#minor? yeah i'm critical

[roxannepolice]

Masters, coyotes and reset buttons

Ok, so this has been going after me for a few months now and probably won't end up as coherent as I'd like it to, but this is also a warm up for finally fixing that stupid article that everyone tells me is good but has been halted by journal paperwork since 2020, so... As always, because there be salt, putting everything under a cut.

There's been this debate on whether the Master should be given a break from appearing for a while and, as always, it's usually taken somewhat hostile as an attack on the character or a particular actor (which. look if this was about acting skills BBC should have never moved from sir Derek Jacobi, period). And I would say the problem lies entirely elsewhere. Namely, circularity vs. linearity.

There has always been a mythical or commedia dell'arte element to the whole concept of regeneration, an archetypal thing in characters going by titles as names and having a certain set of characterisics and narrative functions that go along with those. Hell, commedia dell'arte even has a literal "Il Dottore" whose whole thing is embodying science and education - more often than not mockingly. When you employ Zeus rather than Poseidon in your story that's probably because there be weird sex rather than disproportionate fury. When you choose a paladin class in your rpg that's because you're going to have different skills and make different choices than if you were a rogue. Galahad and Lancelot will go on completely different journeys of nunnery/brothel and rescuing a prince from forced marriage even while they both seek the Holy Grail. When you want your children to have different properties you'll use your mantra to invoke four different gods.

The thing about archetypes, though, is that they are, literally, timeless. Or better yet, outside of time. But stories, narratives are, by nature, linear and timed. There's the beggining, the middle and the end. And of course, the whole fun is toying with the archetype, tweaking and reinterpreting them in specific contexts and stories. And DW has been doing a phenomenal job of it throughout its history, even if occasional nitpicks can be made. Classic Who was perhaps more circular and repeating in its storytelling and - sorry, posession by Marshall McLuhan - this makes sense in a medium where a story airs just a couple of times. There were arcs for each Doctor, though significantly more so for companions. NuWho became much more clear in this, but still mostly managed to keep a neat balance between the timelessness and timeliness.

Take the Saxon's story, which is what kickstarted me spilling here. Not to come off as a canon snob, but I think if he was an introduction to the character it may not be clear just how shocking him dying on the Valiant was. This is the character that was a skeleton, a gooey body snatching snake and a cat to go on living, and has been the Doctor's prisoner, in fact begging them to save them. Ten is 100% justified in his assumption that he'd never kill himself. His death introduced a major shift to their dynamic, especially when framed as fuelled by hatred. The finale in EoT is largely a return from this shift. No, the Doctor didn't only care for the Master because he wanted another Time Lord. No, the Master doesn't wholeheartedly hate the Doctor. They can and will always cooperate when there's a common enemy. As has been the case throughout all of Classic Who.

Enter Moffat era. Now, it's a bit of a cliche to say Moffat is a better episode writer than showrunner, but it being cliche does not make it incorrect. His poetic definitely works better when there's an ending, a specific goal in sight. In singular episodes this works like a charm. It worked terrifically in season 5. But later on there definitely came this element of "keep watching, because this is all heading somewhere, trust me". And all too often the answer was proving less interesting than the question. This was particularly clear in seasons 7-9, with return to Gallifrey being hyped up repeatedly, only to fianlly fall flat. And I guess Moffat realised that and decided to go for a soft reboot in season 10.

Which brings me to Missy and redemption arcs. Now, in our completely not puritan era there's way too much talk of whether characters deserve redemption, and what would account for a redemption, and how that differs between different legal systems, and too little appreciation that redemption narrative is as linear as they get. You get the starting point of sin and have a clear goal of that sin being repaid or undone. Sure, you can dig into that, and question that, and reinterpret that, and cynically cut that, but it always relies on that clear line. And it's obvious that Moffat was aware of how linear he wanted Missy, and indeed the Master in general, to be. The fucking text says that: "where we've always been going". The disagreement is only what that where is. Now, if the story was meant to be lieanr, then it really does make infinitelly more sense to view the events of EoT as a turning point in the thoschei relationship, but the story explicitly shuts that down. Nah, it was more infitely more important to have the initial sin embodied to be killed in the ultimate act of redemption. #symbolism

A slight tangent here. I know that the original plan for Delgado!Master was to have a redemption arc where he sarcifices himself for the Doctor, so I guess it can be argued this was indeed where the story was going all along. But things turned out how they did and people generally don't introduce Moriarty into their sherlockiana to have no actual screentime (literal or metaphorical), as was the original plan.

Aaaand then there's Spymaster. I've seen dozens of explanations of why he is the way he is, and whether that follows logically from Missy's story or not, and whether he might be before her, and whether he undoes her redemption, and blah blah, but the bitter truth is: Chibs hit the reset button. He hit it hard. No, we are not meant to keep in mind the events of s10 when we analyze the spydoc relationship. Again, a comparison to Moffat explicitly bringing up the events of EoT with Saxon, if only to brush them aside as meaningless for both parties. More importantly, if those were meant to affect Thirteen's hostile attitude towards the Master, then she shouldn't have been so shocked with his appearance. She might be surprised he regenerated, but like the whole reason for bitterness over being abandoned would go along with the expectation the Master did survive, that's why they left Twelve in the first place ffs. So, it would look like Chibnall tried to go back to a circular status quo after a linear redemption, and that's certainly what the writing thinks it's doing. Except now that the whole TTC can of worms has been opened, the relationship is deeply imbalanced. Imbalanced in a way that cannot be easily undone. Like, I know the fandom is trying to frame the Master's sense of inferiority as somehow mistaken and fanon!Thirteen certainly thinks so, but that's not what the text is saying. There is a misundertanding going on here, but a misunderstanding that goes on unresolved gets tiresome and frankly masochistic pretty fast. Either the Master should get to the point of understanding that the Doctor is not inherently superior to them because of past or magic of friendship and that they're Kenough, or accept the Doctor as their lord and saviour and martyred god who died so they may live and spend the rest of their days as a lapdog. Which, I understand the fandom may enjoy, but doesn't make for a very exciting story. So yes, there's definitely a linear narrative going on here. One that does need some time in a fridge and exposition of how the Doctor themself feels about their relationship before the character is brought back. Right now we are not in the The clown always gets up again, no matter how often he has been knocked down paradigm only No clowns were funny. That was the whole purpose of a clown. People laughed at clowns, but only out of nervousness. The point of clowns was that, after watching them, anything else that happened seemed enjoyable. It was nice to know there was someone worse off than you. Someone had to be the butt of the world.

Butbutbut, of course, what about Ainley!Master being brought back again and again seemlessly? That's just the thing - Ainley!Master existed in a completely different poetic. He was purely circular. He was the most circular of the Masters. He was as circular as you can get without actually being a cartoon coyote who only falls down when he realises he's midair. I'm not entirely ironic here - there is an inherent trickster element to the Master as a character! Perhaps more Goethe's Mephistopheles that Native Americans' Coyote, but between constanct scheming, shapeshifting and falling into the pits they've dug the elements are all there. And a trickster either endlessly travels between Olympus, Earth and Hades or gets killed by Heimdall.

And before a gotcha of me insanely hoping for a Saxon cameo either in the 60th anniversary or, that being off the table, somehow meeting Fourteen - yeah, in an anti-linear bubble. I've seen speculations that RTD wants to do another soft reboot, hence there's no knowing what Master will pop out of that tooth. As far as I wouldn't like it to be one of pre-Delgado Masters and for the record I wouldn't mind if it is Spymaster!, there's definitely something to the idea there's a soft reboot in The Giggle, with the Doctor "going home". Because you don't necessarily want to know what Odysseus' tax policies were once he reached Ithaka, but you do want to know that he's been a year on Circe's island.

[taamlok]

a year and a half since it came out for $90CAD and bg3 is finally "done", even though wyll has received no updates to bridge the major content gap AND karlach's entire personal quest is still just a fetch quest where you fetch the same thing multiple times for no reason because she dies or goes to hell either way 👍 cool

[who-is-page]

hi. seeing people talk about physically shapeshifting and that there’s a category of humans with like powers called supernaturals- shapeshifters, dragons, real vampires that need energy/blood, etc in such a matter of fact way is making me feel strange. there is no proof and science says otherwise, but there is a huge community claiming these experiences and they even have history/lore and that others have witnessed their shifts. is this objectively true and possible in the collective shared reality, or are these individuals experiencing psychosis without double book keeping or something? yes their experience is real to them but is it real in the collectively perceivable scientifically possible way? will diving into this be diving into delusional thinking and be risky for me? at what point does something need to be tagged unreality? I support everyone and their self expression, including folk with delusions that cannot dbk, but what is real? the amount of people claiming this and guides on everything make it seem like it must be real especially since they say it’s not a delusion. but is that just bc they can’t double book keep? this many people just happen to have the same delusion? I cannot diagnose people, and I don’t want to be ableist by saying it may be a delusion, but if it isn’t then what is it? what else do you call it? genuinely. I don’t know.

follow up question- it is not morally wrong if someone is experiencing a delusion without double book keeping and genuinely believes they can pshift. but people say pshifters are like intentionally harmful to other people because of how they talk about it. but what if they just talk about it as capital R Reality real and possible to achieve because they are experiencing a delusion and can’t help but talk about it like this bc it’s real to them? is the issue that they are unaware and unintentionally harming others or is there a specific intentional way they are talking about it different that is not excusable by delusions? I’m just trying to learn what people mean when they say they are bad bc I don’t want to be ableist about it /gen

---

This is....a lot of questions jammed into just a couple of asks, so I'll do my best to answer the main focus of them.

Look, at the end of the day regarding "is it a delusion? is it RealTM? are they just fucking lying?" I want to say that it just kind of fundamentally...doesn't actually matter?

The problem with self-identified p-shifters isn't that they're making claims that they can physically shapeshift or that they have physical nonhuman aspects. Physical nonhumans are fine (and are in this discussion a separate thing from p-shifters, because "p-shifter" is a very specific term with a specific history). The problem is that:

Telling a group of dysphoric individuals that they CAN be their true selves in an otherwise completely impossible way if they just try hard enough, and that any issue to do so is because of a personal failing (you didn't want it enough, you didn't try hard enough, etc.) is just kind of a shitty thing to do. It's also potentially dangerous.

The above idea has most notably been used to manipulate, scam, con, and hurt people by folks who have self-labeled as p-shifters. This is why so many folks are leery of the term "p-shifter." This doesn't mean that people who identify as p-shifters are inherently going to do any of that, but it can come across a lot of the time as though modern self-identified p-shifters are just handwaving that history--at least, that's how it appears to me, but maybe it's just me.

The ways that p-shifters talk about their experiences in capital R reality (without getting into the weeds of "is it true/it is real/are they just lying") are extremely triggering to delusional nonhumans, which is something that endels have talked more at length about; see babydog's post here.

The division between ignorance (do they just not know) and malice (do they just not care) doesn't matter here, imo. I also personally don't think p-shifting is real, because if it was, I don't think the otherkin and therian communities would actually exist-- because we'd all fuck off and go be animals in the woods. That, and the ye olde science side of Tumblr went out of their way to break it down and debunk it so, so many years ago: Biologyweeps even had a dedicated p-shifting right past the laws of physics tag, back in the day. But that's just my take on things.

[dumbstupidfandomblog]

Man. I just can't help but imagine Critical Role x Baldur's Gate 3 drabbles or a fic or something of that some sort. Idk, I just think it'd be really funny and also a chance for some really cute scenes. Especially with the Mighty Nein.

Now obviously there'd probably be SO much mistrust between the two groups, but just imagine if you will(possibly very minor spoilers under the cut):

Caleb and Gale(and maybe Essek) talking about wizard stuff and cats.

Jester introducing everyone to Artagan. I think Astarion would either like him or fucking hate him.

Karlach, Yasha, and Beau just working out together. Buff lesbians

Fjord and Wyll bonding over shitty patrons. If it's post Ukatoa then Fjord giving Wyll some hope about his situation. I just think it'd be sweet.

Caduceus and Halsin. That's it. I think they'd talk for literally HOURS, just drinking tea and talking about random shit and their respective circles 'n such. ALSO, I'm just imagining them sort of gossiping about and spilling their respective party's secrets to eachother. They'd be silly lol

Jester overhearing the whole convo with Astarion and Tav(if there's a tav in this??) about him not being able to see his reflection and immediately getting to work drawing a portrait of him. As soon as she shows and gives it to him, he's his usual sorta sassy self about it but he absolutely cherishes it.

Also I feel like Astarion would see different bits of his own past in some of the Mighty Nein, specifically Caleb and Yasha, and it'd piss him the FUCK off.

Jester and/or Molly reading the groups fortunes just for fun, the Oracle of the Moon Deck has some cards that would make the groups fortunes REALLY INTERESTING. Maybe Molly also pulls out some of the old circus tricks for fun.

On the topic of Molly, I think Lae'zel would have this very confusing respect for Molly? She'd find them really foolish at first and not think much of them, but I think she'd then see them actually in combat and be impressed with their skills.

I feel like Nott/Veth would just start mothering some of the bg3 party. Like not heavily, but a bit similar to how she does with Caleb. I could def see her pairing up with Astarion to steal some shit. Maybe King joins in if he's there.

Jester giving some of the group tattoos. Not everyone would get them obviously but I could definitely see Karlach and I suppose Tav going for it.

Nein Sided Tower shenanigans. That's all.

[hyperlexichypatia]

Okay, here's my criticism of this post I keep seeing -- and no, it's not what you think. I know, my longtime followers who know the kinds of things I post about a lot are probably thinking, "Oh, I know what their objection is going to be. It's going to be that 18-19 year olds are adults who can date older partners if they choose to." But no, that's not it this time! Yes, I do believe it's fine for young adults to date older adults if they choose to (and am accordingly rolling my eyes at all the "This should go up to 25!" comments in the notes), but. That's not my issue here. In fact, precisely because I believe that young adults dating older adults is morally neutral, I'm not at all concerned about the efficacy of the messaging against it. My concern is that underage minors being in sexual/romantic relationships with adults is actually harmful and dangerous, and therefore young people actually should be warned against it, and this is not an effective warning.

Fellow old people, do y'all remember being 14? At all? Would you have found this warning effective and compelling at that age?

I for sure would not! I did not! Quite the opposite!

