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cryoculus · 1 month ago

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— TRACK 08: BLISTERING DENIAL ⟢

to protect what you have is to sometimes deny its existence entirely. but to mydei, that protection is nothing short of betrayal.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 8.9k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; just a heads up, the angst is a little heavy in this one, especially towards the end! i'd love for them to be happy together 24/7 but a little suffering just adds flavor to the entire meal, yes?

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The first order of business upon touchdown is dinner.

Koraxi doesn’t advertise. There’s no signage, or clearly distinguishable storefront. Just a golden plaque pressed into volcanic stone—ancient lettering weathered nearly blank. If you hadn’t been told of its existence, you’d miss it entirely. But Mydei walks up to the entrance like it’s muscle memory.

The rest of the band has been to Castrum Kremnos before—tour stops, afterparties, a radio interview or two—but to you, this is uncharted territory. There’s a reverence in the air the second the door closes behind you, muffling the sound of the city. The lights go warm and low, the air carries the scent of saffron, and the floorboards hush beneath your boots.

A hostess recognizes Mydei with the barest incline of her head. No questions. She simply gestures to follow.

The dining room feels like a secret. Amber-toned lanterns glow from the rafters. Tables are spaced wide, the ceilings high, and the acoustics soft enough that even Garmentmaker’s movements don’t echo as they slide into their seat with mechanical precision.

You pause just long enough to take it all in.

“This your first time in the city?” Tribbios asks.

You nod. “This place is twelve hours away from Okhema, so...”

“Don’t sweat it, newbie,” Cipher says, sliding into a seat. “Even I was on edge the first time Mydei dragged us here. It’s the kind of place you don’t find unless you’re meant to.”

“That’s the point,” Mydei says. He pulls out your chair. The movement is casual, almost thoughtless, but your skin burns where his knuckles brush your sleeve. “This place doesn’t let in just anyone.”

Aglaea takes the seat across from you but doesn’t settle. Her eyes track the edges of the room first, then the windows. Always watching. Tribbios relaxes instantly. She carries the confidence of someone who’s been here a handful of times and drinks in the aesthetic like it’s a kind of fuel.

Garmentmaker folds their napkin into a perfect square, aligning it precisely with the edge of the table. “Environment calibrated for maximum sensory appeal. Low light. Moderate temperature. Acoustic dampening. Combined effect: emotional ease.”

Tribbios glances at them. “You could just say it’s cozy.”

“I could,” Garmentmaker agrees. “But that would be inaccurate.”

Mydei orders for the table in some Kremnoan dialect—his accent a little rougher than usual, like it’s been stored away for years and dusted off just for tonight. You catch only a few familiar words: citrus, lamb, bread.

When the server leaves, he turns to you. “Do you trust me?”

You blink, then nod. “Yeah. I do.”

He leans back, arms crossing loosely. “Then don’t look at the menu. Just let it happen.”

As you wait, Phainon’s already halfway through his first glass of something deep red and spiced, swirling it like it’s a habit more than a pleasure. He lounges with the kind of ease that makes the high ceilings and dim lanterns feel like an extension of him.

“First time’s always a little eerie, isn’t it?”

You nod, smiling a little. “Eerie, yeah. But kind of beautiful, too.”

“You get it,” he says, tapping his glass against the rim of your water without waiting for a toast.

Castorice, seated quietly between Garmentmaker and Tribbios, glances at you, soft smile curving at the edges. “You’re handling it better than I did,” she says gently. “First time I came here, I kept thinking someone was going to ask for a password at the door.”

“They still might,” Cipher mutters with a grin. “Depends on who’s working. Mydei has the good luck of being recognized.”

“He’s been coming here longer than some of the staff. Some say he’s part of the furniture.” Tribbios adds, barely looking up from the wine menu.

“Maybe he’s just the dust on it,” Anaxa says idly.

“And maybe that’s true,” Mydei murmurs. He doesn’t look offended. Just vaguely amused, like he’s letting the rhythm of the table play itself out.

The rosemary smoke weaves through the air like incense at an old rite. Conversation ripples, low and private. Distantly, a stringed instrument plays a lilting melody you can’t place—foreign, almost mournful, but comforting in its own way. You notice Tribbios hasn’t given any hints that the rumors about you have reached her radar. She just cradles her wine like it’s a rare find and leans into her seat, completely unbothered.

You breathe out slowly, realizing only then how tightly you’d been holding yourself.

“Emotional tension has decreased to baseline,” Garmentmaker declares in that oddly mechanical voice. “Recommendation: maintain current state until supper is done.”

Cipher snorts. “You running diagnostics on our feelings now?”

“I already am.”

“Please don’t,” Phainon says gently. “Let me pretend I’m mysterious for a little while longer.”

Castorice chuckles softly, shaking her head. “At this rate, Garmentmaker’s going to have us all figured out before dessert.”

Laughter bubbles around the table, warm and easy. The nerves you carried in just moments ago feel miles away now, replaced by something lighter. Mydei catches your eye across the table and offers a half-smile, one that feels like an invitation rather than a question.

You smile back.

When the food arrives—spiced lamb, blistered bread, charred citrus, and other dishes you can’t hope to pronounce—you forget about the past and the whispers waiting outside this place. For now, there’s only the hush of conversation, the clink of glass, and the warmth of a world you didn’t know you needed.

“You got any plans tonight?”

That startles you in a way only questions from Mydei can. He has a way of sounding casual while still making everything feel like it matters. You glance over your shoulder as you both step off the shuttle, the hotel's glowing marquee casting long shadows behind you. Cipher’s voice rises in the distance, animated and echoing as the rest of the band filters toward the lobby.

But you and Mydei hang back.

“If watching soap operas in my room all night counts as plans, then yeah. I’m fully booked.”

Mydei laughs. “Shame. I was going to walk around the city. Guess I’ll just have to bother Anaxa instead.”

“Doesn’t Anaxa hate long walks?”

Mydei shrugs, hands in his pockets. “So do most people, if they don’t have somewhere worth walking to.”

You glance toward the hotel entrance, where the others are already vanishing inside. Then back to him.

“…Alright,” you say, the corner of your mouth twitching into a smile. “Lead the way.”

Mydei’s smile is small, barely there, but it warms the space between you like a match struck in the dark. He tilts his head down the sidewalk, and you fall into step beside him as if you’ve done it a hundred times before.

The streetlamps flicker on as you walk, one by one, throwing soft halos onto the cobblestones. Castrum Kremnos, known for its soaring spires and brutalist elegance, seems to exhale after sundown—windows glowing amber, streets humming low with life instead of roaring with it.

However, you also see familiar banners hanging off overpasses. Digital billboards cycling through Hell in the Rearview promo shots, glossy and high-definition. In one of the biggest displays, the whole band stands side by side in desert leathers and stormlight colors, eyes forward like saints before the fall. You and Mydei are next to each other in that one.

He’s turned half toward the camera, gaze sharp. You’re a step behind, hair windblown just right, shoulder brushing his like it means nothing. It was just like any other shoot. A scheduled morning in Okhema before you all set out for life on the road. You barely remember the poses. But now, magnified across a skyline that worships him, it feels like a confession.

You look away.

Minutes later, the banners and the billboards fade into the distance as you meander into a smaller neighborhood. Mydei guides you beneath old stone archways and neon shopfronts, the scents of street food and fresh rain winding together in the air.

“I used to come down this street all the time. Back when I was a kid.”

You glance sideways. “Really?”

He nods, eyes tracking a closed shop with vandalized shutters. “There was this little bookstore run by a retired archivist. Strict old guy. Barely ever spoke. But if you showed up with the right question, he’d let you stay past closing and dig through the stuff he didn’t put on display. Mostly mythology. Banned poetry. Stuff no one else wanted.”

“That sounds like exactly the kind of place you'd haunt.”

A huff of a laugh escapes him. “Yeah, well. There weren’t a lot of places I could haunt. Not the way I wanted.”

He kicks a loose pebble down the sidewalk, his pace slowing a touch. “My father used to say music was for ‘men who’d run out of useful things to do.’” The words are bitter, but his voice is calm. Like he’s told the story a dozen times in his head and this is just the first time it’s coming out loud.

You hesitate. “He didn’t want you to be a musician?”

“He didn’t want me to be anything I wanted.” He smiles without humor. “Had my entire future carved in stone by the time I was six. Private academies, diplomatic training, legacy scholarships. I was supposed to take over the estate, the board, the family’s seat on the Circle of Ten. Uh... think of that as a group of Kremnoan business tycoons.”

Your eyebrows rise. “So... like some snotty rotary club?”

“Mm.” He nods slightly. “Old money. One of the founding families. One of those last names.”

You blink, and all of a sudden, it all clicks—how he knew to order in the Kremnoan dialect with that clipped, educated cadence. The effortless posture. The familiarity with places like Koraxi. The fact that he’s never once stressed about money, even on tour. Now that he’s telling you all about this, you realize that those fan speculations about Mydei’s upbringing weren’t too far off after all.

“How’d you get from that… to a rock band?” you ask carefully.

“Hephaestion.” He shrugs, voice softening. “He was already in music when we met. One of the only people in my world who didn’t give a damn about it. We used to sneak out of language practicum to write lyrics in the margins of our textbooks. Got detention more times than I can count.”

Something tender glows behind his words.

“I knew he meant it when he said I could be good. I think I needed that—someone outside the machine saying, ‘You’re not crazy for wanting this.’ So I followed him. We both left for Okhema and burned every bridge I had on the way out.”

Your steps slow with his as he pauses at a stone overlook. The city spills out beneath you, lights glittering like dust on velvet.

“Do you regret it?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Mydei looks out over the city. The wind catches the edge of his jacket.

“No,” he says. “I regret not leaving sooner.”

You stand in silence together, his story still settling in your chest.

Then, lightly, he glances over. “Still think your soap operas would’ve been more interesting?”

You laugh. “I mean, this does have drama, betrayal, wealthy patriarchs—kind of hard to top.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep it interesting.”

Mydei ends up leading you down narrow backstreets with crumbling mosaics, telling you half-true stories about warriors who used to duel in the amphitheaters and smugglers who buried treasure under the basilicas. His voice is like velvet laced with starlight, and you start to understand why the band—and maybe the whole damn world—would follow him anywhere.

Eventually, he nudges your elbow. “Hungry yet?”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re insatiable.”

“I’m curious. That was just dinner in Koraxi. This could be dessert.”

You arch a brow. “Are you still talking about food?”

His answering smile is pure mischief as he says, “That’s entirely up to you.”

Innuendoes aside, you follow Mydei past a quiet square where street musicians once must’ve played, their chalk-scrawled names still faint on the pavement, and finally, he stops in front of a storefront that looks like it’s been preserved in amber.

A curved awning in faded pink-and-gold stretches over the door, lettered in a looping script that reads Alma’s — Glacées & Dreams Since 1965.

Rows of wooden booths lines the inside, their cushions worn but lovingly maintained, and above the register hangs a collection of framed portraits. Celebrities, famous actors, a few recognizable music legends. What stands out to you is a frame with teenage Hephaestion, smirking with two cones in hand. Another, unmistakably, is a young Mydei.

“I can’t believe they still have that up,” he mutters, not quite embarrassed but certainly aware.

You peer at it. “You look... criminally innocent.”

“I wasn’t.” He steps up to the counter, tapping the glass with easy familiarity. “Two scoops of blood orange sorbet and one pistachio gelato, please.”

The man behind the counter, in his sixties at least, squints at him. Then his face breaks into a grin, his accent thick. “If it isn’t trouble himself. You still like them in a cone, kid?”

“Yeah,” Mydei says, chuckling. “Still do.”

He turns to you with that quiet half-smile. “Pick whatever you want. It’s on me.”

You end up with something ridiculously decadent—salted caramel fudge with candied almonds. The kind of thing you wouldn’t have dared to eat before the tour started. But standing here, in a half-lit parlor echoing with old music and hometown laughter, it feels right.

You slide into a booth across from him. Mydei leans back against the window, cone balanced in one hand, watching the world outside as he licks the sorbet once with a thoughtful expression.

“They used to sell tiny journals at the counter,” he says eventually. “I don’t know if they still do. The original Alma believed every scoop of ice cream unlocked something in you. Memories, wishes, dreams. Something worth jotting down in a diary.”

You glance around. “That’s oddly poetic.”

“It was. I met her a couple of times when I was younger. She said I had ‘hungry eyes and a lonely heart.’” He smiles faintly. “My father never brought me here. It was Heph who introduced me. We’d go whenever we scraped enough from busking or odd jobs.”

You savor a spoonful of caramel silence. Then, softer, you ask, “Did your dad ever know you joined the band?”

Mydei doesn’t answer at first. Then he says, “He knew. He just refused to acknowledge it. We stopped speaking after I left Kremnos. Hephaestion’s parents tried to help for a while. I think they felt guilty we were doing it all alone.”

You nod. You’re quiet for a long moment, watching the sorbet melt slowly down his fingers, his thumb brushing it away absentmindedly.

He watches you, then asks, “You and Erin were close, right?”

The name settles gently between you, like he knows to hold it carefully.

You nod. “Closer than close. You know all that superstition when it comes to twins? Half of that is bullshit, but the other half might just be true.”

Mydei nods, gaze steady. “What was she like?”

You toy with your spoon for a second, tracing a line through your melting scoop. “She was louder than me. Braver, too. The kind of person who could walk into a room and make everyone feel like they belonged there. But she always looked out for me first. We did that for each other all the time.”

You don’t mention the nights spent curled up on the floor of your shared apartment, watching tour clips and livestreams under a threadbare blanket. How her laughter would ring out every time a new post dropped from that account. Instead, you offer:

“She’s the reason I started playing guitar seriously. Music was just... always around us. But I think I was chasing something through it. She just saw what it did to me. Knew what I couldn’t say out loud.”

The moment hangs there, fragile and warm.

You take another bite, needing something to ground you. The sugar curls around your tongue like nostalgia.

“She used to say listening to The Flamechasers felt like home before we even knew where home was. I mean, we were just a couple of nobodies, you know? But the band mattered to us. Everything about it.”

You bite your tongue.

Don’t say too much.

Don’t say who you were.

Mydei tilts his head. “Did she ever get to see us live?”

That one hurts in a way you didn’t expect.

You manage a nod. “Yeah. She went to every show she could. I was with her each time.”

The words feel heavier than they should, as if they’re carrying years of noise and light and the slow, impossible ache that followed.

You don’t tell him how it felt, the first show after she was gone. How your hand reached out instinctively, halfway through a chorus, only to find empty air. How you stopped going altogether. And you sure as hell don’t breathe a word about handing Flamescapes over to someone else, scrubbing every trace of yourself from the digital altar you’d spent years tending.

“I couldn’t keep going after she passed,” you say softly instead. “Concerts. They just... stopped making sense without her.”

You meet Mydei’s gaze and, for a moment, he looks like he understands.

“But you’re back, aren’t you?”

You nod slowly, eyes falling to the curve of your spoon as you breathe out a quiet laugh. He says it like getting to join the band you dedicated your life to is something that happens to everyone.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

The booth feels too still, like the kind of quiet that follows something sacred. You look up, and Mydei is watching you with that same thoughtful expression from earlier.

“I didn’t think I would be,” you admit. “For a long time, I thought stepping back into this world would feel like betraying her. Or… like I’d be haunted by it. But it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?” he asks gently.

You breathe in, let it sit on your tongue before answering. “It’s strange. I thought the grief would make it impossible to love this again. And—sorry, this is gonna sound so corny—but the music still hits. It just feels a little different now. Like the loss became part of the instrument.”

Mydei nods, almost imperceptibly. “That’s what music does. It won’t fix anything, but it does give the pain somewhere to live.”

You glance at him, surprised at the way he put it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Exactly.”

The sorbet’s melted down to a syrupy swirl in his cone, and Mydei deigns to just drink it all up in one go.

“So…” he says as he munches through the cone, “should we see if they still sell those journals?”

You laugh, grateful for the shift. “What, so you can write down your ice cream-induced dreams?”

He grins. “Mhmm. I think I saw a unicorn just now.”

You both get up, easing into the low murmur of the shop again. As you walk toward the counter, shoulders brushing, you think of Erin. You think of that old fan account. You think of everything that’s changed in the past year. And as Mydei holds one last conversation with the old man behind the counter, your chest starts to throb with a single promise.

