#like almost all elements of the show is done in a slow burn way that no dynamics or storylines feel forced/rushed ya know

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 14 - Inside and Out

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: We're about to go crazy.

Chapter title from Frankenstien by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 8.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You go back to your place, and start to make a choice. Usual warnings, slight emphasis on mental health/emotional abuse.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

Read on A03!

You didn’t want to leave. 

Happy had gotten all of your security together—although it wouldn’t matter if Miles got his way, which he usually did—and you had to go back to your apartment. 

It’s so big. So needlessly cold and big. And you’ve always liked it for the view, but suddenly you just feel like you’re being suspended over the world, never allowed to rest down somewhere soft.

And you’d been given that, for a few nights. Bucky’s place had been small, and a little bare, but it also hadn’t been lonely. You hadn’t gotten as much work done, but he’d been right about that. No one had died. And the pain hadn’t eased, with the rest, but it hadn’t worsened either. It had simply become on almost low, constant hum up your spine as the Mist rioted. And you’d still wake up with your lungs being ground to dust and sweat on your brow, but then you’d stumble to the bathroom and strong arms would catch you halfway there, helping you settle onto the ground and holding your hair out of your face. 

Miles never did that. You’d be vomiting in the bathroom after the longer and darker nights, a different type of pain in your body—bigger and hollower and made of you, this is your fault, fucking waste of space—and Miles would pretended he couldn’t hear you.

Although people don’t normally aid the pain they cause. 

Bucky would never do that. Hurt you like that. At all. You have evidence for it now, and it’s not helping anything. He cares, and you can know it, but it doesn’t matter. If Miles tugs on your leash, you’ll have to follow. 

But you want to stay. And be cared for.

It’s pathetic.

You don’t need it. You don’t. You’ve survived the bond your whole life, and you saved yourself from your past, and you don’t need Bucky. Making someone else care for you has never ended in your favor, because they couldn’t. Your parents are gone, and all your partners saw you as a good, shiny little investment, and you don’t know if Miles ever cared for you, or if he’d simply seen how malignant you were from the start and decided to put you down.

But Bucky had seen you too.

And he cares.

For you.

It’s a little easier to be you when he’s there, and you’re not forcing yourself to stifle or strange anything for the sake of the Show. It’s nice to fall apart and not worry you’re going to be thrown onto the street for it. It’s good to be known, and reassured, and not feel like you’re committing a hedonistic and foul crime for it. 

You don’t need this.

But fuck, it feels good.

And you don’t want to go back to your apartment. To looking at the cameras and wondering if anyone is watching you. If you’re going to be saved from this high, barbed tower that you can’t stop building, or if you’ll just have to keep going up and up and up until you either tumble down, or walk straight into the Sun. 

You don’t think Bucky’s been checking them. The cameras. There are odd, lingering elements of him being from the 40s, and while one of them isn’t modestly, it’s something close to it.

Chivalry.

That’s why he always opens the door for you. While when you’d changed at his place—in the bathroom, behind two closed doors—he’d always be keeping his back to you until you returned to the living room. You got to choose dinner, and TV, and he’d always carry you to bed instead of just letting you sleep on the couch.

“I know you’re fakin’.” He’d muttered in your ear on the second night, and you hadn’t been able to stop your eyes from flying open. “There she is-“

“Shut up.” You’d grumbled, rolling slightly until your face was pressed to Bucky’s chest.

It wasn’t cheating. And Miles wasn’t a hound dog. He wouldn’tsmell Bucky on you. By the time he got back, this would just be a memory you’d buried in your arteries, to be dug up on lonelier nights and make you feel more alive. And Bucky hadn’t protested. He’d only held you a little tighter.

It hadn’t helped the slowly growing and spreading feelings. It was starting to bloom in your intestines. 

Dangerous. 

But Bucky had laughed, and you couldn’t really be fucked to try and stop it.

“And there’s the smart mouth. And it’s a good try, but I’m not sleepin’ on the bed.”

“But it’s your bed.”

“And you’re my guest, and the one bein’ body guarded. You get the bed. End of discussion.”

You’d sighed, grumbling against his body. “This is an abuse of power.”

Bucky had chucked, and it had vibrated in his chest, dislodging something that sent a new wave of the Mist flooding through your body.

It had clouded over your head and drowned out most of the world, almost knocking you out with the sheer force of it.

Bucky’s words had still made it through.

“We both know I don’t have any real power here, Butterfly.”

You don’t know if you’d responded. 

You do know that he’d been wrong. So incredibly wrong. Bucky cared, and you trusted him, and he was the only person you’d met who didn’t try to grab you and hold you down like your parents, run faster than you like Tony, or allowed you to roam with watchful eyes like Sam. 

Bucky just matched you, step for step, bite for bite, grin for grin. And he had power, because you wanted him to know you, and stay. 

He could break you, you think. If he looked through all your stained glass and folded tapestries, all the way down to that winged, loud, beaten-down core, and decided you weren’t worth it. You’d survived worse. 

You really don’t want to find out if you could survive that.

And you hadn’t wanted to be his guest. You wanted this to, maybe, be it. Everything. And Bucky would sleep at your side and be there when you woke up, just like in your dreams, and maybe the bond would kill you, but you’ve died before.  

You think you’ve died before. 

You’ve been having a lot of really, really strange dreams. 

There’s no one left in the world but you, and the flowers. Blooming through the ash as it turns back to air, then to dirt, then to soil, and everything starts to grow once more.

Everything but you. Wandering this prison alone. 

It’s one you created. And there’s no life left but you, but it will return. Everything will recover, and maybe civilizations will be built once more, and you will become nothing more than a ghost story. A lonely phantom at the edges of the universe, more alive than anyone else, except where it counts. 

They’ll give warnings about you. Whatever evolves into the next dominate form of life will tell tales about the strange looking girl that all the shadows move towards, how the wind is haunted by Her tears, and how She never moves from Her place. How they should dread the day She does, for everything will feel it when Her grief becomes too much to bear once more. 

Then it won’t matter, for them. They’ll all be ash, just like those before them, and you’ll sit here another million years.

Barely more than a stature with a heartbeat, although your heart is buried in the dirt, blooming with moonflowers and never holding you again. 

You wake up from this one with only blood-burning pain and the Boy, nudging your face with his nose and curling on your chest when you start to pet him. 

You’re back in your apartment. In the big bed you hate sleeping in, with the longest shadows creeping over the mattress and under your skin until dawn breaks the sky. 

You’re starting to worry about the dreams more. How they’re getting more and more vivid, and echoing in the world around you, and how—the more they come—the more pain there is in your body. But you can’t tell anyone. It would involve talking about how fast the bond is fraying and snapping, even when Miles has barely been gone a week. 

And Miles wouldn’t care. You can’t even get him on the phone to help with the bond. 

And you know you can’t tell Bucky. He would try to do something about it. You’re sure of that now.  

He cares, and he’d try to free you, and it would end horribly.

“Listen.” He’d said the morning you were heading back, and you hadn’t missed the way he’d angled himself over you at the table, as if he was trying to give himself more authority.

It had been kind of adorable. For him to think he didn’t need to just use the commanding voice and eyes, and you wouldn’t feel like some sort of hazy spell had been cast over your body. 

“Are you listening-“

“I’m listening.” You’d crossed your legs under your body, raising your brows. “You need to talk, though.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but pressed on. “Alright, smartass. You need to listen-“

“I just said-“

“All the time.” Bucky had snapped, narrowing his eyes. “Not just now. I know we’re past our deal of how this works, but I’m fuckin’ serious. If I tell you not to do somethin’ for your safety, you listen. And if you’ve got a problem with it, you use that mouth of yours to tell me. We’re a team. Stop tryin’ to do everything by yourself.”

“I- I’m-“ Your heartbeat had been in your ears, and it hadn’t been the pain. It had been Bucky’s glare, driving right into you with care. He cared. For some fucking reason, Bucky really cared, and his jawline was really sharp when he glowered, and his eyes were so blue and focused on you and-

He’s looking at you again. The way only Bucky’s ever looked at you, where he can see right into you and find nothing but beauty in it. There’s nothing to be said. Nothing that needs to be said. Your breathing is shallow and the world is spinning, but when you stumble, Bucky catches you and doesn’t let go. There’s a sound like a drum building in your ears. A feeling like you’re being frozen and burned alive all at once, and it’s coating your skin like poison, but Bucky just keeps holding you. You could hurt him. He knows you could hurt him. And there’s nothing to stop you, but he’s still just holding you, and he needs to let go-

You must say that aloud, because Bucky shakes his head, and only holds you tighter.

“I’m keepin’ you, Butterfly.” He picks you a little up off the ground, and you drop your brow to his shoulder without thought. “I know, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

The vision had faded back into nothing, Bucky had grunted your name, and you’d nodded nervously. 

“Okay. I- I’ll stop pushing it-“

“No, that’s not-“ Bucky had sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t care that you’re pushin’ it. I know you’re going to push it, kid. Just stop trying to push it without me. I meant it.” He’d leaned forward, his features neutral but nostrils flaring slightly —you still didn’t know what that Look meant—and held your wide-eyed gaze. “You’re important. And I’m not letting anything happen to you. So stop trying to test that.”

You’d swallowed and nodded, a small fear in your chest that if you spoke, you’d tell him. The truth. All of the truth. About the bond and Miles and how you’d like some help there too, please.

That was too much to ask. That wasn’t something a friend asked of another friend.

Although the lines between what friends did and didn’t do was becoming blurred.

The week continues to pass, and Bucky’s boots are living next to your door. 

You don’t know if he misses you too, when you’re not there. You know you miss him. You know that when he parks in the garage after work, and you both stare at each other for an impossibly long moment, there’s always a fear in your body that he’ll just go, and you’ll spend the rest of the night alone.

But he doesn’t go. 

For three nights in a row, he’s helped you out of the car, rolled his eyes as you hummed what a gentleman, and followed you upstairs.

He might just be trying to keep an eye on you.  

If he is, you can’t really bring yourself to be mad about it. 

It means that Bucky, at the end of it, just cares. Enough to make you go to bed the moment you yawn. To not snap at you when you talk over the TV, looking at you with a vague amusement and small grin on his face, his arm over the back of the couch and his own comments short and dry and easy.

Having Bucky here is so easy. 

He’s slotted himself into your life with an impossible ease, and now you can’t imagine him being anywhere else. Next to you, holding your hair back, driving you up the wall in a way that makes you feel—for the first time you can remember—comfortably alive.

“No.” Bucky grabs your laptop from your hands before it’s even fully out of your bag, holding it high over your head with the vibranium arm. “You’re takin’ the night off, kid.”

You scowl, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your chin. “You’re not my boss, Buck. Give me back my computer.”

“You can have it if you can take it.”

“I- You fucking asshole-“

“I know.” He grins down at you. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give it a shot.”

There’s no way you can physically take it from him. He’s a super solider, and you’ve been getting lightheaded when you stand up. 

He’s smirking. He knows that. 

“Asshole.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again.” You stick your tongue out at him, holding your ground. “What can you possibly be gaining from this, James? Do you feel like a big man, keeping my computer hostage?”

He just laughs. “Yeah, I do. You were going to type it to death, I’m doin’ it a favor.”

First plan of attack, a failure. “You suck.”

“I’ve also heard I’m an asshole.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Mist rushes you, and suddenly you’re swaying slightly on your feet. 

Bucky catches you. He always catches you. And when the dark spots over your vision clear he’s frowning down at you in his arms, the laptop moved somewhere you can’t see as the vibranium hand brushes hair from your eyes. 

“You alright?” Bucky mutters your name, and your fingers curl in his neck. 

You’re alright. Bucky’s got you. 

He’s got you. He’s always got you. 

There’s something worse than Hell roaring for you in the ash, but Bucky’s got you. 

And nothing is going to hurt either of you again.

Something is happening to you. Something with the Mist, and Bucky, and so much pain that’s never going to stop.

“This.” Bucky mutters your name, so soft you’re not sure if you’re supposed to hear. “This is why you need to slow down. You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

You won’t. You’ve moved faster and faster for far longer and through more pain. 

But now it’s Bucky asking you to rest. With him. 

So you can only nod, and hum an okay.

“Good girl.” He mutters, helping you fully to your feet, and that’s not helping anything. 

Now all you can imagine doing is jump onto him and seeing how he’ll catch you then. If he’ll receive the building pressure between your thighs, every time bare skin brushes yours or he smiles at you from his eyes. 

He keeps smiling at you from his eyes.

“If I gotta take a night off, you do too.” He drawls, herding you to the couch. “But, in case you’re thinkin’ of being a brat, I brought you shit.”

“You-“ It takes a second to compose yourself. You think Bucky might be trying to kill you. “Are you trying to bribe me, Sargent Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not very ethical.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He gives you a flat look, dropping down to fumble through his backpack. “You want your bribes or not?”

You swallow, and give him a small nod. “Yes, please.”

“Sit.” 

He’s using the voice, but you don’t think he even knows there is a voice. His eyes even flash with slight surprise when you listen immediately, and his nod is slow. 

“Alright.” Bucky draws back up from his bag, his hands set behind his face. “First, for the Boy.”

“For the-“ You squeak as Bucky tosses you a small bag. “Oh.”

Cat treats. 

Bucky bought you cat treats.

And that shouldn’t be making a small lump form in your throat, but it is. He bought you cat treats. The same cat treats you’d been giving the Boy, when you’d been at his place. He’d noticed what treats you bought, and he’d gotten them for the Boy, and this isn’t fair. It would be so nice to make this permanent, but it won’t be, and you’d love for Bucky to be yours for a long time—maybe until that end of world you’ve been dreaming about—but he can’t be.

“Shit, I- Are you-“

“I’m good.” You whisper, offering him a small smile. “I’m really good, Buck. Thank you.”

He blinks at you, a small frown on his lips and his stance a little more tense than usual, but he still nods slowly.

“Yeah. That’s- alright. You want the other thing?”

You nod—words don’t seem wise right now—and Bucky clears his throat.

“I know you said this a while ago, and you mighta been jokin’, but I figured best to give it a shot. So, uh- Here.”

Bucky holds out a small stack of papers, and you frown up at him. “I have paper, Buck. You got me paper.”

“This isn’t paper. It’s got words.”

“It’s-“ You lean forward, and it does indeed have words. 

Not typed, though. Written in a tight, neat script, signed JBB at the top. 

“Bucky?” You glance up, and find him shuffling awkwardly on his feet. “Is this a book report?”

“Yeah. I- You said I could know the Boy’s real name. If I did the book report.”

“Oh.” You didn’t think he’d actually do it.

There’s no way is hell you’re going to be able to not tell him now.

“Do you want me to… go get him?” You ask, fighting a smile at Bucky’s confused expression. “The Boy. For the big name reveal.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, his voice suddenly a little hoarse. “You’re gonna tell me?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” You give him a mock-offended expression. “I’m wounded you’d think I’d lie.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Don’t know where I ever woulda gotten that idea.”

“I know.” You give a full, unrestrained smile, and you really don’t care if he sees you anymore.

You want him to.

“Are you ready?”

“Born it, Butterfly. You want me to guess, first?”

“No, you won’t get it.”

“You’ve got so much faith in me, sweetheart-“

“Shut up. It’s Behemoth.”

Bucky blinks at you. “Beeheemot.”

“Beh-heh-mot.” You correct, and as if he was summoned, the Boy jumps right up to your lap. “It’s a biblical sea monster. Just like you.”

You boop the Boy’s nose, he blinks at you slowly, and Bucky clears his throat. He’s staring at you, an odd, heavy Look—maybe confusion, although he’s not blinking enough—written over his face, and you frown.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh-“ He coughs, shaking his head slightly. “Just not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Not sure.” He’s still making a strange face. “How’d- Uh- How’d you come up with that?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “Read it somewhere, I guess. Don’t really remember.”

“Huh.”

You nod absentmindedly, the Boy nudging your hand with his nose. “Yeah, it’s um- It’s one of those glossy memories I was talking about. I- I just try not to think about them-“

“You don’t have to,” Bucky mutters, dropping onto the couch at your side. “Just an odd name. But,” he gives you a small grin, and it’s still from his eyes. “You’re kind of an odd person.”

You smile at him. “You’re an odd person too, Sargent Barnes.”

“It’s the metal arm, isn’t it.”

“No.” You hum, scratching behind the Boy’s ear, and Bucky sighs.

“You’re gonna make me guess, aren’t you.”

“Maybe.” You throw him an open, teasing look. “You gonna tell me why I’m odd.”

“You wanna know?”

You shrug, holding his gaze, and Bucky leans forward.

Far forward.

His knee is bumping yours, and it’s a little mind numbing, and suddenly nowhere in the worlds exists outside of Bucky, and his deep, amused voice. 

“I think you’re odd.” He drawls your name, holding your gaze. “Because you’re mean, and the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“I- Oh.”

“Never seen someone be so mouthy and sweet all at once,” he hums, and it’s good you’re already sitting down. “It’s fucking captivating, Butterfly. Didn’t understand why everyone loves you at first, but now I do. You’ve got some sort of spell. Doesn’t make any sense otherwise.”

Your voice is small, when you respond. “Everyone doesn’t love me, James-“

“Yeah, they do.” 

“No-“

“Only people that don’t are the suits, and they don’t love you cause they know you’re better than they are. Everyone else? You’ve got them hooked.”

You can only stare at him. People don’t love you. They tolerate you, because they haveto. Because you’re the boss or the toy or the charity case. The too alive girl that’s eating Herself in the corner, and is best left alone or She’ll eat you too. 

But Bucky’s saying it like it’s a fact. A given. 

And the Mist is going to split your nerves apart.

“Why am I odd? C’mon, I showed you mine-“

“I like you.” 

Bucky blinks, frowning slightly, but you push on before he can speak. 

“I- I don’t like a lot of people. Not really. Not to talk to, or hang out with, or-“ You swallow, shaking your head. “I just prefer being alone. Easier. But I- I don’t want to be alone, if talking to you is an option.”

And that’s dangerous. Is what you should add. I can do things no one person should be able to do, and it’s all under the control of a vile man I can never escape, so you should run before I hurt you more than you’ve already been hurt. More than you deserve. Please run, Bucky, now. 

He doesn’t run. He just stares at you, and whatever spell he was talking about, you’re the one under it. Bucky’s holding your gaze, and you’re like a fly in a trap. You’re not going to be the one to move. You can’t be.

You’ll do something really, really stupid if you’re the one to move. 

Maybe it’s good, the door flies open when it does. That you kick into the show based on pure instinct and scramble back across the couch, because no one else walks with those stomping steps and barges in without knocking. Like they own the place.

And they don’t. You do.

But it’s Miles. 

So that schematic doesn’t matter at all. 

“Honey, go put on the red dress, we’re going-“ Miles freezes when he sees you.

With Bucky.

And freezes is the wrong word. He goes still. Like a fucking predator.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t know he should. That with one word from Miles, you might be turned into a cruel, unforgiving animal. 

He has no way to know. You haven’t warned him. 

“Barnes.” Miles says, his voice cool, and your blood shivers when his attention turns to you. “What’s the sidekick doing here.”

Bucky shifts in your periphery. “I was-“

“Didn’t ask you, buddy.” Miles snaps, not looking away from you. “What’s he doing.”

“I- We’ve been getting some extra threats at the office,” you whisper. A half-truth is better—and safer—than a lie. “Sam asked him to do a sweep of our apartment. To make sure we’re safe-“

Miles snorts at that. “Tell Wilson to keep that shit to himself.”

Bucky tenses, but you know Miles’ dismissal isn’t for the reason he’s thinking. It’s not that Miles doesn’t care if you live or die—he does, though mostly because you’re a good asset—it’s that he knows if someone were to try and hurt you, at least while he was here, they’d be the one in danger. 

How you’ll fare on your own doesn’t seem to occur to him though, as he stomps across the carpet and you keep your eyes fixed on his shoes.

“We’re going out.” He snaps your name, and you keep your head bowed. “Go put on that dress. I got a party I need you at. And you,” his voice turns venomous, and you know he’s looking at Bucky. “Get out of my apartment.”

Bucky doesn’t move. And you can feel his gaze on yours, giving you a silent permission he doesn’t understand the weight of. If you ask him to stay, he will.

You can’t ask him to stay. It will get him hurt. You don’t care about the punishment that will follow as well—Miles either abusing the bond until you’re worn thin, or neglecting it until you’re too weak to get out of bed—but you care what will happen to Bucky, if you’re to selfish, and beg him to stay.

To save you.

And in all those stories with happy endings, where the Princess gets saved from the dragon, the Princess and the Dragon are never the same. She’s never asking to be saved from the chain she wrapped around her neck, that painted itself as blanket, then wound itself a little too tight. 

Bucky can’t save you. But by just standing and walking to your room—the Boy squeaking and following after you—you’re saving him. 

And you need to find a way to tell him that. Somewhere no one else will hurt either of you, where you’ll explain it and beg on your knees for him to do nothing. But he can’t think you’re just walking away. You never want to walk away. Not from Bucky. He’s slowly becoming the best place in the world to be, and you’re not strong enough to fight that anymore.

So you’ll tell him. 

Somehow, you’ll figure out how to tell him everything. If he sees this pathetic, weak part of you and somehow stays. 

He might not stat. Not after this. He might be angry for how you just let Miles kick him out, and you won’t be friends anymore. 

And you have bigger things to worry about than if Bucky will still like you. But that doesn’t stop the thought from looping in your head, over and over, until you’re certain you’ll have driven yourself insane by the end of the night.

“Why was he on the couch,” Miles spits your name as he stomps into the room, and you flinch slightly. 

You messed up your eyeliner. 

Now you have to start over, or the entire Show will fall apart.

“I was being polite.” You don’t look away from the mirror as you scrub everything off, and then go a little further. Until your skin is stinging and red. “He finished the sweep, and it felt rude to kick him out-“

“I don’t give a fuck what’s rude.” Miles is standing behind you. His hand has found its way to hold your waist, and you have to give him a sweet smile.

It looks wrong on your face. Like it’s more rotting than really, truly sweet. Like opening the core of an apple to find it filled with worms.

But Miles doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong.

So you’re playing your role well.

“Next time that ass shit tries to make a move on you, say no.”

