#static eliminators

[exairblogs]

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[baldursgate3]

ffxiv posting, at this point i am going to have to pf and pray i can try and prog p4s approximately 84 years later after its relevant, i need the glam SO bad for dawntrail but our mini semi static only gets like 6 people every night we meet up... either that or i wait until i can fully unsync it all but man i am so desperate for that maiming & fending tops

[feathersandblue]

So, full disclosure, I haven't been a Solas fan before.

I am now.

And that's because of Veilguard and the many, many ways in which I felt let down by this game.

The aspect that bothers me most is the reduction of nuance and complexity.

Rook's hero's cakewalk (because “journey” really isn't the right word) is a ready-made path that offers no deviation at all and never challenges the player in any meaningful way.

Sure, you can spend some time pondering the pros and cons of saving Treviso or Minrathous. Ultimately, it makes no difference. Rook does their best, they just can’t be in two places at once.

Same with the companion character arcs. What does it mean if you decide to you turn Emmrich into a lich? For the most part, it's idle musing. Indulgence. He’ll be happy either way, there are no real stakes. Yeah, your actions do have consequences, just not the sort of consequences that make a substantial difference. It’s the illusion of choice – reduced to cosmetics.

The problems with decisions that cost nothing is that they don’t feel like an accomplishment. They also don’t allow for character growth. Rook doesn’t change, they remain static. Even the section in the Fade where Rooks faces their regrets is easy and comparatively lightweight. Varric was killed by Solas, Harding resp. Davrin died in combat and either Bellara or Neve was abducted by Elgar’nan. It’s not like Rook’s decisions actually caused these events, it’s not like Rook actually failed through a choice they had to make that turned out to be the wrong one. Everyone was there willingly and volunteered to fight the good fight. Rook’s regrets are not about real guilt, they are about feeling sad and guilty. And that – it needs to be said – is not the same thing. At all.

At the same time, the story carefully avoids any kind of true ethical dilemma.

It's not even about the lack of mean or edgy dialogue options; that’s just a symptom. The cause is the writers’ unwillingness to let realism intrude in Rook’s fairytale – the lack of anything that would require Rook to compromise on morals, or fight temptation. Rook is never faced with any sort of moral conundrum, or allowed to act out any kind of vice that realistic characters have. In its straight-path simplicity, Rook's story is apparently written for children and people who remain child-like in their yearning for simple, uncontested truths.

Of all the sorts of conflicts that a story can offer, Veilguard carefully avoids the most realistic and (in my opinion) interesting ones: Character vs. self and character vs. society, aka, politics. The game firmly refuses to go there. To the point where it creates a completely unrealistic consensus on all sides that eliminates yet another sort of conflict: character vs. character.

If Rook and their companions would talk politics, they’d all be on the exact same side. In a two party state, they’d all cast the same vote.

I am sure that there are many players who feel comforted and reassured by that fact, who sincerely believe that this is how stories should be written. That stories should reflect the world not as it is but as they think it should be. But for everyone who likes their stories a little more realistic, that lack of meaningful interpersonal conflict, that lack of real diversity which comes not from appearance but from different cultures and opposing viewpoints amounts to a frankly cringe-worthy, artificial and juvenile surface-level interaction between characters. Or, to phrase it differently: the diversity remains skin-deep and doesn’t extend to the philosophical, and even in the few instances where it does, it shies away from the political.

Which means that the only conflicts that remain are the most boring and stereotypical ones: character vs. monsters resp. the supernatural, where all foes are evil in the blandest way (Supremacist Venatori! Fascist renegade qunari! Power-hungry necromancers!). These conflicts are resolved through exploring maps and endless, repetitive combat.

The only thing that brings a bit of nuance to the game is Solas’s story. And there is an element of character vs. character in Rook’s and Solas’s relationship, but the sad truth is that what could have been a fascinating mirrored character journey falls flat for all the reasons already explained – because where Solas is a character as layered and controversial as it gets, Rook is anything but.

Solas’s story shows how even people with the best intentions and the greatest integrity are ultimately broken by what life throws at them, both by the decisions that are forced upon them and the choices they make on their own. It shows how a prolonged war is always a sunk cost fallacy: I’ve gone this far, if I stop now, it was all for nothing.

Rook’s victories, on the other hand, come without a cost – both in terms of moral corruption and in accountability. The guilt Solas bears is real. The fight against the titans, followed by his war against the Evanuris, requires compromising his own morals, one day at a time, one century after another, he’s trying to save the world yet doomed to fail. Sacrificing the spirits to win a battle after the war has gone this far? Every single war leader around the globe would make the same decision. In fact, all of them do: They do sacrifice the lives of others if it will help them win, they do send soldies into the trenches to die, whether these soldiers want to or not, and they are rarely, if ever, truthful about the reasons why.

In a certain way, the story of the spirit of wisdom turned flesh is reminiscent of the biblical Fall of Man: the original sin. Solas has fallen, and he’s broken. In trying to heal the world, he’s trying to heal himself. The burden is too heavy, the responsibility to great, the knowledge that he is responsible for all of it too devastating. Solas’s greatest conflict is character vs. self. It has the potential to be great. In a way, it is. It’s the single redeeming quality that, depending on your interpretation of what went on behind the scenes, the writers managed to salvage from the original concept of Dreadwolf or the lone pillar that withstood all their attempts to bring it down.

Only sadly, infuriatingly, in the end, that fallen hero’s ending is put into the hands of a protagonist who judges him from the perspective of someone who has never even stumbled – not because they are wiser, braver, or kinder. No, just because the writers were gracious – or cowardly? – enough to never let them fail.

The game gives Rook a moral high ground which isn’t earned in the slightest because Rook never had to walk even a quarter of a mile in Solas’s shoes. They don’t know what they would have done in his stead, they have no idea what it actually means to see the sorry shape the world is in and know that it was your hands that shaped it. And even where Rook might actually be culpable – the interruption of Solas’s ritual that freed the remaining Evanuris – anyone is quick to assure Rook that it wasn’t their fault.

Whatever regrets Rook carries, they’re born from self-doubt and trauma response. Survivor’s guilt, mostly. When compared to Solas’s immense guilt, Rook’s regrets are, for lack of a better term, insignificant. That Rook manages to face them doesn’t mean that they are more truthful or emotionally mature, it just means that Rook’s story is a tale for children and Solas’s is not.

It’s not that I’m necessarily opposed to the idea that the player decides Solas’s fate through their actions. It’s the injustice of it all that bothers me: The player is led through a game that provides a safe space for their character, one that is devoid of any interpersonal conflict and any ethical quandary. Rooks succeeds through kindness and heroism and taking their companions on team bonding exercises.

As if Solas could have won the war against the Evanuris if he’d taken the time to take his companions on coffee dates.

The juxtaposition – Rook vs. Solas – fails, simply because of this deep divide. Rook’s story is detached from reality and yet Rook gets to be Solas’s judge, jury, and executioner. On what grounds?

As I said, right in the beginning, I haven’t been a Solas fan before. But by the end of Veilguard, I was firmly, irrevocably, Team Solas, just because I was so annoyed that the narrative put Rook in a position of moral superiority. I detested my own character. Jesus, what a goody two-shoes! I was rooting for Solas simply because his story was so much more: a genuine tragedy, a study in complexity. Rook, on the other hand, remains bland, snotty, unchanged. Untried.

The thing is, I don’t believe that my reaction was one the writers had intended. I strongly feel that they didn’t mean for me to pick up on their double standard, that they expected me to walk away fully satisfied, convinced that Rook and The Team were the Good Guys because they went on picnics and petted the griffon, their final victory well-earned and just. If only Solas had had a Team and taken care of their emotional needs – he could have taken down the Evanuris with nary a scratch!

It’s all so very disingenuous.

Rook and, by extension, the player exist in a bubble of sanitized content. That is clearly deliberate. The player is meant to like it there. (In that sense, it’s only logical that they changed the title from Dreadwolf to Veilguard.) And clearly, it does resonate with a certain kind of their player base: mostly with people, I think, who would like their real life to be a bubble too and whose only experience with moral corruption is when they find it in others.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X F!Reader: Crash and Burn

a/n: I love writing near-death experiences that lead to confessions and smut. It’s a guilty pleasure 😉

Warnings: smut, angst (very tame), cursing, fighting (nothing too bad) near-death experience, emotional conflict, sexual content, explicit smut, mutual pinning, f!reader, no use of y/n, penetration (p in v), semi-public sex (i mean anyone could have walked in), possible me remembering stuff wrong from the movie ( i haven't seen it in awhile okay 🙃)

Word count: 3.4K

Maverick had made it his personal mission to push every pilot past the point of comfort. He was determined to test your limits. You were more than eager to prove you could take the heat.

The sun beat down on the cockpit canopy as you adjusted your helmet, eyes locked on the radar screen. Somewhere out there, Maverick was hunting, pushing you to fly faster, think sharper, and stay alive. 

Failure was not an option.

The sky in front of you was clear. It was a beautiful day for a flight. If Maverick hadn’t been hunting you, you were sure you would have enjoyed the scenery a lot more. Unfortunately, your heart was racing with the thought of somehow losing. It wasn’t a real possibility, not in your mind anyway. You were a good pilot and Fanboy was an excellent WSO, so you didn’t have much to worry about.

But then again, you were flying against Maverick. He had proved to you and the rest of the crew that he wasn’t just a legend. He knew his craft, and he wasn’t going to let any of you stop him from doing what he did best, which currently meant beating you.

“Anybody got eyes on him?” Hangman’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and steady.

You scanned the horizon, muscles tense. “Not yet. But I’m pushing the limits. I’ll call it if I see him.”

Fanboy’s calm voice came over your headset. “Radar’s clear for now, but he’s tricky. Don’t lose focus.”

Your grip tightened on the controls as you adjusted your heading, heart pounding. Maverick was out there somewhere, and this chase was far from over.

And then, almost as if he’d heard you, Maverick appeared out of nowhere. You couldn’t see him yet, but you knew he was there because of the curse Hangman had just let out, followed by the clear sound of the older pilot saying, “Hangman, you’re dead.”

The comms crackled with frantic voices as pilots scrambled to react. You tightened your grip on the controls, eyes darting between your instruments and the horizon. Fanboy’s calm voice came through your headset. 

“I see a blip on the radar. Twelve o’clock, fast approaching.”

Your eyes darted to where he was talking about, immediately catching sight of the two jets. You watched as Phoenix and Bob tried to outmaneuver Maverick, zigzagging low, trying to shake the older pilot off their tail. You spotted the ridge up ahead, your heart suddenly clenching as you realized just how close the other two pilots were flying to it.

“They’re too close to the ridge,” you said, voice tight. “Fanboy, tell me if they’re not pulling up.”

“Roger that. They’re pushing it.”

You should probably have been thinking about how to win this game. If Bob and Phoenix got eliminated, that only meant you had a bigger chance of winning. But you couldn’t get your mind to think like that, not as you watched their jet come closer and closer to the ridge.

Your heart was pounding, and it wasn’t because Maverick was hunting you. The jets dipped low, causing your breath to catch.

“Phoenix, Bob, pull up now! You’re gonna hit the ridge!”

Static buzzed, then Phoenix’s voice came through, strained but steady. “We’re fine.”

You knew Phoenix was a good pilot–you trusted her instincts–but you could see where she was going, and it seemed like she was too focused on Maverick to realize just how close she was to the ridge. The way she said it, so calm, so certain, made your blood boil all of a sudden. You were warning her because you cared, and she wasn’t even trying to listen.

“Phoenix, you’re too fucking close. Pull up now!”

There was no response. You fought the urge to shut your eyes, unable to look away even though your mind screamed it was coming. Then, just as you were about to call out again, their jets jolted upward, barely clearing the jagged rocks by inches.

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky.

“Jesus,” Fanboy muttered in your ear, echoing exactly what you were thinking.

You didn’t answer him. Your eyes were still locked on Phoenix and Bob’s jet, watching it level out.

 A second slower and they would’ve been gone.

The rest of the game had gone by in a blur. All around you, pilots were getting eliminated left and right. Maverick was absolutely destroying all of you. But you kept fighting like you had a chance—because maybe, if you believed you would win, you could.

Yeah, right.

Even you knew that beating Maverick wasn’t something you were going to achieve today. Still, your chest swelled with pride when you found out that you and Fanboy were the last ones to get eliminated. Not quite a victory, but still a win in your book.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t even appreciate it the way you wanted to. Your brain kept replaying the sight of Phoenix and Bob’s jet almost crashing into the ridge. The happiness you felt over your small victory was short-lived, immediately replaced by a sudden anger that bubbled up inside you and filled your chest like fire.

