#plate handler

[tekmaticinc]

Revolutionise Your Workflow with Dynamic Devices | Tekmatic

Explore Tekmatic's innovative range of dynamic devices designed to transform your workflow. From adaptable tools to flexible machinery, our dynamic devices are engineered to enhance efficiency and productivity across industries. Discover cutting-edge solutions that can seamlessly adapt to your evolving needs. Visit Tekmatic now to embrace the future of dynamic devices.

[chaosmagetwin]

Command Prompt

"Stop. Just, stop okay? She's gone. She's not here. And she's never coming back, okay? Just.... Fuck. Just go to your fucking kennel."

"Command accepted." The lieutenants disgusted face left my vision as I turned away, and left her almost empty room. Bodies passed me by. Some turned away from me, some reached out a hand before someone else pulled it away. None touched me. They couldn't.

I killed the last person who dared.

I stood in front of my pod. I couldn't connect to it without her. I waited. She'd come soon. I stared at it.

"Do you need help, pilot?" A voice called from behind me. I turned, and looked at their shoulder. Engineer. Third rank. I didn't look at their face.

"Request denied. Unclear intent. Please state intentions."

"... Do you need help connecting to your pod, miss?"

"DENIED. ADDRESS PILOT BY RANK." It can't call me miss, only she can call me miss, I am not miss, I am pilot, pilot pilot, leave me alone alone alone.

"S-sorry..." It left.

I stared at my pod. She'd be here soon. She'd tuck me in. The lights dimmed. The attack on the base must've needed a long meeting to sort things out. She had to be busy. She was busy.

My legs trembled, aching.

I fell before the lights rose again. I sat on the floor, and stared at my pod. She was coming. She always put me to sleep before going to bed.

Did she forget? She must be tired. Too many meetings. They always put her in too many meetings. Always worked her too hard. Too many logistics she had to handle for me.

"Pilot. Stand up." A voice called.

"Orders received. Confirmed." I stood up, and looked at their shoulder. A commander. I saluted. I didn't look them in the face. I can't look them in the face.

"How long since you slept?"

"Current operation is at fifty two hours, thirty nine minutes. Requesting handler."

"Request denied." I flinched. What? "You're being reassigned. Lay down in your pod."

"Orders received...." I couldn't move, couldn't say the word. "Denied..." I whispered. "Requesting handler!"

"Request denied." The voice sighed, deeply, frustrated. "You need to sleep, pilot. You are... not functioning properly."

"Pilot is operating above mission parameters!"

"And what parameters are those, pilot?"

"... Survive."

"You cannot complete that mission if you do not sleep."

"Confirmed. Request Handler to complete mission."

"... oh, Kit...." I flinched on hearing my name. No. No. No.

"PILOT. I AM-"

"Be quiet, pilot." My mouth snapped shut. I felt my tears slide off my face, hitting the metal plate beneath my feet. "I know you've been told. I know how you reacted. I know you killed the doctor. None of that is your fault. It's time for you to go to sleep."

"... Order denied. Please. It.... I... I can't..."

"Your handler is dead, Pilot." The words hit me like an AP round. A wail grew in the air. "You're being reassigned to a new handler. Out of the system. You... you're being retired."

"No! No! No! Requesting handler! Stop hiding her from it!" I couldn't move. My legs wouldn't move. I needed to kill this thing in front of me. A spy, a fake, an enemy wearing the uniform of the commander, he's not real, he's not real. I couldn't move my legs.

"You held her hand, Pilot. Who gave you your last order?"

"Handler!"

"When was it received in this operation cycle?"

"Order received at hour 8 and seventeen minutes!"

"That was two days ago. What was that order?"

"... Survive...."

"What were the exact words, Pilot?"

".... It can't.... it can't...."

"Repeat them to me."

"Confidential information! Cleara-"

"Override! Security clearance level 8, two nine alpha three seven Kilo Indiana Tango. Repeat your last orders to me!"

Her words flowed out of my mouth, repeated like a mantra in my head for so long they made up more of me than I did. "You have to survive, baby. Don't let me die in vain, you have to live! Get off me, doc, let me say goodbye. Let me tell her to live. Listen to me, Kit. My little Kit. Oh, I love you. You did such a good job for me today. You saved a lot of people, okay? But now you have to think about you. You have to survive. Priority one, okay? Confirm for me, baby. Authorization two nine alpha three S-seven.... Kilo. Indiana.... tang- tango. Good..... -rl"

"Priority one, Pilot. What is your next step in this mission? Your handler is not available."

".... Command: Sleep."

"Lay down in your pod, Pilot."

"Order.... confirmed..."

[gayeddiejuice]

🚨🚨 boots on the ground reporting 🚨🚨

ok just got off the phone with my friend, she is the mvp called me as soon as she clocked out while she walked to the train.

ok. first things first i asked. we’re they nice? and she said YES she said they were probably the easiest table anyone had she felt bad for everyone else cause she kept seeing all the handlers running back and forth and she was just chilling pretty much. she said they dinner was pre ordered but they didn’t eat much of it cause they probably ate at the pre party event. she was also like “did you know oliver is vegan?” LOL anyways. as the main handler the job is to make sure the vips have everything they need, so for example she would take all their food orders and then send it to the kitchen and then there’s a team of waiters who bring the food, the handler never leaves the table you have to be there in case they need anything.

she said since their team preordered most of the food it made her job so much easier, she basically just stood by their table all night just in case they needed anything. she did order lots of drinks tho she said they drank A LOT 😂😂 but it was mostly for all the people that kept coming over to their table, apparently they were super popular people from other shows kept coming over to talk to them. also lots of the other guests which is mostly just the advertisers, that’s the whole point of the party abc/disney has all these celebs there to mingle with advertisers to get them to sell stuff on their network. and she said everyone wanted to come to the 911 table!!

after the dinner portion the actual party starts and that’s when things get hectic cause the vips always scatter and if you’re their handler you gotta know where they all are at all times. i do not miss this job btw it gave me major anxiety.

during the party they pretty much stuck together which made her job so much easier and she said they all remembered her name when she only told it to them once when she introduced herself. listen she doesn’t know anything about this cast she kept calling them the girl and the asian guy or the two hot guys. which. yall. she said they were all extremely beautiful she said she kept blushing cause ryan (she fell in love with him btw) kept calling her by her name and asking her questions and he kept organizing the plates and glasses on the table to make it easier for the wait staff to pick up.

other than that she said later in the night she kept losing track of them cause again they were so popular 😂😂 mostly aisha, she said she seemed to be friends with EVERYONE and she said, i repeat she knows nothing about rpf she didn’t know what her words would mean, she said ryan and oliver (the two hot guys) hung out together the whole night especially once kenny left, she said he left at like 8 right after dinner, and aisha kept going to talk to other people but ryan and oliver stuck together all night. I said oh im so sure. 🤭

that’s pretty much it, i asked if she could hear their convos and she could but she didn’t really pay attention cause she didn’t recognize any names. she did say that they were all cracking jokes all night and they laughed a lot which idk warms my heart 🥹🥹

btw ryan and oliver did leave together and i think they were going to either go somewhere else with other people or they were having like an after party at the hotel? cause they kept telling people yeah we’ll see you “after” she didn’t really catch where “after” was but when they said bye to aisha ryan said “see ya at the hotel” and oliver told her to not take too long 😂😂 so idk I guess they’re still partying.

[solxamber]

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.

Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.

“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”

“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.

“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.

Vil’s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”

By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.

“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”

“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”

“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”

Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”

“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.

“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”

Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”

Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”

Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.

Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.

"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"

The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.

Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."

There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.

"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”

Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”

The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.

Time to intervene.

“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”

Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”

“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”

Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.

Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.

As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.

“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.

That promise didn’t even make it a full day.

By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”

“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”

“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.

Azul nods gravely.

Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.

Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”

“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”

Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.

You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.

“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.

“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

Masterlist

[sweetromanova]

Operation: Obedience

Natasha Romanoff x Dog Handler!Reader

Summary: It starts with chaos in a pink harness and a trainer who makes obedience sound like a love language. It ends with Natasha finally understanding what it means to be chosen and choosing to stay.

Warnings: injured animals, dog bites, animal distress but no animal death!

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: happy sunday! this was supposed to be a stand alone but i love the premise of this so if anybody’s interested in a part two, i have a couple ideas i may write🖤

⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

Natasha Romanoff is many things. Spy, Assassin, Shield Agent, Avenger, Auntie Nat, stubborn older sister and now? Dog sitter apparently.

With Yelena off on a month-long mission, freeing brainwashed widows, she had gone to the only person in the world she could trust. So that left Natasha with Fanny. A clingy, spoiled, absolutely unhinged rescue mutt with attachment issues, no training and zero respect for her authority.

After Fanny eats an entire steak off Natasha’s plate (again), knocks over a crate of Stark’s prototypes and bolts across the compound in pursuit of Sam Wilson’s drone. Natasha’s had enough, for a second she regrets ever having to reconnect with her stupid sister, who got an even more stupid dog.

If she had made better life choices, she wouldn't currently be getting dragged down the hall by a twelve pound mutt in a sparkly pink harness. She stumbles into the lounge and cries out to Wanda, who just sips her tea calmly. “Fanny! Heel!”

Fanny snorts, ignores the command entirely and yanks harder toward the elevator like she owns the building. “Why don’t you take her down to the K-9 facility?” Wanda suggests. “They’ve got actual trainers. And the main handler… she’s nice.”

“She’s hot!” Clint hollers from the kitchen, making the witch roll her eyes.

“Damn, I’ll take Fanny for you Nat.” Sam grins. “I might need some training too.”

“Gross.” Wanda fake-gags. “And has Laura heard your thoughts on the trainer, Clint? Perhaps I should let her know to come by with Lucky.”

“I mean- I was just- I was helping Nat out…”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m not desperate. I mean for Fanny to behave? Of course. But I don’t need anyone, I’m fine on my own. Besides I don’t need help training this damn dog.”

“She doesn’t need training, she needs an exorcism!” Bucky offers unhelpfully, trying to get the hound who’s now mounted his back and trying to pull the hair tie from his hair.

“Ok, maybe I’ll stop by.”

⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

“This is a stupid idea.” Natasha mutters, awkwardly walking Fanny, who’s currently trying to bite her own leash and tugging her whichever way she pleases.

The spy sighs, letting herself be dragged through endless corridors, following the signs for the K-9 wing. It’s not like the sterile, fluorescent training rooms and labs she’s used to. This part of the compound is quiet in a different way. It’s all warm lighting, clean floors and the faint sounds of barking and whistles echoing softly down the hall.

She turns a corner and stops short.

You’re kneeling beside a massive German Shepherd, adjusting a training vest while murmuring something low and calming. You’re not in standard issue Shield uniform, just black cargo pants and a fitted t-shirt, sleeves half rolled up, posture easy but every inch of you radiates quiet authority. The dog beside you sits perfectly still, watching your hands like they’re made of bacon.

Natasha’s brain stalls, just for a second.

And that’s exactly when the 12 pound traitor on the other end of the leash decides to bolt, yanking the leash out of Natasha’s hand and tearing down the hallway at full speed, tail wagging like she’s on a mission.

“Fanny, no!”

Too late.

Fanny barrels into the training space, completely undeterred by the tall German Shepherd that watches you like you hold the sun. She flops dramatically at your feet and starts performing tricks Natasha’s pretty sure she’s never actually taught her.

The other dogs flinch at the chaos but stays perfectly still, waiting for your next command. You blink at the sudden appearance and then look up at Natasha.

Natasha suddenly feels over-trained but severely underprepared. And maybe, definitely, like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

“I take it she’s yours?” You smile at the redhead, who is as stiff as the trained dog in front of you. You have the kind of voice that makes obedience sound like an invitation.