The flush rising up your cheek is, for once, genuine. “I- He wasn’t-“

“Don’t be stupid.” Miles rolls his eyes, squeezing your hip. “I know men, honey. He wants to get into your pants.”

No, he doesn’t. You would have noticed if he did. 

You would have. 

You’re not sure what Bucky wanting you would look like, but you’d be able to figure it out. You think you’d be able to figure it out. He may stare at you all the time, but he stares at everyone. He always drawls your name, but he drawls everything. It’s the Brooklyn accent. And it slips out when he’s comfortable, so-

Comfortable.

Bucky’s comfortable with you. 

That doesn’t mean anything. 

But it could.

And you’re lucky Miles never really looks at you deeper than the surface. Otherwise he might have seen that tiny break in the show, and it would have ended in a locked bathroom door and a lot more makeup.

“I bet he made the threat himself.” Miles is muttering, changing out of his blood-red tie into a different blood-red tie. “Just to have an excuse to push his way into you. Grab the damsel then bend her over the couch.”

Bucky hadn’t bended you over any couch. He’d carried you to bed, then held your hand. 

You’re not allowed to do anything but focus on your mascara.

“You know, this is exactly fucking why you should quit that stupid fucking Stark job and move with me. I’d be able to keep an eye on you, and Barnes would never know where the hell you went. Would leave you the fuck alone, keep his grimy metal hands off my shit-“

Your hands are shaking slightly. 

Deep breaths. Swallow the vomit, and take deep breaths. You can’t slip a second time.

“Hogan’s been fucking avoiding me. I’ll track the dipshit down. Just because he was in Stark’s circle doesn’t mean he gets to ignore me, and Stark’s fucking dead-“

Shit. 

There’s a stain of mascara on your upper cheekbone. If you’re careful, you can turn it into a beauty mark. 

“Do my tie.”

That’s an order. And it’s not a pull on the bond, but you still can’t disobey. It’s not like you’ve never done Miles’ tie before. You know exactly how to force your fingers to be steady, and keep yourself small and meek as you stand before him. When you’re done, you’ll take a step back and keep your eyes on the ground until Miles approves your own outfit, and then the real show begins. 

It's a tightrope. You belong to Miles, but you’re not the creature he’s beaten into submission. You’ve chosen to latch to his side, and there will be crude things said behind your back—questions of how wide your legs can spread to fit Miles and Tony, jokes about you being a secret dominatrix behind closed doors that Miles can’t be allowed to hear—but you’re okay with them. They certainly don’t sting a layer deeper than anyone can ever see, and any hitch in your breath is from public arousal rather than fear. 

Miles keeps himself around you because you’ve asked him to. Because you like the sensation of his body—always so strangely white-hot, feeling more like stone than flesh—over yours. And you only smile at him pathetically because you are, always, just a lovesick little girl. 

“How’d you manage to put a leash on the Cattle Prod, Toper?”

Miles laughs, and you keep your smile plastered on your face. 

It’s funny. You’re too ditzy to understand how it’s funny, but you’re still supposed to be aware that it’s funny. The Show means that you just keep fucking smiling, and when Miles’ hand wanders down to squeeze your ass in front of all these other suits, you like it. 

No bile can make it past your throat. No pain can do more than fog your vision and cause your head to spin. 

You just giggle like some silly idiot, and flutter your eyes up at Miles as he spares you less than a glance.

“You just need a whip, Johnson.” Another squeeze of your ass. Keep fucking smiling. “You got the right one, then they just come back begging you for more. Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Hm?” You bat your eyelashes—too long, and little sticky on your face—up at Miles, and he laughs.

You nailed your line.

You just have to keep getting through the night. 

And these parties are almost always the exact fucking same, so you’ve had practice. Stay at Miles’ side like he’s glued you there. Never look him or anyone else in the eye, or they’ll take it as an invitation. Keep walking that line of sweet, small little bunny for Miles and lustful, whoring bitch without stumbling, or everything will fall to the ground. If someone asks you about the Foundation, don’t answer unless Miles repeats the question. If you need to go to the bathroom—for any reason—hold it. Eat and drink whatever is handed to you. Never say no, or there will be consequences, but don’t do anything where people think you might say yes. 

Miles says if men think you’ll say yes, they’ll ask. And in your experience, he’s not wrong. 

But Bucky doesn’t do that. 

He’ll ask when he knows you’re going to say no. He holds your gaze and stays a pace behind you all the time, letting you lead the way then grabbing you whenever you stumble.

Catching you.

Bucky always catches you, and he lets you talk all you want, and if you need to go the bathroom he waits at the door until you’re done. 

And when you no, he may push it, but he still respects it. No cameras until you say so. No questions about your past until you’re volunteering the information. No days off until you’re crashing and burning, and he’s fucking catching you.

He’d hate this as much as you do. He’s hate all the suits and their over-postering, and mutter in your ear that it’s not even proper posture. That in the military the shoulders go back, and the chest puffs out naturally. If you’re puffing out the chest on its own, you’re doing damage. 

Bucky would agree that the food was shit. Tiny portions that taste like either nothing, or shit. Not a single bit of flavor or spice to be found. 

And you’d tell him that Sargent Oatmeal isn’t allowed to grumble about flavor, and he’d say that he’s earned it. And all these assholes are babies compared to him. There’s no spice because they couldn’t handle it.

You’d agree with that. Miles can’t handle spice. He refused to even touch it.

And all these assholes are babies, compared to Bucky. Throwing tantrum about their money and trying to show off their shiny toys. 

Bucky would stand with you silently in the corner. No forced conversation with strangers who might want something from you.

It could just be you and Bucky, in the dark, talking about whatever you wanted. 

But Miles wants you to meet someone. And it’s not useful to compare them, but that doesn’t stop you. Bucky’s hand wouldn’t feel like an intrusion on your body, and he’d be guiding you rather than pushing you. It would be easier to keep your pace in these too-high heels, because Bucky would match your pace. 

And he wouldn’t shove you out onto the roof without a jacket-

The roof.

Why the fuck are you on the roof.

“Miles.” You whisper, and your voice possible lost to the wind. “I- I’m not-“

“Quiet.” He grunts, his voice in your ear crawling over your very bones. “We’ve got some business to take care of, honey. The more you behave, the sooner we go back to the party.”

You bite on your inner cheek, and nod. You should have fucking known. It’s never just a party. It’s a place for Miles to remind you of your place. Remind you that you’re his attack bitch, and it’s only when you remember it that everything can be easy. If you don’t fight your leash, and don’t bite his hand, then that’s it. You do go back inside, and he’ll leave soon, and the pain gets to lessens as the edge from the bond is removed. 

But the pain has been so much worse. The bond has been fraying too fast, and there’s always another party, and your leash has always felt like more of a noose. 

It doesn’t matter. 

You always have too much to lose. And you’re always still just the vicious, ugly, bitch. 

So you bow your head, and close your mouth. 

There’s a small, weedy man pacing back and forth. He’s positioned himself away from the edge of the building—he must have heard, for somewhere, that Miles Toper doesn’t do clean business—but it won’t matter. 

You’re the real danger here. 

“Listen, Toper, I-“ The man cuts himself off, his eyes widening on you. “Who the hell is this? You said we’d be meeting alone.”

“We are meeting alone.” Miles sighs. He’s keeping you in front of him. 

A shield.

“I don’t know if you’re blind or stupid, but there’s a fucking lady-“

“This is my girlfriend, Eric. And don’t worry, she’s just a pretty face.”

You’re not a pretty face. There’s something hideous ripping its way up your spine in anticipation. It knows what’s coming, just as you do. Just like Miles does.

Poor Eric hasn’t quite caught on yet.

“She might say something, Toper-“

Miles laughs. “No, she won’t. She doesn’t bark, isn’t that right, honey.”

You keep your smile wide and sweet, even if it’s all full lips and no teeth. You’re not supposed to have teeth yet. Not until Miles orders them out. 

“See?” Miles drawls. “Isn’t she pretty?”

Eric shakes his head. “Man, I just- I want to get this over with-“

“Tell her she’s pretty.” Miles repeats, and you don’t have to look back to see the sneer on his face.

“You- You’re very pretty, miss-“

“Say thank you,” Miles says in your ear, and you can’t fall over from the dizzying fucking pain. It’s everywhere, and it’s biting at all the nerves over your skull and driving like an ice pick into your brain. 

“Thank you.” You whisper, and Miles chuckles. 

“See? We can all have civil conversations, can’t we? Have you given my offer anymore thought, Eric?”

“I- I can’t- You’re asking for more than I can afford-“

Miles scoffs. “You’ll be able to afford it. Everyone can afford it-“

“I can’t-“

“Even you’re not that bankrupt.” Miles snaps, and Eric flinches. “And you’re desperate. I know you’re desperate. And I’ll be able to take care of everything, if you’d just fucking sign you human ballsack.” 

Eric swallows, and—in a feat of bravery you don’t think the man knows he’s doing—stands a little taller, and shakes his head. “No. I won’t.”

Miles sighs, but you know he expected this. 

He wouldn’t have brought you if he didn’t. 

And he says your name, his grip bruising on your arm, and you just have to keep fucking smiling. “Make him understand.”

You nod, and it’s right at the edge of your fingertip, trying to sear its way into the air. If you don’t let it out, it will turn in and kill you. 

But still, even as you look Eric right in the eye and he sees it—you, the last part of you, the hateful and dark and bloodied part that even Bucky hasn’t been able to find—you mouth I’m sorry. 

You truly are. 

This is going to hurt you, too. 

Eric’s mind is made of files. It’s neat, and cold, and mostly empty. From in here, he seems like a lonely, boring little man. 

But as you wander the halls—god, it’s annoying when people are halls, but it’s better than the mazes—all the brightest bits of him are blinding. He has a son, and the kid has the same bump on their forehead that your little brother Tommy always used to get. The one that means they move too fast and always get right back up, before sporting the lumping bruise like it’s a badge of honor. Eric has a dog, too. And it’s a loyal little thing that, in all the files you can open and find, is always trailing after him and wagging its tail. 

He thinks mostly in fear. In what ifs. What if he’d gone to a different collage. What if he’d moved away from home. What if he hadn’t run that night, what if he’d been braver and said how he felt. But it’s quiet. The fear of a man who’s already accepted it’s all he’ll be. 

It’s even more impressive that he told Miles no.

And even more tragic that it doesn’t matter.

God, you don’t want to do this. He volunteers at soup kitchens and eats from the same Greek restaurant every Friday night, because he has a crush on the owner. And he knits, and he’s shit at it, but he still does it because it makes him happy. 

Miles said you had to make him understand, though. He’d shoved you in here, and now if you don’t, you’ll die. And your brother won’t have anyone, and the Boy will be put out on the street because Miles hates him. You may deserve this fate, but they don’t. You’re here for them. For anyone but yourself. 

It’s easier to do this quick. To do as you’re told, and get out.

Eric’s center is a big, white room with a lot of faded images pinned neatly on a corkboard. You place your palm flat on the floor, and whisper into the soupy torment of this poor, sad man.

“Be more open. Be more careful. Be a little selfish, and do as he asks.”

You fly back out, you’re on the floor. Miles hadn’t caught you, when you’d gone under. You wish you knew how to do it without going into a mind—your mother said you’d been able to do that before, but the secret of how is gone with her—but you don’t hate how you can’t see it happen. The only visible aftereffects on Eric are the scratch marks on his face and the clump of hair in hands. 

It would be nice to make it not hurt, too. But at least you don’t have to hear them scream. 

And Eric’s not a strong enough man to fight what you did. His eyes open slowly, a cautious, but curious expression on his face, and Miles grins.

It’s such an ugly fucking smile. It’s like a shark. Sharp, white teeth, and a dead look in his eyes right before he swallows his prey whole. 

Miles says your name, and doesn’t even spare you a glance. “Go inside. I’ll get you when I’m done.”

You nod, and stumble away. Back into the glittering lights and stifling air that’s too hot and too cold. 

The pain should be gone, now. You used your power, and the bond should be like an iron chain, and you should be better.

You’re not. The Mist is back, and it’s churning in your gut and making your throat ache, and why the fuck isn’t the pain gone. It should be gone.

There’s an open bar. Miles might be a while, and even if he’s not and you get in trouble for drinking, there’s nothing he’ll do to you that you don’t fucking deserve. 

The first whiskey burns, but not more than the pain, and not enough to numb it. So you take another. And another. And a woman with lipstick that’s a really ugly shade of red comes up to you and ask for your name, and you’re not sure if you tell her. Then another man puts his hand on your waist, and you stumble away to a dark corner of the room. 

A waiter finds you there. Offers you champagne on a fancy silver tray.

It still hurts. You just want it not to hurt.

You take the glass. 

And the fourth whiskey shot. And the vodka shot. And Miles is taking forever, and you just want to go home but you’re not allowed to yet, so when another woman with curly hair in the bathroom offers you some absinthe, you take that too.

The room is spinning with light like a disco ball. The Show isn’t dropping yet. It has to keep going, until you crash and crash and crash. 

You’re getting closer. 

You’re never quite there yet. 

Someone grabs your wrist, and you smile at them. The Show doesn’t let you say no.

It’s a strange, older looking man. Broad. A worn face and heavy features, scanning over you with his brow furrows. His skin is clammy on yours, and his eyes are beady, and the whiskers of his beard look like they’re trying to fall off his face. 

“You.” He whispers, scanning over your face. “Are so beautiful, Левиафан.”

“Левиафан.” Another man is standing over you. This one is wearing gloves. 

That must be your fault. 

You must have touched something, or someone, and now they’re trying to put it back together. This man doesn’t want to be broken too. 

“Tree.” He nods to the sapling in front of you. “Kill it.”

You don’t want to. But if you don’t, they won’t let anyone visit you. 

People barely visit you at all. 

You still don’t think you can stand to keep being alone. 

Your fingers rest on the weaker bark, and you’re never sure how to do this. It’s just a hum under your skin, cool and soft and turning all the time, and if you can weave it into something beautiful in your head, then-

It happens suddenly. A leaf twitches. Then a second leaf sprouts out. 

Then the tree shoots up. The trunk grows thick, and the ground shakes as roots break through the concrete floor, and the man is shouting for you to stop but you don’t know how. Everything is just waxing and turning in your body and grabbing it back down would hurt so fucking much, and-

Something releases into the air with a hiss, and white smoke clouds your vision, before it all goes dark. 

When the vision clears, you’re stranded. In the middle of the crowded room, with hundreds of people who are better than you—who have never felt all this fucking pain—blurring around you and never once sparing you more than an odd glance. 

The man is gone. 

And nobody can fucking see it. See how you’re going to bend, going to bow, going to fall to your knees under the weight of this and never be able to get the fuck back up. They’re all moving so fast, but still too slow, and you want to scream but your voice is stuck to the walls of your fucking throat and- 

Your knees are weak. And you can’t tell if it’s the drinks that are making your every step unsteady, or the way you’re so lightheaded you’re sure you’re going to be pushed violently down, but your balance is off. You’re bumping into sharp corners, and you’re going to fall-

The door of the coatroom slams behind you, and your fingers fumble for the lock.

There’s a click. 

And you stumble back, and sink down to the floor with a hand over your mouth. 

It hurts. Everything hurts, and you’re cold and alone and trapped. 

You want to be saved, but you can’t even stand or call out. And you certainly don’t deserve it. 

You’ll have to drag the Show back together. Just enough to get home and collapse like this on bathroom floor. Maybe, if Miles leaves right after of passes out, you’ll be able to call Bucky.

Maybe he’ll pick up.

Maybe if you ask him to save you, he will. Maybe if you tell him what you are, he somehow won’t hate you. Won’t finally see just how fucking evil you are. 

It doesn’t matter right now. Not much does.

You certainly don’t. 

Right now, you stay huddled on the floor of the dark room, alone and all too much, and try to pretend you’re not in pain. 

It’s getting so hard. 

But you have to. Until you tell Bucky—and only if he decides to stay—you have to. 

If you fall down alone again, you’re not sure you’re going to get back up. 

End Note: I'm soft launching her powers. Is it working. AND HI!! THANK YOU GUYS FOR WAITING! I'M BACK!

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[livelaughlovesubs]

head empty, just the idea of worshipping his body while fucking fyodor so tenderly, he'd probably be a sobbing mess AWH MY BABY I LOVE HIM SM WTF😔🙏

(lets act like its not my first time on tumblr lol)

Yea nah, everything’s fine dw, I’ve got you >:)

Dom!reader x sub!fyodor (reader is gender neutral)

Warning: service dom, pegging (can be read as a dick), body worship, dacryphilia

It was another cloudless night, the sky a romantic painting filled with colours of the dark. The moon was bright, and the light reached your humble chambers. Like a tender blanket, that covered the space in front of you. Its slightly yellow tone illuminated your bedroom, and the rays hit the hair of the male. You noticed it very quickly, because his hair was black. The way it shone and sparkled on his skin was as if the moon was merely a decoration, an accessory of the main character. His hair had some purple elements now, it stood out since it matched his eye colour. Tonight was a dreamy night, a masterpiece of a century.

You caressed his cheeks with one hand, and stroke his hair with the other. Both his skin and locks felt silky and smooth, it was quite nice to the touch. Then you leaned down and kissed him tenderly, before pulling back with a gentle smile. Fyodor had a dazed look on his face, along with a faint blush covering his face. When you pulled back he tried to catch your lips, but you stopped him with your finger. He felt your touch moving downwards, first to his ears, then shoulders, chest and last but not least his waist. You stopped for a moment, holding his slim waist in your hands, watching him squirm minimal. A soft giggle slipped from you, followed by you reaching out for his thighs.

Fyodor sighed, letting you do whatever you wanted. With a swift movement you positioned yourself between his legs, hands still holding his thighs upwards. Then you lifted them onto your shoulder and kissed his inner thighs. His eyes shook a little, he stared at you with impatience. “A little longer.” You told him, before you started to suck and lick the spot you previously kissed. Another adorable sound escaped his throat, paired with him throwing his hand over his mouth in embarrassment.

You continued to caress him with the most tender movements, while he let out a breathless whimper. Once you reached his crotch, you skipped that part once again and adorned his belly with more smooches. He almost wanted to curse, was this your way of teasing him? Making him feel all hot and embarrassed like this? Why did you have to touch every nook and cranny of his body?

After you were done with him tummy, there were multiple dark spots. Marks, from you, that you left on his body. When fyodor stared down st them, he had to gulp and furrow his brows. Technically you did nothing but make a show, yet he was so needy now and his dick was standing up all proud. “Y/n…” the boy was about to beg you to do something, when you interrupted him, “so pretty, my love. You look beautiful tonight.” He didn’t know how to react to you suddenly complimenting him, so he stayed quiet. Now burying his face in his hands as his thighs trembled and dick twitched.

“You are so adorable fyodor, I love everything about you.” You began, as you repositioned yourself and poked his entrance with your dick. “..!? Wai-wait.. y/n.” He was so eager just moments before, but now you caught him off guard. “What is it, dear?” Your voice was filled with adoration and care, it felt like he didn’t deserve this, as if this wasn’t intended for him. On one hand it made him feel warm, hot even, on the other hand it’s burning, almost enough to hurt. Then you began pushing, hips moving forward as slow as possible. He felt you slowly penetrating him, feeling his rim getting stretched. You were filling him up so good that tears came to his eyes.

Suddenly you grabbed his hand, holding it tightly while you bottomed out. Fyodor squeezed yours whenever it got overwhelming, and soft tears rolled down his cheeks. “Good job, you did so well.” You whispered, then brought his hand to your lips and kissed his fingers, all while you started moving gently. Your hips were moving so little, it was like a wind breeze, despite all that the male felt like he was about to finish in any moment. A few more whines left him, legs trying to clench together but you were in between them. His hand trembled, you could feel that, even so you kept kissing it.

After a while you let go of his hand and pulled him in for a kiss, pressing your lips and hips against his. He yelped and moaned into your mouth, hands clasping around your neck with a shivering sensation coursing through his body. Your trusts became a little faster, almost not noticeably so, though for him it was too heavenly to manage. Just a little more and he would reach the edge, that’s what he thought, so he hugged you even tighter and kept letting out small whimpers of encouragement, “ah..ha-haah..uh, y/n..i’m close…” his little warning was barely audible, you almost didn’t hear it among his groans.

In addition to your already pretty fast trusts, you rubbed his nipples with your hands, determined to make him feel good. Fyodor’s back arched from the bed, sobbing in silence as he let you touch him all over. It was just too cute, his reactions to his voice and body, so much that you couldn’t help but kiss him again. While you did that, you cut off his air, making him gag a bit. More tears spilled, and you cooed at him, “shh, it’s alright my love, you can come.” Then you kissed his tears away, and held his hand again. The male bit his lower lip, almost enough for the skin to rip. His slim figure moving back and forth with each one of your poundings.

“Ha..haaah, aAah..!” You watched him gasp and pant, his hand clinching onto the sheets below him before he let out an especially loud moan. The next thing that followed was his sex twitching and white ropes of cum spurting out of him. His thighs shook terribly so, he also tried to close his legs again but to no avail. Head thrown back as waves of pleasure traveled through him. “aaAHHNgnN~!!” He was so loud when he came, you just had to smile at him. With careful motions, you helped him ride out his high and hold him close to you again. Fyodor hugged you back, still breathing unevenly as he mumbled, “hahh, y-y/n.. kiss me again.”

[rdmasevi]

In the Wax and the Wound

Title: "In the Wax and the Wound": A House of Wax fanfiction

Pairing: Bo Sinclair x Reader Fem

Genre: Psychological Thriller | Dark Romance | Gothic Horror | Suspense

Warnings: Psychological manipulation / gaslighting, Implied past violence and murder, Themes of obsession and entrapment, Isolation / emotional vulnerability, Creeping dread and horror elements, Slow-burn, morally gray romance with a dangerous man

Summary: When your car breaks down near the eerie, forgotten town of Ambrose, you meet Bo Sinclair—a mysterious mechanic with a dangerous past and a magnetic pull.

You didn’t mean to end up in Ambrose. No one ever does.