Put yourself in the young person's position here. You have no rights. You're treated as someone with no agency. Your parents, teachers, government, and society as a whole treats you as some combination of "nuisance," "ticking time bomb," and "unthinking blob." Developmentally, you're at a phase of life when you should be transitioning to a more adult role, but everyone around you demonizes you for that desire. All your thoughts, feelings, and opinions are dismissed as the inconsequential ravings of Just A Dumb Kid Who Doesn't Know Any Better. You meet someone who treats you with basic human politeness, tells you that he likes you and that you're mature, actually treats you like you have two brain cells to rub together. Of course you're going to be drawn to him. And then when other adults warn you that obviously of course he doesn't really like you, that's impossible, of course you're not really mature, no one could possibly see you that way; actually you're naive and incapable of making your own decisions, and the way your parents/teachers/society treat you is completely justified. Are you going to heed those warnings?

Why are adults absolutely constitutionally incapable of giving good, necessary advice to teenagers without fucking insulting them in the process? Of course teenagers don't listen to it! Why would anyone??

"Oh, well, of course teenagers don't listen, because they're stubborn, and immature, and biologically determined to make bad decisions, which is all the more reason they need to be controlled," say adults, completely oblivious to the actual problem.

When I was a teenager, the big moral panic at the time was teen pregnancy, and we were all inundated with the least effective cautionary tales in the world: "If you get pregnant as a teen, you'll have to leave your parents' care and function as an adult!" Which left every girl who'd intentionally gotten pregnant for the explicit purpose of escaping her abusive parents saying "Yeah, that was the goal." And every girl who was looking for a way of escaping her abusive parents to think "What a great idea!" Today the big moral panic is older partners, but if the appeal of an older partner is that he treats you like someone capable of making your own decisions, why would you be persuaded by a counterargument of "Don't listen to him, of course you're not capable of making your own decisions!"?

Again. I'm saying this because I agree that adults dating minors is a bad thing and that minors should be warned against it. EFFECTIVELY.

That said, this is my advice to any 17-or-younger person being pursued by an 18+-year-old partner: Listen. You deserve so much better than the way society treats you. You deserve to be taken seriously. You deserve to make your own decisions in life. You have a mind of your own, and people should recognize that instead of treating your pesky "free will" as a personal affront or an inconvenient glitch. You can and should think for yourself. You deserve, and I hope you have, relationships with older people who validate those truths about you. However. You are still legally and materially powerless. I don't have to tell you that. You live it every day. Someone older than you -- and therefore, inherently, legally, more powerful than you -- should not be trying to extract things from you. Money, sex, unpaid labor, anything of value. Someone more powerful than you who truly values you, values your friendship, values you as a person, will be mindful of your status and not try to extract anything from you. Cross-age friendships are good. Older people can and should genuinely like and appreciate you, and you can and should genuinely like and appreciate them. But if they try to extract anything from you, run away.

[catboybiologist]

Yay I'm going to get all Political and angry again.

So pretty much every trans American is probably aware of the Sarah McBride situation at this point, but here's the bullet point summary if needed for anyone else:

Sarah McBride gets elected to the House as the first transgender member of Congress in US history.

Republicans predictably flip their shit. They pass internal rules of conduct that prohibit trans people from using bathrooms of their gender and stating that bathroom use is defined by AGAB. It obviously singles out McBride, but I believe there are trans staffers that are also affected.

McBride issues a statement that she will abide by these rules, and pretty much only use the bathroom directly associated with her physical office. She issues a statement saying she "wasn't elected for bathrooms" and will instead fight in issues that matter, with a milquetoast criticism of Republicans for wasting time on this.

Many trans Americans are predictably scared and disappointed by this, especially because this internal house rule is being used as a blueprint for more extensive laws, including a likely ban on trans people in gendered bathrooms in all federal land and buildings (including, notably for me, national parks. Which breaks my heart, but that's a different rant.)

There's been a lot of disappointment and criticism of McBride over this. The general leftist reaction has been criticism. There's lots of people that have expressed disappointment or rage, including Erin Reed, and also more "personality" type people like Vaush and Jessie Gender.

Now.

I'm disappointed too.

But. And please keep reading before chewing me out for being an apologist.

I think we can all understand that McBride is in an impossible situation. If she fights this too hard, then it vindicates the Republican rhetoric that Dems are crazy trans obsessed leftists. But there's a fear that this will only lead to more infringements of rights for trans people. McBride is completely stuck, and is a junior, freshly elected member of Congress who is trying to figure out how to make her voice the most effective.

I am so, so fucking tired of rights being ceded one by one. So I'm disappointed. But yeah, I understand McBride's statement.

But there's just one tiny. Eeny weeny. Minor. Itty Bitty question having over all of this. Just one little concern.

Where.

The fuck.

Are the rest of the Democrats?!?!?!?

There is a PAINFULLY fucking easy solution to all of this. McBride needs backing, solidarity, and other people to speak for her. If she's worried about her voice being effective, and being branded as the crazy trans representative, then step the fucking up, you spineless liberal slimebags.

AOC is the only one that I know of that has expressed any real opposition or anger. Her statements are getting aaallll the airtime.

But the real story is McBride's sentiment being echoed amongst the entire party. This is absolutely some kind of official platform. The fucking grumbling, milquetoast finger waving and "well I don't like this, but there's nothing to be done! Anyways"

Of fucking course minorites are abandoning the left. The message they're sending is "we'll abandon you with the most pathetic of excuses. We don't give a shit." Trimming groups out of their support one by one.

McBride is doing the impossible calculus of trying to be the most effective on the house floor. It's an insane task for a trans woman. And yeah, she got it wrong this time. But where the fuck is the anger for her cis colleagues? Why the fuck aren't people angry and terrified for everyone that let this shit happen?

As much as people love the narrative of the line wolf resistor, resistance takes coordination, effort, and solidarity. Without that, what would McBride raising opposition even be? One representative against the hundreds of others.

And yeah, of course I didn't expect any better from the Democratic party. But you should be disappointed and mad at your representative, not just McBride.

[loves4ge]

celebrity!au cw: swearing, gojo is disgustingly in love

gojo satoru is thoroughly and utterly fucked. there are only ten minutes left until he has to go live for an interview—promotional material for his new movie. the only problem is you, his sweet costar; you had him wrapped around your finger.

despite being each other's on-screen love interests, your schedules hadn't matched until now to do an interview together. and gojo fucking satoru, one of the biggest celebrities to ever set foot in the hall of fame, is nervous. because he knows when gets out there, you'll be waiting for him. you've always been early to places (not really, he's just late).

it's not just the thought of you that has his stomach twisting in knots, it's his obsessive—and frankly, scary—fangirls who hang onto his every look, every glance, every word. even if no one finds out about his itsy bitsy crush, they will. and they will ruin you.

and he can't do that to you! this is your big break after slaving away in minor roles with a no-name cast. you're in the spotlight too much after only have seen the light being shone on other people, there's already too much pressure on you. the sudden onslaught of fans can be overwhelming, but the critics? they're so much harsher than what you expected.

"gojo, get out." it's his manager. deep breaths, he advises himself as he lifts out of the chair and to the set. where you are. god.

"so, i hear the set can get pretty crazy?" the interviewer smiles as he says it. he has that mall santa vibe; a little bit jolly and just slightly discomfort inducing.

your laugh slips out and gojo swears he almost died there. but he makes a conscious effort to not look at your lips. he sneaks a glance anyway.

"that's right! you should see the mess this man makes," you say, nodding your head towards the white-blond man. he should've worn his sunglasses, at least that way he could've stared at you in peace.

"hey! i'm not at fault here," gojo defends himself, guffawed. he crosses his arms as if he was trying to protect his chastity. or defend his honor, i suppose.

"mm, that's what they all say." your playful tone has him weak in the knees and he's thanking the gods that he's sitting down otherwise he would've folded right then and there.

"so geto suguru was here earlier and he mentioned that there was some steam in the movie, eh?"

stay professional, stay professional, stay professional.

"oh yeah. there are a couple of scenes for sure. it wouldn't have turned out as well as they did if it wasn't for satoru. i've never done an intimate scene before and he was just so comforting and really, a strong source of support for me."

fuck.

gojo breaks into a grin, his hand platonically (he hopes) pats your shoulder.

"it actually wouldn't have gone so well if it wasn't for our earth shattering chemistry. and our intimacy coordinator. yep, you heard it here first guys. bridgerton isn't the only show that gets one!" he's not entirely sure if the comedic route was the one to take after your heartfelt confession but he can't seem to respond as sincerely as he wants on television.

your giggle makes up for it though. and the light slap against his thigh. god. he has to resist the urge to ask you to do it again.

---

10 MINUTE COMPILATION OF GOJO BEING DOWN BAD FOR HIS COSTAR (ft. geto)

[420technoblazeit]

i think i'm definitely in the minority with this but i genuinely don't care what christian linke says about jayvik. and i don't even mean that in a spiteful fuck that guy! kind of way i mean i think that he's allowed to have an opinion on his own characters. if he doesn't think that jayce and viktor's relationship has romantic undertones that's fine with me. he's not the only writer in that room and i think he has the right to express his opinion considering that this is his show that he worked on for 9 years. also he didn't even completely discount it he just said that he saw some kind of love between them and he thinks they have a deep complex relationship

i read the thing he said about how he doesn't understand why people immediately jumped to a romantic relationship as him genuinely just being like yeah idk i dont see it. but he didn't really seem upset about it and i hesitate to think of him as a raging homophobe. if he wants to say that he thinks of viktor as asexual then fine whatever that's cool. i know some asexuals are upset about that bc they feel like he's using that identity to deflect criticism but i dont really see it that way as an ace myself. idk maybe i just don't take a lot of stock in so called word of god canon but it feels like all of twitter is dogpiling him right now and painting him as this horrible homophobic asshole who hates all the shipping

[writingsbytee]

I LOVE YOU

SUMMARY: The reader and Terry say ‘I love you for the first time’

WARNINGS:  SMUT!!! 18+; MINORS DON’T INTERACT!!!!!;  ‘p’ in ‘v’, pure filth; MDOM; use of “daddy”, “babygirl”; size kink; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it); switch; slight FDOM if you squint.

Word count: 1.587

Please be nice to me. This is my first time ever writing or posting for other people to consume. I accept constructive criticism but don’t be mean please. I hope you guys enjoy! I'm so excited to share this with you guys. Please don’t plagiarize my work 😘

“Fuck Daddy! Right there! Right there! Oh God!” I nearly scream into my pillow. 

“Yeah? That’s the spot baby?” Terry moans, as he obliterates my cervix with his thick dick. His thrusts are punishing. He is tearing my ass up and I’m loving every second of it. 

“Y- yes Daddy it feels so good. You always make me feel so gooood”, I moan out. I’m almost delirious at this point. We’ve been going at it for hours now. Terry and I rented a cabin in Lake Tahoe for our first anniversary. We could barely unpack before we were on each other. 

“Deeper Daddy! Please! I need to feel that big fucking dick in my stomach! Please give it to me Daddy!” This man has me moaning like an absolute slut. Saying things that would make a monk blush. 

“Well, fucking take this dick baby. Take it all,” Terry growls, grabbing a few pillows, and placing one under my head and my lower stomach. He then grabbed both my arms, pinning them behind my back, then using his other hand to hold my head against my pillow, and then he went to WORK.

If I thought we were fucking before, that’s nothing compared to what we’re doing now. He is digging my shit out. His dick is punishing my cervix like it stole something. I let out a high-pitched moan when one of his hands came cracking down on my ass. He slid his hand to hold the back of my throat and I practically purred, complete putty in this man’s hand. 

“Fuck yeah, baby! Look at you, being such a good girl f’me. Taking Daddy’s dick like a champion. Baby, you’re so pretty like this.” Terry rains praise after praise on me and I can’t help but bounce my ass just a bit harder.

“Ooh you like hearing that shit huh baby? You’re doing so good for me pretty girl. Fuck you’re so wet baby I feel like I’ll slide out. This is the best fucking pussy ever! Shit! Yeah, that’s right fuck your dick baby. Take that shit c’mon!”

“Terry! Fuck! It’s feels so good! I need this baby fuck I love you,” I moan out. I barely process him pulling out of me before he flips me over. 

“What’d you say?” Terry asks.

“Hmm?” I ask in a daze.

“Just now baby, what did you say?” Terry asks coming face to face with me.

I close my eyes recalling the last few minutes and I gasp. I look up at Terry, and he looks like the world’s cutest golden retriever. 

I smile before saying, “I love you, Terry.”

He grins wide at me, “I was supposed to say it first. Now I have to punish you for stealing my thunder.”

“Oh no!” I say rolling my eyes.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” Terry asked his voice deepening sexily.

“I did, and what are you going to do about it, Daddy?” I ask flipping back over and interlocking my hands at the base of my spine. 

Terry chuckles darkly before interlacing one of his hands with both of mine. I hear the crack of his hand across my asscheek before I feel it. The delicious warmth spreading across my ass pulls a needy whine from deep in my belly. Terry grips the meat of my asscheek soothing the burn before he leans forward to whisper in my ear.

“Start counting babygirl.” He raises back up, his hand lays in three slaps back to back. 

A squeal leaves my lips as the third slap lands, “one, two, three”

“I can’t fucking hear you!” Terry grabs the ponytail he so lovingly put my hair in before he yanks me up.

“C’mon, you can be loud talking all that shit. Be loud while I’m laying into this ass. Just for that start over,” Terry says in my ear. His voice is so sexy I could come from this alone.

“No, Daddy please don’t! I need you! Please!” I moan out grinding back trying to catch his dick.

“Oh, what’s wrong? You want me to fuck this pussy don’t you baby?”

I moan, “Yes, yes, please!”

“Listen to yourself. So fucking desperate for this dick. Why should I give it to you? Huh?!” He lands three more slaps on my ass.

“Ugh! Because I love you, baby. Don’t you want me to show you?” I smirk and shake my ass, jiggling the way he likes. 

“Fucking show me then. Take your fucking dick baby”, Terry says as he leans back on on his calves. I take that as my sign to show out. 

“Let me turn around Daddy. I want to see you, please,” I whine trying to get out of his grip. 

“Well, since you asked so nicely, I guess that’s fine. But, you’re doing all the work. Show me you love me baby”, Terry whispers in my ear while rubbing my clit in slow agonizing circles. 

 I moan as he releases my hands and slowly turn around. I look up at my handsome ex-marine and my hearts warms as I give him a dopey smile.

“What’s got you smiling all big baby?”, Terry asks caressing my cheek.

I lean into his hand, “Oh nothing, just love you.”

“I love you too babygirl, now come on and fuck me so we can get pho later,” Terry chuckles with another slap on my ass. A man that feeds me after he fucks me silly? Yeah, let me fuck the shit out him real quick. I turn in his arms and lace my fingers behind his neck.

“Kiss me,” I say pulling his head towards mine so that our lips could meet.  When our lips finally meet, I slide myself down his thick shaft. 

“Ohh Daddy you’re so deep inside me,” I moan as the tip of his dick kisses my cervix.