Natasha clears her throat. “Technically she’s my sister’s. I’m just the… dog sitter.”

Fanny lets out a groan of ecstasy as you scratch behind her ears. She licks your wrist and whines for more when you rise to your full height from your crouch. You simply glance down at her then back at Natasha.

“She’s dramatic. But smart.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, you’re in luck. We work with dramatic types all the time.”

Fanny barks once, a single and pointed sound. Natasha sighs and walks over to the two of you, her steps cautious like she’s entering a room full of explosives. And with Fanny? That’s not entirely far-fetched. You glance at her sideways as you clip a lead onto the dog’s sparkly harness.

“Before I start working with her, it helps to get a baseline. See what she already knows. What kind of commands you’ve used. Anything she responds to.”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the faintest flicker of discomfort. Is an Avenger actually nervous of a mutt?

“Sure.” She mutters. “No problem.”

You start to give her some space as Fanny bounces on her paws like she’s ready to do parkour. “Go ahead. Show me what she can do.”

Natasha hesitates then clears her throat and turns, trying to subtly crack her neck like she’s preparing for a sparring match. She turns to Fanny, schooling her face into something deadly serious. “Fanny, sit.”

Fanny barks.

Natasha frowns. “Fanny. Sit.”

Fanny leaps onto her hind legs, spins in a circle, and lets out a victorious howl. You bite your lip, smothering the laughter that’s threatening to erupt.

Natasha glares. “She knows sit.”

“Totally. Very… interpretive.”

She ignores that.

“Down!” She commands.

Fanny runs to the corner, grabs a rubber bone and starts aggressively chewing it. Natasha’s ears go faintly pink, you can almost hear her mind cursing out this damn dog.

You make a polite sound, somewhere between encouragement and a failed attempt not to laugh.

“How about recall?” You suggest, gently. “Come, stay, leash manners?”

“She’s been fine on the leash.” Natasha says, quickly. “Except when she’s not.”

You raise a brow then gesture to the training dummy in the center of the mat. It’s shaped like a vaguely threatening human, standard for desensitisation training.

“Let’s try this. Can you walk her past the dummy? Just don’t say anything. I want to see how she reacts.”

Natasha nods. It sounds easy enough so she adjusts the leash, steps forward with practiced precision.

Fanny trots along beside her for exactly two seconds.

Then she sees the dummy and she just lunges, yanking the leash from Natasha’s hand, barrels into the dummy, knocks it clean over with a crash, mounts it like a rodeo champion and-

“Oh my god.”

You can’t help it now as you burst out laughing.

Natasha stands there, expression flat but eyes screaming. “She’s- She’s never done that before.”

You walk over, gently unhook and unmount Fanny, who looks thrilled with herself. Tail wagging, tongue lolling and truly living her best life embarrassing her aunt.

“You know, dominance humping’s pretty common in insecure dogs.” You say, trying to sound professional.

“She’s not insecure.” Natasha grits out. “She’s psychotic.”

You nod solemnly. “Could be both.”

You offer the leash back to her and your fingers brush between the leather. She flinches like it burned but she doesn’t quite pull away.

You grin. “We’ve got work to do.”

⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

It’s been three days. Three full days since Natasha Romanoff last darkened the door of the K-9 training wing.

On the first day of Fanny’s training, she’d simply come to observe between whatever Avenger duties she had going on. Her eyes followed your every movement, you weren’t sure if she was trying to memorise commands or if she was just distracted by something else entirely.

When she came to collect Fanny at the end of the session, she stumbled through pleasantries, politely endured your in-depth explanation of the training Fanny had undergone then thanked you softly and disappeared. But over the past three days, a different redhead had started showing up with the dog. One with deep, unreadable eyes that flashed red when she arrived with Fanny in tow and perfectly under mind control.

You told yourself Natasha was just busy, off doing important Avenger things you’d never understand. Or maybe she was still recovering from the deep, psychic shame of watching her sister’s dog hump a training dummy in front of you.

Still, you’re mid-training with one of the new explosive scent dogs when the door opens and in walks Fanny, tail up, tongue out, dragging Natasha behind her like a kite. Like she was telling you ‘Look who I found!’.

You look up from your crouch, trying and failing to hide your smile.

“Progress check?”

Natasha straightens up, feigning disinterest like it’s a second language. “Figured I’d see if she’s… improving.”

Fanny immediately runs to you, flops on your boot and rolls onto her back for belly rubs like you’re her soulmate.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yep. Wild progress.”

Natasha frowns. “She sat for me yesterday.”

“Wow. Call the press.” You gesture toward the back mat, where your usual training set-up sits, scent targets, obstacles, behavioural triggers. “You want to help?”

Natasha hesitates. You watch the tiny flicker of conflict in her face like she’s weighing whether staying for a few minutes of dog training is somehow exposing her emotionally.

“Sure.” She says. “I���ve got… time.”

⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

You’re on your back, breathless from laughing and trying to not look directly at the soggy redhead next to you.

You’d set up a simple agility run with cones, tunnels, short climbing frames and Fanny, in a moment of pure chaotic energy, had chosen to sprint directly through the cones, avoid the tunnel entirely, and use the ramp as a launching point to dive into a water bucket.

Now she’s soaked. Natasha’s soaked and you’re not much better.

You hand her a towel and finally catch a glimpse of her, she’s smiling at the dog like she wants to strangle her and frame the photo.

“You okay?” You ask, trying not to look too hard at the way she softens.

“Yeah.” Natasha says, wiping her hands. “Honestly? This was… better than I expected.”

“Most people say that about Fanny, right before she humps the training dummies or decides to rid you of your socks.”

She glances at you, a little sideways like she’s searching for something she hasn’t quite worked up the nerve to ask.

“You’re good at this.” She says, quietly.

“After that display of training, I think I need to be fired or maybe Fanny is just an exception to a normal dog?”

“Not just the dogs, all of it. You’re…”

You pause, really looking at her. She’s not flirting, not exactly. “You’re just good.”

She finishes lamely, avoiding your eyes as a red shade rises to her cheeks.

You lean just slightly closer. “Maybe you should stick around longer next time. See how good I really am.”

Her mouth twitches until Fanny barks once and sits directly on Natasha’s foot, like a smug little chaperone.

“Your dog’s totally cockblocking you.” You murmur.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You both laugh. It’s soft, the kind of laugh people don’t fake. The kind you can tell she doesn’t do often.

⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

It’s late afternoon at the Avengers compound and everything’s just calm.

The wind moves through the trees, soft against the outer fences. It’s one of those rare moments, where there’s no distant gunfire, no alarms, no team-wide emergencies. Just a quiet moment where it feels like the world’s finally taking a breath.

Natasha jogs in from the tree line, sweat-slicked and flushed from having clearly pushed herself too hard. Again. She slows to a walk as she reaches the paved path near the west wing, tugging out her earbuds. Her breathing’s steady but her eyes are distant.

And then she sees you.

You’re across the compound path, walking one of your dogs. Not a puppy, or not one of the flashy, perfect recruits.

This one is different.

A big, old shepherd mix, worn around the muzzle. One leg moves stiffly, the other back paw drags just slightly in the dirt. His fur’s patchy, clearly healing from something. One eye is missing while the other fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

You’re walking slow, letting him set the pace. You’re not saying anything but your hand brushes his head every few steps, grounding him.

And for the first time in a long time, Natasha doesn’t feel like she’s watching someone play a role or do their job. She’s just watching you. And that dog, he trusts you like it’s instinct.

You glance up and spot her.

Natasha goes still, instinctively pulling herself straight, guarding something she’s not sure she wants to guard around you anymore.

You hesitate then clear your throat, smile small but warm. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Natasha mutters back, looking down to the dog beside you, a question on the tip of her tongue.

“He’s retired. Came in last year after a blast shattered his back leg and part of his skull. Doesn’t move like he used to.” You answer before she can ask. “Still tries to chase squirrels, though. Doesn’t catch them but he tries.” You pat his side gently, earning a nuzzle to the thigh.

Natasha’s lips twitch. “He’s stubborn.”

“So are most of the best things I know.” You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to her or Fanny.

You don’t know what makes you ask, maybe the way her walls are just a little lower after that run, maybe the way she hasn’t looked at her comms since she spotted you but you go for it anyway. “You want to walk with us?”

Natasha blinks. For all her training, she’s terrible at hiding surprise when it’s real.

“You don’t have to.” You add, quickly. “I know it’s slow-going. He likes to stop every three steps and sniff grass like it’s a delicacy.”

“No, I-“ She cuts herself off then softens at the two sets of puppy dog like eyes staring back at her. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

You don’t say anything, simply gesturing her down the path and walking so close together that your shoulders brush.

The dog stops again and again, noses something in the grass, sniffs the plants, eyes darting the tree lines. You get to a clearing, a good amount away from the compound and bend down to take his leash off, watching Natasha bend the same.

She crouches beside him and you watch her gently scratch the side of his neck, the good side.

“What’s his name?” She asks, letting him lick her fingers.

“Bear.”

“Looks like one.”

You smile. “He thinks he’s terrifying, actually he is in action. But he cries during thunderstorms and won’t sleep unless he’s touching someone.”

Natasha glances up at you, her voice drops. “Yeah. I know the type.”

After letting him run free for a while, stretching out the three good legs he’s got, you whistle him back and clip the leash on again. Together you fall into an easy rhythm, slow and steady steps, soft conversation flowing between you. You talk about the new puppies due to arrive soon, she talks about Fanny’s owner, her sister, who’s clearly the mastermind behind all his mischievous habits. Bear lumbers ahead at his own pace, tail swaying lazily. The sun’s lower now, casting long shadows across the compound’s gravel path. It’s peaceful.

You and Natasha walk side by side, not speaking for a while as the compound reappears through the trees.

Natasha finally breaks it, her voice low and unreadable.

“You ever think about leaving this place?”

You glance over. She’s not looking at you, just watching Bear meander to the grass again, where he sniffs a rock like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Like quitting?” You ask.

She shrugs. “All of it. This place. The job. The people. Just… disappearing.”

You take a breath. “Sometimes.”

Natasha nods like she expected that.

You wait a beat before adding. “But then I remember why I do this.”

She looks at you now. “The dogs?”

You smile. “Them but it’s bigger than just the dogs. I know I’m not on the front lines, I’m not risking my life for others but I’m helping, in my own small way. It’s the least I can do.” You shrug, feeling a little exposed. “It’s enough. Well at least it’s what I tell myself at night.”

She huffs a quiet laugh through her nose but it fades fast. “I think about it all the time. Leaving. I used to do it like clockwork, one job, one identity, gone. But now…” She pauses, searching for the words. “…Now there’s nowhere I want to go. But I don’t know if I want to stay either.”

You nod, letting the honesty settle between you. “That’s still progress.”

“How?”

“Means you’ve got something worth staying for. That’s more than most people. Maybe you just need to find something else that really makes staying worth your while.”

Bear lets out a heavy sigh and flops down in the grass, clearly declaring the walk over. You crouch to check his paw, brushing some dirt out from under the pads. Natasha stays standing, watching you, admiring you.

“He chose to live.” You whisper, softly. “When he came in, he could’ve just… shut down. But he didn’t. He kept trying to move, even when it hurt.”

You look up at her, you don’t say it out loud but the message is clear.

So did you.

She meets your eyes. For a long time. Something flickers in hers, something unguarded and achingly human.

“I didn’t come on this walk for him.” She blurts out, almost randomly.

You blink, thrown by the blunt honesty. “No?”

“No.” A pause. “And I don’t keep coming to the training room to watch Fanny’s progress.”

“Oh.”

“I think she’d hump the dummy again if it got me out of my own head.”

That draws a quiet laugh out of you. You stand back up, brushing grass off your knees and meeting her eyes.