Your car had stuttered to a halt fifteen miles off the nearest highway. It was supposed to be a quick detour—a scenic route you’d taken by accident, thanks to a bad GPS signal and an aching desire to be alone. A solo road trip to reset after a breakup that had left you feeling unmoored and invisible.

It was almost poetic, in a cursed sort of way, that you’d find Ambrose—a ghost town preserved in wax and silence.

The gas station had looked abandoned, but the flicker of movement behind the curtain had you knocking anyway. You half-expected to be ignored.

But then he opened the door.

Bo Sinclair.

He had that kind of presence that crawled under your skin—broad shoulders under a work shirt, dark hair tousled like it hadn’t been combed in hours, maybe days. A crooked smile that said he knew more than he let on. The kind of man who’d seen things, done things, and didn’t care if you noticed.

You didn’t trust him. Not at first.

But something about the way he looked at you—like you weren’t just another tourist, not just another mistake—kept you standing there.

"You lost, sweetheart?"

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere between your throat and your pride. He stepped aside, motioned for you to come in.

"You can use the phone. Ain’t got a signal out here, but I got a landline in back."

It felt like a trap. You walked in anyway.

——

The town unfolded in layers—quiet, timeless, strange. He offered to tow your car to his shop. You watched from the passenger seat of his truck as wax figures lined the streets, still and smiling. Too lifelike.

Something inside you screamed to leave. But he kept talking—about small towns, about family, about how not everyone needs to live under fluorescent lights and deadlines.

“Ambrose’s got its own rhythm,” he said. “You stay too long, you start to hear it.”

You stayed longer than you should have.

It started with little things. A cup of coffee left on your doorstep. Your car mysteriously taking longer and longer to fix. Bo showing up just when you were starting to wonder if you’d gone mad.

He didn’t hide the darkness in him. If anything, he wore it like a second skin.

But he was kind to you. Careful in a way that didn’t quite fit with the sharpness in his eyes or the scars on his hands. You didn’t ask about the wax figures. Didn’t question the way the town seemed frozen in time. Not yet.

Because when he looked at you—really looked at you—you felt seen. Whole. Like someone he wanted to keep.

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

——

It came to a head one night. The storm had knocked the power out, and the town was bathed in candlelight and shadows. You found him in the church, sitting alone on one of the pews, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

"You're not like the others," he said without looking at you. "They all wanted to leave. Run. Even before they knew."

"Knew what?"

He looked up. His gaze caught yours like a snare.

"That Ambrose doesn’t let go easy."

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears.

“I should go,” you whispered.

He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking toward you. Close enough that you could smell the smoke and sweat and something older, like earth and secrets.

“You could,” he said. “But I don’t want you to.”

And somehow, neither did you.

Because beneath the danger, beneath the lies and the wax, there was something lonely in him. Something fractured and feral and oddly tender. He touched your face like you might disappear. And you let him.

Maybe you were already part of Ambrose. Maybe you had been since the second you walked into town.

——

They say love doesn’t always look like it does in books. Sometimes it’s messy. Wrong. A little broken.

Sometimes it looks like Bo Sinclair—haunted eyes and calloused hands and a heart buried beneath years of silence.

And sometimes, it looks like you—choosing to stay.

Even when you know the truth.

Even when the wax starts to feel like home.

My main masterlist

[corellianhounds]

Deserters

Chapter 2 — Hyperspace

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Non-graphic medical aid

Summary: Crosshair and Mayday try to recover. Improvising seems to be a commonality among soldiers pushed to the brink.

Mayday came to slowly. The heat of the hold wracked his body with shivers and made sweat pour from his brow, his neck and hairline itchy where it gathered. He coughed, a dry, hacking thing that made him curl into himself tightly, trying to stave off the worst of the chills.

Hypothermia sets in about as fast as whitefang venom and feels just as good.

He’d only had it once before he learned his lesson, figured out how to pad out his armor and undersuit to stave off the worst of the chill and the damp. If you could stay dry at the outpost, you were much more likely to survive the snow. Very few days saw full sun and even then the snow never melted to the point you wouldn’t be slogging through it up to your knees. No, that was too much to ask for.

He needed water.

The exposure and lack of proper equipment left him with nothing but the clothes on his back for the past day and a half, and he knew that even in the biting wind and snow, he’d still managed to sweat beneath the body glove on the trek back. Dehydration killed people as often as the actual frostbite and cold damage sustained from being out in the elements did.

Clenching his jaw until his entire head hurt, Mayday turned his head, blearily trying to blink his vision clear and make sense of the surroundings and circumstances. He was in the hold of the stolen cargo transport, flying to who-knew-what destination— Well, that wasn’t accurate. Crosshair had to know.

Crosshair. Mayday would beat the fire out of him once he had the energy. Foolhardy, dry-witted, selfish, reckless, stupidly impulsive, surprisingly loyal, not-nice-but-kind Crosshair who’d dug his body out of an avalanche and dragged him through the snow for as long as he could, finding a windbreak for them to near-die at while they got a few measly hours of not-sleep before limping back to the outpost.

Mayday had finally accepted what he’d long suspected once he saw what the containers they’d been guarding were full of; they really were expendable to the Republic, or the Empire, or whatever they were these days. He’d spent so long out there seeing his men die one by one, with no replacement equipment or reinforcements sent their way no matter how many requisition forms he put in. Until this new batch of not-clone-troopers— mostly not-clone-troopers— showed up he was jaded to the thought of ever escaping that desolate rock. Good soldiers followed orders though, and their orders were to stay put.

The slow-burning resentment he’d harbored for the higher-ups meant he wasn’t as surprised by the confirmation of his suspicions. Crosshair had seemed like as much of a jaded cynic as he was so Mayday figured he was just as aware of how little they meant to the Republic military, but the almost helpless shock he’d heard in the younger trooper’s voice at how little the lieutenant regarded them surprised Mayday. That surprise barely had a moment to register before Crosshair surprised him further by shooting the officer and watching him fall without remorse.

Mayday didn’t have the time or wherewithal to do anything besides gape in disbelief, asking Crosshair what he thought he’d done, and then there were shouts and shooting and for the second time in as many days Crosshair was stooping to sling Mayday’s arm over his shoulders as he quickly hauled them both up the docking ramp of the closest shuttle. Once the rest of the stormtroopers started to come within firing range, Mayday figured “In for a penny, in for a pound,” and started to return fire. All of his men were dead anyway. Aside from the life slowly ebbing from his already broken body, he didn’t have anything else to lose.

Mayday coughed again. His chest seized, and he fought the next cough as best as he could, desperately trying to steady his breathing. Hexx had gotten this kind of cough after his bout in the snowbank and the more he hacked, the tighter his chest got, until finally he’d been unable to breathe at all and they’d had to expend one of the stim shots to get his blood flowing again long enough to ease the strain on his airways. Mayday could feel it now, the dry, cold cough that came from breathing too much subzero air, and he knew he’d be done for if he gave into it.

There was a medical cabinet bolted into the wall down at the end of the hold. Grunting in pain, he hauled himself up and stumbled that way, praying the transport was as new as it had looked and would have one of the injectors onboard, just in case. The pins and needles in his feet and legs lanced up through stiff muscles and he stumbled, having to support himself on the railing as he made his way closer. Sweat continued to pour from his neck and down his back, making the cold thermal undersuit stick to the frost already on his skin. His hands slipped on the cabinet latch, and slipped again as he tried to focus, until finally he growled an expletive under his breath and hit it as hard as he could, denting the door: Mayday wedged his fingers into the gap and wrenched it open.

There had to have been some lucky stars shining on them because the cabinet was both fully stocked and untouched, neatly organized by category. He grabbed two of the black injectors before his feet finally gave out and he collapsed against the wall, landing hard.

Mayday took short, quick breaths. His head swam. He just wanted to lay down and close his eyes but knew as soon as he did he wouldn’t be getting back up, so he fought the urge and braced his boots flat to keep himself sitting upright. With shaking hands he bit the end of one glove with his teeth, pulling it off. He couldn’t see clearly and wouldn’t have been able to identify which end was which by color— All he could remember with Hexx was that the end with the button had ridged lines on it to make sure the administrator’s hand wouldn’t slip.

Finding the ridges with his thumb, Mayday brought the injector up and bit off the cap on the other end, spitting it out as his hand fell back to his side. The pain and the shakes and the cold coursed through him like liquid nitrogen, everything inside him screaming for him to stop moving and succumb to the pain.

Mayday jabbed the autoinjector into his thigh and pressed the release. He didn’t even feel the bolt of the needle for how cold he was.

Three seconds later he sucked in a deep gulp of air, feeling his muscles and lungs relax as a surge of energy went through his chest. His eyes were wide, his vision clear, and the head rush almost immediately cleared up the headache that had been lodged at the base of his skull for nigh on fourteen hours now, though it did make him dizzy. He gasped and doubled over, luckily remembering to keep his thumb on the release to get the full dose, and after only a few seconds the burn of blood coursing the full circuit of his body gave way to hot, kinetic energy.

The shakes were still there, would still be there after the effects wore off, but he could finally move and breathe, and he knew he had a limited window of time within which to find Crosshair, if he was even still alive. Miserable barve had been stuck in regular tactical gear and under-armor when he showed up and was rail thin to boot: Mayday had no idea how he’d managed to weather the elements, let alone drag Mayday’s sorry hide back to base, and that was all before somehow single-handedly, successfully commandeering an entire ship and escaping a barrage of enemy fire.

That’s what it was now. They’d made themselves enemies of the Empire.

Mayday breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, scanning for the ladder and climbing to the upper deck. The cockpit was down one hallway beyond an officer’s cabin and a separate control center lined with holoboards. Hyperspace flit by across the viewport. Crosshair was on the floor.

Limping, Mayday picked up the pace and came to a stop on one shaky knee beside him and checked his pulse. No use trying to revive a dead man.

A pulse was there though, thin and reedy, and Mayday quickly made sure his airway was clear and got him on his side, unlatching Crosshair’s thigh plate and jamming the stim injector into the outside of his leg, holding there.

It took longer than it should have for the adrenaline and bacta to kick in but when it did Crosshair’s eyes flew open and he sucked in a sharp breath; his arm swung up on reflex, hitting Mayday in the chest. Mayday grunted and pinned his upper arm to his side to keep him from dislodging him.

“Wh— *wheeze* Wh-where am— What—?”

“Stolen cargo shuttle,” Mayday said, finally releasing the injector and pulling it out. Crosshair grunted in pain, hissing as Mayday packed the injection site with expansion foam. Injector needles weren’t a small gauge.

“Mayday?”

“Yeah.”

“H-how—?”

“Stim injector,” Mayday explained, releasing pressure on the packed wound and helping Crosshair get at least upright. “Come on. It isn’t permanent. Need to warm up before we lose any fingers or toes.”

Crosshair offered little argument, still trying to find his bearings. Mayday helped him back to the officer’s cabin where he got the doors shut and turned the heat up, hearing the vents kick on.

“Hands and feet,” Mayday said, starting to pull his own armor and boots off before working on Crosshair’s. “Stim works around your organs first before it gets to your extremities.”

The sniper shook violently, his teeth grit so tight Mayday was concerned he would crack them. Mayday had somewhat acclimated to living in the cold of the outpost, and despite the scant amount of supplies he and the boys had been living on, the rations had at least been packed with fat and protein to keep them fit enough to weather the elements. Veetch had always been on the leaner side, and though he wasn’t as tall as Crosshair, they had the same slight build. The clones might have been intended to be identical, but environmental factors played heavily into how they ended up filling out their armor the longer the war went on. Crosshair seemed distinctly different though, but Mayday didn’t know what to attribute that to.

Veetch never seemed to be warm enough no matter what they did. Nights when the heat in the barracks went out, the squad would pack in together like sardines in the command center where it was warmest, just to conserve body heat. Veetch always ended up in the middle despite how much he insisted he’d be fine taking a turn on the outside. They always ignored him and shuffled him into the center anyway.

Crosshair shook as the adrenaline returned his blood to a better circulation. Mayday could feel it starting to wane in himself but was at least grateful he had a bit more mass for it to work through and keep him warm. What few meds he ever accepted were kinder to his system than they were to the younger men, the ones who had started out fresh and stayed shiny longer before being sent to the mountain. Mayday was older and he was starting to feel it, but it seemed to be that having more meat on your bones made the drugs distribute more evenly. Kept the jitters away.

“I’m going to make caf,” Mayday said, piling spare clothes and blankets onto the bed next to Crosshair. “Get dry. Change if you can. Don’t die while I’m gone, at least. I can help when I get back if you need it, but the caf will help warm us up, expedite the recovery. Don’t soak in the fresher no matter how good it sounds, you’ll just shock your system.”

Crosshair nodded jerkily, and Mayday left.

Crosshair blearily tried to wipe the haze from his eyes. His hands were curled up like dead spiders, so tight he could feel his bones. He had no idea how Mayday was even upright. Just walking had taken its toll on him, and Mayday had been in worse shape and on the mountain for as long as he had. Stim aside, how could he possibly manage when Crosshair felt like death?

He glared at the clothes at the edge of the bed. He was loath to move from where he was, but the undersuit was soaked through and frost was still melting the longer he stayed in the officer’s quarters. He wished Mayday hadn’t put the heat so high, but if Crosshair wanted to do anything about it he’d have to get up anyway, and despite the past harrowing thirty-two hours, he wasn’t about to sacrifice the dignity of dressing himself too.

Mayday came back fifteen minutes later, still limping but with an electric kettle, a thermos and two cups as Crosshair was finishing up, pulling the long-sleeved knit over his head. He took the cup Mayday offered, wincing at the burn in his hands and sitting against the hard wall, leaning his head back as he tried to get the rattling shakiness under control.

“Only solution is to keep warm. Nothing we can do about it,” Mayday said, as if reading his mind. He fished around in his pocket and tossed a packet over to Crosshair. “Drink water. Eat some of those to retain it.”

Crosshair looked at the stiff plastifilm bag and the translucent electrolyte gels within. “What about you?”

“Had some.” Mayday dragged the low table closer and nudged Crosshair’s leg, forcing him to make room. Up close he looked as worse for wear as Crosshair felt.

“Not supposed to have caf if you’re dying of frostbite,” Crosshair noted dully.

Mayday took a looooong sip to prove some point, settling in more comfortably and not looking at him. “Hypothermia,” he corrected. “And if you’re already dying, why not have something good to send you off?”

Crosshair tried to laugh, but the hoarse sound just made him cough, his chest aching as he did. Mayday barely spared him a glance, for which he was grateful.

“Besides,” Mayday said. “This was instant and whatever that citrus tea is for sore throats is still steeping.”

“Hate that stuff.”

“Too bad. You’ll hate coughing up blood from a raw throat more.”

The two of them sat there in silence for a long time. The caf was bitter and oily so he figured it had to be in whatever ration packs were below. Crosshair drank it slowly, letting it wake him up and get his systems back online. His hands and feet were still achingly cold, but it was getting easier to move them.

“That was a damned fool thing you did,” Mayday said, speaking from the side. “Shooting him. You’re too impulsive for a sniper.”

“It wasn’t impulsive,” Crosshair muttered. “I’d already been thinking about it.”

Mayday barked a coarse laugh, chuckling. He took another drink, draining the mug and pouring the tea from the kettle to refill it. “What’s our heading?”

“Rendezvous with my squad on Engatuu, if they can find us,” Crosshair muttered. “Tried to relay where we’d be.”

“You think they got it?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“Don’t know how much I care for your strategies.”

Crosshair half-smiled. “This one’s easy. Plan 23 and coordinates to find us. If they don’t show, then we restock supplies and… Think of something.”

“Improvise a lot, do you?”

“Mostly, yes.”

Mayday didn’t respond.

“… We didn’t mean anything to them anyway,” Crosshair said bitterly. “The Empire. I’ll scramble the ship’s code. Keep us off the radar.”

“Sure. And then what?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Mayday scoffed. “The only reason there’s a ‘we’ here is because you dragged me into it.”

“They were going to leave us to die,” Crosshair said. “We’re replaceable. “Used equipment.” They’re doing all they can to get rid of us anyway. Die there or die if they catch us; what does it matter?”

Again Mayday didn’t respond. He was still angry with Crosshair, but he knew he had a point. And Mayday was tired of staying on that mountain anyway.

“I don’t think you want to die,” Mayday said. “You wouldn’t have done any of this if you did.”

“… Figured you should get to choose, at least,” he muttered.

The resentment that had been building in Mayday’s chest started to ebb. Crosshair may have been a fool to defect and desert the Empire and drag him into it the way he did, but Mayday realized he’d probably already decided he was done himself when he returned fire on the stormtroopers. The Empire didn’t care about him and most of the people he cared about were dead.

Mayday had always been a pragmatist. Being a soldier was what he did because that’s all he’d ever known. He followed orders because they were something to do and the Republic was worth defending. Then he had one bad mission and they stuck him on a shelf in the mountains, forcing a cadre of other men to join him and babysit what turned out to be equipment for their replacements. Making it seem like it was top-priority, mission-sensitive cargo, and instead it was provisions for others.

“What’s Plan 23?” he asked.

Crosshair didn’t answer immediately, and for a second Mayday didn’t think he would.

“… Notifying each other when the crew’s separated and you’re coming in on a stolen vessel,” he said.

“Why Engatuu?” Mayday asked with a frown. “That planet’s riddled with holes.”

“Closest place to where they might still be.” The sniper shrugged. “There’s some mines near the forest in the southern hemisphere.”

Mayday frowned. “The training grounds? The Kaminoans will know where that is for sure, did you— You didn’t send that message unencrypted did you—?”

Crosshair waved him off, moving farther to the side and grabbing another blanket. “The Kaminoans aren’t in charge of anything anymore, and they wouldn’t have found the drop point anyway.”

“Who’s in charge, then? The Empire’s the same broad in a different dress, yeah? We’re still getting orders—”

“It’s a long story,” Crosshair interrupted. “Doesn’t matter. They’re not going to find us first.”

“Got a lot of faith in your old crew,” Mayday said.

“Drop point’s easy for them to find.”

Mayday’s eyes narrowed. “How is it easy for them but difficult for the Empire?”

Crosshair mulled over his words, trying to think of how much to reveal. It wasn’t that he disliked Mayday, but he was starting to realize that despite everything, it could be possible that Mayday had more loyalty to the GAR than Crosshair had earlier thought, and he could very easily turn Crosshair over to put himself in good standing with the Empire if he wanted to go back in. It’s what Crosshair would have done in his shoes.

“… Did you do fieldcraft training in the south? Where they took cadets out and made them survive in the wilderness for a week?”

“Yeah. We got a jungle.” Mayday shook his head. “There were times I missed it.”

Crosshair seemed to understand. “We were an experimental group. The Kaminoans messed with our genes, enhanced our abilities to see how far they could push the clones. We were less inclined towards conventional problem solving.”

Mayday snorted. “That explains some things.”

“One of my squad sliced into the Kaminoans training program schedule so we could look ahead and prepare for what was coming down the pike. They were going to keep us separated from the regs on the trip, which we weren’t surprised by—”

Crosshair was cut off by another cough, his voice hoarse and raspy. Mayday waited, nudging a thermos closer to him so he’d drink it. Crosshair took the hint, keeping it close by as he continued.

“Squad leader overheard as we were getting off the transport that the Kaminoans and the instructors found out we’d cut into the files and looked ahead, though. Considered it an undue advantage. They were going to relocate us and drop us off on the side of a mountain instead, since we’d prepared for the forest. Force us to adapt.”

Mayday listened, solemn. He remembered some of the consequences for deviating from the norm when it came to active training in the field.

“They weren’t going to give us any gear, though,” Crosshair muttered. “None of us would have been outfitted for the cold. When the transport landed Hunter instigated a fight between some of the other squads to distract the drill sergeants and we took off.”

“YOU were the group that ran off?!” Mayday said incredulously. “I remember that, we heard it from the troops we picked up between campaigns. They said you figured out how to deactivate the trackers and that’s why they were upgraded that year.”

Crosshair chuckled humorlessly, surprised that word had traveled far enough even the older regs heard about it, but he supposed the mandatory change in their bio-trackers being the noticeable ripple effect made sense. “Tech made something that interrupted the frequencies on them,” Crosshair said. “That ended up being their field test, why we were able to stay out there so long before they caught us.”

He sat back, his eyes somewhere far off. “… They stuck him in solitary for two weeks because of it,” he said quietly. “Scoured our bunks, confiscated everything he’d been working on. He wasn’t the same after we got him back.”

Mayday’s heart sank, all amusement and levity dissipating. He’d never had to face it himself, but he remembered hearing of some of the more unruly cadets who’d been forced to spend a day or two alone to cool off. With that many of them packed together, sometimes tempers and attitudes flared regardless of how the Kaminoans programmed them, so it wasn’t surprising that the Kaminoans had ways to curb that behavior. Mayday had never heard of anybody spending a week in the hole, let alone two, and especially not for something non-combative like that.

Crosshair’s teammate couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen by natborn reckoning at the time. Mayday knew his own experiences were hardly a basis for comparison, but having been around some of the civvie kids he had in his career, he couldn’t help but feel like children should have much less intensive upbringings than the clones did.

His tea was starting to grow cold. His throat felt marginally better so he poured another cup.

“How long were you guys out there?” he asked, nudging Crosshair.

Crosshair had to think about it.

“… Long enough the treehouse had a catapult.”

Mayday burst out laughing, genuinely caught off guard. He started coughing again, but it sounded easier, not as rattly in his chest. Crosshair chuckled, remembering.

“We probably could have been out there longer if we’d stayed on the move, but we’d already put so much distance between us and them we figured… Why not take it easy for a while?”

“That’s what I would have done.”

Crosshair stretched his legs and clasped his hands behind his head. “The instructors never said it, but we could tell they were impressed. I think that was the only reason we weren’t punished more severely.”

“You didn’t use the catapult?”

“Once. Wasn’t our fault though. They were the ones who tripped the tripwire.”

Hunter rested his chin on his clasped hands, deep in thought. They all were, all staring at the console with wary suspicion.

“If he’s in trouble, we need to find him,” Omega said. “You said it was encrypted, Tech.”

“The message being encrypted doesn’t ensure his sincerity, nor does it eliminate the possibility of him being followed or it being a trap,” Tech said.