“Right where I belong, now get to work before I take over,” Terry says his hand sliding down to my throat gripping slightly. 

“Whatever daddy wants,” I moan as I slide myself up and down his dick. I watch Terry’s face changes as I start grinding. 

“Mm, fuck baby that’s what I’m talking about. Fuck me,” Terry’s eyes darken the color of storm clouds, his teeth buried in his lip, and his brow furrowed. 

“You look so sexy like this baby, taking my pussy like a good boy. Tell me how much you love it,” I say in his ear before taking a small bite.

Terry groans tilting his head back like he can’t take it and my smirk widens, “I love your pussy baby, you know I do. Always so warm and wet for me, fuck you’re going to make be cum”

“Lift that head up baby look at me, show me how good it feels,” I shift on my toes so that I can bounce a little bit harder. He lifts his head up to look at me. Seeing Terry become undone by me has to be the biggest turn on. This mountain of a man, and I do mean man is a whimpering, moaning mess because of me. If that doesn’t make a woman feel like a goddess I don’t know what will.

“Oh baby I love seeing you like this. You’re so pussy drunk you can barely keep your eyes open. I’m getting close baby I need you to do something for me ok Daddy?”

“Anything babygirl, whatever you want.. mm fuck I’m going to cum”, Terry’s trying to hold on. The grip on my hips so tight I know they’ll be bruises in the morning. 

“That’s what I want Daddy. Come. Fill this pussy up, give me everything you have. I need it”, I whine mouthing all over his neck. 

Terry brings his hand towards my clit and starts to rub with his thumb while pressing my lower belly with his remaining fingers. 

“Oh shit! Terry! Fuck!”, I scream as the dam breaks. I come so hard my eyes cross. Next thing I know my face is buried in the pillows again and Terry is pounding my shit.

“Yeah you was talking all that shit! Fuck, now look at you! Dick made you stupid huh?”

I’m a moaning mess. Tears streaming down my face at the overstimulation. The dick definitely made me stupid. 

“I’m about to fill this pussy up! Fucccckkkk”, Terry groans cumming deep inside me. I hum satisfied mumbling a quiet ‘thank you daddy’. He slides out of me slowly before flopping next to me on his back. 

“Goddamn baby. We couldn’t even get in the door good,” Terry chuckles. I reach for him, my hand rubbing his chest right above his heart. 

“ It was so worth it, I love you baby,” I say looking up at him still too fucked out to move. 

Terry leans over placing a kiss at the base of my spine, “Not as much as I love you. Now come on let’s go eat before you get too tired”

[whore-ibly-hot]

'Photo Shoot'

Yan!Photography Student x GN!reader x Yan!Art instructor (Joseph and Mr. Burton)

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: All characters are legal age, multiple yanderes, dub-con touching, perverted thoughts, voyeurism, student/teacher dynamics, nude photography, no real mention of specific genitals

AN: I'm so eepy right now... Also, if you like this fic, use the tags on my masterlist to find all the other Yan!Boarding School writings.

The smoke coming from the corner of the room ceases when Mr. Burton snuffs a cigarette butt out on an... ashtray? From where you're sat, you can see him putting it out on what looks more like a student pottery bowl. That strikes you as odd, but he can be very critical of others art so you can't be suprised. Cracking his knuckles and leaning back a little, he turns to you and the extremely quiet classmate beside you, Joseph.

"Alright, lets get this show on the road, yeah? Joseph, you're our camera man, I'll have you leading this thing, running the camera's and I'll give some creative direction. Student and the master, I can finally teach some actual fucking art." Mr. Burton mumbles, as Joseph quickly begins setting up the camera on a tri-pod. You feel odd about him to say the least, despite you being the 'muse', as Mr. Burrton calls you, Joseph's barely made eye contact with you. You agreed right off the bat when Mr. Burton asked you to help one of his favorite students with some anatomy shoots, you like Mr. Burton, he's funny, honest, and that's refreshing, given you worry some people at this academy have ulterior motives. Still, you had some concerns as you fiddle with the thin top you wore at Mr. Burton's request. "Mr. Burton?" you ask, and he looks up from where he's mumbling about something with Joseph. He motions for the young man to keep working as he strolls over.

"I'm nervous." You admit, hand rubbing at your elbow as an attempt to self-soothe. "I don't usually get, nude, on camera, and i-it's not that I don't trust you, sir, but-" He puts his hand up to cut you off, gently rubbing your shoulder. "Woah, woah. I get it, I get it." He assures you, tone comforting. "You're my student, and you've got great, great potential. I've been on the art scene, kid, I see the burnout path some people go down, I see the ways people exploit and get exploited. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. If you get uncomfortable, I'll pull you out. And trust me, being in the nude for art starts to feel perfectly normal after a while, okay?" He pauses, then sighs. "Okay, it's comfortable except for being cold as hell." He laughs.

You chuckle in return, but there's still a bit of worry. He can tell, and leans in. "What is it that worries you, exactly? If it's insecurity, trust me, the real artists are those marketing execs who can photoshop a skinny model and make change up the whole idea of beau-"

"It's not that sir, I promise. I'm just worried about other people seeing, you know? I'm worried about it getting spread around, or people getting bad ideas about me." You admit, face a little pale. Mr. Burton's brows furrow, and he slaps his hand down on his jeans. "Joseph, come here!" He yells.

Joseph jumps, hands shaking as he almost knocks over his tripod. "But- uh, the cameras-" He squeaks out, and Mr. Burton shakes his head. "You're one of the best photographers I've ever met, Joseph, I know damn well that cameras been set up for well over ten minutes already. Come here, don't be shy, don't be weird. You're freaking out the subject." At the idea him staying away is freaking you out just as much as him coming up to you, Joseph walks over. "H-hi." he greets, holding out his hand. You shake it, and it is particularly sweaty.

"Joseph is a great photographer, my best student and possibly one of the best I've ever seen. I assure you, he's a good kid. He's dedicated to his craft, this isn't a complex scheme for him to fence some nudes of you to the highest bidder." The young man's eyes widen exponentially as Mr. Burton makes his assertion, and instinctually puts his hands up in surrender. "No, no! I would never, ever. Do I- do I come off as that kind of creep, if I do I'm sorry."

"No, it's not that at all, I just struggle with, well, some issues like that." Joseph visibly frowns, and Mr. Burtons hand tenses from it's spot on the table.

"You are pretty creepy, Joseph." Mr. Burton admits, making the boy flush as the teacher playfully pushes his head. "This'll be good, good art pushes outside of comfort zones, yeah? Let's get all set up." He claps his hands together as he goes to stand behinf the camera with Joseph. You strip, and sit awkwardly before the camera in front of a messy brick wall with various stains and prints on it from Mr. Burton's studio. Mr. Burtons licks his lips subconsciously as he looks over your meek form, the clears his throat. "Okay, first position, mermaid pose. Lets get those legs to the side."

The shoot continues on for a while, until Mr. Burton suggests a more 'raw' shoot. That's how you find yourself posing, hands over your chest area and thighs ever so slightly parted while Mr. Burton sits behind you, also nude. You worried about it being inappropriate, mostly for his sake. "Couldn't this... I mean, I'm willing to do it if you think it'll be good art, but won't you get in trouble if people find out?" You ask, turning over your shoulder a bit. He scoffs again, and shakes his head. "No self-respecting person with credentials like mine would teach these silver spoon brats art, I'm all they've got." He assures you, going to move an arm around your waist from behind.

"What composition do you want, sir?" Joseph asks, face red as he uses every ounce of will-power to try and suppress an erection at the sight of you and the older man. He'll worry about the new and conflicting feelings later. He's got enough photos to die happy, but the fact you seem so willing fills him with a delusional sense of your interest in him.

"It's your shoot, Joseph. Take over directing." Mr. Burton calls back, and Joseph doesn't seem sure. "I don't know, sir, you have more of a vision than me, and-" Mr. Burton groans, rolling his head back like a kid throwing a tantrum. "Jesus christ, kid. How many times do I have to hammer in that you're a good artist? You can direct your own shoots-" He notices the violently red flush of Josephs cheeks, and chuckles. "Or is this more an issue of being to embarrassed, because I told you-" He waves his free arm around. "We are pushing the envelope, making something raw, pushing ourselves out of comfort zones. To be a great artist, you have to not be afraid to tell your NUDE SUBJECT, to spread their legs and bare it all." Joseph is completely silent, stun-locked by his gruff teachers comments. He begins examining the shot in the view-finder after taking a few shaky breathes.

"Alright, Sir... of course." He swallows, and his shaky hands adjust the lens. "I want to-to try and delineate from what other people think nude shoots are, away from like... porn and stuff. Raw, but intimate, I think." Mr. Burton nods for him to continue, and seeing the interest in your eyes at his creative direction, Joseph gets a little more confident. "If you're okay with it-" He addresses you now. "I'd like Mr. Burton to be able to touch you, nothing too invasive, just a kiss on the neck or the shoulder, maybe letting him hold your thigh?" Joseph keeps his tone soft and asking, sure to imply you can say no.

"That's alright, I trust him." You mumble, looking at the gruff art instructor and seeing to your surprise a soft look on his face. "I'm honored, little muse." He teases, and the nickname makes you flush. "Oh, and you too, Joseph, we've not talked much, um, but you seem really dedicated, I'm sure I'm in good hands."

Shit. Well, so much for keeping his dick down, but at least he doesn't think you can see from the way the lighting is set up. He nods, and you shiver, feeling a cold pair of lips and a thin stubble scratch at the surface of your shoulder. "Are they cold?" Mr. Burton chuckles, placing a few more small kisses as you hear the camera shutter snap. "I'm sorry, I can't control the thermostat in here, all this money and they can't afford to make sure I don't freeze my dick off doing my job." He's always so grumpy, even when he's trying to be sweet. You close your eyes and try to relax into the feeling. It escalates occasionally, hands on your thighs as he kneads gently at your flesh, occasionally making a complaint about something or picking at Joseph, who keeps making an odd series of grunts, but you assume he's just breathing heavy from being so focused.

It culminates in you being positioned over him, as if playing the playful or dominate role in some sort of erotic moment. Mr. Burtons hands rest on your ass, his firm yet not fully erect cock a little too close to your hole. You're chest to chest with him, and while he's relishing in the feeling, Joseph makes a hand motion, and he knows its time to pull away, at least for this ession. He's smart, knows not to rush it, and he knows this is more than enough material for the vouyeristic camerman.

"I think we got some good shots, i-it's getting late. I'll go grab something from the vending machine while you too warm up." Joseph scarmbles away, camera bag held oddly across his crotch area. Mr. Burton smiles as you slide off from him, flushed as the weight of your previous position hits you. "You were great, a real professional." He urges, scooting forward to sit beside you.

"Thank you, sir. I was trying not to get too flushed or anything, I hope I didn't sweat too much." You admit, and he shakes his head to assure you. "Nah, you did fine, but if I could make a suggestion?" You look up. "No real intimate scene like that doesn't have a couple kissing. On your neck and shoulders was fine, but lets face it, people do more than neck each other when they're getting it on like that." He glances at the door, making sure Joseph is still doing whatever it is he's doing out there. He didn't discuss this part with the young artist, but let's face it, learning to be one step ahead, to protect your work and your muse, is something he's gonna have to learn anyways. "Will you let me show you?" he asks, voice low as he leans closer to your face.

You glance at the camera. "It's not running, though shouldn't we wait for joseph to take the photo?" You ask, a little more unsure about the artistic integrity of the action. He shakes his head as he lets his stubble scratch your cheek. "This'll be practice, yeah? For next time..."

"Next time?"

"Next time." He mumbles, lips feverishly sealing against your as he hunces over your form, cold bodies pressing together and leaving goosebumps which trail down your form as the session closes out.

[underskz]

➪ mark lee x reader ✩ w.c ~500 — 18+ minors dni —

✰ NON-IDOL AU

pov: spilled beer + hot asshole = bad decisions

note: yeah again idk i saw these pics of mark and that stupid red solo cup and was like sure ok write a blurb or whatever of him at a party :') i hate my brain it's getting critical...idk think nct 127 party and specifically that vid where they're playing pong bc thats forever in my brain and will forever serve as inspo for any and all party fics with them..... this is a cry for help

warnings: alcohol, bad language, mark (tbh all of the members in this) is not so secretly a dick and a player lol, a weak semblance of plot i put together with spit and duct tape (don't read too much into it)

"Oh shit! Aw man, my bad."

The cold splash of beer soaking through the front of your shirt is more than enough to have your head snapping up to shoot the nastiest glare you can possibly conjure at the offender.

Mark fucking Lee.

Standing before you with that stupid wide eyed look on his face and hands clasped together apologetically. You're eyebrow twitches when you can hear a few snickers coming from the general vicinity of where you last saw Johnny and Jaehyun, slightly tightening your grip on your own cup and biting down the temptation of chucking it in their direction.

And any other clueless twit would've been putty the moment they realized just who exactly doused them with at least half a cup of shitty beer, accepting his sorry excuse for an apology in a heartbeat.

"Don't you mean, sorry?" You hiss, jaw aching from how tightly your teeth press together. Again you swallow down every venomous word crawling up your throat, all too appealing when he cocks his head.

"Oh yeah sure, sorry." And he smirks, one of his dimples fully on display and he's truly the epitome of the most unapologetic fuckboy you've ever been cursed to lay eyes upon.

"Fuck off, I'm outta here." Slamming down your cup on a nearby surface before turning to shoot one last glare at Mark.

You only agreed to coming here because your friend had begged you to damn near on their hands and knees and some pitiful story about needing to get into Yuta's pants.

But just as you take a step back his hand shoots out, fingers tightly wrapping around your wrist and now you're wondering if punching him right in that stupid dimple is an overkill.

"Aw, don't be like that, you can borrow one of mine!"

"I'd rather chew pavement." There's a twinge in your chest when he pouts, looking a little wounded at the harshness of your tone.

And maybe you didn't have a real reason for hating him, other than the fact he's led on two of your friends—just to leave them in tears and you to pick up the pieces—and obnoxiously dated that one stereotypical mean girl you had the displeasure of attending the same university with.

"Okay okay, here, I'll give you this one." Releasing your wrist and starting to take off the loose black tee hanging off of him.

"Fuckin'- stop, stop, fine!" Your hands coming to catch his this time around, irritation throbbing in your temples as you let him lead you towards his room. You well enough know the second you step foot into it your fate is sealed, the stories and rumors infamous in the social circle the two of you share.

He opens the door and grins at you, hand extended as if he's some sort of gentleman. You take it.

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Don't kill me and enjoy it <3

Pairing: Dark!Witch Wanda x Fem Reader

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Warnings: angst, angst, angst (drop the knife now)

Summary: When Seline is born and everything seems to be peaceful, you almost forget what your destiny is… almost.