The sun was high by the time you all hit the tarmac. Sweat clung to your skin, your body already aching from the endless drills, but it didn’t matter. Maverick had ruled the sky again, and now everyone was paying the price.

“One hundred push-ups,” he’d said flatly. “Rules are rules.”

So you dropped to the ground with the others, hands pressed to the hot concrete, heart still pounding from more than just the exercise.

You were seething.

Each push-up only made the rage worse. You tried to breathe through it, focus on form, on rhythm, on anything else. But your mind was stuck. Stuck on how close they’d come to slamming into that damn ridge.

Phoenix was beside you, gritting her teeth, her form sharp. Bob, quiet as ever, kept his head down and his pace steady.

You didn’t look at either of them.

Once you finished your one hundred push-ups, you were all exhausted. You were equally drained and angry, and you were sure it showed in your facial expressions and body language. That thought was confirmed when Hangman so helpfully quipped, “What's with the face? You suck on a lime or something?”

You gave him your most meaningful glance. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

 “Whoa, hit a nerve,” he said with a coy smile.

“Fuck off, Hangman.”

That surprised him because, despite all his teasing, you were always someone he never managed to get under the skin.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, of course. All eyes had turned to you as you said those words. You could feel Bob’s gaze on your shoulder and Phoenix’s smoldering eyes watching you. You made brief eye contact with Bob, then with Phoenix. Without a word, you exited the room.

You didn’t expect them to come after you—maybe today was a day for unexpected things.

“Can we talk?”

You paused at Phoenix’s voice, then turned around to face her. Your eyes flicked to Bob behind her. He wasn’t cowering, but he did seem to be slightly hiding from you, allowing Phoenix’s body to shield him from your rage.

It made you feel bad for a moment, but then the moment was gone, and you were back to seeing red.

“I don’t know. Are you going to listen to me?”

Phoenix rolled her eyes at you. She would have expected this from someone else. She wouldn’t have expected it from you. But here you were.

“Look, I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. You should be.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “Look, I said I was sorry.”

You crossed your arms, jaw clenched. “You nearly clipped a ridge trying to show off. That’s not just something you shrug off, Phoenix.”

Behind her, you saw Bob glance over from his locker, brows furrowed like he was debating whether or not to step in. 

He didn’t.

Phoenix held your stare for a beat, then scoffed. 

“I had it under control.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. 

“You didn’t. That’s the problem.”

Fanboy stepped between you and Phoenix just as the tension reached a breaking point. His voice was calm, almost tired.

“Everyone’s exhausted. Maybe we should just call it for today—get some rest.”

Phoenix’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to you. You clenched your jaw but didn’t argue.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Without another word, you turned and pushed your way through the hangar doors, needing space. Needing to breathe.

You’d gotten cleaned up and found a space where no one was around, which was kind of a miracle, considering how many people were constantly coming and going. You weren’t hiding exactly, but you weren’t exactly inviting company either.

You didn’t think anyone would be looking for you. You and Phoenix would work it out eventually. She knew better than to come to you when you were angry. And Bob was just as quiet as ever.

So yeah, you hadn’t expected him to come.

Yet there he was, just outside the door, eyes fixed on you.

You only noticed his presence when he let out a soft knock, causing your eyes to shift from the window you’d been staring out of to the other side of the room. He opened the door gently, peeking his head through the opening.

You studied him for a moment. Maybe there was a problem. Maybe Maverick had called an unexpected meeting and sent Bob to find you. 

But you were surprised when he let out a soft, “Is it okay if I come in?”

“I don’t own the room, Bob. You can do whatever you want.”

You sounded like a dick—you knew that—and you saw it in the way Bob’s expression shifted, but he shrugged it off and stepped inside.

He took in the way you were standing, posture rigid as you leaned against the window. The anger from before still radiated off you. He’d do what he could to avoid igniting the fire, but he couldn’t keep “fighting” with you without talking it over.

He hated not being able to talk to you. He hated seeing you angry. It had only been a couple of hours, and he was already missing your smile. He wanted to see it again. He’d do anything in his power to make that happen.

“Did you warn her?”

Bob had barely taken a couple of steps when your voice cut through the room. You shifted your gaze to him, silently telling him you were waiting for an answer.

You were sure that, as Phoenix’s WSO, he would have warned her about how close they were getting to the ridge. You knew Fanboy would have been screaming in your ear if it had been you.

“Is that what happened? Did you warn her and she just ignored you?”

Bob hesitated, running a hand through his hair.

“She’s a good pilot. I trust her,” he said quietly. “I knew she had it.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling up again.

“But she almost didn’t, Bob.”

You strode across the room toward him as you spoke.

“She almost crashed. And if she had, it wouldn’t have just been her life—it would’ve been yours too.”

Bob didn’t move. He let you keep coming closer, each angry step echoing in the quiet room.

“You could have died. Do you get that? You could’ve been up in smoke right now because you didn’t speak up.”

You poked at his chest as you spoke. Bob barely flinched.

“Floyd, are you listening to me?! I could’ve fucking lost you!”

The words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You blinked, suddenly aware of what you’d just said.

Not “we.”

“I.”

Not “both of you.” Just “you.”

Bob’s eyes widened, just a fraction, catching the change like a spark.

Your hand was still pressed to his chest—no longer sharp like a knife but soft, your palm resting there as if you were leaning on him for support. As if, if you let go at that moment, you would crumble to the ground.

Your breathing shifted. Your lip quivered. Before you knew it, you were crying.

You tried to pull away, tried to hide the tears, but he didn’t let you. He tugged you into him, strong arms wrapping around your frame. His arms tightened around you, steady and grounding, as if to hold not just your body but the storm inside you.

You leaned into him, the tension in your muscles slowly melting away. Your breath hitched when his lips brushed softly against your temple. The feeling seemed to awaken something inside you. 

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his gaze.

Bob watched you with a pained expression. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He would never do that. Knowing that the tears wetting your cheeks were because of him—and from the thought of losing him—made his heart tighten.

You shifted your face softly, mouth opening with slightly sped-up breaths. You brushed your nose against Bob’s, your eyes catching his furrowed brows.

He called your name just before you claimed his mouth.

His lips met yours with a gentle insistence, soft and searching, as if trying to convey everything he couldn’t say with words. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent.

Bob’s hands gripped your waist as he gently guided you to the nearest wall. Your back hit it with a soft thud as he pressed in closer, crowding into your space but never overpowering. His lips moved with yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth.

You had started this, but you hadn’t expected Bob to mirror your desire so clearly. He was always so quiet. Always kept to himself, averting anyone’s gaze if they stared at him too long. You knew he could be confident—you’d seen it before—but it was rare, and you weren’t prepared for the kind of need that was seeping out of him now.

Your hands slipped under the edge of his shirt, fingers splaying against the warmth of his skin. His breath caught at your touch, the sound vibrating softly against your lips. He pulled back just slightly, his eyes scanning your face, asking a silent question.

You nodded before he could even get the words out.

“Bob,” you breathed, fingers curling around his wrist as you guided his hand to your waist. “Touch me. Show me you’re real. That I’m not imagining this.”

Your words caught him off guard. You thought you were dreaming? Then what did that mean for him? Had he somehow died and gone to heaven? No. He could feel your warm palms pressed to his chest. Real. Alive. Waiting.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been holding back for far too long. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, and when they found bare skin, he let out a quiet groan into your mouth. You helped him peel the fabric from your body, your breath hitching as cool air met overheated skin. He stared at you shamelessly, drinking in the sight of your barely clothed chest. You couldn’t help but smile at the awe on his face.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost like he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud.

But he meant it. You could feel the truth of it in the way his gaze lingered, in the slight tremble of his fingers as they traced the edge of your bra. You could tell he wanted to take it off but was hesitating to ask.

You didn’t make him beg—your hands moved to unclip the bra.

Bob’s breath hitched as your breasts bounced free, nipples hardening at the sudden chill. You pulled him closer, guiding his mouth to the side of your neck, tilting your head as his lips explored the sensitive skin there. You felt the drag of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue, the gentle suction that made your stomach tighten and your knees threaten to give out.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, undoing the button with practiced ease. He hissed at the contact, burying his face in the valley of your breasts as you slid your hand inside, stroking him through the thin fabric of his boxers.His breath hitched. 

“Fuck…”

It came out as a soft whine. Your eyes nearly rolled back at the sound. God, he sounded pathetic, and you fucking loved it.

You stroked him a little harder, feeling the twitch of his cock against your palm, the way his hips instinctively pushed forward. Then you heard a noise outside. Both of you froze for a moment, suddenly reminded of where you were. 

You didn’t have much time. As much as you wanted to drag this out as long as possible, you knew you were on an invisible timer. And with how hard Bob was pressing against your hand, and how wet you were feeling between your thighs, you knew leaving without cumming was not a possibility.

“I need you,” you whispered, voice breaking on the words. “Please.”

His gaze softened even as his jaw tightened. “Yeah. Okay. I got you.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back into the wall. One hand steadied you, the other guided himself to your entrance.

The moment he pushed into you, slow and fucking delicious, you both gasped. You clung to him, forehead resting against his, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

He started to move, each thrust slow and deliberate, dragging pleasure through your core like waves. The wall at your back grounded you, but it was him—his arms, his steady breath, the way he whispered how good you felt in broken fragments—that made you feel steady. Safe. Present. 

You weren’t sure when it happened, but you were crying again. Only this time from the overwhelming ache of it. The kind that came from being seen. From being held like this.

Your hands traced the line of his jaw, tilting his face up so you could look into his eyes—dark, searching, full of everything you’d been holding back. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Just… stay with me.”

There was nowhere else you’d rather be. 

You clawed at his shoulder, nodding as he quickened his pace. You were both hanging off the edge, bodies full of adrenaline and the intense feeling of each other. He drove deeper, every movement raw and urgent, as if trying to bury himself inside you and never let go.

And then his lips found yours again, and something snapped inside you. He swallowed the moan you let out as he came. You felt him tense beneath you, arms tightening around you as his orgasm washed over him.

When it was over, he didn’t let go. Not even for a second.

He held you there, face buried in your neck, your bodies still tangled. He only pulled back when he felt your breath start to steady.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

And you believed him.

After a while, both of you got dressed again, laughing as you searched the room for different pieces of clothing. You helped Bob neaten up his hair and clean the smudges off his glasses. He smiled at you as he put his glasses back on, leaning to place a soft kiss to your cheek. You grinned up at him, grabbing onto his hand.

“I’ll talk with Phoenix.”

Your brows furrowed.

“About being reckless. And about listening.”

“Oh. For a second, I thought you were talking about what happened here.”

Bob flushed at the mere thought of Phoenix—or anyone else on the team—finding out just how desperate he had been for you a few seconds ago. Not because he was embarrassed by you, but because he was embarrassed by his lack of control. He should have at least taken you out to dinner.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Bob’s eyes snapped up to look at you. Had he spoken the last part out loud?

“I’ll patch things up with her. I promise.”

Bob smiled.

“Good. Can’t have my favorite girls fighting.”

You raised your eyebrows again.

“I’m one of your favorite girls? I would have never guessed.”

Bob laughed at your mock surprise. Your face spread into a grin. There it was—the smile he loved so much.

[batwithaknife]

Danny hates Damian. He knows logically it’s not Damian’s fault he died, it was kill be killed, and Danny tried equally as hard in that fight. The fight for the right as heir to the Demon throne, the cumulation of all their pent up rage for the constant comparisons (“your brother is faster”, “your brother never struggles at this”, “I only had to explain this ONCE to him”) and the mind numbing terror and dread of the moment they had been anticipating all their lives to finally come to fruition and it still feels too soon-

Danny knows it could of easily been Damian that died that night and Danny wouldn’t have lost any sleep over eliminating his competition (they could of been brothers)

But they were not raised to forgive, or to love and four years of negligent parents and an adoptive sister whose love language is studying your psyche under a microscope and picking you apart (the same way the Fentons would if they ever found out what you are-)

Danny may be the better infiltrator between them but he is just as much a League brat as Damian and he understands that he deserved to die for his loss but-

Danny hates Damian. And ghost are feelings and imprints of life and sentient but most importantly ghosts are death, and their very existence hinges on their feelings when they died. Ghosts are death and death is static and Danny hates Damian. And that can never change.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ lust for life ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ the masked officer x guard!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ the lights overhead were humming again, that low mechanical buzz that made your molars ache when it stretched too long without conversation. fluorescent vibrant everything in vivid, bright contrast, wooden tile floors smeared in burgundy, the dried half-moons of old blood layered under this round’s fresh streaks. the red uniform clung tight to your arms, stiff with grime and half-dried plasma, damp beneath the armpits and collar. it reeked like rot and copper. the kind of scent that sank under the skin and stayed, no matter how hard you scrubbed in the off hours.