“Plan 23 is an odd pull,” Wrecker said, holding the top of the doorway and leaning in. “Why would he use that as a setup for a trap?”

“To pique our curiosity,” Tech said. “However, Crosshair is not one to exhibit any signs of what he considers weakness if he can at all help it; I doubt he would feign distress just to draw us out.”

“You believe him, Tech?”

“I believe he is injured or otherwise incapacitated.”

“Hunter?”

The sergeant remained where he was, silent.

“… Going out now is too risky,” Hunter finally said. “Engatuu is still a militarized zone and the surrounding traffic is under too much scrutiny.”

“We’ve snuck past checkpoints before,” Omega argued. “He’s still one of us. We have to help him.”

“We wouldn’t be able to get close enough to help him, Omega. We’d be outgunned and outmanned from the start.”

“To be fair, Hunter,” Tech cut in. “With clones being phased out, there’s no reason to upkeep old facilities or training fields and no gain to posting guards on lookout when the facilities themselves offer nothing of value to those who might go back. The fieldcraft sessions were randomized, and with as many of us as there were, there’s likely thousands of drop points that were used in the years leading up to the war. If Crosshair’s aim is for the mines in the south, it’s a further blindspot for the Empire since it never was a drop point to begin with. There wouldn’t be a reason to monitor that air space.”

“That’s if what little intel we have can be trusted,” Hunter said.

Wrecker stepped into the gallery. “What if it’s not just coordinates?” he said. “What if it’s a code too?”

“What do you mean, Wrecker?” Omega asked.

“Place Crosshair’s talking about was one of the first ‘real-world’ tests the four of us had,” he said. “We went rogue and the folks in charge didn’t like it. Same situation it sounds like Crosshair’s in now, if he’s hurt like Tech said and coming in on a stolen ship.”

“Which is further reason to keep our distance.”

“The location could be a hint,” Wrecker pushed. “Why else would he choose the mines instead of anywhere else all of us have been to?”

“Maybe he’s been keeping tabs,” Hunter muttered. “Engatuu’s too close to not be a coincidence.”

Hunter was about to wave all of them off, but then Tech interjected in a curious tone of voice:

“What about Plan 27?” he asked earnestly. He had that look in his eye that said he’d realized a resolution to a puzzle, one move that would make everything slot into place. “Since it was made based on the consequences of that specific field training?”

“Twenty-seven?” Omega asked as Wrecker and Hunter straightened. “You think someone’s with him?”

Hunter was looking less sure than he was before. “If he’s got company, why does he need us to extract him?”

“Maybe they’re hurt too,” Wrecker said, and Omega could tell he was now on whatever wavelength Tech was. “Wouldn’t it be funny if he actually made a friend?”

The sergeant stood and paced to the cockpit. “ “Funny” isn’t enough to convince me to jump into the nexu’s den,” Hunter said pointedly, but Omega could hear his resolve starting to waver.

“… Hunter,” she said, coming to rest a hand on his arm. He paused, looking down at her. “If there’s a chance Crosshair has changed, wouldn’t we be the only ones who could help him? Are we really just going to leave him behind?”

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[tillthelandslide]

Same For You: The Love of Thieves - Instagram AU

Series Warnings: slow burn romance, eventual smut, age gap, complicated relationship (low-key unhealthy dynamics), eventual love...

Series Masterlist

A/n: soooo you didn't think id make a whole series without doing Instagram AUs did you? Well here's the first one. Think this gives you a good idea of how the beginning of the series is going to go :) a little sneak peak into the chapters if you will... Hope you enjoy, love Lou 🫶🏼

Taglist: @scooby-doodoo @thereisaplaceintheheart @theoriginalwhatsername (if you want to be added please just drop me a message 🫶🏼)

yninstagram:

yninstagram might be small but at least our stage is pretty... Join us for our next show next Saturday ✌️

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fan1 pretty stage for a pretty band

jaythedrummer ur so cool

clarabass we're just a cool band really aren't we?

↳ yninstagram that we are bby

🔔jamieoborne, trumanblack and rass1975 followed @yninstagram

fan2 the best band 🫶🏼

TheLoveOfThieves:

TheLoveOfThieves our very own Y/n on stage last week, join us again this week in Soho ✌️ in the mean time... Listen to us on SoundCloud - Clara

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amazingabbie who's this sexy beast then?

↳ yninstagram I hate you

🔔jamieoborne and trumanblack shared this post to his story

75fan came from Mattys insta, you guys are sick

↳ TheLoveOfThieves thank you 😊

jamieoborne just say yes already

↳ yninstagram go away grandpa

↳ trumanblack leave her alone @jamieoborne

↳ yninstagram thanks Matthew ☺️

↳ trumanblack p.s you look very pretty in your element up there on that stage

↳ yninstagram you flatter me healy

yninstagram:

yninstagram your bf brought me a pretty guitar in my fave colour ✌️ jk jk don't go breaking up with your bfs guys

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trumanblack cool guitar for a cool girl

↳ yninstagram why thank you ☺️

rass1975 pretty...

↳ yninstagram it is indeed

↳ rass1975 wasn't talking about the guitar

75fan I have no idea what's going on rn but damn... Why are the 75s friends so hot

75updates are the boys working with her?

1975stan um... Are we just going to ignore Ross' comment?

yninstagram:

yninstagram Exciting stuff on the way guys 👀 thank you to everyone who has joined us on this journey so far, we love you 🫶🏼 to the newbies: welcome 🤗 📸@rass1975

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trumanblack let's gooooo

↳ yninstagram oooo where we going?

↳ trumanblack you're so annoying

↳ yninstagram you love me don't lie

rass1975 very excited to be working with you love

↳ yninstagram bass lessons soon?

↳ rass1975 sure thing darling

1975adam heard you guys are smashing it

bedforddanes75 cool kid

jamieoborne dirty hits new addition?

↳ yninstagram not quite old man 😋

75fan she's so pretty...

fan1 ahhh Ross taking pictures of her?! Mattys comments on her other posts... I can't handle whatever the fuck this is ➡️❤️⚠️

TheLoveOfThieves:

TheLoveOfThieves we've been in the studio with some cool people for almost two weeks now... We will be returning to the Soho stage this Saturday so come by and say hello - Jay

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📍 comment: TheLoveOfThieves there's nearly 21,000 of you following us now which is mental, thank you for all the support, we love you, watch this space, exciting things are coming. Massive thanks to our boys @the1975 for everything you've done over the past two weeks, it's an absolute pleasure to be working with you 🫶🏼 - Y/n

lovethievesfan we'll be there as always

↳ yninstagram see you there guys

clarabass exciting times...

75fan I'm so excited, you guys are so good and the boys are lucky to be working with you

trumanblack we shall be there, pleasure working with you too x

↳ 75fan lol Matty just replying to y/ns comment not actually the post caption hehehe he's down so hard

75stan I actually can't deal with how pretty she is like can she stop?

[gretchensinister]

Daily Fic Highlight: Incarnation

The winner of the kudos email today is:

Incarnation is a SkekGra/UrGoh longfic about their early days in exile at the Circle of the Suns as they start to understand each other better, work out their skeksis and mystic baggage, and slowly fall in love. It's from SkekGra's point of view, and when I say he pines I mean he could be a whole Christmas tree farm. Slow burn--but it does burn. 152,469 words, E, M/M (for whatever values of "M" two different aliens who used to be one alien have).

In other posts I've made about this I usually quote "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver to convey what Incarnation is about, and now I'm going to do it again:

"You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."

I jumped into The Dark Crystal fandom with this, and it was so much fun to write I feel like it restored all my powers.

Sample:

“UrGoh, maybe—maybe this—” Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, SkekGra thought he wanted to say. But the words didn’t come out. Because even if it wasn’t such a good idea, he still wanted UrGoh to touch him. He still wanted to touch UrGoh. “I know I haven’t done this before,” said UrGoh, “but I’ll be careful. I won’t hurt you.” “I’m never worried about you hurting me,” SkekGra said. UrGoh reached out and lifted SkekGra’s left hand from the warm water with his right hands. And, as it always had before, with UrGoh’s other touches, the bond changed. The longing didn’t go away. SkekGra was almost sure that it wouldn’t, as long as he and UrGoh were separate. If anything, that longing might be even more acute, now that they were touching skin-to-skin. But it felt like—it felt like a longing for something attainable, something within their reach, within their powers. When they weren’t touching, there was an element of strangeness to the bond that seemed to indicate the underlying truth of their connection—that no one had ever been meant to feel this way. When they touched, the pull SkekGra felt between them seemed as natural as breathing. Though the tension was undiminished, when touch was added to the bond, he found himself worried less about GraGoh and what it would be like to be GraGoh, feeling only that he was more connected with UrGoh, and believed he could be more connected with UrGoh, and that was a good thing. Very, very good. And did UrGoh also feel this, as he gently manipulated SkekGra’s hand, searching for the best angle for what he wanted to do? Would it show in his face? Did SkekGra’s own face show something of what he was feeling? It seemed wrong for UrGoh to not know what SkekGra was feeling now, it was too big, maybe something big enough that it would affect UrGoh’s decisions to touch him at all.

[starcrossedspirit]

✧ ˚ 　chapter one · 　　 . pairings: fem!oc x ghost / fem!oc x velikan / fem!oc x nolan tags: slow burn / supernatural elements / au- zombies tag warnings: n/a archive link: wicked and unholy tumblr link: ← previous / forward → original characters: yelena volkova / karina usyk / briar hawthorne ratings: mature summary: Somewhere to the North of Zaravan a wolf stirs among it's flock, restless to make change. October 13, 2024 - Zaravan Exclusion Zone, Urzikstan - Konni HQ It begins with the feeling of dread, it always does. Eyes closed with a deep intake of air, it felt sharp against her lungs as she held it inward. There was a smell of dust and smoke laced with rotted flesh- it would have been nauseating if it hadn't been the norm for the past year. At this point it was almost grounding to feel the fresh air. Quietly and just for a moment she feels like throwing herself to the zombies that moan grotesquely just beyond the compound's safety, their sounds echoing so miserably against the concrete walls. It would be better than throwing herself to the wolves that wait her just down below, they were ready to tear her throat out all the same. But that was normality now- the dead plagued the streets and they weren't even the worst thing out there. The other hard reality is she wasn't craven like that, she would do her duty out until the end. It would have to kill her and at a young age that was beaten into her. She could either die afraid or die fighting and there was no room for being a coward. She may be losing spirit to do for someone else but she wouldn't lose spirit for herself, that was her father's doing. Releasing the harbored air just before she got too dizzy the woman scanned her surroundings. Sharp eyes stared for a moment longer, how blue and distant they were, and there was a hard realization in her heart. "What have we done, Yelena?" she muttered to herself with a hard frown, the slick Russian words ringing off of her tongue. In moments like these she would often reflect just how far they had taken things. Her brother had always had a certain charisma that made it seem like it was the right thing to do, sometimes even the only thing they could do. Staring off into the void of glowing purple eyes that lay just beyond Yelena could feel it biting at her heart. She knew it in her soul there was no longer a reason to continue this fight if it meant the end of humanity. But the sound of the door opening behind her ripped her from her thoughts. Standing to attention she turned and her eyes caught sight of a familiar but unwelcome sight, Yelena relaxing but still glowering at the man that had joined her on the balcony. He was tall, domineering in a smug way, and towering over her as he stood between her and the door. "Hiding up here, are we?" Nolan motioned with a roll of his shoulders. He stared at her hard but she stared back just as steely, her bright eyes not breaking contact with his own blue ones. At best they tolerated one another and at worst they would get into it, almost once having cost them the mission. Makarov made sure not to send them alone together after that point but not without a reminder of course, just to show them that they were not the ones in charge. She often hated looking at that scar, it meant she was tied to Nolan in the worst kind of way. "Hardly, I'm keeping an eye out for our safety." Yelena replied without removing her eyes, her eyes glisten up at him like a wolf on the prowl. "but don't you have scientists to keep an eye on? Or are you too busy patrolling me to care about your own duties?" But Nolan smirked, he likes when she bites back at him. "I came to retrieve you, mutt, Makarov wants a meeting."

Read the full chapter on Archive of our Own!

[blogger360ncislarules]

Justin Hartley is making his return to network TV with another post-Super Bowl premiere.

After Super Bowl LVIII, viewers will be introduced to Colter Shaw in CBS‘ Tracker. Colter is a lone-wolf survivalist who roams the country as a reward seeker, using his expert tracking skills to help private citizens and law enforcement solve all manner of mysteries while contending with his own fractured family.

Based on the book The Never Game by Jeffery Deaver, Hartley teased to Deadline that the series will largely depart from the source material but maintain the “sensibilities” of the character.

Beyond that, the series will operate as a procedural, with Colter taking on new missing persons cases each week as he also struggles with the trauma of his past…which is now coming back to haunt him.

Below, Hartley spoke with Deadline more about pitching the series to CBS, weathering through a tough past few years to get it on the small screen, and where he sees it going from here.

DEADLINE: I heard you were involved with the pitch of the show. How did you get involved with that?

JUSTIN HARTLEY: [Ken] Olin and I worked together This Is Us. We had been talking about doing something together. We wanted to keep working together when the show was over. So the year before we shot the last season, or right before we shot the last season, of This Is Us, we ended up getting this book and loving this character and bringing it to 20th, which is my studio where my production company is. We pitched them the idea of me playing Colter Shaw and Ken directing and producing with me, and they loved the idea. So they said, ‘Okay, let’s go forward with it.’ We brought it to CBS, and they loved the idea that Ken and I kind of sold that to them on the phone…It’s like, be careful what you wish for, because then all of a sudden we’re like, ‘Okay, now we have to deliver.’ But I feel like here we are. We’re almost done with the sixth episode of the first season. I think we’ve got something really unique and great and entertaining, and I think it’s got a lot of heart, and it’s got a lot of places. It’s got a backstory, and it’s just something I’m really really proud of. I think it’s special.

DEADLINE: What attracted you to playing the role, in addition to producing?

HARTLEY: Well, I just love acting. I loved This Is Us, and I loved working all the time. I’ve loved every acting job I’ve ever had, I think. So I knew that I wanted to continue acting. The show allowed me the opportunity to not only do that, but wear another hat as executive producer and have that creative input and control. So it’s kind of the best of both worlds. I always like to learn new things. What better way to do it than to learn from the best? I mean, I’m taking class from Ken, and it’s pretty cool.

DEADLINE: Tracker certainly has some familial drama elements that are similar to This Is Us, but Colter is a very different character than Kevin. What have you enjoyed about this character so far?

HARTLEY: It’s been absolutely wonderful. I mean, I enjoyed every second, every frame I saw on This Is Us. It was wonderful. What a journey. That character went from, if you think about where we found him and where we left him — talked about a full circle. From a man-child to a full-grown adult, responsible man. It was just a really wonderful journey with this character. First of all, just selfishly, it’s just awesome to be able to play a different character. As much as I love Kevin…I just think it’s so neat as an actor to be able to take on a role that is just so utterly different. I mean, you’re stripping away so many things that you’re used to and you’re putting on so many things that you’re not used to having on. I don’t even think those two would be friends. You know what I mean? They’re so different. But lucky for me, I got to play both of them. So it’s just been wonderful. Not to say that I wouldn’t want to play a character that was very similar to Kevin ever again in the future, but certainly right after coming off of that show, it really is an actor’s dream to take on a role that’s so different.

DEADLINE: How much will the series follow the events of the book it’s based on?

HARTLEY: Well, we do our own our own stories. We really don’t tell the story of the book. We’re mainly taking the character. And then you have to adapt the character…you have to add and subtract a little bit from that character that is in the book. Like for instance, in the book, Colter does a lot of talking to himself in his brain. He does have a lot of percentages in his brain. And it’s like, okay, you have to figure out a way just logistically how that’s gonna look on camera. I mean, do you want people watching Colter think? Then do you want the inner dialogue to be a voiceover? Or do you want it to be typed out on the screen? Or do you want it to be assumed? Or do you want to see it in his eyes? How do you want to do that creatively? But he still has the same backstory, and he still has the same sensibilities. [He] goes about his business the same way, but you just have to…augment in other ways to make it suitable for television. So that’s what we’ve done.

DEADLINE: The percentage thing is interesting. How did you land on the way he’d discuss it out loud to the people around him?

HARTLEY: I think that, if you do it in a way where he’s sort of rattling off these numbers to himself, we’re asking the audience to believe that when Colter asks, ‘Just trust me on this one,’ that person is actually going to trust him. Rattling off numbers in your head…that kind of seems a little serial killer-ish. I’m not gonna trust that guy. That’s guy’s a whack job. No one’s trusting you, dude. You look weird just talking to yourself. You’re running through numbers, you’re doing percentages. What is going on here? It’s so much easier for us to just say, ‘Okay, look, here you go.’ And he’s giving this person information. He’s trying to help them. It makes it easier for me as a viewer to believe that that [person] would trust that guy who’s spending so much time explaining to him how he can help him or where the danger is, where the perilous things. So to me, that just that sold me on the way that we would deliver all that information.

DEADLINE: We learn in the premiere episode that Colter’s brother is trying to contact him, but we don’t know why. Can you talk about what we might get to see play out this season with that relationship?

HARTLEY: Well, I can tell you that there are a lot of questions that Colter has about his childhood, about his family. And there are a lot of assumptions that he’s made that, throughout the season, we realize might not necessarily be true. The questions that he has might change based on new information that he either stumbles upon or figures out. Things that just don’t add up anymore. This is a really this is gonna be a really interesting place to be. If you’re wondering if your own mother is lying to you about certain things. I’m sure my mother has never lied to me about anything [laughs]. But it’s bad. His brother’s responsible for the dad’s death. That’s terrible, right? It doesn’t get much worse than that. You have the brother reaching out and it’s like, ‘Well, why now?’ So we answer all those questions for you. There is a payoff to all that. It’s a slow burn, but it makes a lot of sense. And it’s definitely very, very rewarding.

DEADLINE: Do you have a roadmap for where the series could go after Season 1?

HARTLEY: I think it would be fun to see him uncover something that is a little more than he bargained for. I would like to see Colter in a situation where, as an audience member, you’re fearing for him because he might be in over his head. If you can imagine what that might be. With that, I think it’d be fun to see/ And then, he’s got to get some answers and some peace with his past and peace with his family. We have a lot to unpack. If people enjoy watching it, we definitely have stories to tell for years.

DEADLINE: The series is premiering after the Super Bowl, which is a pretty coveted spot. How did you feel finding that out?

HARTLEY: I’m just really, really proud, because it’s been years in the making. We went through a pandemic with the show. We went through a writers strike with the show and an actors strike with this show. We’ve gone through a lot with the show. It’s lived through all of that and thrived through all of that. Now we are not only premiering, but right after the Super Bowl. It’s all so worth it. It’s a really wonderful feeling. It’s my second Super Bowl. So, you know, I get it.

[darlingpumpkin]

Strange Magic Chapter 1: A Working Theory

Here's Chapter 1! I hope you like it. Feel free to leave a comment. I'd love to hear from you! Words: ~2k Warnings: None. Just a nice, slow burn.

Intro: Reader is Wong’s assistant librarian with a long-standing crush on the doctor. Stephen is currently Sorcerer Supreme.

There’s nothing that made you feel more human than spending time with someone who was far from ordinary. You enjoyed watching him in his element— not that you didn’t have your own hobbies. You could say he was one of them, based off of how much you enjoyed being around him.

Strange is the perfect way to describe him. His choice of facial hair, his quips, his ability to guess any classic rock song and its date of release, his endless sarcasm, they were all Strange. You heard he was a doctor before he was Sorcerer Supreme, that he’d had a terrible accident and that the main reason he was here at Kamar-Taj was to fix his hands and get back to his pristine surgical career.

The Ancient One expressed a special interest in him, and while you kept your head down and stuck to your duties outside of training, you couldn’t help but watch him from afar too. He was special, even though he couldn’t conjure up a simple portal during his first week of training. This meant that he was stubborn and wanted to control everything. It was bad for training, but in your book, that was a very, very good thing. Acknowledging this made you blush every time you came across him. Of course, he was busy, eager to get back to his old life. All he wanted to do was train, read, train, and read. Your main duty was to assist Wong with whatever he needed. Small errands, alphabetizing books and you took watch over the library when he snuck off to nap. You spent a good amount of time reading, and over time, he learned to trust you and asked for your assistance specifically. It was flattering, and you didn’t mind it. It was easy work, and it beat having to scrub toilets or sweep the training grounds.

Also, being at the library gave you easy access to watch Stephen Strange. You liked the way his brows furrowed when he was in deep thought. You especially liked watching him reach up for books because it gave you full access to view his firm arms. He was taught and lanky, but most importantly, he was intelligent.

You brought him tea one time when you noticed him dozing off. He had looked up at you with a smile of gratitude and gave you a quick touch on the arm as thanks. You smiled back, but this was the extent of your interactions. He didn’t know your name, but that was okay. You were happy just to be around him. You didn’t let your feelings for him show. It was a silly little crush, and a bad break-up was the reason you ended up here in the first place. You weren’t going to let feelings interfere with your training. Being here was safe, and it gave you a sense of purpose.

In the present day, Strange spends most of his time at the New York Sanctum, which oddly enough was convenient for the Avengers. Something was always going wrong in that city, and Strange begrudgingly helped them. Maybe he felt responsible, but you couldn’t help but think that he liked to show off a little bit. He’s cocky. He has every right to be.

Wong spends a lot of time in the New York Sanctum now as well. He’s been keeping a close eye on Strange to try and prevent any trouble resulting from his usual antics. This left you in charge of Kamar-Taj’s library. To your delight, today was a slow day. Almost everyone was out on some sort of mission or retreat, and only a handful of people came in to borrow books. You used this time to go in the back and put back the stack of books Wong had accumulated for his own reading.

You made a thorough list in case he wasn’t done with some of them, but you didn’t like having them just strewn over his desk.

“Hi.”

You squeak in surprise. Strange had portaled behind you quietly, and you were chuffed. You can feel the blood thumping in your ears.

“Hello, doctor.” You say. “Can I help you?”