“Well. Next time, we can skip the excuses.”

She tilts her head, just a little. “There’s a next time?”

You smile, soft but certain. “Yeah. If you want one.”

She doesn’t answer right away. But her fingers brush yours when she reaches down to pet Bear again. It’s not an accident.

“I do.” She says, quietly.

And for once she means it.

-⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

The sun was just beginning to dip as Natasha made her way through the doors of the K-9 facility, Fanny at her side, barely pretending to stay on the leash. She’d spent the afternoon ‘supervising’ Fanny’s training with one of the newer handlers, pretending to read intel reports she definitely wasn’t paying attention to, making sure the progress wasn’t slipping away because, of course she only truly trusted you with the mutt.

As she walked toward the exit, she hoped for just a glimpse of you. To see you and to remind herself she didn’t need an excuse to be here.

She hears your voice before she even rounds the corner. Firm. Focused. No-nonsense but somehow, still kind. “That’s it. Down. Hold. Good. Hold, wait for it…”

Natasha turns into the training room and stops in her tracks.

You’re on the main floor, standing in the center of a controlled obstacle course with one of the working dogs, a sleek black and tan Malinois, responding to every word like it’s gospel. He darts through tunnels, leaps cleanly over hurdles, hits precision stops like he’s reading your mind.

You whistle once and hold up two fingers. The dog immediately shifts into a crouch and crawls on command, eyes locked on the decoy target at the far end of the mat. It’s not just good, it’s damn impressive.

You’re not flashy and you don’t don’t show off. But this? This is an insane amount of control, of trust and bond.

And you look entirely in your element, sleeves pushed up, hair gathered back, sweat glinting on your temple, voice low but commanding.

Natasha watches in silence, jaw twitching slightly.

She thought she had a handle on the whole quiet crush on the dog handler thing. Apparently, she did not.

She doesn’t even notice Fanny yawn beside her, until the mutt lets out a loud “WOOF.”

You look up mid-command.

The Malinois snaps to a sit, perfect posture. Fanny, meanwhile, sprints toward the course like she owns the place and proceeds to trip over her own paws and crash into a foam tunnel.

“Fanny!” Natasha mutters, dragging a hand down her face

“Hi.” You call, laughing as the Malinois calmly walks to the water bowl like this is clearly beneath him. “You just missed the best part.”

Natasha’s eyes are still on you. “No.” She says, softly. “I don’t think I did.”

You arch a brow, cheeks warming slightly, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you snap your fingers. Fanny freezes mid-tail wag. “Sit.”

She actually sits. Natasha blinks. “How-”

“Bribery.” You say, with a wink. “And mild psychological warfare.”

Fanny barks, totally unbothered as you kneel beside her, giving her a quick scratch behind the ears and a treat from your pocket.

“She is improving.” You say gently, looking up at Natasha.

“Yeah,” Natasha says. “So am I.” You both pause. “I wanted to see you.”

Something’s different in her eyes now. Less guarded, more grounded. “You did?”

“I did.” She confirms. “And I’d like to see you tomorrow night?”

“Yeah?”

“Yesss.” She drawls, laughing at your stunned expression. “I can pick you up here at 8pm?”

“I- Yes- Yeah, that sounds… good.”

“Good.” She repeats. “Let’s go Fanny.”

What the hell just happened?!

-⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

The next evening, Natasha’s early.

She makes her way down to the K-9 facility, a little more nervous than she expected to be. She’s not in her usual Shield uniform or even a mission suit, just jeans, a black jacket, hair in loose waves like she’s trying to look casual, like this isn’t her first real date in years.

She tells herself she’s just checking in before dinner. Fanny’s leash is tucked under her arm and she’s practiced what she’ll say when she sees you.

But when she walks into the main room, you’re not there.

A younger handler is wiping down crates and glances up when Natasha enters.

“Hi!”

“Hi, I’m looking for-“

“Yes. Yes, I- She said- Well-“ The young handler stutters, clearly not expecting to see the Black Widow. “She’s at the Med bay.”

“WHAT?!” She almost growls.

“Yeah. Uh, there was an incident. One of the dogs- something happened during a mission. She went with the vet team to stabilise him. It was bad. Lot of blood.”

Natasha doesn’t wait to hear the rest. She’s already moving.

-⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

The doors hiss open to chaos, barking, low groans and rushed footsteps. One of the older German Shepherds, Bear’s brother in uniform Natasha thinks, has his splayed on a steel table, half-sedated and clearly in pain. His leg’s twisted unnaturally, blood matted deep into the fur.

And you’re there, on the ground and kneeling beside him.

Your face is calm but barely. Hands shaking as you stroke the uninjured side of his neck, whispering soft reassurances that sound like muscle memory and like you’re holding back everything else.

The dog snarls, eyes wild. He snaps, once, twice and catches your forearm on the third, hard enough to draw blood.

Natasha jerks forward but not as fast as the man beside her, armed with a huge tranquilsor that would be enough to put out a rhino.

“Ma’am, back off-”

“No!” You say, through your teeth. “He doesn’t understand what’s happening.”

The dog snaps again, catching your hand this time. You wince but he’s already letting you go and whining softly.

“Shhh, I know. It’s ok.” You whisper, already reaching for the much smaller needle in your vest pocket. “He just needs to feel something safe before he goes under.”

You get close again, whispering something too soft for Natasha to hear and then you stick the needle cleanly into his shoulder.

The dog lets out a whine, shudders but slowly goes still.

The moment he stops fighting, you do too.

You slump down beside the table, breathing hard, blood trickling from your arm. One of the vet techs moves in to lift the dog away, muttering about surgery and nerve damage.

Natasha is there the second you’re alone. “What the hell were you thinking?”

She drops to a crouch beside you, pulling your arm into her lap, already inspecting the puncture wounds. “You could’ve lost a hand! Do you even realise how close his teeth were to your-”

“I know.” You mutter. “I know.”

She rips a gauze packet open with her teeth, one clearly suited more to an animal than human but neither of you care. Your blood’s on her gloves before you even notice she’s touching you. It’s not her anger that gets to you, it’s the fear behind it.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. “But if they gave him what they wanted, he would never have woke up.”

She doesn’t respond, just continues to clean the wounds along your arm.

The vet returns briefly at some point. “He’s stable.” He assures before his face becomes a lot more somber. “But it’s touch and go. Nerve damage, internal bleeding. We’ll do everything we can.”

You nod, voice hollow. “Thanks.”

The door closes again and that’s when it hits you.

You lean back against the wall, blood still drying on your skin and your whole body starts to shake as you pull away from her.

The tears hit fast, harder than you meant to let them, pulling out of you in rough, uneven sobs. Your face twists and you instinctively turn away, as if you’re embarrassed by the weight of it.

“Sorry.” You choke out. “I just- He’s not just a dog. He’s- He trusted me. I-” But you can’t finish it.

Natasha doesn’t move for a second but then she very gently takes your chin and turns your face back toward her

“Don’t apologise.” Her voice is quiet. “He’s not just a dog to you. I know that.”

You try to blink the tears away but she’s already pulling you into her, one arm tight around your shoulders, your blood still on her jacket sleeve.

And when she says. “You made him feel safe. That’s what he needed.” You finally let yourself fall forward into her arms and just breathe.

-⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

The sky’s dark by the time Natasha comes back from the vet ward with Fanny trotting beside her, leash taut, ears perked, tail doing that suspiciously innocent wag. Natasha had dragged you to Dr Cho, made her stitch you back together and clean your wound much better than she could have ever done. She had even stayed outside the dog’s surgery, so you wouldn’t worry he was alone.

You’re sitting outside the recovery wing, arm bandaged and fresh stitches, looking exhausted with eyes rimmed red, clothes still stained with blood but now, your breathing’s steady.

Natasha crouches beside you without saying anything at first. She just puts a hand on your knee, grounding. “He’s stable. They think he’ll make it.” She assures you.

You exhale, sharp and shaky. “Thanks for coming and staying.”

“You think I wasn’t going to?”

You don’t answer that. Fanny whines and licks your good hand. Natasha glares at her but the mutt leans harder into your leg.

“Traitor.” Natasha mutters, making you smile.

“She’s loyal to whoever has treats.”

“You don’t even have any.”

“She knows I would.” You both laugh but it’s quiet, the events of the night still heavy.

-⋆⟡⋆˙⋆🐾⋆˙⋆⟡⋆

You don’t really remember how you asked her to come with you. It might’ve been mid-sentence, mid-sigh, something like ‘I just don’t want to be alone tonight.’

She didn’t hesitate.

Now you’re curled on your couch, left arm braced with a pillow, still smelling faintly of antiseptic. Fanny has made herself fully at home, snoring upside down on your rug like she pays rent.

Natasha’s in your kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, humming something low as she works a pan over the stove. “You cook.” You say in disbelief.

“I survive.” She corrects. “You’re bleeding. The bar is low.”

But the scent of garlic and something buttery drifts into the air. She brings over two plates, a simple pasta dish on each, loaded high with toasted bread.

You blink, stunned. “Are you seducing me with carbs?”

“If it works, I’m making pancakes in the morning.”

You laugh, hardly able to pull your eyes from her and to the meal in front of you.

You both eat while the TV murmurs in the background, just quiet enough that you can hear Fanny’s snoring through it.

Once you’re both finished, you tried to clear the plates but she refuses to let you, not wanting you to get the bandages wet. So you wait patiently until she falls beside you, sinking into your soft couch cushions.

There’s a pause, a moment of peace.

You look over at her to find she’s already looking at you.

“You scared the shit out of me today.” She murmurs, quietly.

You swallow. “I was scared too.”

“You didn’t act like it.”

“Well, neither did you.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. “I didn’t want to lose you and it wasn’t just because of the dog. I trusted you could do it, I knew you could but- I got scared.” A sigh follows. “I don’t get scared.’

That lands like a soft hit to the chest. You reach out slowly, brushing your fingers along hers.

“I don’t know what this is.” You say, voice small.

“Me either.”

Fanny chooses that exact moment to wake up and hop up, wedge herself between you both like an obnoxious little cupid and drop a saliva-damp rope toy in Natasha’s lap.

You both stare for a second then laugh, half delirious at the late hour and also in disbelief.

“She really knows how to kill a moment.”

“Or make one…”

Natasha leans in before you can even think to stop her, hand gentle on your jaw, gaze asking for permission she doesn’t need to speak.

And then she kisses you.

It’s not fast or rough. Just steady, sure and real.

When she pulls back, you’re both breathless but still smiling.

“So…” You murmur. “Pancakes?”

“Only if you let me stay.”

“Deal.”

Fanny flops across both your laps and lets out the loudest, most satisfied groan imaginable.

“You did this, didn’t you?” Natasha laughs, scratching her head.

She doesn’t move, she just lets out another dramatic sigh, her tail thumping once against the couch.

And when Natasha’s lips meet yours again, Fanny closes her eyes with the contentment of someone who knows her mission is complete.

[randombush3]

a sweet and tender hooligan

leah williamson x reader

summary: you meet leah in a VIP bar and can't decide what to do with her

words: 3545

content warnings: recreational drug usage

notes: i never write for leah but it felt apt. there's a second part planned. i quite like this fic so i hope u do too

and thanks @p0orbaby for holding my hand through writing this xx

You’re so bored. 

No one ever really talks about the patience it takes back-stage at Glastonbury. Or maybe they do, and you just ignore it, forever clawing at the need to be original. 

You can’t really warm your voice up any more, you’re wearing your chosen stage outfit, and you’re sitting on a flight case. You feel like a little girl, swinging your legs about and hoping you don’t accidentally roll onto stage and ruin the set of the artist two heads in front of you in the line-up. 

