#lovers to enemies to lovers

[bringinghometherain]

You know what trope I wanna see more of? Couples who have been married forever who are estranged but still in love but estranged. You know me better than any other person on earth. I haven't seen you in three years. I never stopped loving you. If I have to spend another minute in your presence I will murder you. I'm hurt and I need you right here with me. God you're such a dumbass. You're the only one I trust to do this job. I want you out of my sight.

[softlymellow]

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 1

pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Reader (Star Wars set in clone wars before rots)

word count: 1077

story themes: Lovers to enemies to eventually lovers (slowburn)

warnings: angst, spoilers to the clone wars series

chapter summary: Y/n is framed for a crime she didn't do, not even her lover Anakin believes her - not fully. She runs through Coruscant with heartbreak in her chest and Anakin pleading with her.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

----

“Y/n! Y/n! Wait!” Anakin huffed as he ran through the streets of the lower levels of Coruscant. Blinking the tears away that mixed with droplets of water, you pushed past the wet bodies that stopped to watch your every move. 

Tasting blood in your mouth from biting your lips so hard, you licked it away while your eyes darted to every possible escape and secluded area. Sirens rang in your ear and bright beams of white flashed on your body, alerting every possible individual that you were in trouble. You were done. 

You couldn’t even breathe. It was like someone had strangled your throat and all your insides were closing in. It made it even harder to run away. But you were there, you could do it. 

Shoving past a green Rodian, you ran into an alleyway that secluded you from the crowd and noises. All you needed now was an exit considering this was a dead end. You whipped your head up, beams of light radiated through the sky by ships that were looking for you. 

“Shit…Shit…Shit.��� You cursed, your hair flying everywhere as you tried to look for an exit. 

You couldn’t go above but you could go below.

Removing the cover plate from the floor, you peered down below to the sewage water that illustrated the floors. It was big enough for you to fall through but it was just so damn deep. 

“Stop running, Y/n!” You whipped your head around to see Anakin at the entry of the alleyway. His hands were held high defenceless and his eyes doleful, afflicted with the current dilemma. 

 “I won’t hurt you. We can talk this out…” He said, taking small and slow steps towards you, afraid you might dart off again.Your expression softened, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms and forget what’s happening. He wanted you to trust him. He needed you to trust him. And you almost did. That was until masses of clone troopers fell behind him, their weapons aimed directly towards you. 

Your face fell for a brief second before you hardened it, your eyebrows furrowed and your lips pressed together. Without a second thought, you jumped through the man made hole, the water splashing underneath you. 

You inhaled deeply as you tried to regain your balance, the sewage liquid reaching just underneath your ankles. Taking advantage of the few seconds you had against them, you sprinted ahead already hearing Anakin and the rest of the soldiers make their way down. 

Making your way through the tunnel with the soldiers right on your tail, you felt yourself feeling dizzy with the constant twists and turns you made. Their flashlights hitting your back only aided them but it helped you too. You reached an intersection which made it easy for you to lose the troopers. Turning your body around, you pushed both your palms you, the force causing the bodies to fall to the ground. Using the split second you had, you ran to the right. Your body moving faster than your feet, after a couple more turns and silence, you found  yourself an exit. The tunnel abruptly stopping to Coruscant’s Hole where you could see the multiple levels in all it’s depth. You ran near the edge, your hands on your knees as you tried to regain your breath, your heart practically pounding against your chest. 

“Y/n?” Anakin called out, his feet sliding on the water as he tried to slow down. Whipping your head back, you watched his figure cautiously making its way towards you. 

“We can talk this out. Just me and you.” He held his hands up just like he did not long ago. 

“So you brought the whole battalion to track me down, huh?” You yelled, pointing to your chest as you felt aggressive tears run down your cheeks. 

Anakin gritted his teeth as he whole body tensed, “Listen, you’re not exactly making it look good for yourself by running away. The whole of Coruscant is trying to track you down!” He snarled. 

“They’re calling me a traitor! But I guess you wouldn’t understand what it feels like would you?” Your voice cracked, making you sound weaker than you’d like to be perceived as. 

Anakin’s heart sank hearing your vulnerable voice, “I would NEVER let anyone hurt you, Y/n. Never. You need to trust me.” He said as he slowly made his way towards you. 

“I-I” You stammered, your eyes darting everywhere, “I don’t even know who to trust!” You locked gazes with Anakin and you definitely didn’t miss the flash of hurt that caressed his face. 

“Me, Y/n. Me.” He whispered, his body now mere inches away from yours. He cautiously slid his right hand into your shaking one, his thumb rubbing your knuckles. You didn’t want this. This close intimacy. It would only make things harder for you. Closing your eyes, you tried to recenter yourself. 

“We’ll go back to the council together and you can make your case.” 

You abruptly pushed him away from you, shaking your head as your eyes pierced his, “No. No!” You waved your hands around, “I’m not taking the fall for something I didn’t do!” 

“I’m ordering you to stop running and come with me.” He firmly stated, everything inside of him aching as he watched you conflicted with your emotions and desires. 

“Ordering me?” You scoffed, taking a few steps back away from him. “Now you’re ordering me? I am not your padawan, Anakin!”

A silence fell among you both as you heard the nearby soldiers making their way towards you. Anakin didn’t look away from your gaze and neither did you, it was almost as if there was a conversation between your eyes and his but nothing being said. 

“If you trusted that I was innocent, Anakin, you’d be here on your own account. Not by the councils.” You whispered, turning your back against him as you peered at the multiple ships flying in the hole. 

“Y/n…”

You inhaled before leaping out of the tunnel, the wind hitting against you as fell multiple levels below, the force cushioning your landing onto the ship. 

Anakin watched as his lover left him. He wasn’t sure if he could even consider calling you that. But waves of emotions hit him second by second. He was hurt mostly. Hurt that someone would dare accuse his lover of treachery. Hurt that you couldn’t trust him enough. Hurt that you left him.

--

A/N: hey guys! posting a 20k fic from my drafts that I've had for yearssss, i fear its finally time it meets the daylight. I will be posting them all out slowly so I can still complete the fic and write new chapters but I do have uni now so. also yess this chp is basically like her replacing ahsoka but ahsoka is still in this story but under slight different circumstances but still essential. it does deviate a little ofc since its a fanfic but main star wars plot remains. hope yall enjoy lmk if u guys have any future chp suggestions or anything else !!!

If anybody wants to be tagged in a future taglist lmk and im open to it :)

[eman0neb]

So, FMAB has put me into an angst mood. I’d like to think I’m improving on facial expressions with this new creative boost. Anyways this is what Valerie faced when Ellie died. To make it more painful, Valerie and Danny were dating but Valerie didn’t know about Danny’s identity or Ellie’s.

So yea Danny is uh, not well. Instead of Rivals to Lovers it’s Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, or something like that.

I was listening to First Burn while drawing this cause I felt the betrayal theme fit. Fun fact for any musical I like I’ll sit down to listen to the full thing; Hamilton is the only one I haven’t done that with. Idk why

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, smut, angst

pairing: tooru oikawa x fem!reader

summary: touch is memory, silence is confession, and love is the one thing neither of you were trained to survive.

notes: this might just be the saddest shit i’ve ever written i’m gonna be honest guys.

they raised you to be no one.

a ghost in the cradle. a theory before a person.

you don’t remember the first test they ran, but you remember the lights: too bright, always. the hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead while you lay flat on metal tables, eyes wide open, lungs silent, waiting for permission to breathe.

the government called it developmental efficiency modeling. the kids in it called it the program.

most didn’t make it to adolescence.

you did.

by age ten, you could assemble a firearm blindfolded, lie without blinking, fake a seizure, seduce a mark, drive a car, fake an accent, fall off a rooftop without breaking your spine. you’d never celebrated a birthday. never been hugged. never been called a real name.

until him.

oikawa tooru was the first person who ever asked you a question without barking it.

fifteen years old, jaw bruised from a sparring session gone too far, blood still wet on his teeth. he leaned over during mealtime, pulled your tray closer to his, and asked what your favorite city was, just like that. like it wasn’t forbidden. like curiosity hadn’t gotten kids iced before.

you said, “none.”

he said, “you’ll like paris.”

you weren’t assigned to the same unit until a year later. by then, he already spoke fluent russian, slept four hours a night, and had a reputation for smiling at corpses.

but you knew the truth. you’d seen him cry once, kneeling over a dying target in singapore, whispering something in spanish that didn’t show up in the debrief transcript.

they partnered you anyway. and that’s when everything got dangerous.

you’d been trained to work in tandem, but not like this. not like him.

not with someone who made you laugh mid-mission. who always looked back to see if you’d followed. who called you “sweetheart” in morse code just to see if you’d blush. not with someone who knew the shape of your hands well enough to hold them in a fight. not with someone you started dreaming about. not with someone you let inside you in the safehouse in macedonia, quiet and desperate and wrong.

you weren’t supposed to love him.

you both knew it. but it got harder to hide. harder to ignore.

by the time you were twenty, the rumors had spread. a little too much eye contact. a little too much hesitation when he got shot in marrakech and you went off-script to drag him out. they said love made you stupid. soft. selfish.

they were right. you proved them right in bangkok.

you were alone, waiting for extraction, when the van pulled up. not yours. wrong plates. wrong tint. you fought. killed two. but the third didn’t need a blade. he had a phone.

he played a voice memo. it was oikawa.

panicked. breathless. “don’t do anything stupid. please—please.”

you stopped fighting.

they offered you a choice. disappear. join them. or let him die for your loyalty.

you didn’t hesitate. that’s how you were raised. the mission is survival. the mission is adapt. the mission is live.

so you faked your death.

you burned the prints off your fingers, took a new name, boarded a boat to sicily.

left oikawa bleeding in the back of your memory.

��

sicily made you soft in ways you weren’t proud of.

not emotionally. emotionally, you were colder than ever; burned hollow and sealed off, a vessel carved by survival and stitched shut with discipline.

but physically, your skin smoothed out. your shoulders relaxed. you started wearing rings again. soft things. things with gold. you wore linen in summer and cashmere in winter. you folded your scarves the way they taught you, loose at the collar, just enough to hide the faint scar behind your ear.

they called you giulia corsi. not agent. not number. not asset. just giulia.

you moved into a second-floor apartment in ortigia, yellow shutters, heavy doors, marble tiles that clicked beneath your heels when you paced at night. you kept a ceramic knife in every room and a gun in the freezer, wrapped in butcher paper.

you were fluent in italian within six weeks.

they trained you harder than the americans did. not physically, you already had that. but in the art of masks. performance. fluidity. they taught you how to be six people in one room without blinking. how to soften your vowels to mimic sicilian roots. how to hold wine without drinking it. how to seduce in silence. how to disappear in plain sight.

the italian division didn’t want loyalists. they wanted believers. agents who didn’t ask where the blood went after they made it spill.

they gave you the missions no one else would take. the messy ones. the ones with girls in cages and politicians in penthouses. the ones where they sent you in as bait. the ones that didn’t come with backup.

you wore red often. they said it made you look powerful. but you knew the truth: red camouflaged blood best.

you didn’t sleep well. not even in ortigia, not even with the sea breeze threading through your windows and the late-night jazz bleeding from the bar downstairs. you’d lie in bed, perfectly still, hands tucked beneath your pillow, waiting for nothing. waiting for something.

you never brought anyone home.

you fucked when necessary, sure. for cover. for intel. once, even for pleasure.

it was another agent, kiyoomi sakusa. quiet. clinical. impossible to read. the kind of man who wiped his knife before checking if you were still breathing. the kind of man who never asked for your real name, even when you offered it. he already knew it anyway.

you’d worked with him three times before it happened. two extractions, one shared hotel room, and forty hours of silence broken only by the hiss of radio static and your own uneven breathing.

it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t gentle. he kissed you like he was trying to erase something. fucked you like he couldn’t let you win. and afterward, he didn’t speak.

you didn’t ask if it meant anything. you didn’t need to. because in this line of work, no one stays. not in your bed. not in your arms. not in your life.

your phone never rang. your mail was always blank. you filed mission reports with ink pens and never signed your real name.

the one time you almost cried was on a thursday afternoon when an old woman in the market told you to smile more.

you hadn’t smiled in months.

…

you had three identities at any given time. one for transport. one for extraction. one for death. you wore them like gloves. discarded them just as easily.

your missions blurred together: casablanca, zagreb, marrakesh, doha. sometimes you’d wake up and forget where you were. a lot of the times, you didn’t care. you got used to the taste of metal. the sound of panic. the way men begged when they realized you weren’t a tourist.

you got good at not flinching when people said oikawa’s name. not that they said it often. he was a ghost. like you.

you heard once that he’d been promoted. that he ran his own cell now. that he’d stopped asking about you.

you believed it. you wanted to believe it.

because if he hadn’t, if he had spent the last three years searching every shadow you left behind—

then what you did was unforgivable.

and you couldn’t afford to believe that. not if you wanted to keep breathing.

so you learned to walk like giulia. to flirt like giulia. to kill like giulia.

and for three long years in sicily it worked.

until the file showed up.

…

tokyo was colder than you remembered.

not just in temperature, but in tone. in atmosphere. in the way the city swallowed you whole without blinking, like it hadn’t once been a backdrop to the worst and most sacred moments of your life.

you stepped off the plane dressed like a woman who belonged. pressed navy suit, low heels, minimal makeup. your hair pinned into a language of professionalism. one that whispered translator, liaison, nothing to see here. it was the kind of outfit you could blend into a boardroom with. the kind a surveillance camera wouldn’t remember.

but your hands still trembled inside the gloves.

it had been years. since your first kill. since the old train station in chiyoda ward, the smell of rain and smoke in your lungs, and oikawa’s voice over the comms, steady and soft: “pull the trigger, baby. that’s the only way out.”

your finger hadn’t stopped shaking for two hours after.

you didn’t think about that now. not consciously. but your body did. you felt it in the set of your shoulders, in the extra second you took before crossing the street. your body remembered what your mind had buried.

the mission should’ve been simple.

a rogue agent, takahiro sugiyama, was allegedly moving weapons through shinjuku’s outer docks under a shell company. you were told he’d be posing as a freight inspector on pier 12. the plan was to intercept him quietly and confirm identity. extraction if possible. elimination if not.

but the intel was thin. thinner than anything you’d ever worked with. the photographs were grainy and off-center, like someone had taken them on accident. the listed aliases were blank. the handler who briefed you was fifteen minutes late and didn’t make eye contact once.

you flagged it immediately.

but there were no channels left to push back. no way to reroute. and that seal, priority black, it meant one thing: there was no way out of it.

you knew it.