You’ll tell him soon.

You’ll tell everyone soon.

Before the past catches up to you on its own.

Castrum Kremnos spans three full concert days.

Like Okhema, it holds a massive share of the fanbase—but here, the devotion feels different. You remember befriending a handful of Kremonan fans online in what feels like another lifetime. Their reverence bordered on mythic. After all, they live in the city where the band’s frontman was born. They get to walk the streets Mydei once walked. That alone feels like a kind of privilege.

Day One is one of the most electrifying performances you’ve ever been part of. The arena is enormous—so vast it feels like sound itself could get lost in the rafters—but every single seat is filled. Not just with fans, but with people who came to feel something. And when the lights drop and the first chord hits, the air fractures into a thunderous roar.

There are no surprise fan projects like the one in Carmitis, but what the crowd lacks in coordinated stunts, they make up for in raw intensity. Mydei speaks often between songs, slipping in and out of the local dialect with practiced ease. You don’t understand every word, but you understand enough. The cadence of his voice is gentler here, a little rough around the edges, but warm in a way that cuts through even the heaviest soundscapes.

The language doesn’t matter. The tenderness translates anyway.

From your place on stage, fingers wrapped around the neck of your guitar, you watch it all unfold—his words echoing across the sea of lights and faces, the audience responding like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to hear this exact voice say their names. There’s something about this city that digs under your skin and stays there.

Maybe it’s the weight of history.

Maybe it’s the boy who left this place and the man who returned to sing for it.

Either way, the first night in Kremnos ends with your pulse still racing, your chest still tight, and your heart somewhere out in the crowd.

You’re still buzzing when you return to the hotel, adrenaline thrumming faintly under your skin like phantom reverb. The walls of your suite feel too quiet, the city humming low outside your window. You haven’t even kicked off your boots when the door swings open—unlocked, apparently—and in stumble Cipher and Castorice like twin hurricanes.

“Girls’ night,” Cipher declares, raising a suspiciously full bottle of plum wine in triumph. “By executive decree.”

Castorice grins, arms loaded with snacks and a backup bottle already half-drained. “You weren’t answering your messages, so we assumed you were either asleep or brooding.”

“I don’t brood,” you say, which is a lie.

Cipher flops dramatically onto your bed and immediately starts scrolling through your playlist queue. “You totally brood. It’s the artistic temperament. Now shut up and make room.”

Within ten minutes, the room smells like fruit alcohol and overpriced popcorn. Castorice curls up near the foot of the bed with her legs tucked beneath her, while Cipher is already three shots deep and trying to convince your Bluetooth speaker to play early Flamechasers demos. For science, she claims.

“I think I lost two years off my life out there tonight,” you say, leaning back into the pillows with a groan.

“Yeah, that crowd?” Castorice lets out a low whistle. “I thought the arena was going to implode when Mydei started speaking Kremonan. I nearly cried and I don’t even know the language.”

Cipher refills all three glasses with reckless abandon. “That was hot. Like, genuinely unfairly hot. And I don’t even like him like that.”

You snort into your drink, which tastes like something between floral syrup and liquid courage. “We’re not turning this into another ‘Rate the Members’ night, are we?”

“No promises,” Cipher says sweetly. “Unless you’re scared.”

You hesitate, drink in hand. For a moment, the edges of the day blur—the crowd, the lights, Mydei’s voice echoing like a memory in your bones. You think about how long it took to let yourself laugh like this again. To let people in. To make space for softness without guilt clinging to its heels.

You nurse your drink as their chatter flows easily around you; Cipher recapping the absurd drama happening in the band’s group chat (Anaxa apparently muted them all for sending too many cursed eldritch horror memes), and Castorice giggling into her sleeve, soft and content.

They’re your friends now, you realize. Not just bandmates or coworkers. Friends. People who barged into your room with too much alcohol and not enough boundaries and made it feel like a sleepover instead of a tour stop.

And for a flicker of a second, you think about telling them.

Not everything, not the whole story, but enough that the memories of the account you once breathed life into don’t have to stay buried like contraband. They wouldn’t judge you, would they? Cipher is reckless but loyal; Castorice sees people in ways they don’t always see themselves.

You swirl your glass, watching the liquid catch the light.

“I used to know some Kremonan fans online,” you say suddenly, voice quiet but clear.

Cipher raises a brow. “Hm? Since when were you lurking fan corners? I always thought you were more... chill.”

You shrug, trying for nonchalance. “It was just a long time ago. A different life, kinda.”

Castorice tilts her head. “What happened?”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

The words tangle behind your teeth, heavy with the weight of too many yesterdays. You want to trust them. You really do. But before you can decide, all three of your phones light up at once with the same chime.

Cipher groans. “No way. Did Phainon send another cursed meme—?”

Castorice snatches her phone first. “Nope. It’s Aglaea.”

You glance at your screen.

Aglaea: Excellent work tonight, everyone. Kremnos Day 1 was a strong showing—let’s keep that momentum going.

Aglaea: That said, please be reminded that backstage is NOT a hookup zone. Keep it in your pants. I’m serious. There will be consequences if you fail to comply (i.e. pay cuts, suspensions).

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

You brace yourself for Cipher to burst out laughing, but she doesn’t. Instead, she and Castorice just… share a look. It’s quick, but unmistakable—eyebrows rising, something wordless passing between them like current through a wire. And then, in perfect sync, they turn to look at you.

“So.” Castorice’s tone is light.

“So,” Cipher echoes as she scoots closer, glass still in hand. “You and Mydei.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Cipher says, eyes narrowing like she’s onto a scent. “You flinched.”

“I didn’t flinch.”

“You totally flinched,” Castorice chimes in.

You open your mouth to protest, but Cipher cuts in again, singsong: “You and My-dei.”

“Stop—”

“You and Mydei!” Castorice joins in, giggling.

You drag a hand over your face as your heart starts beating off the charts. “What are you even talking about?”

Cipher leans forward like she’s interrogating a suspect under a single swinging lightbulb. “We’re not saying it is you that band mom is pertaining to in the groupchat. But the way you’re reacting right now is kind of saying it is you. And Mydei.”

“I’m not reacting,” you lie, voice too sharp, too fast. “A-And why would I even get with Mydei, of all people? We’re bandmates!”

“Oh no, she’s panicking,” Castorice says, delighted, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Look at her, Cipher. Full panic. Guilty.”

You clutch your drink like it might shield you. “I’m not guilty of anything. And even if I were—which I’m not—nothing happened backstage.”

Cipher narrows her eyes. “So you’re saying something did happen, just not backstage?”

You sputter. “That’s not— W-What I meant to say is—”

They both gasp in unison.

“Oh my god,” Castorice breathes.

“No, no, no,” you say quickly, holding up your hands like they’re explosives. “You’re misunderstanding.”

But they’re already spiraling.

“I knew something was up in Lethe,” Cipher declares, jabbing a finger at you like she’s cracked the case. “You disappeared in Thalia’s nightclub party for, like, forty minutes. I was wasted when we walked back to the hotel, but even I could tell Mydei was being—how do I put this—real friendly.”

“Not to mention,” Castorice adds, grinning as she leans forward, “the music video shoot in Akashic? I know the director said to act, but that scene between you two? That wasn’t acting. That was tension. Capital-T.”

You stare at them, dumbfounded. You’d just been considering telling them a secret—your secret—the one buried beneath years of fan accounts and hidden usernames. But now you’re being cornered for something else entirely.

Something that hadn’t even happened when you first joined the band.

Were you and Mydei that obvious?

You want to laugh. Or run. Or throw the nearest throw pillow out the hotel window and scream into the city air. Because somehow, the quiet little thread you’ve kept tucked away is being yanked from the opposite end—and it’s not the one you thought would unravel first. Now, here you are, caught between two secrets, and neither one feels safe in your hands.

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, yes, something is going on.”

Cipher immediately gasps like she’s been vindicated in a murder trial. Castorice clutches her drink like it’s an award. You shoot them both a look.

“But,” you say quickly, firmly, “we haven’t hooked up.”

That shuts them up for half a second.

“Huh,” Cipher says, blinking. “Wait, really?”

“Not even a little?” Castorice adds, leaning forward.

“Not even slightly,” you deadpan, despite the vivid, electric memory of Mydei between your knees in that velvet-draped lounge in Lethe. “Nothing happened. End of story.”

Sure, Mydei has a habit of finding excuses to drag you into quiet corners and kiss you until you saw stars. But he’s never pushed it further—not once. Not even that night, when the air between you went tight with possibility. When it could’ve turned into something else entirely if not for that damn paparazzo and the cold snap of reality that followed.

You like to think he’s been careful on purpose. Gentle in a way you haven’t had the words to thank him for.

They exchange a glance, clearly not convinced, but you give them your best no-bullshit stare until they both back down, at least outwardly.

“Okay,” Cipher says slowly. “Noted.”

“For now,” Castorice adds under her breath.

You pretend not to hear that part, sipping your drink like it’ll wash away the heat crawling up your neck.

“Okay, but seriously—who is Aglaea talking about?” she asks, holding up her phone again. “Like, are we just going to ignore that someone apparently had the audacity to hook up backstage?”

Castorice’s eyes narrow with faux intensity. “Who even has the logistics for that? There’s wires and cases everywhere.”

Cipher snorts. “Exactly. It’s either impressive or disgusting. Possibly both.”

It’s a pretty big group chat. The band members and managers aren’t the only ones part of it, but so are all the staff on-board for the entire tour. But just like that, the attention shifts—off of you and Mydei, and onto the much safer mystery of whoever had the nerve to tangle with temptation under Aglaea’s nose.

You exhale, quietly grateful.

The second night in Castrum Kremnos hits just as hard as the first.

If last night felt like a fever dream, tonight is something else entirely. Yesterday, you’d been too wired, too high on adrenaline to register the crowd during Nightingale Static. But tonight, you see it: a thousand lights swaying in sync to the stripped-down version, soft and solemn like a prayer.

Every city brings something different. Every show changes shape in its own strange way. But this kaleidoscope of noise and silence and something like awe—you don’t think you’ll ever get used to it.

And you hope you never do.

Backstage hums with the kind of joy only a flawless show can spark. The celebration isn’t just for the band, it belongs to everyone who made the night possible. The makeup artists who fixed every smudge, the stylists who kept every thread in place, the local crew who made the stage feel like home, even the ever-watchful security team. If any one of them had done less, the magic wouldn’t have landed the way it did. And standing among them now, you’re quietly grateful—because this isn’t just a job. It’s a rare kind of harmony.

So you let yourself breathe. Let yourself melt into the warmth of the impromptu backstage dinner thrown together by the venue managers. “On the house,” they’d said, and Mydei had made a beeline for the buffet with single-minded determination. No one questioned it. Everyone knows your frontman emerges from each set like a man starved.

Phainon’s laugh cuts sharp through the room as he pulls a reluctant Anaxa toward the food, and from there, the night dissolves into its usual, comforting chaos.

Cipher’s halfway into a theatrical reenactment of someone nearly flashing the band from the barricade while Castorice is doubled over beside her, cackling helplessly into a glass of wine. You’re mid-sip of something sweet and suspiciously strong when a hand closes gently over your shoulder.

“Diana,” Tribbios says, voice gentle. “Got a second?”

That’s all it takes.

The plastic cup in your hand goes weightless. The ache in your calves from the final chorus fades. Your stomach drops like someone pulled the stage floor out from under you.

You follow without a word.

Down the hall, away from the noise and fluorescent buzz of the green room. Each step echoes sharper than the last—yours too heavy, Tribbios’ too calm. You pass cases of cables, crates labeled with tape and Sharpie, someone’s half-finished coffee balanced on a lighting rig. Your throat is dry.

You don’t need to ask what this is about.

They found out. Flamescapes. The fan account, the forum posts, the way your whole world used to orbit this band from behind a username you never thought would be traced back to you. Someone must’ve recognized you. Or maybe they caught wind of the photo Hyacine posted months ago. She reassured that she already deleted it, but you know it’s too late.

“Here.” Tribbios stops in front of a small side lounge, mostly empty save for a couch and a flickering floor lamp. Aglaea is already inside, perched on the armrest like judgment made flesh.

Your skin goes cold.

Aglaea doesn’t waste time. “Sit.”

You do.

It’s suddenly very clear you’re not here for congratulations.

Tribbios leans against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. Aglaea eyes you like a problem she’s trying to solve with a scalpel instead of a pen.

“Diana,” she begins, “we’re going to ask you a few questions. We’d prefer you answer them honestly.”

Your stage name sounds too sharp in her mouth. Like a verdict. Like a blade. Your mind immediately kicks into overdrive. A million thoughts flash through like sparks on a short fuse.

This is it. They know. You don’t know how much traction Hyacine’s tweet gained. Or if they found out somewhere else. They probably think you faked your way into the band. That you joined out of obsession. That you’re some creep who just wanted to get close to them, to him. That nothing you’ve done here has been real.

They’ll think you’re dangerous.

You knew this was always going to catch up to you. You just thought maybe you’d have more time. That you'd get to prove yourself before the ground gave out. But of course it’s now. Of course it’s right when everything was starting to feel… possible.

Still, even with all the thoughts clashing in your head, you manage a single nod.

“Okay.”

You aren’t ready to tell them, but you’ve run out of corners to hide in. Run out of excuses to put it off.

Aglaea’s voice slices through the silence.

“How long have you and Mydei been romantically involved?”

Everything in you locks up.

You blink hard, the words not computing, like you misheard them through a pane of glass.

“What?” you echo, because that’s all you can manage. A breathless, dumbfounded syllable.

Aglaea doesn’t flinch. “Don’t play dumb. You heard me.”

No, no, no— this wasn’t what you were bracing for. You were ready for the fan account, ready to admit to Flamescapes, to plead your case, to beg them to see you as more than your past. But this?

This was supposed to stay in the dark a little longer. This was sacred. Fragile. His.

“We’re not... We’re not involved like that,” you say, the words scraping out thin and automatic.

Tribbios exhales behind you, slow and almost sympathetic. Aglaea tilts her head, unimpressed.

“You expect us to believe that?” she says coolly. “You vanish with him at the Lethe afterparty. You frequently sneak off together. The footage from the Akashic shoot could’ve melted half the boardroom. And we’ve seen the way Mydei looks at you. You honestly think no one’s noticed?”

Your hands are ice. Your heartbeat crashes against your ribcage, loud and unsteady. You thought you were ready to burn for the truth, but not this truth. You can’t even let yourself wonder how they found out. Did Castorice or Cipher rat you out? Part of you thinks they wouldn’t. Or maybe they wouldn’t even have to with how careless you and Mydei were.

“There’s nothing going on,” you say again, and it’s almost steady. “The Akashic shoot? We were just doing as the director told us. And we vanished in Lethe because I drank too much and Mydei insisted I sit down and get some fresh air. We’re bandmates, Aglaea. We look out for each other. That’s all there is to it.”

Your heart pounds with every word, doing your best not to trip on the strings of Aglaea’s razor sharp scrutiny. Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker under the surface. Not disbelief. Disappointment.

“And if we were to check the security tapes from the Lethe lounge?” she asks. “Would they say the same thing?”

You hesitate for a breath too long.

But then you nod. “Check them.”

Because you know they won’t find anything. Not what they’re looking for, anyway. Thalia’s made sure of that.

Tribbios’ tone is soft when she speaks. Almost. “Diana, you need to understand—we’ve already had one incident with a band member choosing a relationship over the rules. I’m sure by now, you know what happened to Hephaestion. We can’t afford to go through that again.”

And there it is.

Not the ghost of your fan account. Not the internet trail of obsession and love. But this.

This is the sin that might break you.

You inhale, slowly. Then meet their eyes.

“There’s nothing going on,” you repeat, carefully. “Not backstage. Not off-stage. Not anywhere.”

They watch you. Weighing the words. Measuring the gaps. Neither of them notices the faintest shift in the hallway shadows—the sound of someone pausing just beyond the cracked-open door.

You don’t, either.

Because you’re too busy lying through your teeth. Not for your sake. For his. If they punish anyone, let it be you. You’ll swallow the fallout whole if it means protecting him from it.