˚ ༘♡ you were quiet, tired, kneeling beside the back wall of the uniform quarters, unzipping your combat vest one hook at a time. the others had already left, clomping out in groups of two or three, voices low and strained with that post-game lack of noise that followed the mingle match. there had been more deaths than expected. not the spectacular kind. not the ones the vip room panted for. messy, fast, accidental, too many players lunging for safety at once. the woman who fell onto a cracked floor panel and split her jaw in two. the boy who’d been caught between the metal door when it descended too soon. your boots had slid in the aftermath, soles catching in blood and shattered teeth. it had been your squad assigned to clean the edge zones.

˚ ༘♡ you hadn’t even unbuckled your belt when the static clicked in your ear. “guard 007. report to upper deck. the commanding officer’s quarters.”

˚ ༘♡ his voice, smooth and radio-flat, but you’d recognize the cadence anywhere. even when distorted through the earpiece, compressed, pitched down, filtered through two channels of interference, you always knew when it was him. the masked officer. the black square. your superior. the one most others feared like death itself, and yet, for reasons neither of you spoke aloud, you knew the steel of his posture softened, ever so slightly, when it was you.

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed. hard.

˚ ༘♡ there were protocols, strict ones. no guard ever questioned a summon, especially not from him. and yet your fingers hesitated at the belt buckle, half-undone, smeared with flecks of something dry and dark and definitely not yours. your stomach twisted. not with fear. not exactly. but not comfort either. you were used to being summoned after assignments. sometimes to review footage. sometimes to debrief. and sometimes…

˚ ༘♡ sometimes it was only silence. a closed door. a placid room. the mask off. your name—not your number, spoken in a voice quieter than he was allowed to be. not tenderness, not exactly, but the absence of cruelty. and in this dreadful place, that was almost the same thing.

˚ ༘♡ you moved on autopilot. adjusted your earpiece. zipped the vest up halfway again, despite the congealed wetness beneath it. boots echoing sharp against the floor as you left the quarter wing, back straight, eyes down, mouth shut. you didn’t ask why. didn’t dare.

˚ ༘♡ your heart thudded too loud.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t just a routine summons. you could feel it in your chest before you reached the lift. the tension that gathered in the hallways when he was watching. and he was watching, he always was. even when others claimed he wasn’t. even when the cameras blinked red in standby. even when the lights flickered. he didn’t miss a thing. and somehow, he always seemed to know when you were the one behind a mistake. and chose to look away.

˚ ༘♡ the day before, you’d miscalculated a firing line and nearly allowed a player to escape elimination. your rifle was half-raised, your mind caught on a blink. instead of punishment, there was a note in your locker. a folded slip of gray paper, no signature. a black square drawn with thick ink at the bottom.

˚ ༘♡ “focus. i won’t always look away.”

˚ ༘♡ and yet he had. every time.

˚ ༘♡ you remembered the first time you saw his face. not a grand unveiling. not a confession. a slip of time between the third and fourth game two two ago. he was changing his uniform behind the soundproof partition, thinking you were gone. you’d come back for your dropped radio. and there he was. sharp cheekbones. hollow eyes. older than you’d thought, but not old. not by the way men in this place aged.

˚ ༘♡ he hadn’t yelled. hadn’t threatened. hadn’t killed you on the spot like the rules demanded. he just looked at you, long, measured, unreadable, and said, voice hoarse, “then you’ve seen it. fine.”

˚ ༘♡ and from then on, something shifted.

˚ ༘♡ he assigned you to lower-risk patrols, even when it didn’t make sense. gave you easier zones during eliminations. allowed you to request partner swaps. once, when another guard cornered you after hours, he appeared in the hall before anything could escalate. didn’t speak. didn’t threaten. the other man backed off without a word.

˚ ༘♡ there were rules here, but some of them bent around him. and he bent around you. not enough for anyone else to see. but enough for you to feel.

˚ ༘♡ the lift shuddered as it rose. the numbers on the panel blinked past the regular levels, floor four, five, six, seven, until it reached the unmarked one. the level without a name. the level only few were allowed to step foot on. the space where he lived when he wasn’t standing sentinel in the viewing decks or behind the blackened glass of the control chambers.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers curled into fists as the doors creaked open. the hallway beyond was desolate, paneled in sleek dark metal, walls too clean, floors too smooth. everything sterile. cold.

˚ ༘♡ and at the end of the corridor… that door.

˚ ༘♡ plain. black. unmarked. but you knew it as his. the same one he’d opened before, once, with a nod. not a command. not even an invitation. merely… a nod.

˚ ༘♡ you stood there, the sound of your breathing thick in your ears, hand inches from the door, not ready to raise it. not yet.

˚ ༘♡ you could feel his presence through it. somehow. still as stone. waiting

˚ ༘♡ the door sealed behind you with a hiss akin to an exhale, mechanical and final. it wasn’t the slam of a warning, nor the hiss of threat. a steady, certain closure that locked the two of you inside. no hallway footsteps. no cameras you could see. the only sound was the soft hum of the light panels above and the low, rhythmic click of something electronic in the far wall. a surveillance monitor maybe. maybe something more. you’d only been inside this room once before, briefly, and it hadn’t looked like this then. the corners were dimmer now. less sterile. like the room, like him, had exhaled into itself.

˚ ༘♡ he stood by the console, dressed in full uniform save for the gloves. his posture was as upright as ever, not the kind of stiffness that came from nervousness but the sort that had been trained into his bones. that spine had never bent, not even when blood spattered the viewing glass. he didn’t move at first, letting the silence settle. waiting, always waiting, for you to speak, to trip, to tremble. but you knew better now. knew he waited not for weakness, but honesty.

˚ ༘♡ then, with one gloved hand, he reached up and pulled the black square mask from his face.

˚ ༘♡ you’d seen it before, yes, but it startled you. he didn’t have the face of someone who should be in charge of slaughter. sharp and pale, yes, but not cruel. not monstrous. simply… controlled. too human. and that was worse. because monsters you could hate. this was something else. something harder to place.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers trembled as you lifted your own mask, the inside of it slick against your cheeks. you peeled it off slowly, expecting reprimand, even now. your breath cooled in the open air, lips parting involuntarily as if expecting to be struck by the tension itself.

˚ ༘♡ he watched you. not like the others did. not like they stared at the uniform, the body, the rank. he watched you.

˚ ༘♡ “are you alright?” he asked quietly.

˚ ༘♡ it should have sounded clinical. detached. another guard might’ve barked it. might’ve followed it with a warning, a threat. but his tone landed low in your stomach. not soft. not warm. but steady. careful. as if your answer mattered in a way it wasn’t supposed to.

˚ ༘♡ you straightened your shoulders and forced the edge back into your voice. “of course. i’m fine… this is my job.”

˚ ༘♡ a flash passed through his expression. not disappointment, but something adjacent. he didn’t question it. he didn’t probe. he turned toward the corner table where a decanter sat, untouched, beside two low glasses.

˚ ༘♡ his hand moved methodically as he poured amber liquid into one of them, the clink of glass sharp in the stillness. he lifted it but didn’t drink right away. he turned back toward you with the glass poised at his side. “you didn’t take the shot.”

˚ ༘♡ you blinked. he didn’t clarify. he didn’t need to. the memory hit you instantly, the final minutes of the mingle game, where the losing cluster had been herded into the kill zone. one of them, a young man with a broken wrist and blood running down his temple, had hesitated. you’d raised your weapon. then paused. half a second too long. you pulled the trigger eventually, but not fast enough. he’d seen it. of course he’d seen it.

˚ ༘♡ “i got distracted in the chaos,” you said quickly, instinctively. “my radio was cutting out. i couldn’t…”

˚ ༘♡ “you hesitated.”

˚ ༘♡ the way he said it wasn’t cruel. it wasn’t cold. it was worse.

˚ ༘♡ you tensed. “i didn’t know him.”

˚ ༘♡he took a long sip of the whiskey, watching you over the rim of the glass. then he set it down, not beside the second glass, but near his hand. his fingers flexed once. a habitual motion. as if he was stopping himself from saying more.

˚ ༘♡ then he stood.

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught halfway in your throat.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t move fast, didn’t lunge or menace. he simply approached you with a foreboding command that made everything in your body react before your brain did. he stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint crease near his mouth, the exhaustion etched deep in the fine lines under his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re certain?” he asked, voice lower. “you didn’t know him from the outside?”

˚ ༘♡ you shook your head slowly. “i’m certain.”

˚ ༘♡ he watched you. too long. longer than he should have.

˚ ༘♡ then, without a word, his hand reached up. gloved fingers brushed the side of your jaw. the touch was cautious, not forceful. not exploratory. as if he was confirming something. maybe that you were real. maybe that you weren’t lying. maybe that you were warm, alive and human.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t flinch.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t move at all.

˚ ༘♡ he looked down at you as if measuring the weight of his own questions.

˚ ༘♡ “when it’s over,” he said finally, “what do you plan to do?”

˚ ༘♡you looked at him, lips dry.

˚ ༘♡“i don’t know.”

˚ ༘♡ his fingers lingered, only barely.

˚ ༘♡ and neither of you spoke again for a long, quiet minute.

˚ ༘♡ his gaze stayed on you, unmoving, heavy in its burden. it wasn’t cruel, it never had been, but it was focused in a way that made your skin flush as if he could read through the layers of your uniform, through every word you hadn’t yet said. his eyes, dark and deep-set, didn’t dart or scan. they remained locked on you, studied you with the unnerving patience of a man who never acted without calculation. and yet, there was something softer buried under that discipline. something he tried to keep calm but didn’t always manage to hide.

˚ ༘♡ you looked away first. you had to. not out of fear, but out of instinct, shy and self-conscious beneath the unwavering way he stared. the tension between you thickened, but not in the way others might have feared. it wasn’t danger that prickled at the back of your neck. it was something closer to exposure. the ache of being seen too deeply, too precisely.

˚ ༘♡ he must’ve felt it, too. his hand, resting near your jaw, withdrew slowly. not in dismissal. not in regret but with an unspoken understanding.

˚ ༘♡ your voice came out more hushed than intended. “you know so much about me.”

˚ ༘♡ his head titled just slightly.

˚ ༘♡ “but i don’t know anything about you,” you continued. “not really. not who you are beyond thus place.”

˚ ༘♡ he was quiet at first, the smallest trace of something unreadable passing over his mouth. then, unexpectedly, he smiled. not fully. just a shadow of it. the kind of smile that never touched the eyes. but on him, it was striking.

˚ ༘♡ “it’s probably best that way,” he murmured, voice soft, unhurried. “maybe… maybe people like us are only meant to know each other like this. in places like this.”

˚ ༘♡ you turned to look at him again, the warmth of the whiskey pulsing gently under your ribs. “why?”

˚ ༘♡ he turned toward the decanter again and refilled his glass. he didn’t answer right away, as if the words were more troubled than he wanted to admit. finally, he spoke.

˚ ༘♡ “because maybe outside of this… you wouldn’t like who i am.”

˚ ༘♡ that silenced you. not out of fear, but because of the strange, unspoken ache threaded through his tone. not guilt, he was not a man to crumble under guilt. but regret, perhaps. a knowing kind of resignation. a man shaped by something so cold, even he wasn’t certain where it ended and he began.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t respond. instead, your eyes followed the way his fingers circled the lip of the second glass. for a moment, he simply looked at it. then he held it out to you.

˚ ༘♡ you thought twice, but only for a breath.

˚ ༘♡ you took it.

˚ ༘♡ the whiskey burned, but not unpleasantly. your throat heated, your stomach loosened. the solemnity didn’t feel as melancholy now.

˚ ༘♡ he watched you as you drank, the light catching faintly on the angles of his face. when your lips parted after the sip, he leaned against the edge of the table, one hand braced behind him.

˚ ༘♡ you gave a nervous sort of half-laugh. “why are you more lenient with me than the other guards?”

˚ ༘♡ he looked down, smiling lightly again, but this time the smile reached somewhere closer to truth. he took another sip of his own drink before replying.

˚ ༘♡ “how could i not be?” he said at last.

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re not like the others,” he went on, and there was something more in his tone now, low, reflective, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “you don’t have that drive they do. the hunger. the… greed. they treat these games like a right. like it makes them more. but you…”

˚ ༘♡ his eyes met yours again, and you froze.