You could smoke, but you can’t do that here. You could go and snort cocaine with the rest of your team. You could pick up the guitar lying in its open case on the floor beside you. You could run laps around the muddy fields in your Docs, proudly putting them to use as though they don’t live at the foot of a clothing rack with the rest of your costumes. It’s still part of my aesthetic, you would tell your stylist, as if real mud doesn’t ruin the ‘cool and nonchalant’ thing you’ve got going on. 

As if you didn’t spend most of your childhood in the dining rooms of important people or at Evensong services in one of the Oxbridge colleges. 

In a state of inertia – because even though you could do anything you wanted to, you won’t – it is very easy to be excited by the familiar voice calling your name from the other side of a large smoke machine that will be wheeled out behind you when you eventually get to perform. 

“Babe,” sings the voice with its inherent boisterousness. “You’ve got two hours to go. That’s at least three drinks.” 

You don’t grace her with eye contact just yet, still contemplating your state of self-pity. 

“Drinks,” Jess says again, more insistent. “Now. Come meet my girlfriend!” 

The case rolls backwards with a low rumble as you hop off it, feet landing precariously between thick cables. “I’ve met your girlfriend already, Jess.” 

She grabs your wrist and drags you along with her anyway. You let her, whisked through the semi-organised chaos of the VIP corridor – past handlers, stylists, and an ex-boybander deep-throating a Calippo. Orange, naturally. You try not to smirk. It’s Glasto, after all. No one is above anything here. Not even you.

The VIP bar is tucked just behind the main stage, buzzing with poorly-veiled networking and celebrities who aren’t sure where they stand amongst the spattering of artists who are internally crippling with nervousness. Everything smells like stale cider and cigarettes, although neither you nor Jess wrinkle your noses at it. A few heads turn at your appearance, but you don’t pay it much attention. 

Alex Scott is already holding court at a picnic bench strewn with empty plastic cups, sunglasses, and a large plate of loaded fries that look cold and soggy. Perhaps she had been waiting for her girlfriend to return – perhaps it is your fault her food is ruined. 

She stands when she sees Jess, arms thrown around her in a way that makes you smile, despite yourself. There’s real warmth there. Unforced. You don’t envy it, but you award them a certain level of respect. 

“Hiya,” Alex says to you, flashing that pearly grin. She reaches out a hand, placing it on your bicep. She knows you don’t like hugs. “You’re up soon, yeah? Big set.” 

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Same as last year.” 

She laughs. Alex likes your cockiness. Finds it effortless. “Far too smooth.” She places a limp chip in her mouth, humming in delight for a reason lost on you. “Ready to party with us afterwards?” 

“I know we’re not your preferred crowd,” Jess teases. “Seeing as neither of us are an option for you to fuck and then ghost in the morning.” 

“Don’t sound so jealous,” you reply, rolling your eyes. 

Jess snorts, pleased with herself, while Alex shakes her head. She’s used to this particular brand of cattiness. 

“Actually,” she says, glancing past Jess, “we’ve got someone new in our little VIP girl gang today. Sort of a plus one.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you adopt someone?” 

“Basically,” Jess says, stepping sideways to make space for a bobbing blonde head that is meandering towards the picnic bench.

And that’s when you see her.

She’s a footballer. You know her name. You’re sure of it.

“This is Leah,” Alex says when the blonde reaches her destination. Leah leans against the back of the bench in that way footballers must spend ridiculous amounts of time mastering in the mirror – loose-limbed, confident, wearing baggy denim and a tank top that rides up enough to hint at her toned stomach. Her eyes are shadowed behind shades, but she lifts them now, peering at you over the top. 

“Leah knows who you are.” Alex punches her girlfriend’s arm. “What? That’s quite a normal thing! She’s used to it.” 

Leah smiles. It doesn’t hide her slight apprehension, but you’re used to that, too. 

“I like your dad’s music.” 

The air stills, just for a second. You blink at her. 

It’s not the worst thing someone could say. It’s not even surprising. But it is lazy. 

Jess winces in slow motion beside you, and even Alex seems to pause her slow consumption of the soggy chips for a beat too long. 

Clearly not an idiot, Leah clocks the tension. “I mean… I like your music too. Obviously. That’s why–” She shrugs, trailing off. “Sorry. Shit opening line.” 

You don’t reply. Not verbally, anyway. She suffers in your silence and it’s a satisfying compensation for the can of worms she has unintentionally opened. Your head tilts slightly to one side, gaze narrowing, curiosity blending with amusement. And maybe something sharper. 

“I’ve had worse,” you offer, just before she is about to suffocate. 

“Have you?” she asks, with that footballer grin (Alex is good at it too) – the one that suggests she wins things for a living and isn’t afraid of getting mud on her knees. 

“Someone once said I reminded them of Lana Del Rey. But with ADHD.” You look at Jess; “Or did they say coked up?” She snorts her drink.

“I mean, I see it,” Leah says, eyes glinting behind the tinted lenses, pushed arrogantly back up her nose as if you don’t all know that she’s probably just shielding herself from her hangover. “Angsty but feral.” 

“Oh my god,” Alex mutters. “Leah. Inside voice.” 

But you laugh. Soft. Unexpected. The first real laugh you’ve given anyone all day. She beams, as though she knows that, and you don’t plan to figure out the sudden clarity in your vision before your set. 

“So,” Leah says, casually looping her arms across the back of the bench. “Do we get a preview? Or do I have to stand in a field jam-packed with strangers and pretend I’m not sweating my tits off waiting for you to start?”

“What makes you special, Leah?” you ask, voice steady and innocent. Her indignance is the last thing you see before someone from your team (you had felt a demon sneaking up on you) pulls you away, back to your cage in the VIP corridor. 

The encounter, while intriguing, does not quite satiate your need for excitement, and with an hour left on the clock, you have nothing better to do than give in. 

Your greenroom is full, bustling with the joy of getting to exist here without the pressure of performing. You don’t share that privilege but you do like being a dancing monkey and so you let them get away with it.

Almost every surface is littered with cigarette butts and energy drinks, empty bottles of champagne and tequila lined up neatly against the make-shift walls.The coffee table in the centre of the room is the hearth, grounding everyone in a relative circle around it. The familiar sight of white powder being diligently scraped into lines is comforting — at least this year is no different. 

Like always, your presence is noticed in the room. Most of these people are glorified groupies, anyway. Apart from the head that stays level with the table. A head you know very well. 

“Cecily, what would Mummy say if I let you do coke backstage?” The room goes silent out of respect for your voice, but it feels stilted and forced. Your half-sister looks up at you only when she has finished her line. 

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” You frown. Neither did you. “Daddy said not to tell her. Said that she’d worry.” 

“She would!” 

“She’s a hypocrite,” Cecily replies with a whine in her voice that no amount of maturity will ever rid her of. “What was she doing when she was twenty-one?”

You wince. 

You know what’s coming. Everyone knows what’s coming. 

Perhaps that is why she never gets the chance to make the comparison, because someone swoops in (you really should learn these people’s names) and rescues the mood: “I think we should head into soundcheck.” 

You pretend not to hear the collectively exhaled sigh of relief. 

It’s so much sweatier backstage now. The sound engineer is fussing over the guitar amps and a scratchy undertone of feedback. Your manager’s assistant is standing to attention, holding a Lemsip in her hands in case you want some. Your stylist is moaning about the dirt on your shoes. 

No one talks to you. They know that the last thirty minutes before it’s time are yours. Your silence, your thoughts. Your preparation. 

You shed the layers of yourself that aren’t the woman that is going to appear on the stage. You quell the niggling doubt that whispers that you’re not good enough. 

…

“You were fucking amazing!” Jess shouts in your ear as you appear in the VIP bar once again. Now, your hair is twisted back, glitter brushed into it by your relentless younger sister, the same colour smudged on your eyelids. Your clothes are fresh – a tight skirt, old shirt, wellies. Something that makes you look chic. Refined enough to be worth the school fees. Ready for a festival, even if there are only a few hours left of tonight’s live music. 

You smile because you’re used to this. The compliments, the attention, the sweaty half-sincere praise from people who watched you from behind tinted lenses and forgot to clap. It’s fine. You didn’t do it for them. You did it because you like the power of watching a crowd swell and bend beneath you. 

“Thank you,” you say, reaching for the lukewarm drink someone hands you. You don’t check who or what, simply taking a sip and letting your mouth scrunch into a grimace. Whiskey. You hate whiskey. 

“You looked like a fucking rockstar,” Jess continues, buzzing with the kind of energy that always makes you tired. “Like, everyone’s obsessed with you. Even Leah said–” 

You hold up a finger. “Don’t ruin it.” 

“How was she supposed to know–”

“She wasn’t,” you grant your friend. You shrug. “But she’s annoying. You know I hate footballers.” 

“You like Alex.” 

“She’s retired.” Your sigh is deep, drenched with the exhaustion of performing. “What’s the deal with her, anyway? Is she Alex’s friend? Here on a sponsorship deal?” 

“I thought you found her annoying.” Jess raises an eyebrow, catching you out with the ease that only someone who’s seen you at your worst can manage. With a profound lack of subtly, she gestures to where Leah is standing at the bar, engaged in an animated conversation with Cecily, of all people. 

You roll your eyes. “I do. But I’m curious as to which brand of annoying she is.” 

“She’s not with sponsors,” Jess says, grinning now like she knows something you don’t. “She’s just here. A civilian, apparently.” 

“Doesn’t exist.” The speed of your response makes her laugh, but she gets it: no one’s a civilian in the VIP bar. 

Jess shrugs, sitting into her hip like she’s bored of your cynicism. “She came with Alex. Something about needing a break before the Euros. I don’t know. She’s nice.” 

“She’s a defender, isn’t she?” 

Your friend looks vaguely impressed. “Look at you pretending not to know who she is.” 

“I only know because she did that weird hand-ball thingie in that final. I can’t remember when, but Stephen was shouting so loudly at the TV that Cec and I literally left the house.” Your stepfather doesn’t care much for football but a fellow producer (younger and therefore naturally woke) had called him a bigot for abstaining from women’s sports and so he had no choice. Apparently it’s the second sport at Westminster, though. They used to thrash Eton. 

You sip the whiskey again, just to punish yourself. 

“She’s hot though,” Jess offers, too lightly. And she has a girlfriend, so there really is only one hint she could be giving. You’re not taking her bait. 

There’s a beat between you. Your eyes dart over to the enthralling chat Leah and Cec seem to be having. Jess is smirking. 

“I’ve seen that look before,” she says. 

You scoff. “The one with blinking and open eyes?”

“No.” You wonder if Jess ever tires of your tendency to irritate the fuck out of her. “The look you gave her back at the picnic bench.” 

You pull your face into something as neutral as possible. Unimpressed, even. “She said she liked my dad’s music.”

“Well, he was in The Smiths. Pretty sure lots of people do.” Jess is far too reasonable for her level of drunkenness.  

“Yeah, but as an introductory statement? It was basically a hate crime.” 

“And yet you laughed. I was there. I saw it.” 

You let the moment hang. Let Jess think she’s right. Then: “It was politeness.” 

“Politeness?” Jess is openly laughing now. You wish Alex would return from whatever adventure she has embarked on and save you from her insufferable girlfriend. “You’re never polite. You told Victoria Beckham her boots looked like bin bags.” 

“They did.” You sigh, gaze drifting lazily across the bar. Of course, it lands on Leah. 

She’s still there. Still talking to Cecily, now joined by two other vaguely familiar faces – some actor, maybe, and a girl who used to date someone who used to date you. Leah’s smile is easy. Careless. But you’re not an idiot and you know performative charm when you see it. You invented it. 

As if sensing your attention, she glances over.

Your eyes meet. 

She holds it, just long enough to be cocky. Just long enough to challenge you. Before you look away in repulsion, she raises a brow: are you going to talk to me or just stare all night?