What you don’t know is this: just outside, Mydei stands still. A file loaded on his phone cued and ready. The flame-shaped charm clipped to the case catches the dim light, swinging once like a warning bell.

He’d come to surprise you.

He’d finally gotten the track approved for the deluxe release—your song. The one you left half-finished in the shared cloud like a secret confession. The one you played together for the band in some nameless town in the middle of nowhere. Raw, unpolished, and real. He’d cleaned it up. Finessed the edges. Played it for the execs. Fought for it.

All it needed now was a name.

He thought maybe you could name it together.

But instead, he hears you. Your voice, steady. Your denial, sharper than any blade.

For you, it might feel like damage control. Like shielding something fragile from scrutiny. But to him, it sounds like betrayal and the very thing he thought he’d never have to fear from you.

You said no.

Not to Aglaea. Not to Tribbios.

To him.

To everything you’ve shared, everything that bloomed in stolen hours and quiet moments and backstage glances. The look in your eyes when you thought no one was watching. The way your fingers laced with his like he was the only thing keeping you steady.

And now you’re pretending it never happened.

You don’t see the way his fingers tighten around the phone. How long he stares at it, thumb hovering just above the play button, as if hitting it might undo what he just heard. When Mydei walks away, he does it in silence, like a shadow slipping back into the darkness.

Unlike the first two days, something about Day Three feels… wrong.

It isn’t the staff—everyone’s on time, grinning through clipboards and coffee cups as the sun burns away the morning chill. The production crew hums with efficiency. The venue is a well-oiled machine.

Cipher and Castorice are already scheming by the sidelines, locked in a fierce tic-tac-toe battle against Garmentmaker, trying to outmaneuver their algorithmic precision. Castorice keeps score on her wrist in eyeliner, as if she’s sure this is the time they’ll finally win. Cipher is cheating. Openly.

Phainon’s crouched at his kit, tools spread around him like a surgeon mid-operation. He gives you a quick nod as you pass. “Finally got the snares replaced,” he mutters, like it’s the greatest triumph of his day. Anaxa is, predictably, nowhere to be seen. But you glimpsed him earlier, tucked in a backstage corner with a private little smile aimed at his phone. Whatever conversation he was having, he hadn’t noticed you walk by.

It should feel like any other morning.

The final day in a city drenched in myth and heat and the roar of fans who now chant your names like they’ve always belonged to them. The last rehearsal before tonight’s blowout performance—what should be a celebration, a victory lap.

But it isn’t.

Because no matter how much the rest of the world keeps moving, one thing is impossible to ignore:

Mydei is furious.

You don’t know why. No one does. But the shift is unmistakable.

He arrived later than usual, said nothing to anyone, and hasn’t cracked a single smile since. Not even when Cipher offered him a heart-shaped muffin and called it a peace offering “for crimes I haven’t committed yet.” Or when Garmentmaker pulled up a crude statistic of the likelihood of fans fainting in the pit if Mydei performed without a shirt again.

You try to brush it off. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe someone from the hotel staff pissed him off this morning. Maybe—anything.

But then he doesn’t look at you.

Not once.

At the first bout of rehearsals, the opening riff kicks in, and you fall into muscle memory, fingers sliding over the frets like they always have. Cipher catches your eye from behind the synths and waggles her brows with a grin. You smile back, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because you can feel it. That stillness, just to your left.

Mydei stands a little farther than usual, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the overhead lights like they might offer an escape route, lips set in a line that doesn't budge. Even when Phainon cracks a joke so off-color it earns a groan from Castorice, he doesn’t so much as react.

Then it hits you.

You know that look. That distance.

It’s the same wall he hid behind when you first joined the band—the one built from grief and guilt and the ghost of a friend who vanished without warning. Back then, Mydei had looked at you like you were a puzzle he didn’t want to deal with. Like maybe if he ignored you long enough, the shape of you would shift into someone else.

You never thought you’d see that look aimed at you again. You don’t even know what you did to deserve it.

When the stage lights finally flare to life that night, everything changes.

Out here on-stage, Mydei is every inch the frontman the fans have come to adore. All golden hair and fire-lit eyes, stalking the stage with the kind of swagger that makes people scream themselves hoarse. He hits every cue, every note, every beat of the choreography with lethal precision. His voice threads through the night like silk dragged through flames.

The crowd eats it up. They always do.

You play your part too. The music drowns out your thoughts, your fingers flying across the strings, the pulse of the performance pulling you forward like a tide you can’t resist. But no matter how loud the crowd gets, how bright the pyros blaze, you can’t shake the cold weight lodged in your chest.

Because he still won’t look at you.

Not during the solos. Not during the call-and-response when he always used to turn toward you with a half-smirk, like the two of you shared some private joke above the roar. Tonight, his gaze slides right past you every time. Like you’re not even there.

It shouldn’t matter. This is what you signed up for—professionalism, precision, performance. You don’t have to be close to be convincing. You just have to play like you mean it.

But when the final notes fade into screams and smoke and thunder, when the curtain falls and the stage crew surges forward to begin the teardown, Mydei is already halfway down the back steps, sweat-damp and radiant under the safety lights, but with a grimace etched so deep it could’ve been carved in stone.

He doesn’t stop to talk to the crew. Doesn’t acknowledge the high-fives from Cipher or the praise Phainon throws his way. Doesn’t even spare a glance for you.

Mydei just keeps walking.

Past the dressing rooms. Past the loading bay. Straight to the shuttles.

By the time you make it down the stairs, he’s gone and you’re left standing in the wings, guitar still slung over your shoulder, heart rattling like something broken inside your ribs.

But you don’t let that deter you just yet.

When you find yourself in front of Mydei’s hotel room later that evening, you don’t knock at first.

You just stand there, hand hovering in the space between certainty and fear, staring at the dark grain of the hotel room door like it might blink first. But it doesn’t. It just looms, silent and impassable, the same way he’s been all day.

Maybe you should walk away.

Let him stew. Let him be angry. Let him lock himself behind that blank-faced fury if that’s what he wants. You owe him nothing. Not after the way he looked through you like you were glass.

But you know him. You know this silence isn’t nothing. It’s a storm system, and you won’t let it pass without a fight.

So you knock. Three times.

Nothing.

You knock again, louder this time, shoulders squared like you can muscle your way through the distance between you.

You hear it then—footsteps. Fast and angry.

The door rips open, and Mydei stands before you on the other side.

Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower, strands curling down his neck. His expression is flat at first, like he expected someone else—maybe room service, maybe Aglaea. But the second he sees you, it shifts. His jaw locks. His hand twitches toward the edge of the door.

He’s going to slam it in your face.

And he almost does.

But as the door starts to swing shut, your hand darts forward on instinct. It catches in the gap—fingers wedged between the frame and the wood with a sharp, breathless snap.

“Shit,” you hiss, staggering forward as the pain flares bright and hot.

The door jerks back open with a violent recoil.

“You—” Mydei’s voice is rough, his hand already catching your wrist as you clutch your fingers against your chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

You stare up at him, face pale, breath shallow, anger burning just under the surface.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap.

He doesn’t let go of your wrist. Doesn’t look away from your face. But the storm behind his eyes is raging now—less silent thunder, more wildfire caught too long in a box.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you shouldn’t be taking it out on me without even telling me what I did,” you fire back. “If you’re going to hate me, Mydei, then at least do me the courtesy of letting me know why.”

The words are too loud. Too raw. They land hard between you, a gauntlet thrown in the narrow space of the hotel hallway. You don’t flinch. Not even when he finally lets go. His fingers drag off your skin like they’re trying not to remember how you feel. Mydei curses under his breath, then steps back.

“Get in.”

It’s not an invitation, but you go anyway, clutching your hand and brushing past him without looking. The room’s dim, the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air, the floor littered with half-unpacked luggage and a towel slung over a chair. A bandage wrapper peeks out from the bathroom trash, probably from something stupid like a blister he didn’t mention.

He shuts the door behind you with a quiet click. You don’t turn around. Not until you hear the sink run.

Then his voice: clipped and tense. “Sit down.”

You find the edge of the bed and sink onto it, watching as he rifles through the minibar for ice. He doesn’t look at you when he returns, crouching in front of you like this is just a job. Like you’re a stranger who happened to injure herself on his doorstep.

The cold compress lands on your hand with a hiss.

You wince, and he still doesn’t say anything. His brows are furrowed in concentration, mouth pressed thin as he folds the towel around the ice with clinical precision.

The silence gnaws.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you or whatever,” he mutters finally, barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t have put your hand there.”

“And you shouldn’t have tried to slam the door in my face.”

His eyes snap up to yours—sharp and furious. “You don’t get to act like this is nothing.”

“What is ‘this,’ Mydei?” you shoot back. “Because just a few days ago you were—we were—” You cut yourself off, throat thickening. “And now you won’t even look at me. What did I do?”

He looks away again, jaw tight.

The ice starts to sting, the cold numbing your fingers, but you don’t pull back. You watch him, every flicker of emotion crawling just beneath his skin.

“I heard you.”

Your brows knit. “What?”

“I heard you,” he repeats, quieter this time. “With Aglaea and Tribbios. Yesterday. Behind the dressing rooms.”

Then and there, the world seems to tilt from right under your feet.

Oh, god.

“Mydei—”

His laugh is short, bitter. “You think I’m mad because of something you didn’t tell me? Because of some misunderstanding? No. I could’ve handled that. I could’ve handled anything, Diana. Except this.”

He starts to pace again, unable to stay still, the fire in his chest too much to bear. “Do you know what that sounded like? Hearing you talk about me like it was all nothing? Like I was just some guy you play next to on stage?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly. “I didn’t—”

“But that’s what you said,” he cuts in, turning on you, voice raw. “You said there was nothing going on. You looked them in the eyes and denied me. Like I imagined everything. Like we imagined everything.”

You stand too, heart pounding. “It wasn’t safe to tell them the truth.”

“I’m not asking you to tell the whole world. I’m asking why you couldn’t tell them. Tell the people who would’ve kept it quiet. Who’ve known me longer than I’ve known myself. Tell me.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Because they’re scared, Mydei. Scared of what happened last time. If you’d actually been listening, you would’ve heard Tribbios say it—how this band can’t afford another fallout like Hephaestion.”

His jaw tightens, but you press on.

“I know it’s not fair. I hate how they talk about him like he was some kind of PR disaster and not your best friend,” you whisper helplessly. “But I was cornered, okay? Everything’s been moving so fast, and I haven’t even had a chance to talk to you—to figure out what this is. What we are.”

You take a shaky breath, voice dropping.

“You’ve already lost too much to this band. I didn’t want to be the reason you lost something else. So I took the hit. And yeah, maybe I said the wrong thing.”

Something shifts in his expression just slightly. The fire’s still there, but there’s a fracture now, a question in the heat.

You step forward, quiet but sure. “But I didn’t deny you because I don’t care. I did that because I do.”

Mydei doesn't move. His jaw works like he wants to say something, like something’s caught between his ribs and throat, but whatever it is, it never makes it out. You wait for a beat, then another, hoping stupidly that maybe he’ll reach for you, maybe he’ll say something to bridge the space between your hearts.

But he doesn’t.

So you swallow the knot in your throat, nod once—more to yourself than to him—and step back. Your voice is soft when it comes, barely louder than the hush in the room.

“I’ll... I’ll just go.”

You turn before you can see the way his expression flickers, before you can second-guess every word, every moment that led you here. Your hand aches as you open the door, the skin already purpling, but you don’t flinch.

Not until you’re alone in the hallway, and the door clicks quietly shut behind you.

Only then do you let yourself feel the full weight of it.

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader #mydei #cryoculus #queue

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inkedinfusions · 5 months ago

Text

𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 | geto suguru chapter 2

⊱𖤓⊰ | In which you, a thief, meet the lost prince of the kingdom.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . ⚜️ .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist

⊰–prev next–⊱

𝟎𝟐 | 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬

chapter word count: 3.1k

content warnings: normal warnings for the tangled movie lol

a/n: Thank you all of the birthday wishes! I had a lot of fun on my bday, and I'm hoping your day is a little better with this update. Here is to Suguru, who charms thugs and ruffians with his dreams, while Y/n just wishes she had more money and more alone time. Her partner makes a special appearance too, so props to Gojo for just appearing there while I was writing the scene.

Thanks for reading!

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐔𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 arrows again after Suguru releases you from the chair, and you head for the window again when a quick survey of the room does not reveal any other way to exit the tower. You wonder if there's a hidden mechanism or a secret door you don’t know about, but like a good thief, you aren’t about to ask someone armed with a pan about their secret entrances.

“I’ll go first,” you offer, perched on the windowsill. “You know, to watch for threats and whatnot.”

There's an undertone of jest in your voice, like you can’t believe someone is afraid of going to what basically is their backyard. But you aren’t here to judge—even though you do, a little bit—so you just leap out the window after Suguru answers with his own scoff.

Oddly, the way down is harder than the way up, but you chalk it up to the adrenaline that pumped through your veins when you first arrived. So you carefully descend with your arrows, driving them into the points where the stones meet, pulling them out when the other one is anchored at a lower point.

You notice Suguru has not come down yet, so you erase all possibilities of a hidden door, given he would already be out if there was one. Or he could be a coward and waiting for you to reach the ground, but something tells you that is not the type of person he is. Which is a wild assumption, given you met like thirty minutes ago and you had already suffered two concussions at his hands.

But that's water under the bridge or something. Your head wasn’t as precious to you as was the possibility of a new, richer life elsewhere. Wild. Well, no time to unpack that.

You crane your head upwards, debating on whether to shout for him, maybe offer him assistance. It's not long before you decide against it, however, because next thing you know, his hair is plummeting down. You turn your head again and just as quickly press yourself against the wall, missing Suguru, who is sliding down his hair, by just a few centimetres.

“Geez! Warn a woman first!” you call out after him.

Suguru pays you no mind, frozen right above the grass, staring at it with childlike wonder. You sigh and resume your way down, when the crunch of the grass alerts you of his movements.

You watch as he runs from grass to wildflower, chucking off the boots that took you (metaphorical) hours to convince him to wear. You sigh as he dips his feet into the water of the stream, although you can’t deny there is something endearing in his joy at seeing the world. It's sad, yeah, but also you don’t think about it too deeply. You're strangers anyway, and you’ll be strangers tomorrow too, after the lanterns. There’s no need to care more than you need to.

So you follow after him, picking up the discarded boots he left in the middle of the field. Suguru runs to the exit of the valley, the cave guarded by the vines. There it is that you find him, with his hair running wild after him, a flock of birds flying just so through the rays of sunshine that hit his dark locks, turning them gold.

“How’d you do that?” you ask.

“Do what?” Suguru responds, clueless.

“...Forget it.”

He looks at you like you’re the weird one, like a flock of birds didn’t just frame him perfectly, like his triumphant entry to the outside world didn’t look like something out of a fairy tale book. He raises his eyebrows at you when you continue to look at him disbelievingly, but his attention is quickly taken away by a small pond.

“Sooo…” you start, walking towards Suguru, who is now crouching by the pond to pick up a lotus flower. “Is your curiosity satiated, princess? Perhaps it’s best for us to go back now—”

“Are you kidding me?” he says, head whirling to meet your eyes. “I’ll never have this opportunity again. Besides, what mother doesn’t know won't kill her.”

“Mother?” you ask. “She seems… protective.”

And a total nutjob, is what you don’t add.

“She just wants what’s best for me,” he says. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’m a terrible son for going against her, right?” He pauses. “Oh my god, this will totally kill her.”

You shrug, not really in the mood to play therapist.

“Oh this is terrible!” he exclaims, straightening up. “She thinks I’m up there, where it's safe and I’m here just… watching flowers!”

“Sure,” you say.

“But also,” he continues, “she can’t keep me locked away all my life, can she? I’m going back”—he turns to you—“just not now.”

“Well, you know,” you say, approaching him. “This is fine. You’re what, my age? Yeah, I’d say rebellion is pretty standard behavior.”

“Really?” he asks, skeptical.

“Mhm,” you nod, an idea suddenly forming in your mind. “It will tear your mother apart, mind you, but it’s part of life. But it will tear her apart,” you repeat, just in case the first time didn’t convince him.

“Tear her apart?”

