on the tan interior.

You don't get any time to think as you see Six returning with bags of supplies. He sets them in the rear seats alongside his gear and then joins you in the front of the car, starting the engine without a word.

You watch him carefully and silently, your heart skipping a beat as you watch him swallow thickly. His Adam's apple bobs before he coughs lightly to clear his throat, and he turns to look at you.

"There's a small bed and breakfast just down the road from here," he states blankly. You let out a shaky breath and reply simply, "Okay." Six turns back to the wheel, backing the car out slowly and guiding it onto the road.

It's silent in the car, this time uncomfortably so. There was a shift in the air from where he had seemed so concerned about you, to this reserved, business-type attitude.

It reminded you of when you were first partnered with him, and it made a lump well up at the back of your throat. He hates me now. I've finally failed him after all this time. He thinks I'm a terrible partner and that I've blown his reputation. Fuck!

You try to fight the tears burning at the corners of your vision, but you can't help the few that slide down your cheeks. You hastily go to wipe them away, momentarily forgetting about the cut on your cheek.

A hiss slides past your lips as you rub over the cut, your fingers now slick with tears and dried blood. Six instantly looks over at you, a flash of concern on his face before it returns to stoicism.

"We're almost there," is all he says. His words are enough for now, even though you know they aren't very comforting. Seconds feel like hours until you pull into the parking lot of the cabin-style bed and breakfast hotel Six had mentioned.

The building is old, you can tell. The wooden beams are huge and solid, a historic grace about the building. You can see the cute porch with rocking chairs to view the road, and hanging just above them is a small sign.

H&H's Bed and Breakfast Lodging.

Your (colored) eyes are locked onto the sign when Six once again brings the car to a stop before cutting the engine. The two of you sit there in silence for a moment before you both start speaking at the same time.

"We have to figure out how to get you in-" "I don't think I can take my vest-"

Six continues staring over the dash of the car, mulling over ideas and the words he heard you speak. To you, he looks mad. You had rarely seen Six angry, and it wasn't something you needed right now.

The blonde-haired man finally looks over at you, and he can tell you are scared. There you are, covered in your own blood and tears, running from what was probably the worst day of your life, putting all of your trust in him.

Trust me.

Those words ring loud in Six's head, and he takes a deep breath, sighing through his nose. He unclenches his jaw, relaxing his body to hopefully put you at a little more ease.

He watches your body unlock just a notch, and he knows he's made the right decision. He clears his throat before murmuring, "We need to get you inside. I got some stuff for us."

Six reaches into the back seat to grab the two bags of items he had gotten. He rummages around for a second before pulling out a large sweatshirt that looks like it was probably meant for him.

His azure gaze meets your own, and he offers it to you, "We'll get you cleaned up inside." The words come out a little harsher and more blunt than he intended, but you can see the meaning behind his eyes.

We need to get where no one can see us before we deal with this.

You give him a silent nod, taking the dark gray sweatshirt from his hands. You slide it on with great difficulty over your bulky gear, your arms aching and body sore, but the bagginess of the material hides your weaponry and wounds fairly well.

Six reaches over to you, slowly. His body cages yours momentarily, making your breath catch in your throat. You look up at him, (colored) eyes wide as he pushes that stubborn piece of hair out of your face.

Then, he tugs up the hood on the sweatshirt, situating it so the material covers the cut on your cheek. He leans away and nods toward the building, "Shall we?"

You feel like you can breathe again once he is out of your personal space, but you can't stop the butterflies that bloom in your belly at the gentleness of his touch. You don't bother giving him an answer, instead opting to turn toward your door and open it to cover the flush you sure was covering your face.

You have to bite your lip to keep any groans of pain from pushing through, and you look out across the parking lot to see the sun has sunk below the horizon. The sky is now painted in a blueish-purple, and the stars are peeking through.

You hear Six close the driver's side door, and you turn to face him. You see he has the bags he had gotten in his left hand, and he beckons you over to him with his right.

Clad in a tight black t-shirt and black tactical pants, your throat catches as you walk up to Six. His hair is messily covering his forehead, and you can see a tiredness on his features. Despite the massive failure of today, you can't help but think Six looks good.

You stop in front of him, and you see a small tug of a smile pull at the corner of his pretty mouth before he says, "Okay, I will get our room, you try not to look suspicious. Just follow my lead."

You let a small smile of your own slide onto your lips at seeing the Six you knew start to come back out. You mumble back, "Sounds good."

Before you can register it, Six has tucked you under his right arm, the hood of the sweatshirt falling down into your eyes. You can't really see where you are going, but the feeling of Six pressed up against you is reassuring.

Six guides you slowly through the front doors, passing the intricate wooden rocking chairs to the reception desk. An older lady is waiting and she gives the two of you a warm smile and asks, "What can I do for the two of you?"

Six gives the woman a polite, tight-lipped smile as he replies, "Just a room for the evening, please." The elderly woman gives him a knowing grin and gushes, "Looks like your wife has had a rough day. Let me see what I can get you two that's comfortable!"

Before Six can correct her, the woman has disappeared into the back, likely to get you a key. In her absence, you sneak a peak up at Six. His jaw is clenched down, and there is a slight pink tint running across his cheeks and down the curve of his throat.

You can sense Six shift uncomfortably, the locks of dirty blonde hair falling into his face, adding to his rugged look. You can't bring yourself to tear your eyes away, and he notices you looking up at him.

Six swears his heart jumps to his throat the way you are gazing at him. (Colored) eyes glossed over, lost in some world he can't imagine. There is an intensity there that ruffles him and makes him uneasy. You casually reach up to his face with your right arm, brushing some of the stray hairs off of his forehead with a gentle touch.

Six goes to say something as you pull your hand away, but the two of you are interrupted when the woman returns. The woman, Hilda, her name tag reads, hands Six a room key with a gentle smile.

You tuck your head into Six's right side, your right hand coming up to rest on his pec as you avoid the woman's gaze. You feel the agent tense underneath you before softening, his right hand holding the key coming up to wrap around your waist.

His grip is secure and very, very comforting. You let yourself get lost in the feeling for a second before you hear him murmur down to you, "Darling, could you hold the bags so I can pay?"

Your heart lurches at the pet name, another wave of butterflies swarming your stomach. You just give him a quick "mhm", your fingers sliding down his chest to grab the two bags from his left hand.

They aren't too heavy, but just enough to make your injuries ache. You bite down on your tongue to keep a strangled sound from escaping your mouth, and Six quickly fishes out the remaining chunk of cash to hand to the woman.

She quietly takes the payment and chirps, "There is free hot chocolate in the kitchen. Your room is on the second floor and there is an elevator outside the drink area. Enjoy your stay!"

Six thanks the woman and tugs on your waist with a sweet, "C'mon honey." He effortlessly takes the bags back from you, allowing you to use him as a walking stick to get to the elevator. Your knees were weak from the sudden onset of pet names, but you would blame it on the exhaustion of the day.

Six was warm against you, something that you were unconsciously drawn to. As he pressed the button for the elevator, you leaned into him. If Six cared, he didn't show it. Knowing that Hilda was still watching, Six leaned down and murmured to you, "I'm gonna kiss you on the head. She's watching."

You tense up against him, butterflies jumping from low in your belly to welling up in your throat. Six almost doesn't follow through at the way your body runs rigid, but then you shift against him and position the top of your head toward him.

A smile breaks across Six's face, a genuine one at how much you trust him. A moment later, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head, which was still covered by the hood of the sweatshirt Six had gotten.

The feeling of his lips furthered the dizziness in your head, but the elevator doors opened and you had no choice but to stumble in. Six was right there to steady you, his hand tightening on your waist as he pushed the button to the second floor once situated in the elevator.

As the door to the elevator began to close, he could see Hilda watching them, a look of nostalgia on her face. She gives him a quick wink, and then the door slides shut.

You expect Six to release you now that you are protected from view within the elevator, but his grip remains the exact same. You open your mouth to let him know it's okay to let you go, but you remember how you stumbled and think better of it.

A few seconds later the elevator lurches to a stop, and Six glances down at you and motions with his head toward the hallway. He helps you walk, sort of, as you make your way to the designated room.

You're still unsteady, but better than before, so as you get to your room, you very slowly slip out of Six's grasp. You don't see the flash of emotion that resembles hurt on his face, but he instead fiddles with the key, sliding it into the lock and opening the door.

"Ladies first", he motions, pocketing the key and adjusting his grip on the bags. You grip the wall to help you in, and Six is close behind, silently ushering you forward so he can get the door closed and locked.

As you stumble through the small hallway, your eyes are drawn to the middle of the room.

Oh, shit. The thought comes. You can't even bring the words to form in your mouth and then Six appears behind you, curious as to why you stopped moving.

"Oh, shit," he voices. Six is standing behind you, but towering over the top of your head, it's plain as day.

There's only one bed.