The whiskey finally hits your bloodstream. 

“She’s looking at you,” Jess says, entirely unhelpful. 

“No, she’s not.” 

“She is.” 

“Fine,” you sigh, already bored of yourself. “I’ll just pop over there and make sure Cecily hasn’t invited her to the family Christmas.” 

Jess clinks her drink against yours as you step away. “Be nice.” She remembers who she’s speaking to, laughing at her own words. “Or don’t. Just don’t shag her in a Portaloo.” 

You glare at her. “That was one time.” 

She shrugs. “I still don’t understand the mechanics of it.” 

It’s something you have refused to explain to her time and time again. She knows the scar GCSE Physics left on you, and therefore should know better, but a defining feature of your friendship with Jess is her incessant over-stepping and your forgiving nature. (Here, you tell a lie – you don’t forgive her, you just gave up on chiding her.) Anywho, the best way to avoid denying her of her mythology story-time is to get on with interrupting Leah and your sister.

The conversation stops when you approach, Leah’s voice dying in her throat, her sentence doomed to be unfinished. The four of them – actor and ex’s ex both staring gormlessly – seem to wait for you to announce what you have deemed important enough to grace them with. 

You fix your eyes on Leah. “I hope Cec hasn’t bored you with the logistics of maintaining an eating disorder.” 

Cecily doesn’t even blink. “You’re just jealous that I’ve walked runways and you haven’t.” 

“Not at all,” you murmur, gaze unwavering. 

The actor, aggressively toothy in a leather waistcoat, sporting a generic face you’re pretty sure you scrolled past on Netflix last week, takes the opportunity to interject, apparently confusing the silence for an invitation. 

“I’m Edward, by the way.” He leans in as if this matters. Cec subtly glances at you – you’re both thinking the same thing. “I won the BAFTA for Best Short Form Performance. Web-based narrative – all very pioneer and such. You might have seen it? Houndstooth?” Only the ex’s ex reacts, and it is unconvincing at best. He recovers, undeterred. “Anyway, I was just saying how much I love your dad’s music. Real Manchester grit. Proper lyrics, you know?” 

He gestures between you and Cecily. You weigh out what would be more fun: expose his mistake or ask him whether he can actually point Manchester out on the map. 

Cec gets there first. “He’s not my dad,” she says, tone sickly sweet but laced with a level of mocking she has learnt from you. “Just hers.” She jabs a finger in your direction. “See” – and here’s where she gets you back for earlier – “my half-sister is my mother’s daughter. Don’t you recall that big affair? ‘96, ‘97. Well, here she is, walking and talking.” 

You laugh, hoping she hears the special kind of fury you reserve for this topic lurking in the brightness of your voice. 

Leah’s eyes flicker to you, apologetic. “Shit. Right.” She swallows. “I shouldn’t have – back at the table – about the whole, uh…” She trails off, waving her hand as though it conjures up the rest of her words. You briefly wonder if this woman has ever finished a sentence. 

You tilt your head. “The whole ‘I like your dad’s music’ thing?” 

She winces. “That.” 

Cecily grins, clearly enjoying the awkwardness she hasn’t had to cause for once. The actor looks confused and the girl takes an abrupt interest in her drink. 

“Well, I think I’m going to mingle with the… common folk,” Cecily says then, voice light as a feather. Edward laughs – of course he finds that funny. “Coming, Leah?” 

You’re about to say no, as though you have authority to do so, when Leah smiles, a little tight around the edges. “I’m good, thanks.” 

Cec shrugs, already turning away. “Suit yourself. Come on, darlings,” she chirps to the others, acquiring tonight’s entourage. “Let’s leave the artist alone with her muse.” 

You don’t dignify it with a response. You watch them go.

Something settles in the atmosphere. Probably a sigh of relief that your sister has fucked off. Things feel quieter. 

“You know, when you meet a nepo-baby, you’re not supposed to remind them of it.” The whiskey you sip to chase your first teaching burns your throat. “Much less talk about the fame of their parents.” 

“I liked your set.” She is defiant in the way she says it, shoulders squared, jaw set. You assume she hates being patronised more than the average person. The small amount of empathy in you connects that to being a female athlete. Or maybe just a woman. 

You nod, noncommittally. A truce. “Thanks.” 

“I hadn’t connected the dots about your dad.” She really should stop talking about it, else you’ll have to find a way to make her shut up. “Must be terrifying to have him watching you on days like today.” 

Your laugh is involuntary. Startling. She jumps. “He’s not watching. His son has a gig in some pub in Manchester.” You hope she doesn’t pity you. “Glasto’s televised,” you say, feeling the need to justify it. 

“He missed out.” 

She doesn’t understand the weight of that statement. 

“Perhaps. Anyway, you know I’m more nepo through my mother? My grandfather was the CEO of Sony Music for a long time. Then he died and they got the new guy in, but such is life.” 

“I should have been more diligent when reading your Wikipedia.” And that makes you laugh, you’re embarrassed to admit. She smiles, almost proud of herself. “I am quite a fan of The Smiths though.” 

“They’re a bit angsty.” 

“Mate,” she says incredulously, “have you heard your lyrics?” 

You roll your eyes. “But I don’t listen to my own music. Do you watch yourself play football?” 

Leah thinks about that for a moment. Her expression softens, as though you have just said something completely idiotic. 

“Well, yes. We have film sessions – hours spent pouring over how we play, how the other teams play.” 

“I don’t know how sports work.” 

“Well, I don’t know my C major from my A minor.” 

Her confusion is amusing. “They’re the same,” you say gently, though you’re not sure why you’re enjoying this conversation or educating her on entry-level music theory.

Leah frowns. “They don’t sound the same.” 

You take a slow sip of your drink, let it burn just long enough. “They’re not supposed to, even to an ignorant ear.” 

“Are you calling me ignorant?” 

You gesture lazily with your glass. “No. Just your ears.” 

She scoffs, offended. You’re a total bitch.

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

As an addendum to my last handler/pilot dynamic post, consider the found family dynamic:

You became a handler to find your baby sister, whom you know only was taken from your arms twelve years ago by a man bearing the Collective’s red-winged eagle on his shoulder, whom you’ve never seen again. (That is the way it goes with children who show promise for the pilot program - some call it destiny, others law, still others stealing; you don’t care to put a word to it, but you won’t rest till you’ve seen it undone.)

Your first pilot dies in a day, your second in a week. This too is the way it goes. Not every promising child becomes a proven soldier. Some blades shatter in the tempering: metal too poor, fire too hot.

You say the lines: Hunt there, Go north, Well done, Not yet, Wait here, Go home, Glory to the Collective - a litany in which you don’t believe. Now your pilots last longer before they die (missile strikes, overtaxed reactors, and each time you hurt a little less, and whisper thanks that they are not your sister, at least). Weeks before the next, then months, then years - how many? - you’ve long since stopped counting the days, for each that passes without finding what you seek is one that may as well not have come at all.

Then one day as you murmur the lines in your loyal hound’s ear a shriek pierces the sterile peace of your ivory tower, and your world erupts in flame. They’ve found where you direct from through some trick of triangulation; they’ve brought down an orbital strike, right upon you.

You wake amid the ruins to the screech of missiles, the groan of metal and shattering ceramic plating. And in your ear the first sound your pilot has ever made: a long, unbroken scream.

You watch her pick up the enemy and tear it in half, in a burst of steel and sparks, and then you are gone again.

When you wake next she is carrying you, strangely, gingerly, balanced atop her gun arm and held in place with her machete. You struggle upright and she grinds to a halt. They taught you early on how to work the emergency hatch from the outside; you do, now, and see to your shock that the pilot is just a scrap, a red-eyed white-bleached little thing tangled in too many strangling black cords, crying piteously, starved.

You needed her then. She needs you now.

So you unwrap her from the coffin of synthetics and wiring and carry her, cumbersome, down from the cockpit. While she thrashes in your arms (not used to the touch of mortal flesh, doubtless, not used to being so small and soft and terribly mortal at all), you reach into your still-intact coat and fish for the last snack there and feed it to her (gently, gently, she isn’t used to much besides intubated protein slop) and wait for the flutter of her chest to slow a little before you go on.

The sound of running water nets you a quiet pool to bathe in. She struggles too when you unzip her suit - she is like a wild animal, kicking and biting and scratching - you repeat the same soft assurances from your radio, Wait here, Easy, Don’t shoot yet, and she stills, and though there is a little blood on you you feel it’s a triumph. You guide her to the pool and then turn and walk five paces away, just far enough to know you can run back in case you hear her start to flail too much - or not at all.

It takes a few tries, getting her to figure out how to bathe. But by the fourth night she at least comes out free of that old coating of sweat and tears and machine lubricants, smelling no longer of grease and oil, and by the tenth night she sits and lets you untangle the long fall of her hair.

It is an ugly meager white, this hair, like the rest of her, skin and all, only her eyes that same strange red. This is how you think you know she is not your sister, who had the same rich loam brown skin you do - or perhaps this is just how pilots look; perhaps they are all bleached by their cockpits like plants in lightless winter.

She doesn’t speak, your pilot, they never do, they only ever growl or shriek or hiss or groan. They did not need to speak in the cockpit; you understand that somehow they and the mechs speak without talking, that it must be part of the dullness in her eyes that she has lost that way of speaking, for her mech has run out of fuel after a fortnight and, though you have worked out how to articulate its legs by sheer force and a bit of cleverly tied wire (so that you can walk it alongside the two of you as you go), you cannot manage to get it to wake again. So in the long hungry evening you try to teach her another way of speaking, with her hands and not her mouth.

You speak to her still, of course, as you always have, using the same soft key-in phrases you’ve always done (throwing in new words here and there, signing them at the same time). You understand now that you were never really talking to her to talk, but to soothe, the way you lull babies in the cradle. It is slow going, even so. At first you do not think she even listens. She does not look at your hands. She stares somewhere past you, out at the stars, or the next ridge, and does not move at all.

But on the hundredth day that changes. She looks suddenly, sharply, at you while you roast your catch over the fire, and she signs, Sun.

Sun? you sign back, heart racing.

Sun, she says. Sun rabbit. Sun rabbit food.

Another forty days and you find out Rabbit is the name of her mech.

In winter you come across the burned-out remains of an enemy outpost. Your pilot is off like a shot, and against your instinct you do not call out to her or give chase. Sure enough, she comes back, arms full of thin sheets that glitter like obsidian.

Sun food! she signs, hands shaky (she still is not used to such delicate gestures - in her mech, all her movements were big and sharp and final). Rabbit food!

The next days are spent swaddling Rabbit in the salvaged panels, and then, on the seventh day after you arrive at the ruins - in the midst of the coldest night yet - something inside the mech’s infernal innards chirps, and beeps, and comes to life.

That isn’t the only thing that wakes. Turns out dormant drones in this outpost have sensors tuned to mech handshakes.

It’s too late to run. You yell, RABBIT!, and you throw yourself over your pilot in the middle of her still-open cockpit, right as the drones converge upon you, and your world becomes day-bright.

You wake to find it is still night. Your leg aches. In the light of smoldering embers, your pilot shakes you. Tears glitter on her face like ice. Behind her you see Rabbit - the smoking hulk, having awoken just enough to sync with her pilot and turn and shield you both.

Your pilot signs, You not dead.

I’m not dead, you sign back, and now you begin to cry too, for the first time in twelve years. I’m not dead.

Rabbit dead, she signs. And you cling to each other and her little body (so stunted it is the size of a girl some twelve years old, despite that you know pilots are only enlisted at fifteen) wracks with sobs, over and over.

But in the morning, once her crying has subsided enough for her to fall asleep, you untangle yourself from her and go limping down into the ruins and wrap up your leg, and then you find yourself something approximating a screwdriver.