Hey. Now I've masterlist

OBLIVION

The muffled sound of blows echoed through the training room, keeping pace with the steady rhythm of heavy breaths. You tried to keep up with Natasha, but your growing belly made each movement more challenging. Natasha, as always, was flawless—agile, precise, and sporting a teasing smirk as she effortlessly dodged your attacks.

"You're getting slow," she taunted, circling around you with the grace of a panther.

"You're not carrying a child, Romanoff," you replied, your voice firm but breathless.

"That's no excuse," Natasha countered, throwing a punch that stopped inches from your face before pulling back. "If you were my enemy, this... slowdown of yours would be enough to lose."

You shot her an exasperated look, but there was something in Natasha's eyes that didn’t match her words—a hidden concern, a care she masked behind her teasing.

"I'm here to train, not to be insulted," you replied, blocking another strike but feeling the fatigue build.

"This is training," Natasha said, stepping back and crossing her arms, watching you with an expression that was half-critical, half-amused. "And insults are part of the package."

You huffed, taking a few steps back and resting your hands on your hips as you caught your breath. "Maybe you should try carrying a child and then tell me how easy it is."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a smile. "I'll pass. I'd rather deal with hostile agents and assassins—they're more predictable."

You laughed, but the ache in your muscles didn’t fade. As Natasha relaxed, crossing her arms and watching you, her gaze drifted again to your belly.

"You're obsessed, Romanoff," you said, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not," she replied quickly, but the lie was obvious.

"Yes, you are. Look at you—you seem like you're about to fall apart."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. "It’s just... strange," Natasha finally said, her voice softer, almost hesitant. "Seeing a woman like this."

"Like what?" you asked, challenging, as you grabbed a water bottle.

"Vulnerable and yet so happy."

The word hung between you, heavy yet full of meaning. Natasha, always so controlled, always burying her emotions deep, seemed to be letting more slip than she intended.

"Nat," you said, approaching slowly. "Do you want to feel it?"

She froze, surprise evident on her face. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because..." Natasha hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty flashing in her gaze. "Because it's not... my thing. I'm not good with this."

"This?" you pressed, tilting your head. "Emotions in general?"

Natasha sighed, a sound of both frustration and resignation. "Yeah."

"Well," you said with a soft smile, taking her hand before she could protest, "maybe you should practice."

You guided her hand to your belly, and Natasha didn’t resist. For a moment, she stayed still, almost as if afraid of doing something wrong. Then Seline responded with a strong kick, right where Natasha’s hand rested.

"She kicked," Natasha said, surprised, her eyes wide.

"She likes you," you replied, smiling.

Natasha remained silent, her hand still on your belly. There was something in her expression you couldn’t fully decipher—a mix of wonder, vulnerability, and perhaps a glimpse of something she rarely let show.

When she finally pulled away, her composure returned, but there was a soft glow in her eyes. "It’s getting late. We’ll train more tomorrow."

Without waiting for a response, Natasha turned and walked away, but you knew there was much more behind that façade than she was willing to admit.

The Tower's dining table was as lively as ever. Plates were scattered, conversations overlapped, and you, at the center of it all, were attacking your third plate like it was a competition. Thor and Tony watched with expressions of mixed fascination and disbelief.

"I swear, I haven’t seen anyone eat this much since I brought that boar to Asgard," Thor commented, resting his elbows on the table as he watched you with a delighted grin.

Tony, of course, didn’t miss the chance to chime in. "Seriously, what’s in there? A black hole? Or are you training for an eating olympics?"

You paused, your mouth full of pasta, raised an eyebrow, and swallowed before replying with a defiant smile. "Are you really going to disrespect a Guardian?"

Thor let out a hearty laugh, slapping the table. "Guardian or not, this is impressive!"

Before Tony could add anything, you leaned in slightly towards him. "And a Maximoff, don’t forget."

That was enough to silence Stark for a second, but the moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Wanda entered the kitchen, her gaze instantly finding you and then the two instigators.

"Maximoff?" she asked, a sharp sweetness in her voice. Her eyes slowly moved between Tony and Thor. "Is there something I should know?"

Thor, immediately catching her tone, raised his hands in surrender. "We were just teasing her, Wanda. No harm meant."

Tony, however, didn’t know when to quit. "We’re just saying she’s eating like she’s been challenged by you."

Wanda crossed her arms, a red glow starting to emanate from her hands as she tilted her head threateningly. "Challenged by me?"

The room fell silent. You had to admit, Wanda knew how to make an entrance. Feigning innocence, you shrugged and pointed at the two of them. "They’re questioning my abilities, love."

Wanda gave a small smile, but her expression still carried that playful menace. "Are they now?"

Thor stood abruptly, laughing nervously. "I just remembered—I have... training!" He hurried out, muttering something about battles and honor.

Tony took a step back, raising his hands. "Alright, you win. I’m officially out."

As the two left the room, Wanda approached, sitting beside you. She grabbed a piece of bread from your plate, biting into it, her eyes shining with amusement. "Do you really need me to handle them?"

"I do. It’s more impactful," you replied, laughing as you reached for another bite.

Wanda chuckled softly, relaxing beside you. "Well, I think they’ve learned to respect a Maximoff and her Guardian now. Priceless."

"It has a price," you said, grabbing another slice of lasagna. "And it’s paid in lasagna. Want some?"

Wanda laughed again, taking a forkful, her laughter filling the room. It was an ordinary night in the Tower—chaos, food, and veiled threats. In other words, perfection.

The atmosphere in the main room of the Tower was relaxed, as always, when the Avengers began teasing each other. Wanda was sitting next to you on the couch, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your hand, when Clint was the first to start provoking.

“You know, Maximoff, age seems to be catching up with you,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Ever thought about retiring? Maybe taking up knitting?”

Tony laughed, adding, “Yeah, because if it were an agility contest, you wouldn’t stand a chance against us.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, scoffing in disbelief. “Nice try.”

The lighthearted mood took on a competitive edge as Tony leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with mockery. “Show us you can do more than mess around with younger girls,” he said, a sharp smile spreading across his lips.

The comment made you press your lips together to stifle a laugh, while Wanda merely stared at him, her eyes narrowing, and a dangerous calm settling over her face. “Do you really want to go down that road, Stark?”

“Why not?” he replied, casually gesturing with a coffee cup in hand. “We could use some entertainment, and who better than the Scarlet Witch to impress us?”

Clint, laughing in the background, added, “I’ll bet five bucks she can’t take me down this time.”

Thor shook his head, lifting Mjolnir. "I, on the other hand, bet Maximoff has enough tricks to keep us on our toes."

But before she could respond, you leaned in, biting her ear and giving her a pleading look. "Give them a little taste, love?"

Wanda gave a crooked smile, her fingers still tracing circles on your hand, as if the conversation hadn't affected her at all. But you could feel her energy shift, the growing excitement at the provocation. "You're all feeling so confident today," she remarked, standing gracefully. "Let's see how much of that is true."

"Training room?" Steve suggested, already on his feet, wearing that competitive grin.

"Why not?" Wanda replied, adjusting her jacket and throwing a sidelong glance at you. "Come watch, my sweet. This is going to be fun."

The group filed into the training area, and the energy in the room shifted instantly. The banter gave way to focused determination, though each of the Avengers wore playful smirks.

Wanda, for her part, was in her element. With a slight wave of her hand, she tucked her hair back, the red glow of her magic already pulsing at her fingertips.

"Bring it on, Maximoff," Tony began, adjusting his suit as the repulsors glowed in his palms. "Show us what you've got, but take it easy. This suit was expensive."

"If you're worried about the suit, maybe you should sit this one out," Wanda shot back, a mischievous smile curling her lips.

Clint positioned himself nearby, already with an arrow nocked. "Alright, but fair warning, if you destroy another one of my bows, I'm sending the bill directly to you."

"You need to hit something first," Wanda countered, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

Clint didn't wait to respond. He drew the bow and loosed an arrow straight at her. But with an elegant flick of her hand, the arrow froze mid-air, spun around, and flew back, hitting the target in the corner of the room.

"A bit predictable, don't you think?" Wanda commented, her voice full of feigned innocence.

Thor stepped forward with Mjolnir in hand, his heavy footsteps echoing across the floor. He spun the hammer in a wide arc, attempting to catch Wanda off guard. But before the blow could land, a scarlet barrier appeared, blocking the impact effortlessly.

"Ah, the hammer trick," Wanda said in a monotone, tilting her head. "Is that still the best you've got, Thor?" Thor let out a hearty laugh.

"We'll see if you're still laughing when you feel the weight of Mjolnir!" With that, he hurled the hammer at her, but Wanda extended her hand, stopping it mid-air. The red glow enveloped the sacred metal.

"Interesting," she murmured, studying the hammer for a moment before tossing it back to him. Meanwhile, Tony flanked her, raising a hand to fire an energy beam.

Wanda, sensing the move, performed a graceful backflip, landing lightly. "Really, Stark? You'll need to try something more creative."

"I'm just warming up," he replied, adjusting his aim for another shot. The others were clearly struggling to keep up. Clint tried a sneaky approach from the side, but Wanda noticed him before he even got close. A subtle gesture of her hand made him float briefly before she placed him back on the ground.

"Sweetheart, you're making this too easy," she teased, spinning gracefully to dodge another blast from Tony.

"Okay, that was good," Clint admitted as he got back on his feet. The group began to circle her, as if trying to formulate a strategy together. But Wanda was a step ahead, her movements calculated and precise, playing with each of them as if it were a choreographed dance.

"Are you all going to keep this up, or should I start taking this seriously?" Wanda asked, smiling at the group with that playful, challenging gleam in her eyes.

Bruce, already in Hulk form, watched the sparring with an amused grin, his green eyes glinting with mischief. While the others were still focused on Wanda, he seemed to have something else in mind.

His gaze fell on you, sitting outside the ring, relaxed and momentarily distracted. Suddenly, giant green hands lifted you into the air. The movement was so quick that you barely had time to react. Hulk held you as if you weighed nothing, his deep laughter echoing through the room.

"Bruce!" you protested, the shock mixed with a slight smile of disbelief, but he just shook his head, as if saying you were part of the game too. On the other side of the room, Wanda froze. The magic pulsating in her hands vanished instantly, replaced by an intense glow in her eyes.

She turned toward Bruce, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Bruce," she called, her voice low but filled with a warning no one dared to ignore. "Put her down. Now." Hulk laughed as if it were a joke. "Relax, Wanda. She's safe. I'm careful."

You tried to intervene, raising a hand. "Wanda, it's fine, he's just playing—" But she wasn't listening. Not really. Her entire focus was on Bruce and the fact that he was holding you so precariously, so vulnerably. Her mind seemed to race through all the possibilities, each more dangerous than the last.

"You're overstepping, Bruce," she said again, now walking toward him, each step deliberate. Bruce tilted his head, the grin still on his face.

"Then stop playing," he challenged, and, as if to make a point, took a large step away with you still in his hands. That was enough. Before he could take another step, the air around Wanda grew heavy.

Scarlet energy filled the room, vibrating with an intensity that made everyone else stop in their tracks. Hulk hesitated, but it was too late. Scarlet chains of energy wrapped around his arms, immobilizing him.

He tried to resist, but Wanda's magic was relentless, gently pulling you out of his grasp and placing you on the ground as if you were made of glass.

Wanda was by your side in an instant, her hands scanning you carefully, ensuring nothing was out of place. Her face was a mask of calm, but there was something almost feral in her eyes as she turned to Bruce.

"I warned you," she said, her voice so controlled it was more frightening than if she had yelled.

Hulk relaxed slightly, the chains around his arms fading as he met her gaze. "You're intense, Maximoff," he muttered, looking a bit uncomfortable now.

"And you're reckless," Wanda retorted, not taking her eyes off him. "If anything happened to her, or to Seline..." She let the sentence hang, but everyone understood her meaning.

The silence in the room was thick until you laughed softly, trying to break the tension. "Alright, everyone. I think we've had enough excitement for one day."

The other Avengers watched quietly, clearly impressed by the display of power. Clint broke the silence first, laughing nervously. "It's official. I'm never provoking you again, Maximoff."

Wanda only smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist. "If you ever feel like competing, you know where to find me."

You couldn't hold back your laughter, leaning in to whisper, "I love when you show who's boss."

She gently squeezed your waist, a satisfied smile dancing on her lips. “And I love teaching them a lesson.”

[...]

Wanda’s day began with a heavy energy in the air, almost suffocating. She woke up feeling restless, as if something invisible was pressing on her chest, but she ignored the sensation, attributing it to the usual work anxiety and her constant worry for you and the baby.

She arrived at the base early, hoping to get a head start on some reports, but it quickly became clear that the day would be anything but simple. The elevator, which never malfunctioned, got stuck midway for a few minutes. While waiting, Wanda noticed something unusual: a faint purple light flickered on the control panel buttons. She blinked, confused, but before she could inspect it further, the elevator resumed operation.

During the morning briefing, things got even stranger. The projector refused to turn on, even though it had been in perfect working order the day before. When Wanda tried to fix it with magic, the cables vibrated like snakes, and the lights flickered, casting purple hues around the room before everything went completely dark.

“Everything okay there, Wanda?” a voice asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, just... technical issues,” she replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

As she tried to carry on with her day, it felt like the universe was conspiring against her. On the training field, her energy attack spiraled out of control, exploding in a disproportionate wave that knocked over crates and startled everyone around her. The explosion’s reflection flashed purple before fading, sending a chill down Wanda’s spine.

“Maximoff, do you need a break?” another voice asked, but Wanda shook her head, determined to push through.

But the unease only grew worse. Objects disappeared and reappeared in absurd places—a coffee mug she was sure she’d left on the desk was now on the hallway floor, perfectly intact. Important documents went missing, only to be found hours later in another building on the base. Each detail seemed minor, but together they created chaos Wanda couldn’t ignore.

A melody echoed softly in her mind, something familiar she couldn’t quite place. Occasionally, she caught flashes of purple in her peripheral vision, but every time she turned to look, nothing was there.

When her phone buzzed with your message—"Wanda, I feel like something is wrong. Are you okay there? Come home soon."—she almost cried with relief. She didn’t want to be there anymore, stuck in a day that felt completely out of control.

“Enough,” she muttered to herself, dropping the papers on her desk and ignoring the curious looks as she left the room.

On her way home, the traffic seemed worse than usual, cars inching forward as if the universe itself was delaying her return. Wanda closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to stay calm. All she wanted was to reach you, hear your voice, and feel the baby move beneath her hands.