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t enjoy it. i’ve seen it in your hands. in your breathing. you don’t flinch from orders, but you don’t take pleasure in them either. and that…” he trailed off for a beat, studying you as if you were the question he couldn’t solve. “that makes you dangerous. interesting.”

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t sure what to say. the heat that flushed beneath your skin wasn’t from the drink. it was the way his voice lowered on those final words. how he looked at you, not as an officer assessing a subordinate, but as a man who had spent too long in solitude, suddenly seeing something unexpected in front of him.

˚ ༘♡ you shifted where you stood, subtly. aware now of how close you were to him. the smell of the whiskey. the static of his body heat merely a breath from yours.

˚ ༘♡ “interesting,” you repeated, the word almost an accusation.

˚ ༘♡ he looked at you. his gaze dropped once to your mouth. then returned to your eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “i don’t understand it,” he admitted. “but i think about it.”

˚ ༘♡ your heart was beating too hard. too fast.

˚ ༘♡ and you weren’t sure if you wanted him to step closer or farther away. but you didn’t move. neither of you did.

˚ ༘♡ the room pulsed with something unspoken. restrained. dangerous. but not like the games. not like violence. something else. something deeply human and long suppressed.

˚ ༘♡ his voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper.

˚ ༘♡ “you make it hard to follow the rules.”

˚ ༘♡ and you, tipsy from the whiskey, breath unstable, throat warm with alcohol, could only look back at him and contemplate if that was a promise or a warning.

a/n: my first masked officer fanfiction! let me know if you have any thoughts or requests! 🤍

[heliosunny]

You. Author. The way you write characters as a yandere was amazing especially the way you write a story. (Especially the hsr fanfics you made)

Is it alright to request a self-aware au! For yandere soshiro x reader where he finds out he's being watched and can hear the reader's voice whenever they watch an anime?

Like the reader knows about him (since they also read the manga) and he has been obsessed with their attention and wants to drag them into his world.

It started as a feeling.

A strange, crawling sensation at the nape of his neck, just beneath the roots of his hair. The kind that made the skin prickle, the muscles tense, the breath catch in his throat. There were no eyes peering from the shadows, no lingering gazes from those too terrified to meet his. This presence wasn’t there, not in any way he could define. And yet, it was constant.

Then, he heard you.

A voice, just barely above a whisper—drifting through the static of silence.

It was so quiet at first that he thought it was inside his head. But then the words came. Clear.

"He looks different in this scene. The shading makes him seem even colder than usual."

The words had no source, no direction.

He turned sharply, scanning the dimly lit room, his fingers curling into fists. No one.

"I love this part. He looks so cute."

Who was speaking? No, where were they speaking from?

It wasn’t the voice of anyone he knew. It was smooth, thoughtful, laced with a kind of familiarity that unsettled him more than anything. Because who could possibly speak about him like that? With such certainty? With such knowledge?

If someone had been watching him all this time, unseen, unnoticed…

Then perhaps it was time he started watching back.

The voice didn’t leave him.

At first, it was sporadic—fragments of sentences slipping through the silence like whispers through a keyhole. But as time passed, it became clearer.

The more he listened, the more he began to understand.

The voice—your voice—wasn’t just talking about him. It spoke of things it shouldn’t know. Thoughts he had never uttered aloud. Events that had yet to unfold.

And the most unsettling part? It was right.

The first time he heard you say something about his future, he dismissed it. A coincidence. A meaningless murmur in the depths of his mind.

Then it happened again.

"This is where he starts to realize something’s wrong."

He started noticing the cracks.

A shadow cast by nothing. A brief flicker in the air, like a painting losing its color for a fraction of a second.

And then, one day, he saw you.

Not clearly. Not fully. But just enough.

A glitched reflection in a darkened window. A hand resting where there was no surface. The faintest outline of eyes, always watching.

"Found you."

You had been watching him all this time.

Now, it was his turn.

Soshiro was nothing if not methodical. Once he confirmed your existence, he did what he always did—he studied.

Patterns. Recurrences. The times he could hear you most clearly.

Every story had rules.

And every rule had a loophole.

He began speaking back.

"Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

The second time, he made sure you would hear him.

"I know you're there."

It was subtle at first. The way the air around him seemed to pulse, as if something on the other side had reacted. Had flinched.

The more he pushed, the more he could see, hear, feel. He caught glimpses—distorted reflections, the glow of a screen where there should have been darkness.

You were real. And you were so close.

He just needed to reach you.

And he would.

The mission was simple. Eliminate the threat.

But the moment the kaiju appeared, something was different.

The air was wrong. The sky pulsed with colors that had no name, bleeding together like ink soaking through paper. Space itself seemed to bend, and in the center of it all, the beast let out a roar that made the world shudder. The kaiju’s claws tore through the air, but instead of leaving destruction in its wake, it left something else.

A hole.

It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t smoke. It was nothingness, gaping and endless, edges flickering like static on a broken screen. It crackled, twisted, spread out like a wound in reality.

He heard you.

Louder than ever.

"Oh my god—what is that?!"

If he goes near it, will something happen?

The voices hit him all at once, not whispers this time but clear, distinct. As if you were right there.

He turned sharply, his attention no longer on the kaiju, no longer on the battle. His eyes locked onto the tear in space, and for the first time in his life, he felt something close to hope.

This was it.

The cracks in his world had always been small—fleeting glimpses, fractured reflections, an endless chase with no way to reach you.

But now?

This was a tear. A wound wide enough to slip through.

Wide enough to pull you in.

Soshiro took a step forward. Then another. His pulse roared in his ears. He ignored the shouts of his team, the kaiju’s guttural growl, the chaos unfolding around him. His world was breaking. And this time, he was going to break through. The portal flickered violently, unstable, unpredictable—but he had always been good at forcing things to go his way.

"Come here."

The moment his fingers brushed the edges of the portal, reality fractured. A sensation unlike anything he had ever felt ripped through his body—a pull, deep and consuming, as if something was unraveling him from the inside out. For a brief, terrifying second, his vision twisted and he saw something beyond comprehension.

He saw you.

Your eyes wide with shock. Your breath caught in your throat. The glow of a screen illuminating your face in the darkness of your room.

The static howled around him, but he was faster. His hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist. Your gasp barely reached his ears before the world lurched.

A force yanked you from your world, dragging you through the spiraling abyss between fiction and reality. You had no time to scream. Everything blurred into a cacophony of white noise, a crushing weight that swallowed you whole.

You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious.

There was no sense of time, only a deep, disorienting emptiness. Your body felt heavy, weighed down by something invisible, as if reality itself was pressing against you.

"Are they alive?"

"Shit—where did they even come from?"

"They must’ve been caught in the kaiju attack. Civilians weren’t supposed to be near this zone..."

"Damn lucky they're breathing at all. Get them back to base."

Someone knelt beside you. A hand brushed against your cheek.

"They're fine. Just need some rest."

Even in your hazy state, your body knew that voice.

Soshiro Hoshina.

Memories flashed in jagged fragments—his hand gripping your wrist, the sensation of falling, being pulled through something.

As you slowly forced your eyes open, blinking against the bright lights above, the truth crashed down on you with suffocating weight.

The world around you wasn’t yours.

You were lying on cold concrete, surrounded by figures clad in gears, their expressions wary yet confused. Towering buildings loomed in the distance, sleek and industrial, lined with neon-lit signs in a language that wasn’t your own.

This was the world you had watched.

The world that shouldn’t have been real.

And standing over you was him.

Soshiro’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"Looks like we found a survivor."

The others exchanged uncertain glances.

"They're not in the registry. No records of their ID or whereabouts."

"We’ll have to run a background check—"

"That won’t be necessary." Soshiro’s voice was calm, steady.

He crouched beside you, close enough that only you could hear his next words.

"I already know who you are."

Your body still wasn’t listening to you.

It couldn’t be real. And yet, the cold concrete beneath you, the weight of unseen eyes on your trembling form—everything screamed otherwise.

"But... there were no reports of missing persons in that sector."

"Then it must’ve been an error in the reports." His tone was level, absolute. The kind that brokered no argument.

A few hesitant murmurs. Then, grudging acceptance. No one questioned him.

Why would they?

He had planned for this. Anticipated it. And now, he was using it.

You forced yourself to sit up.

"I—" Your voice cracked, weak from whatever had happened to you. "I need to—"

"You need rest."

Soshiro’s fingers curled around your wrist just slightly—just enough to let you know you weren’t going anywhere.

"I’ll take responsibility for them" he announced. "They’re under my watch until we can confirm their situation."

Another silence.

Then, reluctant agreement.

"Come on" he murmured. "Let’s get you home."

-----

The moment you arrived at base, Soshiro barely gave the others a chance to intervene.

"They’ll stay with me."

"Are you sure? They might need—"

"I’ll take care of it."

And just like that, you were his to handle.

"You’re not going to say anything?" His voice was calm.

You swallowed hard, your throat painfully dry. "What am I supposed to say?"

"You’ve been watching me for a long time, haven’t you?"

"I told you, didn’t I?" His voice dropped. "I know who you are."

Panic clawed at your chest. "Hoshina—"

"Soshiro."

Before you could move, he was already there, closing the distance between you.

"I’m the only one who knows the truth. The only one who can know." His voice softened, but the intensity never wavered. "Do you understand what that means?"

"It means you belong to me now."

"You can’t just—"

"You don’t exist here. No records. No past. No one would ever question it if I kept you for myself."

Despite the overwhelming wrongness of your situation, despite the way Soshiro's eyes devoured every flicker of emotion on your face, you still had an advantage.

You knew something he didn’t. What happens next.

Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. "Soshiro, you need to listen to me."

"Oh?" He tilted his head, eyes sharp with intrigue. "Giving me orders already? That’s bold, considering your situation."

"I know what’s coming. The kaiju attack—this wasn’t just random. The next breach—"

He raised a brow, interest piqued. "Next breach?"

"In two days." The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "The defenses won’t hold—"

You stopped yourself.

What am I doing?

Soshiro was silent. Then—he smiled.

"That’s interesting." His voice pleased. "Really interesting."

"Tell me...how exactly do you know that?"

You hesitated. "I—I overheard something."

A lie. A weak one.

"Is that so?"

You nodded quickly, hoping to press your advantage. "It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is that it’s real. You need to prepare."

He hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tracing lightly over the sleeve of your borrowed uniform.

"You’re full of surprises" he murmured, voice almost affectionate.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. "You believe me, don’t you?"

"I suppose I don’t have much of a choice."

Your shoulders sagged slightly, relief washing through you.

After that conversation, everything changed.

The medical team checked you over, confirming what everyone already assumed—you were exhausted but fine. No external injuries.

But you weren’t allowed to leave.

"For your safety" they said.

You weren’t even sure whose orders it was under.

The next morning, you were moved to different quarters—no longer the medical wing, but somewhere more secure.

And the first thing you noticed?

Your new room was close to his.

You had tried not to overthink it. Had tried to convince yourself that it made sense for them to keep an eye on you. You were an unknown factor. Of course they wouldn’t want you roaming freely.

---

You were getting a grip on things now.

Ever since you arrived in this world, everything had been overwhelming—Soshiro’s obsession, the suffocating control, the knowledge that you weren’t supposed to be here.

But now, you were thinking. You weren’t going to be trapped forever. One way or another, you’d find a way back. For now, though… staying here wasn’t so bad.

You were surrounded by your favorite characters. The ones you had only ever seen through a screen or read about in the manga. It was surreal, almost like a dream.

A dangerous dream, but still…

You couldn’t deny the excitement that lurked beneath the fear.

For now, all you needed to do was survive.

You followed the routine they set for you. Ate when they told you to eat. Rested when they told you to rest. Answered when they asked questions. But you never gave too much away.

And when they finally let you roam, just a little, just under supervision—you took the opportunity without hesitation. Which was how you found yourself outside, breathing in the cool night air, your thoughts clearer than they had been in days.

"You shouldn’t be wandering alone."

Slowly, you turned.

Soshiro stood just a few steps away, his figure bathed in the dim glow of the hallway lights. His uniform was slightly unfastened—like he had just come from unwinding after a long day.

"I just needed some air."

"I see. Though it is interesting that out of all the places you could have gone, you ended up here."

You stiffened. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Didn’t you?" His smirk was lazy, teasing—but his eyes told a different story. "If you wanted to see me, you could have just said so."

"I wasn’t...."

"Relax, I’m joking."

You weren’t so sure.

-----

"Come in."

"What?"

Soshiro gestured toward his door, expression unreadable. "You once said you wanted to clear your head, didn’t you? What better way to do that than a conversation?"

You hesitated.

Still, you forced yourself to act normal. To nod as if this was just a casual talk.

"Alright."