…

the shinjuku port was always a mess of concrete and fog.

you arrived just past dusk, when the light was thinning into bruise-colored shadows and the harbor air turned brackish, thick with salt and diesel and rust. ferries honked in the distance. gulls screamed overhead. the kind of chaos that could swallow a body whole and leave no trace.

you walked along the perimeter, your badge clipped neatly to your blazer, fingers lightly brushing the interior seam where your concealed blade sat. every step echoed across the wet asphalt.

dock workers passed without looking up. crates stacked like forgotten tombstones. a crane swung overhead, groaning under the weight of a shipment.

you breathed in, long and shallow. kept moving.

checkpoint one was a narrow gate flanked by two bored-looking guards. one smoked a cigarette with his head tilted back; the other scrolled through his phone.

“freight assessment. client sent me ahead,” you said in fluent japanese, flashing the badge just long enough to be seen.

the smoker grunted. waved you in.

too easy, you thought.

you walked another hundred feet before you touched your earpiece. “alpha-two, confirm entry,” you whispered.

static.

you tried again.

more static.

louder now. sharp and hissing. you stopped walking—and that’s when the air changed.

you couldn’t describe it. just that it happened. a drop in pressure. a shift in tension. like the moment before a car crash, when instinct grips the base of your spine and whispers something’s coming. the hairs on your arms rose beneath your sleeves.

you scanned the yard.

crates. shadows. steam hissing from a nearby valve. no movement. no sound, beyond the groan of distant machinery.

you turned. nothing. turned again. crack.

not loud, just close—but the pain bloomed so fast you didn’t even hear yourself cry out. just dropped, knees slamming into wet cement, hands grasping for something solid.

your leg burned. no. tore.

it felt like someone had taken a strip of your thigh and set it on fire with a serrated knife. hot, jagged, molten pain that radiated upward and downward at once. the bullet hadn’t gone deep, but it had kissed you, ripped the skin, ruptured something beneath, and dragged itself through the edge of your muscle.

you couldn’t stand.

blood began to spread beneath you, thick and dark, soaking through the fabric of your trousers until it clung to your skin like syrup.

your breath caught.

adrenaline tried to rally, but your head was already spinning. your limbs shook.

you rolled toward a stack of crates and collapsed behind them, pressing your hand to the wound, biting your lip so hard you tasted iron.

you had to move. you needed to move.

there were footsteps now. two sets. fast. purposeful. you reached for your blade and a hand caught your wrist mid-draw.

and then, it was chaos—you kicked, thrashed, tore at sleeves, clawed at skin, sank your nails into flesh. you felt your boot connect with someone’s shin. felt the wet crunch of a nose breaking beneath your elbow.

but there were more of them.

rough hands caught your arms. pressed a cloth to your mouth. you held your breath. bit down. they kneed you in the ribs.

the last thing you saw was the blur of warehouse ceiling lights flickering above you. the last thing you felt was the slow burn of blood slipping down your leg.

then: black.

…

you wake to the sound of water dripping. steady. rhythmic. not close, but not far, either.

your mouth is dry. your head aches behind your eyes like someone poured static into your skull. it takes you a second to recognize the taste in your mouth: blood. old. yours.

you try to move and your wrists scream.

you look down: ropes. not handcuffs. thick, course, looped tight around your wrists, which are raised just enough to make your shoulders ache. the bindings are knotted with military precision. over-under pull. marine-grade tension. your pulse flutters beneath them.

your legs are worse.

your right thigh is wet—no, sticky. blood clots have formed in the fabric of the trousers they left you in, and your skin pulses beneath them like a warning. the pain is deep. raw. like fire sealed in a vacuum. every twitch makes you nauseous.

you breathe shallow. listen.

the room is concrete. low ceiling. a single window, too small to crawl through. no furniture. no cameras visible. faint smell of mold and copper. the kind of place built for disappearing people.

they changed your clothes. you’re in a t-shirt now. someone else’s. too big. rough cotton. men’s standard issue.

they didn’t bother washing you. blood crusts the corner of your jaw. your hands still smell like steel.

your fingers twitch automatically toward your ankle. your last blade: gone.

you scan the floor. nothing. not even a bolt to pry loose.

they knew who you were.

you lean back against the pole they’ve tethered you to. close your eyes. force your breath to even out. you count the seconds between drops of water. fifteen. maybe twenty feet away. a pipe, probably. leaking from the ceiling.

your leg throbs. you ignore it.

this is a black site. not a holding cell. not a legal op. you’re somewhere off-record. the kind of place governments pretend they’ve never built.

you keep your eyes on the door.

five screws on the hinge. manual latch. no keypad. one guard, probably. two if they’re being cautious. maybe more if they know who you are.

you wait. and then— click.

the door unlocks. slowly. deliberately. not rushed. not like someone in a hurry.

your spine goes taut. you watch the metal swing open. watch the boots cross the threshold, black, polished, silent.

then the rest of him follows.

he claps once. then again. a third time, slow and sharp, echoing across the concrete.

“well,” he says, “this is a surprise.”

your throat tightens.

oikawa tooru looks like a ghost dressed in armani. his hair’s darker now. longer at the sides, disheveled on top, like he runs a hand through it when he’s thinking. his eyes are the same. warm brown. unkind.

he’s wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow. slacks. no tie. a shoulder holster slung casual across his chest like a seatbelt. he’s taller. broader. colder.

a new scar curves over his right temple. thin, white, ugly. but the one just below his collarbone… you know that one. you gave it to him, once. a blade in the dark. too close. too late. he didn’t cover it.

your heart stutters. you don’t let it show.

he stops three feet from you.

“y/n,” he says, voice light. too light. “or should i say… giulia?”

you don’t speak. his mouth curls.

“nothing to say?” he tilts his head. “not even a hello?”

your eyes flick to his belt. gun, left hip. blade on the right. standard. predictable. he always wore his weapons opposite his dominant hand; forced himself to draw cross-body to throw people off. he hasn’t changed that. you file it away.

he sighs, theatrically. “you look good. a little pale. bleeding out, but… still good.”

you say nothing.

he crouches.

you flinch. not visibly. but your body goes tight.

he notices, because of course he does. his eyes skim your face, slow. lingering on your mouth. your collarbone. the bruise on your jaw.

“they didn’t clean you up,” he says. voice quieter now. “should’ve at least done that. you were always particular.”

you turn your face away. not fast. not enough to count as emotion. just enough for him to notice.

and he does. you see it, the twitch of his lip, the minute shift in his brow. he’s trying to stay cold.

but you know him. you knew how his voice used to soften in hotel rooms. how he hated tying knots around your wrists even when protocol called for it. how he’d whisper your name like a secret, not a threat.

but that was three years ago. and you left him bleeding.

he stands again, slower this time.

“i appreciate you taking time out of your day to come,” he says dryly.

you finally speak. your voice is low. raspy. bone-deep. “you kidnapped me.”

he smiles. doesn’t reach his eyes. nothing ever does now.

“if it helps,” he says, “i didn’t know it was you. not until they brought in the file. i mean… you were supposed to be dead, right?”

you watch him. his tone is light, but there’s something behind it. tightness. a flicker in the way his hands curl briefly at his sides. a shift in breath.

you’re trained to notice these things. you were trained with him. you know the signs of a man trying not to feel something.

“so,” he says, stepping back, “how’d they do it?” he starts to pace. slow, even. measured.

“how’d they turn you? was it the money? the silence? they promise you a life? hm?”

you don’t answer.

“was it stockholm? rome?” he spits the words like they taste bitter. “let me guess, some black-haired boy with surgeon hands and a god complex? was it him? did he tell you to walk away from me?”

he laughs, sharp, cruel. but underneath it: something raw. he stops. turns.

“you know who comes in after me?” his voice dips, colder now. “someone who doesn’t remember you. someone who doesn’t care if you’re hungry. if you’re hurt. someone who’ll ask questions with pliers and won’t mind if you scream.”

your leg twitches. involuntary.

he sees it. he steps closer. crouches again, and you can smell his cologne. cedar. clove. faint. familiar. he leans in.

“but me,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “i’m giving you a chance. just one. tell me who gave you the op. and i’ll walk out of here. alone. and the next person doesn’t come.”

your eyes flick up. you stare at him. at the mole beneath his left eye. at the flex of his jaw when you don’t answer. at the way his breath is slow but uneven. like he’s holding back something sharp.

he’s angry. he’s trying not to be.

you blink. slow. deliberate.

“go fuck yourself.”

a beat. then— he laughs. not loud. not amused. just one exhale. sharp, bitter, ugly. like it hurt more coming out than he expected. he stands in one smooth motion. wipes his palms on his thighs. doesn’t look at you when he steps back.

“suit yourself.”

he turns for the door. hand on the latch. shoulder tense. but he pauses, just long enough for it to feel intentional. just long enough to twist the knife.

“hope you ate recently,” he mutters, not turning around. “gonna be a long night.”

and he’s gone.

the lock clicks and you’re alone again. but not really. you feel him in the air. in the ache in your wrists. in the blood cooling on your leg. in the part of your chest you thought you buried in sicily.

the silence returns heavier than before after oikawa leaves. the room settles into something thicker, more oppressive. the air doesn’t move the same. the tension doesn’t fade. it lingers. it waits. like it knows someone else is coming. someone worse.

you shift your weight. slowly. your wrists drag against the rope again, burning. the skin is raw now. chafed, angry, stinging with every breath you take. your fingers are starting to go numb.

you roll your neck, just enough to relieve some of the pressure along your spine. your leg pulses again, sharper now. you can feel the crusted blood flake off in patches where the fabric rubs. it’s beginning to smell: iron, sweat, something else, something wrong.

you catalog everything. every object in the room. every weakness in the structure. you count the bolts in the door again. five. the fifth one is loose. the frame isn’t sealed properly. if you had your blade, you could wedge it—

but you don’t. you have nothing. not even your name.

and you hear it before you see him. not footsteps. not a voice. but the lock turning again. only this time, it’s faster, less performative, less slow-clap and sarcasm. more… business.

the door opens. the light outside is no brighter. still dim. still sterile. but the silhouette is different. it doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t pause in the doorway for effect. he just walks in. shuts the door behind him. locks it.

your eyes don’t go to his face first.

they go to his hands. thick fingers. scarred knuckles. something white clutched in one of them—a cloth. surgical. clean. the other hand carries a black case.

you feel the weight of it before you even see what’s inside.

iwaizumi hajime hasn’t aged much. still broad. still calm. still terrifying in the way only a man built for pain can be.

his face is unreadable. clean-shaven. jaw tight. no expression. his eyes don’t linger. don’t flicker. don’t acknowledge. he doesn’t look at you like he knows you, and that cuts deeper than anything else.

he sets the case down on the small metal table in the corner, one you didn’t notice before, tucked half in shadow.

your breath catches. you blink once, slowly. you listen.

he opens it. metal clicks against metal. something soft being unwrapped.

you don’t have to see to know what’s inside. you’ve packed kits like this before: forceps. gauze. shears. electrical leads. blades of varying length. and a roll of rubber tubing for restraint.

you breathe through your nose. deeper now. slower. you shift your gaze. not too fast. not reactive.

he turns to face you.

his expression hasn’t changed. he walks toward you. not slow, not fast. just… inevitable. like gravity. like war.

you study the way he moves. the way his shoulder tenses when he sets the cloth down. the way his foot lands hard with each step, but not loud. he’s still trained. still deadly.

he stops in front of you. looks at your leg.

you follow his gaze. the blood is worse now. leaking again, wet in places. it stains the concrete in irregular shapes. a trail. a warning.

still, he says nothing.

you wonder if this is part of it, this silence. this slow ramping up. let you stew in it. let you imagine what comes next. but no.

iwaizumi was never theatrical. never one for games.

you breathe again. brace as his hand reaches out.

you flinch. you don’t mean to. it’s small. barely there. a twitch in your jaw, a shift in your shoulders—but he sees it. his hand pauses, just an inch from your leg, and he looks at you. only for a second. and then back to the wound.

he kneels. pulls the fabric away.

you grit your teeth as it tears, dried blood ripping open again, nerves shrieking.

he doesn’t flinch. with steady fingers, he begins cleaning it. the cloth is cold. soaked in something antiseptic. it stings so deeply your vision blurs.

you bite down hard on your tongue to keep from making a sound.

he’s not being gentle. but he’s not cruel, either. he’s precise. methodical. detached.

you watch his face the entire time. you look for anything. a flicker. a glance. but he gives you nothing.

“you shouldn’t have come here,” he says, voice flat.

you don’t respond. you don’t know if it’s meant to be a statement or a warning.

he finishes cleaning the leg. tosses the bloodied cloth into the corner. doesn’t bother to bandage it. he stands again and you see the cable in his other hand now: long. black. clipped at both ends.

you know what it’s for. you know what comes next.

he attaches one end to a small metal terminal from the case. wraps the other around your upper arm. tight. his hand brushes yours in the process, faint, careless, but enough to make your fingers twitch against the restraints.

you remember that hand.

the calluses along the thumb. the faint scar that splits the skin between his knuckles. the steadiness in his grip.

once, it held a gun for you. steadied your aim when your shoulder was blown out and you were seeing double. once, in belgrade, it wiped blood from your temple, his thumb dragging clumsily through it while you tried not to pass out in the back of a burning van.

now, it’s securing a strap against your forearm. tightening the contact node. locking you in place so the current will hit cleaner.

you look down at it. not afraid. just… watching.

his hands move methodically. practiced. but his jaw ticks. just once.

you finally speak. your voice low. not pleading. just rough with dust and disuse.

“do you remember the safehouse in belgrade?” your eyes don’t leave his hands. “the one with the green door. two stories. cracked tile in the kitchen.”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look at your face. just keeps working. tightening. adjusting.

you keep going. “it was raining that night. you gave me your jacket and said not to bleed on it.” you huff, bitter. “i did anyway.”

still, he says nothing. but his fingers stall. just for a second. barely more than a breath. then he moves again. faster now. more mechanical. like if he hurries, he won’t have to listen.

you let the silence sit heavy between you.