Six sighs and mumbles something under his breath, and you shuffle to face him, embarrassment evident on your face. You motion toward the corner of the room where an uncomfortable-looking chair sits and stammer, "I- uhm, I can, I'll sleep in the chair."

The agent's gaze flits between you, the chair, and the bed before returning back to you. He says nothing but raises an eyebrow.

Six slips around you and heads straight for the bed with the bags. A pang runs through you at the thought that Six doesn't try to fight for you to take the bed, but then you watch as he dumps the contents of the bags onto the quilt overlay, and your eyes drink in the stuff that he bought. You can catch sight of more clothes, some medical supplies, and... snacks?

While he starts to organize the supplies, you start to pull on the sleeves of the sweatshirt you had put on in the car. You struggle to get your left arm out without screaming in pain, biting your lip to the point you can almost taste blood.

Your right arm was much easier, and then all you had to do was pull it up over your head. Your right arm bent easily to start pulling the fabric over your head, but the angle of your left arm made you yelp as you felt a rush of warmth and pain in your shoulder.

To make matters worse, the hoodie was pulled over your head, leaving you sightless, stuck, and in pain. Six turns around at the sound and has to stifle a laugh at how ridiculous you look, but then he remembers the little noise you let out in discomfort.

"Y/n," he mumbles with a small smirk that you can't see, "How did you get this stuck?" He watches your body slump with defeat and then your strained voice, "Can you please just help me get out?"

Six bites his tongue and replies smugly, "Yes ma'am," his digits easing the material over your head, leaving your hair disheveled and the rest of you generally unkempt. A deep groan falls from your lips as your tactical vest shifts over your hidden wound and Six pauses, his brows narrowing at your evident discomfort.

He had noted the cut on your left arm that had been leaking blood before, that was one he knew he needed to stitch up. But that injury wasn't the cause of that groan.

Then, his eyes spot the dark, wet material just a few inches above the cut. Fresh blood. His gaze widens as he looks back to the pained expression on your face.

Six throws the hoodie onto the bed before stalking over to you and growling out, "What the hell is that?" With his words, he points to the edge of your vest where the fresh blood is appearing.

You pant as you look up at him, eyes half-lidded as you snarl through gritted teeth, "It's nothing." Six looks at you in disbelief before responding, "It's obviously not nothing, you're starting to bleed out."

Six doesn't give you time to respond, one arm scooping under your legs and the other resting under your back as he picks you up bridal style. You hiss in pain at his movement, but he maneuvers quickly as he carries you into the bathroom.

It's a rather spacious bathroom for such an old building, and Six sets you on the counter so your feet are dangling and you can lean against the wall for support.

Six pauses as he flicks on the light, his blue gaze adjusting to the brightness after a second. He immediately clocks that your wound is leaking fresh blood and that it needs to be closed now.

He leaves you for a second, going back to the bed to grab the medical supplies he had bought before returning to you. Six sets the supplies down on the opposite side of the sink and returns his stormy eyes back to your slumped figure.

"May I touch you? You need patched up," Six asks lowly, his hands hovering on the outside of your legs. You give him a nod, but that's not enough for Six.

"I gotta hear you say it. Once I start, you're gonna wanna hate me," he urges. You try to focus your eyes on him, and you can see the restraint Six is using to hold himself back. He so desperately wants to help you, to fix your torn skin. But he is waiting for your confirmation.

You nodded your head again and whimpered, "Please help me, Six..." At your words, Six's hands gently part your legs at the knee so he can stand between them. His proximity makes your heart race for the umpteenth time today, your breath catching in your throat.

His large hands start to reach for the buckles on your vest, but your fingers reach out and grab his wrist to stop them. Six halts at your movement, his eyes slowly traveling to meet your own.

The agent again sees that look on your face. The fear etched into your features. It cracks at his heart again, and he simply murmurs, "Trust me."

You let go of his wrist and close your eyes in anticipation. Six's digits work efficiently as they unclasp the buckles of your tactical vest, pulling it off and throwing it in the corner of the bathroom.

The black t-shirt you are wearing doesn't help hide the wet patch of blood oozing from your shoulder, and the cause of the wound.

A piece of metal debris an inch or two long is lodged in the meat of your shoulder. Another whimper rips out of your throat as Six finally gets his eyes on what has been causing you so much pain.

He swallows thickly as he turns to his supplies, grabbing a pair of forceps and gauze. Six prompts you, "Hold tight, this is going to hurt." At the end of his words, he grabs the shrapnel with the forceps and pulls it out at what seems to be an agonizing pace.

Your body writhes in pain as he clamps gauze over the wound, fresh blood staining the white material a deep red. Tears well in your eyes and begin streaming down your face, your hands reaching to clutch onto anything to stabilize you.

Your left hand weakly grips the edge of the counter, but your right one finds its place on Six's bicep. Your fingers dig into the large muscle there, holding on for dear life as you go through waves of pain.

"S-Sorry," you sob out as Six holds pressure on your shoulder. He smiles lightly at your sweet apology and he replies easily, "Don't worry about it, darling." His words distract you just enough to form a thought that's not focused on your pain.

I'm not sure if he meant to let the pet name slip out... We aren't in front of Hilda anymore.

Six uses your distracted look as a chance to cut through the material of your shirt with a pair of medical scissors. He only cuts through the left sleeve and a little further past where the wound is to give him access to it.

Once your shirt is out of his way, he readies the needle and suture thread before ripping open a packet of alcohol wipes. The blonde-haired man continues to hold pressure on your shoulder and lets the other hand rub on your thigh just above your knee.

"This is going to sting like a bitch," he reminds as he holds up the alcohol wipe. You nod and preemptively grab a hold of his bicep again, bracing yourself for the biting pain.

Nothing could have prepared you for the utter burn the alcohol wipe sends through your body. It takes everything in you to not scream at the top of your lungs, and your fingers dig so far into Six's arm that you're sure you are ripping his flesh.

Six holds steady, though, and continues to clean your wound as you wriggle and writhe under his touch. He feels terrible inflicting pain on you, but he knows you need these wounds cleaned and closed.

"You're doing great, honey," he vocalizes as he leans over to grab the suture. When he looks up to your face, he's almost taken aback at the intensity there.

Your face is grimy, bloody, and wet. There are tears rolling down your cheeks, mixing and pooling with the dried blood, dripping down your chin. But your eyes? They seem to stare right at the core of him. They see right through his tough exterior, right through all of his training.

They are seeing the gentle touches, the firm embraces. They are seeing the protector he so desperately wants to be. You are seeing Sierra Six as a man, and not just a weapon.

Six's breath catches in his throat at the thought and has to look away from the heat of your gaze. He turns his attention back to your wound and mumbles, "Time to sow this up."

You sit still at his words, waiting for the tug of a needle through your skin. A split second later, you feel the first bite. You clench your jaw down tight, a moan grumbling up from deep in your chest.

Six does his best to work quickly as he pulls the needle and suture through your skin, row after row after row. Eventually, you feel him tie the knot off as exhaustion starts to creep over the edges of your body.

Your body is starting to slump against the wall rather than brace away from it, and your eyes are beginning to burn from crying and from the debris from the carnage. You know you will pass out the second your head lays to rest.

"Stay with me," Six murmurs lowly, "We got a lot more to fix up." Six moves to work on the cut on your arm next, going through the same methodic steps as he did for your shoulder. It still hurts like a bitch, but the exhaustion helps dull it.

Six finishes tying off that suture and then pauses, setting the medical supplies back on the counter. He makes eye contact with you, his gaze softer than expected as he rests his hands on his hips.

"Let me see the back of your head, then you can get a shower and we'll finish packing these wounds, hm?" he poses it as a question, but you know it's a low-threat order.

You take a shaky deep breath and huff out, "Yes sir," jokingly before slowly pushing your way to the edge of the counter. You push off the edge and your feet land on the ground firmly, but your knees wobble and start to buckle.

Six is right there, catching you around your waist with ease. His large hands stabilize you, and are pleasantly warm, as he unknowingly pulls you closer to him.

"Easy there," the words sound out for the second time that day. You are a little dizzy from the sudden movement, and your head falls forward to brush your forehead against his chest.

You feel a wave of embarrassment at how weak you are from being knocked flat on your ass. Since Six turned left down that hallway, you have needed him every second.

"Sorry, I just felt a little lightheaded," you whisper, your voice hoarse from muffling groans. Six rubs one of his hands on your waist reassuringly, "Like I said, don't worry about it. I've been banged up worse than you before, it's not easy."

A comfortable moment passes but then Six pulls back, one hand releasing your waist to brush that stubborn piece of hair out of your eyes. He still has that soft expression on his face when he tells you, "I'm going to look at your head, alright?"

You give him a tight-lipped smile and shuffle 180 degrees so he can look at the back of your head. It's the first time you've seen what you've looked like since being in the car.

You're an absolute mess. Self-depreciating thoughts try to flood your mind, and you will them away with Six standing behind you. He's gently running his fingers along your scalp, looking for the source of the dried blood.