He laughs at your red cheeks. “I”m sorry I surprised you. I snuck around here a lot for easy access, and I guess old habits die hard.”

“That’s…okay. I wasn’t expecting anyone today,” you respond calmly this time.

“Do you mind if I hide out here for a bit? Wong has been getting on my nerves, nagging me about the state of New York’s library.” He sighs.

Without waiting for an answer, he pulls up Wong’s chair and plops himself on it.

So much for a quiet day, you think. You hadn’t seen him in months, and honestly, it’s been a relief. You’ve had such strong feelings for him for so long that having them unrequited made you loathe him, just a little bit. Now you were determined to not let him take up any space in your brain.

You pretend he’s not there, despite that proving to be a difficult task with his incessant sighing. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching you. You glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, Strange was observing you intently.

Just put the books back. Get things organized, and you can go back to your quarters in no time.

“Hey, uh…” he trails off. “You.”

After all this time, he still hasn’t asked you your name. However brilliant he is at the mystic arts, it seems like his people skills are severely lacking.

“Yes, doctor?”

“Why don’t you come with me to the New York Sanctum?”

You expected him to ask you to bring him a cup of tea or fetch a book for him. This request definitely was from out of nowhere.

“I don’t understand. My assignments are here. Why did you want me to relocate?”

Strange stands up and walks over to the front of Wong’s creaky desk. He drags his palms across the front of his robe like he’s wiping sweat off of them. He looks nervous, and you couldn’t exactly understand why.

THE Sorcerer Supreme, nervous about asking you for a favor?

“I have this working theory. You’re one of the only people Wong has taken a liking to, and he seems to be in a much more pleasant mood when you’re around.” He walks over to you and awkwardly places a hand on your shoulder.

You flinch at his touch, surprised at his boldness, but he doesn’t retract his hand.

He’s an arm’s length away from you, the closest you’ve ever been to him since he was a mere trainee. His touch feels electric, and your shoulder burns like his fingers were made of hot iron. Your pulse rises so quickly, you hear the blood thumping in your ears like you were standing next to a drum chorus.

“I have a strong inkling that he might have feelings for you. Literally, the only time I see the whites of his eyes is when he’s talking to you.”

“Wh-what?” You stutter.

“You know,” he gestures vaguely to his face. “Because he has small eyes.”

Okay, that was borderline offensive, but you let it slide. Wait— does that mean Strange has been paying more attention to you than you initially thought? Maybe. Perhaps not. Most likely, he just thought about you in reference to Wong.

And speaking of Wong, the thought of him possibly having feelings for you has never even crossed your mind. Sure, Wong was a little grumpier than the average person, but he was guarding centuries’ worth of mystic knowledge. His job was no easy feat.

He did seem nicer to you, though, but you credited that to your exemplary work. He always grumbled in appreciation at the end of the day when he sees that the shelves have been dusted and all the books were put back where they were meant to go.

But he does bring you coffee even though he doesn’t drink it himself. Lends you an extra robe during cooler nights. Laughs at your jokes even though they’re not that funny…

Shaking your head, you swat away Strange’s hand. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“I’m sure I’m not, but like I said, it’s a working theory,” he responds, touching his chin.

“Regardless of whether or not you believe me, I’d like for you to come with me.” “Is that why you came here? To coerce me to move so Wong would ease up on you?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not premeditated. The idea just struck me when I saw how magnificent you are at your job. A glowing librarian. Really top-notch.”

His attempt at trying to compliment you makes you laugh, but you catch yourself and clear your throat. You needed to be serious. No more finding Strange charming.

You remind yourself that he’s just trying to benefit himself. Typical self-serving, painfully handsome Stephen Strange.

He steps back, and a smile teases at the corners of his mouth. “What do you say?”

You smile back at him. “No.”

He grimaces. “Come on. I can’t seduce you with New York’s charm?”

You make a face of disgust. That’s not the kind of seducing you want from him.

“Rats and garbage lining the streets? Grumpy civilians? I don’t think so, doctor.”

Normally, you wouldn’t be speaking to him this way. He was your Supreme. His position warranted him respect, but you weren’t some pawn to be picked up and put down wherever he liked.

“Look, I can be nice and civil about this and meet you halfway, or I could play the boss card, and we can both be on our way, but I don’t want you to completely dislike me.” Strange says, pacing impatiently. “God knows I don’t need another person sneering at me when I walk into a room.”

“Tell me this, doctor,” you pick up a book from a nearby cart and wipe the dust off of it with your palm, “…how long were you in training here before you took over New York?”

“Why is this relevant?” He asks, annoyed.

“How many times have you been in this library? How many books have I handed over to you?” You put the book down on Wong’s desk.

“You’re losing me here.”

“How many times have we been in this enclosed space together?”

“Would you please just get on with it?” You can hear the irritation build in his voice, his cerulean blue eyes piercing through you.

“Tell me my name.” You whisper.

Strange looks taken aback. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it again, realizing he had nothing. You cross your arms and pretend to wait for an answer.

Check and mate. You had finally spoken your mind, and you glow in his uncomfortable silence. Stephen Strange was rarely at a loss for words. You’ve managed the impossible, and while this should feel like a win, you realize how small you really are in his world.

All this time, you’ve been watching him from the sidelines with great admiration, he’s never thought of you once. Why would he? You’re not incredibly remarkable like him. You’re no outstanding beauty.

Now he wants you around him, but it was for all the wrong reasons.

It’s so unfair, you think. Without knowing it, he’s making you act like a petulant child, and you loathed him even more for it.

You conjure up a portal to your quarters. You didn’t want to be here anymore. You’ll come back to finish up the day once Strange takes the hint and leaves. You make haste and close it as soon as you step in.

A few seconds later, a portal appears by your bed, and Strange steps out of it.

You groan internally. What a stubborn dick.

No problem. You can just make another exit out of here. Somewhere far away.

As you raise your arm to form another portal, he grabs your wrist.

“Wait,” he breathes, “I’ve come to bargain.”

[dauntless-gothamite]

Prove Them Wrong [1/?]

Fandom: Divergent Pairing: Eric Coulter x Fem! Reader Summary: Y/N is a Dauntless transfer from Erudite, and she has a drive, an ambition that sets her apart--it always has, even back in Erudite. She brings her perseverance (and need to prove others wrong) to Dauntless when she transfers, and she uses her mind to make her way through the initiation process. Along the way, she makes friends and enemies, and she finds herself comfortable around the man most people in Dauntless avoid at all costs: Eric Coulter.  A/N: hey, everyone! so some elements of this are based on myself and how I interact with people, mainly because I tend to bond with people who are not well-liked (i.e. I got along well with teachers everyone hated, consistently). I plan to keep most descriptions of the reader vague so you can insert yourself, though! this first chapter is a little bit slow, but I am already well into writing chapter 2, and I am really excited about where this fic is going! Enjoy!!

“Dauntless!” Marcus Eaton called out--Abnegation was hosting the Choosing Ceremony this year--and as your blood hit the burning coals, a series of cheers and claps erupted from the fearless faction. You took your place next to the other Dauntless transfers and snuck a glance at your family. Your parents looked sad--disappointed, almost--but it was nothing compared to the way some parents reacted to their children choosing another faction. Your father caught your eye as he pulled a handkerchief from his crisp blue suit and handed it to your mother, who was just barely containing her tears. Quickly, you looked away. A moment later, a girl with dirty blonde hair sat down beside you. Her loose grey clothing indicated she was in Abnegation, or at least she had been. She was Dauntless now, and so were you. 

A series of names you only half heard filled the room, and before you knew it, the ceremony was over. Then, as if they’d been waiting for the chance to get up from their seats, all the Dauntless rushed out of the building, racing for the train tracks. You and the other initiates stared at them as they began to climb, shocked. Sure, you knew you’d be taking the train, but you’d never thought about how you’d actually get there. Shoving the thought out of your mind, you began to climb, the Abnegation girl from before and a girl from Candor scaling the poles on either side of you. Once you made it to the top, you saw everyone standing in a line, facing away from the train. That’s when it hit you: they were going to run and jump onto the train. This was unlike anything you’d ever done, but it was exciting, and you knew that with the right speed and angle, you’d be fine. When the rails started to vibrate and the train came into view, you took off. 

You weren’t the fastest, but you weren’t the slowest either, and that was worth something. At the very least, you would make the train. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw an opening, and without hesitation, you jumped. It was so different from life in Erudite. There, nothing was done without consideration. You had to look at a problem from all angles and weigh the possibilities, consider the outcomes of every scenario, even for the simplest of tasks. Here, you could just do. It was liberating, and you knew you’d made the right choice. Although, it would be damn near impossible to drop all of the habits you’d picked up in Erudite. Some aspects of the scholarly faction were simply a part of you; it would be impossible to erase that. But, for the sake of your survival, you’d have to do your best. 

“Hey,” said a voice from behind you. You turned around and saw a boy with brown hair and dark eyes, which stood out against his pale skin. “I’m Albert,” he said. “But everyone calls me Al.” He stuck his hand out and you shook it.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, glad to have already made one friend. You smiled before turning away to look out at the city; the train provided a great view when it wasn’t in the center of the city surrounded by buildings. While you were looking at the skyline, you saw movement and heard screams of both terror and excitement to your left. You turned to see what was causing the commotion, and you saw people jumping from the train onto a gravelly roof. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Al said as he joined you at the edge of the train. 

“This is crazy,” you agreed. But whereas Al looked terrified, you were grinning, adrenaline from boarding the train still pumping through your veins, making you aware of each and every nerve in your body. Then, with the roof coming up, you took a few steps back, ran forward and jumped. 

Your body hit the gravelly roof hard, ripping a hole in your blazer. Thankfully, it seemed like that was the only thing that broke; your body felt perfectly fine, if a little sore from the impact. You looked around to see Al a few feet away from you, and you smiled, glad he’d made it. The two of you got up and headed to the other end of the roof, where the initiates who had already jumped off the train stood facing a tall man with cropped hair and neck tattoos. “Alright, listen up,” the man said when the last car of the train passed the edge of the roof. If someone wasn’t off of it yet, there was only one stop for them now: factionless. “I’m Eric, one of your leaders here at Dauntless. I will also be overseeing your training, which began the second your blood hit the coals. So, rather than waste any more time, let's get on with it. You want to get into Dauntless, this is the way in. Who is going to jump first?”

At this point, everyone was peering over the ledge Eric stood on, more focused on what was behind him. A dark hole in the concrete far below where we stood. You looked around you, nodding at Will, who you knew from Erudite, happy to see a familiar face amongst all this chaos. As you moved towards him, the girl from Abnegation who had sat next to you earlier stepped forward. “Me,” she said, volunteering to jump first. Everyone looked around with wide eyes while Eric scoffed. 

“The Stiff? Alright.”

Unbothered, the girl stepped onto the ledge, and a few seconds later, she disappeared into the shadowy depths of whatever lay below.

Watching the girl in grey jump first had sent a shock of surprise through you, but it was followed by something new, the desire to try this new and dangerous thing before you, and as the third jumper stepped off the ledge, you found yourself stepping forward, volunteering to go next. As you stepped onto the ledge, Eric raised a pierced brow at you, waited a few seconds for the previous jumper to get off of the net, and jerked his head towards the net, motioning for you to jump. And then, in a silent response, you jumped, a smile unexpectedly gracing your lips as you made contact with the net below, landing with a bounce. You turned to the man standing next to the net who helped you out of the net, and he introduced himself as Four before directing you to stand in line with the other initiates who had already jumped. Minutes crawled by as you waited for the rest of the initiates to jump, and after what felt like forever, Eric landed in the net and directed his cold stare at the initiates lined up as he slid off the net without Four’s assistance--though it didn’t seem like Four was inclined to help him, either. Interesting. 

--

The transfer dorm was small, crowded, and damp--somehow it was exactly what you expected and entirely different at the same time. As everyone claimed a bed, Four and Eric stood near the door, ready to make an announcement. You smiled at the Candor girl with short, black hair who was setting up the bed next to yours, about to introduce yourself when one of the trainers by the door--most likely Eric--cleared his throat, silencing the room. “Welcome to Dauntless, Eric said. “As Four just explained, this is where you will be staying for the next few weeks while you complete your training. You will receive more information about the training process tomorrow morning at the first session, but for now all you need to know about it is that the training room is three floors up, down the hallway, and to the left. Meet in the Pit, which is upstairs, in fifteen minutes for some announcements from Max and dinner.” Then, he left.

“That guy is all business, huh?” the girl you were about to introduce yourself to said lightly. 

“Yeah,” you smiled back. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Christina,” she replied with an outstretched hand. As you shook her hand she looked you over and said, “So, Erudite. What made you want to transfer?”

“Well, it is best for one to go to a place for which they are well-suited…” you trailed off. “What about you, Candor?”

“Candor is a place of words and action, with slightly more words. I wanted more action,” she shrugged. A thud on the bed on your other side distracted you before you could respond, and you turned around to see familiar light green eyes.

“Will!” you said, wrapping your fellow Erudite transfer in a brief hug. You’d vaguely registered his name at the choosing ceremony followed by the word “Dauntless”, but it hadn’t really dawned on you until now that there were fellow Erudite transfers here. “Have you seen Edward?” you asked.

“Yeah, he’s right over there,” Will replied, pointing to the corner of the room. You waved at Edward, and he smiled back as he continued setting up his bed. 

“Amazing,” you said softly, more to yourself than to Will. “By the way, this is Christina, she’s from Candor,” you said, remembering your new friend. Will shot her a smile, and Christina reached out to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she said enthusiastically. 

“Likewise,” Will replied. Seeing all of your fellow transfers getting to know each other was exciting, and even though you wanted to stay in this room with all of them and get to know everyone else, you knew it was a better idea to start making your way to the Pit; there was rarely a time when showing up early was a bad thing, and leaving early would make sure you got there in time even if you got lost along the way. As you started to head out down the hallway, the former Abnegation joined you, seeming to have the same idea. “Hi,” you said, introducing yourself. “I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Tris,” she replied quietly. “You were in Erudite, right?” she asked.

“I was. And you were in Abnegation?”

“Yeah.” There was something sad about the way she said it, but you decided to let it go; you didn’t really know her yet. As you were thinking of what to say next, Tris interrupted your thoughts saying, “My brother just transferred there. To Erudite, I mean.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll love it,” you said, smiling fondly as memories of the Erudite libraries surfaced in your mind. “You get to spend so much time learning and teaching others, and they actually respect personal space--at least a little bit. I’ll even let you in on a secret: the suits are much more comfortable than they look, I promise.” She laughed a little bit at the last statement, and you relaxed, starting to enjoy her company. 

--

As it turned out, you and Tris had no trouble finding the Pit, and it wasn’t surprising that you were the first ones there. Both of you sat down, and you did your best to ignore the occasional looks from Four and Eric as they stood on a balcony overlooking the Pit with Max, the head of Dauntless leadership and the faction’s representative when the five factions held council, and talked amongst themselves. Soon, thankfully, a few more of the transfers sat down with you and Tris, and they were soon followed by a steady trickle of transfers, the room getting louder with each person who entered. Max walked to the edge of the balcony and called for everyone’s attention, and the room got quiet, a nervous excitement filling your body. 

“Welcome, initiates,” the leader’s low voice filled the room. “We are glad to have you here at Dauntless. Here, you will be trained to be protectors of our city. You will be tested physically, emotionally, and mentally, and it will be hard, but you will come out stronger and braver, which is what you need to be to survive in this faction. Your training starts tomorrow; you will be working with Four and Eric, the initiates who aren’t transfers will be working with Lauren. For now, dig in, you’re going to need your strength for tomorrow.” Cheers erupted across the room, and people got up to grab food before racing back to their new friends. This was the beginning of something new for everyone, and excitement raced through your veins. You were ready to start your new life.

[absolutebl]

Top 10 BL Narratives 

BLs With The Best Stories  

Until We Meet Again (Thailand) - will probably always top this list. It’s a perfectly executed story, fantastic well seeded plot twists, and the only BL I would love to see adapted by other countries or read professionally translated. Adapted from a y-novel. 

Seven Days (Japan) - this is a pitch perfect elegant little YA romance that stays completely true to its yaoi roots but neatly avoids all the flaws of the genre. The story is deceptively simple but allows for angst and miscommunication to develop with VERY good reason, and is almost worth studying because of that. As a romance story it is elegant. Adapted from a yaoi manga.

Color Rush (Korea) - you all know how much I love this show, I lost my mind over the allegory and the perfection of the story to the point of forgiving it certain other sins in stiffness and low heat. The world-building is too simple for it to play well to a SF/F genre only audience but it’s absolutely groundbreaking for BL. Adapted from a manhwa. (Color Rush 2 continues the story and while I don’t like it as a BL, and the plot is somewhat typical, it’s still better than most.) 

Old Fashion Cupcake (Japan) - this is a deceptively simple office romance that actually has a lot to say about life, love, maturity, and pancakes. It’s charming but also deeply moving and loving in its exploration of what it means to give up, and how connection can bring with it second chances. It’s also beautifully filmed and acted. Adapted from a manga.

1000 Stars (Thailand) - all BL is romantic, but not all BL is a modern romance in the literary sense of the term, but 1k* is just that, an absolutely glorious slow burn romance that nods at BL but isn’t behooven to it. It’s just a really well executed linear story. Adapted from a novel. 

Cherry Magic (Japan) - a great fluffy concept that is given gravity by some stellar performances. It’s a self worth narrative arc but played with believable charm. Adapted from a manga. 

He's Coming to Me (Thailand) - such a clever take on both paranormal romance and the cohabitation trope, what I love about this is how closely the story and the supernatural conceits are married to each other. Basically boy and ghost move in together, fall in love while they investigate murder. Adapted from a novel. 

HIStory 3: Trapped (Taiwan) - Taiwan often struggles with story because their BLs aren’t long enough to really get stuck in (and they don’t adapt). Trapped is different. It has a baby murder investigation that promotes conflict between the leads, so the romantic tension is between plot and character, it’s so smart. The main couple has an amorphous ending, tho. Original screenplay (I think).

Nobleman Ryu’s Wedding (Korea) - this has a 12th Night meet Cinderfella feel to it, plus some great story tricks like a plot that requires a historical setting (I love it when narrative elements are codependent). Original screenplay (I think). 

Triage (Thailand) - a “correct the past” Groundhog Day story, that has narrative baggage I normally do not like but is so clever about time loops, I have to forgive it my hang-ups. About a doctor who must save a boy to fix reality, but not in the usual way. 

(List is in ranked order of my personal preference.)

Honorable Mention 

I have to mention Light On Me. The way it handled love triangles alone is narrative genius but over all it’s also had a particularly good script. The story, however, is pretty standard it was just very very well done. Same with Semantic Error. 

I waffled about including Utsukushii Kare on this list too. But it’s too complicated in the end for me to pull jsut it’s narrative out as its primary plaudit. So in the end I have to just say, read this and decide for yourself. 

Neither of these are strictly BL, but... 

3 Will Be Free (Thailand) - such clever storytelling that builds tension with both plot and the balance of suspense and flashbacks and the developing love between both sets of characters (both the 3 being chased and the 2 doing the chasing). Original screenplay (I think).

Great Men Academy (Thailand) - body-swap means this isn’t technically BL but like 3 Will Be Free I have to talk about it because it just such a great story. For body-swap it’s particularly clever. Original screenplay (I think).

A quick word on the nature of story & narrative. 

Story Encompasses 

Story is not the same thing as plot, lots of people make this mistake. Plot is one element of story. Here’s a simple way of looking at narrative:

Who is in it - the characters, their interactions & development how does that drive the story

What happens - plot, how the characters move through space & time, what actions they take, who they encounter 

When does it occur - and in film this tends to mean time frame (over the course of a week, a year?) but also how the narrative handles foreshadow & backstory 

Where is it located - setting in time & space, includes associated culture and culture conflict, is setting intimately tied to the narrative, if location were removed, could the story still occur?

Why we care - core concept, theme & messaging 

How it unfolds - motivation, tension, conflict, & consistency (AKA pace)

All BL, at its heart, is about two characters falling in love and/or fighting to maintain that love. One of the reasons to study cinematic narrative is to understand how tropes (situations) and archetypes (characterizations) can be used to formulate story under a romantic framework. 

For me, good storytelling allows me to cleanly comprehend all 6 elements above, as well as the general point of view (lens & scope). I also like it when elements are married to (or dependent on) each other (for example, a plot point that could only occur in a historical setting). I like it when visuals (directing style, wardrobe, etc) as well as tropes and archetypes are used to serve the story (Korea does this) and not be the story (Thai BL pulps do this). 

Some of my favorite BLs of all time are not on the above list. E.g To My Star and We Best Love because while I adore them for many reasons story structure is definitely not one of them. This is where visual pop culture can win over literary conceits - in cinema a weak story can be elevated by killer acting, directing, chemistry, visual elements, production etc... (Of course a strong author voice can carry a written work too. Terry Pratchett, for example, is weak on story but hella strong on voice.) 

The purpose of BL is entertainment, I happen to be entertained by strong story, so I will often rate BLs higher because of it. 

Asian Film Industries & Story Content Mechanics 

Original screenplays are more common in BL over all, but my list actually leans towards adaptations. That’s because i think Thailand, the biggest BL producer, tends to do better with adaptations, so far as story is concerned. 

Thailand has more y-novels than mangas, which is what they tend to adapt from. 

Japan has more yaoi mangas than gay novels, so that’s what they turn into BL (AKA live action yaoi). Yaoi, historically, it pretty weak on story structure. 

Korea does not have a robust original written content machine (read: v. small publishing industry that’s not queer friendly). Korea doesn’t want to spend money to acquire/option adaptation rights from Japan (for good reasons, mostly cultural, political, economic, and historical). Their stuff is equally divided between original screenplays or adapted manwhas. Their adaptations are weaker on story structure because of conflicting lengths - manwhas are long (and often unfinished at time of adaptation) but Korean BLs are short. 

Taiwan has Korea’s problem of a small publishing industry, but without Korea’s money to spend on production, so they also can’t really afford to buy rights to adapt. What they have is killer talent, chemistry, and plucky enthusiasm, so boy do I wish they could get better stories. 