“no,” he says, finally.

the machine whirs. the current should surge, sharp, bright, biting. but it doesn’t—not fully. not the way it should.

instead, the current slams through you, sharp, blinding. it locks your jaw mid-breath, wrenches your spine into the air like a puppet string yanked too hard, tears a raw, involuntary sound from your throat before you can catch it.

it hurts. god, it hurts. hot and fast, like fire dragged through your nerves, each one lit up and screaming. like your body’s trying to crawl out of itself and failing. your teeth grind until your jaw aches. your muscles seize. your vision flashes white at the edges, then black, then white again, like your brain can’t decide whether to pass out or endure.

and still, you know: this isn’t what they’d use on a real agent. not at full voltage. not if they meant to break you for good.

they’d crank it higher. they’d leave it running longer. they’d make it ruinous, the kind of pain that strips you of thought, name, purpose. the kind that leaves people stuttering for the rest of their lives. if they live at all.

but this—this is pain calibrated just under the threshold. enough to burn. enough to scare. but not enough to break someone like you. not yet. this is civilian level. rookie level. fear-theatrics for people with soft hands and sellable intel.

but your body still writhes. still clenches. still feels every jolt like it’s tearing muscle from bone. your stomach churns. your lungs can’t catch a rhythm. your heart pounds so loud it drowns out the machine’s low, cruel hum.

you know he’s holding back. you feel it in the charge’s rhythm, how it cuts off before it crests. how the pain flares but doesn’t fry. how your skin doesn’t blister. how your mind still works, still calculates.

you slump forward when it stops. head heavy, vision pulsing. your breath comes in wet, uneven pulls, like each one’s a fight. your hands twitch in the restraints. metal slick with sweat. skin rubbed raw.

he’s still there. still standing beside you, silent.

he hasn’t looked at you once. his face stays angled toward the wall, like if he turns, something in him might crack. like if he meets your eyes, he’ll have to admit he still knows the shape of your brows when you’re in pain. that he still remembers what it looks like when you’re dying and trying not to show it.

“who gave you the op,” he says once, voice low. clipped. rehearsed. the script they probably drilled into him.

but the next time—next time it’s different. this time, your name comes after.

“who gave you the op, y/n.”

and it’s not a demand anymore. not really. it sounds like pleading. like he’s asking so he doesn’t have to do it again. like he’s begging for you to give him a reason to stop before he has to go further, before he loses the last piece of himself he swore he’d keep intact.

but you can’t. you know you can’t.

because the united states can’t protect you from them. not from the things you’ve seen. not from the horrors even italian agents have to endure just to become one of them.

what they do to you if you fold doesn’t end when the lights turn off. doesn’t stop at pain. it ends with pieces of you pulled apart and filed away. it ends with a hollow version of yourself, speaking someone else’s language with someone else’s eyes.

you lift your head. just barely. you open your mouth. not to answer. but just to breathe through the blood on your tongue.

and so he presses the button again.

the second wave hits harder. like thunder detonating in your bones. your knees jerk, your throat locks, your head snaps back. your voice breaks on a sound that never makes it out.

and when it stops—you crumple like wet paper.

he says it again. softer now. voice rough. broken at the edges. still not looking at you. but his hand—it’s still on your wrist. not steadying. not comforting. just there.

like maybe it’s the only part of him that still remembers who you were. what you meant. and maybe—it’s the part that doesn’t want to let go.

…

you don’t really remember when iwaizumi packed everything out. you think you blacked out halfway through, maybe more.

you remember flashes, fragments: the snap of gloves being peeled off. the cold hiss of the machine winding down. the squeal of metal dragging across concrete as he pulled the cart away.

but mostly, you remember the pain. not just the burn of voltage, but the after. the way your body vibrated with it long after the current stopped, like your nerves were still catching echoes, like your cells hadn’t realized they were free.

your throat was raw from a scream you didn’t know you made. your eyes burned. your lashes were sticky. you couldn’t tell if the tears were hot because you were crying, or because your skin had heated past the point of knowing better.

and now—now, the pain doesn’t spike. doesn’t roar. it settles.

not all at once, but slow. creeping. like cold air crawling in under a doorframe, unnoticed until it’s in your bones. it sinks into your spine. it drags through your blood.

your leg throbs in time with your heart, a wet, blistering kind of hurt that pulses up your side and curls behind your ribs like a fist. your jaw’s locked. your teeth ache. your shoulders twitch with every ghost of what’s been done. you can still feel the electricity humming in your skull. phantom voltage. like it didn’t just hit your body: it stained the marrow.

your hands are trembling. your spine feels bent in the wrong places. your wrists are raw from the ropes, deep, red gouges scored into your skin like punishment. like ownership. you try to lift one, just a fraction, but your arms feel like bricks. every inch of movement costs too much.

iwaizumi didn’t bandage you. didn’t speak again. didn’t even look back as he left.

and now it’s just you. and the dark. and the sound of your breathing, shallow. too fast. too loud.

you know this state. you were trained for this.

phase two: disorientation.

they teach you early that pain isn’t what breaks people. it’s what follows. the silence. the isolation. the panic that starts to rise when the adrenaline burns off and your body realizes it’s been left behind.

you close your eyes.

you can’t sleep. you can’t let your mind drift. you know what happens if you do.

so you fall back into protocol like muscle memory. like prayer.

start with the language exercise. you force your brain into sequence. five languages. five phrases. your name, your city, your first weapon, your exit route, your blood type.

italian. spanish. russian. japanese. french.

repeat.

you whisper it under your breath, lips barely moving.

“mi chiamo giulia. roma. coltello. ovest. ab negativo.”

again.

“me llamo giulia. madrid. cuchillo. oeste. ab negativo.”

you keep going until the syllables feel like anchors. until the world stops spinning. until you know, no matter what happens, they haven’t taken everything. not yet.

but your leg is still bleeding. you can feel the fabric dampen again. you know what that means: re-opened. no clot. you’re losing more than you can afford.

your throat tightens. your mouth is dry. too dry. your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. you start cataloging the symptoms. like you were taught.

pulse: elevated. blood loss: moderate to severe. consciousness: slipping. lucidity: flickering.

you blink.

the water is still dripping from the pipe. fifteen seconds apart. you count. again. not for any reason. just to stay. just to keep your mind tethered to something that isn’t heat or blood or the echo of that current running through your bones.

one. two. three. four…

you think about oikawa. you think about the way he crouched down to your eye level like he used to, like he cared, even if it was through gritted teeth and rage. you think about the way he said you left me. and you remember the way you didn’t say i didn’t want to.

you wanted to.

your breath hitches. you don’t let yourself cry. crying is inefficient. it wastes energy. water. salt.

instead you do what you were trained to do in white rooms with no clocks: you build a place in your head.

you picture sicily. your apartment. the one with the yellow shutters and the tile floors. the chipped mug you always used for coffee, the one you stole from a bar in catania. the way the sunlight filtered through your balcony door and painted the bed in stripes. the way the sheets felt after a mission, when your hands were still shaking and your feet were blistered and all you could do was lie there, wide awake, listening to jazz from the street and the low tide pulling in.

you try to smell lemons. espresso. you try to feel linen against your legs, not blood.

but it’s slipping. everything’s slipping.

you open your eyes too fast and your vision swims, then steadies. your stomach turns, sharp. dry. empty.

food deprivation setting in. 36 hours minimum. no protein. no sugar. no salt.

you taste bile. your fingers twitch again, and it sends a lightning bolt down your wrist into your forearm. you choke on the pain. grit your teeth again. but your body’s twitching now, too many nerves misfiring at once. your leg jerks, useless. you slam your heel against the floor once, just to feel it. just to know you’re still here.

you are still here. you are.

you press your head back against the pole, cold concrete against your scalp, and you breathe. slow. through your nose. deeper this time.

think. analyze. adapt.

they haven’t starved you yet. which means they want you awake. they want something. still.

and oikawa—he’s not done. you can feel it in your ribs. like a tide coming in. like a storm hovering off the coast. he’s going to come back. you know it. and when he does, he won’t be calm.

he tried the question route. the taunting. the guilt. and when it didn’t work, he sent hajime.

which means next time… next time, he’ll be different. and you’ll need to be ready, even if your body isn’t. even if your vision swims every time you blink. even if your lips are cracking and your head is buzzing and your body is screaming at you to sleep.

you stay awake. because he’s coming.

and part of you is afraid, yes. but the other part?

the part still bleeding under your ribs, the part that still remembers how his voice used to sound in the dark?

that part wants to see him. wants to hear what else he has to say.

…

you hear the lock before you see him.

not like before, this time there’s no hesitation in the metal, no slow turn or echoing theatrics. the key slides in like muscle memory, a quick flick of the wrist, a sharp click, and the door groans open. no footsteps follow immediately, which tells you he’s standing there. watching. waiting. letting the tension curl into the room ahead of him like smoke.

you force yourself to lift your head, slow and stiff, ignoring the lightning shooting up your spine. your shoulders have settled into a dull ache, the ropes digging deeper with every breath, your thigh long past numb and now burning again in pulses, wet, hot, alive.

the pain’s returned just in time for an audience.

and when he steps into the room, you already know who it is. you knew the second the air shifted. knew it in the silence, the weight of his presence. oikawa always carried himself like a blade, sleek, sharp, reflective. but now he’s something else entirely. he’s ice. not even the kind that cuts—just the kind that seeps. spreads. suffocates.

his eyes scan the space with calculation before they land on you. not immediately. not like it matters. you’re furniture in here now. a job. a nuisance. an old stain on the carpet someone’s tired of scrubbing out. but when he does look at you, really look, something flickers. not pity. not pain. just… familiarity. recognition of what you are now. what he helped shape.

he walks in without speaking, a takeout container balanced casually in one hand, the other still curled around the holster strapped beneath his coat. the smell hits you before he’s close: rice, maybe. something spiced. something lukewarm. it makes your stomach churn violently, not with hunger, but with the humiliation of it. he doesn’t offer it. doesn’t pretend to be kind. just sets it down on the floor in front of you, just out of reach.

“they said you’d break quicker,” he says after a long pause, voice quiet, clipped, without rhythm or tone. “not their fault. your file reads like a woman barely holding it together. shallow breathing. scar tissue over old wounds. doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. cracks under prolonged silence.”

he crouches again. this time slower. his knees bend with less effort than before, like he’s done this same motion a hundred times in a hundred different cells, like you’re no different from anyone else he’s interrogated. he rests his elbow on his thigh and cocks his head, watching you the way someone watches a clock. something inevitable. ticking. temporary.

“but you’re still here,” he murmurs, and the edge of something sharp curls at the corner of his mouth, not a smile. not even a smirk. just a twitch. “still bleeding. still breathing. still not talking.”

you hold his gaze. he hates that.

his eyes move down your body, not with desire, but with a surgeon’s detachment. cataloguing injuries. reading the way your left arm twitches involuntarily every few minutes. the way your breathing’s shallow but paced. he can tell you’ve been keeping yourself conscious through recitations. pain mapping. training. he knows because he taught you some of those things. once. in another life.

“so what did they do to you over there?” he asks, quieter now, as if the question isn’t meant to be heard, only tasted. “what did they strip away to make you like this? did they make you kneel? make you forget how it felt to be touched like a person? is that what it took to make you stay gone?”

you say nothing. not because you’re defiant, but because the words feel too human, too soft, and you refuse to give him that. not here. not now. he’d see it as weakness, and he’d use it.

oikawa’s hand lifts, not toward you. just to run through his hair, rough. frustrated. the motion breaks for a second. unscripted. and you see it, buried beneath the cold: the exhaustion. the fury. the years. all of it sealed behind a clean black shirt and a holster worn to shine.

he looks back at you, finally. the stare longer this time.

“you didn’t even hesitate,” he says. and this time his voice is steadier. not angry. just… tired. “they showed me the photos. your ‘body.’ your prints. the fake blood. i knew it was staged. i knew it. and still—” he cuts himself off. laughs once. hollow. “i kept thinking, maybe you were forced. maybe you were protecting me. maybe it was a trade. but no. you just… left.”

your throat tightens. it’s involuntary. it burns. you breathe through your nose and pretend it didn’t happen. he notices anyway.

“what?” he asks, tone sharper. “you’re gonna cry now? after everything?”

you swallow, slow.

“i’m not crying,” you rasp, voice cracked and dry. “my fucking throat hurts, asshole.”

he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the lie. like part of him wishes it were true. then, suddenly, he stands. just like that. sharp and unannounced. and the energy in the room shifts again. colder now. more exact.

“you wanna eat?” he asks, gesturing to the food like it’s an afterthought. “go ahead. drag yourself over there. earn it.”

he turns to the door. doesn’t open it yet.

“i’ll be back in an hour,” he says without looking. “maybe next time i bring the blade instead of the rice.”

the door shuts behind him like a verdict, and this time, you don’t count the water. you just breathe. and breathe. and breathe.

you leave the food sitting where he left it.

you stare at it for a long time after the door shuts. chinese takeout, half-warm, sweating inside its little white carton, untouched and just far enough away that crawling to it would mean tearing open the clot on your thigh and dragging your dignity with it.

oikawa knew exactly how far to place it. he didn’t need to say it out loud. he never does. he speaks in implication. in silence. in theatre.

you count five slow, excruciating minutes before the scent starts to turn. oil, rice, soy, something too sweet. it smells like everything you haven’t had in days. your stomach turns on itself, hunger curling up into nausea. you don’t move. you won’t give him the satisfaction. you won’t reach for it. not yet.

the rope around your wrists has gone slick with sweat. the skin underneath pulses raw, the fibers grinding bone-deep every time you shift. your leg feels hot again—not from the outside, but from the inside. fever. the slow, creeping kind. the kind you were warned about during survival training. you taste salt on your lips. your spine pulses.

you breathe. you endure. you let your mind go flat and clinical, scan for patterns, predict outcomes. it’s the only thing that keeps the panic out. the only thing that keeps you you.

he’ll be back soon. you know that much. and he’ll want something worse than an answer.

and when the door opens again, there’s no warning. no footsteps. no voice. just the lock. a clean metallic rotation and the soft whine of hinges under weight. you don’t flinch. not even when he steps back into the room, darker this time. something about his silhouette feels heavier. tighter.

he’s not holding food anymore.

he closes the door with his foot. doesn’t look at you at first. just walks to the edge of the room like he needs to collect himself, like he doesn’t trust what will come out if he faces you too soon.

he rolls his sleeves. deliberate. slow. first the left, then the right. his forearms are cut with old scars, some you recognize, some you don’t. his watch ticks loud in the silence. the silver catches the light when he turns.

and finally, he looks at you.

“you’re still awake,” he says softly. not impressed. not kind. just… acknowledging it. like it irritates him. like it ruins a plan.

you meet his eyes and don’t speak.

he crosses the room in three quiet strides, and when he crouches again, it’s not slow. it’s sudden. fluid. like a hunter settling into position. his hand braces on his knee. his other hand—

you feel the pressure before you realize what he’s done.

he’s pressed a knife flat to your neck. not cutting. not slicing. just resting. cool metal against warm skin. the blade’s dull from disuse. ceremonial, almost. not meant to kill. just to promise something.

he watches you. doesn’t blink. his voice is low when it comes.