“Oh yes,” you say, reveling in the hesitation in his voice. “It will probably take months—no, years for her to heal from this betrayal. Normal mother–son relationship, nothing to bat an eye about.”

“Betrayal? Wait, I never said anything about betrayal—”

“But there’s no need to thank me,” you interrupt, amping up the theatrics to a hundred. “I mean—oh wow, I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I would be willing to let you off the deal.”

“Now, I know how this sounds,” you continue with fake modesty, “but you won’t owe me anything for this wonderful advice. Just my satchel,” you quickly add. “Here are your boots, and we can just head back—”

“Head back? No, we aren’t heading back,” Suguru says. “I’m seeing those lanterns.”

“Ugh!” you complain. “What’s it going to take for you to see reason?”

“Only thing I'm interested in seeing is those lights, Starlight,” he says with a hint of condescension that makes you itch.

“You are terrible! I can’t believe I even agreed to this—”

You are cut off by Suguru, who goes tense at the sound of a moving bush. It's too animated for it to be the wind, but you look at it with more curiosity than fright, while Suguru looks at it with a mix of nervousness and fear.

A small, white bunny leaps out of the bush, and you can't contain your laughter when Suguru flinches at the sudden motion. You wheeze when the tension practically melts from his shoulders, when his anxiety-riddled expression turns into something more irritated.

“Oh my!” you gasp dramatically. “It's the most dangerous creature in this forest! Whoever could save a helpless maiden like me from this ferocious bunny?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Suguru retorts sarcastically. “Bet you won’t be laughing when a thug jumps out of some bushes and strikes you down.”

“You don’t like thugs? Noted,” you say, another idea popping into existence. “Now, on a completely unrelated note—are you hungry?”

“Why is there a restaurant in the middle of nowhere?” Suguru asks as you walk through a fenced path.

“Why is your tower in the middle of nowhere?” you shoot back.

Suguru opens his mouth to snap back, but closes it again. “Fair,” he grumbles.

“Anyway, it should be close. I don't mean to brag, but,” you brag, “I’m pretty well versed on these woods.”

“Uh huh,” he says, skeptical.

“It's true!” you defend. “And it's the perfect place for a princess like you!” you carry on, ignoring his protests. “It's even got a duckling, see?”

You point to the emerging wooden sign, the natural lines of the wood running through the words The Snuggly Duckling. It is, of course, no place for a sheltered guy, but like any other thief worth their lockpicks, you are decidedly picking at places you’re sure would make Suguru tense like with the bunny earlier.

“...Chameleons are better,” he says.

“Is that what your lizard is?” you say, prompting the reptile to emerge on his shoulder. It glares at you again, like it somehow knows you are trash talking it, and you back off, putting up your hands to show your surrender.

Suguru huffs something akin to laughter, but you’re pretty sure he is just laughing at you—not with you. Well, who’s laughing now, mister? you internally ask when you swing open the door.

“Waiter! Your finest table please!”

Like magic, the whole tavern goes silent at your explosive entrance. You know you can command a room, but this was just ridiculous. Works in your favor though, so no complaints will be heard from you.

There is a weird ass guy covered in rats in the corner smiling creepily, another with a very pointy hook just to the left of you, and—well, let's just say the whole tavern is crawling with all the thugs one could possibly imagine. It was dirty, smelly, unsettling, and perfect.

You start walking with Suguru, who, to his credit, is doing his best to not let the tension in his shoulders show. But he can’t fool you. His eye twitches, his muscles contract. You’d enjoy the scene if you didn’t have your eyes on something better. A chance to scare him and get your satchel back without actually entering the kingdom again.

“Very nice place, right?” you chirp as you guide Suguru deeper and deeper into the crowd. This leaves him with no choice but to follow you as you make various remarks about the place.

“Look at all these nice, hardworking gentlemen,” you continue. “This is just the beginning princess, the bottom of the barrel. Hey, you okay there? You’re looking paler than usual. You know, there are much worse—”

“Holy shit!” a voice interrupts from the sea of thugs. “It's you!”

You snap your head towards the origin of the voice, narrowing your eyes when nobody you recognize emerges from it. Just a lanky looking guy, with dusty black hair and a pair of big round shades, the kind you would see on blind people.

“I think you have the wrong person,” you start. “Never in my life have I seen—”

“Oh, cut the crap, it's me,” he says, lowering his glasses. The brightest blue hits your pupils, making you immediately recognize your partner in crime.

Your eyes widen. “What are you doing here?” you ask, scrunching your nose when you notice the state of his hair. “And why is your hair like that?”

“Like what? I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” he says, like his hair didn’t just turn a hundred shades darker in the span of a few hours. “And who’s this?” he asks, turning his eyes to Suguru, who is tenser than ever. “Oh ho ho, I didn’t take you for—”

He is thankfully interrupted when the thug with the hook uses it to pull him away, which is great, because now you don't need to strangle him with your own hands. On the other hand, what is not so great, is the way the hook is now being pointed at both you and Suguru.

“Woah, hey, I think there's been a misunderstanding,” you say, when a poster is shoved into your field of vision. It's your own, but now your hair is frizzier than ever, not even with the right length. Honestly, who was making these posters?

“Is this you?” a guy with a fur cape and large viking helmet.

Before you can deny it, the guy with the hook and all the others start circling you. “Oh it's her alright,” he says, throwing Satoru into the mix. “And that’s the other one.”

“Wow, I’m so flattered—but I could never be that beautiful,” he tearfully says. “I'm just another poor guy from the outskirts—”

“No one believes you, Six,” you say, tired of his charades.

“His name is Six?” Suguru whispers to you.

You shrug, then flinch when the hook is once again pointed at you three. “Don’t try to run, missy,” he says gesturing for another ruffian to go get the guards. “That double reward is about to buy me a new hook.”

You are pulled away by the back of your shirt by another ruffian with Satoru, and then once again by a different one. “I can use the money,” one of them says.

“Not fair!” another one complains. “I’m the brokest one here!”

“Hey!” you exclaim. “Let me go!”

Satoru is struggling at your side too, easily overpowered by the number of ruffians. You can’t see Suguru anymore, only hear as he says something, but now is not really the time to worry about him, not with the ticking time bomb that is the guards. You needed to get out of here and fast.

The big guy starts preparing to throw a punch at you, probably to knock you out to make the process of delivering you to the guards easier, when out of nowhere a branch directly above him snaps, striking him dead center on the head.

“Put them down!” you hear Suguru yell, everyone's attention on him.

“You chose a feisty one,” Satoru whispers to you.

“Shut up,” you whisper back as Suguru goes on a tangent.

“—and it's been my dream since forever to see those lanterns,” you notice him sneering, “so release them or so help me god, a concussion won’t be the only thing you’ll walk away with.”

Silence.

All of the ruffians are both shocked at what just transpired and at Suguru’s words, standing still in their places with wide eyes. You notice Satoru moving as discreetly as possible, and you prepare yourself to bolt, when the thug holding you both picks you up and hands you on the wall. You look helplessly at Satoru, who is trying not to laugh. You swear, you could both be in the gallows and he'd still crack jokes.

Suguru steps back as the guy with the hook approaches him, now handling an axe. You should've never brought him here—your goal was to scare him, not have some ruffians skin him alive. Hell, the guards are on their way too, so now you’ll get caught without ever stepping foot into the kingdom.

The thug hovers over Suguru, when he speaks up, surprising you. “I had a dream… once,” he says, throwing the axe at a startled musician in the corner. The poor guy starts playing background music, oddly changing the atmosphere at the tavern. What the fuck?

“I look malicious, yes,” he starts. “And violence wise, my hands”—hand, you correct in your head—“are not the cleanest. But despite my temper and my hook, I've only ever wanted to be a renowned pianist.”

He starts absolutely shredding the piano he had led Suguru to, forming a nice harmony with the corner musician. And hey, he might not have the best look ever, but this guy could play some pretty nice tunes.

“I could be up on the stage playing Mozart,” he says, and you are awestruck at the way he flawlessly plays with his hook. The piano keys come off and towards Suguru, who blocks the way with his pan, now with a relaxed grin.

After a few unsuccessful attempts at getting off the wall, you instead decide to get lost in your own mind, hearing bits and pieces of the ruffians’ dreams. One wants love, another one to be a florist. The big guy that had hooked you to the wall apparently collects ceramic unicorns, which, hey, to each his own.

“This place wasn’t this loony the last time we came here,” you tell Satoru.

“It's been years, the place is bound to change,” he answers. “But now that we are here, who really is that guy?”

“He has the circlet,” you grumble. “Wouldn’t give it back unless I agreed to take him to the lantern thing the kingdom does.”

An idea pops into your head, and you turn to Satoru with an innocent smile. “Hey, you love festivals! Wouldn’t you like to—”

“Nope,” he cuts you off. “This is a you problem, Starlight.”

“I hate you,” you lie.

You may not hate him, but you hate the way he smiles like he knows it's a lie. Which it is, but that doesn’t make it better. You are then startled by the blade that points your way.

“And what about you?” hook-guy asks you.

“Sorry?”

“Your dream,” another one clarifies.

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” you say, not missing Satoru’s snort. Then you immediately regret it when multiple blades stand dangerously close to your neck.You huff, gesturing for the bug guy to unhook you from the wall. To your surprise he does, and you begin to spin your tale.

“Though crowd,” you mumble. “It’s not that deep, I just want to be alone and with money.”

It's enough for the ruffians, who cheer, following Suguru’s example. You lean against the wall where Satoru still hangs, helping him down after a while.

“But really, what did you do to your hair?”

“You like it?”

“No.”

He grins. “It's just ash so I don’t get recognized. Glasses too.”

Amidst the chaos and glee, the door slams open by the guy who had gone to find the guards. Your eyes widen and you quickly pull Suguru to the side, leaving Satoru to his own devices. You’re pretty sure his disguise will hold, and now you’re more worried about the other guy than him.

You put your finger to your lips as you hide behind the bar, signaling Suguru to be quiet. You’re grateful when he doesn’t question you, falling as silent as a valley with no trees.

“You!” you hear the captain question. “Where is Starlight?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t see her,” you hear Satoru chirp back, and you’re sure he’s about to play the blindness card. “As a matter of fact, I can’t see at all!”

Yeah, there it is.

“Find her!” the captain orders, slamming his arm just where you are hiding. “Turn the place upside down if you have to.”

You contain a flinch when a hook appears right in front of your face, your eyes following the arm back to the thug it belongs to. He signals you with his eyes to the floor in front of you, pulling a lever and revealing a secret passageway.

“Go,” he mumbles when you crawl to it. “Live your dreams.”

“Thanks,” you say, touched.

“Not you,” he says. “I'm talking about him. Your dream stinks.”

Suguru chuckles at the offended expression you pull when you grumble and grab a lantern, following you into the dark of the tunnel, pan in hand, after thanking your savior.

#ebony and gold #ann writes #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru #suguru geto #geto #suguru

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masterqwertster · 3 months ago

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hi hello!! i am Always returning to your fics because they’re so well-written and there is so so much heart and thought behind each one- i especially adore your ashton fics, and your drabble about them carrying milo home really warmed my heart. i’ve seen many a-fic of milo looking after or worrying after ashton, but so rarely the inverse!! if it ain’t too redundant or too much trouble, do you have any more thoughts or maybe even drabbles about those two, and the ways in which ashton (maybe begrudgingly or fearfully or suspiciously) returns care to milo?

Awww, thanks for the compliments! Okay, a little Ashton taking care of Milo.

They wake to a pebble thrown by Anni.

Which, rude.

But fair.

If Ashton wakes thrashing, it's with enough force to leave a nasty bruise, maybe break the bones of normal flesh and blood people.

"Get the fuck up. Milo fucking needs you. Now," she demands once Ashton has shown signs of waking.

Usually, Anni plays the ice cold bitch like there's nothing else she could be, but right now, Ashton can hear the faintest tremor of fear and concern in her voice. It gets them moving faster than they'd normally bother with upon first waking up.

Anni leads Ashton down to the workshop, where Milo is shoulder deep in some sort of mechanical contraption, quick, shallow pants escaping them as sweat drips down their face and pain pinches their brow.

"What the fuck?" is all Ashton can think to ask.

"Hey, buddy," Milo says, strained. "Sorry to wake you, but I'm in a bit of a literal pinch here and Anni wasn't strong enough."

It's then that Ashton notices the blood seeping up Milo's sleeve, not quite hidden in the shadows of where their arm enters the machine.

Curses spill from Ashton's lips as he stomps closer, crouching down to get a look at the damage.

"What the fuck?" he asks again. There's a metal plate back in those metal guts that's trying to sever Milo's forearm.

"Just fiddling with some of the internal gear work. Guess some shit wasn't as secured out of the way as I thought. Pretty sure it's touching bone in there," Milo explains through grit teeth.

"They had me try to pry it open," Anni says, stepping up to better angle a lantern to light the machinery trying to chew through Milo's arm. "But I kind of made it worse by knocking some other shit out of the way."

Ashton considers Anni's slender arms, the musician's precision of her hands. Compares them to his own arms, corded with muscle (though not as much as before the Fall some months ago), the unpredictable tremor that wracks his (thieving) hands.

"And you really fucking think I can do it?" they say, holding a shaking hand up for the other two to see.

"As long as you don't push this shit into severing their arm, I've got the healing to at least start fixing them up," Anni refutes. "We all know you're the strongest here."

"Please," Milo begs.

Ashton closes their eyes and sighs. "Yeah. Okay. Fuck it. Sorry in advance if this goes fucking wrong. For your arm. Fuck this stupid thing."

That earns them an amused huff from Milo.

A moment's assessment reveals that it's unlikely that Ashton is going to get both arms in there around Milo. The opening just isn't big enough for that, though he suspects Anni might have squeezed both of her arms in there. It's also going to be difficult as fuck to see what he's doing down there, and Ashton's sense of touch is a little fucked compared to most normal people's.

Fucking shit.

He's still got to try.

They carefully shift around so Ashton can plunge his right arm, which trembles less than his fucked up left arm, into the machine. He traces his way slowly down Milo's pinned arm, pushing back anything that'll move. Even if that means it's now trying to break his stone skin. It's better than letting it bite into Milo's soft flesh.

And yeah, the metal panel has got to be hitting Milo's bones, because there just isn't a lot of room to slide his fingers in for a grip on the fucking shit. But Ashton manages it. Maybe drawing a bit of blood himself on it's sharp edge.

"Okay. I think I've got it. Tell me when you're ready," Ashton says, placing a hand on Milo's free shoulder to pull when he thinks they're free.

Anni grabs Milo's bicep, also ready to pull. "Ready."

Milo takes in a shaky breath (most of them is shaking. Probably from blood loss and/or shock). "...Go for it."

Teeth grit, Ashton flexes, pushing up and causing uncooperative metal to screech.

"Aaahhh!" Milo breathes the pain out as the cutting vice loosens on their arm.

"Come on, come on," Anni chants, hands tensing.

It's slow, but they're getting there. Prying it open bit by bit. And in the back of their head is that desire to Rage. To be stronger and just fucking rip this fucking machine apart, get Milo free.

But it's too fucking risky anymore. That weird fucking magic that Ashton has now, that spins up with each battle rage, that they can't control, could turn out gravity. And the last thing they need is more force dragging this stupid fucking metal plate through Milo's arm.

So slow and steady it has to fucking be.

"G'me out!" Milo shouts.

Ashton and Anni yank–

They hit the floor, Milo's forearm a bloody mess.

Ashton pulls their own arm out of the machine, letting the plate fall with a demonstrative shunk, as Anni starts chanting spells instead, hands splayed and glowing over Milo's half-severed arm. Tears stream down from beneath Milo's glasses as they whimper through the pain.

By the time Anni's magic runs dry, a deep gash to the bone has been reduced to a thin, red scar surrounded by drying blood.

"Let's never fucking do that again," Ashton says into the silence.

The laugh Milo lets out is a little hysterical. "Yeah. You got it, bud. And thanks, Anni. Would have been a lot worse off without you."

"Fucking, whatever. Like the dumb rock said, don't do it again," Anni huffs, turning away to leave. "I've gotta go scrub my fucking hands. You made a fucking mess."