She finds you deep in the corpse of Rabbit. She is angry, maybe, by the look on her face - maybe she thinks you are desecrating the grave. Hastily you hold up your prize, and she falters - doesn’t recognize it.

Rabbit, you sign. Rabbit head. Rabbit - Rabbit soul.

Soul? She clearly doesn’t know the word. Nobody has ever told it to her. Of course.

You shake your head in frustration and gesture her over, and she comes, haltingly.

You carefully part the hair at the base of her neck. You slip the little black disc into the waiting slot.

It takes a moment. Then - oh then -

She nearly collapses into you. Her sobbing is louder than ever before, and her fingers are a shuddering outburst, over and over, Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.

You don’t wander anymore. The ruins where you found the solar panels have cans and cans of preserved food hidden in some abandoned Doomsday bunker, turns out, and when those run out there are many animals you know you’ll be able to hunt here - you see their burrows and footprints in the thawing snow already. And as the sun grows stronger, you have noticed a little streak of black in your pilot’s white braid.

She chatters to Rabbit all day, every day. At least you think so - you see nothing, hear nothing, but she wanders the grounds with you (your limp growing ever more sure, thanks to a splint you made in the aftermath of the drones) and she helps you festoon the little makeshift hut you’re putting together with solar panels, and by turns she smiles, or frowns, or laughs suddenly, a bright peal undimmed by the closeness of any cockpit. Down in the middle of the village the old body of Rabbit lies still and steady, a little majestic in a forlorn way, you think.

Come spring you find yourself settling between the legs of Old Rabbit, New Rabbit and Beetle (thus your pilot has named herself, after her other favorite sort of animal) tucked happily against your arm; she has filled out much since you first pulled her from her cockpit and now eats the fish you roast for her with great enjoyment, smacking her lips and humming. When you are done she turns to look up at you.

Yes, Beetle? you ask her, aloud and with hands.

Will they find us? she asks you.

No, you tell her honestly. You lost your trackers that day in the fire, burned out of the tower in which you sat; to the Collective you are as good as dead. So is Rabbit now that her body has been torn apart, her disc removed. And the Collective doesn’t come back for expendables, for rusted blades they can no longer use. (Above you, flowers sway in the hollows of Rabbit’s arm cannons.)

Will you leave me? she asks you next.

You pause. You say, Do you want me to?

This is not in pilot vocabulary, to be asked a question. She has to pause also to take in what you’ve just done.

Then she says, No, never, and, If you do, I’ll go looking for you.

Like you went looking all those years ago, no? When did it change? You told yourself then: She’s lost out there somewhere; I must find her, or die trying. Now you look at the little girl beside you and you think, Maybe you were the lost one all along. Maybe you’ve found each other.

You ask her, Why do you say you’d look for me?

She considers this. After a long moment, she says, You had an order for me. At the end of every hunt. Told me where to go. I could not ever stop going until I got there, and I am there now, and if it goes away from me then I will have to go looking for it again.

She looks at you straight on, now, with eyes that reflect the night sky. It occurs to you that maybe this is her way of, at last, trying to give you a name; you forgot yours the moment you joined the force, for you weren’t interested in personalizing yourself to anyone, especially not the short-lived pilots, who didn’t need your name anyway, only your title, Handler.

You say, What do you mean?

She smiles. It’s you, she says. This place. The place is you.

You know now, but you need her to say it, the way she needed you to say those things back then, to keep her going, to keep her from going mad. So you ask her, What is the place?

She smiles again. In the darkness, an owl hoots.

She says, Home.

[frostgears]

gardening

you did something stupid and now you're here in your itchy twice-a-year dress uniform in this bright busy room in the regimental HQ trying to figure out if you're going to be yelled at, shot, or promoted. the room's full of folding chairs. apparently not enough furniture in here normally to contain all the suits and all the brass.

your "ops coordinator" ("we don't say 'handler', grunt, it gives the civilians weird ideas") got pulled off for a side conversation two minutes after you got here and you haven't seen her since. you're looking anywhere for a familiar face. you're coming up empty. at least the woman next to you looks equally stressed. she must be civvie, some consultant or other; soft face, masses of curly hair. she's wearing a blazer and slacks with big round dataframes.

"hey," you elbow her. "what are you in for?"

"gods above and below." she sighs. "everything. but today mostly Neryx-9."

"the ag research station. you were there?"

"hardly," she says. "just came up on my huge list of problems."

"creepy shit. i was front and center for it…"

she cocks her head to listen. you explain.

Neryx-9 had been a cluster of greenhouses on the surface. supposed to be vacant, powered down — actually they'd said "mothballed", then looked at you like you were stupid when you asked what a moth was and what they did with their balls. but not vacant. far from it. you went in with a miniframe. first thing you found was the bodies of the grid authority techs that had called it in. purple mold already growing over them.

"it was wrong," you tell her. "not like that white stuff you get when an open nutripak sits in the fridge too long. i mean, i don't know if that would have been better. i just, i don't know, i didn't want to get any of that stuff on me. frame or no. maybe there was some already on me, but didn't want to get it on anyone else. so i backed out, sat in the airlock, thought about calling for extraction. thought better. backed to the wall, cycled my flight jets until it was starting to get warm even inside the frame, thought maybe i'd cook it off me. my ha– ops coordinator asked me what the fuck i was doing. snapped me out of it, i told her, i need fire. incendiaries."

they'd found them, somewhere. support rigged another airlock outside of the main airlock after you'd yelled at them to keep that shit inside. a miniframe-scale plasma cutter for outside construction work, and some purpose-built low-velocity liquid pyrophoric agent rockets.

the woman in the blazer made a face. "we just have those sitting around?"

"starship boarding actions. when we don't want to breach the hull but we do want to use all the oxygen. splashes around, gets everywhere, but nowhere near hot enough to melt anything structural. only used 'em in sims, of course, not like we get a lot of star traffic. horrorshow shit. or i thought it was, before this."

the outside airlock door opened and you'd taken up what they'd brought you.

you stepped over the bodies of the grid techs into hell. purple and orange jungle everywhere. insane external humidity and particle count. dome after hallway after dome of the shit, growing over the grow lights, growing up the walls, into the vents. you could feel it through your frame, through your suit. it was hungry. it wanted in.

"ma'am, compared to that feeling, that pressure, the first giant critter trying to eat my frame was a relief."

six thick legs, triangular jaws, scales and plates all over, massive paddle tail. it had reared out of a pond and tried to drag you back in with it. it wasn't as heavy as you, maybe, but it was mad as hell and a fast mover, and fuck, what right had anything like that to exist in an abandoned greenhouse? you knew you didn't want to be in that filthy water. who knew how deep it was? it'd clog your exhaust, choke your radiators. you twisted around as best you could in its grip, armed your wrist weapon, and blasted a thousand flechettes directly into its face.

"and that stopped it?"

"well, wasn't much left to be stopped, but yeah. and that's when i found it that it had friends and they could smell blood in the water."

she wrinkled her nose in a way that was either a dataframe input gesture or genuine surprise.

"why not just depressurize the domes, at this point?"

"thought about it. i had breaching charges. but… like i said, this stuff felt like it shouldn't get out. there's not much out there, yeah, but i just couldn't. and i had the cutter, and the rockets. so i decided to make it too hot on the shore for them to get me so easy."

you'd turned the artificial jungle into curtains of flame. the big creatures dove back into the water, giving you a narrow path to keep going. in the burning canopy, smaller things flared and dropped; you hadn't seen them moving until they died.

your handler had been screaming at you to get clear, get back to the airlock, but the flames made that a losing proposition. so you kept going in. Neryx-9 was roughly linear. there was another lock on the far side.

"past the labs, it turned out. and maybe some of those corpses in there had been growing these things, but it looked like the shit got away from them and was growing on them. there were these ribbons of orange moss, growing everywhere, out of containers, branching into foam and fabric and dead flesh — i tried to pull it off someone, before i realized they were all dead, and their skin came off in sheets, brown-black and full of tiny holes. charred, but not. think it was acid."

"something like a lichen."

"yeah, maybe? i learned about those in school. you can see 'em out the windows in a lot of places. they grow on rock, right?"

"they do," she says. "useful. so what did you do then?"

"i set the cutter to max spread and i torched a path through to the far airlock. and i don't mind saying, when i noticed the cutter battery and gas cylinder were doing okay, i started spreading it around a lot more. i just. i had to burn it."

"happens that was the right move," she said. "good instinct."

"please tell me someone did something about that shit."

"well," she smiled, "there's you. you know, you're refreshingly simple. like a cat that somehow had the sense to eat an invasive lizard. and since you didn't drag the bits all over, i tasked a solarsat to finish the job. can't beat a pass with an X-ray cloudpiercer beam for that kind of cleanup."

she wrinkles her nose again, and the general murmuring of a dozen conversations in the room changes as people look to the main wall display, which now shows a collection of greenhouse domes sagging as if collapsed by an invisible weight. the rock under them begins to glow.

"what's a cat?" you blurt out, before the words "i tasked a solarsat" have a chance to sink in. like, her, personally?

"an animal. a dumb little predator that associates with humans. from Terra, way before the Catastrophe. we're not ready for them just yet, but maybe someday."

a door opens to your side, and you both turn to see your handler, looking about at the end of her rope, and next to her, her boss, the major, who reports directly to the colonel.

"shit, there you are. look. you're gonna have to answer some questions. and it's not guaranteed you're going down for this, not yet, so just be honest, but for fuck's sake be brief, don't try to understand or interpret—"

both of their faces blanch. like, almost completely bloodless. eyes wide.

the curly-haired woman in the blazer smiles widely. "don't worry," she tells them, "she already did. she's been very helpful. in fact, i think i might like to keep her." she puts a hand on your knee.

"i'm not sure i understand, ma'am?"

"pilot," the major says, "is there a reason you've been occupying the time of the Director of Planetary Ecology? the woman who keeps this entire planet breathing oxygen and eating something other than rocks?"

and now your face must be bloodless too. the DPE? even you know that position. but you can't remember ever seeing a photo.

"oh, she was just telling me how she improvised containment protocols to prevent someone's experiment with Araukan imports from getting out of hand. clever girl. or lucky, at least."

you risk a glance to your side. she's still smiling. the woman who can steer any bioscience research on this planet, cut off power and water and air to anything she deems anathema to the coming ecosystem, commandeer keystone orbital infrastructure and burn habitats like you burned trees.

"i don't think we can possibly say no, Director," your handler says, carefully.

"no," the Director agrees. "you can't." □

[rounderhouse]

hey sport. yeah. yeah, no, you did great on that last sortie. great kill ratio, excellent sync-up rate. minimal damage to the armor plating. great stuff, a+. there's just like, one thing -- and it's such a small thing, i- i really feel bad even mentioning it. but your mission handlers, they uh. they mentioned that every time you took out a bogey and the neural-reinforcement electrodes in your tac-collar fired you uh. made a weird noise? like sort of a, uh, an exhalation of air. like a gasp. no, not like that. no-- okay, yeah, more like that. yeah. like a moan. uh. yeah. kinda freaked them out. yeah. yeah, i know. it's fine, just- try to not do that? yeah? okay. okay, cool. yeah. thanks.

[braddourifsdeadwoodmoustache]

Monster Hunter Rise's biggest flaw is the dango system. What a downgrade. You go from MH:W and these huge sumptuous meals made from the monsters you've been hunting to 3 sticks of dango and a cup of tea. How am I supposed to go out and fight a hundred monsters when that's all I've had to eat? The handler and the hunter from MH:W would call that a light snack, a sample plate. I want to get in there and eat like Goku.