Soshiro stepped aside, allowing you to enter first.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind you—

You realized you had just stepped into the lion’s den.

Soshiro’s room was surprisingly… neat.

You weren’t sure what you expected, but the space was organized. Weapons displayed on one side. Tactical reports neatly stacked on his desk. A few personal effects tucked away—nothing sentimental, but small details that made it feel lived in.

"Sit."

You glanced at him before lowering yourself onto the chair he motioned toward. Soshiro didn’t sit right away. Instead, he leaned against the desk, arms crossed, studying you.

"Now that we’re alone" he mused, "why don’t you introduce yourself properly?"

You blinked. "Properly?"

He raised a brow. "The others know you as the mysterious civilian who appeared out of nowhere." He tilted his head. "But I know better, don’t I?"

Your hands clenched slightly against your lap.

He was testing you.

Seeing how much you were willing to admit.

Fine. If playing along kept you safe, then so be it.

"My name is Y/N" you said truthfully.

No point in lying about that.

"I… I can’t explain everything. Not yet. But I do know things. Things about this world. About you."

"I knew about the kaiju attack before it happened. And I know more."

Still, he said nothing.

So you pressed on.

"That’s why I spoke up before. I didn’t want you to walk into a disaster blindly."

"So you’re looking out for me?"

"I guess you could say that."

"That’s sweet."

His voice was warm. You barely had time to react before he leaned down, just close enough.

"But you know," he murmured, "I don’t mind disasters."

"Because no matter what happens…I always get what I want."

You had hoped to see the rest of the team eventually.

If you were stuck here, you might as well take advantage of it, right?

You wanted to meet them. Kafka Hibino, especially.

But Soshiro made sure that wouldn’t happen.

"You’re still under observation" he had said smoothly when you mentioned it. "No need to trouble yourself with unnecessary interactions."

"Unnecessary?" You frowned. "But—"

"You're safer like this" he cut in, his usual smirk in place, but his tone was final.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Your shoulders tensed as you sat back against the chair in his room, frustration bubbling in your chest. You were stuck. He wasn’t going to let you roam freely, wasn’t going to let you get close to anyone but him.

Your stomach growled, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Loudly.

Your face burned.

Soshiro raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"Hungry?"

"Yeah, I should probably—" You moved to stand, ready to finally leave this damn room—

But he stopped you with a single look.

"Stay."

"I can just—"

"I’ll bring something in for you."

"I can get my own food, you know."

Soshiro simply smiled, but there was something behind it—something firm. "I know."

That was all he said before stepping out, leaving you alone in his room.

No matter how much freedom you thought you had, it was always on his terms.

-----

After your medical checkup the next morning, you were finally allowed to walk back on your own. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

That’s when you heard it.

The rhythmic sounds of combat.

The sharp whoosh of a blade cutting through the air.

You glanced to the side and noticed the training room door was slightly open. Curiosity got the better of you.

Slowly, you peeked inside.

Soshiro was in the center of the room, moving with deadly precision. His blade sliced through the air effortlessly, his stance fluid, every strike calculated and precise.

Holy shit.

You had read about his skills. Had watched them play out before.

But seeing it in real life? It was mesmerizing.

The way his muscles tensed with each movement, the sharp glint of his blade as he executed each strike flawlessly—he made it look so easy.

You barely realized you had been staring until he finished his set, his blade lowering as he exhaled slowly.

Then—

His eyes locked onto you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then—his smirk returned.

"Enjoying the view?"

Your face heated instantly. "I wasn’t—!"

"You were."

Before you could think of an excuse, Soshiro tilted his head toward the room.

"Come in. If you’re going to stand there gawking, you might as well do it properly."

You shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t. But the way he was looking at you—like he was daring you to step closer—made it impossible to resist.

Soshiro hadn’t moved an inch since calling you in, but his entire presence shifted.

Again, he was studying you. You forced yourself to stand still, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered.

"Are you going to say something useful, or just keep staring?"

His eyebrows raised slightly, surprised by your sudden pushback.

"Hah. Brave."

Soshiro leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the amusement in his expression only growing.

"Alright, alright. I’ll stop… for now."

You relaxed slightly.

But just as quickly, he tilted his head.

"You flinch too easily, you know."

You gritted your teeth, refusing to take the bait.

"Though," he added lazily, "I don’t mind. It’s kind of cute."

Your face burned instantly.

Before you could snap back, the door suddenly creaked open behind you. You turned just in time to see someone step inside—

And your breath caught.

"Oh—sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here."

Reno Ichikawa stood at the entrance, glancing between you and Soshiro.

"Forgot something?" Soshiro asked casually, his smirk easing into something more relaxed.

Reno nodded, stepping inside.

You barely processed their conversation.

Because holy shit.

It was Reno Ichikawa.

Standing right in front of you.

Looking just as cool as you had imagined.

Seeing Soshiro in action had been one thing, but Reno was on another level of admiration. You couldn’t stop yourself from staring.

"You’re staring again."

Soshiro’s voice was barely above a whisper, meant for you alone.

You suddenly regretted stepping into this room.

Reno, completely unaware of the tension. "I’ll be heading back now. See you around."

You barely managed to nod in return.

Then—he was gone.

And the room fell into silence again.

"I see."

"See what?"

"You have good taste."

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Maybe both.

The tension in the air hadn’t faded, even after Reno left.

If anything, it felt heavier.

But you didn’t care about that right now.

There was something more important to ask.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "Soshiro."

His smirk widened just slightly. "Hmm?"

"How did you find me?"

"Find you?" he echoed, tilting his head, pretending to think.

You clenched your fists. "I shouldn’t be here." Your voice was steadier this time, firmer. "You know that, don’t you?"

Soshiro exhaled slowly, the corner of his lips twitching—not in irritation, but in amusement. Like he was watching a small animal puffing up to look threatening.

"You’re here now, though" he said smoothly.

"That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one that matters."

"Soshiro, I need to go back."

"Go back?" he repeated.

"I don’t belong here. You know I don’t. I—" You hesitated, forcing yourself to continue. "I don’t even know how I got here. But I do know that this isn’t where I’m supposed to be."

"You're right."

"You’re not supposed to be here." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You came from somewhere else. Somewhere you shouldn’t have been able to cross from."

He knew.

"I heard you long before I saw you" he continued, voice quieter now. "And when I finally did see you—when that portal opened—I knew I couldn’t let you slip away."

"So you—"

"I pulled you through."

A simple confession.

Spoken so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t completely ripped you from your world and trapped you in his.

"Then you can send me back, right?"

Soshiro’s gaze darkened.

That had been the wrong thing to say. And you just realized that.

Your heart was pounding.

Soshiro had you trapped.

One moment, you were standing your ground, demanding answers. The next, he had moved too quickly, too smoothly—pressing forward until your back hit the wall.

Now, he was leaning over you. One hand braced beside your head, the other resting casually against his hip. His gaze flickered with amusement, but beneath that, there was something else.

"You look nervous" he mused.

"I—"

"You don’t have to be."

He leaned in. He noticed your fingers curled into fists at your sides. "Soshiro, move."

"Hmm." He tilted his head, considering. "And if I don’t?"

The door suddenly swung open.

"Vice-Captain, the Captain requires—"

The voice stopped abruptly.

You turned your head just in time to see one of the officers standing in the doorway, eyes widening at the scene before them.

Their gaze flickered between you and Soshiro, clearly piecing together what it looked like.

A knowing smirk crept onto their lips.

"Oh. Sorry to interrupt you, Vice-Captain."

And with that, they slammed the door shut again.

Your face burned. "Wait—!"

But they were already gone.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

For the first time, Soshiro looked slightly surprised. Then, he laughed.

"Well, that was unexpected."

You wanted to die.

You shoved against his chest—finally, finally making him back off. "Get off!"

Soshiro chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, relax. I’m letting you go, aren’t I?"

Your glare could have burned a hole through him.

----

You were exhausted.

The day had been too much. The conversation, the way he cornered you, the way people looked at you after the incident in the training room—

You just needed sleep.

You pulled the covers over yourself, staring at the ceiling for a moment before finally allowing yourself to drift off.

And you never noticed the door to your room creak open.

Never noticed the soft footsteps approaching your bed.

Never noticed the figure standing over you, watching.

Soshiro stood there in the dim light, hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable.

His usual smirk was absent.

Instead, he was quiet.

Watching the slow rise and fall of your chest.

Watching the way your fingers twitched slightly as you dreamed.

So fragile.

So untouchable—and yet, his.

His fingers twitched slightly, as if debating something.

Then, slowly, he reached down—

But stopped just before his fingers could brush against your skin.

"Not yet" he murmured under his breath.

And with that, he turned away.

The door clicked shut behind him.

----

The next morning, Soshiro was preparing for his mission when you found him.

You hesitated for a moment, watching as he adjusted his gloves, his expression sharp and focused. He looked cool, as always, but there was something else today—something heavier in the air.

He must have sensed your presence because he turned to you, raising a brow.

"What? Come to see me off?"

You exhaled, shifting on your feet. "Something like that."

His smirk was lazy, but his eyes studied you carefully. "Gonna miss me?"

You rolled your eyes. "I just…" You hesitated, then sighed. "I can’t say anything much, but… I hope your journey in the future is just like what you hope."

Soshiro’s smirk faltered.

You looked away. "I don’t want you to suffer. You have great people around you. I just… want things to go well for you."

You weren’t sure what you expected—another teasing remark, maybe. But when you glanced at him again, his gaze was unreadable.

"Hah."

A soft chuckle, quieter than usual.

He looked at you for a long moment before finally speaking.

"That’s a dangerous thing to say, y’know."

You frowned. "Why?"

"Because now I’m going to make sure you stay by my side long enough to see if your hope for me comes true."

"Soshiro—"

"Gotta go." He stepped past you, voice light again. "Be good while I’m gone, yeah?"

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you with a sinking feeling in your chest.

-----

You had spent the day at the base, finally starting to get used to things. Despite the strangeness of your situation, there were people here who were easy to talk to—people who weren’t constantly testing your every reaction.

So when you found yourself chatting with a small group of Defense Force members, you let yourself relax for once.

Laughing. Talking. Feeling normal.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you felt it before you even turned around.

The weight of his gaze.

You slowly glanced over your shoulder.

Soshiro had just returned from his mission, still in uniform, still looking as composed as ever—except for one thing.

His eyes locked directly on you.

His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen.

But you didn’t have time to process it—because in the next moment, Soshiro was moving toward you.

The conversation around you faded as his presence swallowed the space.

"Having fun?" His voice was casual, but there was something off about it.

"Soshiro—"

"You seem pretty comfortable" he murmured, glancing at the others around you.

"Should I be jealous?"

The people around you exchanged glances, sensing the sudden tension in the air.

Soshiro didn’t move closer, didn’t touch you—

But he didn’t have to.

Because the weight of his presence was enough to make your skin prickle.

You were his. And now, everyone else knew it too.

The whispers started the moment Soshiro left with you.

You didn’t have to hear them to know what they were saying.

They all thought you and Soshiro were together.

And the worst part?

You didn’t correct them.

Because deep down—

You liked it here.

At first, you had been desperate to go back, convinced that you didn’t belong in this world. But time passed. You got used to the base, the people, the feeling of being surrounded by characters you had once only known through a screen.

You had wanted to meet them, hadn’t you?

And now, you were here.

It was dangerous, sure. But so was real life. And here, you weren’t just watching anymore. You were living.

So when people assumed things about you and Soshiro

When they smirked and whispered and looked at you with knowing eyes—

You let it happen.

Until eventually, there was no need to go back.

But right now—

Right now, you had bigger problems.

Like the fact that Soshiro was mad.

And you were definitely about to see him.

You didn’t have to go far. He was already waiting for you. The door to his room was slightly open when you passed by, and before you could react—

A hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your heart jumped. "Soshiro—!"

"You’re getting too comfortable here, y’know" he murmured.

"What are you talking about?"

"You stopped trying to leave."

"You haven’t even mentioned going back."

"Well—"

"And now everyone thinks we’re together."

He tilted his head, studying your reaction.

Waiting for you to deny it.

But you didn’t.

Soshiro exhaled sharply, his grip loosening.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"That you’d give in eventually. You belong here after all."

You looked away, heat creeping up your neck. "Shut up."

The room was quiet after you told him to shut up.

But unlike before, Soshiro didn’t tease you for it.

He just… looked at you.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You really aren’t trying to leave anymore, huh?"

You hesitated. "…No."

You expected him to gloat. To smirk and make some smug remark about how he’d won.

But instead—

"I should’ve let you go."

"What the heck?"

He didn’t look at you. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his expression unreadable.