Milo was really fucking lucky, Ashton can't help but think. They could have ended up crippled from this shit. If no one had been home. If Ashton also wasn't strong enough. If Anni couldn't heal. That last one eats at him with burning jealousy. If she'd lived here back then, maybe–

"Come on, let's get some food in you. Blood loss is a real bitch," Ashton says, hauling Milo to their feet with ease.

"Okay. I feel woozy."

"I'll fucking bet."

Best to be glad their friend landlord is fine. Gods know where they'd live without Milo putting up with them.

#MQ&A #MQfic #ashton greymoore #milo krook #anni aughta

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helena-and-helena-meta · 27 days ago

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Part nine of Canary Protocol

*pointing at Beachcomber* Hippie!

Kel yawned as he woke up, stretching slowly. He dragged himself upright and reached for the small pot he’d bought from the company store, filling it with water and setting it to boil. As it heated, he grabbed his dented tin of instant coffee.

He sighed. God, what he wouldn’t give for real coffee.

But caffeine was caffeine.

Once the water boiled, he poured some into a cup and dumped in three scoops of the bitter powder, stirring it absently. Mug in hand, he made his way down to the signal room.

The mechanical doors groaned open, and he was immediately greeted by the shrill sound of the radar going off.

Kel groaned in irritation and downed a gulp of coffee. It burned his tongue and sent a weird ache down his spine.

He coughed, setting the cup down with a clink on his desk.

Something about that radar ping felt... directed at him.

Without wasting time, he turned and left the signal room. The motions were second nature now—leave the signal room, head to the garage, open the door, ride out on the ATV.

It had become part of Kel’s routine.

Though… He forgot to turn on Kerfur again, he realized.

He’d do it later.

He followed the path toward the ping’s coordinates, the ATV buzzing under him, wheels crunching on gravel and frost-bitten soil.

The construction site.

It had always struck him as strange—empty barracks, an old, fenced-in borehole, and not much else. The air felt too still, like the place had been paused mid-thought.

He stopped beside the borehole, climbed off the ATV, and stepped over the broken section of the fence. Looking around, he spotted a slip of paper and a signal drive resting near the rusted grate. He pocketed the drive and crouched beside the borehole, trying to see down.

Too dark. No bottom in sight.

The crunch of gravel caught his attention.

Was that the ATV shifting?

He decided it was, and moved toward the barracks.

As he approached, that same uncanny feeling from before crept up his spine. Something was watching. Waiting. Like a trap had been set, and he was walking straight into it.

He climbed the stairs of the nearest barracks and opened the door. Inside, he saw two crates, a dusty electric lantern, and a weathered journal resting atop one of the crates.

Curious, Kel stepped closer and picked up the journal, flipping to a bookmarked page:

"I am a great soft jelly thing. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where my eyes used to be..."

Kel blinked.

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream.

He knew that passage. Who the hell left this here?

Before he could speculate further, the door behind him buckled, then slammed open.

An invisible figure—larger than the one he’d seen before—stood in the threshold.

Kel didn’t wait. He dove out of the way, scrambling toward the stairs.

The alien gave chase.

Even mostly invisible, Kel could still see the way the light bent around it—a humanoid shape just wrong enough to make the eye slide off it. It was fast.

He hit the gravel running.

He was nearly to the ATV when something struck him—hard.

Everything went black.

“…Kel…”

A voice, distant, muffled.

“…Up… Kel…”

His head throbbed as he returned to consciousness.

“Kel!”

His eyes snapped open.

He lay on cold concrete, the taste of iron lingering in the back of his throat. His hand flew to his head—but no blood. That was a relief.

Hovering above him was someone large and blue and white.

Beachcomber.

The Autobot looked genuinely worried. He crouched down beside Kel, expression soft but tight with concern.

“Hey, kid… you with me?” he asked, voice gentle, more teacher than soldier. “You were out cold when I found you.”

Kel blinked a few times, trying to sit up. “I—I think so. My head’s pounding. What happened?”

Beachcomber glanced around, scanning the abandoned site with narrowed optics. “I was hoping you could tell me. There’s no sign of another Cybertronian. No tracks, no metal residue, no impact points. Just… you.”

He helped steady Kel with one careful servo.

Kel exhaled shakily, rubbing his temples. “Something hit me. I didn’t see what, but it was big. Fast. I didn’t get a good look.”

Beachcomber paused, optics flicking to the ground again. “It wasn’t mechanical. But something’s wrong here.”

Kel looked up at him. “Wrong how?”

Beachcomber tilted his head slightly, almost like he was listening to the earth itself. “The energy’s off. This place was built wrong—dug into something it shouldn’t have. And now it’s humming.”

He tapped his helm, as though trying to organize a thought. “It’s like interference. Subtle, rhythmic. Almost like footsteps. Or breathing.”

Kel went still.

“Did you see anything?” Beachcomber asked.

Kel hesitated.

He wanted to say yes. To explain the alien that had chased and knocked him out. But something about it didn’t feel threatening—just... alien. Curious.

So he lied.

“No. Just… a bad feeling. Like I was being watched.”

Beachcomber didn’t press him.

He nodded, slowly. “Sometimes the mountain sees things before we do. It doesn’t always warn us in ways we understand.”

Kel frowned but didn’t argue. The words didn’t make sense—but they felt true.

Beachcomber straightened slightly, one optic still dimmed with concern. “You should rest. Someone else is here with me—nearby. He’s not quite ready to introduce himself, but… he’s watching, too.”

Kel blinked. “Someone else?”

Beachcomber smiled faintly. “You’ll meet him soon. When the moment’s right.”

Great. Another mystery.

Kel sat up with a groan, glancing toward his ATV. “I can probably ride back.”

Beachcomber crouched lower, his optic ridge quirking slightly. “You were unconscious for ten minutes, Kel.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” Beachcomber said, still calm but firm. “You got attacked by something we haven’t identified. You’re alone, in a dead zone, and this whole place has a weird signal. That doesn’t qualify as ‘fine.’”

Kel opened his mouth, but Beachcomber gently held out a servo—not touching, just there, barring the path to the ATV.

Kel sighed. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Beachcomber replied. “You’re the reason I’m here. That makes you important.”

He added, almost dryly, “Besides… I think the mountain’s trying to keep you out of trouble. Let’s not pick another fight with it.”

Was this guy some kind of hippie robot? Kel decided not to ask.

At least Beachcomber cared about the mountains—and nature in general. He’d probably get along with environmentalists better than Kel did.

“…Alright,” Kel relented.

Beachcomber smiled and, with a smooth shift of parts, transformed into a dune buggy in front of him.

Kel stared. "I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that."

He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled in. As the buggy rolled back toward the observatory, Kel glanced up at the sky every so often.

Someone—or something—had seen him. Maybe Beachcomber was right. Maybe he would meet them.

#voices of the void #votv dr kel #ariral #beachcomber #skyfire #he's mentioned #kinda sorta #transformers first contact au

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bozzowl · 1 year ago

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Farmworld Finn NSFW Dominate

As Requested... 👀

You lived in the ruins of an old town, in the upper floor of an old apartment building. You had a decent view of the town square. However, rent would be due soon and your old boss got croaked by some gang members. You had to find another job soon because the only money you have left is going to groceries. You decided to head into the market, there's usually someone hiring over there. You have been out over by an Avacado stand when you saw him. A Big, strong farmer known as Finn Mertens. You were standing over by a fruit stand when he approached you. Those eyes... piercing right through you. You could not take your eyes off him or his muscular body. He looked as though he could easily lift you, maybe you wanted that. Your mouth agape as he stood right next to you. Apparently he wasn't looking at you, but he was looking at the sign above you that read "avocados on sale!". Maybe you felt a little embarrassed by the realization, so you turn to look at the avocados. you reach for one, trying to distract yourself from the handsome man next to you. As you do, his hand touches yours. You both look at each other, you were blushing while he gave you an awkward side glance. To break the silence between you two, he clears his throat, "So, YN I hear you've been looking for work?". You look away shyly, "yeah... I'm hoping to find some work soon." Finn smirked, raising a brow, "you ok with farm work? I can use some help in the barn...". You think about it for a moment, he usually doesn't trust people nor let just anyone at his farm. You two barely talked before, but he always seemed relaxed around you. As if he knew he could trust you.

You agree to work for him over at the farm. It took some getting used to, it was hard work but it paid off well. He decided to let you sleep in the barn so you wouldn't have to worry about the walk to and from work. He even helped you move your things in. Occasionally showing you new tricks, and teaching you when to plan certain crops. You even learned how to make butter and jam. You noticed that when you two are working together, he's always keeping his eyes on you. Especially when you bend over. Lately, he started bringing you flowers he would find when out gathering wood or when he's hunting. You became more than just a worker for him.

One night, when the kids were asleep, Finn came to the barn. A single lantern was lit by your bed on the second floor of the barn. You were changing clothes in the warm dim light. You hear a knock at the door. You quickly throw on some button up pajamas before you climb down. The door creaks as you open it, "Finn? is everything ok?". He leaned closer to you, "We need to talk...". He comes inside, closing the door behind him. He walked up to you, his eyes locked onto you, "look, I know you came here just looking for work... but there's something between us..." .He brushed a strand of hair from your face, "... And, judging from the way you look at me I know you feel it too." Your heart skipped a beat as a warm blush spreads across your face. He liked you back, and he wanted you. He wanted you now.

His hand on your chin, his other mechanical arm wrapped around you. you could feel the cold metal as it slides down your back. Your hands slowly inch their way up his chest as he pulled you closer. Leaning closer as he gently guided you to his lips. He kissed you. You could feel his scruffy blond beard. Felling his warm breath as it smelled like the soup he always kept brewing in the kitchen. The kiss becomes deeper as your body pressed against his. He took the lead. Licking your lips as his tongue danged with yours. Suddenly he kissed your neck, trailing feverish kisses down to your shoulders. you gasp, feeling him nip and kiss your skin. Then suddenly, he throws you over his shoulder, crawling up the ladder to reach your bed. It was almost as if you weight nothing, he was so strong...

Finn throws you on the bed, then pulls off his shirt to reveal a muscular and toned body. He looked looked you in the eyes, raising a brow, "are you gonna be good for daddy?". You nod, feeling your heart pounding and your face hot. He says with a mischievous smirk, "take it off.". You hastily start to unbutton your shirt when he stops you, "slowly.". You slow down, carefully unbuttoning your shirt as he watched you. He climbs onto the bed, sitting on his knees as his eyes wander over your body. A bulge forming in his jeans. You take off the rest too, tossing your clothes to the side. He unzips his pants and pulls out a large, girthy member. Already hard and ready to fuck you. Of course, he wanted you to work for it. When he told you to get on all fours, you got on all fours. When he told you to open your mouth, you opened your mouth. He grabs you by the hair, puling you closer to his member. You take him into your mouth, sucking him off. He groaned as you pleased him. Your mouth felt so good to him, watching your head bob back and forth until he pulled out. He looked down at you and ordered you, "lay down." You lay on your back, following his commands. He wanted to tease you, so he parts your legs. Looking at your exposed privets, he glanced up to meet your eyes again. you nod, even though he's dominating you he still wanted to make sure you were ok with this. He lowers his head and starts licking. Kissing, sucking, pleasing you till you felt a knot in your stomach. you make those cute sounds for him. Those moans and groans of yours were music to his ears. He squeezed your thigh a little, then pulls back up. He positioned himself over you, the tip of his member grazed against your entrance. He wanted you to beg, "do you want me?". You nod, but he wanted more, "no, no YN... use your words.". You look him in the eyes, "I want you.". With a mischievous smirk, he tells you, "Louder, I want you to beg.". You start begging him, pleading for him to put it in you. He seemed please with your pleas, and so he put himself inside you. He waist a moment so that you adjust to his size. After a few minutes, he begins to thrust. Soon his hips smacked against your body, moving with every hump. He starts panting, your breathing becoming heavier as well. His starts to speed up, sending waves of pleasure through your body as his eyes were locked onto yours. The barn is filled with the sounds of flesh slapping together, smelling of sweat as your bodies heat up from the action. The bed was creaking, you were moaning. His movements become sloppy as he is about to cum. Your thighs trembling as you near your climax. The finally, you both cum at the same time.

Finn tries to catch his breath as you lay there, looking like a hot and sweaty mess. He pulls out of yo, then lays by your side. You turn to face him as he pulls you close. It was late, and you were both very tired. The lantern's light slowly went out as it ran out of oil. You fall asleep in his arms. He whispers in your ear, "Goodnight YN, see you in the morning."

I hope y'all enjoyed this :)

#fanfics #fiona and cake #adventure time #adventure time art #farmworld finn #farmworld finn x reader #x reader #fionna and cake x reader

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dreaisgrayte · 10 months ago

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Thank you for 500 followers!!

Oh my goodness... guys... looking back on when I first started out writing on tumblr because my best friend suggested posting some of my stuff on there I never expected to be here. 500 is a lot of new friends and if you've liked what I've been doing, buckle in because I have a lot more planned! I cannot express how grateful I am for all of you, each like, comment, reblog, message -- literally anything -- makes me so happy. Seeing someone enjoy something I created (no matter how I feel about the work) brings a euphoric warmth to my chest. It's so weird to explain, so instead of getting too emotional about all the support I've received, let me do what I do best and thank you with something a little special. I've been a tad busy with the new semester of university starting up, but during the break, I came up with the idea to draw the character banners for this special! Digital art isn't my strong suit (very obviously), but I wanted to show you all how much I appreciate you. I hope to continue creating for a long time and getting better with each post! Without further ado, enjoy a little something special for all of you~

Virgin fem!reader

includes: Kyojuro Rengoku, Giyu Tomioka, Sanemi Shinazugawa, and Obanai Iguro

warnings: I saved the absolute filth for the very end you animals ;) MDNI, NSFW, virgin sex, creampie, four guys at once (wtf yn), heavy kissing, cum whore, hashira slut, hungry for that d*ck, cockbulge, rough, if I'm honest yn gets obliterated...

wc: 3.6k

Obanai’s eyes close for a moment as you speak. “Let me get this straight, you want me to take your virginity?” His eyes open, piercing into your soul. “What kind of bullshit request is that? You chose this setting to ask me such a thing?” He looks you up and down, then behind your head where the training dojo still mechanically clicks. “What is wrong with you?”

A bashful blush spreads up your neck at the hashira’s question. “Well, isn’t it training… in a sense?” You offer, grinning at the way his brows shoot up.

“What? No?” He deflates, probably regretting the suggestion to train with you this afternoon. “What even gave you the notion that I’d want to do such a thing?” His golden eye glints with the overhead lantern, a swarm of emotions hidden behind the spread of color.

The way he stares into your eyes gives you the same kind of adrenaline as fighting during battle. “You know I’m a fast learner and even more willing to continue when it hurts,” His head tilts to the side at your words, is he actually considering it?

In a brief second, the snake pillar is next to you, sliding his hand across your hips. “You’ll have to do a lot more training to handle what I have in store for you.”

Giyu pauses, turning to stare at you. “Did I hear you right?” His deep blue eyes are carefully watching your next moves. At this point, you were getting desperate. There was an itch clawing its way out of your stomach.

Going to each of your friends wasn’t the most delicate way to approach this situation, but it was bound to get the job done one way or another. “Please, Giyu. It won’t take much.” He lowers his gaze – his body facing you.

There was something hanging in the air, like a cord about to snap from too much pressure. “Yn, I’m not sure your request is one I can grant,” He trails off, averting his gaze. His usual stoic expression is now a mix of confusion and self-restraint. “Isn’t that something you want to be romantic…?” He questions, more to himself than to you.

A bubble of laughter falls from your lips as you observe him slowly going insane. “Honestly? I’d rather it be anything other than romantic. That way only my pussy gets hurt, not my heart.” The look on Giyu’s face is one of horror. “So I’m guessing that’s a no…” You frown, pouting slightly. You were slowly running out of options.

The flame hashira’s mouth falls open. “I must’ve misheard you…” You groan dragging a hand down your face.

“Why does everyone keep saying that? I can be loud and clear if you want me to be,” A smirk plays with your lips as Kyojuro blinks rapidly. He glances at the surroundings, meeting your gaze once more.

His brows furrow, the sweat from early morning practice still fresh against his skin. “You’re far too delicate to be requesting such a thing,” He takes pause, letting his crimson pupils fall to your sturdy frame – the words he just spoke slowly being swallowed by a lingering urge to bend you over the deck right this second.