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

Chapter Two

Max and Charles aren't exactly a pack. But they want to be, especially when the half feral little werewolf starts driving in Carlos's place after an injury. Unfortunately, things aren't always that simple

Lestappen X Reader Werewolf AU

Chapter One

The Beast. An awful nickname, one nobody deserved. Admittedly, Charles knew little about her. He knew little about the current Formula Two drivers in general, but knew nothing about The Beast. Still, he doubted the nickname was fitting.

He couldn't help but look into her. Max pressed kisses along his shoulder as Charles did his all important research.

"I don't like it," Max mumbled as he kissed across Charles's shoulder. "Sounds dangerous."

Charles waved him off and continued to read, learning what he could about you. A good racer, that was clear. Vicious, adrenaline driven. Like Max, Charles couldn't help but think. But then he scrolled down.

'The Beast attacks fellow F2 Driver, 'Ollie Bearman'.

You had attacked Ollie. Why had you attacked Ollie? Charles clicked on the video and let it play.

It began, just after they'd gotten the muzzle back over your mouth. Ollie was on the floor, hand bleeding hand protectively in front of his face. His blood dripped through your muzzle, dripped from your mouth. You looked positives feral as you stared down at him. A terrifying sight.

But you couldn't be that feral, right? They wouldn't keep you in Motorsport if you were that dangerous.

Max grabbed his chin, forcing Charles to look away from his phone screen. "Charlie, promise me you won't go trying to adopt this one like you did Oscar and Ollie," he said, blue eyes staring into Charles's.

Cupping his cheek, Charles leaned forward and kissed Max's nose. "I can't promise anything, Max," he said and settled down against them.

Max released a sigh. He laid down next to Charles and wrapped his arms around him, unwilling to let him go. "Charles, please," he said, suddenly sounding so serious. "Promise me you won't go near her."

He didn't reply. Max laid awake, aware that Charles was awake, too. Awake, but not talking to him. "Charles," he tried again. But Charles moved further away from him.

***

The lock slid into place and you were left in the dark hotel room, food in front of you. "Tomorrow is a big day," your handler (manager, she preferred to be called. But she really was your handler) called through the door.

You knew that, knew how big the next day was going to be. A chance to drive for Ferrari, in the place of Carlos Sainz. It would be your only chance to drive for Ferrari, you knew. There was no way you weren't going to fuck it up.

You ate slowly, thinking too much. The collar was still around your neck as you ate, and you were hyper aware of it each time you swallowed. It had always been tight, a warning to behave or deal with the consequences.

Your muzzle was on the bedside table. God, you hated that thing. It had been too tight for years, stained with blood. Your blood, Ollie Bearman's blood (you felt bad about that one. Ollie didn't deserve it, and you hadn't meant to bite him. He really was the sweet pup everybody saw him as. He just got caught in the crossfires of you and Théo Pourchaire), the blood of others.

Your food was finished, plate empty. Moving it to the door, you raised your hand and knocked. It was pulled open as you hopped back and looked at your handler. "How're you feeling?" She asked and she shrugged your shoulders, picking at your skin around your nails.

Your handler walked further into the room. She shut the door, put the plate beside your muzzle on the bedside table, and grabbed your hairbrush from your bag. "C'mere," she said and sat on the bed.

You did as you were told and came to sit in front of her. She brushed through your hair, humming as she did.

She was the closest thing you'd had to a mother. Ever. Kind and caring, making sure you actually took care of yourself. She cooked for you, brushed through your hair, used your shock collar when you put somebody else in danger.

You sat there, your eyes falling closed as you listened to her humming. You wouldn't hurt her, couldn't hurt her. She was all you had in this world.

She got you into bed before you could fall asleep. Your finger hooked beneath your chock collar and pulled, but it was was so damn tight. A whimper left your lips and you struggled to fall asleep.

A Ferrari driver. You were going to be a Ferrari driver. It wouldn't be forever, but long enough. Maybe after this you could give up this dream that wasn't your own. You didn't know what else you would do if you were to give up this life, but you wanted to find out. 

***

The entire Ferrari garage was anxious. Fred was anxious, the engineers were anxious, the social media team was anxious. Charles was anxious.

You were anxious.

Charles's research the night before hadn't prepared him for the first sight of you. His knee had been bouncing as he waited, thumbs tapping across his screen as he texted Max. Max was panicking, he knew. He didn't trust Charles, didn't trust him to protect himself in front of the driver nicknamed 'The Beast'.

You didn't deserve that nickname. After seeing the video of you attacking Ollie, he still didn't think you deserved the nickname. It was too close to somebody else he knew, to the way they were before someone showed them what love was.

You and Max were one in the same. He remembered when Jos would force Max to wear a muzzle, back when they were in the lower divisions. But that wasn't because Max was a danger. No, that was to keep him quiet, submissive in front of Jos.

If he could help Max, then he could help you.

But then you walked into the garage. The Ferrari shirt was on your body as you strode into the garage. Nothing looked out of place, nothing but the shock collar and the muzzle. It didn't look right on your face, biting into your cheeks and obscuring what he was sure was a gorgeous smile.

The woman who followed you into the garage introduced you, told everybody else your name. They all knew your name, but they were going to call you 'The Beast'.

For a moment, Charles wondered why you weren't the one speaking. But then he realised, you couldn't speak with the muzzle as tight as it was. He stood up and walked over, holding his hand out towards you.

You looked towards the woman that had followed you in. She gave you a nod and you finally placed your hand in his, shaking it. Good dog, he almost expected the woman to say to you.

You dropped his hand but you kept staring at him. You knew who is was. Charles Leclerc. The Prince of Monaco. Ferrari's golden boy. You had raced against his brother the year before. Arthur was smart enough to stay away from you. It didn't stop him from giving you a polite smile whenever you walked past.

As Charles tried to speak to you, and got answers from the woman behind you, your manager, your handler, he could feel eyes on him. Max, he knew immediately.

Max couldn't concentrate on whatever Helmut Marko was saying to him. He didn't care, anyway. Not when Charles was standing so close to somebody called 'The Beast'. Admittedly, the video made you look so much worse than this. The video didn't show you trembling like you were now. It didn't show you cowering behind the woman that followed you into the garage.

But he had seen the bite marks on Ollie's hand, had seen the damage you had done. You could so quickly do the same thing to Charles. He edged away from the Red Bull garage, stopping himself from running towards the Ferrari garage. His body was ready to go at a moments notice.

"Is the muzzle necessary?" Charles asked as he stared at you. You hadn't looked away from him, your eyes hadn't left his gaze.

No! You wanted to scream. Please, please, please get it off me!

But you couldn't say it. Couldn't speak with just how tight the muzzle was, wouldn't speak even if you could. But you couldn't trust yourself, you knew. If the muzzle was taken off, you couldn't stop yourself from lashing out, from feeling like that was the only way to protect yourself.

Your pathetic whimper got to him, though. His gaze softened and he reached towards you.

Immediately, Max was moving towards the Ferrari garage. "Fuck," he hissed as he ran.

Charles unlatched your muzzle. The way you were looking at him, looking so sweet and innocent, he couldn't help but pull the muzzle away.

The muzzle hit the floor, and you lunged for him. 

Taglist: @remussbitch

[tekmaticinc]

Efficient Plate Handler Solutions - Tekmatic

Discover Tekmatic's cutting-edge plate handler solutions designed to streamline your industrial processes. From automated plate handling systems to precision robotics, Tekmatic offers a comprehensive range of solutions to enhance productivity and reduce manual labour. Visit our website to explore our innovative products and find the perfect plate handler to meet your needs.

[lieslab]

Un-fur-gettable

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡��

Pairing: Jeongin X gn reader

Summary: Your boyfriend helps you hunt down your missing hamster.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2k

_ _ _

“Jeongin! Jeongin! Get up!” You reached out, desperately shaking Jeongin’s shoulder. 

In your shared bed, a groan fell from his lips. “Leave me alone.” He shifted, tangling himself further in your maroon bedding. “I’m sleeping. Let me sleep in.” 

“I can’t. Get up, Jeongin!” When he didn’t respond, you grabbed your pillow and slammed him in the face. He groaned and rolled further away. You hit him once more as your desperation grew. 

“Do you know what time it is? It’s so early. So early, the sun is barely up. Stop hitting me and go back to sleep.” 

Usually, you’d find his groggy voice attractive. Sometimes, you’d tease him for it. Desperate for his attention, you’d squirm closer. Getting as close as you could, you’d force your body into his arms. Usually. Today, it was so much different. 

“It’s an emergency! He’s gone! Chumpkin is gone!” 

Sleepy eyes fluttered open. He blinked and squinted over at the distant wall. “Chumpkin?” 

“Yes! Jeongin, please! You’ve gotta help me!” You reached over to grab his arm. Once more, you shook him. Maybe if you shook hard enough, he’d escape the grasp of sleep. 

His head shifted up. “Chumpkin?” He repeated. A hand reached up and wiped one of his eyes. Leftover sleep crusted his eyelashes together. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot the name of our hamster.” 

He paused, suddenly waking up fully. It all rushed back and flooded his memories. Three days ago, the two of you went to the pet store because you were determined to purchase a pet for the two of you. You were so insistent and after nearly an hour of deciding, you both settled upon a hamster. 

Kind of. 

Pet or no pet, Jeongin didn’t mind. You, on the other hand, were going stir crazy without something to coddle and take care of. He planned to help out occasionally, but really, you were the one planning to be the legal guardian. Jeongin would be on standby if you needed him. 

After deciding, you went around the pet store and stacked the cart full of items. Jeongin didn’t realize you were putting that much effort into taking care of a hamster. They had pre-made hamster houses. Colorful plastic tubes and a place for a hamster to make a home.  

“No, Jeongin. We can’t get one of those. I’ve been researching all night. They’re not big enough for a hamster to have enough space in. Plus, sometimes they get stuck in the tubes.” 

He wasn’t aware you turned into a professional hamster handler. A few bags of proper paper bedding. A variety of packs of food and each one, you tediously went over the back ingredients to make sure they were safe for you new hamster. 

He spent so much of that afternoon watching you care for the hamster you hadn’t picked out yet. Just when he thought you were finished, you asked for his help pulling a twenty gallon fish tank off the shelf. 

“Because if I was a hamster, I’d want to live in a mansion.” 

He thought it was silly, but as he watched you set everything up, he couldn’t help, but feel impressed. You really did go all out to try and make sure the hamster would have the best life possible. After it was all set up, you came back to the pet store and picked out the hamster you wanted. 

You couldn’t stop cooing at the teddy bear hamsters. When one of the golden bodies wiggled through their siblings and to the front panel of glass when you squatted down to pick out one, you had to have it. You didn’t know why you dubbed him Chumpkin, it just sounded right. The chubby cheeks, the softness, and the golden orange color, it was meant to be. 

That took you to today. This morning, you woke up to check on Chumpkin and change his water. You searched in the back corner. He’d burrow deep into the bedding to sleep, but he wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t crawling over the top layer of bedding. The food plate remained empty. You searched, but you couldn’t find him anywhere. You lifted up one of the wooden houses, but he wasn’t there either. In a desperate attempt to find Chumpkin, you shoved your hand into the bedding and moved from one end of the tank to the other, but he was gone. 

You didn’t think he could reach the top of the tank, but you were wrong. Chumpkin went rogue and now you and Jeongin were left to pick up the pieces. The apartment was fair game and he could be anywhere 

Jeongin blinked a few times and sat up. “Right, right. Chumpkin, I know who that is. What happened?” 

“He’s not in the tank. I didn’t think he could reach the top. I assume he climbed that stick and parkoured his way out of the tank. We have to be careful, he’s so small.” 

You frowned, pulling a hand back through your hair. “I searched the whole area. I’ve searched this room and outside near the floor level. I don’t know where he is. I swear, I’ve looked everywhere. I’m an awful pet parent.” 