He finds it a second later, and upon closer inspection, he coughs out, "It's just a small nick. Go 'head and get cleaned up and I'll take a look again after. I'll grab you some clothes."

Six takes a slow step back, releasing his hold on you, the touch of his fingers lingering in your mind. He's only gone for a minute, returning with the clean clothes he bought at the small store in town.

You quietly thank him and hastily chuckle, "This is kind of like that time in Dubai." Six's hand comes to land on the door handle, and he pauses for a moment as the memory washes over him. A smile tugs on his lips and he replies lightly, "I gotta say this is probably worse than Dubai."

A moment of silence passes and he throws his head toward the main bedroom area and tuts, "I'll be out here. Take your time, and uh, just let me know if you need any help or anything." At that, Six clicks the door shut, the pink flush returning to his cheeks.

You watch the door close and you pause for a moment, letting the silence swarm over you. It takes a second, but you turn to face the mirror, letting the emotional weight of the day lay on your shoulders.

I should have been better today. I could have been so much better. Because of my inabilities, I almost got killed. I made Six abort a mission for the first time - ever. I am ruining the infamous Sierra Six.

You don't realize silent sobs are wracking your body until you go to pinch your brow and run your hand down your face.

You are such a failure.

The words had crept into your mind before you could stop them, and you push off the counter to try to stop the spiraling train of thought. It lingers in the back of your head, but you try to focus on turning the water to a comfortable temperature.

You unlace your boots, setting them off to the side by your bloodied tactical vest. You manage to strip out of your pants and underwear with minimal difficulty before starting on your shirt.

It's easier to shimmy out of because Six took care of the sleeve you had struggled with before. However, you were trying to not bust the stitches he had worked so diligently on. After a minute or two of shuffling and trying to not hurt yourself, you were finally bare.

Stepping into the shower, you took a deep breath as the water began to rain down on you. You could see the grime and blood start running toward the drain, the water turning a murky greyish-pink color as you started to clean your skin.

Your wounds were sore as they were touched by the water, so you did your best to clean the surrounding blood off with a gentle washcloth. Then, you let yourself stand under the water for a moment. You let the warmth soak into your muscles, into your bones.

You needed that moment. You needed the water to remind you that were human. You needed those wounds to remind you that you were alive.

But you must have been in the bathroom longer than you realized because there are a few knocks on the door and then you hear Six's voice.

"Y/n? You alright in there?" you can hear worry in his voice, and it makes you smile. You realize he can't see you, so you turn off the water and call back, "Yeah, I just need to get dressed."

You don't get a response back, so you assume he heard you and was leaving you to your privacy. You grab one of the towels hanging outside of the shower and dry yourself off carefully, taking care to pat your wounds dry.

Exhaustion is still crawling at the back of your mind, but the shower seemed to rejuvenate some part of you. You make your way over to the clothes Six picked out for you, and you can't help but let a dopey grin onto your lips.

He left you a pair of black sweatpants, in your size, by the way, a clean pair of women's underwear, and then a choice between a light blue women's long sleeve that resembles a crewneck or a men's sized black t-shirt.

You want to put the women's crewneck on. It's one of your favorite colors and the piece looks devastatingly comfortable. But you know you aren't going to be able to get in it yourself and Six won't be able to finish patching you up.

You slide into the large black t-shirt easily, the article definitely chosen with Six's size in mind. You slowly open the door from the bathroom into the bedroom, peering around the room curiously.

Six is nowhere to be seen, and you feel a rush of panic. He's not on the bed. He's not in the chair you said you would take. He's not on the balcony overviewing the street. He's gone.

You start to pace the room, looking for any sign of where he could have gone when you hear the door jingle. A second later, he reappears with two cups in his hands.

You dart at him, wrapping your arms around his torso before you can stop yourself. Six is taken aback by the sudden display of affection, holding both cups away from your body so that neither of you is burned by the seemingly hot liquid.

"I thought you left," you croaked out, your hands fisting at the dirty black t-shirt he was wearing. Six leans back to get a look at your face and his heart further splinters at the look he sees there.

"I was just getting some hot chocolate. You looked like you might need it," he says slowly, setting one of the cups down on a side table and offering one to you, "I'm right here."

You nod shakily as you internally scream at yourself to get it together. You take the warm cup from his hand, your fingers brushing for a moment. You force yourself to move to sit on the end of the bed, mumbling, "I- I'm sorry."

Six frowns at you, tired of hearing those words from your mouth. He takes a couple of steps closer to you as he delicately retaliates, "Look, I already told you, don't worry ab-" "I'm sorry about everything!" you yell out.

The Sierra agent is alarmed by your change in tone, and he remains quiet as you start to talk.

"I'm sorry about rushing you at the door because I thought you were leaving. I'm sorry I have to wear this shirt that's so obviously yours because I can't get in the other one you got me. I'm sorry I was so out of sorts while you were patching me up. I'm sorry I blew the mission today and ruined your reputation," you gush out, fresh tears lining your eyes as the words tumble out.

A whimper falls from your lips as the words blurt from your mouth, "I'm sorry for being such a terrible partner," your free hand coming up to cover your face as you start to cry. Your hand holding the hot chocolate wobbles and you can't keep it together anymore.

Tears of anguish race down your cheeks, your body heaving as your world comes crashing down on you. Six had moved closer to you as you spoke, and now gently pries the drink out of your hands as you weep.

He sets it on the table next to his before kneeling down in front of you on the bed. His lengthy fingers delicately wrap around your wrists, slowly pulling them away from your tear-stained face.

You initially resist him, sputtering out, "D-don't look at me while I'm like this, I look-" "Beautiful," he voices profoundly.

You stop crying for a second to look at him as you repeat, "Beautiful?" Six looks up at you apprehensively, a look of nervousness passing over his angled features. He slowly pulls your wrists down, and this time you let him.

Six shuffles closer to you, now parting your thighs to get closer to you. His right hand comes up to cup your left cheek where the small cut is. He swipes away the tears there, his blue gaze stormy and complex.

His gaze trails over your face, openly and unashamedly looking at you. When he finally makes eye contact with you, he reaffirms with a slight nod, "You look beautiful."

He smiles at you tenderly as he starts, "Seeing you run toward me at the door is something I've dreamed of countless nights." You blink in surprise at the confession, but you don't interrupt him.

"For the record, I think that shirt looks great on you. If you feel more comfortable in the other one, I'll help you get into it," he whispers. You can feel the intensity of his words, and you feel heat creeping toward your face.

"I never, ever, wanted to have to patch you up again after Dubai, because I think a part of me dies seeing you in these volumes of pain. But today, seeing you lying there in the debris, calling for me?" Six takes a deep breath and looks away before muttering, "That is my worst nightmare."

He pauses for a second, letting his words sink in. The blonde-haired man shrugs his shoulders once and continues, "And yeah, you did kind of ruin the mission," and your gaze falters at that, shame covering your features.

But Six is one step ahead of you, tilting your chin back up to meet his blue gaze. "You could have checked that door differently, looked for some other indicator," he states matter-of-factly.

"It was just a door," you mumble, tears threatening to spill again. Six holds you delicately as he says, "It was just a door. It was a door that you never should have been next to. You never should have been a part of that mission in the way that you were."

Hurt flashes rampantly across your face, but before you can reply, Six cuts you off, "You should have been where you work best," and he gives you a smile, "Watching my back and blasting goons from hundreds of yards away."

That comment makes you smile, and Six sighs as he murmurs, "There she is." That comment makes you blush, and you go to wipe at your cheeks before wincing as you agitate the cut there.

Six notices right away and pushes away from you, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment. He returns with the medical supplies and a damp washcloth.

He offers you the washcloth, letting you wipe your face to remove both your wet and dry tears. Six turns to face you with that tender look in his eyes again and he murmurs, "Let's finish getting you patched up."

You nod and heat runs up your body as you ask shyly, "Will you help me get into the other sweatshirt afterward?" Six smirks as he replies with a quip of, "Only if you'll sleep on the bed and not on that god-awful chair."

You let out a playful groan, "Fineee, I guess we have a deal." Six lets the smirk fade into a kind smile at the corner of his mouth, getting to work on putting patches over your shoulder wound and the slice on your arm.

His gentle fingers help place a bandaid on your cheek, leaving him lingering in close proximity. Six can't help the way his eyes flit down to your lips before returning to your (colored) gaze. You were simply intoxicating to him.

He forces himself to pull away with half-lidded eyes and instead says, "Let's get you into that other sweatshirt." You could have whined at the loss of contact with the tall blonde-haired man, but you do as he says, heading to the bathroom where the other shirt lay.

You grab it and walk back out to the bedroom saying, "So if I turn around and pull this shirt off, can you just help guide my arms and head through this one?"

Six just nods like the gentleman he is, turning his back to you as you take off the large and very oversized black shirt meant for him. You feel a wave of self-consciousness as you call over your shoulder, "O-okay. I have my arms through the holes, I just need help lifting it over my head."