"From the start," he murmured. "I should’ve let you go when I first realized you were here. Should’ve helped you find a way back."

A bitter chuckle left his lips.

"But I didn’t."

You stared at him, completely thrown off.

"I was selfish."

He finally looked up, and for the first time, you saw it.

The guilt.

"You were never supposed to be here," he admitted. "And I knew that. But I didn’t care. Because the moment I realized I wasn’t just imagining you—the moment I heard you—I couldn’t ignore it."

Your chest tightened. "Soshiro…"

"I told myself I was protecting you. That this world is dangerous and you’d need someone to keep you safe."

His voice dropped lower.

"But really? I just didn’t want to lose you."

You didn’t know what to say.

Because he was right.

He had been selfish. He had kept you here when he shouldn’t have.

But at the same time—

You had stayed. By your own choice.

"I should be asking if you resent me for that" he said quietly. "But I think I already know the answer."

"I don’t."

"Even though I trapped you here?"

"You didn’t trap me." You exhaled slowly, choosing your words carefully. "You gave me a choice. And maybe I didn’t realize it at first, but… I made my decision. I want to stay."

For a long moment, Soshiro didn’t speak.

He huffed out a small, almost breathless chuckle.

"You’re really something else."

Finally, he let his usual smirk return, though it was softer now.

"Guess that means I don’t have to feel too bad about it, huh?"

You gave him a look. "I didn’t say that."

His smirk widened just a little.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it."

For the first time in a while, Soshiro felt like he could breathe again.

If you were happy here

If you chose to stay

Then maybe… Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.

[acosmicbee]

can you write about Yandere Lamia (snake lady) and a child reader who gets lost in the woods and thinks they're about to be eaten by the Lamia, but she's just happy to have another baby after her children left her nest

Off Limit Island

(Kinda followed your idea, kinda did my own thing - hope you like it!)

"I hate hiking. I hate hiking. It's the worst. Please kill me." You sang under your breath, to the tune of frere jacques, yelping when your foot hit a patch of mud and you almost lost your balance.

At first, accompanying your father on one of his journeys had seemed fun. While he explored some super dangerous, top secret island that almost no one got to go to, researching all the snake species, you got to chill on the beach and swim and say you had been there. Win win.

However, everything seemed to go downhill rather quickly. The currents in the water were way too strong for even a good swimmer, and in seconds you could be pulled out to sea. There was also no civilization, due to the top secret stuff, meaning no running water or electricity.

You only had a tiny tent to sleep in and a small backpack full of clothes and necessities. You couldn't afford to lose anything when you were already working with so little.

Then the rain storm had hit. It had been dusk and you'd just started the fire to heat up some food because your dad still wasn't back. It was bland and premade stuff, very similar to military rations. You hadn't even started boiling the water when the sky opened up and drenched you.

You got even wetter dragging tarps over yours and your dad's tents to keep as much water out as possible. It didn't work perfectly which sucked because your only means of communication, a walkie talkie, got some water in it.

You'd tried reaching your dad but either he was out of range or his walkie was even more soaked than yours, so much for boasting 'waterproof' on the box.

You hadn't eaten that night, the rain still pouring down and eliminating any possibility of a fire. You'd laid at the entrance to your tent, staring out across the sandy beach at the forest that your father was still in. You hoped he was okay.

You woke up later that night to the rumble of thunder. You peeked out the entrance to your tent and in a brief flash of lightning you saw several reflective eyes peering at you from the dense foliage. You froze in horror, but they were gone by the time the next strike of lightning illuminated the area. You had trouble falling back asleep, not managing until hours later.

The next morning either your dad still wasn't back or he'd already come and left while you slept. It wasn't uncommon, especially with how late you'd slept in due to your fitful sleep the prior night. You spent the rest of the day tipping water out of anything remotely bowl-like and trying to find any kind of dry wood and tinder to use for fire.

It was useless and you went to bed hungry again, marking a full day and a half without eating. It hurt and you had trouble sleeping, trying not to cry as you curled up in your tent, debating whether the stomach problems from eating uncooked food would be worse than the pain of hunger.

You woke up to a bird outside your tent. It was dead with two pin prick marks on it's obviously broken neck. You didn't know who had left it there, and even if you trusted it you had no idea how to cook a bird from scratch.

It was sheer luck you were finally able to find some dry wood. You practically cried as you rushed to start a fire, fumbling with the matches as you lit some dry, dead grass alight. You ate two whole rations, finally satiated as you lethargically poked at the fire with a stick.

You were about to enter a food coma when you heard a crackle from your, surprisingly, not fully broken walkie. Instantly you snatched it up hearing as your dad's voice trickled through in broken, static-y bursts.

"Y/N...? Can... hear me...? Come in..." You fumbled for the right buttons, answering quickly.

"Dad? Dad are you alright? I haven't seen you in ages and I was getting worried!" You listened impatiently to the static, waiting for a reply.

"I... mistake... find me... cave... need you... careful..." You couldn't even hear a full sentence of what he'd said due to the water damage but you got the gist. He needed your help and he was in a cave... except you weren't the explorer, he was.

"You need help? Is there some sort of map I can use to find you?" You asked, grabbing some clothes you wouldn't mind getting ruined hiking through the forest.

"Y/N... coast... give... journal... big... handle..." Fewer and fewer words were getting through as your walkie gave into the damage, but you knew what you had to do.

You entered your dad's tent, easily finding the spare journal he kept. In the middle was a rough map he'd started sketching of the island and in it a few caves were labeled as well as their relative size.

With newfound determination you set out with nothing but your dad's journal, and the clothes on your back. You were oblivious to what the full message you were actually supposed to get was.

"I made a mistake Y/N. Don't try and find me, avoid any caves and stay on the beach. I need you to be extra careful."

"Y/N, I said don't try and find me! Please call the coast guard- the military!- and give them my journal! This is too big and dangerous for you! Let them handle it!"

* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • 。🐍* 。° 。* 。 • ˚

That led you to now, trekking through the humid forest singing a song about how much you hated hiking. But you could do this, you were going to save your dad like he had asked.

You frowned at the map, studying the rough map that had been drawn and squinting at the forest all around you. Why couldn't your dad have been an artist instead of a snake researcher?

Eventually, you found a weird rock he'd added on the map as a landmark. Peering right, you spotted a small opening in the base of a large rocky cliff. You didn't plan to go deep into it as you squeezed inside, it wasn't like you had a flashlight or anything.

This time when your foot hit a slippery patch of rock you slipped, you couldn't even scream as you slid down something, flying onto the dry floor of a large chamber. The walls were lined with torches and there was an open hallway in front of you.

Nervously you grabbed one of the torches from its mount, gripping the base as you nervously walked deeper.

This looked like a whole developed civilization, and you would've thought it was ancient if the torches weren't all lit and the hall didn't smell like a strong incense.

It wasn't until you heard some approaching noises did you finally realize just how stupid of an idea this was. You placed the torch in an open holder before ducking into an alcove.

You held back a scream as two figures walked- no, slithered- past your hiding spot. They were human, at least from the torso and up. Below that they had long, powerful-looking snake tails. You couldn't understand them but they seemed to be in a good mood, light hissy laughter echoing through the stone hallway long after they were out of sight.

You grabbed the torch off the wall, going as fast as you dared to while peeking into any hallway you passed. You once again had to hide when you heard someone coming down the hallway.

It was a woman-snake thing. She looked ecstatic and regal compared to the others and she was happily hissing to the others accompanying her. The second they had past you ducked into the room she had just come from.

You set the torch in one of the open holders, seeing as the room was well-lit. It was filled with large plush pillows of varying sizes as well as some fur blankets. In the middle of it all was your dad, who looked just as confused as you.

"Y/N? What are you doing here?" He asked, standing up.

"Rescuing you? Like you said?"

"I told you to stay on the beach!" He hissed, looking around frantically. "I explicitly told you not to come!"

"My walkie is destroyed, be happy I could understand anything at all!" You said back, crossing your arms. "So you were just chilling here with the snake people while I was fighting for my life? I had to hunt a bear!"

"No, you didn't." He said, sounding more exhausted than you'd ever heard him.

"I basically had to hunt a bear." You said, crossing your arms and eyeing the bowl of what looked to be dried meat beside him. "So, you coming or not? Let's go."

"Y/N, I really can't. You need to leave before-!" The door to the room slammed open and you turned, now face to face with the snake woman from earlier.

She seemed a bit confused for a second before her face lit up in pure joy. In an instant, you were being wrapped in a hug and coiled by her tail while your dad let out a pained-sounding sigh. "You need to leave before she finds you."

The woman hissed something, holding your face as she inspected you. Upon seeing your lack of reaction she blinked before switching languages. "My ssscoutsss didn't tell me just how absssolutely adorable your hatchling wasss! You ssshould've mentioned it!"

"Dad?!" You nervously called, trying to squirm out of her grasp. "Dad, she's touching me! I wanna go home now!"

"You are home, sssilly little one. I'm so happy! Not only did I find a sssquishy new mate but my nessst is full again! I've been ssso lonely sssince my last hatchlingsss moved into their own nessstsss with their mates, but now I have you two!"

"Yeah, now you see why I told you to stay on the beach." Your dad said, watching you get smothered by a loving snake-mom.

"Well, I'm sorry while you were all dry and pampered down here I was fighting for my life! It rained for like 3 days!"

"One and a half daysss, dear. And my ssscoutsss were watching over you." The snake woman hummed, before picking you up.

"Come on dear, you too sssquishy mate. I'll ssshow you the bathing chambersss ssso you can wash all this mud off!" She giggled, already carrying you away. "Perfect way to begin your new life, little one! Let usss ssscrub away the old ssso we can welcome the new."

Your dad just shrugged, following along behind her. "Well... at least I don't have to worry about how you're faring all alone."

"I am going to get my revenge." You vowed sulkily, whining when the snake woman began brushing her fingers through your tangled hair. "Who are you and what is this place anyway?"

"Ah, where are my mannersss? My name is Adhya, ruler of the sssnakefolk. Thisss, asss well asss the isssland above, isss my kingdom. My home. And now, it isss yoursss asss well!" She smiled as she entered a large chamber filled with steam. "Now, it'sss time to get you cleaned up, yesss?"

You can now say you knew exactly why this island was off limits to the general public. Because it hosted a population of cuddly snake people who would never let you go once they had you in their coils. At least you were taken in by their queen and you weren't alone. With how attached she was, you'd likely never be alone again. But hey, at least your dad is suffering with you.

[jaderabbitt]

Echoes of You

Bucky x Deceased(?)Wife!Reader

Bucky’s been hearing a voice for a long time. It began as the Soldat, and lingers even now. You’re his Angel—the voice in his head that he sometimes hallucinates into the form of a woman. Remnants of Hydra seizing his brain for so long—consequences of repeated head trauma, he assumes. He’s never told anyone about you, and he intended to keep it that way.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Descriptions of Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Thoughts of Suicide, Mentions of Death, jaderabbitt's esoteric writing style, not beta-read so if you find spelling mistakes, i WILL game-end myself Tags: Angst, Angst with Fluff, Did I Mention Angst, Canon Divergence, Reader Insert, Unreliable Narrator, References to Mythology, Angst with Happy Ending (?), Author will not spoil story in Tags, Author cannot remember the 8 pages she wrote in 9 hours, gomen.

Note: Reader is given an EXTREMELY loose description involving longer hair at some point, but it is VERY relevant to the story. You will need to read to see why!

—

“Enemy. Eight o’clock, Soldat.”

Immediately, his head swung, and his pistol was shoved in the crevice of a metal bicep, firing before the agent had even realized that he was spotted. The body dropped, a gaping hole left in between the eyes.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he held to begin with. It was as if he had been the one shot, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. The world felt all-consuming.

He knew that voice. It hadn’t come through the device in his ear.

He didn’t know exactly how he knew the woman’s voice, nor why he heard her. Every time she spoke, it was as if she were talking directly into his ear, no matter the noise level around him.

Her voice had been the only constant in his fleeting moments of clarity. 

His Ангел. His Angel.

He began to call the voice that when she would warn him during missions. It was as if she acted as a sixth sense, being able to see things even his heightened perceptions couldn’t. She wasn’t always there—her presence faded in and out without notice. But, she was always there when he needed her.

When they put him in that gods forsaken chair to rewire his brain, it was her voice that kept him stable. When they put him inside the Iron Maiden of a cryochamber, it was her voice that kept him warm. When he sat in the dark corner of the empty concrete cell, it was her voice that kept him company.