The day’s training was meant to be a distraction. You had decided to leave home and head to the Tower to clear your mind while Wanda finished her shift, despite the slight discomfort you had felt in the morning. A mild unease, perhaps just a normal pregnancy symptom. Or so you hoped.

Natasha watched your every move on the mat with her usual critical gaze, but something in her expression was different. You knew she was noticing what you were trying to ignore: your strikes were slow, your posture clumsy, and every move seemed to require more effort than usual.

“Hey, take a break,” Natasha said, raising a hand to stop the session. “What’s going on? You’re more distracted than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, trying to mask the discomfort, but Natasha’s expression didn’t change. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

“You’re carrying a giant baby inside you, and I’m not going to be responsible for making things worse,” she said firmly, placing her hands on her hips.

Before you could argue, a more intense wave of pain shot through your belly, and you gasped, stopping abruptly. Natasha was at your side in a second, her hand on your arm to steady you.

“This doesn’t feel normal,” she said, now visibly worried.

You were about to respond, but before you could say anything, you felt something warm and wet trickle down your legs. The soft sound of dripping on the mat was enough to freeze the room.

“Oh my God,” you murmured, looking down. “My water broke.”

Natasha stood frozen for a moment, her eyes wide, but quickly recovered. “Okay, it’s fine. Breathe. Just don’t panic.”

As if her words were some kind of signal, the other Avengers on the floor quickly noticed the situation. Tony was the first to appear in the doorway, followed by Thor and Clint.

“What’s happening?” Tony asked, looking at Natasha and then at you. When he realized what had happened, he took two steps back, as if facing a ticking bomb.

“She’s about to give birth!” Natasha replied, exasperated.

“Wait, now? Here?” Clint asked, already visibly panicking.

Thor, on the other hand, seemed more fascinated than worried. “This is a great moment! We must get hot water, towels…”

“Thor, she’s not giving birth on the mat! It’s not sanitary,” Natasha cut him off, already pulling out her phone.

But as the confusion unfolded, a very subtle purple glow flickered across one of the ceiling lights, almost imperceptible but enough to make you shiver. The air seemed to carry a strange energy, something out of place.

You grabbed Natasha’s arm. “I need you to call Wanda now,” you said, urgency in your voice.

“I’m already on it,” Natasha replied, her tone calm, though her eyes betrayed growing concern.

As everyone debated the best course of action, you couldn’t help but look at the ceiling again, where that purple glow had briefly appeared.

The same unease you’d felt earlier returned, stronger this time. Something was happening, and you knew it wasn’t just the imminent arrival of the baby.

“Just get me out of here,” you pleaded, trying to stay calm as chaos reigned around you.

And deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the glow wasn’t a coincidence. Someone or something was playing a dangerous game, and now seemed to be the exact moment when everything was about to change.

The training room had been transformed into an improvised birthing scene, with Natasha taking the lead while the other Avengers tried, without much success, to help. Clint was holding a stack of clean towels, looking completely lost, while Tony, even in his armor, seemed on the verge of a breakdown.

Thor, on the other hand, delivered encouraging speeches that were of no help, and Bruce, now untransformed, murmured something about basic medical techniques.

Natasha, however, stayed calm. She monitored you closely, her steady hand on your wrist as she counted the seconds between contractions. “You’re doing great. Breathe with me, okay? That’s it, just a little more.”

You tried to focus on her instructions, but the pain was intense, and the fear of Wanda not being there yet made everything seem even harder. “Nat, she needs to be here… I can’t do this without her.” Thick tears streamed down your face.

“She’s coming,” Natasha replied, her voice low but firm. “I promise she’ll get here.”

“No. No. This isn’t how we planned it.” You cried out, pushing as another contraction hit hard on your left side. “This wasn’t supposed to happen for a few more weeks. Wanda was going to miss work because I can’t do this without her, Natasha. I could never do this without her!”

And then, as if your words were a prophecy, the entire room seemed to tremble. A pulsing red energy flooded the space, silencing everyone instantly. Wanda emerged from a portal in the center of the room, her eyes glowing a vivid red, her breath labored, and her expression pure panic.

“Where is she?” Wanda demanded, her voice thick with emotion and anger. Her eyes scanned the room until they found you, lying down, sweating but alive.

“Wanda…” you murmured, tears streaming down your face at the sight of her.

The energy around Wanda dissipated instantly, but her relief was short-lived. As soon as she took a step toward you, a sharp pain coursed through her body, and she doubled over, clutching her own abdomen as if she could feel your labor pains.

“Wanda!” Natasha exclaimed, rushing to steady her.

“I’m fine,” Wanda said, lifting her head with effort. Her eyes met yours, and the world seemed to stop for a moment. The two of you connected in a way you had never experienced before—a perfect fusion of love, fear, and strength.

“You can do this,” Wanda said, her voice a whisper but filled with conviction. She approached and fell to her knees beside you, holding your hand firmly.

In that moment, even with the pain you were both feeling, everything felt right. It was as if you were made to face this together, two souls intertwined, meeting the greatest challenge of your lives. Wanda pressed her forehead against yours, your tears mingling as Natasha took control of the situation again.

“She’ll be here in just a few minutes; your dilation looks great,” Natasha said, her voice softer now.

With Wanda by your side, you felt a wave of strength surge through you.

“You hear that, darling? You’re doing amazing.” She stroked your sweaty hair while gripping your hand tightly. “Now push, Dekta. Let’s show the world our little ‘magic moon.’”

The room was charged with a unique, almost tangible energy. Natasha remained calm as the moment approached, guiding you with steady patience. Wanda never let go of your hand, her fingers interlocked with yours as she whispered words of encouragement that seemed to draw strength directly from her soul.

“You’re almost there, darling,” Natasha announced, her tone firm but full of gentleness. “One more time. Just one more.”

Wanda leaned close to you, her eyes locked on yours, love radiating from every part of her. “I’m here, always. You can do this, my love.”

With one final burst of strength, you screamed, channeling all your pain into energy. Then, the sound broke through the silence—the sweet, full cry of a newborn baby.

The entire room held its breath for a moment, as if the world had paused to welcome this new life. Natasha, with careful hands, held the tiny body in her arms. She wrapped the baby in a clean blanket and, with an emotional smile, placed her in Wanda’s arms.

You looked at Wanda holding the little girl, and your heart swelled. Never in your life had you felt anything so pure, so genuine. When Wanda turned to you and gently placed Seline in your arms, it was as if the entire universe had aligned.

“Seline…” you murmured, savoring the name, each syllable carrying the promise of a future you had never dared to imagine. Tears fell freely as you looked at the tiny life that bore your features and Wanda’s spirit.

Wanda smiled, her eyes brimming with tears as she gently caressed the baby’s tiny face with trembling fingers. “She has your eyes,” you said, pointing at Wanda.

“And your cheeks,” she replied, laughing softly as more tears streamed down her face.

Around you, the Avengers were frozen, overwhelmed by a mixture of awe and emotion. Even Tony seemed to have lost his words. Thor discreetly wiped away a tear, and for the first time, Natasha looked vulnerable to the moment.

But for you and Wanda, nothing else existed. Holding Seline in your arms, feeling her small heart beating strong against yours, everything felt perfect. She was the missing piece to your magic, your love, your world.

“Seline,” Wanda repeated, her voice as soft as her touch. She leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead, then to Seline’s. “You’re everything to us.”

In that moment, there was no more pain, no more fear, no more doubt. Only love. A love so deep and infinite it seemed to expand and fill every corner of the universe. Seline was the center of it all, the miracle you and Wanda had created and would never forget.

A few minutes later, you were offered a room to rest with the baby until the next day. As soon as you lay on the soft bed, your eyes closed in exhaustion.

In the corner of the room, Wanda sat in an armchair with Seline nestled in her arms. The baby slept peacefully, her tiny fingers curled around one of Wanda’s.

As Wanda gazed at her daughter, a wave of emotions overcame her. She remembered the last universe she had invaded, a memory that still haunted her. She had felt envy seeing her counterpart in that world. That Wanda had everything—children who adored her, a home that seemed to embrace every part of who she was. It was a picture so perfect it felt unattainable, so far from what Wanda believed she deserved.

She lowered her eyes to Seline, feeling her heart tighten. “I was right to be envious,” she murmured softly, as if confessing a secret to the little one. Seline shifted slightly but stayed in her tranquil sleep. Wanda couldn’t help the smile that broke across her face, a gentle smile full of love.

“Who wouldn’t be envious?” she continued, her eyes shining with a mix of awe and wonder. “You… your mother… the boys… this life. These are the most precious things anyone could have.”

She traced the delicate contours of Seline’s face with her fingers as if wanting to memorize every detail. There was something almost sacred about that moment, a sense of completeness she had never felt before.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” Wanda whispered, her voice breaking. “And now that I have it, I can barely believe it. I never knew something so small could hold so much love… so much hope.”

She glanced at you sleeping peacefully on the bed, your breathing soft and steady, and felt a wave of gratitude that seemed impossible to contain. You were her rock, her salvation, the other half of her soul. And now, with Seline in her arms, the cycle was complete.

Wanda pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead, closing her eyes for a moment. That moment was hers. It didn’t matter the struggles, the challenges, or the shadows that might arise. There, in the quiet of the room, with her daughter in her arms and you within her gaze, Wanda knew she had something no universe could take from her: a family.

Wanda opened the portal to Westview, her heart pounding. The thought of seeing Billy and Tommy again, now with the news of a sister, filled her chest with hope. The familiar red glow enveloped the air around her as she arrived in the town that had once been her refuge. But something was wrong.

The streets were too silent. The wind blew, scattering dry leaves, but there were no laughs or children’s voices. Wanda frowned, her chest tightening as she made her way to the school. No sign of them. Not even the teachers knew where the boys were.

Vision. He must know, Wanda thought as she teleported home. But the android was alone in the living room, a confused expression on his face. "They’re not here, Wanda. I haven’t seen them since this morning."

The world started to spin. Chaos grew in her mind as she searched every corner of the house with her magic, trying to sense any trace of their presence. Nothing.

"This doesn’t make sense," she murmured, her eyes stinging with tears. Vision placed a hand on her shoulder.

"We’ll find them, Wanda. Together."

But something inside Wanda shattered. It was like reliving the worst moments of her life, every time she lost something she loved. The magic around her began to pulse violently as she and Vision prepared to search beyond Westview's boundaries.

When Wanda returned to Avengers Tower, the silence that greeted her was almost deafening. The main corridor was deserted, the air heavy with something she didn’t yet understand.

Until she saw Thor.

He was sitting against the wall, his broad shoulders hunched, the hammer resting beside him, covered in dried blood. Cuts covered every inch of his skin, his armor shattered as if he’d faced an army alone. Wanda felt her stomach turn.

"Thor," she called, her voice trembling. He looked up slowly, shame clear in his eyes. "Where are they? Where are Y/n and Seline?"

Thor shook his head, struggling to find words.

"Wanda... I tried. We tried."

Wanda’s blood ran cold. She rushed to him, magic already flowing from her hands as desperation took over.

"What happened?"

"We couldn’t protect them," Thor admitted, his voice broken. "It was an attack... There were too many. Magic... strong, different."

Wanda staggered back, her eyes wide as the room began to spin. Her mind refused to accept his words. No, it couldn’t be.

"No!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. "Not again!"

The ground beneath her trembled as her magic exploded in waves of red energy. The room seemed to warp, objects floating and cracking around her. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t care. The pain was unbearable.

"Wanda!" Thor tried to stand, but was pinned against the wall by an invisible force.

She looked at him with eyes glowing like embers.

"I’ll bring them back. I won’t lose everything again, Thor. I can’t!"

Wanda opened another portal, the red almost black in its intensity. She was going to find you and Seline, no matter the cost. Because if she couldn’t… she knew she wouldn’t survive this loss.

The room in the Tower seemed frozen in a moment of unbearable tension. Wanda stood in the center, her magic pulsing in waves that made the other Avengers struggle to stay on their feet. Thor was still slumped against the wall, his face heavy with shame and pain.

"Wanda, please," Natasha stepped forward, her hand raised in a gesture of caution. "You need to listen. We found something."

"Found something?!" Wanda spun to face her, her eyes burning a fiery red. "What could possibly explain why they’re not here? Why you—" She pointed at Thor, her voice sharp. "—let this happen?"

Natasha remained calm, extending her hand.

"I know you’re furious, but look at this." She revealed a small object wrapped in a piece of cloth. "It was left behind. I think whoever did this wanted you to find it."

Wanda moved in an instant, snatching the object from Natasha’s hands. When she unwrapped the cloth, it revealed an ancient necklace, its medal depicting a woman pierced by three crossed daggers. The symbol was intricate, the aura of dark magic pulsing from the amulet like a silent warning.

The air around Wanda grew even heavier. Her fingers clenched the necklace tightly, her eyes widening as she processed the revelation.

"Her..." Wanda whispered, her voice filled with hatred. "It’s her. Agatha."

Thor tried to stand, his deep voice breaking the silence.

"Wanda, we tried. Her magic is… different. Darker than anything we’ve faced."

"It’s not dark," Wanda retorted, her eyes now glowing intensely. "It’s rotten."

Her anger grew, and with it, her control over her power.

"She thinks she can play games with me. She thinks she can take my family from me." Wanda’s laugh was bitter, laced with arrogance. "Agatha hasn’t learned anything from last time."

Natasha stepped forward, trying to keep focus.

"Wanda, the necklace might be the key. There could be something in it that leads us to her. But you need to stay calm."

"Calm?" Wanda stepped closer to Natasha, her face just inches from hers, the energy around her flickering like embers. "You talk about calm when my wife and daughter have been taken? When my sons are missing?!"

Natasha didn’t flinch, her eyes steady on Wanda’s.

"Yes, I’m asking for calm because you’re the only one who can face her. But to do that, you need to stay focused. You need to be smarter than her."

Natasha’s words seemed to break through something inside Wanda. Her breathing slowed, and the energy pulsating around her began to stabilize. She held the necklace with both hands, closing her eyes.

Suddenly, she opened them again, now fully immersed as the Scarlet Witch. The red magical crown shimmered above her head, and the power around her seemed to fill every corner of the room.

"She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with," Wanda declared, her voice low but filled with unshakable determination. "I will bring them back. All of them. And Agatha will wish she’d never crossed my path."

Thor, still wounded, raised his eyes to her.

"Wanda, what will you do?"

Her gaze was cold, a mix of authority and fury.

"What I should have done from the start. Show Agatha she messed with the wrong person."

She turned the necklace in her hands, the magic pulsing from it.

"I’ll track her. I’ll tear her secrets from her with my own hands if I have to. And no one will stop me."

The Avengers watched her in silence. For the first time, even Natasha seemed intimidated. Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, was no longer just a hero trying to protect her family. She was a mother, a wife, and a woman determined to take back everything that had been stolen from her.