Six slowly turns around, letting you know his intentions with every obvious movement he makes. Keeping his eyes fixed on the light blue material, he makes every effort to ignore the curve of your body so close to his as he reaches over your shoulder, pulling the hole in the material toward your head.

He hears you hiss in pain at one particularly awkward angle, but you mumble, "I'm good." Six finishes pulling the shirt down to sit around your waist, delicately pulling your hair trapped on the inside of the shirt out to lay against your neck.

You turn around to face him and offer him the black t-shirt with a shy smile, "I only wore it for those few minutes if you still want it."

Six just huffs at your shyness and he smoothly tugs it out of your hands before throwing it over his shoulder. He motions over to your hot chocolate, "Better drink that before it gets too cold. I'm hopping in the shower."

At the end of his words, he ducks around you, grabbing the remaining clothes off of the bed and slipping into the bathroom. You don't know that he leans against the bathroom door, cursing himself for not being able to just lean in that extra inch...

But it doesn't matter. He needs to get a shower and you need to get rest.

In the bedroom, you find yourself sipping on the hot chocolate you know Hilda must have made. You throw the extra medical supplies back into one of the empty bags and dig through the snacks that Six had gotten.

You find a pack of Skittles and snicker, knowing that the man just on the other side of the door has the biggest sweet tooth, other than you. You rip the packet open and toss a couple in your mouth, thankful for the candy as you place your empty cup of hot chocolate in the trash.

The comfort of the crewneck and sweatpants starts tearing at your exhaustion again, and you find yourself crawling toward the headboard to slide under the covers.

A moment later, Six appears fresh out of the shower. He dons the black T-shirt you gave him back, as well as a pair of loose-fitting grey sweatpants. You swallow thickly as he makes his way over to the uncomfortable-looking chair.

"W-wait," you call out, causing Six to pause and look at you. His blonde locks are dark with water from the shower, and your mind short-circuits for a second with the way he is looking at you. You astutely point to the bed, "We can share," you blurt out.

You curse yourself internally for being so clumsy about the situation. Especially when you see Six frown and start to shake his head, "I don't want to bother y-" "Six, please," you practically beg.

This makes him pause his movements at the desperation in your voice. He looks over at you, waiting in bed for him, and then back to the brown rickety chair.

He sighs in defeat and runs a hand through his damp hair, moving to sit on the edge of the bed near your feet. Six takes a moment to look at you. You're sat up in the middle of the small bed, your back leaning on the pillows as you watch him back. Suddenly, he wonders what position will be the most comfortable for you.

Would it be best if you each took one side and laid on your backs? Do you typically sleep on your side? Would you be weirded out if he accidentally touched you unknowingly while you slept?

You could see Six's mind running a mile a minute, and you grab his hand as you throw his words back in his face, "Trust me."

Six cracks a smile at your words and shuffles to face you. You can't help but fight off a wave of heat that crosses your face as you take a good look at him.

He's basically unscathed, clad in that black t-shirt that clings to every contour of his body. His well-trimmed goatee frames his pretty mouth and those eyes. Those stormy, stormy eyes.

They are staring at you with that undetectable emotion. Six shifts again, moving closer to the headboard and toward you, the air in the room crackling with tension. He stretches his body out over the top of the covers as he positions his body in line with yours.

Propping himself up on his right elbow, he leans over you, cupping your uninjured cheek in his left hand. Slowly but with confidence, he brings your face up to his. Your foreheads touch, and a shiver runs through you at his warmth.

You want to lean forward, to capture his lips for yourself, but you wait. Six is taking the moment in fully. He will only get to experience this once, and he wants it to be engraved in his mind forever.

His stormy gaze pins that undetectable emotion on you with such ferocity that you want to look away, but you don't. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and then he whispers, "May I kiss you?"

You nod and murmur back, "I want nothing more." At your confirmation, Six slowly leans in, still giving you plenty of time to back out.

Instead, you lean forward to meet him, his mouth crashing on yours in a dizzyingly slow and languid kiss. A groan of satisfaction crawls up the back of Six's throat, and his hand moves from cupping your face to sliding into your damp (colored) locks.

Every movement is slow and thought out as his lips dance across your own. Your nose brushes against his in a comforting way, and the tickle of his goatee is surprisingly pleasant.

You could live in this moment forever. Six was pouring every ounce of himself before you, you would gladly drink every last drop of his affection up.

Six slowly pulls away, nuzzling his nose against yours before letting his eyes flutter open. You're not in much better shape than he is, and when you meet his gaze, the two of you know everything has changed.

Six tightens his grip on your hair ever-so-slightly before murmuring with conviction, "I love you, Y/n." A watery smile begins to tug at your lips as you reply, "I love you too, Six."

He gives you that tender smile and leans in one final time, leaving a chaste but sweet kiss on your waiting mouth.

You whine when he pulls away, making the Sierra agent chuckle as he mumbles, "Don't worry, there can be more where that came from later. You need to get some rest, you Skittles stealer."

Your ears burn in slight embarrassment that you were caught, but not for long when Six shuffles to turn the lights off and slide under the covers with you. The large man shuffles onto his right side, gently pushing and pulling your body until he is spooning you.

With his heavy arm locked around your waist, you finally feel comfortable enough to give in to your exhaustion. Before you know it, the two of you are out cold. Maybe a little beaten up, maybe a little lovesick, but definitely content.

Tagging: @proper-goodnight (@bluebellhairpin @xxpadfootxx @anlian-aishang just b/c y'all sat through this brain rot both knowingly and unknowingly)

[utilitycaster]

Whenever people are like "well LIAM'S characters never faced any backlash when HE played characters in the spotlight" and "no one will let WOMEN have negative qualities" when Caleb and Vax and Orym have received pretty constant hate for main character/sadboy/scene stealing and when meta writers outright stopped talking about Imogen because a particularly mindless set of hit dogs are still hollering about how she is so good and kind and how dare you call her selfish, it's really like...in the service of trying to make your failure of a point you've just said something that literally anyone with a memory lasting longer than the apocryphal goldfish length can immediately debunk, which in turn absolutely shreds your credibility going forward, if you had it.

More generally there's something very vile here, because on the surface this statement does look like an attempt, if one ignorant of pretty much any fandom conversation, to defend women. The thing is it's come from a place of defending Dorian and Ashton's plan - a man, and a nb person who would not identify as a woman - that requires a particularly great deal of sacrifice from the women of the party. So of course they just switch tactics. Instead of "how dare the fandom not think women are always best" it's "how dare the fandom disrespect a disabled nb person and a person played by an indigenous actor." And I'm sure they'll switch again. Because pretty much every character in this campaign is on some axis of oppression, and there's a few people in this fandom who, instead of considering these things as important details that inform these characters, seem to largely treat their minority statuses as ammunition. Feminism and antiracism and queer advocacy are all just part of a shell game to them - accuse everyone who disagrees with them of being a bigot, say that their opinions are inviolate because they match that of literally any character who isn't a cis het white man, of which Bells Hells has none. Unsurprisingly, it's that social media purity culture that's just the evangelical church with a gay hat: they are always the victim, and everyone who disagrees is the devil, and being a good person always happens to line up with what you already wanted.

There are several posts from the past day or so accusing people of liking Campaign 3 less than the two previous ones which refused to accept that this might be due to the hurry-up-and-receive-an-infodump pacing, the singular focus without much time spent on backstory, the gaps in party composition, and the fact that the plot manages to combine the weakest elements of each campaign - the fetch quest/NPC guidance heavy nature of C1, and the meandering/slow start of C2. No, it must be the awful, sinful fandom unable to handle the lack of a major M/M ship (false; Dorian and Orym aren't canon, but neither were Vax and Gilmore, and the latter was sunk far sooner) and the fact that a female character is at the center of the story (see above re: how hostile the same people making these accusations have been to anyone who actually wants to discuss Imogen in a way that doesn't fit their specifications). Just to repeat this: many fans have outlined a number of purely narrative and structural reasons why C3 isn't working for them. These people have assumed this is all a lie, because assuming otherwise that would require either addressing these critiques, which in turn would require admitting other people can have valid opinions that oppose their own without being horrible bigots - in favor of throwing out whatever random accusations they think might stick. It doesn't matter what's actually being said; they're not actually listening, and for all they might talk about fans of color they sure all seem to be white; for all they talk about misogyny and queerphobia they sure won't hesitate to immediately assume the worst of queer people and women who say things they don't like. And rarely do they address any of the actual ongoing bigotry that does exist in the fandom; it's all random accusations because you agreed with the white woman instead of the brown man or vice versa; or it's the constant dredging of years past discourse that, as the first paragraph indicates, they will then ignore whenever convenient.