Not Talked About 

Vietnamese and Pinoy BL are both very young industries still finding their legs, much of their stuff is pretty experimental narratively (read... it waffles). Which is the main reason I don’t follow those two as closely as I do other BL producing countries. I think that it’s just a matter of them coming to terms with the 6 narrative elements in a way that translates more tight and clear on the screen. It’s gonna take some time. 

(List is compiled end of Sept 2022. New BLs may change matters.) 

2023 Update... Some thoughts on Pacing 

Now in the above post I wasn't thinking specifically about pace. So I’m gonna add soem stuff from a recent ask I got. 

Thai stuff is always gonna be slower paced than Korean stuff. Also something like 4, or 6 act structure will often FEEL slow to western viewers.

I think the pace of a show is partly a judgement call on behalf of the viewer but also heavily cultural, so let me try to explain.

Structure, Pace, Plot

Structure, or the writing of a narrative script, can be divided into plot vs pace as follows:

Plot: movement of characters through time (scene by scene) and space (setting) and the people they meet along the way (dialogue).

Pace: how the plot is executed in terms of which scenes follow which, presence or absence of flashbacks, cuts, voice over work, but also literal words on the page - staging instructions, dialogue sentence structures, monologuing and so forth.

Plot = what is written in the script

Pace = how it's written in that script

This is going to get further complicated once an entire film crew gets ahold of that script.

Plot is characters moving through time, space, and interactions in the show AKA WHAT the characters are doing.

Pace is how that script and story now in the hands of the performers is relayed to the viewers using camera angles, dialogue delivery, staging AKA HOW those characters are filmed.

Plot is the responsibility of the actors and script writers

Pace is the responsibility of the directorial and editing teams.

Thus a part of the world that has good talent but poor production values, like Thailand, Philippines, or Vietnam, will always be weaker on pacing. But they can churn out something raw and brilliant IF they have a good script.

On the other hand, a place that has great everything but just really likes to mess with story structure and style, like Japan, might ALSO have weak pacing because that isn't their focus or interest.

In the first case they lack the editing talent, money, and technology. In the second they lack the will, and just like the play with structure A LOT. 

But this means each country that produces BL ends up needing to be judged on its own merits and choices (or lack of choice) IMHO.  

So, I stand by my list above. I think of it as representing all round story execution to the capacity of the country of origin. They are still the best story, although by western standards that story structure may feel a little off - depending on how you feel about that country's style of BL.

I might add a few to the above list (from late 2022-2023)

Semantic Error - of course. This show is perfect, after all. 

The Eighth Sense - Korea went gritty and tense, outside their comfort zone, and executed it sublimely well

Love Tractor - Korea frmly and entirely in their comfort zone but the pace never lets up

Jun & Jun - a master class in pure sappy fluffy romance but still knuckle biting tension, I was upset at the end of every episode that i couldn't watch the next one INSTANTLY, in TV that = pitch perfect pacing

Tokyo in April is... - this is paced beautifully for Japan, very tense but with Japan's signature artsy atmosphere, it's not it's fault I didn't like the story

Laws of Attraction - this is a plot-based pacing story, like UWMA, and these tend to be the ones Thailand paces best using plot to amp up tension, unfortunately that best can still feel a little weak on actual story strcture and basic plotting, e.g. they can go off the rails easily like Manner of Death or KinnPorsche, but at least this kind of Thai show keep us intrigued for the next episode.

I'm gonna mention Bed Friend here at the end, as a lesson in pacing. 

If this show had stuck to its guns and stayed 8 episodes, rather than stretching to fill 10 at the last minute, it would have been a near perfect high heat show out of Thailand. But it didn't have the confidence, and it likely wanted the money from those two added episodes. It's a real shame.

I gotta say I think this is the fans’ fault.

People always want more of a good thing, or more of the same thing, it's why we get shitty 2nd seasons. Sometimes what we need for truly better cinema is LESS of the good thing - better editing, tighter scripts - because that way the pace will be superior. Especially in genres that aren’t action forward (those fuckers can just explode shit, have people running around and punching. I don’t know, some viewers like that.) 

Of course Thailand (i’m looking at you mame) thinks adding in lost of sex does the same thing... action is action, after all. It’s not. Action is plot, not pace. 

But that’s a whole other rant. 

(source)

[mypoisonedvine]

The Summer Before College | Marcus Moreno x reader

summary: just because you got some good scholarships doesn't mean you couldn’t use some extra cash.  luckily, babysitting for a family friend has been a steady side gig for you.  rule number one of babysitting: don't let your wandering eye rest for too long on the hot single dad.  

word count: 4.7k

warnings: smut (dub con elements? but she’s into it lol don’t worry), age gap (he’s 40-something, reader’s 18/19), loss of virginity, pussy spanking (like, once), lots of petnames and ‘good girl’s, not a dark fic but kinda pushing it, not explicitly dad's best friend trope but it has that energy and I've decided that he is in fact friends with the reader's dad

a/n: this has basically nothing to do with the movie.  he’s just a hot dad.  don’t overthink it.

You knew the walk to the Moreno's by now: down two blocks from your house, take a right at San Vicente, a left on Birch, a few houses down and you're there.  With your full backpack weighing on your shoulders it felt longer than usual, but you made it anyways and knocked on the front door. 

"It's open!" a voice called from inside, and you turned the knob and swung the door open.

You almost regretted wearing your tiniest jean shorts, from the way Mr. Moreno did a double take when you walked in.  But hey, it was the middle of summer and he would never look at you like that— you were just his daughter's babysitter, ever since you were sixteen; he was probably just surprised to see that you were wearing something other than your school uniform.  Maybe some part of you wished he would look at you like that… 

Missy called your name, tearing you from your thoughts, jumping up when she saw you and beaming as she rushed to give you a hug.  "Hey!" you greeted in return.  

“Thanks again for doing this,” Mr. Moreno nodded in your general direction, apparently already dressed for whatever it was he had to do, slipping on his jacket from where it hung on a hook by the door.  "She's already had dinner, so just homework and bedtime," he explained to you as you nodded dutifully.

"Bedtime?  Dad, I'm not a little kid anymore," Missy rolled her eyes.

"Okay, you're a big kid and you need to be asleep by 10.  It's a school night."

She huffed but didn't protest, and you joined her on the couch because she wanted to show you some drawings she’d done earlier that day.  "Bye, Dad!" Missy waved when he left, and he turned back quickly to blow a kiss in her direction.

Once you helped her finish her homework (frankly, you didn't have to do that much— she's a smart kid), the two of you enjoyed some video games before you finally got her to start getting ready for bed.

It was cute how confident Missy was that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, only for her to be snoring within five minutes of her head hitting the pillow.  You were envious of how easily she could sleep; you could kill an hour just tossing and turning and readjusting your blanket.  But that wasn’t going to be your problem tonight: you weren’t going to sleep yet, until the man of the house returned, meaning all you had to do was wait.

Even in summer, having already graduated, you had plenty of work to do while you waited for Mr. Moreno.  Knowing what classes you had in the fall, you bought your textbooks a bit early and planned on reading them all before the semester began.  You’d already gotten through Philosophy Through the Ages and now you continued from where you left off in the middle of Introductory Physics.  

What surprised you was that you had time to finish that one, too.  You had anticipated that Mr. Moreno would be back before you made it to the module on fluid dynamics, but you reached the index at a quarter past midnight and he was still gone.  You shrugged and picked up the next one— A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry— hoping he was alright and that he’d be back soon.

You had to make yourself some coffee when 1 a.m. rolled around; tired, anxious, and distracted, you realized this was probably not the best state to be attempting to study in, but you didn’t feel like you had a choice.  You didn’t want to fall asleep here, you’d promised to watch Missy and you couldn’t exactly do that while asleep… plus, he would probably be back any minute now.  Sure, you’d been saying that to yourself for nearly an hour and a half now, but it was more true than ever.

It was another hour and a half, though, until his car pulled into the driveway and he pushed through the front door, prompting you to set aside your textbook.

“Good evening,” you greeted, standing up.  He looked a little disheveled— but it worked for him, with that curly hair all messed up in just the right way.  Maybe it was just that it was late or that it was the rare time you saw him without Missy around, but there was a darkness about him now, not sinister so much as just purely intimidating.  It was like you hadn’t really taken him seriously before, and now you were appreciating that you should have.

“She’s asleep?” he assumed, glancing over to the hallway which his daughter’s bedroom was positioned at the end of before slipping his jacket off and hanging it by the door.

“It’s half past two, so… I really hope so,” you chuckled.

“Shit, is it that late already?” he groaned, glancing at his watch.

“Did you not notice?”

“I.. got carried away.”

You didn’t want to know what he’d been out so late for.  It was none of your business, and you figured you were better off without any secrets to keep— you’d never been so good at keeping secrets, even your own.

“Been studying this whole time?” he noticed as he glanced at the textbooks on the couch, grinning a little.  It sort of felt like he was mocking you, and it made your cheeks warm as you nodded.  “What a good girl.”

That made a cold tingle crawl up your spine.  Sure, other students had called you that before, and plenty of your teachers, but when he said it, like that… it felt entirely new.  “I try,” you managed to respond eventually.

“You’ll do well in college, I bet.”

“You think so?” you beamed.

“Yeah,” he nodded confidently.  There was something comforting about the way he smiled at you; yet, there was something predatory about the way his eyes glanced down your body and back up slowly.

As you turned and bent over to pick up your textbooks off the couch, you could tell that he had stepped closer; you could just barely hear the soft noise of his footsteps on his carpet, just barely feel the warmth of him behind you, just barely pick up on the slow, thoughtful breath he took in and out through his nose.

Standing back up slowly, you felt him do it again, right against your neck.

“M-Mr. Moreno,” you stammered, shivering when his hands gripped you on either arm.  Not a tight grip, per se, but one that made his strength obvious.

“You don’t have to call me that,” he breathed.  “Not when we’re alone.”

Not that you really had any plan on how to respond to that, but if you had, it would've been forgotten as his lips brushed over your neck, leaving teasing kisses in a trail over your pulse.

"Wait—" you blurted out instinctively when his hands moved to your waist, cut off by your own shaky sigh and suppressed moan.  “What if she wakes up?” you questioned anxiously, glancing down the hallway and hoping you wouldn’t find Missy there, watching her dad feeling you up— and you letting him, not just that but enjoying it.  Of course, the hallway was deserted, but you couldn’t feel certain it would stay that way.

“She won’t,” he assured.  “Not if you can be a good girl and stay quiet.”

You made a little whimpering noise as you wondered if you could.  You didn’t know how, really; you were good at being quiet when you were alone, but being alone had never felt like this.  Forbidden, sexy, terrifyingly wonderful… nothing had ever felt like this.

“Do you want me to stop?” he purred, sounding like he already knew the answer.

“No,” you answered a little too quickly, “please… please don’t stop.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” he grinned.  “Tell me what you do want.”

“I want…” you sighed and started over again, willing yourself to speak your thoughts aloud even though they made a pit of guilt sink in your stomach.  "I want you to make me feel good."

You knew it was a sort of childish way of putting it, even before he laughed at your statement, but you weren't sure what else to say.  "Yeah?  I can do that," he decided.  "But I can make you feel good in so many ways…" he trailed off as his right hand slipped lower and lower, finally landing between your legs as you gasped.  Two fingers slid over the crotch of your shorts, and somehow he managed to bump against something that made electricity shoot up your spine and your hips buck into his touch of their own accord.  You felt his smile widen as his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin of your neck.  "You'll have to be more specific," he finally finished.  "How do you want me to make you feel good?"

"Inside me," you whined, "I want you inside me."

There was a sudden shift as it seemed like the control he had over you suddenly did not extend to himself; he growled a bit and pulled you into him, and you could feel the hard shape of his cock, through his trousers and your shorts.  You could feel it pressed just above your ass and it made you squirm against his embrace.  "Feel what you do to me?" he grunted, and you nodded quickly.  "Good."

He spun you around quickly, pulling you close to him and burning right through you with those brown eyes darker than ever, but just as you thought he might kiss you, he spoke instead.

“My bedroom’s upstairs,” he informed you quietly.

You just nodded, following him as he pulled you along through the house, up the stairs and past the door to the master bedroom of the house.

Now that you hadn’t seen it coming, of course, was when he chose to grab you and kiss you suddenly.  It was rough and passionate and nothing like you could've imagined; you were certain you'd never been kissed like this, like he needed to kiss you more than he needed anything.  

Your arms slipped around his neck as he pushed you back against the wall, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist as he kicked the door shut behind the two of you.  Little moans were muffled by the kiss— and it took you a minute to realize they were yours.  You didn’t even sound like yourself; probably because you’d never felt like this before, and therefore had never had any reason to sound like this.

You could feel his cock between your legs, though unfortunately not in the way you wanted.  Still, it drove you wild to have him so close like this, to try to imagine how the thick shape you were feeling would ever fit inside you.

His hands were so strong and thick that you worried they’d stretch out your tank top just by reaching under it— well, that is you would have worried about that if you could think about anything else but his hands reaching under your tank top.  He didn’t even waste his time touching you over your bra, instead making quick work of the clasps with one hand before coming back to grope one breast in his palm, then the other.  Just that was enough to make you run your fingers into his hair, but a little pinch to your raised nipple made your fists tighten and pull— you didn’t mean to, and you were just about to feel bad about it until he growled a little.  It seemed like a growl of approval, considering he pinched your nipples harder to make you do it again.  

“Feels good?” he asked with annoying (yet arousing) confidence.

“S-so good,” you slurred, stumbling over your words as you tried to think as clearly as possible through the thick haze of pleasure clouding your mind. 

As he guided you to set your legs down and unhook your arms from around his neck, you felt a bit like a doll being posed; when he pulled your top over your head and your bra from your arms, you felt like a doll being undressed.  You sort of didn’t mind it; you were happy to let him take the lead, confident he knew at least 100% more about this than you did. 

He knelt down before you as he roughly pulled at your tight jean shorts, his knuckles nearly bruising your hips as he stripped you.  Your underwear were not the pair you would’ve worn if you had known somebody was going to see them, just a plain dark blue color that made you feel so drab as he came face-to-face with them.  He didn’t seem to mind much, grinning up at you as he slipped his fingers under them and pulled them down, too.  Your face was so hot and yet your legs were breaking out into goosebumps simultaneously, and a shiver rolled up your body when he growled at the sight of your body laid bare for him.  Before you could even process it, he stood up and grabbed you, tossing you back onto the bed and spreading your legs.

“Fuck, what a pretty little pussy,” he praised with a smile that made you feel a little light-headed, swirling a few fingers over your swollen button until pulling them back to spank you there— it wasn’t even that hard, but you yelped and jolted and he laughed darkly.  “So sensitive,” he purred, his words walking a fine line between a compliment and a taunt, “so wet.”

Another finger slipping down to your entrance proved him right, your arousal plentiful as his touch glided through your folds.  

Suddenly overcome with a moment of bravery, you sat up and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, making him smile down at you.  “Let me help you,” he offered as he worked the buttons instead, freeing you to try to open his belt.  “Look at you, acting so desperate…”

At this point, you weren’t even offended by that; you wanted him so bad that you didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed by it anymore.  

He slipped the shirt off of his shoulders just as you finished opening the belt.  He pushed your hands away, and now you could see the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you down by your wrists.  “You’re getting ahead of yourself, señorita,” he purred.

Why did feeling powerless to him turn you on so much?  There was no real fear to it— you knew and trusted him, you would never have developed your misguided crush on him if you didn’t— and yet there was a strong edge of uncertainty as he kissed your neck and moved down your chest, between your breasts before he stopped to kiss those, too.

“Oh god,” you breathed, and he smiled against your skin before sitting up and staring down at you.  It wasn’t apparent if it was distant streetlights or the moonlight shining in through the window, but either way it cast a cold blue light into the room that reflected as a glimmer in his eyes. 

“Not gonna make you wait any longer,” he promised in a low voice, reaching down to push his unbuttoned belt and trousers to his thighs— those thick, muscular thighs that made your lip catch between your teeth.

Your breath caught, too, but in your lungs this time as his cock was exposed: thick, swollen, veiny… it looked picturesque, if thoroughly intimidating.  You couldn’t figure out if you wanted to move towards it or sheepishly crawl away.

"Why do you look scared?" he asked, his voice so much deeper than you remembered it from before, even if there was genuine concern somewhere in his tone.

"Is it gonna hurt?" you asked instead of answering.

"Baby…" he sighed huskily, "are you a virgin?"

You bit your lip and looked away, irritated that you hadn't managed to hide your fear enough to keep your secret.  

He sighed, your silence apparently answer enough.  

"Do you not want to, anymore?" you asked anxiously, afraid you had completely killed the mood.  Part of the reason it'd taken you this long to lose it was specifically because people seemed intimidated by the idea of being your first.

"No, no, I— no," he asserted sternly.  "I just need to… change my approach, slightly.”

He leaned down a bit, hovering over you as he trailed his hand up your leg, rubbing the inside of your thigh before finally drawing circles over your aching clit with his thumb, causing you to shiver and moan quietly.

“And, to answer your question, it won’t hurt.  Not if I get you good and ready for me,” he explained, pushing just one finger into you— and even that small of a stimulation made your eyes flutter shut, with his fingers being so much thicker and stronger than yours.

The second made your fists clench around the satin-y sheets beneath you.  You didn’t dare open your eyes, knowing you’d find him staring down at you and you weren’t ready for that, weren’t ready to see his reaction to your body in such a vulnerable state.  You could hear his reaction, though, with the rough groans and satisfied sighs he let out as he pumped his fingers into you.

When three fingers filled you, your eyes shot open.  “Fuck!” you yelped.

He smiled but slowed down, apparently taking some pity on you— but not enough to stop him from pressing down harder on your clit.

Just when you figured he’d warmed you up enough and he’d fuck you like he promised, he slid lower and the bed and bent down, adding his tongue into the mix with his fingers.  It was… overwhelming, and hot, not just psychologically but literally: it was physically hot, as in temperature.  How was his mouth so warm against you, and his fingers so warm inside you?

When he latched his lips around your clit and sucked on it, you saw stars.  Energy gathered in your gut and burned so bright that you thought you might explode.  Really, it was more like an implosion as the coil inside you snapped and your thighs accidentally clamped down on his hand.  It didn’t faze him though, it didn’t even slow him down as he moaned a little against you and curled his fingers even harder.  You didn’t remember reaching down to grab his head, you just felt his hair between your fingers as you pulled it roughly, gasping his name.

When he did stop, sitting up and wiping his face with the back of his hand, you just looked back up at him as you caught your breath.  He laughed, and you realized you were gawking unintentionally.

“I’m guessing you’ve never come like that before?” he ventured.  You didn’t know if ‘like that’ meant from oral or just so suddenly and intensely, but it was true either way so you nodded.

When he reached down to grip his cock with the same hand still wet with your slick, you held your breath without realizing it.  “Please put it in me,” you whimpered.

“I will,” he assured as he guided the head of it through your slick folds, stopping to tease your clit as you jolted from the contact on the sensitive nerves.  Something surreal and indescribable tingled under your skin— you could hardly believe that this was happening, let alone with him, with Mr. Moreno.  Or, Marcus.  You were on a first-name basis by now, surely.

He pushed forward in one smooth, slow stroke until he was all the way inside you, his body filling yours to the brim as you quivered from the sensation of being stretched so wide.  

“Am I hurting you?” he asked roughly.

“...almost,” you answered hesitantly, unsure how to describe the sensations you were feeling; not exactly pain, but not not pain.  The favorite pain you’d ever felt in your life, easily.

He chuckled as he gripped your hips a little tighter.  "I'm gonna move now," he announced.  You nodded your approval, sighing shakily as he pulled his hips back and you felt the intoxicating friction of his cock against your walls.  

"Ffffuck," you whimpered, gasping when he slammed his hips forward again.  Your eyes rolled back in your head when he pushed as deep into you as he could with each thrust, still measured but not exactly gentle as he set a pace faster than you’d prepared for.  But it was good, god it was so fucking good you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.  "Marcus," you sighed, barely recognizing your own voice when it was heavy with need and arousal like this.

He grinned when he heard his name cross your lips, grinding his hips against yours for emphasis until you were forced to arch your back.  "You like it rough, don't ya, honey?"

You nodded, confident that you liked it however he was doing it.

"Fuck, I knew it.  Knew as soon as I saw you."

Before you could wonder what he meant by that, he was already moving fast enough to make your head spin.  You had never had anything so deep inside you before, and when he pushed your legs up and back against your chest, you had no choice but to scream with pleasure.

Just before you reached the peak of it though, his hand clamped down over your mouth to muffle the sound.  "Gotta be quiet," he reminded you through his teeth before relaxing his hand a bit so you could still be heard somewhat

"I can't," you whined, "Marcus, please, I can't stay quiet—"

"You have to."

"Feels too good," you whimpered your excuse.  "F-fuck, slow down, I won't be able to stop it—"

He cut you off with a kiss, slow yet dominating, and your moans were muffled by his lips.  You still sounded so loud in your own head, but at least your cries weren't echoing against the walls of his room anymore.

What was echoing were the sounds of skin slapping on skin as he pounded into you, roughly finding every delicate spot within you and making the backs of your thighs sore as his hips slammed into them.  It forced your hands to grip at his muscular shoulders and your nails to dig into the skin there.  You hoped there would be little half-moon shaped marks there tomorrow, maybe one would even scar so he'd have your mark on his body forever; after all, he'd carved a permanent space in your body by taking your virginity.  Even if you couldn't dream of being as special to him as he was to you, you liked the idea of giving him something that he couldn't give back.

That energy was building again, different from before but no less powerful and persistent.  "I'm gonna— fuck, I'm gonna come, I'm so close," you whispered.

“Yeah?  Go ahead," he encouraged.  "I wanna see you fall apart just for me, wanna feel you come around my cock."

You hadn't realized he'd be able to feel it, and the idea of that was so filthily beautiful that it pushed you over the edge, your whole body tensing up in sudden waves of pleasure so intense that it made your eyes water.

Through the static filling your ears, you heard his low, husky voice encouraging you: "Good girl, just like that, don't fucking stop."

You'd always been powerless to his voice, but this was another level.  It was as if your body understood and met his demands, continuing to ride the peak of your sensation so long as he growled in your ear just right.  