You blow out a frustrated breath, placing your hands onto your hips. “Yeah right and I’m guessing the next excuse you’re going to make is that I couldn’t handle you? Please Kyojuro, we both know you love it when you don’t quite fit.” You roll your eyes, scoffing at the last option you had.

Kyojuro’s face flushes as he glares down at you. “And we both know your cunt would gobble me up like its been starved, don’t we princess?” His words snap you out of the disappointing lull you’d led yourself into again.

He advances toward you until your ass presses against the wood of the deck. “W-wha-?” Your skin feels like tingles are eating you alive. A smug laugh flows from his nose as he peers down at you.

“Now scamper along before you bite off something too big for you to chew.”

There’s a tight smirk on Sanemi’s lips as he sits across from you. “Let me get this straight sweetheart, you want me,” He points a finger inward, his brows raising ever so slightly as the words form in his mouth. “To take your virginity?” His gaze drops to your lips, then lowers to where your knees are practically glued together. He scoffs, lifting his lilac eyes to meet yours. “Heh, what makes you think yer’ ready for that, petal?” He’s leaning back, arm slung over the sofa’s back.

Your back stiffens as you clench your hands into tiny angry packed balls. Meeting his gaze is harder than you ever imagined, especially after you marched your way into his manor with such boldness, declaring that you wanted him to take you for the first time. “If I weren’t ready I wouldn’t be asking you, now would I?” Your words are proud, but your voice is another story. The quiet squeak at the end of your sentence gives you away and the amused gleam in Sanemi’s eyes doesn’t give you a moment to hide behind.

He stands, sauntering over to you, the tips of his zori brushing against your feet. He places a gentle hand on your knee before pushing your legs apart. “Then you’re goin’ to haf’to spread your legs for me, sweetheart.” His voice is calm, but the swirl of darkness that swims in his irises tells a different story. “It’s okay, in order for this to work, you need to give yourself to me. Trust me completely with your mind, soul, and,” his throat bobs as his palm slides up your thigh, brushing the hem of your skirt. “Body.” He finally manages to spit out.

Everything clicks into place as the wind pillar pushes you against the cushions, stepping between your knees to bend down near your face. “S-Sanemi?” You sputter, your eyes flittering around his face.

He’s gentle, so soft with you. It makes the whole world fall apart as he runs his thumb across your bottom lip. “Yes, petal?” His voice is barely above a whisper, the breath from his mouth tickling your hair.

A moment of silence. The question dancing on your tongue like a curse. The beating from your pulse was tugging on your brain. “Do you think I’m loveable?” What falls from your mouth surprises him, his brows twitching for the slightest moment. Then a small chuckle erupts from his nose, eliciting a sinking feeling to wrap you in a dark blanket.

Then he’s all smiles, pressing his forehead against yours. “If you’d let me, yeah. I’ll love you however you want and most importantly…” He slips his head between your shoulder and neck, dragging his lips tenaciously against your sensitive skin. “Whenever.” A thrill of warmth spreads through your stomach, rendering you useless as the hashira – practically gleefully – kisses the length of your neck. “Do you approve of my answer, petal?”

A shiver runs up your spine, meeting the heated gaze in Sanemi’s eyes. “Absolutely.”

“There’s just one thing…” He hushes against your skin, slowly backing away from your view. It's then that you realize there are three more guests in the room. They all stare at you, a pleased expression being the farthest thing away from how they glare. “I think you have some explaining to do.” Sanemi crosses his muscular arms over his chest. Why did his chest have to be so distracting? It was going to make this explanation so much harder.

Where could you even start? That you were talking with some other slayers during a mission and you realized how far behind you are with sexual exploits. Not that it mattered much, but damn the way some of them were talking made you go a little crazy. “W…well…” You stammer, glancing at their disapproving faces. “Uh… I was really horny?” You offer up. Why the hell did you say that? Obanai shares a look with Sanemi while Kyojuro lets out a soft grunt.

Giyu steps forward, his brows knit together as he speaks. “And so you thought you’d ask each of us to fuck you?” He looks down the lineup, a long sigh slipping past his lips.

Sanemi takes a step forward, raking his eyes over your disheveled hair and red splotches on your neck. He scoffs, peering off to the side. “If you’re going to act like such a bitch in heat, then I think it’s rather fittin’ if you deal with the consequences.” He nods to the men behind him. “You had the courage to whore yourself out to one of us, so what’s the difference between having us all at once?”

Obanai joins his friend’s side. “Look at her Shinazugawa, she’s practically soaking from the very idea.” He steps around Sanemi, snatching up the point of your chin angrily. He squishes your cheeks together, forcing you to look up at him. There’s a glint of something salacious behind the vacant expression he usually wears. “You wet for us, hashira whore?” All you can manage is a meek nod, your eyes watering from the sting of his nails digging into your skin. “Good, that’s good. So eager to please.” He tilts his head, observing the tears welling in your eyes.

With a brisk movement, you’re lying on your back, the four of them hovering over you in various positions. Giyu and Obanai are near your head while Kyojuro and Sanemi pair off near your knees. “Who wants first taste?” Sanemi offers, lifting one of your legs up – his large hands encasing your calf as he works your stockings down from your knee. The tantalizing way in which he delicately pulls the fabric from your skin makes you squirm against the cushions.

Giyu takes it upon himself to make quick work of the top of your uniform. His fingers are dexterous as he unbuckles it, spreading apart the fabric to show off your silken shift. The peaks of your nipples hide nothing in regard to how incredibly sexy you find this situation. “Mmm, I don’t know Shinazugawa, I don’t know if our little slut will be satisfied with one cock filling ‘er up,” Kyojuro’s indecorous gaze is fixated on where your skirt has ridden up your thigh, exposing the cloth of your panties.

Sanemi has finally managed to slip off both of your stockings, keeping one of your legs strung over his shoulder. “Earlier you could barely get a word out, now look at you, spread out all nice for us. Such an obedient slut.” Obanai tuts to himself, slowly rolling his fingers to the hem of your shift. You yelp as he rips it apart, the silk fabric fluttering to your sides as both men near your chest earn approving nods from those at your hips. Giyu shifts his fingers under your neck, lifting your head so he can slide his lap underneath. There’s a firmness pressing against your upper back as he positions you against his chest.

“You’d better get comfortable, we’re going to be here a while,” Giyu mutters, lazily drawing circles on the skin of your shoulder. He places his lips against the top of your head, sweetly kissing that place before moving his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and it tickles. “I know I’ll be taking my sweet time letting you ride my cock. Let the others warm you up so you’ll be able to swallow me,” He pauses, brushing his nose along your temple a quiet laugh slipping from his mouth. “Whole,” He finishes, directing your gaze to where Kyojuro places a firm knee on the couch, the cushion dipping from his weight.

Obanai slides to his knees, discarding his haori to the floor. “Don’t let Kyojuro wreck your tight little pussy too much, I’ll get jealous.” He loosens the bandages around his mouth, letting them tumble to the ground as well. “You’re practically begging me to fuck those pretty lips of yours, but patience darling, the show is about to begin,” Obanai turns to watch Sanemi peel away your panties, a smug grin etched onto his lips.

Sanemi hangs your delicate cloth in front of his face, looking past them at you. “I’m surprised it took you this long to jump all of us. You want this so bad.” He tosses the panties to Obanai who immediately brings them to his nose. A hot feeling spreads across your body – a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

The snake hashira stares into your eyes as he slips a hand into his breeches. For a second his eyes flutter shut as he breathes in the smell of your soaking arousal. “Brace yourself, my sweet.” Kyojuro grins, lining himself up at your virgin entrance. You tear your eyes away from the snake hashira, wincing as the tip of Kyojuro’s cock slips past your folds. Giyu massages your shoulders in an attempt to comfort you. “I know baby, you’re doing so well. That’s it, relax just a little,” Kyojuro slurs, gripping your hips that he’s angled upward to meet his pelvis. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Sucking me in like the greedy little slut you are,” He hisses, gritting his teeth when he finds the wall of your virginity.

A great pressure builds up – almost stinging as he slowly slips in and out of you. It all feels so wonderful, the slick melody of skin against skin. It was a sound you’d never forget, along with the soft panting moans of the man next to you – eyes glazed over as he holds your undercloth to his nose still, watching Kyojuro thrust into you again as he wraps pale fingers around his own member. His cock is a leaking mess with an irritated tip, needy for your warmth.

Before you can react Sanemi grabs your cheeks forcing you to look at Kyojuro’s heaving chest. “I want you to watch as he breaks your precious little wall. Watch what it does to him.” He instructs and you all look upon the scene with bated breath. A weird sensation burns against the bruising head of Kyojuro’s cock. Then, with a yelp that cracks into a moan, he thrusts past your hymen – breaking the seal of your girlhood.

Heavy pants are falling from your mouth as Kyojuro’s nails dig into your plush skin, a devious smirk playing with his lips. “Haaa, I’m almost jealous at how quickly he gets pussy drunk.” Obanai expresses, humming to himself as he drops your panties around his aching cock, his precum soaking through the cloth.

Sanemi lets go of your mouth, but only slightly before his thumb slips past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. “Mmm, I think it’s time we put this mouth to use.” Sanemi muses, glancing at Giyu who nods approvingly.

He undoes his belt, slipping it out of the loops with ease. You didn’t know a simple action could be so attractive, but he makes you clench around Kyojuro. His breeches fall to the ground around his ankles, revealing the muscular pattern that guides your eyes to where his hand wraps around a pale pink cock. He cups his fingers around your jaw, guiding you to open your mouth for him. Spit sticks to your lips as he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. “Such a pretty mouth saying such filthy things,” He whispers, entranced by how pleading your gaze is. He scoffs, taking a few steps closer to your side. “Open wide darlin’, I’m not goin’ to be gentle.” His cock tastes sweet, almost creamy as it slides against your tongue. Your eyes roll back in your head as Kyojuro slaps his balls against your ass, burrowing his cock deep within you. It was like you could feel him poking your stomach with the sheer mass of his cock.

Sanemi keeps ahold of your throat as he fucks into your mouth, hissing out a few garbled moans of pleasure when you swirl your wet tongue around his length. “Ahh, fucking sure you’re a virgin? How much dick have you wrapped these sweet lips around?” Sanemi, runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a harsh laugh as you blink open your eyes through the warm tears welling there.

Kyojuro slaps your thigh, a broken laugh joining Sanemi’s. “Keep talking Shinazugawa, she’s loving it.” You try to gasp around Sanemi’s length, but it’s getting harder to swallow the excess saliva that drips from your lips. His hand slips into your hair, gathering a fistful before yanking your mouth off his swelling cock.

He glares down at you, panting wildly. “You like being slut-shamed aye? You want me to fuck you like one of my whores, huh? Open your mouth,” He hisses. After you do what you’re commanded to he spits into your mouth. “Swallow it,” and you do, all whilst fluttering around Kyojuro. An electric pulse feels like it's been plugged in. Ropes of heat string through your body as Kyojuro continues fucking you real good. Your mouth parts again, a hoarse moan shaking out of you as your thighs start to tremble.

Giyu’s rough hands move from your shoulders to your breasts, groping the mass on your chest like they were dough. “That’s a good girl, cum for us,” He coos, pinching your nipples with unrelenting pressure.

You almost can’t take it when Kyojuro plunges into you, halting his movements. “You’re throbbing, stop holding back. It’s not over just because you cum once.” Kyojuro complains, shifting himself inside, the friction driving you mad.

“Unless it’s too much for you?” Obanai chimes in, running his palm along your stomach, stopping where there’s a slight bulge from the cock currently stuffed inside of you. He turns his smirking gaze to you and is met with a defiant gleam in your eyes.

You tighten your hold around Kyojuro’s hips, digging your heels into his back as you mewl from the water hashira’s minstrations. “I-M’perfectly fine,” You croak, leaning your head against Giyu’s shoulder. He brushes his lips against yours with a smile.

There’s a sudden feeling of vacancy as Kyojuro pulls out of you. A whine echoes out of your mouth but is caught by the deep kiss of Giyu. “Don’t worry darlin’, just a shift change.” Sanemi gleams, laying back against the other side of the couch. “I think you could do with a change as well,” He mumbles, gesturing to his stiff cock. “Come’ere.” Giyu helps you sit up on your knees – though a little shaky you manage to straddle the thick thighs of the wind hashira. He grins up at you, his sharp face seeming so soft in this moment as he gently guides you to hover over his eager length. “I’ll help you,” His voice is reassuring, a jarring change from moments ago. He holds his cock with one hand, pressing the other into your hip. “Yeah, just like that. That’s my girl.” His eyes roll back in his head as you sink onto his length.

It’s a completely different type of full with Sanemi in this position. “You’re practically gaping,” Obanai notes, bending to glance at the junction of Sanemi’s cock and your hungry cunt. You flush, hissing at the sensitive way your pussy throbs around his length.

Sanemi grips your hips, a blown-out expression casting a lustful haze. “Heh, you still wantin’ more?” You catch your bottom lips between your teeth, slowly nodding to his question. “Should’ve known,” He chuckles, glancing over your shoulder at the ravenette still behind you. “If you think you’re so much better than us then why don’t you c’mere and work with me for once water lord?” Sanemi snaps, gathering Giyu’s attention. He glares at the antics of the wind hashira, but with one glance at your round ass just waiting for him everything else falls away.

“Alright Shinazugawa, I’ll bite.” He mutters. Sanemi nods to you, helping you shift off his cock ever so slightly.

Giyu moves behind you, pressing his knees between the legs of Sanemi. “M’gonna need you to angle your ass toward Giyu, petal. Is that okay with you?” He questions. You nod, a thrill of pleasure pulsing through your veins as a stretching pressure allows Giyu to push his cock into your pussy. You cry out, falling against Sanemi’s chest. “It’s okay, m’gonna make you feel real good.” Sanemi gives Giyu a look, and together they start moving slowly at first. It was an overwhelming amount of friction all leading to the tight sensation in your core.

Through your tears, you reach out to Kyojuro and Obanai. “Hmm, still hungry for more?” Obanai hisses. A string of whimpering moans hiccup from your mouth. Kyojuro works himself at the sight of both hashiras pumping into your bruised pussy.

You’re digging your nails into Sanemi’s shoulders, leaving red trails of ecstasy along the planes of his body. He hisses in pleasure at the sting of your actions. Giyu grabs hold of your ass, molding the plush skin to his fingers with great fascination. “S’well, take it all, both, fuck.” He moans, his head lulling back at the heavenly feel of your wet sex.

“A-ah, hngh, p-please,” You whine, arching your back as a howling moan careens out of your throat. “S’close, fuck.” You pant, squeezing your eyes closed.

Sanemi runs his hands along your thighs, groaning with satisfaction as his own climax nearly reaches him. “Me too, go ahead baby,”

A starburst of radiating wet warmth fills your body with tingles. You twitch wildly as Sanemi and Giyu spread their cum inside your cunt. It seeps through the cracks, dripping between your skin and theirs. A cacophony of pants echoes around the room. “My turn,” Obanai smirks, your fucked out pussy still pulsating with the cum of two other men.

You had a feeling this was going to be a long night.

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yoitsjay · 1 year ago

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Her Light Under the Moonlight.

Pairings: Crosshair x fem oc! Reader

Summary: so much pain, and trauma. Arian is there to comfort Crosshair when he needs her most.

Warnings: ptsd, mentions of death and trauma. Soft kisses

Word Count: 845

A/n: this is for my amazing friend @moomoog017, this is her oc and one of her favorite characters, so I hope you enjoy girly!

Post traumatic stress disorder was different in a lot of people, clones shared a lot of the same symptoms but they all have gone through different battles, and have witnessed different traumatic things.

Arian had seen a lot of death, clones being shot down, or sacrificing their own lifes for their general, or to make sure the mission would succeed. It was hard, it felt like every time she would befriend a clone, or even briefly get to know them, they would perish in the following battle.

When she met The Bad Batch it felt like her whole world had changed, her views shifted and she didn’t see loss nearly as much as she used to. After the war ended, she felt the massive shift in the universe and she felt depressed, she had been hunted by the clones she fought beside for years, and on top of that, the man she had grown so close to, Crosshair, had betrayed her and turned to the Empire.