“so,” he says, “torture didn’t work. silence didn’t work. nostalgia didn’t work.”

his thumb brushes your chin, slow, measured, like he’s checking for weakness.

“how about this,” he murmurs. “how about i fuck it out of you?”

your breathing stutters. it’s small. barely there. not enough to mean anything to anyone else.

but he sees it. because of course he does. his mouth twitches.

“oh,” he whispers. “there she is.”

you don’t move. you won’t.

“did they train you to resist that too?” he asks, voice still velvet. “or did they think you wouldn’t need it, since they stripped everything else out of you?”

his hand doesn’t move from the knife, but his weight shifts forward, just a fraction. just enough to make the pole dig into your back and the breath in your lungs catch from the closeness. he’s not touching you, not really. but you can feel the heat rolling off him. feel the hum of energy between his knees and yours. you can smell him again, same cologne. same breath. same man, except not.

“i should kill you,” he says. flatly. suddenly.

it’s not a threat. it’s not dramatic. it’s a statement. one he’s practiced saying in his head. one he’s probably already imagined carrying out. clean. fast. maybe even painless, if he’s feeling merciful.

but he doesn’t. because you haven’t said a word, and the silence is driving him insane.

he pulls back. not fast, not sharp. like he’s disappointed. like he wanted you to flinch. to fold. to break. but you didn’t.

instead, you look him straight in the eye. your voice cracks when it comes, but it holds.

“you don’t kill things you still love.”

his eyes flash, and for the first time in the entire interrogation, oikawa falters.

it’s barely there. but you know him. you know the tick in his jaw when something hits too close. you know the twitch in his cheekbone when he’s been caught lying; to you, to himself. his gaze drops for half a second, and when it rises again, there’s something violent behind it.

not rage. not fire. something colder. cleaner. a kind of violence that doesn’t need to yell.

his hands move without a word.

you feel the pressure shift first, his grip on your shoulders loosening, the weight of his attention narrowing. then the brush of his knuckles along your wrist. not gentle. not apologetic. just practical. he reaches behind you, fingers tugging at the knot, pulling it free in three sharp jerks. the rope slackens. the burn releases. the tension in your arms stutters, your shoulders dropping, too fast, too heavy.

you freeze.

the blood starts moving again before your brain catches up. your hands tingle, pins and needles laced with acid. the joints scream from the sudden freedom, the weight of your arms collapsing into your lap. you feel everything at once, your back soaked in sweat, your legs trembling under you, your wrists so raw you could weep.

you blink. shallow. uncertain.

he crouches again. same position. same voice. like this is all part of the procedure.

“go on,” he murmurs. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

your breath hitches.

he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t restrain you. just waits. and in the space between you, the implication fills the silence like smoke. he’s watching. cataloguing. betting.

will she?

you do.

your body moves before your mind decides. your leg coils, weak and useless, your arm swings too wide, sloppy, uncalculated, pure adrenaline and stubborn desperation. it’s not a strike, it’s not a kill shot, it’s the idea of one. and that’s all he needs.

he grabs you before you’re even halfway up.

his hand locks around your bicep, his weight shifting like a second skin, and he slams you forward with terrifying ease. your shoulder hits the ground first. then your cheek. the cold concrete bites hard into the side of your face, the shock rattling through your jaw, your ribs, your spine. your thigh flares hot again, bright white agony as the wound tears wider.

you gasp without sound. bite back a scream. your teeth grind together so violently you taste metal.

his knee is in your back now, not hard, just there, pinning you the way he used to pin targets against glass windows overseas. your wrists are yanked behind you again, but this time it’s chain, not rope—tight, surgical, unforgiving. the kind they use on black site detainees. no flex. no give. you feel it click closed like a collar around your wrists.

you stop moving.

“that’s what i thought,” he mutters.

he doesn’t sound surprised. doesn’t sound pleased, either. just… unsurprised.

you breathe against the floor. slow. labored. your mouth tastes like blood and dust and your own frustration. the second your fingers twitch, the chain digs deeper.

he stands without a word. doesn’t look down. doesn’t offer anything—not a hand, not a warning, not even a threat. you hear him cross to the door. the echo of his shoes now feels deliberate. performative.

when he opens it, he doesn’t speak to you. he speaks into the hallway. curt. bored.

“she’s ready.”

and a moment later, you hear the second pair of footsteps. lighter. more precise.

you lift your head, barely, and see her.

kiyoko.

the sight of her gut-punches something old in you. it’s not even what she’s wearing, black blouse, slacks, latex gloves. it’s the expression. flat. clinical. unimpressed. she doesn’t even blink when her eyes land on you. you’re not a friend. not a former comrade. not a ghost come back to haunt the program. you’re a case. a box to check. a subject for a file.

clipboard in one hand. bandage roll in the other.

oikawa glances back at you once. you don’t think he means to. it’s too brief to be intentional. just a flicker of recognition, like your name tried to reach his throat and died halfway up.

“get her showered. something hot, not too long,” he tells kiyoko. “give her the meal. small. protein-heavy. prep the bed after. she needs to look alive for tomorrow.”

and then he’s gone. except this time the door doesn’t slam. it closes soft. sealed.

kiyoko doesn’t speak. she just steps closer, kneels beside you with the same detached calm as a surgeon scrubbing in. her hand touches your arm, adjusting the chains to keep your wrists in front of you now. less for comfort, more for transport. she doesn’t explain it.

you try to speak, but nothing comes. you swallow hard. once. again. your mouth is sand. your throat full of heat.

kiyoko doesn’t help you up. she waits for you to try. and when you collapse halfway to your knees, she doesn’t reach down.

“get up,” she says. not cruel. not even annoyed. just matter-of-fact.

so you do. because there’s no other choice.

your body moves like it’s being puppeted. every step hurts. not in isolation, but everywhere. your feet don’t land right. the ground feels too close. too loud. like it’s tilting underneath you. your thigh pulses in time with your heartbeat, and every shift of your weight drags pain up your spine like fishhooks.

kiyoko walks behind you, not beside you. close enough to correct, far enough to stay clear. her footsteps don’t echo. her presence barely exists. you know better than to turn and look for emotion in her face. she’s not here to see you. she’s here to process you. assess you. keep you alive enough to bleed another day.

you walk through the hallway. the walls are cement. the floors are tile, cheap, gray, a little uneven. fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead like a living thing. no windows. no doors open. just blank steel on both sides, punctuated by cameras that don’t blink. the silence is suffocating. every footstep feels stolen.

you don’t ask where you’re going. you already know.

you pass a mirror. not a real one, just a piece of steel polished to reflect.

you catch your own face by accident, and it almost undoes you. your hair is matted in places. dry in others. your lips are cracked. blood crusts the side of your face in a smear, half-dried, half-fresh. your eyes look too large, like someone sucked the soul out of you and left just the shell. your collarbones are sharper than they used to be. your arms look thinner. smaller. your wrists are an angry mess of rope burn and bruising.

you look like a corpse that hasn’t learned it died yet.

kiyoko doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. doesn’t let you linger.

the next room is pale blue tile. a drain in the center of the floor. plastic chair against the far wall. one towel folded on the bench. one pair of black sweatpants, one white shirt, no shoes. a tray with a sealed container of food. protein bar. water bottle. syringe.

you hesitate in the doorway.

she nods once toward the wall. “shower,” she says.

you move.

the water turns on automatically when you step close enough. it’s not warm. not cold. just enough to shock your skin. your body tenses so hard you nearly fall. kiyoko doesn’t help you. she doesn’t leave either. she turns away slightly, enough to give you the illusion of privacy, but not enough to make it real.

you strip slowly. every movement takes calculation. your leg doesn’t want to cooperate. your shoulder burns. your muscles seize. when you pull the shirt over your head, the dried blood pulls at your skin like a second layer. it peels. flakes. smells like rust and sweat and rot.

you step under the water, and the first thing you feel is shame. not pain. not cold. shame. your body is covered in bruises. some fresh. some old. some from oikawa. some from the fall. some from yourself. the inside of your thigh is dark purple. your hip is yellowing. your chest is blotched with fingerprints and old restraint lines.

you try not to cry.

you wash. slow. deliberate. there’s no soap. just water. just enough to rinse the surface. the blood on your leg turns the drain pink for a while. the water turns clear again before you finish.

your breath catches when you try to bend. your ribs don’t like it. your wrists scream. you sit on the plastic chair when it gets too much. you close your eyes and let the water fall over your head like a second skin.

kiyoko speaks once. ��five minutes.”

you nod. your throat is too tight to answer.

when you’re done, you dress in silence. your hands shake when you pull the pants up. the shirt sticks to your skin. the material is coarse. unfamiliar. it doesn’t feel like clothes. it feels like wrapping a body for transit.

you don’t touch the food. not yet.

she walks over. picks up the syringe.

you tense. instinctively.

she shakes her head. “vitamins. antibiotic. eat first.” she raises the protein bar and tosses it at you. “start with that.”

you catch it. barely. it tastes like cardboard and sugar and sawdust. but it’s food. real food. not memory. not imagination. real. your hands don’t stop shaking while you eat. you want to devour it. you don’t. you chew slow. methodical. you’ve seen what happens when agents eat too fast after too long.

she watches the whole time. when you finish half the bottle of water, she steps closer. uncaps the syringe.

“arm.”

you hesitate.

her voice doesn’t change. “don’t make me call him.”

you roll up your sleeve, and the needle stings. the second she pulls it out, she’s already cleaning up.

you want to speak. to ask. to scream. to exist. but nothing comes out.

she says nothing back. just opens the door. gestures. “come on,” she says. “bed’s prepped.”

you follow. because there’s nowhere else to go.

the room they bring you to isn’t what you expect. it’s small. clean. bare. too clean. too bare. one narrow bed bolted to the floor. a sink. a chair. a metal hook set into the wall by the headboard. there are no windows. just a light above that flickers faintly every ten minutes, as if it’s reminding you it’s still watching.

kiyoko doesn’t explain anything. she just leads you in with a nod. someone else follows, a tall guard you don’t recognize, silent, stiff, holding the end of your chain like a leash. it drags behind you, heavy and cold, slithering along the floor as you limp toward the bed.

your body’s moving on something synthetic now—painkillers, maybe. not enough to make you high. just enough to mute the sharpest edges. your thigh still burns. your wrists still ache. your spine still screams every time you breathe wrong, but it’s dulled. dulled enough to let you stand. dulled enough to let you think.

you don’t speak. you don’t ask questions. you just sit.

the guard doesn’t hesitate. he lifts your wrists without a word, fastens the cuffs to the hook by the bed—click, click, lock. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just checks the chain once. tests the tension. two feet of slack. not enough to move far. enough to lie down. enough to sleep. enough to remind you you’re still theirs.

kiyoko sets a small bottle on the nightstand. water. sealed. you hear her speak again for the first time in almost twenty minutes. “sleep,” she says. “don’t make this harder.”

and then they’re gone. the lock clicks. and you’re alone.

you lie back slowly. the mattress is thin. industrial. barely more than fabric and foam. your body sinks into it in pieces, shoulders first, then spine, then hips, then legs. your wrists stay suspended above your head, the weight of the chain pulling down just enough to remind you: you’re not free.

you don’t cry. but you almost do. your eyes close. but you don’t sleep, not right away. your thoughts flicker.

you wonder if oikawa’s on the other side of the wall. watching. waiting. timing your breath. if he was the one who ordered the meds. if he told them how much to give. if he told them when to feed you. how to shackle you. if he told them what parts of you not to break.

he’s planning something. you feel it. it coils around your ribs like a promise.

but you do fall asleep eventually. not because you want to, but because your body gives out.

and you wake in stages. not with panic, not with clarity, but in layers, like rising through molasses.

the first thing you feel is the cold. not the kind that bites, but the kind that settles into your skin like it belongs there, stale, recycled air filtering from the corner vent, humming against the back of your neck. it’s artificial. controlled. the type of cold that exists in rooms built to keep people quiet.

then the ache returns, low and humming, sweeping like a tide through your body. your leg is a lit fuse beneath the gauze. your spine is one long bruise. your arms throb with a familiar weight you’ve come to know intimately these past few days: restraint. raw skin, stretched joints, blood pooling in awkward places. you expect to feel the tug of chain, the bite of iron at your wrists.

except… it’s not there.

your wrists don’t ache the way they should. they’re not suspended. not twisted upward above your head. they’re resting. flat. at your sides.

that’s when your body jolts. not all at once, just a sharp internal spike of adrenaline cutting through the haze. your mind catches up a second later, too slow, too fogged from painkillers and dehydration to understand what it’s registering.

you blink. once. then again.

your arms are still sore. the skin is hot and torn in places. but your hands are free.

you flex your fingers on instinct. each tendon aches, but they move, untethered. unshackled. raw skin catches on the inside of the shirt they left you in. the cotton clings to half-healed scrapes like a second wound. but there’s no metal. no tension—

and your heart kicks like a warning shot.

you shoot upright too fast. the blood rushes to your head and your spine screams in protest, but you’re already reaching for your wrists, already scanning the mattress, the corners of the room, the floor near your feet, anything.

no cuffs. no clamps. no chain to drag across the tile. just skin. skin and heat and the faint tacky residue of medical tape where they must’ve wiped you down in your sleep.

you stare at your hands. you turn them over. they shake.

you didn’t wake up.

they unhooked you in the night, and you didn’t wake up.

your stomach twists violently.

that’s not just bad. that’s lethal. stupid. that’s a rookie mistake. a civilian mistake. you were trained to sleep light. to wake at the shift of air, the scrape of rubber on tile, the breath of a body too close to yours. you should’ve felt them. you should’ve heard it. seen it. something.

and you didn’t.

a wave of nausea crashes behind your ribs, cold and bitter. your mouth tastes like salt and sleep and failure.

you were vulnerable. and you didn’t even know it. your chest tightens as the shame comes fast and deep. you could’ve been killed. you could’ve been dragged out of this bed and butchered and bagged and you would’ve gone without a sound. what the fuck is wrong with you?

you spin around. and you freeze. because he’s already there.

he’s sitting in the far corner of the room like a secret waiting to be found. no announcement. no movement. just presence. quiet. composed. watching.

oikawa looks like he’s been there all night.

he’s leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, legs spread just enough to anchor him in place, his gun dangling loosely in one hand. it rests on his thigh, not raised, not threatening, just visible. a piece of him. like it always was. his finger’s curled against the trigger guard, relaxed. easy. familiar.

his eyes are locked on yours. his lips curl, slow. tired. cruel.