"Prepare yourselves," Wanda said, her voice cold and commanding. "This ends now."

With a wave of her hands, the necklace glowed brightly, pointing the way to Agatha Harkness’s lair.

~*~

Put the knife down, the happy end is coming...

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[onlyseokmins]

ash and cinders • l.s.m.

Pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), angst, royalty!au, fantasy!au, gods/goddesses!au Warnings: magic, mentions of blood, war, cruelty, tyranny - all that good stuff, mentions of religion (au-specific), violence (i.e. suggestion of murder), (death) threats, and possible gaslighting 💃🏻 which just means a minor power play between them at first okay 😬 i promise it's not that bad lmao i'm just paranoid, lots of making out, oral (fem. receiving), lil bit of temp play tbh, little bit of choking, uh I wrote this so long ago and just finished it so lmk if i forgot anything?? it's just basically me attempting to write prettily uwu WC: 4.24k A/N: soooo, this has been rotting in my drafts FOREVER!!! but yeah seokmin is my most darling, favorite boy i've ever stanned anyways ofc i couldn't help but use his elle magazine photos (yes that's how long this has been ROTTING) ahhhhh - ahem anyways this goes hand-in-hand with Mischief Maker so definitely recommend checking that one out too! heheh <3

He only stayed during the night.    

When the blanket of darkness covered even the moon with a hazy layer of clouds, leaving tiny twinkling stars for a traveler’s guide. The fire once dancing in the hearth dwindled down to scarlet embers barely emitting enough heat to fill the large quarters.

Not that it mattered.

Even as you lay naked amidst the silken sheets strewn upon the grand bed, the thought of your lover’s return alone was enough to engulf your body in a flame of burning anticipation that settles and simmers between your legs.

He had been gone far too long. A lengthy patrol around the surrounding territories had taken him away from your embrace. Although every morning the sun’s rays tickled your face as a sweet greeting and bathed you in a radiant light through the day, nights without him were by far the worst.    

Cold.    

Lonely.    

Dark.

On usual accounts, it was a grievous crime to keep the queen waiting. But you would forgive him for anything, wouldn’t you? It’s exemplified in the way he bursts through the doors without so much as a courteous knock that even your most trusted servants must abide by, water droplets dripping from his auburn bangs.

Despite the eagerness to see you as soon as possible, he refused to step foot into your chambers when reeking of blood after fierce combat and soiled with dirt from travel. You always protested. The gilded throne you reigned from, the heavy crown upon your head, and even the bed you shared — all were built upon those very foundations. But your lover insisted on only showcasing the glorious side of things to you.

The gold.    

The diamonds.

The luxuries.

All which adorned you by day. Glowing, glistening, and shining. Gems and jewels, fabrics woven from the highest quality quickly reduced to layers that only became a hindrance once it came time for his descent upon you. For you were absolutely beautiful clothed — this he very well knew — but when your whole body was bared naked for him and him alone? You were truly the definition of divine.

Those who dared to speak ill of you tried to foster ridiculous claims. Critical of the wealth in your possession. Mocked what they presumed was a lack of ambition. Wailed that you were a witch. A young monarch on an undeniable downfall to tyranny, one that would lead them all to hellfire and ruin.

Anything to validate that you were not worthy of the royal seal emblazoned across the lands in honor of a valiant leader with a royal bloodline still running through your veins.

Hypocrisy at its finest when you were the reason that they were bestowed or able to retain property linked to their names, money in their pockets, and a legacy to live by under your prosperous reign. Arrogant to cast down the very thing that elevated them to their current standing. But their greed would eventually come back to bite them. One day.

Even the religious sect whispered lowly, hidden in the shadows of the grand temples. Doubts that the king actually held a shred of affection for his partner — if the seldom visits seen visiting your chambers only when night falls were of any substantial evidence to go by. That he only lay with you out of duty, shackled and bound to an imposter who was never a faithful servant to the gods like they were.

Because not one of them truly believed that a god could ever favor, let alone love, a human.

You knew you were a savior to as many as you were also an enemy. A hindrance and a threat. A bold refusal to control or be controlled. There was nothing more to do other than lead your people as fairly as you judged. 

All the preposterous assumptions infuriated him — your devoted knight, unorthodox husband, and scandalous lover. But he manages to temper his fiery rage out of respect for you. Behind your ruthless, steely intent is a righteous and kind heart that always calls out for him, now fully vocalized and embellished by the sweet voice he's missed hearing dearly.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, grasping his warm hand once he's within reach.

An entity of many epithets with an existence worth a millennium beyond comprehension and full of worship. Yet his favorite phonetic combination he'd ever heard was the one that fell breathlessly from your lips. The closest the human tongue could get to a god’s true name. And his second favorite would be yours, the syllables rumbling in his chest like a song and you smiled in contentment.

He was back, he was home, and he was yours.

Even in the darkness, Seokmin glowed. The ethereal radiance surrounding the broad expanse of sinewy muscles easily proved his lofty status as the great god of the sun. But it was also his eyes, flickering with the unmistakable presence as one of many deities. The kind of power that has managed to refrain from turning you into ash and cinders.

Whether it's attributed to your resilience, a ruler born to stand out and lead, or an entirely different reason — or a mixture of all — Seokmin isn't really sure. He's not the first to appear in a human vessel nor the last, with at least twelve of his known brothers wandering the mortal world for various reasons.

He wonders if he's the first to bow his head willingly, though, holding back his more devious and destructive tendencies. To pay back tenfold the worship he's received since the beginning of time all to you — a mere human — yet nonetheless, his queen.

The event of swearing his undying fealty feels like it was yesterday. For a being that persists forever, it may as well have been that short ago. Every memory he etches and sears into his mind for eternity consists of you, and only you.

How could he forget? How was he supposed to bury away the confident smirk that graced your lovely lips? Would he ever not recall the first time he bent the knee in such desperation? Not for a trick or as a dark seduction that tumbles into a dreadful demise, a conquest for carnage, and an abuse of his powers. But instead for the good of humanity — however short of an era it may be.

And maybe… for more. One that his heart fears to admit, for it does not beat within his chest, but in a plane beyond the reach of mortals.

"Would you kill for me?"

"For you, anything," the god affirms. "I have laid waste to kingdoms, countries, empires, and even continents themselves. There is nothing I'm incapable of."

"And if I asked you to behead the entire entourage that has traveled with you?"

"… If it is what you will, then it is simply my command to follow. For you, I am a lone knight at your disposal."

Silken skirts flare out as does your anger when you turn away from the large windows in the tower's tiny excuse of a throne room — hardly fit for the heir — showcasing a brief flash of the lethal dagger strapped to your thigh. "Do you wish for my downfall before I've even risen to the throne? You expect me to be a tyrant, despised by the people I am meant to save? To lead?"

"Do you think I, a god, care what thoughts others conjure up in their silly little minds? I am to act on your behalf, get my hands dirty in lieu of you. No matter how morbid your desires may be."

Stepping closer, you lift his chin with the tip of a dull sword intended to be ornamental. But it may be even deadlier than the one hung at his side, metaphorically sharpened and honed by a rebel princess's innate rage. 

His little show of bowing means little with the way he stares straight at you without a shred of respect in those galaxy-filled irises. However, it is the mighty sun god who is taken aback by the hellfire burning in your gaze, hungry and powerful enough to rival his own as you scoff.

"I will show you what kind of queen this land needs, the methods we will follow, and the morals I wish to uphold. You will learn in order to understand them and enforce my will. Not only to help guide the vision I desire but to keep me accountable lest I stray. A critical misstep such as that is when I'll ask you to cut me down. Will you swear to do that for me?"

"… You dare question a god of what he can do? Your tiny, impudent human mind couldn't fathom a sliver of my capability."

"I dare to question what you can't or won't do."

"I told you, there is not a thing beyond my realm of —"

"Leave."

"… Your Highness?"

Painted lips curl in a snarl at the first address of your proper title since his arrival. "Begone, I said! Return when you feel like acting like the god you are, not simply a tool to be harnessed and used at will. Until then, I have no need for you."

Seokmin's jaw drops as you seat yourself back on the throne with a sneer and flick of your wrist for the guard to usher him out.

A challenge. 

He's been abandoned many times. Discarded and tossed to the side once his usefulness has been expended. He's left before betrayal can even be thought of — for no one points a blade at a god's back — but never has he been rejected.

It was only the beginning of how you would become many of his 'firsts' and all of his 'lasts'.

Seokmin is lost deep in the memory even with the feeling of your lips curling in a gentle smile against his — a stark contrast to your initial meeting. A nail grazes his chin, digging lightly into the skin to fully bring the god back to the present. 

You'd be offended by the habitual spacing out if he hadn't admitted to only getting lost in thoughts of you. Something he'd picked up during the routine patrols away. Though you strive to bring the god out of dwelling in the past when you're sitting right in front of him — the present — and deepen the kiss.

Yet he pulls away to tilt his head. "Do you remember what you offered to me?"

"Have I not offered you my all, my king?"

Charcoal lying dormant in the hearth flares back to life, emitting playful sparks when he chuckles. "After I returned to pledge my loyalty to you."

"Ah, even though I had you wait outside the gates for five days."

"Unfathomable for a god to hang around at the whim of a meager human, isn't it?"

"Meager?"

"To me? Yes." 

His warm exhale of amusement feels just like the breeze that fondly brushes your cheeks every morning despite the eternal humidity. It may very well be him because no matter how far away physically from you he is, Seokmin's essence radiates in every sunray that stretches across the grand skies and below.

He is everywhere and everything all the time. But he is here with you tonight once again, kissing the palm you'd placed on his cheek. With mischief flickering like a teasing flame in his eyes, the god brings your hand to his throat, encouraging you to splay your fingers across his Adam's apple.

You free yourself from his light grasp to run them ticklishly up and down the bumps of his vocal cords. The movements of swallowing ripples beneath the light scratch of your nails until he halts you by replacing a veined hand over yours and murmurs, "Squeeze."

"Ah — but I…"

He repeats it again louder when you fail to do as asked, not even daring to move a muscle. Simply staring in almost awe-filled hesitation until he guides you to tentatively do exactly as he states, "You would have done anything to strangle me back then, what has changed?"

"… You know what."

"Tell me," he says it like it's a command, eyes brightening and swirling with an authoritative amber hue though it's all in jest. "Tell me what it is, my queen."

Never one to be deterred, only Seokmin could render you motionless for so long. You do as you're instructed, the gentle pressure applied by your hand around his throat causes auburn eyelashes to flutter. The slight restriction to an airflow that isn't all that necessary for a god's survival has his eyes rolling back before they re-focus on you, half-hidden by hooded eyelids.

"Love," you murmur. For it is the answer to everything, is it not?

"Love," is echoed with a resounding voice that doesn't fully come from the tongue of the man beneath you, but bellows out from an otherworldly essence that surrounds the entire world and beyond. And at the same time, he speaks it so fondly because ultimately, he's addressing it as a title for you.

The god of the sun, as immortal as he might be, has died before. Mortal vessels manage to persevere for a fixed number of years and a feeble human body can only endure so much wear and tear. Yet Seokmin's soul still shines steadily onwards despite the memory of death over and over again lingering… and he unsurprisingly realizes that he wouldn't mind dying like this — by your hand. 

Was that love? 

But the amount of power, energy, and time, along with the unpredictable wiles of the creator would never guarantee him returning to you. Preservation of this human shell was of the utmost importance, the first time he's ever handled a vessel with care before.

Perhaps that was love.

Rather than be swept up in unpleasantries, he entertains the amusing thought of how much fragility you exercise with him. Having already released your grip far too quickly and instead, fiddle with the untied laces on his loose shirt.

"Love," he repeats, this time as a call in a raspy drawl of his own voice. 

"Hm. Or maybe it was… pity."

An eyebrow raises and the corners of Seokmin's mouth twitch upward. "Only my queen would dare to pity a god."

"It was for what you were. And who you weren't. I despise those uppity, repetitive displays of unwavering loyalty that either party can easily discard."

"Like the former king's imperial court."

"Yes." 

Your angered hiss is exactly the same as the first time you informed him of your plans to take down your father and his cult. The disgust and rage have barely ebbed even after all the progress made for a better future and as many years that have passed. 

Seokmin scans your expressions. He's always admired your spitfire that could rival his own flames. But in times when it burns long enough to possibly exhaust or hurt you, he worries. You're strong — he knows that — so many times he simply becomes the safe space where you can seethe aloud without interruption. 

"Would you rather grow dull and be poisoned because someone is not even worth keeping an eye on or the thrill of unpredictability? A constant sword dance that keeps each other on their toes, never deviating gazes from one another."

He smirks. "That sounds familiar."

You think back to earlier days with him. A stubborn royal and an even more stubborn deity. When did the challenging, pointed glares at one another change to simmering looks of desire?

Instead of your swords tangling together in an angry clash over a small matter, it was your tongues after a heated sparring session. How condescension switched to respect to something more passionate… more primal… more intimate.

"Perhaps so. But look at you now — look at how you shine."

His skin indeed glows a bit brighter as he melts further into the soft touch of your palm returning to his cheek. Thumb tracing constellations between the pair of moles on his cheek while your other finger follows the nearly invisible scar below his eye.

"Little blemishes," he had once told you, "even the body of a god bears its flaws after fighting on a battlefield."

You thought they only made him all the more perfect.

"And look at how I've fallen."

As if to demonstrate his murmured words, Seokmin moves at the speed of light — his normal pace — to lie on his back, umber strands of hair spread out like flames of fire against the grandiose bed's silken sheets.

Somehow, he'd positioned you on top of him. Much accustomed to the tiny displays of omnipotence here and there, you remain unbothered. Affectionately, you brush back his bangs. Fiery wisps of hair that seemingly move on their own accord with the amount of power that ripples through their thin fibers.

He might just be the most powerful among his fellow deities and you could wield all of that as your own because he sits obediently in the palm of your hand. Lays dociley among your silken sheets. What he's trying to prove to you — the hold you have over him — immediately enthralled under your spell as you play with his locks and softly whisper, "You're Seokmin. My Seokmin."

Despite your bare chest quite literally in his face, the god waits. Fully clothed in soft linens where he can feel every tempting pulse thundering in your precious mortal body on top of his. 

And still, he waits. 

His hands don't even reach out as you unlace his shirt. Though he has wrecked and ruined your body in a thrillingly sensual, blistering, and passionate heat of love-making before, tonight he gives himself over to you. Vulnerable and all yours for the taking, watching with faint amusement as you impatiently urge him to shed the rest of his garments.

"My queen."

"My king."

"There is no rush. We have all of eternity."