These are all pretty transparent signs of a bad faith actor spreading misinformation. To be clear I don't think this is any kind of conspiracy or has any organization to it. I think it's a just handful of deeply self-absorbed people who either refuse or literally cannot comprehend that someone could disagree with them without being a bad person and who will gleefully cry wolf with these accusations of bigotry. But it's been going on for quite some time and it's been a problem this campaign in a way I at least do not recall it in past ones, and it's had an absolutely devastating effect on the fandom conversation. Ironically, by trying to boost Imogen and Campaign 3 by shutting down any criticism of them, they've shut down far more of the conversation, hopefully not irreversibly, and I think it's time to point that out.

[mystic-writings]

walk the line | two

SUMMARY — poe does his best to keep his word. you talk to general organa.

WORD COUNT — 2,441

WARNINGS — fluff, slight angst, mentions of grief & trauma

NOTES — okay this one turned out to just be straight up world building/backstory lmao

m. masterlist | series masterlist

As it turns out, Poe Dameron was good at sticking to his word. Over the next week, all he did was stick to you like glue, all bright smiles and dry jokes. It was irritating, but you’d quickly grown accustomed to it. It wasn’t difficult, all things considered, just mildly annoying. It wasn’t your first time around with a guy like him, with an ego bigger than Tatooine’s twin suns and the confidence of a Coruscant high roller. Still, there was something deeper there. He seemed… softer around you. More careful with his words, his actions. 

Not to mention that infuriating warmth. Every second you were around him, you could feel it. The pull, the comfort, the familiarity of the feeling. You hated it. All it did was remind you of what you used to have, of the things you’ve lost. 

He was nice enough though. After your conversation in the hangar, Poe led you to your quarters, showing you how to set a door code for yourself and the settings in the refresher. He handed you a datapad and showed you how to set it up as well, recommending that you head to the cantina early in the morning if you wanted to get the good caf instead of the reheated stuff. And when you mentioned that you didn’t know where the cantina was, he showed up that very morning with his BB model droid, barely containing his own laughter at your disgruntled face before leading the way for you. 

His droid seemed to be a lot like him, but you’d warmed a lot faster to BB-8 than you did to Poe. BB often talked with you when you were around him — more so when Poe was around you. He chattered about people you didn’t know, gossip that you weren’t entirely interested in, but found yourself listening to nonetheless. 

The adjustment from what you were used to on Tatooine was hard, but you managed as best as you were able. Freedom was a luxury where you were, something not easily afforded for you. Sometimes, when you would hear the door to your chambers seal shut, you would forget that you were the only one who had the code to open it again. That no one else could keep you there, dangle the promise of necessities over your head like a reward for good behaviour. 

“You okay over there?” Poe’s voice came through as you picked at your food, drowning under the weight of your own mind. 

“Hmm?” You hummed, the din of the cantina filling your ears. “Yeah. Fine. Just… tough night.” 

Poe didn’t speak, but you could feel his eyes inspecting you as you dipped your head and properly dug into your breakfast. The cantina was usually packed this time of the morning, most members wanting to spend time with their friends before heading off to their duties, and your table was no different. 

At every meal, Poe insisted you sit with Black Squadron. You didn’t know why, but you didn’t exactly question it, either. They were a good group of people, all of them good friends, and it was obvious that they’ve known each other for a while. Their chatter was easy going, always a constant stream of differing topics that switched without a hitch. And during every meal, you stayed silent, always sitting across from Poe — at his request, of course. 

Breakfast passed normally, though today, Poe followed you back to your room. “What’s your plan for today?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t really plan my days anymore.” You shrugged, stopping at your door. “Might just lock myself in here for the day.” 

Poe nodded, his hands on his hips as he looked around. At his feet, BB-8 trilled happily, his suggestion making the both of you chuckle. “We could go for a ride, BB, except Leia would kill me for taking an unsanctioned flight.” He took a breath, looking away from his droid to meet your eyes. “Speaking of, I got a message from her on my datapad this morning. She said you haven’t talked to her yet?”

Oh. Your shoulders deflated as your eyes searched the ground for a way out of this conversation. “Yeah, I… I was supposed to talk with her. About whether or not I’m staying.”

“Are you?” Straight to the point, then. 

You inhale, shrugging again. “I still don’t know. It’s nice here but… I haven’t been able to choose for myself in so long that I don’t know if I can. Make the decision, I mean.” 

Poe’s brows cinched, and you watched them. The cogs turned in his head, and you knew he was trying to make sense of your words. To decipher the message behind them. You knew he wouldn’t figure it out, not unless you spelled it out for him. But you weren’t planning on doing that any time soon. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you should.” 

And, damnit, there it was again. His soothing voice, peeling away the layers of your heart, feeling your guard fall away, warmth pouring from the dents and cracks he’s made at your walls. It seeped into the very soul of you, filling you with light and warmth and safety. You hated it. 

Despite it, you smiled gently, nodding. “It does, surprisingly. But if I did, I don’t even know how I would help out around here.” 

“You could be a mechanic,” Poe fired back, as though he was waiting for you to say it. “Or a pilot. I mean, building a TIE fighter from scratch and flying it two systems over… that’s some pretty good work, if you ask me.” 

You chuckled, glancing at the floor before meeting Poe’s soft eyes, crinkling at the edges as he smiled at you. “Shouldn’t you be running a drill with the recruits or something?”

“I should be,” Poe confirmed, but he didn’t move. 

“So?” You raised an inquisitive brow at him. “Aren’t you gonna go now?”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

You don’t respond right away, and Poe’s smile widens. You don’t even know why you were suddenly at a loss for words. Poe was practically a thorn in your side, saddling up beside you during every second of his free time, aside from when he went to spend time with his friends in the cantina before heading to bed. It was during that time that you headed out to the dark, lush forest he’d first found you in, just to get some peace. 

“Okay, I actually do have to go, but why don’t you talk to Leia today?” Poe suggested. “Even if you don’t make up your mind, talking to her might help. Leia has a way of doing that to people.” 

“Doing what?”

“Making you realise what you really want.” Poe’s voice was soft as he said it, like he knew exactly what he was talking about. You watched him inquisitively as he smiled once more, turning back down the hall with BB-8 on his tail. 

———

Despite the fact that you knew you weren’t ready to talk, you headed into your room and requested a meeting with General Organa. She’d responded almost immediately, requesting that you meet her in a small debriefing room. 

With a knot tied tight in your gut, you headed that way, finding the room fairly quickly. If there was one thing you could credit Poe with, he was one hell of a tour guide. The gentle woosh of the door sliding to the side made your heart jump, revealing Leia. 

From where she stood by the window, the General smiled over her shoulder at you before turning fully, gesturing to a small table. “It’s good to see you, Y/n. Sit.” 

You did as told, your brain practically whirring on autopilot as you sat across from the woman, hands clasped on the table. It practically killed you to think about it. Here you were, sitting across from the woman who gave birth to your best friend. Who watched him grow, watched him turn into a monster, and failed to try and stop it — even if it hadn’t been her fault. 

“So, Y/n, have you decided what you’re going to do yet?” 

“No, General. Not yet.” You shook your head, cursing yourself at feeling so timid all of a sudden. 

Leia smiled. “You can call me Leia for this meeting. After all, we’re here to talk about Lyxi, aren’t we?”

A ghost of a smile painted your lips as you gave her a small nod, and Leia’s own small smile widened in response. 

“Is there anything in particular you wanted to ask me?” She said, leaving the invitation open for you — ask what you need. Whatever you want to know, you’ll know. 

Taking a deep breath in, you scoured your mind. Over the years, you’d gathered thousands of questions about your mother — about your father. Your aunt would answer most of them, but she rarely ever touched upon the topic of your father, not even after you’d joined the Jedi.

“What was she like?”

“She was the bravest person I knew,” Leia started simply, a small chuckle escaping her. “She was skilled, calculated. Thought through all of her decisions, no matter how small. She led a lot of people into battle, and she kept them all alive, too.” Leia’s eyes glazed, and you could see the sheen of unshed tears building in them. “Courage ran through that woman’s veins. She’d been a diplomat when she joined us in the war, but she saved so many people. My brother included.” 

Your mother knew Luke Skywalker?

“What do you mean?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed. “How did she save your brother?”

Leia chuckled, more mirth behind the sound than before. “He was a hopeless case when it came to her. Head over heels for her, too scared to do something about it. So she did it for him.” Leia paused for a moment, and when she began again, her words were coated in emotion, thick and difficult for her to form. “I’d never seen him so happy than when he was with her. Then, one day, she just… left. And neither of us saw her again.”

Your hands folded over themselves, tucking into your lap as you dropped your gaze. Crucial pieces of a puzzle you’d never been able to solve before had just been laid before you, your entire childhood slotting into perspective. It left you reeling, disbelieving of what General Organa had just told you. Before you could try to make any more sense of it, she spoke again. 