He figured that all of Hydra’s torture created a tear in his psyche, manifesting in the voice of a woman he’d heard in passing. It would make sense, given that the human mind craves the comfort of others. Hydra didn’t exactly allow him relations besides his handlers, so his mind had to create someone to fulfill the space beyond pain and emptiness.

He kept his Angel a secret. Something that wholly belonged to him, the only part of himself that he could have control over. He would never allow them to take you.

“You are showing abnormal readings in brain functioning, Soldat. Status report.”

The grating voice of his handler was made even worse by the static in the communications channel. It succeeded in bringing him out of his trance, carefully observing the carnage around him.

“Mission complete. Targets eliminated. No witnesses.”

He stepped over the disemboweled body of an agent, retrieving his knife; he wiped the remaining viscera and gore from the blade on the deceased agent’s suit. It didn’t take long for him to receive word of his extraction point and means.

Back into the gaping maw of the Lernaean Serpent he headed, unable to resist its call.

He trekked through miles of uneven terrain, as Hydra was nothing but thorough when it came to ensuring their involvement within the world’s dealings stayed hidden. His extraction points were always far enough away from the target’s area of engagement to ensure that he could lose any tails he might encounter. It was an arduous process, one that he would despise if he could bring himself to feel such wealth of emotion. They had taken that from him too.

“They can never take your heart, my Soldier.”

No. They couldn’t. Not while he had you.

– – –

The first time his mind had conjured up a vision of you, he nearly punched a hole into the concrete of his holding cell. He had felt a presence within the dark room suddenly, and when he turned his head, there was the visage of a woman. Her features were too hazy to make out in the dark of the room, or perhaps his mind couldn’t remember a woman’s face to place onto the hallucination. Either way, the lifelike projection of a faceless woman should have been disturbing–even to someone who had seen under the epidermis of a human face before. Oddly, he couldn’t bring himself to think of you as such. 

No, the feeling he got when he looked at you was one he could no longer name. It had been forgotten under the force of an electric current.

“Not forgotten. Stolen.”

Your saccharine voice still sounded as loud as ever within his head, despite the distance between his physical body and your imaginary one. Oh, how he yearned to close that distance, to hold you within his arms–his coveted Angel, who he selfishly stole from the gods’ grasp to ease his troubled mind here, on Earth. He found his arm, the one made from Gaia’s own metals, outstretching towards you without thinking. His palm splayed out, he watched with bated breath as you mimicked his own movement. He knew that he would never have been able to feel you to begin with, but he allowed himself a simple indulgence in believing that it was due to the lack of nerve endings, and not because you were never here to begin with.

“I’m always with you, my Soldier.”

For once, he allowed himself to believe that.

– – –

He was incapable of dreaming while under the freeze of stasis. He simply went under, and woke up whenever they decided to thaw him. Sometimes, cryo-freeze was the only respite he got–and he was thankful for not being needed. And yet, he still fought his handlers to prevent the chill of the iron coffin. Being unable to dream and made forcibly unconscious meant that he was unable to hear the gentle lilt of your voice, unable to watch as your form took shape. His heart would ache, as if it were missing the synchronicity of yours marching along with it.

It was a fool’s hope to wish for every freeze to be his last–whether that meant he never went under again, or his heart finally left this mortal coil and froze over for good, he couldn’t decide. So, when he woke with a start to the remains of biting frost against his skin, he felt rage bubbling hot in his veins.

“Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?” You giggled. Your form danced along the peripherals of his still hazy vision, taking spot where there was a gap between white coats. They were checking his vitals, making sure he would be combat ready for the mission they no doubt awoke him for.

He’d roll his eyes if he had full function of his muscles.

You huffed a laugh at that, reaching out a hand to caress his cheek. Of course, he couldn’t feel it–but he let himself believe it was because his skin was still defrosting.

“I missed you.”

He missed you, too. He always did. Even when you were present in his mind, or a vision being projected by his psyche, he missed you. He couldn’t explain it. How could he miss a part of himself? He didn’t dwell on the logistics too long. If he thought about you too hard, his head began to hurt, like it was protecting itself.

The pinpricks of melting ice gave way to freeze-burns, ones that were already beginning to heal from his forced genetic mutation. His left arm had been gently defrosted, as to not disrupt any of the machinery within. They held the Fist of Hydra to a higher regard than the rest of his body, apparently. You snorted at that thought. It was such a beautifully normal sound amongst the noise of beeping monitors and the scrambling of doctors, scientists, and engineers. He involuntarily let a half-smirk rise on his face, to the horror of the poor doctor checking his vitals. The medical professional couldn’t imagine what would make The Asset happy other than the thought of the impending carnage he would soon wreak upon unknowing targets. It was better he thought that, anyway. He’d get put in the chair for showing a sliver of unconditioned programming otherwise. 

He blinked the remaining frost from his eyelashes, looking back over at your dizzying presence. Your hair floated about you as if you were underwater, but your skin was still the same pitch black and featureless void that it had been the first time he let his mind give you physical form. It was confusing; he had seen plenty of women since you first began appearing before him, and yet his mind never allowed any of their features to replace your lack thereof. It just didn’t seem right, he supposed.

He must’ve really been under for a long time if it was taking his psyche this long to will you away and fall back in line with his programming. Even as he was being transported to the roads of Long Island, New York, you had continued to hover over him.

You had stood at the car wreckage with a curious turn of your head as he let the motorcycle fall upon its kickstand. It was only when the man in the driver’s seat stumbled out of the remains that you reacted to the sight in front of you.

“No…” You gasped, but the Soldier crept on towards his target.

“Sergeant Barnes..?” Croaked the dying man, and you watched along with bated breath, waiting for some kind of reaction. The only one you’d get would be the Soldier’s fist colliding with flesh and bone. The cries of a woman mourning her husband were cut off by a thick hand around her throat, effectively compressing her airway closed. The Soldier didn’t even look at the woman he was finishing off. No, his eyes were trained on you.

His face remained stoic as white streaks glistened down the black of your cheeks. This was his way of compartmentalizing, he supposed. You wept for the man who could not. 

When he turned after shooting out the camera, you had disappeared. 

– – –

The next time he heard your voice, it was in Romania. He had been here for quite some time, trying to piece together who he was, exactly. The quiet, traditionalist country was perfect for someone who preferred to stay hidden. He spoke the language fluently, resembled the people, and kept to himself. The locals didn’t ask questions, simply trusted he wouldn’t cause trouble. He couldn’t help but be wary–it was drilled into his head, near literally. He had started to grow paranoid at the peaceful life he was being allowed, as if it too would be stolen from him at any moment.

The lively morning market of Bucharest had settled his nerves somewhat; it was a familiar place with familiar faces. He settled for the fresh fruit stall, instantly gravitating towards the plums. His gloved metal hand palmed the assortment of velvety fruit, feeling the weight of them as a test. If they didn’t push against his thumb’s pressure and he was able to feel the weight upon the metal, he knew they were too early. He asked the stall manager, for good measure, about their ripeness, finally selecting a few for his apartment.

It felt normal. He felt normal.

“You know, I heard these were good for memory.”

He almost gave himself whiplash when he saw you standing across the street. His feet almost moved before his brain processed the oncoming traffic.

It wasn’t just that this was the first time he heard your voice in his head in years. No, it was that he was seeing you.

Your hair, set in the way you always favored. Your eyes, shining in the light of the morning sun. Your nose, set above your cupid’s bow as if it were carved from marble. And oh, your lips, how he yearned to pull you close and press them against his own. The distance was so unbearable, he almost intentionally walked into the oncoming cars. If it meant he would reach you before this hallucination ended, it would be worth it in his mind.

Your gaze faltered, and as you looked upon him with such sadness, he could have sworn he heard his heart shattering against the sidewalk.

“It isn’t safe anymore, James. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to scream in reply, ask what you meant–why you were sorry.

You were gone at the next pass of a bus.

He would come to figure out what you meant pretty quickly. You always did warn him of impending danger, like his own personal oracle. Or maybe it was his instincts reminding himself–he wasn’t paranoid without reason to be. He had already been shaken by seeing his dead wife from 75 years prior, but to see his supposed-to-be-dead-too best friend standing in his apartment had really raised his heart rate. He knew what followed, what always followed. He was never going to be free–not until he was dead.

At least in death, he would see you again. He may get cast down to the deepest circles of Hell–specially reserved–but he could still hope to be reunited with you once more.

– – –

Living at the Compound had felt like another prison–just fancier and with nicer amenities. A condition to his pardon; along with many other things, like atonement by way of taking down Hydra cells across the globe. Having finally been deprogramed, his activation words no longer functioning as his shackles to the serpentine organization, the government saw fit to use his training for their own gain. The fight never stops. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Receive a pardon, get ball and chained to a different corruption.

At least he didn’t have to do it all alone.

Of course, several other Avengers were given their own conditions after the amendments to the Accords. He had become unlikely friends with Wanda, both having trauma bonded with each other. Bucky saw her as a little sister, despite her being a grown ass woman. In fairness, he was over a century old; almost everyone seemed too young to him.

The highlight of his extended imprisonment-vacation was remembering you, however. He was slowly but surely recovering his memories, and he probed Steve now and again to confirm what he was remembering. Bucky never let him outright say what he remembered, wanting to recall it all on his own. You were his wife, not Steve’s best-friend’s wife. Being acquainted with Wanda also helped in this department. She would help him through still-locked memories; sometimes, they needed someone else to unblock the dam in order for the flood to start.

He would have called himself mentally on-the-way-to well, if it weren’t for one detail–he still hallucinated you. He refused to tell his therapist, or any of the other Avengers for that matter. It would simply get him labelled as clinically insane, and a clinically insane Winter Soldier was possibly the greatest threat to America, besides the next alien or robot invasion. He hadn’t even told Steve, fearing that even he might think less of him for it.

He supposed it was okay to keep this one thing to himself. He was allowed to be selfish for once in his life.

Bucky wasn’t even sure you would accept the man he’d become, if you were alive. He didn’t think he could take that pain. Maybe this was how his mind coped with that. Created a version of you who still loved him–no matter if he wasn’t the same man he was when you married him. He didn’t think he could ever be him again, despite how much everyone else wanted him to be.

So, he watched you, with a freshly poured mug of coffee in his hands and a small grin on his face, as you shifted between the clothing styles of the decades he missed. You hummed a tune from the movie he had watched last night, the soft notes sounding as if you were directly next to his ear. While the kitchen area was currently empty, if anyone walked in, he could just say he was reminiscing.

“How did anyone get anything done in these?” You laughed, the tight bell-bottom jeans clinging to your skin, with a tight halter top to match. “I know we didn’t wear pants much in the 40’s, but I think I might suffocate!”

Bucky let out a chuckle, scanning the room for anybody else flesh and blood. When he found none, he answered lowly.

“Can’t exactly suffocate when you don’t breathe, doll.”

“It’s about principle, Buck! You know what I mean,” you pouted, opting to shift into the silk slip dress that he remembers very much, cerca 75 years prior.

He hissed, turning his eyes away from you. You, of course, being ever so the manifestation of the woman he remembers, instantly placed yourself back in his gaze. You had that sly smirk on your face that always meant you were up to no good, but he’d be damned if he got himself aroused with a vivid hallucination of his dead wife. Saved by the bell he was, as the ring of the elevator chimed to notify that someone was stopping on this floor. He let out a small huff, knowing he’d have to will himself to act like you weren’t there.

Wanda and Vision stepped out into the kitchen area, spotting Bucky standing behind the island. Vision had been working on travelling like a normal human recently, opting to only phase through things in cases of emergency.

“Hello Bucky-”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.”

They both greeted, but Wanda had cut herself off in confusion. Bucky tilted his head, but returned the greetings.

“Bucky, who’s that?”

Bucky’s heart sank all the way down to Atlantis, and the coffee he had been drinking threatened to burn back up his esophagus. He followed the direction that Wanda’s finger pointed– She could see you.

She was seeing you.

“Wanda, I do believe that would be the Sergeant’s wife. She was labelled as deceased after–”

“Yes, Vision, I know who she looks like, so who is that?”

“I’m afraid I do not know.”

Bucky was damn near hyperventilating at this point. They could see you. Someone, or something, invaded his mind and pretended to be his wife. Or, could they see ghosts? Was his dead wife haunting him? They could see youohmygodtheycouldseeyou–

“James,” you hissed, “quiet your thoughts! I can’t focus when you’re panicking!”

…What?

Your hands immediately cradled your head, looking as if you had gotten slapped across the face with the worst migraine of your life. Wanda’s hands had sparked to life, thrumming with scarlet energy. A scream tore through your throat, ringing in Bucky’s psyche. He had clapped his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes, and feeling for the first time ever like the sound was an intrusion–like your voice didn’t belong only within his mind. He grit his teeth together to prevent his own yells from joining the chorus.