"Do we?" you breathe out and look him in the eyes as your fingers dance along his inner thigh. "Or is it only you, divine ruler of the everlasting dawn and never-ending night?"

"My graceful moon," Seokmin sighs and distracts you from grasping his weeping shaft, urging you to straddle his legs. You follow his will despite the object of your desires lying neglected between your bodies, coating your stomach in the molten saltiness that drips from it.

"My stars, my sky, my galaxy, my universe." Each title of affection is seared into your skin with a burning kiss to brand your body. Your cheek, your ear, your neck, your shoulder, and your hand. "Without you in it, the world ceases to exist."

"My sun, my warrior, my knight, my shield, and my sword." You repeat a version of your own display of worship and what he means to you — mimicking the same actions across his lithe body. "My love, it would do you good to live in the present with me. Must you think of a dire future so soon?"

"Each inhale of life thus returns an exhale of death. I dread every moment that brings me closer to your end."

"Such morbid thoughts you carry, my darling. Where is the fearless god that took a poisoned arrow to the heart and pulled it out without so much as a flinch?" 

"You think me weak when I'd take the blow of any weapon as long as it does not harm you."

The irony when you'd both been struck by invisible, non-lethal darts fired from the god of love's feathered bow. But the terrifying memory of Seokmin taking the assassination attempt in your place causes a rare, but true, fear twisting in your gut. The flash of life before your eyes changed the trajectory of your tactics and your relationship with the god. And as always he reassures you with what he knows to be the truth — for the most part.

"Nothing can hurt me as long as you're alright." 

"Then make me your goddess in return so that I will be invincible enough to protect you from harm's wrath too." 

"But that… you know I can't," he whimpers, "no matter how much I long to." 

A tear trickles down his cheek, crystallizing when it falls. Like many before and well after, all bodily fluids of the god will be found transformed as various tiny diamonds and gems. Tangled within the bedsheets the following morning as they always are and stored away in the queen's treasury.

Seokmin cries, not just at his frustrations, but at how you gingerly hold his hot and hardened length. Heavy in your palm that rubs and strokes it lovingly before sinking down with practiced ease, having already stretched yourself out earlier while waiting. Undulating your hips in slow, controlled circles that make him dizzy with desire. Your words pierce his chest, paining him like no sword that sliced him open could ever compare.

"If fate will not let it happen, then bury me in the ground so I can thrive beneath your warm rays that whisper sweet nothings. Let me smile up at you after winter passes while I bloom brilliantly through spring and long into the heated days of summer. Weave my soul among the stars so I may greet you in the morning and kiss you goodnight every evening. Scatter my ashes into the windy gusts of the north and down the silver rivers flowing south so I may laugh and dance in the skies alongside your sunbeams."

He sobs at the poignant emotional tug of your words, every poetry waxed by your breathy voice punctuated by a tantalizing undulation of your hips. You reassuringly clench around him, foreheads and bodies pressed together, hands clasped tightly in each other's grasp.

The god's chest heaves and the mountains on the eastern border shift to the left. Sometimes the air cools when this occurs but tonight, it shimmers and glistens as if straining against his commands. A hot wave that threatens to distort the very seam of reality itself. 

"I will always be yours," you kiss the corner of his trembling lips, "and you mine, my darling god."

"My sweet goddess, my everything… my love."

Seokmin's hips buck up anxiously and you let him lead the pace. Wild thrusts take over as he chases that high, wanting and needing to take you over that peak with him. Your body lays prone against him, along for the jostling ride as the god seeks his own pleasure through and with you. Praises and worship fall from his lips, never failing to be in awe of how your cunt molds and works his cock like a blacksmith shapes an iron rod yet he can bully it as he wants to fit him. Only him. 

You were made for the god of the sun.

Golden ichor thrums through his veins, lighting his skin in flashes like the sparks of embers. He's beautiful. Otherworldly. Your lips capture each glowing pulse of godliness that erupts beneath his flesh with a tender peck. He's all yours.

And he was made for you.

When Seokmin plunges into your welcoming warmth that is his alone to claim before he finally succumbs, it's blinding. On the other side of the earth, the sun shines a little brighter. A harsh glint that already emits a sweltering heat from its fiery nature flares even hotter in the blue sky. A blessed priestess looks up in contemplation, waving away the worried maidens who tend to her every need.

You feel his large hands — one presses in a bruising hold between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. Keeping you flush against him, holding your body to his while you welcome inside the scorching spurts of his seed within your womb that feel like lava. Your walls flutter around him and he basks in the feeling of them pulsating as you jerk your hips 

"Come," he begs out. It's loud and resounding. More of an instinctual command if anything and your body almost obeys unwittingly, unaware of his intent before he lifts you up with inhuman strength and clarifies, "Up here," and sits you on your rightful throne — his face, "where you deserve, the queen of queens. My queen. My love. My goddess."

He laps at you like a dehydrated dog. Both cleaning you up and creating an even bigger mess. Your thighs squeeze tightly around the sides of Seokmin's head, one hand tugging harshly at his hair and the other mercilessly wrinkling the silk bed sheets. His moans are sweet songs of praise but muffled as he sucks his release out of your cunt only to push it back inside with his tongue. The addition of globs of spit accompanying the still-hot, smeared mess causes your own sounds to grow much louder, writhing on top of him from the sloppy sensations.

Back and forth he repeats this a couple of times, the firm point of his nose stimulating your sore clit in his efforts. And finally, you come undone — spasming on top of Seokmin's chin and suffocating him just like he likes. Breathing and drowning in your essence, the very elixir of life.

"I shall make you mine," he whispers later, dutifully laying your deliciously aching but clean body onto freshened sheets. Your lover is ever so attentive, rarely nearly needing the same amount of aftercare he showers upon you.

For he is a god from the heavens to bestow blessings upon his desired mortal.

"I am already yours."

"But for all of eternity, it shall be so."

Satiated and content, you reach for him. He lovingly takes your hand and presses a kiss to the tip of each of your fingers. "How?"

"The Mother. She's the closest thing we have to the Creator and might be older than the universe itself. There's nothing she doesn't know so I'm sure she'll have the answers I seek."

"Must you leave so soon?"

Seokmin smiles as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. "The sun never fails to rise, my dear. I will be back before you know it bringing with me tidings of great news."

"I'll be waiting."

Your shared kiss is soft and gentle. Sweet and full of sentiment. Indeed, you always wait for him and the sun god leaves with a full heart of hope. Little does he know, and little do you suspect, the true one lying in wait was the shadowed figure holding a poisoned dagger beneath their cloak.

And so, with the death of a queen so loved by the god of the sun… the prophecy begins.

onlyseokmins: September 2024 ©

[athenaluciscaelum]

So something I have noticed about DMC criticism on YouTube and Imdb. It's fucking racist.

I was scrolling through Imdb and someone left a comment that 'Nuke India' because Adi Shankar is an Indian Immigrant (look at this point, he is your problem, America.)

Another I was watching a review video on new Netflix DMC and it went on to shit on the fact that Adi Shankar removed Appu from Simpson and India image is that of shit and what not. Like stop, you all are just racist and it's ripping through the seams.

I do not like Adi Shankar work and Netflix DMC as well, but how does this become a point to be racist to Indians? And I'm aware of all we do, not all of us are good like any other country. Hell, we are racist to our own people. It's just sad to see that we have lots of problems as a nation. I'm a minority within this nation and my family does not always feel safe. I'm aware of all ills, but to weaponize it at every given moment. These are the same people who do not want politics in their DMC,but racism? Hell, yeah! Like do you know racism is a political tool? Quite a handy one?

Dante will never be racist.

[flightfoot]

You know, you've been shitting on Marinette a lot over this situation.

Yet, Felix could have told Adrien the truth months prior to all of this and unlike Marinette he doesn't feel any guilt about it. And you haven't been nearly as critical of him.

I don't want to call you biased, but you're starting to sound like a Marinette salter.

Oh Felix absolutely should have told Adrien everything as well. But he doesn't come up as much, since he's a more minor character, plus he's not exactly supposed to be a squeaky clean character anyway, he was literally responsible for handing over the kwamis to Gabriel. Though I'm willing to chalk more of that up to Felix just having ISSUES than I am for Marinette, considering what we've seen of how his father abused him.

But yeah. Felix is also to blame, but Marinette's the one who's in the spotlight more often. Felix hasn't even appeared in season 6 yet. Generally I'm bringing up Marinette lying or hiding Gabriel being Monarch or Adrien being a sentimonster when it's relevant to what's going on in the episode, like it being relevant concerning her decision to break Adrien's Amoks in Werepapas. It wouldn't make sense to bring Felix up there, he may ALSO know about Adrien being a sentimonster and also be involved with keeping that secret from him, but he's got nothing to do with Marinette's decision in that episode.

[sergeantxrogers]

The Space Between - 1

"You have enough blood on your hands that not even four lifetimes of atonement could wipe off, Barnes."

He stared at you, blue eyes critical and assessing. "Funny."

"What?" you snapped.

"Funny how you think I'm not aware."

The US Secretary of State, backed by the government, has given James Buchanan Barnes an ultimatum: spend the rest of his old, unnaturally prolonged life behind bars, being poked and prodded and tested on, or be pardoned of all charges of treason, mass murder, kidnapping, blackmail, property damage, terrorism, torture, abuse, breaking and entering, and stalking (just to name a few), on one condition: he's to live with someone who the US government deems credible and fit enough to keep him on the right path. Obviously, he chose option number two. Just his luck that the credible person assigned was none other than Tony Stark. And double that luck with you, Tony's younger sister, in the equation. As if the guilt wasn't already eating away at his soul enough.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!reader

Chapter word count: 4.5k

Chapter warnings: Swearing, mentions of minor character death, hostility, mixed feelings, angst

series masterlist | main masterlist

If there was anything Tony Stark prided himself on more than his money and his good looks, it was his genius brain. The genius brain that built an empire up from nothing, that used scraps and heaps of metal to create things the world had previously only dreamt of, the brain that earned him PhDs in physics, mechanical engineering and electrical engineering.

That same brain was the one that brought Avengers compound to life, of course, with copious amounts of help and advice from one Pepper Potts. Yet that same, genius brain was the one that decided the layout, how to maximize the size of the compound to its fullest potential, how to best make the entire place seem even bigger than it already was with an open-floor plan throughout most of it.

Right now, however, that maximized open-floor layout seemed to be the bane of his existence, fueled by the loud echoes and hysterical shrieks filling the main living area as you yelled at him. And yelled. And yelled. And yelled.

And now, Tony's big, brilliant brain was at risk of detonating.

"There's no way in hell I'm gonna be sleeping under the same fucking roof as that - that murderer!" you seethed, fists clenching and unclenching as you paced in front of your brother, trying to collect yourself and failing.

Tony sighed, pulling his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He leaned forward, throwing them on the table, and rested his elbows on his knees. "It's not like you have a choice-"

"I should have a choice! Who the hell does Ross think he is, shoving a problem like that into our lives - into our home - with no regard for our feelings or our safety?"

"He's the Secretary of State, and our feelings matter very little to people like him when they have different things to take into consideration."

"Yeah? Things like what?" you asked, hands on your hips.

Tony's voice rose steadily, parallel to yours, and you could tell he was nearing his breaking point but trying to put it off. "Oh, I don't know, maybe things like the safety of the entire country. Things like not having a pardoned criminal fresh from HYDRA's refrigerator roaming around the city however he pleases."

"So we're being punished? Is that it? Did you do something to piss him off-"

"No, I didn't." He hesitated.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "What aren't you telling me?"

Tony sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. You waited, watching him.

"A few years back, before you moved back to New York, I had... a phase..."

You blinked at him. Your jaw ticked.

"What kind of phase, Anthony?"

"Well, it wasn't a phase so much as it was a hobby of sorts."

"Spit it out or I swear-"

"I spent a couple years making and selling weapons... illegally," he muttered.

You froze.

Tony looked up at you sheepishly, and scrambled to continue. "I didn't know it was illegal at the time! I only found out later, and then I cut off all ties and broke off every contract I had with those contacts. However, dear Secretary Ross has his fingers in every pie imaginable, so when he came to me and told me I had to take in Barnes, I sort of didn't have a choice."

A heavy sigh escaped your lungs, and you moved over to collapse onto the couch next to him. "So, basically he blackmailed you."

"He liked to think of it more like a favor: he's allowing me to take in Barnes, and in doing so, he'll strike every illegal job I've ever done off the records and keep me out of jail."

He leaned back to match your position, and the two of you sat side by side, staring up at the high ceiling. Silence surrounded you for a few minutes as you were both thrown deep into thought. Then, Tony broke it in a soft, tired tone.

"Trust me, I don't like it either. If I had any say in the matter, Barnes would be anywhere but here. But now all we can do is weather the storm together."

He twisted his head to look at you, and you did the same. You couldn't help the tears gathering in your eyes as you let out another sigh, this one defeated and resigned.

"I suppose you're right," you whispered, and you felt him grab your hand and squeeze it tightly, once, twice.

And then, in true Tony fashion, he ruined the moment: "And wipe your tears before someone gets here. You always were ugly when you cried."

He ran off with a smirk on his face before you had the chance to throw something at his head.

Bucky Barnes stood with all of his possessions and belongings packed tight in a small navy backpack, thrown over his shoulder just as haphazardly as the baseball cap on his head. He stared up at the looming building above him, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his anxiety from skyrocketing. Better than prison, he thought to himself as he followed his five assigned agents through the large entrance of the Avengers compound and headquarters.

Personally, he thought five highly skilled and trained agents for one of him was a bit of an overkill, but then again, what did he know about government business. If it made everyone else feel safe, he was more than happy to comply. These days, confrontation was the last thing on his mind.

One of the agents, a tall man with broad shoulders and a shiny bald head, turned around to face Bucky. His hands clasped in front of him, he cleared his throat.

"This is as far as we go."

"What?"

"Unfortunately, we're not authorized to go any further, or step foot into the compound. Mr. Stark still has some say in the matter, it seems."

Bucky took in a deep breath through his nostrils, then nodded. The agents turned to leave, falling into a single file line as they passed by him and went in the direction they came from, towards the two black vans waiting for them. He watched them go, jaw clenched and hand squeezing the strap of his backpack.

His ears picked up on a sound. A low, vibrational sort of hum, so faint he doubted he would've heard it if his hearing wasn't advanced. The hum grew closer, behind him, until it came to a stop. And Bucky knew someone was standing at the entrance behind him.

Turning slowly, his eyes followed the ground until they landed on a pair of bare feet - or, at least something that looked like feet. If feet were normally red, then yes, these would be considered feet. His brows ticking slightly in confusion, Bucky's eyes travelled up khaki pant legs and a torso clad in a black sweater, before finally landing on a face. A red face, seemingly without imperfections, with bright eyes that stared at him so intently and uncannily that Bucky subconsciously shifted in place.