“You’re hers, aren’t you?” Leia asked, her voice gentle, coaxing you to look back up at her with gleaming eyes. “You’re Lyxi’s daughter,” 

The word slipped from your lips before you could stop it, quiet and breathless, the weight of it sinking deep into your’s and Leia’s chests like boulders. “She… I never knew her. She died not long after I was born. My aunt took me in.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Leia said, probably more for herself than anything. “She would’ve been a great mother.” 

“Did she…” you paused, taking a shaking inhale before you continued, scared to broach the subject. “My mom, did she want kids? With your brother? With—”

“More than anything,” Leia answered, her voice strong and steady. It gave you all the comfort you needed. “They were married, you know. For a while. After she left, he was… well, Luke was nothing short of a wreck. He never moved on, I don’t think.”

You squinted at Leia, confused. “Do you know why she left?”

“They both wanted different things,” she said simply. “She wanted a family, and Luke wanted to restore the Jedi Order. He would’ve been happy with either, though. Having a family… it was something Luke wanted, too.” 

You exhaled a shaking breath, the weight of Leia’s words hanging in the air. You could see it, the gleam in her eye, the one that told you everything she didn’t say. Before you knew it, you were staring at the table, blinking back tears before you looked back up at the woman, tucking your emotions away for later. 

“I want to stay.” Your voice was strong, stronger than you thought it would be. It gave you some of your confidence back. 

Leia raised a brow at your declaration. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t… I don’t know yet.” You told her. “But I haven’t had much of a choice in this sort of thing lately. And I’ve decided… I don’t want to keep running. I can’t.” 

Leia smiled, soft and warm, as she nodded. “Good. Running… Running is the easy way out. And it only tends to delay the inevitable.” With a deep breath, Leia looked down at her datapad, which had been switched off until now. “Commander Dameron told me you rebuilt an Old Empire TIE fighter from scratch, is that right?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “and I flew it from Tatooine.” 

“Okay. Well, for now, I’d like to set you up as the Black Squadron mechanic to see how well you do. And if you’re comfortable with it, later on we can get you in the air.” 

You smiled, nodding along. “That sounds nice, General. When do I start?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’ll alert Commander Dameron, he’ll walk you through training for the next few days.” Leia watched, almost knowingly, as your smile faltered. “Is there an issue? Perhaps you’d like to train with someone else,” 

“No, General, Poe is— Poe is fine.” 

Leia cleared her throat, linking her fingers as she focused her attention on you. The datapad lit her skin in a bluish glow, soaking her in artificial light. You couldn’t tell if it made her more intimidating or not. “If I may ask, Y/n, but what’s your relationship to Commander Dameron, exactly?”

For a moment, your heart twisted with shock, stopping for a moment before you focused on stabilising your heartbeat. Clearing your throat, you glanced down at the table as you spoke. “He’s a thorn in my side, General. Entertaining, sure. And… interesting, to say the least.” 

“Ah, yes, the classic Poe Dameron charm.” Leia chuckled, leaning back in her chair. “Well, then, if you don’t have any other questions, you may go. I’ll send a transmission to Commander Dameron this evening to assist with rearranging his schedule.” 

You thanked the General as you stood from your chair, heading for the door. Just as it opened with a satisfying woosh, a burst of air flowing over you, Leia called out to you. 

“Welcome to the Resistance.” She smiled, and you couldn’t help but return it. 

———

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series taglist: @whisperofthewild @violinbetty @lxntsxv @castiwls @seninjakitey (open!) [taglist form]

[purplefirepit]

I have created a Yuusona

Credit for the info template: @unfinished-projects-galore

More info below the cut:

Backstory:

Backstory sections: Before NRC, Getting sent to NRC, and then how July feels about the twst universe.

(After the backstory stuff, I'll talk about July's Design)

Before NRC: July was originally supposed to be born in late June, and because of this her mom was going to name her June. But as you can see by her birthday, she was born in July instead. Her mom was pretty mad about this, and when July was finally born, her mom just named her July because she didn't want to think of another name.

July's mom especially didn't like July after she was born because July was born with heterochromia, and so her mom had to go to a few different doctors to make sure nothing was wrong with July's eyes. Everything was fine though, and the heterochromia wasn't dangerous at all.

Through July's childhood she wasn't really a social kid, and would avoid social interaction whenever she could. She liked playing with dolls, and stuffed animals by herself rather than with people. This anti social behavior would follow her into high school, and she would often times ditch school to watch, and film wild life. Which overtime she developed a love for.

However due to July's constant skipping when she first started high school, her mom decided to "homeschool" her, which was basically just letting July outside of the house all day, and keeping her out until it was sundown. This was because July's mom didn't feel like July was smart enough for college, and July's mom didn't really care about her. The only reason July's mom homeschooled July, instead of just letting her skip school, is because July's mom didn't want to deal with CPS.

July doesn't have any siblings. She has a mom who stays home, and a dad who works all the time. The most July's mom does for her is cook dinner, and do her laundry. Pretty much everything else July has to do herself, like dying her hair. July let's her hair grow for a few months, and then dyes the places where her natural hair color is showing. This meant a lot of the time July would have faded color on her ends, and bright color where her hair had grown out.

Getting sent to NRC: July walked down a trail that was near her house, trees lined the trail, and there was wildlife everywhere. July observed them, and took pictures as she walked along the trail. Eventually, the trail ended, and there was a park. July stayed there for a while. Cars passed by on the road near the park while July was swinging on a swing set, and sliding down the playground slides that were way too small for her. When the sun started setting, she realized she should hurry home. But that's when she saw a crow, the way the setting sun hit its feathers was perfect, it revealed the undertones of purple and a light blue of the crow's feathers. When July pulled out her camera to take a picture, the crow fluttered it's wings, and the picture wasn't flattering.

The crow then started hoping away, but July was determined to get a picture of this crow because once the crow stopped, it was at a perfect angle again. July got a little closer, but the same thing kept happening. It wasn't until July was in the middle of the road, that she was able to take a picture of the crow. She was so happy with how the picture turned out, she didn't even realize she was standing in the middle of the road, or the horse-drawn carriage running towards her.

How July feels about the twst universe: Sometimes she wishes she could just go home. At home she doesn't have to deal with overblots, talking to new people, and getting good grades in school. But sometimes she likes how magical everything is, how things like beastmen, fae, and humans can exist in the same universe, and even the fact that humans can communicate with animals in this world. She's conflicted on whether she wants to go back home or not, and it really bums her out when it's brought up, especially after the prologue when she becomes kind of friends with Ace, Deuce, and Grim.

(Sorry for my bad story telling skills, I'm not very good at writing in the third person (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) )

Design:

You might be wondering if I based July off of a Disney character, and honestly, no, I didn't have one in mind. I kind of just based the personality, and interests on the mc in the game. In twst Yuu doesn't talk much, and their dialog options really don't affect the story much, so I just decided "Maybe Yuu doesn't like to talk to others." And then the whole pictures thing is because the mc in twst has a camera, and does take pictures with it.

As for the poetry part, I just did that because it was an artsy thing, and I felt like it fit in there. Also with history of magic being the best subject, instead of animal languages is because I just feel like my Yuu would have a hard time picking up on the animal languages. This because of her unwillingness to talk in many situations. Also my Yuu is in the film studies club because she's a good with cameras, and I don't think she has to be in the same club as Grim ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

With her physical design, I made her have fire hair. I felt like it was pretty cool. I also thought it would be funny if people kept asking her if she was related to the Shrouds at all, or just assumed it, only to later find out there's literally no connection. Also how ironic would it be if Yuu had a magic feature to them, but they're literally just a non magic human?

Though, I will say her design is a little based on Crona from Soul Eater:

Crona is the reason she has heterochromia, well the reason I designed her that way. While Crona doesn't have heterochromia, their eye color switches from black to blue sometimes, so when I was making my Yuu I was like "🎵 You get the best of both worlds🎵" But instead of a black eye I gave her a brown eye.

Also their skin tone came out...not the way I wanted it, but I'll keep it if enough people like how it is right now. I used a more grey skin color pallette, and not my usual skin color pallette. So in the future I will probably not use that pallette again, unless it's for the Halloween Skully event, or something like that.

Oh also, if you noticed on the top of July's head there's a little face:

Originally, I put this in my sketch because I was trying to figure out how flame hair worked, and if there would be particles in there. Then I realized I was thinking of a lava lamp, but I liked the little face, so I'm keeping it.

And before I stop my yapping, I wanted to say in Japanese July is just "The seventh month" and so I made July's birthday the 7th because I decided she would be born on the 7th month. Also I chose July as her name because I didn't know what gender she was going to be at first, and it was gender natural. July is only a girl because I put genders on a wheel, and it chose girl.

Thank you for listening to me talk about my Yuusona, please feel free to ask any questions (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

[maxdibert]

I feel like JKR really didn't think things through when she wrote Severus and Lily's backstory, because it's so messy. Especially the mudblood episode. I know she wanted to give us only a few glimpses of their relationship, and let the readers fill the gaps. But honestly, what she gave us doesn't help me understand what happened.