“sloppy,” he says. his voice is quiet, too quiet, like it’s meant to cut you in half, not echo. “sicily must’ve gotten soft.”

you try to swallow, but your throat’s too dry. your whole body is too slow. too heavy. too exposed.

he stands.

he doesn’t move quickly. doesn’t stalk. he just rises like a tide, controlled and inevitable. his shoulders straighten as he steps toward you, every movement smooth, silent. his eyes never leave yours.

“you really didn’t wake up?” he asks, and there’s a twist in the middle of the sentence, like it hurts. like he’s mocking himself for expecting better.

you don’t respond. your chest is locked tight.

“i could’ve done anything,” he says, softer now. a note lower. almost contemplative. “could’ve broken your neck. could’ve put a bullet in your mouth while you dreamed about being anyone but yourself.”

he lifts the gun. slow. methodical. not a threat: an invitation. and then, without hesitation, he brings it to your face.

the barrel presses against your temple, firm and cold, smooth against skin that’s still warm from fever. you can feel the shape of it, metal shaped by repetition, by force, by memory. his hand doesn’t tremble. yours does.

your breathing spikes. you don’t let it show, but he sees it anyway.

you don’t scream. you don’t cry. you just sit there, spine curved, bones aching, dressed in borrowed clothes, half-healed and humiliated. trembling in your own skin, hands twitching in your lap.

he watches you like a scientist. like you’re a theory he’s finally proven right.

“you’ve been trained to disarm,” he murmurs, voice low enough to rattle your ribs. “so disarm me.”

your body doesn’t move. not even an inch. you twitch. a single shoulder trembles. your hand flexes—

but nothing follows.

he smiles. not the real one. not the soft one you used to kiss off his lips in the backseat of armored vehicles after getting out alive. this one is sharper.

“no?”

he steps back just a little. not far. just enough. then, without flourish, without warning—he flips the gun in his hand and drops it into your lap.

“oops.”

the word lands like a knife in your sternum.

the gun is heavy. heavy in a way only yours can be. the grip still fits. the shape still knows your hands. the weight of it isn’t just physical, it’s historical.

you don’t look down, but your hands move. your fingers close around it before your thoughts catch up. the cold spreads fast. it’s like holding a memory you were never supposed to see again.

“pick it up,” he says, even though you already have.

you shift your grip automatically. thumb along the side, press-slide-check. chamber’s loaded. safety’s off. it’s second nature. it’s still in you.

you hear his breath change.

not a flinch. not fear. just readiness.

you raise it, but your hands are shaking again. not violently. but enough. not from fear. from memory. the stance is perfect. your aim is sharp. he’s close. you could shoot through his skull in a heartbeat. drop him where he stands.

you were trained for this. he trained you.

but your eyes don’t see the man in front of you. they see the boy beneath. seventeen and too tall for his own center of gravity. grinning through blood and glass. holding your hand in the wreckage like he could keep it from shaking. pressing his mouth to your temple like that would fix it.

and this version, with the button-up and the half-crazy eyes and the mouth that curves like a blade—this version is still him.

you lower the gun. barely. just a breath. your hands still tremble.

he doesn’t blink.

“do it,” he says. “go ahead.”

you raise it again. your arms burn. your fingers squeeze tighter. but nothing follows. your throat’s closing up. your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. your vision blurs.

and you can’t.

he steps in. just one step. close enough that your knees brush his thighs. close enough that his breath stirs your lashes.

“do it.”

your heart pounds so loud you can’t hear the room anymore.

and then, he leans in. his nose brushes yours. his eyes are on your mouth. his voice is low. soft. final. “that’s what i thought.”

your grip loosens. you let the gun fall. not dramatic. not violent. just… surrender, slow. quiet. inevitable. it hits the mattress between your knees and you look at him. not the weapon.

he hasn’t moved. his eyes haven’t left yours.

he says it so low, so intimate, it sounds like he’s whispering it into the hollow of your throat.

“you always hold on too tight.” his mouth twitches. “but you never pull the trigger.”

your jaw tightens. your eyes sting. your hands fall to your lap, useless.

he looks down at them. then back at your face.

“you could’ve ended this,” he murmurs. “right here. clean. final. after everything.”

he doesn’t sound surprised. he sounds… disappointed. and that burns worse than any wound.

you open your mouth. to defend yourself. to explain. to lie. but you don’t get the chance, because he moves first, not fast, not like a strike, but like a decision already made.

his hand comes to your face, knuckles dragging your cheekbone, thumb catching at the corner of your mouth. he studies you like a blueprint gone weathered with time.

“you’re still soft,” he says under his breath. “even after everything they taught you.”

your lips part to argue.

he kisses you.

not soft. not hard. slow. like he’s daring you to push him away. like he’s asking: is this what you came back for?

you make a sound against his mouth, low, pained. your fingers fist in the front of his shirt before you even realize it, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the one person you should’ve severed from years ago.

he tastes the same. like metal and breath and that impossible version of home you pretended never existed. and you hate it. hate how natural it feels to open your mouth for him. to let him lick back in like no time has passed at all.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you shouldn’t have come back.”

your hands stay on him. “i didn’t,” you whisper. “you brought me.”

he laughs, quiet and bitter, like it physically hurts him to let it out. “right. i forgot. i’m the villain now.”

his hand moves to your throat, not to choke, but to hold. to feel you breathing. to remind you that you are.

“you think they erased me,” he murmurs. “you think sicily taught you how to forget this.”

he leans in again. mouth at your jaw, your throat, the place just below your ear where your skin still flinches.

“but i remember you,” he says.

his hands slide down your shoulders, slow and deliberate. he brushes past every scar like he knows where they came from. like he cataloged them before you were gone.

“i remember how you sounded when you couldn’t stay quiet.”

his hands move lower.

“i remember what you did with your hips when you thought i wasn’t paying attention.”

your breath shudders as his fingers catch the hem of your shirt. he lifts it. you let him.

it comes off slow, dragged over your head, exposing skin that still bears the bruises from iwaizumi’s hands, from ropes, from restraint. he looks at them. at you.

and something flickers in his expression. not pity. not regret. recognition.

“they really tried to break you,” he says.

you meet his gaze. “they did.”

he’s quiet for a beat—then his mouth is on yours again, harder now. his hands on your waist. your ribs. pushing you gently back, lowering you down to the mattress like he doesn’t quite trust you’ll stay if he lets go.

his mouth never leaves yours. and when it does, it only travels. to your neck. your collarbone. the line of your sternum.

he pulls your pants down next. slowly. methodically. he exposes your thigh, the wound, the scar. his fingers ghost over it, barely touching, but it makes your whole body twitch.

his lips move down.

he kisses just beside it. a soft press. intentional. not for you. for him.

his fingers slide up the inside of your thigh. find the heat there. the slick.

he exhales sharply. “you missed me,” he says.

you don’t deny it.

his hand moves slow. two fingers parting your folds like he already knows what he’ll find. and he does.

“wet already?” he murmurs. “so you do remember.”

his thumb brushes your clit and your hips jerk. he smiles.

“you always did like it when i talked.”

you moan. quiet. shaky. ashamed.

his fingers slip inside, just the tips—and your breath catches.

then deeper.

he fills you with two fingers and watches your body open for him. his pace is slow. purposeful. he curls his fingers just right, drags them back just enough to make you gasp.

you pant his name once, soft, like it slips out by accident.

his breath stutters. “say it again.”

“tooru…”

he leans in and kisses you, long. deep. and all the while, his fingers never stop moving. never stop knowing. never stop making you fall apart.

and when you come, it’s fast and quiet and humiliating. you clamp around his fingers, thighs trembling, vision gone blurry. your hands claw at his arms like you need something to hold onto. something that isn’t this. that isn’t him.

but he doesn’t let up. he works you through it. slow. brutal. gentle in the cruelest way.

and when you finally look up at him, wrecked, breathless, ruined, he says:

“good.”

he reaches for his belt.

“because i’m not done reminding you.”

his voice sits low and steady in your gut, vibrating through you like the echo of a threat. but there’s no rush to his hands, no frantic pull or clumsy undressing. he’s measured. deliberate. like he already knows what comes next. like this was always part of the plan.

his eyes stay on yours as he unbuckles the belt, one hand on the clasp, the other still resting between your legs, slick with you.

your chest rises with each breath, too shallow, too sharp. his fingers drag the leather free from its loops with a single slow pull, long, drawn out, smooth like tension unwinding, and you swallow hard when he drops it to the floor without a sound.

he unzips next. pulls himself free. thick and hard and flushed dark, and when your eyes flick down to see him, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you forget what it feels like?” he asks, voice rougher now, closer to a growl than a whisper.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

and that silence, that flicker of hesitation, is enough to light something in his eyes.

he grips your hips, fingers digging in just above your bones, and drags you closer to the edge of the mattress. your thighs fall open on instinct. he doesn’t touch himself. he doesn’t need to. he’s already hard, already ready, already decided.

and you feel it, when the head of his cock presses against your entrance, hot and blunt and almost mean in its stillness. he doesn’t push in. not yet. he just lets it sit there, like a question you’re too afraid to answer.

he leans down. his mouth finds yours again, slower now, less feral, but no less demanding. his lips part against yours. his breath is hot and tight. and when he speaks, it’s just above a whisper, full of something bitter and aching.

“you left me,” he says. “you didn’t even look back.”

your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. your voice shakes. “i had to.”

he pulls back from the kiss, just far enough to look at you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, like he’s still tasting the words in your mouth.

“no,” he says. “you chose to.”

and then, he pushes in. slow. deep. inch by aching inch.

the stretch rips the air from your lungs. your body clenches around him, too hot, too slick, too full. your back arches off the mattress and your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, only breath. only heat. only him.

he bottoms out and stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you locked together like two halves of something long broken.

“i thought about this every night,” he says into your skin. “how you’d feel if you ever came back. how i’d make you remember.”

he pulls out slow. thrusts back in. hard. controlled. punishing.

you gasp.

his rhythm starts there, not fast, but steady. relentless. each thrust slow enough to drag the friction, deep enough to pull moans from your throat you didn’t know you still had in you.

you claw at his shoulders. he grabs your thigh and adjusts the angle, tilts your hips up, sinks in deeper.

“you feel that?” he says, voice breaking. “that’s me.”

your walls clamp around him.

“they made you forget everything else. but not this.”

your head tilts back. your breath leaves in sharp little sobs.

his thumb drags down your jaw. “look at me,” he says.

you do. barely. barely keeping your eyes open. barely remembering what shame is.

his thrusts grow a little harder, a little deeper.

“say it.”

you choke on the word. “you,” you gasp. “it’s you.”

his hand wraps around the back of your neck. pulls your forehead to his, and he kisses you, but this time, it’s different. not taunting. not cruel. not even angry. this one hurts.

he fucks you through it. fucks you with it.

and when his hand drops between your legs again, finding your clit with unerring precision, you’re already spiraling. already close. already breaking open in ways you swore they’d trained out of you.

“that’s right,” he breathes. “let me have it.”

you fall apart around him. twitching. gasping. clenching down hard. your thighs shake. your nails dig into his back. you cry out his name, loud this time, ruined and raw and full of everything you didn’t get to say when you disappeared.

he fucks you through your orgasm.

chases his own with long, deep thrusts, groaning when your body pulses again around him, slick and overstimulated, trembling and unguarded.

and when he finally comes, hips stuttering, breath ragged, face buried in your neck, it’s with a sound you haven’t truly heard in years.

your name. your real one. the one you abandoned. the one he still says like a secret.

he collapses on top of you, chest heaving, body heavy, sweat clinging to both of you like surrender.

and for a while, there’s nothing. just the sound of breath. and the silence of everything he couldn’t say.

the silence is heavy.

not the kind that invites sleep, or peace, or even comfort. this one is the kind that sinks into the mattress with you. that curls up in the dark like a third body between your limbs. the kind that knows this is the last time.

your skin is still slick with sweat. your body aches in places you forgot existed. your leg throbs, but it’s distant now, muted beneath the deeper ache blooming in your chest.

you’re curled into his side, bare skin pressed to his. his hand moves in slow circles over your back, sometimes drifting down your spine, sometimes tracing the faded scars across your shoulder blades like they spell something he can read. his breath is steady beneath your cheek. the rise and fall of it grounds you.

you lie there a long time before either of you speaks.

his voice comes first, low. quiet. not even rasped, just tired.

“we used to talk about retiring.”

you blink against the base of his throat. your lips brush his skin when you speak.

“used to pretend we’d make it to thirty.” he exhales. it sounds like a laugh. it’s not.

“used to think we’d be on a beach,” he murmurs. “somewhere warm. bored. arguing about groceries.”

you nod. your fingers trace a small scar near his ribs, a clean slice, maybe a knife wound. old. shallow.

“i thought i could do it,” you whisper. “i thought if i just left—if i died the right way, they’d let you go.”

he swallows. you feel it. his voice cracks just slightly. “they don’t let anyone go.”

you close your eyes.

his hand pauses at your spine. then resumes. slower now. less rhythmic.

“i hated you,” he says. no malice in it. just fact. “for a long time. i thought you betrayed me.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t.”

you lift your head to look at him. your cheek sticks to his skin with sweat. your wrists are still sore. you feel so small like this. so unlike the weapon they trained you to be.

his gaze is soft in the dark. too soft. it makes your throat hurt.

you brush your fingers along his jaw. his lashes flutter.

“i loved you,” you say. “since we were seventeen.”

his jaw clenches. his eyes shine. “i know,” he whispers, and he leans in. kisses your forehead. your temple. your cheek.

you curl into him again. one arm draped across his chest. your fingers drift down, across the planes of his stomach. you touch the place above his heart.

“i think i’m gonna die here,” you whisper. you don’t mean it like surrender. you mean it like truth.

he doesn’t respond right away.

then—

“probably,” he says. “it’s what they’d want.”

you nod.

he shifts under you slightly, reaches for the blanket half-kicked to the edge of the bed. pulls it over both of you.

“maybe i’ll die here too.”

you don’t say anything.

his fingers move to your arm. his thumb presses gently over a burn scar near your elbow. one you got in bucharest. he wasn’t there. but he read the report. he traces it like it hurts him.

and then, softly, so softly it almost doesn’t reach your ears—

“i missed you so much.”

your heart folds in on itself. “i know,” you whisper.

“i’d do it again,” he says.

you blink. your voice catches. “do what?”

he swallows again. you feel his throat move under your cheek.

“i’d love you.”

you don’t cry. you thought you might. but you don’t. instead, you slide your arm across his chest. press your lips to his neck.