Arian had gone through so much, but she felt as if she couldn't compare it to the clones she fought beside.

But her fight was over, especially after Tantiss, reuniting with crosshair, everything the others went through? and getting Omega back? peace was an option she could actually see in front of her.

A couple years on Pabu and she definitely softened up, though Arian did love her playful banter and Crosshair was happy to fuel that need for playful banter.

Though currently, Arian couldn’t fall asleep. It was midnight, or at least close to midnight, and no matter how much she tossed and turned she couldn't get comfortable enough to fall asleep. So she got up from her bed, pulling on a light shawl before she started making her way down to the beach area.

However when she arrived she sensed another presence down in the cave there, and she frowned, bracing herself for something unexpected. However when she entered the cave she noticed Crosshair sitting on the rocks, a few lanterns lit up in the cave which illuminated his back, however the moonlight in front of him made it look like he was glowing.

Arian smiled lightly, silently walking over to him, taking a seat beside him. “Hey sniper boy.” She greeted softly, admiring the way the moonlight reflected on the water and then reflected back into Crosshair's face.

He turned his head slightly, eyes glancing down to look at the woman, the corners of his lips tugging up into a smile. “Cant sleep?” Arian asked him, and in response he shook his head. “No i-” He cut himself off for a moment, glancing down at his mechanical hand. “I can't stop thinking about Tantiss.” he revealed, looking over at her again with a form of sadness in his eyes.

Arian frowned, scooting herself closer to him as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him for a brief moment until Crosshair pulled away. “I feel… useless now.” He sighed, looking away from Arian who frowned.

She shook her head, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Your not useless Crosshair. I’ve seen the way you help people here on Pabu… now you may be rough around the edges but I know how generous you are.” She spoke softly, catching his attention again.

“Really?” He asked, and Arian nodded, sliding her hand up to his cheek. He flinched back slightly, but when her hand was fully resting on his cheek he allowed himself to relax. “You need to start seeing yourself the way I do, Cross.” Arian whispered.

Crosshair leaned into her touch, looking at her with half lidded eyes as he inhaled through his nose, leaning further into her.

“And how do you see me?” He asked softly, seeing the smile grace Arians lips as she leaned in more, her minty breath fanning against his lips.

“I see a survivor. A man who protects those he loves.” She whispered, looking into his dark brown eyes. Crosshair couldn't help but smile, his mechanical and non-mechanical hand sliding up her sides before pulling her closer.

Crosshair bridged the gap between them, placing a soft delicate kiss against her lips, scared that if he moved any harder he might break her. But Arian was a big girl, and could take care of herself. So she deepened that kiss, nipping at his bottom lip which caused him to gasp.

The soft splashing of waves against rock was all that was heard in the background as the moonlight illuminated them both as they kissed under the mouth of the beach cave, he swallowed every sigh she let out, and she did the same.

Eventually they pulled back, and all that connected them both was a small string of saliva as Arian painted from the kiss, opening her eyes after a few moments, seeing Crosshair already looking at her.

“Your beautiful Crosshair, and so amazing.” Arian whispered, seeing his cheeks turn a bright pink as he looked away for a moment and smiled.

“And you Arian, are the light of my life.”

⤑

#fanfiction #tbb tech #the bad batch #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #tbb crosshair #tbb echo #tbb omega #star wars the bad batch #crosshair x oc #crosshair x fem oc #star wars oc #moomoog017

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nfr-reviews · 7 months ago

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NFR Reviews #12: Newark Athlete

Released 1891 / Inducted 2010

Watch film here

Many early actuality films enticed viewers through increasingly varied imagery and notable people. Subjects of Thomas Edison’s film studio included a lineup of the era’s celebrities: boxers, dancers such as Carmencita, father of modern bodybuilding Eugen Sandow, and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Travelog films, sometimes funded by railways, shot footage of scenic locations across the US and into Mexico, Hawaii, Japan, China, and Hong Kong. Major news events such as reenactments of the Spanish-American war and the aftermath of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake were covered. There were even suggestive films of women for the appeal to horniness. But before all that, the National Film Registry’s oldest entry is comparatively ordinary: thirteen seconds of an athlete swinging clubs. Later films were oriented towards wide commercial appeal, but this one was an experiment with Edison’s new technology.

Edison’s role in the invention of motion pictures has often been overstated. Centuries of inventors experimented with displaying a series of images at such a rapid-fire pace it gave the illusion of movement. 17th century magic lanterns functioned similarly to a slide projector backlit by kerosene lamps, while 1830s Stroboscopes made drawings appear to move when viewed through slits in a disc. The advent of photography in the mid-19th century opened further possibilities: Coleman Sellers’ 1860s Kinematoscope, which mounted photos on a wheel of paddles. Eadweard Muybridge’s 1870s Zoopraxiscope, an image projector inspired by a bet on whether a running horse takes all four hooves off the ground (they do, and Muybridge proved it by setting several cameras along a racetrack and using a string to set them off in quick succession as the horse ran past). Etienne-Jules Marey’s 1880s Chronophotographs, taken at a rate of 12 pictures per second by a camera he developed to better capture subjects in motion. William Friese-Greene, who designed a camera and widely displayed his films but struggled with film projection. Louis Aimé Le Prince, a contemporary of Edison’s who created the earliest motion picture footage on paper negatives in 1888. Both he and Edison experimented with celluloid film, but Prince disappeared in 1890 before he could complete his experiments.

The earliest test films were the Monkeyshines trio from 1889-90, a failed attempt to film movies on cylinders similar to sound recordings of the time. Newark Athlete was a subsequent attempt at moviemaking with clearer image quality intended to be viewed on Edison’s Kinetoscope, a machine which was completed and previewed to audiences in 1891. A kinetoscope looks like a cabinet with an eyepiece mounted on top. After collecting a nickel from the viewer, the celluloid would pass between the lens and a lightbulb and roll by quickly enough to create a motion picture. While Edison received much of the credit, these inventions were primarily created by his staff, especially assistant William K. L. Dickson. Edison came up with the basic concept of a “kinetoscope” and provided employees with the pay and lab space, but Dickson was the one who designed and created the working machine. He and his team also invented the kinetograph, a camera which recorded the film through a mechanism that moved the celluloid quickly enough to produce exposures.

Technological progress comes about through a mix of direct collaboration, like the employees who worked on the Kinetoscope, and similar ideas between unconnected people building off one another, like how Edison was influenced by Muybridge and Marey. The reality of patent law encourages people to instead pretend that progress comes through singular geniuses far ahead of anyone else. Patents on successful inventions can impact the livelihoods of inventors, not to mention their pride and sense of accomplishment. The law is supposed to prevent people from outright stealing someone’s invention and taking all the profit. Towards the end of William Dickson’s life, he mused that recently he’d been getting more credit for “my pioneer work at Edison’s–in producing the 1st film/present day cinema film…” He dated film samples sent to a relative several years earlier than their actual year of creation. It was speculated as an attempt to increase his importance to the origin of movies, as well as to establish when ideas were created in the eyes of patent law. Edison’s attempts to profit off his patents were more aggressive and had wider implications to the early film industry. He tried to patent the concept of a movie camera in itself, forcing competitors out of business. The Motion Picture Patents Company, in which Edison agreed to share patents amongst the nine largest film companies, was intended to be a solution to this. In practice, it smothered up-and-coming independent studios in copyright lawsuits and gave Edison more power than before. In 1915, the Sherman Antitrust Act put a stop to this through a court ruling that patents cannot be used “as a weapon to disable a rival contestant, or to drive him from the field.”

In the environment Newark Athlete was created in, it makes economic sense for inventors to cling to their ideas as unique. But this attitude harmed the medium as a whole when taken too far through Edison’s monopolistic strategies. In addition to the works that come out of them, the secondary value of smaller studios is to provide more competition and thus persuade the big players to do better. In comparison to later actuality films which depicted notable parts of history and culture, Newark Athlete is a simple test of what the Kinetoscope was capable of. It doesn’t represent the clear beginning of film, but it doesn’t have to. The National Film Registry doesn’t include non-American titles, including the work of people like Marey or Prince, so starting here makes some sense. However, its simplicity and debt to predecessors don’t prevent it from being a major innovation in its time with continued historical significance.

Sources

https://www.moma.org/collection/terms/kinetoscope

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/pickford-early-history-motion-pictures/

https://www.loc.gov/collections/edison-company-motion-pictures-and-sound-recordings/articles-and-essays/history-of-edison-motion-pictures/overview-of-the-edison-motion-pictures-by-genre/

https://blogs.unimelb.edu.au/librarycollections/2014/12/02/william-kennedy-laurie-dickson-a-legacy-of-the-moving-image/

https://www.lindahall.org/about/news/scientist-of-the-day/william-dickson/

https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2021/03/thomas-edison-the-unintentional-founder-of-hollywood/

https://www.bfi.org.uk/sight-and-sound/features/origins-cinema-early-inventors-pioneers

https://lkouniv.ac.in/site/writereaddata/siteContent/202004260643328777nishi_films.pdf

https://web.archive.org/web/20110514180127/http://www.kino.com/edison/d1.html

#newark athlete #release year: 1891 #induction year: 2010 #more sources in reblog

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toodleoorblx · 1 year ago

Text

I've Found You, I'm Bound to You

Agatha Harkness x Wanda Maximoff

Word count: 4,658

Summary: Wanda sees a lot of books, and trains.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 -/?

Warnings: violence, cursing, violence, mentions of death

A/N: Enjoy!!

Chapter 1 -How to Tame Your Agatha

Wanda wakes up in a heap of blood, a sight that has become disturbingly routine.

After switching her bed set, she takes a quick but thorough shower. Wanda steps out, the steam billowing around her as she wraps herself in a soft towel. She wipes the foggy mirror, staring at her reflection for a moment. Her eyes look tired, shadows of sleepless nights lingering beneath them. She shakes her head, pushing away the self-pity.

She goes through her usual morning routine with meticulous care. Brushing her teeth, combing her hair, and applying a light layer of moisturizer to her pale skin. Every step is methodical, almost mechanical, a way to ground herself in the present. She dries her hair, letting it fall naturally around her shoulders.

Wanda dresses in a plain pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt, the simplicity a comfort. She feels more herself in these clothes, less like the Scarlet Witch and more like the woman she used to be. She adds a simple silver necklace, the chain cool against her skin.

Her eyes drift to her nightstand, where a small collection of costume jewelry rings sit untouched. She hasn't worn them in years. Each one holds memories—some good, but most painful. Her fingers hover over the rings, hesitating. She doesn’t want to remember the bad days, the days filled with anxiety and pain. But she does want to remember Pietro, the days when he was alive and they were just two kids trying to survive in a world that didn't care.

With a deep breath, she picks up a ring with a small blue stone embedded in it. It's simple, but meaningful. Pietro had given it to her on their sixteenth birthday, a rare moment of joy in their tumultuous lives. They were still at HYDRA, he had stolen it from an unsuspecting nurse, with his superspeed. She slides the ring onto her finger, the cool metal a reminder of her brother's presence. It's a step, a small one, but significant. She’s acknowledging the past without letting it consume her.

With a heavy sigh, she heads downstairs to the kitchen. The prospect of coffee, something she once despised, now feels like a lifeline. Her body craves any source of energy it can find, as natural vitality seems to have deserted her months ago.

Leaning against the counter, she waits for the coffee to brew. The soft hum of the machine is almost soothing, almost enough to lull her back to sleep. Almost.

“Wandaaaaa!” The sudden, drawn-out call shatters the quiet, making Wanda jump. Her heart flips, and she’s instantly pulled from her drowsy state. She groans inwardly, having forgotten about the older woman's presence. Rubbing her eyes, she teleports to Agatha’s room.

Upon arrival, Wanda finds Agatha already dressed and ready for the day. Her hair is swept up into a neat bun, a few strands loose, and she’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow blouse tucked in neatly. The room, once sparse and utilitarian, is now nearly fully decorated and situated. Agatha has transformed it into a space that reflects her unique style.

Lanterns and candles are scattered around, casting a warm, flickering light. The scent of herbs and incense fills the air, creating an ambiance that is both mystical and comforting. On her desk, next to an array of magical trinkets and vials that look either poisonous or radioactive, sits Señor Scratchy in his cage, observing the room with twitching whiskers.

Agatha’s bed is covered with a black comforter set, contrasting with the intricate runes drawn on every wall in marker. Wanda wonders if the runes still hold their power when written in such a mundane medium. Behind her back, the younger woman tries to use some of her magic to make an orb, but it doesn't activate.

She’ll speak with Agatha about that later. The room is filled with various objects, each one exuding an aura of ancient magic and danger.

Another thing Wanda notices is the inhuman amount of books scattered messily all over the room. Towers of books are everywhere, far more than she remembers bringing with them.

What…?

“Agatha… I know you have your light reading but what the hell? Where did all these books come from?” Wanda asks annoyedly, without looking at her, her eyes fixed on a book titled How to Tame Your Banshee. She doesn't even want to know. “And why are there runes drawn on my wall?”

Agatha crosses her arms and “It's to keep little Scarlet Bitches like you at bay.” the older woman inclines her head towards her pet. “And Scratchy has a bottomless stomach, so he can transport things without needing any magic. I may have underestimated how much room this place has. Oops.”

Wanda suppouses she’ll give Agatha that, the security of having a space where she can’t use her magic. The younger woman tilts her head, putting her hands on her hips, eyeing Agatha’s pet with caution. “I… I don't think I want a magical rodent in my home…”

Agatha scoffs, putting a hand on her chest, giving Wanda a look. “First of all my familiar, is not a rodent, you crude fuck, and second, he's mostly docile when he knows I’m safe.”

Wanda squints and eyes her familiar, “Mostly…?”

Agatha waves her off, “Anyways, I need something for my grimoires, an open space where I can continue my studies. This room is far too small.”

Wanda crosses her arms, “That's a nice thought, but I still don't understand where you're getting at.”

Agatha smirks. “I could… oh, I don’t know…” She leans casually against her desk. “Use an office?”

Wanda tilts her head, her expression skeptical. “And what have you done to earn such a thing besides making me hate you all over again?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, "Hold your horses, Wands. I don’t think it’s a matter of what I ‘deserve,’” Agatha says, using air quotes with a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’s a simple request. Hell, consider it a condition of me training you.”

Wanda gapes, feeling a mix of frustration and irritation. She really doesn’t want to be Agatha’s personal superstore, but she’s tired and doesn’t feel like arguing. “Fine, whatever. Just don’t bother me with this.”

Agatha’s smirk widens, and she pushes off the desk to stand fully upright. “Good girl,” Wanda feels a shiver down her spine. “Now, get to work, after, we need breakfast.”

Wanda mutters a curse in Sokovian under her breath, but compiles.

Wanda finally finishes setting up Agatha's office. The room is now spacious, with plenty of shelving for Agatha's vast collection of texts. She has arranged the books in a way that makes the room feel like a mini-library, each shelf brimming with volumes of ancient knowledge and forbidden spells. There’s a small pen for Agatha’s familiar, Scratchy, who eyes Wanda warily from his new enclosure. A Victorian-style desk takes center stage, its surface polished and ready for use. There's a table closer to the bookshelves that's filled with herbs, empty jars, and empty vials. Gardening supplies are neatly organized in one corner, ready for Agatha's use. Wanda has laid down several rich, patterned rugs, adding a touch of warmth and comfort to the space.

Lanterns and candles are scattered throughout the room, casting a soft, flickering light that gives the office an almost magical glow. Vines and an abundance of plants add a touch of green, creating a serene atmosphere.

Maybe she had a little too much fun decorating…

“All done, have fun with your evil lair, Harkness.” Wanda flashes a passive-aggressive smile the older woman's way.

“Oh I will have lots of fun with this…” Agatha looks satisfied, Wanda doesn't know why she feels so good about that.

After a brief argument about whether or not the room should have a lock, Wanda ultimately wins, threatening to revert Agatha back to her “Agnes” persona if she doesn’t comply. Agatha, though annoyed, concedes.

With a flick of her wrist, Wanda teleports some of Agatha’s belongings into the newly created office and leaves Agatha to her devices.