Because like you said, if it's true that Severus had been "calling everyone a mudblood", it makes Lily come off as selfish for not caring until it affected her personally. But I don't think that was the impression we were supposed to get. This is the moment that begins Severus' "downfall" into the death eaters, so I feel like we were supposed to agree with Lily and sympathize with hee.

So I try to find an explanation. Did she only find out after Severus called her a mudblood? Did her housemates tell her that? Is it even true? Or is it just an exaggerated rumor? I mean, everyone, including Lily and the marauders seemed shocked by Severus using that word, like it was unexpected. Could it be that he has said it before, and rumors spiraled into "he says it all the time, about everyone".

I know I'm thinking too much about it, but I can't help it. I try to make sense of it, but the pieces don't fit.

es, these are things that clearly don’t hold up. If Severus was really doing that, why didn’t she confront him earlier? Or why, in that scene, doesn’t she say something like she’s already warned him several times that his behavior is crap? It implies that she never called him out or said anything, which doesn’t make sense considering that in other scenes we see her snapping at him the moment he says something that bothers her.

If Lily had that kind of personality and didn’t hesitate to confront Severus over trivial matters, how come she never confronted him about truly important things? Did she not find out until he called her a "Mudblood"? If it’s because her Gryffindor friends told her then, would she really believe them and end a relationship based on gossip instead of clarifying things? Or did she already know but didn’t care because it didn’t affect her directly?

If the Mary McDonald thing was such a big deal, why not bring it up then? Why not confront him about his friends? And in any case, what moral standing did she have to confront Severus when she spent her life minimizing what the Marauders did to him?

That’s what I mean when I talk about Rowling’s inconsistency, it's a narrative flaw. Rowling tends to create deus ex machina moments, or basically, situations that conveniently make the plot work the way she wants it to, but that make no sense and haven’t been set up beforehand in any way. Constant plot holes.

[khaosssss]

Frostbite masterpost!!!

INFO:

Callsign: Frostbite

Pronouns: She/They

Role: Controller

Real Name: Sok Mean Sangha (Just for clarification Sok Mean is her full first name)

In-Game Description: Cambodian agent Frostbite brings a bright and positive attitude to the battlefield. With their ability to create blizzards and bend the cold to their will, they do their best to look out for their fellow agents and freeze enemies in place. When they fight, they do it with a smile.

Abilities:

C - Igloo

EQUIP to view the battlefield. FIRE to set the locations where Frostbite's clouds will settle. ALT FIRE to confirm, launching clouds that block vision in the chosen areas.

(Ehhh self explanatory theyre just smokes.)

Q - Permafrost

EQUIP a cryo orb. FIRE to throw the orb forward that detonates upon landing, causing it to expand into a lingering sheet of ice on the ground. When an enemy crosses, the ice will crack loudly, alerting players nearby and increasing vulnerability.

(Okay okay imagine Sage's slowing orb combined with Chamber's trademark. Its a thin, extremely fragile sheet of ice on the ground but when enemies walk on it alerts players where enemies are because of the sound.)

E - Icebreaker

Icebreaker - EQUIP a fragment of ice. FIRE to throw the fragment, which detonates upon landing and temporarily freezes all targets caught inside.

(Imagine Clove's molly but instead of decay it freezes targets, similar to Detaining a player but for a shorter period of time.)

X - Winter Wonderland

Winter Wonderland - EQUIP Frostbite's full power. FIRE to summon a blizzard. The blizzard slows and reduces the vision range of players inside of it.

(It's activated in a similar manner to Viper's ult. big ol' cloud. lotta wind and snow. it doesnt do damage but still i imagine it'd be annoying to deal with since you're constantly slowed.)

LORE:

Backstory:

A prominent part of Frostbite's life is, obviously, her powers. As useful as they are, they come at a price. Frostbite's body temperature is slightly lower than average, and a constant chill emits from her. It’s subtle, however it worsens if she’s upset. The stronger her emotions the colder. Her radiance does not give her immunity to the cold either, meaning that she could also be at risk for hypothermia.

Sok grew up in a poor family in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. She has a heavy interest in photography and wanted to pursue it as a professional career but couldn't. She never went to college either, working as a café barista instead until she was recruited by the Valorant Protocol. She was born a Radiant, and her powers manifested at a young age. The reason for this is unknown, as the rest of her family aren't Radiants.

After joining the Valorant Protocol, and gaining her callsign, Frostbite took heavy pride in her new job. She feels extremely satisfied in being able to provide money for their family back home, not minding the dangers that came with being an agent.

Relationships:

Sova: Frostbite is in a relationship with Sova (1. I can be cringe as a treat. 2. I'm gonna shamelessly plug again #SnowyOwl) She's very sweet and affectionate towards him, Sova doesn't mind this physical contact as he's used to the cold.

Chamber: Frostbite gets along with generally everyone on account of their warm attitude. However, she is particularly close with Chamber (COUGH COUGH check out their platonic ship tag #SnowRifle) because of how openly she puts her trust in him. Chamber reciprocates this as he genuinely appreciates their friendship.

Trivia/Extra:

Although Frostbite is generally kind and polite, she loves to mess with Chamber and tease him. Like a lot.

(↑ he has gotten a cold from hanging out with her once.)

The camera that Frostbite owns is specifically a Nikon 1 J1.

Frostbite is not only interested in photography, but fashion and entomology. She owns a pet millipede and keeps it in a tank in her room.

Chronic pen/pencil chewer.

Biggest hobbies are journaling + scrapbooking.

Her voice claim is Yanfei from Genshin Impact

She has two playlists!! One centered around her (obvi) and another for SnowRifle!!

(these facts have nothing to do with her lore I just think they're neat to mention.)

[misteria247]

Been thinking more on this au and I'm gonna put my thoughts here till I can post them to Tumblr later. Also heads up there's murder and death please proceed with caution.

Okay backstories.

Pacifica's backstory as I stated last night was she was abandoned by her biological parents and was taken in by Fidds and Abbey. Thus this began her path towards her current position in crime.

For Fidds his backstory is he was actually an assassin at one point in his lifetime. The path that set him on this was the tragic murder of his wife and son. Due to his intellect making him climb up in the world, rival investors had hired ironically enough assassins to hit his family. Hoping that the grief would cripple him.

They were wrong.

Instead he set his sights on them, furious and grief stricken and when the police failed to do their job he took it upon himself to track them down and quite literally made them disappear off the face of the Earth. Kicking starting his career in crimes. He'd meet Bill on one of his assassin assessments and reluctantly joined him. He's the first member that joined.

For Abigale it was because she'd snapped. She's a brilliant inventor and chemist, and Abigale wanted to do something to change the world. However her father was against this, instead setting her up for marriage to a complete stranger. It was the constant complaints and ridicule and disregard for her that made her snap. Abigale would end up setting her family home aflame with the man who was her father inside. After that she was a drifter, committing theft and arson for money and never being caught. It was because of this skill Bill had sought her out and recruited her.

Bill's backstory is.....more romantically tragic.

Bill first came to Earth to essentially explore the dimension. Bored but curious for something interesting. He'd find that interest in a man named Stanford Pines. Stanford was a young detective in training back then, brilliant and surprising and Bill unknowingly fell in love with him. And because of this Bill wanted to combine his realm with Ford's. It didn't end well.

The portal that Bill had persuaded Ford into helping build had been incomplete, and as a result Bill was actually injured in the fallout. Both emotionally when they were screaming and fighting one another from the betrayal and heartbreak, but also physically. Bill was left with a horrifying scar. A crack in his body. And to top it off he was stranded on Earth. Unable to return home and with limited powers to boot. The effects of using them too much actually hurting him. It was this that forced Bill to wander, angry and betrayed by Ford and it's during this that he decided to start his group. Using the knowledge on the justice system Ford had taught him to his advantage. Basically him acquiring the others was just him seeing that they too were betrayed by the world as well as incredibly skilled to help his crime ring begin.

[kamirai-k]

Kang Haesol and the Stoic Male Lead Trope (In the context of Roles Reversal)

All right, I have been seeing constant discussion about Haesol and it really lets me understand that most of y'all don't understand Kang Haesol as a character (Or you just don't have common sense) and that genuinely boggles my mind while letting me know that many people do not read Shoujo and do not understand Shoujo tropes because if you did you would understand her a lot better.

So I'm going to be breaking down the one Shoujo trope you have to know to understand Kang Haesol as a character.

Stoic male lead.

Yeonwoo's Innocence is not only a roles reversal but it is also a Shoujo deconstruction. If you read a lot of Shoujo and romance in general you can pick up on this pretty quickly. Therefore pretty quickly you should understand what type of character Haesol is.

Kang Haesol is the stoic male lead. Given this is RR she is the female lead but this does not change on account of her gender.

This male lead archetype are the ones who do not speak their emotions. They show them instead through action. THAT! is the character archetype that Haesol is based around.