“i’d die for you,” you say. “again and again.”

he exhales shakily. his hand lifts. he pushes your hair back behind your ear. presses his lips to your temple.

and then, quietly, like it’s the only joke he knows how to tell anymore—“looks like i’m gonna have to put you down myself, huh?”

you smile. small. broken.

“do it gently.”

he laughs once. just a breath. but it dies halfway. you feel the way he stiffens. the way his fingers tighten in your hair.

“please don’t make me do this,” he says.

you don’t reply. because you both know what comes next.

there’s no way out of this. no extraction. no miracle. sicily doesn’t lose assets, and the program doesn’t forget deserters. and people like you, people like him—you don’t get second chances. you don’t get to run.

you bury your face in his chest. feel his heart beating beneath your cheek.

slow. steady. real.

and if this is the last time, you want to remember it like this. warm. quiet. his arms around you. the air thick with things unsaid but no longer needed.

you’re just two people now. two people who never stood a chance. but found each other anyway.

tags: @x3nafix @whoo0sh

[babybenn]

[ggensblog]

we're just making it worse | r.j.l.

back to series masterlist | back to main masterlist

part four: the bachelorette party

contains: remus lupin x fem!reader, modern! no magic! au, poorly-written dialogue, alcohol consumption, swearing, awkward/tense interactions, unedited, I think that's it- if I missed anything let me know !

word count: 2.1k

15 days until the wedding...

You look at the clock to your left for what feels like the millionth time in the past 10 minutes. You’re trying to blend out your makeup as quickly as you can, but time seems to be working against you. You know you shouldn’t care all that much, James and Lily requested a house party just with friends instead of a separate bachelor/bachelorette party. They requested a casual vibe- but you couldn’t help but care as you fussed over your hair once more.

You had gotten home from work late, and Pandora decidedly couldn’t find anything to wear, which meant you were extraordinarily late for the function. Far past the respectable “fashionably late” you had hoped would be the case before Pandora’s hair dryer stopped working.

You put the finishing touches on your makeup, spraying your face down with setting spray and walking out of your bathroom into your bedroom. 

“Dora, are you almost ready?”

“No! I have no idea what I am going to wear!” 

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your half-full water bottle from your bedside table. Pandora sounded like she was on the verge of tears but you knew better than to worry about your melodramatic roommate and risk getting in the way.

“It’s just a party-”

“But it’s the last party before Lily is MARRIED!”

You pause, racking your brain for some kind of solution, then it hits you.

“Just wear that blue dress from Marelene’s birthday.”

There is a pause to the chaos and then you hear what you assumed to be a sigh of relief from down the hall.

“This is why I keep you around!” You laugh and down the rest of your water then go to put on your shoes by the door. You felt good, having picked out your outfit as soon as the plans were settled because you knew you wouldn’t have time the day of.

“Did you remember the gift?”

You don’t get an answer right away, and then pandora peeks her head out into the hallway.

“It’s on the couch,” Pandora smiles and shuffles back into her room. You wander over to the couch only to find it empty

“No it’s not!”

Another second of silence before you hear “Shit! I meant on the kitchen counter!”

“How do you get those mixed up?” You say this more to yourself than anything, and pick up the neatly decorated bag with your gifts for the happy couple.

Pandora finally rushes out of her room, looking just as fabulous as you thought she would, and quickly throws on a pair of shoes before the two of you head out the door and towards Marlene and Dorcas’s flat. Lily claimed hers and James’ house was still a tornado disaster zone from all of the last minute preparations they were dealing with.

As the two of you climb the last couple stairs up to the flat, you can hear music seeping through the door. Once you enter, you find yourself met with a majority of unfamiliar faces. You were aware that there would be a lot of people wanting to celebrate the happy couple- after all, James and Lily were some of the loveliest people you had met- but you didn’t think it would be this crowded.

Pandora seems to disappear from your side as soon as she saw Xenophilius, leaving you to wander into the kitchen for a drink. You find Barty sitting on the counter, and Evan leaning against it next to him.

“There she iss!” Barty raises his arms and pulls you into a hug, “Where have you been?! The party started ages ago!” Barty shouts louder than he needs to in order to be heard over the music.

“It takes time to create this masterpiece,” You offer a little spin, laughing lightly. “And Pandora couldn’t find anything to wear in that giant wardrobe of hers of course.” You grab a marker and a clear plastic cup and write your name across it before helping yourself to the vodka and cola.

“Well it’s about time you got here, you have a lot of catching up to do…” Evan trails off behind you. You turn to find him holding a shot up for you. You sigh and place your drink down on the counter next to Barty and take the shot from Evan.

The three of you make eye contact with one another before downing the shot and immediately going for another one.

2 more shots later, you’re feeling comfortably tipsy and sip on your mixed drink.

“So… did you bring what’s-his-name tonight?” Evan asks, trying to hide how nosy he was. You shake your head, “No, Stephan is working tonight. But he’ll be at the rehearsal dinner.” You take another sip of your drink before Barty opens his mouth.

“Remus brought his date, she’s a pretty little thing. I think they work together or something.” Your stomach drops, and Evan shoves an elbow into Barty’s side. You pay no mind to the two of them beginning to bicker as your mind races.

He brought her here? Does she know Lily and James? How long has he been seeing her?

You shove your thoughts down, telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

It IS a big deal…

Your stomach suddenly feels off and you down the rest of your drink, then make another.

“I’m going to go find Pandora.” You excuse yourself from the kitchen and wander around the flat until you spot her with Xenophilus and Alice by the window.

“Hey lovely! How are you finding the party?” Alice greets you, her voice light.

You smile back at her, “It’s great- Do you lot mind if I steal Pandora for a second? We have to give Lily our gift.” Pandora’s head turns to you and she nods, grabbing your arm and the gift and dragging you over to where Lily is standing with Mary, Marlene, and another girl you didn’t recognize. 

“Lily!!” Pandora cheers and hugs her friend. You hug Lily after and offer the other three girls a smile.

“I’m so glad you two could make it! I don’t know if you’ve met Emmeline yet,” Lily gestures to the girl you didn’t recognize. She was stunning, you noted, her black hair was silky and fell over her shoulders. And her eyes seemed to pierce into you as she made eye contact. You smile and offer to shake her hand, which she accepts.

“It’s nice to meet you-”

“Remus is bringing her to the wedding!” Mary announces with a large grin on her face. Your heart seems to stop, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. You think you’re able to get by, to just brush it off and change the subject, but of course your dear beloved roommate has to open her mouth.

“Oh that’s so crazy, this is his ex-” You kick her leg. The tension is inescapable now, and it’s suffocating you. You retract your hand and grab the gift bag from Pandora. “Well we don’t mean to interrupt you guys, we just wanted to give Lily her gift,” You stretch a smile across your face and offer the gift to the bride-to-be.

“Awe you didn’t have to!” You wave her off and tell her she can open it later before excusing yourself and taking your drink to the opposite side of the flat.

You find regulus looking over one of the bookshelves in the living room, people dancing around him. The drink he holds is generally untouched and you ask to join him. You must have some kind of distressed expression because the raven haired boy raises a brow and his drink to you.

“Rough night?” He asks, you raise your glass to him similarly.

“No, just- it’s complicated…” You take a sip from your cup and stand with regulus in much needed silence for a bit. You watch people dance, and drink, and laugh like nothing else matters.

Eventually Dorcas stumbles over to you and insists that it is time for you to dance. You, against your sour mood, let her and soon find yourself surrounded by sweaty bodies dancing and moving in the middle of the living room. You down the rest of your drink and let yourself let loose a bit, laughing with your friend and closing your eyes while your limbs flail around you.

You move your body to the beat, slowly forgetting the tension of the night. You don’t know how she did it, but Dorcas must have read your mind when she insisted that all you needed was a good dance.

Your hair sticks to your neck as you continue to move with Dorcas, grabbing her arms and her hands and throwing your head back in bliss. When you open your eyes again, it’s like a magnet draws you to make eye contact with Remus. He’s now standing with Emmeline and Mary where you were earlier.

You hold the eye contact longer than you should, but the alcohol in your system is making you bolder than you would be. You drag your arms down from their place above your head, sliding them down your sides then back up as you move your hips to the music.

It’s agonizing.

You look away first, finally, when Marlene joins the group you and Dorcas have formed. You decide to pay no mind to how good Remus looked, and whether Sirius actually convinced him to put on eyeliner tonight and how it made his green eyes even more beautiful from across the room.

You kept dancing until your feet were sore. You had no idea what time it was at this point, but you knew that it was time for you to find something to snack on. You leave the dance floor and wander back into the now empty kitchen.

Every kitchen you enter must be cursed or something because as you enter, Remus walks in behind you. The swinging door shuts behind him and the music is muffled slightly.

“No Stephen tonight?”

Of course someone must have told him about you bringing Stephen to the wedding. This seems like your friends’ favorite topic as of late.

“No, he was busy.” You’re short in your response, then add “I met Emmeline, she seems… nice.” You finish, and grab a cracker from a tray that was out.

“She is.” Remus fold his arms across his chest and leans against the fridge. 

You swallow the last bite of your cracker, “Good.”

“Good.”

The air is stale not just with the stench of sweat and alcohol, but with the bitterness of contempt. You drag your eyes away from Remus once more and reach for a grape. Why was he still standing there? Why are you still standing there? 

“You’re really bringing him to the wedding?”

You bring your gaze back to the tall man, “Yeah, I am. Why do you care?” Your tone is harsher than you mean it to be.

“I just thought you would have more respect for yourself.” Suddenly you no longer care about your tone. Your eyebrows draw together in frustration.

“What’s that supposed to mean? At least I’m not jumping from girl to girl. How long have you been seeing her anyway?”

“Oh fuck off with that.” You’re almost positive that it’s the alcohol talking. Because even in your worst fights, Remus would never question your character. 

Your shoulders drop. “Whatever Remus.” You begin to walk out of the kitchen, “See you at the wedding. Or-” You stop and turn to him, now standing almost chest to chest, “Actually I hope I don’t- I don’t- I don’t want to see you with her.” With that you push the swinging door open and walk out, night ruined, and significantly more sober than you had been moments prior.

You find Lily again and give her one more hug, offering a ‘congratulations’ to her and James, then spot Pandora to let her know you’re headed home.

“Do you want me to come with?” Concern crosses her face, but you can tell she isn’t actually quite ready to leave. You shake your head and tell her you’re just tired and not feeling well.

The look she gives you this time tells you that she’ll be expecting to talk about it later and let’s you go.

You opt to take an uber home, and let the night wash off of you in your shower once you’re home.

Then, as you lay in bed, staring at your ceiling, you find yourself unable to think about anything other than the bitter taste in your mouth.

a/n: i am so sorry it took so long to get this part out omg- i was deathly ill for like a week and then i had to move across the world, and now i'm in school from like 7pm-2am every night- guys why is this fanfic curse literally haunting me ;-; anyway I hope you enjoyed! 2 parts leftttt

taglist: @daydreamandforget , @moonlightremblack

[cyclopssun]

sketchers (lesbian ver) bc i can’t art rn

txt: An occasional dream

and we’d talk with our eyes of the sweetness in our lives- David Bowie

Baby, you were the love of my life- Harry Styles

[invalidstories]

Enemies to Lovers Dialogue Prompts

"You drive me insane, you know that? I can't seem to get you out of my head."

"Every time I see your face, I want to punch it but kiss it at the same time. What's wrong with me?"

"You're infuriating. I don't know why I bother with you." "Maybe because deep down, you know I'm right." "Don't flatter yourself. I just enjoy the argument."

"I kind of missed having you around." "Oh, please. Spare me the sentimentality." "I'm serious. Life's been dull without your constant bickering."

"You're the last person I expected to turn to for help." "Believe me, I'm not thrilled about it either. But desperate times call for desperate measures."

"You're not as tough as you pretend to be." "And you're not as heartless as you'd like everyone to believe." "Keep telling yourself that."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I think I'm falling in love with you." "Well, that's unfortunate." "Shut up and kiss me already."

"I hate that I can't stay mad at you." "Trust me, the feeling's mutual."

"You're infuriatingly attractive." "And you're... tolerable, I guess." "Gee, thanks. Remind me why we're not ripping each other's heads off right now?"

"I never thought I'd see the day when we'd be on the same side." "Yeah, well, life's full of surprises."

"Stop trying to kill me 24/7!" "Fine, but I can't promise I won't annoy you to death instead."

"You're infuriatingly persistent, you know that?" "And you're infuriatingly resistant. What's it going to take for you to admit you like me?" "Oh, please. Don't flatter yourself."

"Just because we are a thing now, I don't lose my right to insult and hate you sometimes."

Masterlist

[fictionalrelapse]

dude i am so fucking sick of the lovers-enemies-lovers trope slapping me in the face

every time i think it won’t happen it DOES happen

Xaden (Fourth Wing), Bjorn (A Fate Inked in Blood), and now Hawke (From Blood and Ash) being read by me within months of each other is giving me whiplash or smtg

[alicia55523]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdhChRQ4/

Link for their song

[sixteenhearts]

Max doesn’t even get the chance to reply before Charles pushes past him, shoulders tense as he storms off.

Probably to check on Pierre.

And suddenly, Max’s chest feels tight.

Because for one, brief second, he thought Charles came here for him.

To see if he was okay.

But no. It was never about him.

Max exhales, feels the fight drain out of his body. His limbs are heavy, his heart heavier.

He adjusts the ice pack against his bruised knuckles and starts walking back to Red Bull hospitality.

Picking up the broken pieces of himself along the way.

Even after all this time (I'm still into you) updated! Read more here! 💕

[softlymellow]

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 6

☆⁠ PAIRING : Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☆⁠ word count: 3.3k

☆⁠ story themes: lovers to enemies to eventually lovers

☆⁠ warnings: spoilers to swtcw, angstttt

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

"...he almost remembered what it meant to him. Except he didn't. Instead, it was a taste from a dream he couldn’t quite remember."

A dimly lit mission room deep within the Jedi Temple, Anakin Skywalker, Obi-wan Kenobi and Mace Windu gathered around a holographic display. The hum of the holographic offered a soft backdrop to their conversation. 

“Many reports of two skilled bounty under the names ‘Ani’ and ‘Dev’ have been causing disruptions across various sectors.” Mace Windu sternly said whilst Anakin gulped at the use of a name he hasn’t heard in a year. “They have slipped through the Republic forces on multiple occasions.” 

Obi-wan leaned forward, “two bounty hunters causing this much trouble? That's unusual.” 

“Indeed. But their methods have grown more aggressive, even by bounty hunter standards. What is more concerning is Dev. ” Mace Windu tapped the datapad and the holographic image flickered to life, a materialised image of a young boy no older than 15. 