Wanda is in her kitchen, meticulously preparing breakfast by hand. She prefers to do domestic tasks without magic; it keeps her human, she feels like. As she works, she chops vegetables, cracks eggs, and stirs batter, the rhythmic motions helping to calm her mind. The kitchen is filled with the comforting sounds of cooking: the sizzle of eggs hitting the pan, the gentle hum of the coffee maker, the occasional clink of utensils.

Her thoughts drift to her sons. Wanda doesn’t want to use too much magic around them; she’s terrified of accidentally hurting them. She’s always been cautious, but after everything that’s happened, her fear has intensified. She wants them to have as normal a life as possible, free from the chaos that magic can bring.

As she flips pancakes, she catches a glimpse of a family photo on the counter. Her heart aches at the sight of it. She takes a deep breath, pushing the painful thoughts aside. Today, she’ll focus on the little things. She’ll make breakfast, enjoy the moment, and keep moving forward.

The younger woman places her plate of food carefully, and pours herself a cup of coffee. She leans against the counter, savoring the moment of peace. Despite everything, there’s a sense of normalcy in these small routines. And for now, that’s enough.

Soon Agatha comes strutting into the kitchen, Señor Scratchy in tow. Her hair is down now, she has a little makeup on.

She sets her familiar on the counter while she grabs a plate to help herself. “I didn't know war babies could cook,” Agatha says with a faux shocked expression as she makes her way to the kitchen island to take a seat.

Wanda shoots her a sneer while she takes another bite of her pancake. “Careful, Harkness.” Wanda snarks, her accent more prominent.

Agatha raises her hands up defensively, “What? I'm just saying, you surprised me. Because believe me, I was certain you would have had a panic attack over how long to boil eggs.” Agatha retorts as she takes a bite of her salad and gives a piece to Senor Scratchy.

Wanda sighs as she chugs down some of her scorching coffee, it burns down her throat, waking her up with familiar twinges of pain. “And believe me when I say you will be surprised when your sorry ass is in Antarctica in the next five seconds.” Wanda snarls. She's already sick of Agatha's meaningless jabs. She'll have to put up with it for some time though. She has no rough layout as to how long this will take. Even though she wants to strangle Agatha, deep down, she has faith in her.

Very, very very deep down.

“My my, new threats? Oh how you have bettered yourself, red. Congratulations.” Agatha says dryly as she sips some coffee.

They both fall silent, with the occasional clicking of their forks, the nibbles of her familiar, and the clicking of their glasses hitting the counter. Wanda is about to ask Agatha about Senor Scratchy but Agatha beats her to it.

“I think we're done here. We won't be getting anything done by sitting around all day, let's get moving, sweetcheeks.” Agatha says briefly as she scoops up her dirty dishes and plops them in the sink, her familiar hopping on her shoulder, tucking himself comfortably under her locks. Agatha leans casually against the kitsch sink.

“What do I need to do?”

“First, you can change into your Scarlet Bitch costume,” Agatha says, gesturing lazily at Wanda.

Wanda rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Fine.”

She stands up hesitantly. Transforming into her Scarlet Witch attire is a process that makes her feel focused and powerful, but it’s also exhausting. Especially now, when her energy is significantly depleted. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to maintain the state without it draining her completely.

Wanda closes her eyes and sighs deeply, trying to focus. Agatha takes a seat on the island counter, examining Wanda closely. Her familiar sits on her shoulder, watching with what might be more hope than Agatha herself possesses.

Which probably isn’t much to begin with…

Wanda can see her in her in mind. Almost like looking through a distorted mirror. Her strongest form. The Scarlet Witch is so different from herself that it’s almost like looking at another person. The Scarlet Witch exudes confidence in her power and judgment, a confidence Wanda currently lacks. Her hair flows as if it has a life of its own, every strand imbued with magic. Her eyes blaze red like fire, her spirit as unyielding as a storm. Her fingers are dark as tar, a feature Wanda shares, but the Scarlet Witch wears them as a badge of her power, not a mark of a curse. It's frightening that she must embody her. She carries herself with an assurance that she can do anything and still know exactly where she stands in the world.

Wanda isn’t sure of much these days, much less herself.

To reach out to the Scarlet Witch within her, Wanda must align her mindset with that of her alter ego, or at least somewhat. It’s like tuning into the same frequency, a task that is incredibly taxing. Wanda is in no mental state to be someone as stable and powerful as the Scarlet Witch, but she will try. Even when she finds her sons, she doubts she can ever be as stable as she once was, before everything fell apart—before the bomb that started the avalanche some call her life.

Wanda breathes deeply, trying to center herself. She pushes past the exhaustion, the self-doubt, the fear. She focuses on the strength, the power, the unyielding will of the Scarlet Witch. Slowly, she feels the transformation begin. Her clothes shift, morphing into her iconic attire. The weight of the headpiece settles on her forehead, her hair flows freely, and her eyes ignite with a crimson glow. The younger woman feels a little lighter, less weighed down physically.

Agatha watches with an almost bored expression, but there’s a glint of something in her eyes. “Finally,” she mutters, more to herself than to Wanda.

Wanda opens her eyes, now fully transformed into the Scarlet Witch. Wanda notices that her attire has changed a little, the last time she saw her alter ego… or rather, embodied her, was back at Westview, and when she first arrived at her cabin. That was months ago. Now she feels… more knowing? Corrupt? She feels magically stronger. The room feels different, charged with the energy emanating from her. She feels the power coursing through her veins, the focus sharp and clear. Yet, she also feels the drain, the toll it takes on her already exhausted body.

Agatha hops off the counter and begins to circle Wanda like a vulture eyeing its next meal. Her eyes drink Wanda in, assessing her with a critical gaze. Her lips are pursed in deep thought as she scrutinizes every inch of Wanda’s form.

Agatha hums, her arms crossed. “Stand up straighter, shoulders back. You’re not a frightened puppy; you’re a supernatural entity that can destroy the fucking world. Act like it, for the gods' sakes.” She groans in annoyance and gives a tap to Wanda’s shoulder, prompting the younger woman to fix her posture.

“Stand directly in front of the door. But keep a good distance,” Agatha commands, her tone brooking no argument.

Wanda tilts her head in confusion. “What…?”

“Just do it, toots.”

Wanda’s gaze lingers on Agatha for a second longer before she concedes and does as instructed. Agatha pads to the front door and swings it open, revealing the river just outside the cabin. The brisk breeze wafts in, causing Agatha to shiver slightly.

Wanda, however, doesn't feel the cold. In this form, it seems she’s not susceptible to temperature changes. Interesting.

“So, how good would you say your aim accuracy is?” Agatha asks, shoving her hands in her pockets.

Wanda blinks, considering the question. Her accuracy has always been more intuitive than precise. “I'd say it’s decent enough. I normally just size my attacks up so I have a lesser chance of missing. It works.” She shrugs, her voice tinged with pride. “My targets were always moving quickly, and I didn’t exactly have an expert teaching me at the time. So I just made it harder to miss.”

Agatha tuts at her, waving her off with an exasperated sigh. “That’s… utterly lazy. We’ll be working on that. But anyways, you can start by focusing your energy into your core. It will get your magic stable inside you so that when you summon it, it will be ready for use rather than accumulating as you summon it.”

Wanda scoffs and shakes her head lightly but concedes. She closes her eyes, focusing on the magic in her gut. It starts off small at first, like dust slowly gaining form. It pools in her stomach, thrashing and flowing, unpredictable even for her. She wonders if it will always be like this. Unpredictable. She feels it fill her gut and begin to spill into the veins of her arms and legs, almost like a built-in brace. It hums beneath her fair skin, waiting to be called upon.

“Good girl,” she hears Agatha’s voice right behind her ear. Wanda squeals, jumping a little and grabbing onto the island counter. She nearly falls when the area she grabbed breaks off in her hand. Wanda stares in fear at the slab of the counter in her palm.

Did she just break the counter with her bare hands?

She glares at Agatha with confusion. Agatha only smirks at her knowingly. “And you were doing so well too. Shame you couldn't keep your composure, dear.”

“What just—” Wanda starts, her cheeks flushed as she stands straighter, placing the broken counter piece in the trash.

“Your magic is in your veins, it's idle there, unmoving until called for. It's not actively being used. So it's acting as a brace, strengthening your limbs if you weren't such a clutz you… why are you looking at me like that?” Agatha inquires as she walks over to Señor Scratchy, who is sitting by the sink. She gives him a few head scratches, then meets Wanda’s concerned gaze.

Wanda narrows her eyes, a mix of curiosity and suspicion flickering in them. “How do you know all this?”

Agatha snorts, a smirk playing on her lips. “I read all about you, sweetheart. Plus, your magic isn’t much different than my own.”

Wanda’s eyes widen slightly, a glimmer of hope and interest brightening her expression. “Really?”

“Yes,” Agatha replies, leaning against the counter. “Not on a power level, but more on a fundamental level.” The older woman rolls her eyes. “My magic is originally based on natural magic, then enhanced by dark magic. Take a wild guess which magic is most like yours.”

“Dark magic,”

“Bingo,” Agatha responds with a curt nod. “Your magic was enhanced by the Mind Stone. Dark magic is unpredictable and wild, it's more dangerous, but with the centuries of knowledge I have, it's manageable.”

Wanda’s mind races as she processes Agatha’s words. The idea that her magic, with all its unpredictability and raw power, could be harnessed and controlled like Agatha's is both thrilling and daunting. She takes a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with the older witch, she doesn't know if she likes it.

“How did you learn to control it?” Wanda asks, her voice soft but filled with curiosity.

Agatha shrugs, her demeanor surprisingly open. “Centuries of practice, trial and error, and a lot of patience. But the key is understanding the nature of your magic. Embrace it, don’t fight it. Once you accept it as part of you, controlling it becomes second nature.”

Her magic often feels like a wild animal she must tame, a beast she can barely control. It’s not ideal, but it's the power that will save her sons.

“What else do you want me to do exactly?” she asks, reprising her spot a few feet from the front door. She cracks her knuckles, a mix of nerves and determination coursing through her.

Agatha trails behind her, standing close—too close. Wanda can feel Agatha's presence, almost hearing her breathe. She doesn't comment on the proximity, instead turning to focus on the task at hand.

“Continue gathering your magic in your gut,” Agatha instructs, her tone firm but not unkind. “Then, I want to see how well you can aim your magic directly out of the door. Without collateral damage.”

Wanda nods slowly. That should be easy, right? But the intensity of Agatha’s watchful gaze makes her heart race. She closes her eyes, recounting her steps. She feels the magic gathering, its thrashing becoming more violent, more rushed. It spills into her limbs, scorching every vein. She feels it grow stronger, then suddenly her body starts shaking violently.

Cold hands clutch her arms and then her waist tightly before her eyes snap open. The entirety of her eyes glows a deep scarlet mixed with black, emitting a trail of magic. She barely has time to register the transformation before a loud, blinding ray of chaos magic erupts from her stomach.

The blast doesn’t harm her, but the sheer force of it demolishes the front of her cabin, leaving scorched and still smoldering wood in its wake. Wanda's arms and legs feel like they're on fire, her stomach hollow as if that last attack drained all her strength. The impact knocks her back, and she falls hard. She doesn't feel the pain from the fall, only the overwhelming emptiness and exhaustion.

As Wanda gasps, her ears ring loudly, and she can feel her blood pumping in her head. She realizes her back is against something warm. Wanda groans as she finds the willpower to slightly lift herself up and flip over. Blinking a few times, her vision still slightly impaired, it soon clears enough for her to see Agatha lying beneath her, eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar.

She hurt someone. Again. She lost control. Again.

Wanda sucks in a shaky breath as she moves the strands of white hair from Agatha’s face. Agatha looks peaceful, almost… serene? But the worry gnaws at Wanda's mind. What if she caused irreversible damage to the older woman's head? What if Agatha is seriously hurt?

Taking a deep breath, Wanda presses her ear to Agatha’s chest. She waits, each second stretching into what feels like an eternity, until she hears a faint but steady heartbeat.

Relief floods through her, and she slouches over Agatha. If Agatha were dead, her hopes of saving her sons and finding her own happiness would die with her. As she sits there, she feels an inexplicable amount of regret.

Wanda decides to ignore the thought of Agatha dying as she hears Agatha groan and shift under her. Her eyes are fixed intently on Agatha’s face, watching every small movement. A pain-filled sneer appears on the older woman's face as she slowly begins to open her blue eyes.

Agatha blinks lazily a few times, her expression gradually changing from disoriented to focused. She slowly turns her head and meets Wanda's concerned green eyes.

“Wanda?” Agatha asks, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice is softer, kinder, nothing like Agatha.

Wanda sighs, a mixture of relief and guilt washing over her. “Yeah, yeah, it’s me.”

After a few moments of staring at each other, Agatha's face twists into one of anger as clarity returns. She shoots up angrily, almost knocking Wanda to the floor, Wanda squirms to stand up, her body still pretty weak. Agatha stumbles, leaning against the counter, she’s probably weak as well.

“How the fuck did you manage do that? All I asked was for you to channel it, not try to exact your renege on the fucking place!” Agatha practically yells, rubbing her face. She starts glancing around frantically, likely in search of Senor Scratchy.

Wanda stammers, guilt tightening in her gut. “I—I didn't know—it was an accident! I lost control!” She takes her crown off, staring at it with dismay.

“Yeah, the fuck you did! I knew you needed help, but this—” Agatha laughs mirthlessly. “This is fucked. You’re fucked, Wanda!” she runs her hands through impossibly and beautifully messy hair.

At this point, Wanda can feel wetness on her flushed cheeks. She sniffles, aggressively wiping her tears as she bites her lip. “For a second I had it under control—”

Agatha gestures wildly to the destroyed wall. “You call this ‘under control’?! We could have died if I hadn’t pulled us away!” Agatha raises her voice some more, something tells Wanda that something is off with Agatha, something more than just her almost dying.

Wanda feels so, so weak. She lost control, and now she has to face the consequences. She doesn't understand why Agatha’s words affect her so deeply. Maybe it's because there's an undeniable truth lining every word. Maybe it's because she got to see how much of a danger she is again.

“I... I know. I'm sorry! I—I don't know what happened. One minute I was doing fine, then the next...” Wanda gazes wordlessly at the scorched wall, her eyes filled with sorrow and regret.

What if she was in a populated area? What death would have followed?

Agatha groans, her face etched with fury as she stalks up to Wanda, their chests almost touching. “You can't do anything right can you, hot shot?! It's like you don't even want to see your scarlet spawn!”

Everything falls silent. At least, it does for Wanda. The only sound is Agatha’s heavy, angry breathing. Wanda stares into Agatha’s livid eyes, and then realization sets in. Agatha clenches her jaw and fists, aware of the weight of her words.

…What did she just say?...

Something inside Wanda switches, like a light turning on, she feels utter rage and sadness. Her irises glow a dangerous red, unshed tears brimming in her eyes, her magic making them shimmer. Her hair begins to flow as if caught in an ethereal breeze. She stalks closer to Agatha, who suddenly looks pained. Agatha’s face turns a shade of purple as she claws at her throat, gasping for air, as if invisible hands are squeezing it. She stumbles back, hitting the counter, still struggling to breathe.

Wanda moves closer until their chests almost touch. “Don’t... Don’t you ever doubt my love and devotion to my children. I would fucking kill and die for them. You have no idea what it's like.” Wanda states, emotion etched into every syllable. Wanda releases her grip, and Agatha collapses in front of her, coughing and gasping for air, gripping the counter for support. She looks up at Wanda, with rage and... fear?

“You don't know what I know,” Agatha manages to say between coughs.

“I don't want to. I don't want to know what goes on in that sick mind of yours..” Wanda’s voice is calm but firm, tears still fall from her eyes. She raises her hand lazily, and the destroyed wall begins to repair itself, the pieces of scorched wood reassembling and restoring the cabin to its previous state. She gives Agatha one last assessing glare. The younger woman teleports away.

Wanda reappears in her bedroom, her heart still pounding with adrenaline and rage. She collapses onto her bed, her body trembling. She had lost control again, but this time it wasn’t just power—it was pure, unfiltered emotion. She clutches her pillow, tears streaming down her face.

She hurt Agatha on purpose… but it didn't completely feel like her. Yes, it was her rage, but… something was off.

#marvel #agatha harkness #mcu #spotify #magic #wagatha #harkximoff #wanda maximoff #Spotify

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