Another thing about these Stoic characters is that they are obsessive. That is a constant trait that all of these stoic characters have in common and it makes a lot of sense given that because they constantly repress their emotions. When something happens and they lose their grip they are going to blow up and show themselves in ways that are not all that pleasant. (All that emotional repression does something to you and it's only a matter of time until it blows up)

The thing about Yeonwoo's innocence is that typically when this trope is put in a Roles Reversal setting the female lead is not exactly like the stoic male lead that is her counterpart. In an RR setting the female lead who is a reflection of this archetype is typically watered down and made a more feminine version of this archetype that loses all its flavor. as the story goes on but Yeonwoo's innocence does not do this.

Kang Haesol is a genuinely stoic character. She is not going to get all blushy and emote because she is STOIC! The Definition of stoic is someone who shows little to no emotion. Kang Haesol is the personification of this trope in female form and You all need to understand that. If you're expecting her to become some cold beauty who ends up a housewife or whatever TF don't. That is NOT her character and it never will be.

With Stoic characters, you have to actually pay attention to them to understand them. You have to WANT to understand them to be able to peel back the different sides of their personalities and Haesol is perfect for this. If you just look at her surface level you see nothing but a stoic person.

But if you actually LOOK at her and how she interacts with the world around her you understand her a lot better.

That is the appeal of The Stoic archetype. That mystery of who they are is what draws Shoujo readers to them and what makes them such interesting characters.

Kang Haesol is the female version of this archetype so don't treat her any differently. You don't tell male stoic characters to smile more or show more emotion so don't do the same to her.

Kang Haesol throughout the story stays consistent and her personality is still at its core that typical stoic male lead archetype. She's the perfect stoic character.

That is until she meets Yeonwoo.

Love at first sight is also a stoic male lead thing and it is done perfectly in this manhwa. (ah we love it when the calm one loses their marbles)

A character who has their emotions mostly in control but one person (that love interest) throws a retch into their usually calm waters.

Here's the thing though. Haesol is different.

Haesol has no grasp on her emotions. She can not perceive her emotions because of her trauma and how being a child model affected her (those who say we know nothing about her need to read the manhwa again because her backstory is literally thrown in your face in multiple moments of this manhwa) she can not understand her emotions because it is the coping mechanism she developed while she was being abused. If she showed emotion she was punished for doing so. So of course she locked them away. Then being with her mother only made things worse because she never truly cared enough to actually help Haesol and instead hurt her even more.

Which only made her retreat further.

Then she meets Yeonwoo.

Then she felt emotion.

Unbridled, overwhelming, EMOTION! for this "girl" and the confusion of it makes it worse. The confusion of why she's unable to get this "girl" out of her head and why everywhere she turns she sees this beautiful person wherever she turns confused and deludes but excites her.

Then she finds out that "she" is in fact a "he" and that she has a chance (Not like she wouldn't have a chance with a girl like have we seen her?)

Of course, she's obsessed!

Of course, she wanted to get closer to him. Of course, she will use whatever excuse she can to get near him.

Of course, she wants him desperately! He's the first person to elicit such strong emotion from her and it's positive! Not only is it overwhelmingly positive but it's all consuming and she's terrified because she's never felt this before.

Of course, she hides it away and shows nothing when showing emotion has only ever led to disaster.

Now that that is out of the way, the reason why I wanted to explain this is because people don't seem to understand her character, especially in relation to Yeonwoo.

Understand that this is a Shoujo deconstruction and a roles reversal manhwa. (it's a good one as well. the most well-written one I've ever read)

This is a two-in-one so unless you have experience with Shoujo/ romance and works that deconstruct popular tropes you most likely won't understand many of the things that are being done in this month.

Haesol very clearly is obsessed with Yeonwoo.

It is painfully obvious and you don't even need to reread it to understand that. (though his manhwa has insane reread value) The moment you get to the scene where she turns around after Yeonwoo asks to go to the amusement park with her you should already have alarms blaring (if you read Shoujo) because you understand that's not what a stoic character would typically do.

In Shoujo, the first meeting with the stoic male lead most of the time is very one and-done. The stoic male lead most of the time does not turn back and ask the female lead anything much less talk to her.

It is mostly their second interaction that does that.

However in Haesol and Yeonwoo's interaction not only does she give him her umbrella but she also engages in a brief conversation asking if he's ok. Sure it's small and bearly a minute but it still matters. If you understand the context surrounding that scene you're going to understand that her giving him her umbrella means that she calculated that he has to give it back to her.

Furthering their conversation... and making sure she gets to talk to him again.

There are so many little details that have been put into this manhwa that need to be talked about more because this is just one of them.

Haesol is a character whom I've said multiple times you need to look at her actions and not her words if you want to understand her as a character.

Also given that she is a Stoic character her obsession is going to be deep, it is going to be unhealthy, and it is not going to be in any way light.

Given the fact that Yeonwoo in fact enables these tendencies of hers you all need to understand that is going to likely get worse. Not in a bad way Shoujo has a tendency to make obsession like this completely viable (as we should let the girls have their fun. I personally love it and fall for it hook line and sinker) but given that this is Esol we are talking about she will probably twist this trope on its head in some way shape or form.

In all honesty, I'm just sick and tired of people constantly making horrible takes about Haesol as a character when it is clear they do not understand who she is. It is very clear that you do not read Shoujo or consume romance in general because most of these takes would not be happening if people actually understood the context of the genre.

[gl4ssfan]

Hello, I saw your SSS!Kai (Smith Siblings Swap AU) and got some questions.

(Sorry if already answered them elsewhere)

How do you switch those situations? (warning spoilers)

Samurai X

The ghost (aka the moment Nya discovered her power in the serie)

Nadakhan and his wedding

Thanks for your answer ^^

Totally understandable to ask questions, even if I've answered them before. Tomorrow I'm planning to make a masterpost to organize all this stuff and make it an easier read.

As for Samurai X, I covered that in the tail end of this post, and if you scroll through the SSS au tag on my blog, more stuff is probably buried.

Im completely reworking the Possessed season, naming it Rebirth, and I'll attach all my thoughts on that below!

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Okay, back when I was initially creating this AU, like I said in my Inferno post, I was terrified of answering questions about big things like Inferno and Rebirth because I was set on making a comic. Well, it's been two years, and I still intend to make something of this AU, but I now understand that a couple of spoilers won't ruin the work.

During Rebirth, I plan to have the ninja all tackle the museum mishap that starts Possessed. Morro, outmatched by a sudden team of well-trained ninjas and Some Guy (Kai), ends up doing some whackadoodle shit where he basically sends a distress beacon back to the Cursed Realm. Said Cursed Realm then sends out a little pulse of dimensional energy, and Morro nabs Lloyd at the end of the fight, tugging him with him into the portal the energy pulse creates (He wants revenge for the green ninja stuff). Kai immediately hops through the portal on instinct, closely followed by Nya, who is the catalyst for Jay going along, and then all the ninja go along and they've vanished into a questionable portal without telling anyone where they're going.

Once they've arrived in the Cursed Realm, they quickly realize they've been scattered pretty badly. Im thinking pairings for where they land may end up being Jay and Nya, Cole and Zane, and Kai following Lloyd (and Morro) on his own. Jay, Nya, Cole, and Zane will probably meet up pretty fast and find the tracks Kai, Lloyd, and Morro leave behind. As for the realm itself, it's cold, dry, and desolate. There's a constant bone-deep chill, maybe from the terrible vibes, but also probably from how dark it is. Imagine a planet with a dead sun, yaknow? Just a little teensy bit warmer. It's not like the Neverrealm where it's snowy, and there's no vegetation either. It's miles and miles of grey soil and silt with a constantly dark sky. The air is oppressive, like the world itself is trying to suffocate you. The only visible outliers are silt mountains on the horizon and the occasional heap of wreckage and scrap. There's lights in many spots in the distance, faint glows of different colors. Mostly greens, reds, and purples.

During their journey over the Cursed Realm, the ninja stumble upon some pretty messed up towns full of cursed spirits. Weirdly enough, every spirit has a little glowing tether to the ground beneath them or tucked behind walls and through alleys. Turns out, cursed souls are tied down to their bodies. The flesh they left behind was tainted because it contained their soul, so it followed them into the afterlife and now serves as a sort of ball-and-chain to make everybody's life harder and more torturous. Because Morro temporarily possessed Lloyd in the museum fight, he's actually tethered to him instead because the realm recognizes Lloyd's body as Morro's most recently inhabited body.

That's all I'll say for now, partly because Im fuzzy on details and partly because I want to leave some stuff to the imagination. (Though, I will say, Kai's fire will have a huge role in defending the ninja from the cursed souls and essentially cleansing the realm!!)

~

I think I'm gonna keep Skybound relatively the same because I really like the development it gave Jaya in the og series, and I also like the secret tragic backstory it kinda gives them. Of course, there will be some small corrections made to account for differing relationships and all that!