"Hello," the man - robot, person - spoke. Bucky said nothing.

"Sergeant Barnes," the robot continued, voice steady and clear. "We have been expecting you."

Bucky almost scoffed at the sentence. Expecting him, as if he was a guest, here of his own free will. As if he was wanted here.

"What are you?" he asked blankly. If the tone of the question bothered the creature, it didn't show. He merely tilted his head ever so slightly to the side as he studied Bucky.

"You may call me how everyone else does."

Bucky quirked a dark brow. "And that is...?"

"Vision."

The person - Vision - turned suddenly, and it was only then that Bucky noticed his feet were a few inches off the ground. He was floating, not standing. Vision motioned with his head for Bucky to follow, and then began floating his way down the large entry hall of the compound.

"What the hell," Bucky muttered under his breath as he fell into step behind him.

Vision led him down a hallway with high ceilings and windows instead of walls, the greenery from the forest and lake outside seeping in through the glass and giving the entire space a more natural feel. Bucky supposed, in any other circumstance, the sight would be quite relaxing. They passed by multiple doors on either side, the rooms behind them closed off and teasing Bucky's curiosity with their secrecy. At last, they reached some sort of bridge structure, closed off on all sides, and as Bucky walked down it, his boots left hollow thumps with each step he took. The end of the bridge flared out into four large, wide stairs, and beyond those stairs, a magnificent sight greeted Bucky.

He slowed as he descended the steps, looking straight ahead in poorly-concealed awe. The main living area of the Avengers facility was gigantic, with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling glass windows on every side, letting in sunlight and a slight breeze from the nearby lake. Everything was sleek, modern, expensive and definitely made Bucky feel as if he stuck out like a sore thumb. The couches were white, the rugs were white, the furniture was dark mahogany, the chandeliers were large and shiny, the technology was more than he could take in. Everything was clean, bright and new, and it only amplified Bucky's feeling of being too dark, too broken, too out of place wherever he went.

His eyes travelled up, glancing at the second floor landing, the bars of the balcony wrapping around the entire area. Every single little thing was out in the open. It made him squirm.

Bucky had almost forgotten Vision was there, staring at him patiently, waiting for Bucky to take in his fill, until he spoke and broke the semi-trance he had found himself in.

"You may have a seat. Mr. Stark will be here shortly," Vision said politely, waving an elegant hand towards the sitting area. Bucky nodded mutely and, as if on auto-pilot, felt his feet carry him to the couch Vision had guided him to.

Bucky opened his mouth to say something, anything, but was interrupted by a harsh, female voice.

"Thank you, Vis. I'll take it from here."

Bucky's brows furrowed as he tried to pinpoint the origin of the voice, and his eyes scanned the area until they landed on you, standing right above him on the second floor landing, hands resting on the railing. Your eyes were already focused on him, narrowed and intense, and he narrowed his in response. Some deep instinct told him yours was not a friendly face.

Vision nodded, hesitating only a moment as he looked between the two of you, then floated off through the wall behind him. Bucky tried not to let that weird fact distract him as he watched you circle around, one hand never leaving the railing, towards the side and down the spiraling staircase.

You made your way over to him, and the tension in your body called out to the tension in his own, preparing him for a fight or a risk. He felt on edge, vulnerable in his seated position as you reached him and stood in front him him, arms crossed and glaring.

"I know what you are," you said, and Bucky's brows furrowed imperceptibly.

"Wh-"

"I know what you are, Barnes. I know what you've done, and how much of it you've done, and you're kidding yourself if you think there's any amount of community service, court-mandated therapy and apologies that'll change that."

Bucky stayed silent, but got to his feet, bringing him even closer to you. Now, your faces were inches apart, and you no longer had the advantage of height. He stood a head taller than you, making you crane your neck to keep your eye contact. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, not faltering, not backing down, as he mimicked your stance and crossed his arms.

"And what, exactly, am I?" he said lowly into the space between you.

You steadied your breathing, and clenched your jaw to keep your gaze from falling to his lips as he spoke. "A murderer. A cold-blooded killer who finds enjoyment in other people's pain and grief. That's what you are, and nobody on this God-given planet can convince me otherwise."

You stepped closer, closing the gap between you even more, until only an inch separated your angry eyes and flaring nostrils, and your next words came out in a whisper.

"I see right through you, Barnes. You can't fool me."

Before Bucky could react and do something he would've most likely regretted, a cough brought your attention to the railing where you had stood moments before.

"Barnes," Tony Stark said as he scratched the back of his neck with a wince. "I see you've met my sister."

Those words washed over Bucky like a bucket of ice water, and his eyes found yours again as he stepped back, almost stumbling. A maelstrom of emotion whipped around inside him; regret, fear, grief, pain, sorrow, anger, disbelief. All of them whirled and shot through his nerves, like fire in his veins as he took a deep breath to try to calm himself and seem more composed than he felt.

"I didn't know there was a sister," he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. Of course there was a sister. Of course the universe liked to make Bucky's life hell even more than it already was. Of course fate would find a way to amplify Bucky's grief and regret tenfold. As if he didn't already despise himself enough, standing before him, looking at him with eyes that he now recognized as hurt, was another reason to hate himself. Another person whose life he ruined even as he tried his very hardest not to and still failed. Another person who had every right to say and do whatever they pleased to him, because he deserved it, for taking away something so precious and something so irreplaceable: your parents.

Tony sighed heavily as he came down the stairs you had descended minutes before. "Yeah, she's a real ray of sunshine."

"Fuck you, Tony," you snapped, eyes still glaring at Bucky.

You watched him, carefully. You saw the exact moment the realization and recognition flared behind his eyes, even though he tried to hide them. You saw the feelings rippling beneath the surface, locked away. And you couldn't help but feel happy about it. You hoped it hurt. You hoped it burned him as much as it burned you your entire fucking life. You hoped he would waste away in his misery. It wouldn't bring your parents back, but it would be something.

"Smalls..."

You inhaled sharply through your nose at the nickname, and shot Tony a look. "Don't."

"Please, just - just go. There's no reason for you to be here right now," Tony said, eyes pleading and sending messages he hoped you would receive.

"There's no reason for him to be here, either," you said sharply, jerking your chin at Bucky. "Yet, here he is. Standing in my living room. Free."

"Not free," Tony amended, stepping towards you and grabbing your shoulders gently. "And definitely not your living room. It's my living room, and I, of course, am just being a good brother and letting you mooch off me and my money."

You rolled your eyes and tore them away from Bucky, who was standing silent and still as a statue, eyes flickering between you and your sibling. You looked up at Tony, and softened slightly when you saw the truth behind his sarcastic attitude: it wasn't easy for him either. In fact, it was tearing him apart inside, but you had both already come to the conclusion that there was no other choice.

Tony stepped to the side ever so slightly, effectively blocking your view of the man standing behind him, and shook your arms softly. "Please, go upstairs. You'll only make it worse if you stay here, for everyone involved, and that includes you."

His words were whispered into the air, and you bit your cheek but nodded. He placed a kiss to your forehead before letting you go, and wordlessly, you retreated back up the stairs, not bothering to spare Barnes a second glance. You felt, however, the weight of his stare on your back right up until the moment you rounded the corner of the upper hallway and left his sight. And you felt it branding your skin long after you slammed your bedroom door shut behind you.

You hated him. You hated him and his stupid blue eyes that intimidated you when you stood too close, you hated the slope of his mouth that twitched when he decided not to say something. You hated those stupid leather gloves under which you knew a metal arm was hidden; a metal arm that caused so much pain and strife, and it was now living under the same roof as you.

You hated the fear you felt in his presence, something visceral and innate, rooted deep in your bones, as if every molecule of your DNA was singing the same song: danger, danger, danger.

Because, at the end of the day, that's exactly what Barnes was: dangerous. Highly skilled, highly trained, every single pore seeping with the energy of threat and peril, as if he's always ready to attack at a moment's notice. And he probably was. His ledger was dripping, and no amount of walls or security or reassurance from Tony was going to make you feel safe sleeping at night with someone like him in the same vicinity.

You let out a frustrated sigh that sounded more like a growl, throwing yourself onto your bed. When you felt tears stinging your eyes and the familiar tickle in the back of your throat, you shoved your face into your pillow and let out a long scream. You had no idea how you were going to survive living with your mother and father's murderer. You only prayed for the strength not to go insane.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

A gasp clawed its way up Bucky's throat as he shot up off the floor, scattering his pillow and blanket across the linoleum floors.

"Fuck," he whispered, running a hand through his hair, now sweaty and sticking to the back of his neck. "Fuck."

He sat there for a long while, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal, for his chest to stop heaving and his lungs to stop burning, as he stared at a patch of moonlight illuminating the floor by the foot of the bed. Trying his very hardest not to think of the nightmare that had woken him from sleep, he shook his head and stood, wobbling slightly on his feet.

Bucky interlocked his fingers and held them on the back of his neck as he walked over to the large wall of windows in the room he was given. It was nice, quiet luxury spilling out in every corner, but it was nicer than he was used to, and nicer than he believed he deserved. The bed was too soft, the rug was too rich, the view was too beautiful, the floors were too shiny.

The windows in his room gave him a perfect view of the lake behind the compound, and the forest that stretched beyond it. He had no idea what time it was, but he could now see the gray tinge covering his surroundings, showing the very first signs of dawn about to break, the moon leaving and about to be replaced by the sun.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

The night he took two lives, and ruined two more in the process.

You seemed young. Incredibly young, at least younger than Tony, and definitely younger than Bucky, and he couldn't help but wonder how old you were when you got the news that your parents had died in that crash. If his guess was correct, you were only a child, probably just starting school when your life was turned on its axis completely.

He shook out the tension in his arms and let out a heavy sigh. Bucky was certain that sleep was no longer in the picture for him, so he decided he may as well leave his room and explore his new living quarters before anyone else woke up.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and the first shirt he could find, going to the bathroom and splashing his face with some cold water just to try and shake the remnants of his nightmare - no, memory - from his mind.

Leaving his room, his steps were quiet as he walked down the west wing, taking in the amount of doors and windows and opulent décor that Tony obviously had no problems spending his riches on. He made his way down the staircase, crossing the sitting area and heading over to the kitchen in the corner.

Bucky paused, realizing he had no idea where things were stored here, or how to use any of the fancy machines Tony had set up, so he decided on just a glass of water. Bringing it to his lips, he took a sip and leaned against the counter behind him, watching as the breaking dawn slowly but surely lit up the compound. This was the most peaceful part of the day, Bucky thought, where the world was still asleep but the planet was just waking up, calm, quiet and unbothered by human touch and sound.

He let his mind wander as he stared at a point somewhere in the distance. He thought back to his conversation with Tony just a few hours before, and involuntarily winced.

"Listen, Barnes," Tony turned to him as soon as your bedroom door slammed shut and echoed throughout the compound. "Just because I saved you from the wrath of my sister, doesn't mean I like the fact that your here, or that I even like you. If anything, I'm only tolerating your presence because a) I don't have much of a choice, and b) consider it a favor for Rogers. Capsicle owes me a lot, but I owe him that much and then some."

Bucky's brows furrowed. "You spoke to Steve?"

"Of course. What, you think because we had a little skirmish, almost killed each other, then went our separate ways, we can't keep in touch? Be serious, Barnes."

"He - Steve knows I'm here?"

"Yep. Don't get your hopes up too much. He won't be visiting in a long while, since he's off God knows where with Natasha and Wilson, doing off-record crime fighting and do-gooding."

Bucky couldn't ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his chest at that - he had hoped Steve's presence would act as a calming balm on his soul, maybe even help him transition into a regular life.

"Anyways, that's not the point. The point is, I'll be keeping an eye on you. This isn't going to be some sort of vacation for you, so you can relax and lounge about away from the press and prying eyes. You better watch how you act because I swear to God, Barnes, one wrong move and I'll have bullets raining into your body from every corner of this goddamn house. You'd be dead before you could blink."

Bucky sighed and finished off his water, turning to put the glass in the sink, when movement caught his eye.

In the faint first light of the morning, the soft sunrise made you seem to glow as you made your way carefully down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. Bucky stayed quiet and perfectly still, realizing you hadn't noticed him standing there yet. His body and mind already reacted, sending him into overdrive, ready to fight or flee at the first sign of trouble from you, but he stayed still, eyes following you. They trailed up your legs, bare from the mid-thigh down, the soft light catching on them as you walked. The huge shirt that was hanging on your body seemed to be three sizes too big, and made you look shorter than you normally were.

A tired yawn escaped your lips, and as you rubbed an eye, you finally focused on the figure standing like a statue in the kitchen. You froze.

Your pulse accelerated, and you didn't know whether it was from anger, surprise, fear, or a strange mixture of all three. Your eyes locked with his, and you felt as if the blood in your veins slowed to a stop. Was this what loathing felt like? You were certain it was.

Bucky continued his quiet streak, waiting for you to say something or nothing at all. You seemed content to do the same.

You finally padded over to the kitchen, closing the gap between you, and stood on the other side of the island. You stared. Bucky stared back. You narrowed your eyes. Bucky raised a brow.

You broke the silence first.

"Already looking for an escape route?"

Bucky clenched his jaw. "How'd you know?"

You rolled your eyes.

Stepping around the island, you made a point of ignoring him as you reached into the fridge for something - what, exactly, you couldn't remember. Not with his gaze bearing into the side of your face like he could see right through you. You blinked at the contents of the fridge a couple times, before giving up. Closing it empty-handed, you turned your attention back to Barnes, who was still staring at you in silence.

"If you take a picture, it'll last longer."

That seemed to do the trick. Bucky scoffed, breaking his silent streak as he pushed off the counter. "Yeah, because I definitely want that."

He stepped away from you until the two of you were standing a few feet apart, and then swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided better of it, and closed it with a barely-there shake of his head. He seemed to scoff to himself, before turning on his heel without a last look at you, retreating back to his room. It was now your turn to watch his back has he left, staring at him until you could no longer see him, all the while trying to calm your anger and slow your breathing. His presence caused you to feel unbalanced, unstable and irrational. You hated it, and everything about him.

Up in his room, Bucky paced the floor by the windows, running his hands over his face as he calmed his breath. A hot flash shot through him as the voice from his nightmare echoed in his brain, however this time it was accompanied by the sight of your furious, grief-stricken eyes, and Bucky let out a frustrated growl.

It was only later, when the sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the lake, birds outside chirping and signs of life chiming through the world, that Bucky lied in his bed, staring at the ceiling, and realized he had no idea why you were up so early, too.