“Hey, don’t say that. Neither of us knew this would happen. That tank is gorgeous and who would have thought a tiny hamster would cause this much mayhem?” 

He extended his arms to you, wanting you to come closer. With a frown, you obliged. “I’m sorry, I’m just worried. What if he gets stuck somewhere and dies? Even worse, what if he ends up getting injured and starving to death?” 

You crawled forward and moved into the bed. “I’m terrified of the stain this will leave on my subconscious. I know it hasn’t been long, but I love that little guy. His puffy cheeks and the way they fill with food. He’s so silly, he makes me happy.” 

Jeongin leaned forward, gently pressing his lips to the center of your forehead. “We’ll find him. I’m sure he’s not far. He’s probably just giving himself a tour of our apartment.” His hand found yours and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. 

You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You were so stressed about the hamster. Hamsters aren’t foolish, but they are fragile. To get on the floor, he must have slipped off the stand you had the aquarium on. The idea of broken hamster bones made you want to burst into tears. 

“Let’s go find Chumpkin, so we can ground him.” 

“He’s just a little guy,” you defended him. 

“Okay, let’s find him so we can lecture him and tell him how worried he made us. Where have you looked?” 

And then the two of you were off. Watching your feet, you shuffled off the bed, trying to make sure you didn’t step on him if he sat beneath your feet. You started your searching in the bedroom and moved throughout the house. 

On his hands and knees, Jeongin pulled out his phone flashlight and searched beneath the desk in the bedroom. Behind it, a few tangled cords sat, but it remained hamster free. When that didn’t work, he searched every section of your TV stand, but Chumpkin wasn’t there either. 

You wandered into the bathroom. “Chumpkin? Chumpkin, where are you? Are you here?” You pulled back the shower curtain to reveal an empty tub. 

He wasn’t behind the toilet and the doors on the cabinet beneath the sink were closed. He wouldn’t have been there either. There’s no way he could have opened the doors. 

Jeongin moved into the hallway. A simple scan cleared it. When that didn’t work, he tried the kitchen first. All the bottom shelves were shut. Beneath the small circular kitchen table, the floor remained empty. 

He frowned, wondering where the little guy was. Surely, he couldn’t have wandered too far, right? Hamsters have stubby little legs. It’s not like he unlocked the front door and wandered into the wilderness, never to be seen again.

“Did you find him?” You called from a distant room. 

“No, not yet! Did you?” 

“No! We have to keep looking.” You sighed and headed towards the closet that held your washer and dryer. “If I was a little hamster, where would I be? Chumpkin! Where are you?” 

Jeongin cleared the kitchen and made his way into the living room. On the black leather couch, his Skzoo plushie sat untouched. Last night, you had been clutching it while the two of you watched a movie. He approached, getting ready to grab it and take it back to your shared bed. 

Right as he reached for it, the fox plushie shifted slightly. He gasped and jerked back with wide eyes. His heart began to beat quicker. “Babe?” He called out worriedly. “Can you come here?” 

You stopped trying to climb over the washer and spun around. You rushed into the living room with a hopeful voice. “Did you get him?” 

“I-I don’t think so, but-” His eyes never left the fox plushie. You strolled closer, trying to see what he was looking at. “Look!” He pointed to the moving plushie again. “Tell me I’m not imagining things.” 

“You’re not. I can see that, too.” Your arm grabbed his and you tucked it closer to you. “Why is your Foxi.ny plushie haunted?” 

“I was really hoping I imagined that. I don’t want to live in a haunted house.” 

“It’s still moving.” 

Both of you watched nervously as the plushie shifted. On its back, it wobbled one way and then the next. It moved more and more until a tiny golden head poked out the back of the shirt hole. 

“Chumpkin!” You cried out and rushed forward. “How the hell did you get up on the couch? Careful, you’re going to hurt yourself.” 

Jeongin sighed and placed a hand on his heart. “Oh, thank god. I thought we were going to have to call Felix and a priest. I don’t want to live in a haunted house.” 

Your fingers worked gently. You carefully pulled the hamster from beneath the back of the plushie. When you successfully retrieved him, you held him up to your face. “I am so upset with you, sir. I’m also happy you’re alright. You worried both of us.” 

“Bad Chumpkin.” Jeongin stepped forward, placing his hands on his hips. “I thought we were dealing with something demonic.” 

Chumpkin’s fuzzy pink ears twitched. White whiskers fluttered and his tiny button nose scrunched. Your face softened at the sight. “Okay, you’re forgiven, but don’t do that again.” 

“You’re letting him off the hook, just like that?” 

“Look at him!” You shifted his round body closer to Jeongin. “You look into those cute beady eyes and tell him he’s grounded. I can’t do it. He’s just too cute!” 

His mouth opened and then he closed it. A faint squeak came from the hamster’s body. His eyes squeezed shut and reopened. You frowned and cupped him closer to your chest. 

“Oh, bless you. You poor thing, you’ve been out and about, you’re going to get yourself sick.” You leaned down, gently placing a soft kiss on top of Chumpkin’s head. “Let’s get you back home.” 

As you walked back to the bedroom, Jeongin walked behind you with his arms crossed. He couldn’t find the energy to be mad at the hamster anymore. Such a tiny little body and he made your heart melt. Not even a week old for the two of you and he had you wrapped around a tiny pink hand. 

Back in his cage, you pulled open a pack of hamster treats and handed one over the edge of the cage. Chumpkin leaned up with a hand and happily took the seed. His left cheek grew as he shoved it inside his mouth. 

Both of you watched as he toddled over to the back corner he enjoyed so much. He shifted in the bedding, pushing it around, until he found the right spot. It was there that he removed the seed from his cheek pocket, pulled it out of his mouth, and started to nibble on it bit-by-bit. 

“Isn’t he the cutest?” You spun around and asked with a beaming smile. 

He nodded, but he couldn’t utter the right words he wanted to say. You turned back around, captivated by the tiny creature once more. “We’ll have to find a lid to place over the top. Maybe I’ll adjust some of the bedding, so it’s not a high layer.” 

The hamster’s cuteness had nothing on you. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

[bompyy]

No im not putting a fucking graduated cylinder contraptions only

[takami-takami]

UHHHH so like Keigo getting wholeheartedly distracted from his daddy issues on Father's Day because he has a single passing thought about making you a parent and now the baby fever + breeding kink combo are beating his ass

Thoughts?

- magpie anon ✦

Keigo's hell begins over coffee.

Coffee and a mindless, paltry comment.

Keigo has always been chipper in the morning, if not a little understimulated by the rest of the world taking its sweet time catching up to his trademark speed. Like most mornings, your boyfriend is a blur of red and gold, flitting about the kitchen to prepare the perfect breakfast for you two to start off the day.

Pots and dishes click and clatter around you, and you swear you see a dollop of pancake batter go flying as a stray feather does its work mixing the bowl to free Keigo’s hands to cook.

You, on the other hand, are perfectly content sulking by the coffee machine.

You take a sip. Your coffee is dark roast— a little reminiscent of the bags under your eyes, as you force yourself to keep them open long enough for the caffeine to hit your system. If they close for more than a second, you fear they won't open again.

Perhaps letting sleep take you would be preferable. You want nothing more than to crawl back under the quilted covers, to drag your boyfriend back in bed with you for ‘just five more minutes’ and bury yourself in his warmth; but judging by the way he’s bouncing off the walls today, you don’t suppose convincing Keigo is an option.

Breakfast looks practically gourmet as Keigo drizzles strawberry syrup in creative shapes. He arranges fruit slices in the shape of a heart for your plate.

You’re doing your part, though. You dunk sugar in Keigo’s coffee and rub the sleep from your eyes.

“I’m bored,” Keigo suddenly asserts.

“Mm,” you hum, warming your hands against the mug.

“We never do anything this time of year,” Keigo says. 

“Do you want to,” you respond, with a raised brow.

Keigo hums. He gets it. You both do. Still, every year, something unknown itches and claws at the back of his throat.

“Tsukuyomi asked for the day off today,” Keigo continues, almost shyly. He stares into the crackling eggs that are about to char on the frying pan and pokes them with a spatula. “Wanted to spend it with his folks again.”

“Yeah? He deserves it, honestly,” you say. “Good kid. What, are you jealous or something? Want a day off too, huh?”

Keigo shrugs. You almost snort as you make your way to leave the kitchen and set the table. 

As you pass Keigo by, you push his mug into his chest and plant a peck on his cheek.

“If you’re that bored on father’s day,” you yawn. “You could always just knock me up.”

Keigo forgets to flip the eggs. 

He forgets a lot of things, actually. 

You could always just knock me up.

Several of his interns ask Keigo to write letters of recommendation for them at work; and his handler reminds him today is the last day of the week, so he needs to look over the particulars in the database for his agency to be sent to the higher ups. 

Thus, even as he dons the visage of the hero Hawks, Keigo is confined to the torture chamber that is solitary confinement in his office with his thoughts.

He could always just knock you up.

Several chewed pen caps litter the expanse of his mahogany desk, another falling with a thunk to join its brethren among the pen cap graveyard.

I could always just knock them up.

Keigo decides to take the train ride home, opting to give his wings time to recover from a recent fight against a particularly tricky villain. He watches the scenery blaze by in a fog, pensive as the raindrops plop against the window.

He should probably just knock you up.

[batsandbirdbrains]

On the subject of putting the wonder twins in young justice bc now that that’s in my mind it’s all I’m gonna think about for days

The one where Donna Troy is the only thing keeping Dick from spiraling out of control

Another post-season 2 young justice fic where everyone’s mad at Nightwing for being the only one with half a brain.

Let’s say in this AU that Artemis refused to go back when Dick asked for help. She and Wally wanted out of that life, and he couldn’t convince her to return. Dick ends up having a foot in both worlds, spending half his time as Nightwing and half his time moonlighting as Renegade, Deathstroke’s apprentice. Kaldur and Donna are the only two who know, aside from Deathstroke himself. For whatever reason, Deathstroke is on board with the idea. Let’s say it’s bc he doesn’t like the idea of the world being taken over by aliens or smth idk. Maybe bc he has a soft spot for Dick. Maybe a mysterious third option I just haven’t thought of yet.

But while Dick is spread so thin between both masks, feeling like he’s about to snap in half and never be able to get out back together because of all the stress, Donna is the one who keeps him grounded. Who reminds him why they’re doing all this. Who helps with the team when his duties as Renegade start piling up and he needs to go help Kaldur with something that the team can’t know about. She covers for him. She’s his anchor.

But then everything is over and everyone turns on Dick, calling him manipulative and a traitor and a liar, and she has to watch as her best friend, the boy who’s practically her twin, starts crumbling under the pressure and the expectations and the guilt.

And she goes off on all of them. Because how dare they turn on Nightwing after he sacrificed damn near everything to save their world, who was the only one who was able to come up with a plan that was doable and actually worked while everyone else damn near sat on their ass and twiddled their thumbs.

They don’t seem to realize how much Dick had on his plate throughout the entire invasion. He had to play the role of Batman in Gotham and during any publicized League events, took up several of Batman’s League duties, had to run the Team and organize missions and ops and training sessions, was Kaldur’s handler while he was in deep cover, went undercover himself as Renegade. He never had time to breathe, to be just Dick. And not a single one of them thanked him for all that he did. Or even recognized the fact that he did so much.

Dick isolates himself after the invasion, after the way everyone turns on him. Stays in a Blüdhaven safe house and doesn’t contact anyone at all. Continues running himself ragged by going out as Nightwing all night every night.

Until Donna finds him and wrangles him in. Until she holds him while he breaks, tells him everything will be alright, that she won’t leave him to spiral like this.

Idk I just like when Donna is his anchor and pulls him up from the abyss he fell into.