“But that’s only a boy.” Anakin furrowed his eyebrows at Mace Windu, confusion evident on his face. 

“Once a boy, yes. He was once a skilled Jedi, dismissed from the Order for the refusal to adhere to the Code. His descent began when he lost his family and, in a fit of anger, slaughtered civilians. Dark tendencies grew within him.” 

Anakin stiffened immediately and felt a foreboding feeling grow in his stomach. Obi-wan's expression darkened beside him. “A former Jedi turned bounty hunter with such a violent past…It’s troubling.” 

“And what about this..Ani?” Anakin reluctantly asked. 

“She is a much newer addition to the bounty hunting world, but she has proved to be some sort of a prodigy. They were just spotted on Corellia after a bombing to capture Dengar, another well known bounty who worked with Maul and Savage to capture me.” Mace Windu informed them, turning off the holograph. 

Obi-wan frowned, concern etching lines on his face. “We’re going after two bounty hunters? Isn’t that more of a job for local security forces in Corellia?” 

Mace’s gaze shifted from Anakin to Obi-wan, “You both are uniquely skilled in dealing with unconventional situations. We need to contain them before they both spiral out of control.”

Anakin’s jaw tightened, resolve evident in his eyes. “Understood, Master Windu.” 

Obi-wan nodded in agreement, his focus unwavering. “We’ll head to Corellia immediately.”

“Good. May the force guide your actions.” Mace Windu stood tall. 

—

Anakin and Obi-wan sat in the ship en route to Corellia. Neither had spoken a word, just eyes drifting at the stars that illuminated outside. 

Dev.

Ani. 

Not their real names. It wasn't hard to miss the amount of blanks throughout their whole file. Dev's one gave a general consensus though; a disobedient Jedi Padawan, now a runaway. But the latter… No image. No backstory. It was as if she only existed a few months ago. 

Anakin ran a hand through his hair, teeth gnawing the inside of lips. His eyes lazily read the datapad in his lap. A boy stared back at him. Dev. Just 15 years of age in the image, younger than the recent sightings of him. Much younger. His eyes looked hollow, already hard. Like part of him had lost something but was never filled again. 

“Nothing on the girl?” Obi-wan asked beside him, still gazing out the window, but deep in thought. 

Anakin inhaled, his chest rising against his robes and shook his head. “Nothing. Her name is clearly a placeholder, but no record of her.” Anakin turned off the datapad. 

“She is either very smart,” Obi-wan murmured, “or lucky.” 

Anakin leaned in his seat not liking either answer. “What business do they have blowing up a civilian square in the middle of a Corellian protest?” 

Obi-wan stroked his beard, “I’d say they are after another bounty hunter. Denger I assume. He was spotted here the night before.”

“So they try and bring him in, only to level half the plaza in the process?”

“Looks like it.”

Scoffing, Anakin dragged his hand down his face. 

Outside the ship, Corellia was a mess. Alarms sounding through the cities, smoke darkening the skies and protest fires on the rooftops. What was usually a beautiful planet is now filled with protests against the war. 

Once the ship doors opened, Anakin and Obi-wan were hit with heat. Not physical. But tension. Soldiers and civilians buzzing through the streets, it was as if they weren’t at a docking platform. 

“Well, it seems like we have your day cut out for us.” Obi-wan muttered as they made their way down the streets, glancing at the protest signs abandoned on the floor. “No Justice, No peace” was written in Corellian dialect. 

Burn marks scattered around the floor piquing Anakin’s interests. Crouching down, his fingers gently grazed the soot left, leaving his fingers darkened. 

“There was a bombing,” Anakin concluded, spotting several pieces of metal scattered around the floor. 

Obi-wan nodded, "the security reports said they did vanish into the crowds before troops arrived.” His eyes scanned the crowd up ahead. “I’d say our perpetrators are there.” 

That annoyed Anakin more than it should have. 

“Then we’ll start there,” Anakin said. 

— 

Corellia bled with fury and fight. 

Anakin walked ahead, his hood drawn low and his feet dragging along the concrete, stones skidding away. He wasn’t really in the mood. Trying to find 2 cloaked figures in a sea of more cloaked figures wasn’t exactly ideal. After 2 hours of dead ends, he kept replaying the grainy footage hoping it would offer a clue. 

On the other hand, Obi-wan walked behind being Obi-wan. A calm diplomatic Jedi master. He was always asking the right questions to the right vendors, nodding and being friendly. His warm voice made people eager and more keen to offer tips. 

“I spoke to the surveillance clerk”, Obi-wan broke the silence, catching up to Anakin. “He said the crowd tripled after the bombing, half running to shelter and the other protesting even more.” 

Anakin stopped in front of a sign that read “THE REPUBLIC DOESN’T SEE US”, the edges of the banner burnt. 

“Give it a few days and then the Senate will fix this with a speech.”

Obi-wan’s face hardened, “Well it is the Senate’s job to do that.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Anakin muttered, leaving Obi-wan dumbfounded. Did he mean that the planet should fend for itself, fixing its own politics? Or did he mean that the Senate was useless, giving out speeches with no real backlayer. Maybe a bit of both. 

Obi-wan pursed his lips, his eyes scanning the buildings that now had a layer of dust covering it. Walking was starting to get irritating as every few seconds a person would nudge their shoulder with their own, making them lose focus every few seconds. 

That’s when Anakin saw it. 

Small smears of red on the cobblestone wall. Dried and just there. Followed by a few more droplets that painted the floor into an alley. 

Anakin crouched down taking a further look, gaining Obi-wan’s attention. 

“Blood.” Obi-wan hummed, stroking his beard thoughtfully. 

“Might not be theirs.”

“Still, we are Jedi. Whoever blood it belongs to may need help.” Obi-wan advised. 

They followed the trail that led to a rusted backdoor. Anakin didn’t hesitate. Immediately pushing past the door as it creaked loudly. 

It was dim inside. 

And in the corner was an elderly Twi’lek couple. 

Anakin and Obi-wan both flinched, least expecting to break into a home. 

The couple sat on the floor, a blanket engulfing their lower body and a half-crushed medpac that rested near their feet. 

Obi-wan immediately put his hands up in defence, “We’re not here to harm you.”

The couple's eyes traced both Anakin and Obi-wan’s figure, their eyes flickering between the saber’s that rested on their hip and their defensive face.

Noticing that they haven’t said anything, Anakin used the opportunity and stepped forward, the woman clutched her blanket a bit tightly. 

“We’re investigating the bombing that happened here. Do you know anything about that?” 

The male shook his head, his blue tentacle like tendrils moving with him, “N-no.”

Obi-wan moved up with Anakin, realising that they can speak Basic. “A young man with blonde hair and a cloaked girl. Does it sound any familiar?”

The couple stiffened. 

Silence. 

Anakin folded his arms and furrowed his brows, “they came here. Didn’t they?” His tone lowered. 

Silence. 

“They paid you.” Obi-wan spoke calmly, already analysing the situation. 

The purple woman looked down, and then gently picked up the half used medpac, her hands shaking. 

“The girl…was worried.” Her voice was soft spoken. “Not for herself, but him. He was bleeding.”

Obi-wan crossed his arms, parallel to Anakin and stared down the medpac. “So you helped them..”

“It is not a crime to help someone!” The man besides her called out defensively, squinting his eyes. 

“Well it is a crime to help terrorists,” Anakin muttered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“Terrorists?” The woman's eyes widened. “They were terrorists?”

Obi-wan glanced over to Anakin and tried to laugh it off, not wanting to send the couple into cardiac arrest. “Well. We aren’t sure of anything.” He tilted his head. “Do you know where they are now?”

The older woman nodded speedily,  “She said she was heading to the city square where the protests are. Near the farmers market. But..she was scared.” 

Anakin lifted his brow, “of what?” 

Looking him dead in the eye, “being seen,” she announced. 

–

Obi-wan and Anakin were on the outskirts, just enough steps to see the masses of bodies that moved. 

Protestors moved, some shouted and some watched. It wasn’t long before Obi-wan caught a flicker. 

A flicker of gold that was reflecting from the sun. Moving too fast. An uncomfortable limp. 

Obi-wan’s eyes widened and locked onto the figure. Blonde hair. Broad shoulders. It was worth a shot. 

“That might be him,” Anakin huffed, already making his way down, eager to end this mission.

Obi-wan rolled his eyes, “Always ahead of the game,” he said, racing down the steps and into the crowd. 

It was suffocating. You could feel the sweat and anger that radiated off the bodies. 

Obi-wan pushed through bodies, wanting the man to enter a clearing before holding him in the masses of people. Locals were yelling in languages he didn’t recognise which only intensified everything around him. His cloak constantly was snagging on someone’s arm but he didn’t stop, pushing through, curses were flying at him.

He needed an opening - just one - and it would be fine. 

Something is off. 

The force rippled. 

The blonde headed man suddenly turned his head towards Obi-wan.

It was him. It was Dev. 

And not far behind him was a cloaked figure. Her. 

Dev locked eyes with Obi-wan, his eyes widening and stray locks of hair falling on his face. 

“Jedi!” Dev exclaimed to you, his eyes darting between behind you and yourself. 

Without even taking a chance to glance behind you, you began to push through the crowd. Gritting your teeth, you used your arms to almost shove people out of the way. You could not be caught as a bounty hunter. It was not necessarily the legality of it, it was the bombing that was associated with you and it was your honour shattering that you have been reduced to this much. How low the galaxy forced you to crawl just to survive. 

Just a little further. A  little further and there was an opening and you got yourself out of this mess. 

“Dev! Over there!” You barked, pointing towards the clearing. Dev nodded and attempted to make his way out with his limp. His face pale but understanding. He always understood. Understood you. You didn’t need to speak much for him to completely understand you. 

You surged through the crowd with all your might. Suddenly hyper aware of the blaster at your side, your fingers grazed it, ready to use if anyone tried touching you. 

Relief. Oxygen. As you finally made it out of the crowd. Your hands were shaking but you didn’t stop, you can’t stop. 

And then- a shove. 

Dev’s body slammed into the ground right where he was supposed to make it out and the Jedi tackled him to the side. You heard him grunt in protest, his wrists pinned and the right of his face scraped against the ground. 

Before you could react and turn back to Dev, you heard the hum of a saber. 

Right behind you. 

What should I do?

Fuck. 

They’re getting closer. 

Your lungs feel like they could explode and your chest hurts. You’re running so fast. Any of that relief you had just felt from making it out was gone. Dead. You just felt like you were burning. Your veins pumping with adrenaline – hot and sharp and screaming. 

You didn’t dare look behind you. If you did it would slow you down immensely. 

But it didn’t matter. 

A rough hand –bigger than your own– pulling on your forearm, throwing you down, your hood falling in the process. Without another second to think your free arm gripped onto your vibroblade. Having been pulled down to the ground, you shifted your body to meet the Jedi, your blade coated in cortosis weave and pointing up towards said person. 

.

..

…

“Y/n?”

It was like time stopped. 

You locked eyes. 

Your mouth fell open. 

His did too. Confusion. Bewilderment. Shock. All on his face. 

His voice… Sounded different. Quieter than you remembered. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t hateful. Just quiet. Broken. 

Your right hand weakened and the blade fell down on the floor besides you, the metal clanging against the concrete. Your palms fell on the floor and you found yourself staring at…Anakin above you. 

Anakin staggered back, stunned, as if he was shot straight through the heart. His head shook slowly and ever so subtly but in complete disbelief.

No one said anything. You couldn’t hear anything. It was just you two. Two broken people. The force felt electrifying, like it was rippling and pulling both of you towards each other. 

Anakin loomed over you, the deep blue of his saber still humming, but pointing towards the ground. His own arms feeling too weak to even lift it. His face was unreadable. His dark brown hair looked longer, almost below his ears. His eyes…tired. Like he was staring at a grave. 

It wasn’t until the other Jedi came out, holding Dev in handcuffs that you realised your situation. It was Obi-wan, of course it was. Of course it was Anakin and Obi-wan who would catch up to you. Dev struggled in defiance, his face discontent. 

Obi-wan walked up beside Anakin, and then his eyes fell on you. 

“Y/n?” His voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure if this was real or not. “You’re Ani?” 

You looked away from him, pursing your lips in shame. What were you supposed to say? You weren’t supposed to be caught, stripped of your mask. You were just supposed to be Ani. Not Y/n. 

You swallowed hard, your fingers soft in comparison to the floor. You were now looking up to both Anakin and Obi-wan but –force– you felt so much smaller than you actually were. 

Anakin inhaled sharply, his saber hissed off yet his grip strong enough that his knuckles were still white. Running a hand through his hair, he turned his back to you, moving away from both you and Obi-wan. You felt the disappointment in the air. You felt the judgement from the people who you used to consider the closest to you. Anakin turning his back to you after a year said more words than he did.

But he could feel his heart hammering against his chest.

thump

He was suddenly hyper aware of his breathing.

thump-thump

The way he wasn't sure what to do with his empty left hand.

thump

The fact that his knees would buck in any minute.

thump-thump-thump

It felt like everything was swirling around him and he needed to ground himself.

However, Obi-wan walked over to you, crouching down to eye level. You noticed the small things in his face, the way he had worry lines on his forehead, a slight frown, and furrowed eyebrows. He wasn’t looking at you like a master or a commander, but a concerned friend. 

“Y/n, you became a bounty hunter?” He asked. 

You didn’t know how to respond. What were you going to say? Yes? Well, yes you are. But suddenly you felt embarrassed. Ashamed. 

“I…” You croaked out. 

“You know them?” Dev called out, struggling against his cuffs. All three of you diverted your gaze to Dev.

Dev broke Anakin from his trance, his need to distract himself hitting him harder than ever. He needed to redirect his attention to something else just like he was doing for the past year. Anakin stood still for a moment before grabbing the back of his shirt, replacing Obi-wan but far too aggressively.

“Hold her.” Anakin said to Obi-wan, forcing his voice to be strong. “We’ll take them somewhere else.”

That’s it? That’s all he’s going to say? 

Anakin spoke as if he didn’t know you. Like you were some lowlife smuggler. Obi-wan even felt caught between two worlds. Was he supposed to disregard your history together? Or would he hold you accountable? 

Clearing his throat, Obi-wan pulled out stuncuffs from his satchel, looking at you as if you were a wounded animal. 

“I’m just going to put these on just for now. Precaution.” He said softly. 

Nodding, you slipped in your fallen vibroblade to your belt and slowly brought out both your arms in front of him. Obi-wan hesitantly and carefully attached the cuffs to your arms.

Click. 