It was much too tender, the way he brushed the stray hair away from your face, the way he kissed your slack mouth again, the way he held you tighter and mumbled more praises to you.  It was more romantic than it had any right to be, and you had to bite back the words of affection threatening to spill out of your mouth.

I love you, you wanted to tell him, I've loved you for years, but it was beyond inappropriate.  You didn't want to play the role of the innocent virgin who thinks sex means being in love and lets herself catch feelings for the older man who is just taking what he wants and, at best, doing her a favor so she doesn't have to go off to college and get her cherry popped there.  Maybe that was accurate, but that wasn't who you wanted to be.  

You wanted to be sexy, and mature, and in control.  You wanted to play a new rule, one that still felt foreign and yet closer than ever.  So you wrapped your legs around his hips and held him deeper in you, smiling with a little growl of your own.

"I want you to come inside me," you informed him with a purr, loving the little moment of shock that passed over his face before he groaned, fucking you a little faster and more erratically.

"Fuck, really?" he rasped.

You bit your lip as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and nodded.

"You're on the pill?"

Another nod, this one finished off with a shiver as you wondered how much more of this your body could take.

He grinned and picked up the pace again, his moans getting a little louder with each movement.  "Fuck, I'm gonna come— gonna fill up your tight little pussy, is that what you want?"

You nodded feverishly, already close to the edge again as you imagined what it would be like to have his come in you for the rest of the night.  Was he going to make you walk home with it leaking out from between your legs?  Why did that idea make your inner muscles involuntarily tighten around him?

With a string of curses and a grip on your thigh tight enough to bruise, he reached his own peak and you felt his cock flex and pulse inside you, a new warmth filling your gut from the inside out.  

It's hard to say how long the two of you stayed like that, since you were busy basking in the afterglow (and, less enjoyably, worrying about the consequences that tomorrow morning would bring).

When he pulled out and collapsed beside you, you wondered if you should get up and get dressed.

"Stay here tonight," he instructed you, as if somehow a response to your internal thought.  "Your folks won't freak out if you're out all night, right?"

"I'll just tell them I slept over at your place," you shrugged.  With a confused look from him, you clarified: "on the couch."

"Right," he nodded as he wrapped you in his arms and pulled you closer, letting you rest your head in the crook of his neck.  In this way and in so many others, it was how you expected (and hoped) losing your virginity would go: someone you trust and who cares about you, with enough attention on you that you didn't feel much pain, plus cuddling afterwards.  But, in even more ways, it was unlike what you'd ever thought possible: it felt incredible and you came so hard that your ears were still kind of ringing, you didn't use a condom or even think to mention it, and finally— and most absurdly— it was with Marcus fucking Moreno.

Frankly, considering his performance earlier, "fucking" very well could be his middle name.

"You should sit for me again next week," he suggested quietly.

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

"No," he grinned, "but I'll be sure to come back real late, after she's gone to bed, so I can show you all the other ways I can make you feel good."

"H-how many ways are there?!"

He just laughed, pulling you closer and placing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.  “Oh, sweetheart… so smart, but so innocent.  We can fix that.”

You weren’t sure entirely which of those two things he intended on fixing.

[merakiui]

Frostbite

yandere!childe x (gender neutral) reader art credit - GNSN_FA on twt cw: yandere, blood, minor gore (lacerations), unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mentions of death/hypothermia, fighting

It’s borderline animalistic, the way you cling to warmth and life like a starved, neglected hound. Your fingers stiffen in a vain attempt to flex—to successfully grasp your sword like a true warrior. The furs that were once draped over your body are ragged, torn to shreds from a dangerous battle between the elements and him. There’s no mistaking the excitement that lights his every nerve like bulbs hanging from a Christmas tree, coated in the maddening swell of potent bloodlust. If surrender was an option, you would have done it long ago.

Even then, you’re certain he wouldn’t give you such a benevolent chance no matter how hard you were to beg and plead.

Your breath materializes like a phantom in front of your face, a cruel reminder that you’re still breathing in a battered body. Your fingernails are chipped, blood running down the tips from an icy struggle, but you refuse to succumb to the cold. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in his electrified stare. 

“What’s the matter, comrade?” There’s a wry smile pulling his chapped lips apart, showcasing flawless teeth aligned in a perfect face. Despite the brutal wear of this current fight, he’s still handsome. And that makes you sick. “I thought you said you’ve gotten stronger. If I wanted a real battle, I would’ve challenged one of my subordinates and that’s nowhere near as fun as this!”

Keeled over in the snow, your lungs burning with each rattled inhale, you struggle to meet his eyes. The deathly chill of the Snezhnayan climate claws at your exhausted form like the porcelain fingers of a skeleton. You might as well surrender to the freezing temperatures. After all, the frostbite is far kinder than the fighting machine looming over you, the toe of his boot nudging your trembling self. 

“I... I am strong,” you manage to say before the dangerous wind pierces your throat like a dagger. Like the icicle Childe’s wielding, a happily convenient reaction between Hydro and Cryo elements. You cough and crimson paints the snow. “Strong. I’m strong.”

“Then get up.” There isn’t any warmth in his tone. Cold like ice and devoid of his former playfulness. Under all of that nonchalance, a fierce, chiseled warrior lies in comfortable wait. When his eyes trace your hunched form and he spots the blood that dribbles past your lips, practically freezing as soon as it makes contact with the frigid air, those dull hues widen. Surely he’s hit a weak spot, a vital organ or something close to a fatal blow. He wonders for a brief moment if you’re afraid of death. “You’ll freeze if you don’t move.”

A flash catches your attention and then there is the flow of suffocating water. Sharpened blades of ice surround you on all sides, nearly scraping your arms, so you force yourself onto unsteady legs. Internally, you’re searching for a way out—for a way to give up before you bite off more than you can chew. This sparring match wasn’t your request, but you had been a fool to accept, having been so certain of your strength and wit. But you aren’t accustomed to Snezhnaya, whereas Childe has spent years of his life here: training, learning, and fighting until he was worthy of the Tsaritsa’s praise. 

With sloppy movements, you cut through the ice as if it’s butter, eternally grateful for the sharpness of your trusty sword. You can’t tell when this fight will end, but you hope an opening with present itself. As soon as it does, you’re running as far as your frozen legs will take you. Like a feral beast who fights desperately against the unfair hands of the Grim Reaper, you stumble forwards, slashing blindly at your target. He’s thoroughly amused with your struggle, having seen this sort of desperation many times before on the battlefield.

It’s a depressing thing, knowing you’ll be destined for failure and yet you still push onwards. As if that will turn the tide of this battle in your favor. Childe almost admires your persistence, but it isn’t all that special. He’s seen it all before but not quite in the way you portray it. Your despair is far more delectable than that of any low-ranking Fatui soldier. Childe could bask in this for eternity and he’d never grow bored. To have you by his side as his punching bag—it excites him just a little too much. 

Naturally, the more he spars with you, the more he’ll grow accustomed to your attack and defense patterns. A strategy is only worthwhile if it rakes in victory. No matter the cost. No matter how many fall and grovel, begging for their pitiful lives. In a way, his moral compass is rather skewed. He supposes that makes him a bad person, but he’s never been one for the hero role. 

Childe taps your shoulder and you whirl, slicing upwards with your sword. The blade cuts the air, not the torso of the man who jumps back with such deadly precision. The expression he’s wearing haunts you: a wicked smile, pupils blown wide with the thrill of life and death, and a blooming bruise from where you managed to hit him in your earlier scuffle. In any form, he looks good, be it blue and purple, red and pale, or even frozen stiff by the very ice that reacts to his Hydro abilities. You can’t stand your weak heart, as you’re well aware of the face he’ll bear tomorrow. Friendly and disarming, a total opposite to the grinning madman twirling water-turned-ice blades like they’re circus batons. 

Like always, you’ll return his kindness because you’re a fool. Because you like the soft, wholesome Childe that cares lovingly for his family—the side he’s displayed in rare instances that glimmer beyond the gilded portrait of a battle-hardened soldier. 

You fall hard on your back, landing in the thick snow with a wheeze. There is no warmth on the battlefield. Only pain, suffering, and the certainty of death. You push yourself to get up, but your muscles won’t move, too heavy and sore. You know you’re strong—you’ve faced many opponents before and you’ve lived to boast of your successes. You can beat Childe. You have to if you intend to avoid fights with him in the future. 

“Well, this is upsetting.” He’s frowning now, idly tapping the crystalized water while he circles you like a sharp-toothed predator. “Didn’t expect this to end so quickly.”

Liar. You already know I can’t beat you, you want to say, but the words escape you. Not yet, anyways.

A sneer splits your dry lips and blood trickles down your chin like a woeful river. You don’t need a mirror to witness the damage. 

“Teucer won’t like this,” you say, staring up at Childe with dead eyes, hoping to prod at his weak spots. If the mention of his brother affects him, Childe doesn’t let it show.

“He doesn’t have to know,” he retorts, brushing aside such a possibility with ease. 

Right. Because you expect me to put myself back together like a toy. Of course, almighty Childe, the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya. 

“Well.” You pause to exhale and pain shoots through your side. Through your bleary gaze, you can see a deep laceration. Blood stains what’s left of your attire, and you move your rigid hands over the wound to prevent anymore blood loss. “Congrats. You won.”

“You’re giving up?” Bewilderment flashes across his face for an instant before it melts away into an emotion you can’t place. Anger? Sadness? Is he unhappy with this win? 

“What does it look like? I can’t possibly fight with these injuries.” 

It hurts to speak and you wish he would just stop. If he could accept the outcome of this battle, this wouldn’t be such a problem. You’d be able to patch and heal yourself up before your condition gets any worse. With the chill seeping into your open cut, harshly kissing slick, wet blood, you doubt you’ll make it inside before passing out. Vaguely, you recall the unfamiliar stages of hypothermia. At worst, if you stay out in this fatal weather, pinned like an entomologist’s butterfly under Childe’s monstrous gaze, you’ll freeze to death. At best, you’ll escape, build a fire, and warm up to the best of your ability. Weighing your options, you’d rather lose a finger or a toe as opposed to your life. 

“You can fight.” His blade is at your throat, the pointed tip niggling into your jugular. It’s more of a threat than a warning, a means to spur you into action. “You’ll never get stronger if you’re always running away, comrade.”

Your life has some value; Childe just can’t see that. In his eyes, a fight should be seen through to the very end, even if it’s marred in death and destruction. Yet here you are, choosing to abandon your pride. That must have some strength in itself, right? You hate his face, his childish nature, and the fact that his everything is making you reconsider. You’re doomed to fail if you continue to push your frostbitten body past its natural limits. 

“I...” The blade slices along your throat, a mere surface wound. You can’t feel the sting or the sticky blood that spills out like flowing tears, having become as numb as a fish-eyed animal near extinction. “Childe—“

You don’t want to hurt him and he knows this. It twists his insides like a knife in flesh, turning and turning until organs pop and leak into soupy conflict. The blade leaves your throat and another harsh wind blows between the two of you, glacial and prickling. He distances himself, tracking your form in case you happen to move. You’ve stopped shivering at this point, lying flat on your back and staring up at the dark sky. Snowflakes cling to your lashes like the hands of death, pulling you closer to an invisible grave. 

“You can fight.” Is that desperation in his voice? You almost laugh at the idea. He’s not a desperate man; he doesn’t need to be when he has it all. “Get up, comrade.”

“I think...I’ll stay here,” you whisper, your heartbeat irregularly slow. You’ve never counted the beats before, but now it makes for a fun distraction. “Good job, Childe. You’ve definitely...”

Gotten stronger.

You possess strength, just not the type Childe wants to experience firsthand. He has no use for a lonely, unseeing corpse. And when your eyelids flutter, closing upon a face that reflects frozen death, he releases a sigh. His blade falls at once, landing in the snow with a thump, and he bends down to gather your fallen frame in his arms. Somehow, whenever he spars with you—whenever he’s within touching distance—he feels alive. As if you’ve breathed meaning into his frostbitten soul, warming the cold beast that lurks and pounces at the sight and smell of fresh bloodshed. 

If he’s learned anything, it’s that there’s always going to be room for improvement. You just need to train more, and he’d be over the moon to fight you until it’s your blade slicing through his skin. In the meantime, though, he’ll have to kiss color and life back into your monochrome world of death and despair. 

As the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya, it’s only fair if he repairs the damages done to his favorite toy. Break, repair, and repeat. A cycle befitting a messy relationship and an even messier slew of choices. Rinse and repeat, like waves licking up a carcass bound to the shore. 

Come morning, you’ll be shiny and new, ready to sit by his side for another leisurely ice-fishing outing. Childe isn’t known as the greatest toy salesman for nothing, and you’re just barely scraping by with each battle scar and bandage—courtesy of such an illustrious, experimental toy salesman. 

[wasted-headspace-98]

Cataegis: Part III

Summary: An apprentice to the famed Mace Windu, your master has made sure you are strong with the Force. But, sometimes the Force has other plans. And you happen to be caught in the middle of them. Rating: 18+ Warnings: Nonexplicit sexual content, slow-burn, noncon elements (non explicit), underage elements (non explicit), inappropriate use of the force, etc Pairing: Sith!Obi-Wan x Reader Masterlist

Cataegis (n.) Latin word meaning tempestuous storm

Part I Part II

Power.

That’s what he felt.

There was no denying the waves of it that rolled off of you. It…confused him if he was being honest. He tried to make sense of it all, but there were so many factors to consider that it sent him reeling.

He sighed and rubbed his temple, sitting back on his heels. He hadn’t felt that much power from anyone aside from Anakin. The thought made him frown. During his time training Skywalker, he could sense the turbulent emotions within him. It was like a raging storm that held no end in sight. His Padawan allowed his emotions to guide him. Looking back, he realized that he should have seen the signs and snuffed them out sooner. But, he digresses.

There was no use in dwelling on things stuck in the past.

But you were right there. In front of him, and in the present.

He couldn’t figure out what the point was in the Force binding the two of you together. It was a puzzle that he didn’t have all the pieces to. And it frustrated him to no end.

She’s not a sentinel, that’s for sure, he thought to himself. So why does she conduct herself as one?

From what he knew about the training of temple Sentinels, you had gone through no such thing. In fact, it was incredibly rare for one of them to take a Padawan learner. The Sentinel duty seemed to be ingrained in a youngling from the day they discovered the Force. But there was something different about you.

“Master,”

He opened his eyes, turning to look at his former Padawan. “Anakin,” he greeted. He inclined his head, his golden eyes seeming to pierce the soul of the Lord approaching him. “What is it?”

“I sense a disturbance.” Anakin said with a frown. His long hair framed his face and blew in the gentle breeze. “And it’s powerful.”

Cataegis hummed in response, nodding quietly. “She is,” he muttered quietly.

Anakin arched his eyebrow, part of it marred by the scar that adorned the side of his face. “She?”

Cataegis let out a chuckle. “Yes, she.” He was loathe to the fact that he didn’t have a name to put to your infuriatingly beautiful face. “She’s becoming a rather annoying thorn in my side.”

Anakin snorted and crossed his arms. “What do you plan on doing about it.”

The blond Sith pursed his lips as he thought. Truth be told, he didn’t know. There were too many unknown factors for him to run headlong into this without a plan. He knew Anakin was usually the one to do so, but spending so much time with his former apprentice seemed to be rubbing off on him. “I…don’t know.” he admitted.

“Let me hunt her-“

“No!” Cataegis snarled at Anakin and threw him backwards, his hold tight on the other man’s throat with the Force.

Anakin grunted as his back hit the wall and he clawed at his throat momentarily before realizing his Master had full control of his body.

“You will not,” he hissed.

“Seems like you’ve found a new pet,” Anakin choked, trying to struggle against the hold Cataegis had on him.

He growled, the sound reverberating through his chest and his eyes narrowing in a primal rage. “Touch her, and you’ll have one less hand to worry about,” he snarled. “She’s not a bantha for you to hunt for sport. She’s someone more powerful than either you or me. And Force help you if I find out you’ve disobeyed me.” He let Anakin go with another growl, and the former Jedi fell to his hands and knees as he tried to suck in large breaths.

“You’ve gotten rather attached,” Anakin said as he pulled himself to his feet.

Cataegis scowled at his former apprentice. “Have care how you speak, Vader. You never know when you’re going to push me too far.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, but the threat gave him pause. Cataegis only used his Sith title when he was extremely upset with him, which wasn’t often. There must have been something awfully special about this woman for him to be so on edge. “Very well,” he said, inclining his head and acknowledging Cataegis. “But is this going to be a problem?

The former Jedi let out a huff of annoyance. “I don’t know.” he said. “There seems to be a lot about this woman that I don’t know. And I don’t like it.”

“All the more reason we need to find out who she is.”

A low rumble came from Cataegis’ chest, a hum of agreement. “True. But I don’t want you doing anything to scare her off. She’s already on edge enough as it is.”

Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Since when have you been concerned about whether someone is scared?” he asked.

Cataegis gave him another warning look. “Since the Padawan I’ve connected with is barely more than sixteen,” he snapped. “Her mind is still malleable, and there’s still a chance I can undo everything that the Jedi have taught her. But if you go scaring her off like that, there’s no telling how she’ll react. We have a difficult enough time as it is. The last thing I need is for you to tear down any work I manage to accomplish with this youngling.”

“Do you really think you’ll be able to turn her?”

He paused for a moment, thinking it over. He could sense the turmoil and fear within you. There was confusion, doubt, and surprisingly, anger. At what, he couldn’t be sure. But it surprised him nonetheless. He could sense the disturbance in your mind. If he really tried, he didn’t think it would take much for him to sway you. “I believe so,” he said, rubbing his beard as he continued to think. “I’m going to Coruscant.”

“What?!”

“Are you questioning my decision?”

“Of course I am!” Anakin defended. “You’ve absolutely lost your mind! Yoda will know as soon as you step foot on that planet. There’s know way you’ll be able to get past all of them without getting arrested. Or killed.”

Cataegis sighed and shook his head. “Such little faith, Anakin.”

~*~*~*~

After what happened with Windu, you’d been avoiding your master like the plague. He understood that you would need your space, and he left you to your own devices. For the most part, anyway.

At least he did until Yoda came looking for you.

He found you in one of the many training rooms within the temple. You’d been going at a program of Darth Maul for several hours, at least. The hologram was giving you quite the workout, you had to admit. And you could land blows and slice it to pieces without actually hurting any of your fellow padawans in a sparring session. You knew the emotions raging within you would cause a disturbance, but at that point, you didn’t care.

You didn’t understand what was happening, much less why it was happening to you of all people.

Cataegis’ golden Sith eyes stared at you every time you closed your eyes. You could feel his presence looming over you. It was as if he were right beside you the entire time.

And it unsettled you.

“Hmm…sense your anger, I do.”

You jumped at the sound of the voice that interrupted your training session. You turned on your heel and thrust out your hand. A wave of powerful force energy flew from your palm and rushed towards Yoda. Your eyes widened when you realized who it was. “Master Yoda!” you exclaimed. He saw your reaction coming before you even acted. He quickly jumped out of the way, somersaulting in the air and landing behind you in the training area.

“Mean to scare you, I did not. Sorry, I am, Padawan.” He tilted his head to the side and watched you visibly deflate. The lightsabers in your hand retreated back to their durasteel handles and you quietly hung them on your belt.

“It’s alright, Master.” you replied. “I didn’t mean to attack you.”

He let out the quiet chuckle you knew so well and shook his head. “Conflicted, you are. Resolve your issues, you must.”

You felt like throwing your hands in the air. “How do I do that, Master?” you asked. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

Master Yoda hummed quietly and observed as you took up a meditation position before him. “Explain what is happening, you will.” You arched an eyebrow. You’d figured that Windu had told the Council everything that was happening with you. It would make sense for him to do so. After all, from what he said, it was highly unusual for something like this to happen. Sensing your hesitation, Yoda shook his head. “Tell the Council the details, Master Windu did not. However, like to help you, I would.”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You couldn’t help the flinch that took over your shoulders when you saw his eyes staring back at you.

There’s no need to be scared, little one. His deep voice soothed. I’ll soon be with you.

You let out a gasp and opened your eyes. Yoda almost recoiled when he saw the red and gold brimming your normally bright irises.

A chuckle that wasn’t your own echoed through your head and his voice spoke once again, this time a fading whisper. Have no fear, my young apprentice. I won’t hurt you. Yet.

“Hear his voice again, you have?”

You swallowed the fear that lumped in your throat and nodded. “Yes,” you admitted.

He hummed in thought and readjusted his hold on the cane before settling himself in front of you. “Get to the bottom of this, we will. First, discover what this bond is, we must.”

The lights of the training room began to fade away as you closed your eyes and began a light meditation. You’d done something similar with Mace in the past, and you assumed Yoda would want to see exactly what it was that you saw. You were willing to show him, but that didn’t mean you had to like the invasion it would bring into your mind.

But you pushed those feelings aside and opened your mind to him. Everything came rushing forward and you let it.

Everything you were feeling pushed itself towards Yoda. And you didn’t try to stop it. All of your emotions bubbled over the surface and came spewing out like a volcano.

The waves crashed against the edges of your mental shielding, and you didn’t want to hold them back anymore.

What’s happening little one? I can feel your pain from here!

There was a note of concern that you hadn’t heard before. You almost snorted at the thought. You and you let it with a sigh of resignation.

There was no use denying it.

The Dark Side had a hold on you.

And it didn’t appear to be letting go any time soon. didn’t want to hear his voice anymore.

When you opened your eyes again, you were no longer sitting in the training room with Yoda. Instead, you found yourself on a landing platform. The night was cold and dark, and the wind ripped around and billowed your Jedi robes around you. Standing across from you…was him.

Black encompasses him like the shadows of the night, trying to swallow him whole. But the closer you looked, you realized that he was controlling the shadows. The rain pounded on the both of you, soaking you to the bone. Lightning struck the platform to your right, lighting up the area around you. His eyes flashed with the lightning, gold and beautiful.

“You!” you snarled, baring your teeth and glaring at the man.

He held up his hands in what he probably thought to be a placating gesture, but you took it as a threat. You threw your hand forward, and a powerful blast of energy flew from your fingers. Cataegis grunted and crossed his arms to block your blow.