Immediate discomfort radiated in your arms, the restraints tightening specifically on your wrists.

You looked up at Obi-wan who you could tell was uncomfortable with the situation. 

“I’m fine, Obi-wan.” You tried to reassure him. 

Obi-wan nodded, inhaling deeply before getting up. Scrambling to your feet against the concrete, you rose and immediately felt smaller than you were. Now seeing both Obi-wan and Anakin in their usual height, it felt different. Like there was a rift between you three.

Looking over at Anakin, Obi-wan scratched his beard. “We won’t be able to fly tonight. It seems the city's protests will make it difficult to get out slyly.” 

Without a response, Anakin began to drag a cursing Dev to Force knows where. 

Obi-wan followed behind him but distant enough, making sure you were keeping up. 

The walk felt excruciatingly long as there was nothing but pained silence. Every now and then you could feel Obi-wan’s gaze drill holes in you. Anakin said and did nothing but hold onto Dev and try to find an abandoned place for the night. You were lucky enough Obi-wan still trusted you to allow you to walk on your own. 

It wasn’t until he broke the silence. 

“Are you okay?” Obi-wan spoke in a hushed voice, trying not to gain Anakin’s attention but that was naive thinking. Anakin heard everything when it came to you. 

You blinked at the question, unsure what to say. Your throat tightening but you forced out an “I’m okay.” 

Silence. 

A beat passed. 

“Are you?” He asked again but much quieter. He knew your response and he knew not to expect an answer but if he didn’t ask now it would eat his conscience later. 

“Yeah. Just tired.” Anakin’s grip tightened on Dev, their boots scraping and their clothes shifting pulled your focus. 

The sky began to set and orange rays stretched far and wide. Dipped in dusk and every step you took would create long shadows of the three of you. The chants from the protest began to fade and street lights began to flicker on. 

Anakin was a walking storm. He was silent. You missed the way he said your name. It sounded like honey -warm, golden- like he almost remembered what it meant to him. Except he didn't.

Instead, it was a taste from a dream he couldn’t quite remember. 

Anakin stopped at a stone-framed building. Abandoned, yes but still intact. The door had its hinges, there was no lights except from the windows and no lifeforms either. Without saying a word, Anakin dragged Dev inside, the door creaking open and they vanished into the unknown.

You and Obi-wan stood in silence. 

“He’ll be alright.” He said gently, not exactly sure if he meant Dev or Anakin. Nodding, you stepped inside first, the evening wind biting your skin. Obi-wan followed right behind you. 

A/N: YAAAY ITS HAPPENED im sorry its kinda on a cliff hanger ik yall want longer chapters but i also need to catch up and write :( also just a general q do u guys want this to be a full blown series leading up to order 66 following the clone wars final season/eps with more drama and romance and angst or keep it until this like 'arc' ends.

i lowk feel like a longer series but i feel like tumblr isnt the right place for this lol maybe ao3 or wattpad also hope u guys appreciate me trying to use coordinated gifs for the chapters 😭

HOPE U GUYS LIKE IT THO <3

Taglist: @endairachristensen26 @hayden-christensen-verse @ducks118 @seventeen-x @movingalongthekiwi @ssnapsaurus @caramelfondu @dayrin085 @devilslittlehelper @f1wh0recom @green-lxght @bettysgardenswift

if u want to be added or removed lmk!

[livefromtheloam]

Very little about Tumblr surprises me, but how we didn't collectively lose our minds about Sea of Stars, I'll never understand.

[grunklebongrip]

Kaiju x Gravity Falls AU

(Godzilla Falls AU?)

Okay so my fiancé made a joke about a crossover between these two universes the other day and then last night we both popped off so let me try to be as cohesive as I can about this.

In a world where monsters of old roam the world once more, two camps reside:

Protect the creatures, and treat them as part of nature. Their only crime is that they’re too big, but we could learn from them, and perhaps live in harmony

These creatures are dangerous and a threat to humanity. They are unpredictable, and their sheer mass alone leaves us vulnerable, not to mention the additional fallout, strengths, and efforts to rebuild after each attack

Stanford Pines definitely belongs to the former, and in fact is enmeshed far beyond his own curiosities and professional inclinations. Rather, he is one of a pair destined to protect, nurture, and call upon the Queen of the Monsters herself: Mothra. (Yes, Stan and Ford are the Shobijin, the twin “fairies”, I’ll have to flesh this part more out later but Ford having to convince Stan to join him is a major part of this story)

Fiddleford McGucket, his lover, lab partner and confidant, had come to join Stanford in his quest to study and understand the Kaiju, especially when it came to finding and monitoring Mothra. However, throughout their time together, he witnesses firsthand the terrors these beasts are capable of, and he fears for the safety of humanity with them running rampant.

“Destroy it before it destroys us all!”

He tries to tell Stanford how he fears Mothra even in her larval state, and he insists they join together in the fight to kill all monsters. But Stanford can’t. And he especially cannot harm Mothra, informing him she especially is no threat to humanity, but rather a keeper. A protector, as well, in fact one of the few creatures capable of aiding, taming, and persuading Godzilla to fight on their behalf. He understands her, he hears her, he knows what she can do, and he believes firmly in the capability to coexist. He is set to continue his studies.

Fiddleford, however, cannot. They breakup. He submits designs for a MechaGodzilla, which he believes will have the capability to destroy these monsters, and he quickly becomes one of the most prominent names in the fight against Kaiju.

Over the years, both teams are called upon for various reasons. Sometimes a Kaiju leaves seriously injured, sometimes another mech is destroyed—and sometimes the only hope available in the face of these creatures is the alliance of Godzilla and Mothra. Fiddleford and Stanford see each other in passing, see each other’s name and accomplishments in the paper, still angry the other won’t see their side.

But then, decades after their fight, decades after breakup, decades after they insisted their mentalities could never co-exist—a new threat presents itself. And this time, it’s far beyond the world they know.

A team of intergalactic space terrorists lead by the insidious Bill Cipher have garnered the power of a beast long prophesied: King Ghidorah

The two factions must unite, and Fiddleford and Stanford must work together again, mech and monster, to save the world, ALL its inhabitants, from a threat unprecedented.

[chronic-escapixt]

His Rose ~ Part 1

(Kai Parker x Bennett OC fanfiction)

content warnings/tags ~ Dark fiction, CNC, dubcon, yandere, murder, abuse, trauma, smut, stalking, innocence kink, dacryphilia, manipulation. Minors DNI

I don't claim ownership of The Vampire Diaries or its characters. All credits go to the rightful owner(s). I only own my original character(s).

Word count: 1.6k

K.P. Masterlist

Bonnie's life was on the line.. again.

The Other Side was collapsing, time was running out and as the anchor to the crumbling realm, she knew she wouldn't be spared. She stopped at her home and let Rose know. The news absolutely crushed her sister. Rose felt like she just got her back from when she died last summer. Becoming the anchor was her second chance at life but now it was being ripped away. Rose didn't even have time to argue a solution before she squeezed her in a tight hug and said goodbye. She was out the door, dashing off to pull Elena, Damon, and the others back from the Other Side.

Rose watched as the door shut behind her, wiping the wetness from her eyes before charging into Sheila Bennett's in-home study. From her life as a practicing witch and occult studies professor, their late grandmother had shelves full of ancient grimoires, scrolls, texts and items so she ought to have something that could save Bonnie. As the minutes ticked by, the piles of useless books stacked around her grew with her desperation.

"There's nothing here!" she muttered, slamming the heavy grimoire closed. The force rattled the desk and the shelf above it, knocking a scroll down in front of her. Rose blinked away her frustrated tears and lifted the dusty scroll, blowing it with her breath to reveal the Latin handwriting and symbols.

After pulling her friends back to the living world, Bonnie anticipated the approaching light. She glanced back, meeting Elena's solemn gaze. They all gathered behind her, no words left to say as they watched their beloved witch meet the very fate she had saved them from. She knew she couldn't save herself and she accepted that. She only hoped that within the next few moments she would find peace with her grams and father.

The moment she closed her eyes, she felt a jolt of energy lance through her. Something changed. When she opened them, she was amongst the others but Rose stood a few feet away, the wind of the collapsing dimension tossing her brown curls, the white light reflecting off her face.

Horror gripped her when she realized she was no longer linked to the Other Side, Rose was.

She offered Bonnie an apologetic smile as she watched tears bead down her shocked face.

"I love you, Bonnie," she uttered just before the light consumed her completely...

and she was gone.

The brightness subsided as the wind around her settled to a calm hush. Rose could finally open her eyes and found that she was standing in the same place, at the boarder of Mystic Falls but everyone had disappeared.

She dashed around town calling out Bonnie's name, looking for her, their friends or anyone but it was completely deserted. She stopped to catch her breath in the middle of the town square, the usually bustling epicenter was empty. That's when panic set in, worrying that she was actually dead, though this didn't seem like the “peace” described or even hell. For that matter, she didn't feel dead, in fact she felt very much alive something she realized when her stomach growled. “Dead people don't get hungry," she told herself as she walked into the Mystic Grill. Much like everywhere else, the Grill was desolate. She made her way into the kitchen and found it fully stocked with alcohol and food that seemed up to date, so the town couldn't have been abandoned too long ago, she thought. Rose made a quick sandwich and walked toward the bar when her eyes fell upon the bulletin board. She nearly dropped her plate when she read the date on the calendar.

May 9th, 1994.

It didn't take long for him to notice that things were different. After 18 years of complete solitude, he grew accustomed to the consistency of the realm. His strong ability to detect the presence of magic, made it all the more obvious to him when the young Bennett witch touched down in his prison world. He tracked her down to a Virginian town called Mystic Falls where he first saw her in the living room nose deep in a grimoire. He slipped through an unlocked door and watched her silently out of her view. He figured she was looking for anything that would explain where she is or how to escape but she likely wouldn't find anything in those texts. Luckily for her, he planned on revealing everything...

In due time.

Just over a week passed and unbeknownst to her, Kai was watching the entire time. He’d stay up while she slept, curled up with her fuzzy plush lamb she called lamby. Most nights she’d clutch the stuffed toy to her chest and just cry herself to sleep. Like a sad shelter commercial, he enjoyed the pathetic display, though he hated the little white lamb with a passion, fantasizing about how much more she’d cry if she woke up and it’s head was cut off.

He observed everything, from her tendency to talk to herself to the she way she put tension in her lips when she was concentrating on the Latin of her texts. Clearly, she was a beginner and her general naivety would come to his advantage once he finally decided to make his move.

Rose swayed her hips as she rounded the corner, pushing her grocery cart while singing along to ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody' by Whitney on her Walkman. He sat in a fold up lawn chair in the center aisle of the otherwise empty market, munching on a bag of pork rinds and watching with an amused grin, wondering when she would finally notice him. After deciding on a box of Count Chocula, she finally turned from the shelves and their eyes met. Her mouth fell open as she paused the tape and lowered the headphones from her ears. He smiled and gave a slight wave.

“Were you there the whole time?” She blurted breathlessly, taking him in. His face had a pleasant balance of soft and sharp features that made him both cute and intimidating and a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. The dark brunette wore a hooded jacket styled over a graphic tee, denim jeans and worn out converse.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to interrupt. You sounded amazing by the way.”

Her cheeks burned, “t-thank you… umm who are you?”

“Sorry, manners, I’m Kai. Nice to meet you.” He set aside the bag and stood up from the chair. Her eyes followed his ascent until he stood fully, towering over her. “And you are…?”

Her ears got hot. “Oh right! Rose- I’m Rose… excuse me, I haven’t spoken to another person in a while. I promise I’m not normally this awkward…” she sighed and averted her gaze downwards.

Kai shoved his hands in his pockets, “can’t be any worse than me I've been here since the very beginning.”

“You’ve been all alone for 18 years?" she uttered in disbelief.

Kai forced a laugh, “It's not so bad. There’s no traffic, everything’s free and privacy isn’t an issue… now, there is the crippling loneliness but that only creeps in once in a while.” He casually plopped back down on his chair and grabbed his chip bag.

“There’s no way out of here, is there?” She sighed.

"Nope, not unless you happen to be a Bennett witch…” he scoffed as though the thought were incredulous and popped a rind in his mouth.

Her eyes lit up. “Wait, I am! I am a Bennett witch.”

Kai grinned, “well then the odds just got a lot better.”

“So, is Kai short for something?” She asked as they walked back to her place. Kai offered to push the cart for her.

“Malachai,” he replied.

“Malachai,” she practiced softly.

“But I prefer Kai,” he tagged on.

“What about you, Rose is short for what? Rosemary or… Rosalie?”

She giggled. "You’re close, it’s Rosalina but I prefer Rose.”

“Rosalina... that's pretty, much more fitting if you ask me.” The way he said her name made her want to bite her lip but she opted to return his smile instead.

“This is me,” she announced when they came to her house. She led him inside where he was kind enough to help her put away the groceries.

“So, what is this place?” she asked.

“One of many prison worlds created by the Gemini coven. Anyone who opposes them is gifted their own personal hell dimension. I got mine on my 22nd birthday.”

“That’s horrible. Why would they do that to you?”

He sighed, “most of it is coven politics- what you know and who you know, ya’ know? Long story short, my family betrayed me for more power. I don’t really like talking about it.”

Rose understood and decided not to pry. “So, you know how to get us out of here?”

Kai leaned forward on the counter while he explained the Gemini coven always left a back door to their prison worlds and it was called an ascendant. Under the direct light of a solar eclipse a Bennett witch is to use her magic and blood to activate the device and transport them back to the real world. “We’re going to need a locator spell to find the ascendant. Without my magic, I haven’t been able to find it.”

“When is the next eclipse?” Rose asked.

“Time works a little differently here… the month of May repeats itself over and over, starting with the 9th. Every third time May 9th comes around the eclipse happens.”

"The last eclipse just passed a few nights ago… that means we have about three months to wait.”

“On the bright side, we have plenty of time to find the ascendant,” He noted with an optimistic air. It amazed her how he managed to be so hopeful and positive even after being trapped for 18 years. “After all this time, 3 months is nothing,” he murmured.

She thanked him for helping her with her groceries. “Well, I’m going to make stuffed chicken for dinner. You can stay if you want.”

“You just met me and you’re asking me to stay for dinner… I mean, I could be a serial killer,” he finished with a charming smirk.

“You’re too nice to be a serial killer,” she put matter-of-factly while taking out the chicken breasts.

“Ted Bundy was nice,” he retorted.

She smiled at his wit. “Are you staying or not? Because I need to know if I’m making one chicken breast or two.”

Kai relented, “Oh, alright. How can I say no to stuffed chicken?”