“Get out of my head,” you snarled.

Letting out a scream, you let yourself feel the force around you. The energy flowed through you, became your blood. Everything around you became a part of you. And when you attacked him again, you attacked him with everything.

Yoda watched you with awe. His eyes were wide as a bubble of pure force energy surrounded you. He could see the waves rolling off of you, creating the field. Blue, red, and purple flowed through it like veins in a body. The sphere itself had a golden glow that pulsated with your heartbeat.

His eyes widened and he jumped from his seat as he saw you open yours.

“Get out of my head!”

An intense gold seeped into the color of your irises, intensifying the color. Energy exploded out of your body, throwing Yoda away from you and across the room.

Taglist: @rogueheretic555 @lordofthenerds97 @say-something-nice-missy @doctor-warthrop @auroras-stirring-gaze @venus-armote @say-something-nice-missy @cosmicsierra

[muselin]

See You Later - Part 1

Who: Beomgyu

Group: TXT

What: Beomgyu/f!reader, collegeAU, slow burn, eventual smut, college student!Gyu, model!Gyu

Word count: 2,238

A/N: this is for @bluekais ❤ Hope you enjoy! Sorry that it's taken so long! There will be a Part 2 coming but I got myself elbows-deep into Kinktober so might take a while as well 🎃

____________________________________

"Tch."

The dissatisfied noise leaving your lips had become habit by now. Just his presence annoyed you, but the fact that he had the nerve to show up late to class almost every time, carrying that stupid skateboard, made your blood boil a little bit. He never studied, never did the assignments, always showed up late and he was still somehow passing this class. This class that you had worked so hard to get into and had to keep working so hard to stay in. It didn't come naturally to you but it did to him and it made you green with envy.

"Ah, Beomgyu-ssi, how kind of you to join us," your professor quipped sarcastically as Beomgyu beamed a smile that was frustratingly charming and headed for the only empty space in the auditorium which, to your displeasure, happened to be next to you.

You didn't acknowledge each other as you continued scribbling furiously into your notebook while Beomgyu sat with his chin leaned on his hand. You noticed that he hadn't taken out anything to write with.

"Now I will hand out your assignments for the next lecture. Remember we have study week, so you will have one week to complete these. Please remain in your seats as you are now."

Your professor proceeded to hand out stacks of papers and you couldn't help noticing that he was handing only one stack for every two students. He was making his way down your row and dropped off an assignment right between you and Beomgyu.

"I can hold it for us," Beomgyu smiled pleasantly as he looked over to you, seemingly unaffected by your sour expression. As the two of you read the instructions for the music production assignment, Beomgyu would stop and mutter to himself every once in a while: "Hmm, I already have a bass guitar for this," "This would be very easy to add a snare to," "I just need vocals and someone to match the drum line to this".

"Alright, everyone ready?" The auditorium hummed with mumbled "yes"es.

"Good," your professor continued, "you will be doing the assignment in pairs, in the order that I've handed the assignments out to you".

You groaned inwardly, noticing yours and Beomgyu's names at the bottom right corner of the cover page.

"Class dismissed!"

You were unsure what to do. You'd have to spend quite a lot of time with Beomgyu to finish this but you didn't have his number and you didn't even know which dorm he was in. Before you could open your mouth to ask Beomgyu when you should meet up, he was getting up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"See you later, Y/N," his voice laced with his regional dialect reached you as an afterthought.

"Tch. Fuck you too, Choi," you muttered.

___________________

It had been four days since you last saw Beomgyu and you were getting nervous. You had started the assignment early and done as much as you could do. You hated to admit it but you really did need him for this. You had worked out a base melody but it was too bare and uninteresting and you knew from hearing him talk to himself that he knew a lot of elements which could add flare and points to the assignment. You hunched over your laptop, browsing the music library. Begrudgingly, at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday, you decided to email him through the university central email list.

### 22:01 ###  Hi Beomgyu, it's Y/N, your partner for the music production assignment. I've thrown some things together but we need to meet to do the rest. I realised I didn't have your number or your dorm address, let me know when we can meet up. ###

You waited for a while after pressing send, just in case he was on his emails right now. At midnight you gave up and went to sleep.

### 03:44 ### Hi! Sorry about that! Can you bring what you have over to mine at about noon tomorrow? Here's the postcode ###

You woke up to the reply from Beomgyu and nearly panicked that you would be late. He didn't live close by at all, the post code seemed to be for a swanky area of newly built apartments downtown, miles away from your suburban campus.

You showered and dressed as quickly as possible. You weren't dressing up for anyone. Jeans, sneakers and a flannel shirt was all Beomgyu was getting from you. You grabbed your laptop and equipment and headed out the door.

________________

At 11:55, you knocked on Beomgyu's door. He lived on the 13th floor and on the elevator up to his apartment you hoped to whoever would listen that this wouldn't turn out to be as unlucky as the out-of-order sign on the second elevator.

The front door clicked and opened to reveal a somewhat sleepy Beomgyu, dressed in a tshirt and pyjama bottoms.

"Oh, Y/N, you're early," he said, then looked at his watch. You found this ironic, considering he never showed up to class on time.

"Well, not by much. Can I come in?"

"Sure," he said, opening the front door widely for you to walk in past him. "I'll make coffee," he yawned.

As you walked past him you couldn't help but note in your head that he smelled really good. You weren't sure if it was his cologne or laundry but it was the kind that settled pleasantly in your chest and made you want to breathe in deeper. You stopped that train of thought harshly as soon as you felt your mind drift that way. You were perfectly happy with feeling generally mildly annoyed with Beomgyu. It was your comfort zone, even if having to work with him was pushing it.

"So how come you don't live on camp-- Wow..."

Your jaw dropped as you walked into the apartment. It was nothing like the cramped dorm rooms you and your friends shared on campus. It was bright, spacious and well-decorated, with huge windows and a view that rivaled the best hotels in the business district.

"How the fuck are you affording this," the words tumbled out of you with little grace before you could stop them.

"Well, since you ask, I work a lot of side jobs," Beomgyu said nonchalantly as he poured water into the kettle in the open-plan kitchen.

"Really? What do you do?"

"Uhm...," he scratched his neck sheepishly, "at the moment I model."

"You? You model?"

"Yeah, why," he tilted his head at you, looking at you quizzically.

Those big brown eyes, the soft curves of his lips, his chiseled jawline... And his hair looked really soft too. Suddenly from thinking nothing of him you were imagining him as a model. You wondered what he modeled for. Could it be fashion brands? Lifestyle? Prints? Maybe even swimsuits? He always wore those baggy jeans and t-shirts, but maybe...

"Y/N?"

"Oh," you snapped back to him, realising you hadn't answered him. "Yeah I just... didn't know, that's all."

"Uhm, cool. Why don't you drop your stuff off in the room down the hall, the one on the left?"

You nodded and picked up your laptop bag and equipment, your feet sinking into the plush carpet as you padded down the hall. You nudged open the door to the room he'd pointed you to, jaw dropping again for the second time today as you walked in.

The room was a small makeshift studio, with mics, a sound control board and several guitars. Several notepads were strewn about along with a few used coffee mugs and muffin wrappers. It seemed to be the most lived-in space of Beomgyu's house so far and you were suddenly starting to understand why he never seemed to pay much attention to the classes. You dropped your bags off in the corner and sat down at his computer, looking at the various pieces of equipment connected to it.

"How do you like your coffee?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard Beomgyu's pleasant voice reverberate in the room. You hadn't heard him come in after you. Covering up your startled reaction, you mumbled your preference and he returned shortly with two steaming mugs, setting them down on his desk.

"Um, so... For this assignment I've tried layering the melodies but it's very bare. I thought we could use it as a starting point and build on it," you said, trying to sound more businesslike.

"That's good, thanks. I actually don't have a lot of time so a head start would be good. I have an hour now but then I need to head out."

Your brow furrowed. An hour? It had taken you three days to put together what you had so far.

"Let's see what you've got," Beomgyu reached for the USB stick in your hands and plugged it into his computer. He downloaded the files and ran them.

An unobtrusive melody filled the small studio. He listened politely, head tilted to one side until it faded out.

"Um... Yeah, I don't play guitar so I wasn't sure what would sound good with that," you started, hands playing with the edges of your shirt nervously. You hated feeling incompetent, especially in front of Beomgyu.

"Yeah, no offence, but it does need a lot more than that," he said. "Let's see what I can do with that."

You sat in your chair and watched him plug one of his guitars into the amp behind you. He tuned it according to the scales in your melody and started to play along.

"Nana naaa," he hummed along quietly. "I don't know about that bar, what do you think," he asked you.

"It's not bad but I think it can go for longer," you replied. Beomgyu nodded, stopping the recording and starting again.

You watched him get lost in his own world as the notes coming from his guitar breathed life into your melody. You watched his fingers strum and pluck, watched his lips open and close in concentration, occasionally the lower one being worried by his teeth. You watched his long hair fall into his face. You simply watched Beomgyu in his zone, not noticing when he stopped playing.

"Y/N?"

Your eyes focused and met his deep brown ones, your lips tensing as you tried to seem attentive.

"Yeah? Yeah, that was good, let's add that in," you spoke quickly.

"Cool," Beomgyu then stood up and reached behind you to switch off the amp. You couldn't stop yourself from breathing in again when his chest and neck nearly brushed across your face. His warm hand dropped to your shoulder, giving you a casual pat.

"Why don't you sit at the computer and keep replaying the recoding while I write down the chords," he suggested.

"Okay, sure," you stood up in the cramped space and there was barely room for you two to switch places. Beomgyu's hands instinctively came up to your waist to steady you as he brushed past you. Your breath hitched but you said nothing as you sat down at his desk and started the recording.

Your combined melody filled the small room and you found yourself nodding along. You hated to admit it but you liked it much more with Beomgyu's additions. You played it several times while he wrote down the chords.

"Right, awesome," he drawled in his dialect after he was finished. "I have to get dressed and head out now, but if you want we can meet up again later today. I won't be done until quite late but I sleep late anyway."

"How late are we talking," you asked suspiciously.

"I would be done about 11, we could meet back here," Beomgyu offered.

You hesitated for a second. It was a lot later than what you considered acceptable but at the same time you didn't trust Beomgyu. You weren't sure you would get any more time out of him than this.

"Okay, deal. Message me when you're done and I'll head over."

"Cool, here's my number," Beomgyu grabbed your phone to type his own number in and called himself. "You okay to let yourself out?"

He left the studio and went into the room across, which you guessed was probably his bedroom. You copied the new files onto your USB before you packed up your things and left the studio as well. On the way you saw that Beomgyu's bedroom door was ajar. You saw him standing with his back to the door as he was pulling his t-shirt over his head. Your lips tensed into a line as you tried to not to make any noise and not even to breathe.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"See you later, Y/N."

You stood frozen in place as your eyes traced the lines of his back muscles to his pretty shoulders, not missing his toned arms flexing as he reached up to push the t-shirt over his head. Your gaze trailed back down his body to his hips where his bottoms were slung low, exposing the two cute dimples at his lower back. He didn't look like he was wearing anything underneath.

Beomgyu dropped his shirt to the floor and you suddenly darted down the corridor, panicked that he would turn around and see you. His bottoms dropped down just as he heard his front door open and shut.

[heliads]

Some Things Have To Be Said (Part Three)

When S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Y/N L/N is called to the S.W.O.R.D. encampment outside Westview because of her history working alongside Wanda Maximoff, she’ll have to face her past with Wanda and even a confrontation with the woman she loved.

previous / masterlist

You can only stare at her. Your blood feels like it’s freezing in your veins, slowing to a stop. The world crashes to a halt around you. After a long moment, you’re able to claw up the strength to form a single word. “What?” Wanda’s gaze doesn’t break. “Who are you?” She repeats, and the question still burns just as deep the second time.

“You don’t- you don’t know me?” Wanda shakes her head, the movement slow and unflinching. “Should I?” You blink, trying to regain any sense of clarity. “Yes. No. You did, once.” Wanda’s emotionless mask flinches once, and she tilts her head slightly to the side to consider you. “I did, didn’t I?” She looks deeply into your eyes, and you have that same sense of overwhelming scrutiny that you had felt before. Wanda must be reading your mind, but there seems to be something blocking her from looking too deeply, because she looks away after barely a moment has gone by.

“L/N. Agent L/N. If you’re with the government, why don’t I feel afraid of you? Something is telling me to trust you, but I don’t know why.” You feel a bitter smile creep onto your cheeks, lips tugged up at the sides. “It’s because I loved you.” Wanda nods once. “And me? Did I feel the same way about you?” You force yourself to keep a calm face, to not break down. “I don’t know. That’s why I came, to find out.”

Wanda furrows her brow. “Y/N. Your name was Y/N.” You incline your head. “We met a while back. I don’t know why you can’t remember me.” Wanda seems about to answer you, but then you hear the sound of shouting from across the town. It sounds like the cries of two young boys, and you realize it must be Wanda’s children.

Wanda appears to have come to the same conclusion and seems drawn towards the sound, but she forces herself to turn back to you, as if held in place by some anchor tying her to you. “I have to go.” You nod once. “I know. It’s alright.” Wanda’s eyes flicker up to you, and she places her palm lightly against your cheek. It barely touches you, but the sensation of her so close to you is spellbinding. “You need to be careful. There’s a woman here, Agatha. I don’t want you to get hurt.” You let your hand come to rest against hers, contact for just a second. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Wanda nods, takes in one quiet breath. “I’ll come back, Y/N. I promise.” You try for a smile. “I know you will.” Wanda hesitates one last second, as if drinking in the sight of you, then she finally pulls her hand away and hurries off down the sidewalk to help her children.

You’re left standing there, your own hand unconsciously rising to where hers had just left you. Your fingers feel cool against your cheek. Out of nowhere, a woman appears in the middle of the street, and walks until she’s shoulder to shoulder with you, both of you watching the place where Wanda had just been. You speak first. “You must be Agatha.” The woman leers at you, and you realize she was the strange neighbour from before, the one who had known your name.

Agatha’s voice is colder now that she’s dispensed with the ‘happy neighbour’ attitude. “And you’re Agent Y/N L/N of S.H.I.E.L.D. Don’t take Wanda’s lack of memory too personally, I’m afraid that was my fault. I needed her to completely fall apart so I could take her powers, and I knew she wouldn’t crumble as easily if she knew she had someone else waiting for her who wouldn’t vanish when her little suburban dream disappeared.”

You cut a glance over to Agatha. “So you took her memories of me?” She nods, shoulders lifting in triumph. “Had to be done. I’d tell you not to worry because the memories might come back, but I’m not even sure that will happen.” Agatha claps her hands together, suddenly purposeful. “Well, I’m off to rain destruction on your little friend. Stay out of my way, sweetie, or you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can handle.” The words, spoken so carelessly, carry a far deeper threat than the seemingly innocent words would otherwise show.

In a heartbeat, Agatha vanishes, and you’re alone on the street once more. You glance around you at the houses nearby, and realize with a dull panic that Monica was supposed to be checking out Agatha’s house to find Wanda. Surely she would have heard the voices and come out, right? When you check around, you can’t find Monica anywhere, so you decide to enter Agatha’s house and try to find your friend. If you can’t help Wanda right now, you can at least try to get Monica out of Agatha’s control.

The door to Agatha’s house is unlocked, and you can hear a vague commotion going on upstairs. When you make your way up a flight of stairs and down a hall, you pause by a door leading to a bedroom. You can hear Monica’s voice coming from inside, so you try the doorknob but find it locked. From inside the room comes the sound of someone panicking, and they seem to be begging for their life. That does it- you back up a little, then run at the door and kick it down. Monica looks up at the sound of the door splintering open, and you find that she’s not alone- there’s another boy there, who looks like the new Pietro casting on Wanda’s show.

You raise an eyebrow. “Well, I was ready to join in the fight but it doesn’t look like you’ll be needing my help. Who’s he?” Monica gives one last look to the boy on the ground. “Ralph, apparently. I think Agatha put him under mind control to make him act like he was Wanda’s twin brother. Easier to recast than bring someone back from the dead.” You shrug. “I can’t argue with that logic. You want to come to the town center? I think some big fight is going on between Wanda and Agatha.”

Monica nods, and the two of you leave Agatha’s house, heading quickly towards the center of town. Sure enough, you see Wanda and Agatha hovering in the sky, exchanging blasts of magical energy. You also see Hayward and his S.W.O.R.D. reinforcements arriving to the scene, and tap Monica on the shoulder to point them out. “You see that? He’s still gunning for Wanda even though it’s obvious she’s not the villain anymore.” Monica frowns in determination. “He’s got a bigger hand in this than he’s letting on. Are you ready to help defend Wanda and her kids?” You grin, reaching for the gun at your belt. “I thought you’d never ask.”

At last, after days of research and planning and mind control, you’re finally back in your element. As Hayward’s reinforcements pour out of their armored vehicles, you take them down one by one, moving with the methodical grace of someone who was practically born for combat. It feels so freeing to be able to finally push everything out of your mind and just take down everyone in your path. A large part of your S.H.I.E.L.D. training was combat, so it’s nice to use that familiar skill set again.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Hayward training a gun at Billy and Tommy, Wanda’s kids. Your eyes go wide as you realize he’s prepared to shoot, and even as you race towards him, desperate to stop this, you already know you’re arriving too late. Luckily, Monica is there just in time, and stands in front of the boys to protect them from the bullets. To your shock, Hayward still fires, but the bullets pass harmlessly through Monica and fall to the ground.

Hayward seems just as surprised as you are, and races into an armored vehicle in an attempt to ram the twins and Monica. Just as he’s flooring the gas, though, a food truck of all things hurtles into the vehicle, crashing into it in a flurry of sparks and twisting metal. You realize with a grin that it was driven by Darcy, and sigh in relief to realize that your friend is alright.

You hurry over to Monica. “Okay, I knew about the glowing eyes, but the bullet trick was new. Very cool and very dangerous.” Monica purses her lips in thought, but she looks exhilarated by her new powers. “I know about the dangerous, but I’m not so sure about the other part.” You toss her a grin. “I’ve worked with the Avengers for a while, and I’ve seen a lot of powers. Trust me, that was very cool.” Monica laughs at that. “It is, isn’t it?”

You look up to see Wanda floating out of the sky towards her children, and turn away hurriedly, distracting yourself by running checks on your weapon so that Wanda won’t see you. Monica frowns at you. “Y/N, when I got my powers I could see into Wanda’s head for a little bit. I know she loves you, and I know how you feel about her. Why are you trying to hide from her?”

You look back at the retreating figures of Wanda, Vision, and the twins. “She only has so much time left with this family, I don’t want to mar any of it with thoughts of others.” Monica follows your gaze, watching them leave. “Does it hurt to see her with them?” You sigh quietly. “Yes and no. It hurt more before, but I know that I’ll be able to be with her again once she lets them go. I want her to have as much time with them as possible.” Monica nods, and puts a hand on your shoulder in comfort. “If you need anyone, you know you’ve got me, right?” You smile back at her. “I do. Thank you, Monica.”

A woman in a black suit comes up to Monica, asking for a word in private. Monica nods, then turns back to you. Both of you know that this is goodbye, that you won’t be meeting up again today, or even for a while. Your eyes warm as you take in the sight of your friend. “I’ll see you again soon. I have no doubt of that.” Monica smiles at you. “Good luck, Y/N. I hope you can make things work with her.” You nod goodbye, then she turns and walks away, following the woman into a movie theatre. You slip away from the crowd of agents, walking briskly into the fading light.

Wanda Maximoff is striding purposefully down the streets of Westview. She’s almost on the outskirts of town when she notices the parked car waiting at the far edge. A woman is leaning up against the car, staring up at the sky, although she straightens once she notices Wanda approach. “Need a lift?” Wanda’s eyes widen as she recognizes the woman. “Y/N?” She hurries over, wraps her arms around the other woman. Although Y/N has had years of training on managing her emotions, she still freezes slightly, surprised at the sudden contact.

Then a smile appears on her face. “You remember me?” Wanda nods. “I remember everything. Agatha’s spell fell apart once I took care of her.” Y/N nods, a warm happiness glowing in her eyes. “I knew you would.” Wanda looks over at her, face falling. “Y/N, about everything, I-” Y/N holds up a hand, cutting her off. “You don’t have to explain. I know. I’m just glad that you came back.” Wanda reaches out, takes Y/N’s hand. She stares at it for a second before finding the strength to continue speaking. “I knew I would, eventually. I don’t think I could ever really leave you.” Her voice falters for a second. “I love you, Y/N. I wish I told you that before.”

Y/N’s face lights up at that, even as she struggles to keep her emotions under control. “I love you too. Always have and always will.” Wanda runs her finger over Y/N’s knuckles absentmindedly, fingers trailing over the faded scars that line her palm. “Thank you for waiting.” Y/N inclines her head at that, then gestures towards the car. “Are you ready to leave?” Wanda takes one last look at the town of Westview, then opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. Y/N crosses around the front of the car, and Wanda watches as she swings her legs over into the driver’s side chair. They lock eyes for a second, both closer than they ever have been, and then Y/N speaks at last. “So, where to?” Wanda looks back over the road before them, eyes trained not on the town behind them but the journey ahead. “Home.”

Wanda is sitting on the porch of a cabin in the woods, dressed in a simple gray. The piercing whistle of a kettle echoes through the open door, and she stands to pour herself a cup. Wanda glances at a dusty clock resting on the mantle, then gestures lazily with a free hand. A portal appears in the space next to her, scarlet sparks flying off into nothingness. A woman in a black suit walks through the portal, trading the tall buildings behind her for the quiet of the cabin. A label is stitched in white over her coat pocket: S.W.O.R.D. Director L/N. A promotion after the success of a recent job.

Wanda smiles at Y/N, handing her a cup of tea. “How was work?” Y/N takes a sip of the beverage, savoring the warmth. “Pretty good. Only a couple of new crises, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.” She gestures with her chin towards the corner of the room, where a strange energy seems to hover in the air despite nothing being there to conduct it. “Have you learned anything new?” Wanda grins, a faint aura of power tugging at her lips. “You have no idea.”

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