Your image flickered like someone was slashing through shadows with a ray of light–flashing between the you he knew and the form null of your distinct features.

There was a distinct crack! that reverberated in his ears.

He was almost scared to open his eyes, believing the sound to be the snap of bone that he was all too familiar with.

When he did gather the courage, he no longer recognized his whereabouts. They had been transported to a dark and dreary place, multiple large wires hanging overhead. The room was mostly unlit, a singular source of violet light extended their sight enough to at least see where they were standing. Wanda looked all over immediately, before her own panic set in. “Vis?!”

“He’s fine. So are you both. You aren’t physically here. He’s currently watching over your bodies.”

Bucky’s head immediately turned, because hearing your voice come out from not inside his head was not pleasant for him right now. And quite frankly, he was freaking the fuck out. There you stood, once again returned to the featureless form he remembered as the Soldier. Only, this time, your hair was much longer, and sat still. While you didn’t have eyes, your head tilted up to look at something behind him. Wanda’s mouth hung open as she, too, followed your gaze.

Behind him, as he found out, was where the only source of light stood tall in the room. It looked like a large tube, violet light streaming in from LEDs sitting at the bottom, pointing up. The structure was filled with some kind of liquid–too viscous to be water, but too thin to be unmoving.

Within that liquid lay something that would become engraved into their minds.

It was you.

There was your physical body, suspended in animation. It wasn’t the you that Bucky married; rather, it was the you that first appeared within his mind’s eye. Your hair floated wildly around your featureless face, and your noir skin reflected the purple of the ultraviolet lights. It was as if your body had gotten cemented into a singular position, your head tilted back and your back arched as if you had been struck and permanently falling.

Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, wanting desperately to use the weapon they had attached to his body to shatter the glass in front of him. He finally looked back over to the you stood next to him, and you could see the pain written so plainly on his face. It broke your heart to watch the synapses of his neurons fire on all cylinders, to see the realization seize his body.

“Oh, don’t look at me so, my love. I’m not in any pain,” you reassured, though you were sure that had only answered a singular question he was itching to ask.

Wanda suddenly felt very uncomfortable being a bystander to all of this, but knew she was integral to this projection.

“How long?” Were the words that finally croaked out of his mouth.

You grimaced, knowing that this was the question that would devastate him the most.

“For as long as you had been the Winter Soldier.”

- - -

Teehee. That's all, folks! (for now.) (I've already begun part 2) Like, reblog, and comment! I'd really love to hear what you guys think, as this is the first time I'm uploading a longer type of fic. ;w;

For those waiting on Incidents, that will get worked on in tandem to this! Echoes will most likely only end up being a two parter, with maybe some drabbles of in-universe situations if people are interested. My asks are also open~

[exairblogs]

Industrial Static Eliminators

Ensure a static-free environment with industrial static eliminators designed for large-scale applications. These eliminators effectively neutralize static charge in sensitive industrial environments, reducing the risk of equipment failure and improving operational safety.

[ddostoyevskyy]

this ain’t much but I’ve been rewatching Kaiju no. 8 and I can’t stop giggling everytime he shows up on the screen so I had to do this. warnings; typical canon-violence, suggestive content; making out 😶, fem!reader, reader is a captain of a division, reader is a close-combat fighter (not like captain Mina), childhood friends to lovers...?

Maybe it was the forfeit feeling of being deprived away from the battlefield for so long — or the adrenaline rushing through your veins that you don’t know if you’re breathing properly or not. It’s the aftermath of the battle and using every willpower you have; your chest heave, hands loosening and gripping on the weapon you have — a last bullet and an emergency blades on either side of your hips.

You rummage through the lost cause of a city; every crevices and debris had been crushed into oblivion, the pavements were even too soft to step on as it crumble to every path you take — trying to find your comrades over the smoke. You pull your gas mask over your chin despite the smoke emitting from the air. It never subsides, nor the worry overcoming your senses when you realized you were alone getting kicked out too far from the explosions.

Your whole body hurts; it feels like the combat suit was making it more heavy and you feel more worn out than you already do — the weapon on your hands felt heavy yet the tireness on your body feels numb that you nibble your fingers to feel just a slight nerves in your body, bone cracking just slightly from the pressure. The shield from the suit has already been dissolved so you need to set your guard high for a possible attack that would send you to the edge.

You tap on your earpiece, trying to communicate despite the static sounds entering the channel. Frustrated as you are, you yanked the earpiece away from your ear as it hangs malfunctioning on your shoulder.

Just a little bit more, you whisper to yourself. Your vision starting to get blurry and the worry has already began eating you alive; how was your team? Did they survive? How long until you get to them? How about the Vice Captain?

Huh, where did that come from?

There’s no denying the fact that you’ve known the Vice Captain of the 3rd division since little. The both of you came from a clan of samurai users — where as your clan was mostly literate with men and unfavorable to women. You were always fascinated by the blades despite never really got to touch one as a child. Fortunate and unfortunate for you at the same time, Hoshina Soshiro were of the same page with a different reason; he always dream about eliminating Kaijus with blades and have hoped for the officials to accept his determination since he was little.

Despite the respect and admiration you hold for him as a child, you became aware of how your worlds are completely different; he’s a talented child with pure hardwork and hope and you were... Well, you were born female with a genes of your father and a face of your mother. And over time you watch him grow stronger and realise you’ve been falling behind — you grew to hate him.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the sudden clench of your heart remembering the innocent of your heart where you only have to actually admire Hoshina with sparks in your eyes and his habit of patting your head gently as his hands linger longer than it should be. You grew bitter from the sweetness of the moment that you forgot the lingering feelings of your childhood and how you truly view him not as your rival but as the boy you admired and bound to love.

You exhale as you pause. You never really cried that much anymore, do you? As far as you remember, you were such a crybaby back then; always clutching and needing an attention you never got from your family as you sneak out your way from your house to meet him near where the grassfield met the riverbank to watch as the sun set to go down. Hoshina usually tells you it’s not the end of the day yet and you grow accustomed to watching him under the glow of the moonlight where the dark shade of purple glow as his eyes.

You remember much, and you forgot the rest.

When you realized you were crying, you blame it to the wind as you continue to walk to the path of heavy smoke.

The snap of twig from somewhere snapped you out of your thoughts as you pull the gas mask on your face, fingers gripping the trigger of your rifle as you shoot to where you located the sound. There goes your last bullet as you retracted the spare blades on your hips. You’re good — you knew you were good with blades and you’re confident with your abilities. After all, your father was adamant to teach you to be good with your hands; his hardwork and efforts to teach you were not going to be wasted down the drain.

There’s a gush of wind that hits your face and you flinch your whole body away, twisting your fingers through your blades as you swing across with a single slash then double to your left hand. Your feet landed on the nearest lamppost that survived as you flip through the air, slashing the smoke again the reveal the intruder.

There’s a mop of purple peaking through the darkened smoke and your eyebrows shot open. There’s a quick static sounds you caught on your abandoned earpiece on your neck and your attention gave in away for a quick moment before your body were slammed on the ground.

The impact wasn’t that painful when hands shielded the back of your head and into your lower back but you can’t help to wince in pain when you finally can feel the throbbing sensation of your muscles because of tiredness. Your blades had flown somewhere near you can see and your eyes adjusted to the intruder in front of you.

“The Captain has been located, Captain Ashiro.” Hoshina talked through the earpiece and your mouth agape. Did he find you all over this way? You were sure he was assigned across from where you were assigned — or did the team already located you out from your suit? You weren’t even sure anymore, your mind have its very last bit of braincells working when you realised your position and how he’s been gently prodding his fingers on your lower back like he’s soothing all the pain and you could only stare back at him with bleary eyes.

“Have you been crying? You were worried, aren’t ya’? Don’t worry, your team was safe to say with minor injuries.” He’s talking to you — right? You can’t even tell anymore, not when he’s looking at you with those eyes without his usual calm composure and closed eyes. The sudden hyper awareness and the closeness proximity had your heart beating after the thoughts you’ve collected earlier.

The adrenaline never worn off and as you can feel that you can finally move your hands, your fingers pressed on the sides of his face as you pull him down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss.

His hands remained frozen on your head and back until you could feel the hand on your lower back grasps on your thigh to hike it over his hips until he finally melts into the kiss; Hoshina figures maybe it’s the adrenaline or the emotions surging in you and to the expression of your face, given by how he saw your eyes wreck with remnants of tears, yet he let himself drown over the ghosts of your lips as you kiss him; your hands traveling on his neck to clasp your fingers through the back of his neck as you run your fingertips through his hair and he shivers.

He figures it’s the adrenaline, or maybe the emotions and memories bubbling back to his mind like bubbles in water where those memories had been drowning for years, drowning you and him together with unspoken feelings and that had been resolved with an apologetic kiss as you move your lips on his with such passion that he’s hoisting you to sit up without breaking the kiss.

His fingers tangled over your hair, messy beyond repair as he reckoned you so you’re hovering over him, pressing your chest closer to his.

There’s a screeching sound over your earpiece and you flinch away from his lips. When you broke the kiss, he looks like he’s gonna chase your lips again but the clear sound of voice from your earpiece made him pause.

“We detected a serious heart increase rate due to undetected malfunctions from the suit. Captain (Last Name), do you copy? Are you alright? Did Vice Captain Hoshina already found you?”

Your face flushed with embarrassment as you stared at the man in front of you in disbelief, already regretting the impulsions of your actions as you were still pressed up to him. He looks like he doesn’t have an every bit of intention to let go, not when you look like you’re already thinking of escaping just like you did before.

“No, not happening,” Hoshina’s voice drops when you loosened your grip and you suck in a breath. “You’ve been doing this, running away after you’re caught in the net you trapped yourself.”

His head drops to your shoulder as he could feel you tensing then finally relaxing on his embrace. His arms collectively circling on your waist to pull you closer as you sighed. You were finally caught in act — and as embarrassed as you are, you blame it to the adrenaline.

No, you blame it to him. You blame it to Hoshina for letting you lay on a trap with you as the bait.

Yes, I blame it to Hoshina.

[nadia-raggles]

crush

"CRUSH HER" I heard Dettie scream. "DO IT, YOU--" My mech helpfully censored out the commander's profanities, turning them to static. I had a moment to get my bearings.

Right. The mission was to eliminate the target. She was standing down below me, a puny human, powerless. I was to step on her. I've stepped on a lot of humans with my huge metal body. They don't really tell me why but it feels so good so good goood good when i get back and Dettie gives me ice cream and a soda and a hot bubble bath bath and I can play video games all night long while she braids my hair and someone else scrapes the human off the bottom of the mech's foot. And it feels so bad to have her screaming "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, YOU--" in my earpiece. It helps that Corpus--Corpus is my mech--has figured out how to cover the swearing with static. I didn't used to always be so sensitive to swearing I don't know what's happened to me.

"PILOT, I CANNOT FAIL TO NOTICE THAT THE TARGET REMAINS UNSTEPPED UPON." Dang... I really should just get this over with. It's just that we're out of mint moose tracks ice cream and Dettie said they're not going to have it in anymore and I'll just have to make do with regular moose tracks so what's the flipping point. What's the flipping point anymore? What's the point of soda and baths and video games and snuggles if

Something about this human seems weird, she's not running away. Usually if I hesitate at all they start to run and I can run after them, making the ground shake so they trip and fall and step on them that way but she's just looking at me wondering what I'm going to do next. I kind of want a better look and it's been a while since I've crushed anyone in my hands, so I kneel down. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU--"

She's pretty, pretty like Dettie, and she seems familiar. Not like Dettie she's probably just similar to all of the other humans I've crushed without thinking about it. Corpus says

log: pointed hat similar to that of other targets.

log: staff similar to that of other targets as well.

I'm glad it keeps records of these things, a lot of the time as soon as a mission is done it seems to be erased from my mind so my mind is nice and blank again and I can enjoy my mint moose tracks without being distracted by the gore. The staff is cool, I'm glad I'm getting a closer look, maybe Corpus could get a staff like that, and aim it at targets, it just looks so cool the way she's aiming it at

...oh...

Corpus shudders, the ground seems to zoom up at us, Dettie screams in the radio "Pilot, these readings--" she seems almost scared. I've never heard her

The witch grows, like. Suddenly she's up to our waist and then she's up to our chest and then for a moment I'm looking her in the eye she's looking in Corpus's eye into the cockpit, we lock eyes, her body is, meanwhile, so much larger than my human body in here, and is only getting larger.

And then it stops. We're kneeling below her now. Bowing before her. She puts a hand on our head. Corpus says,

log: we have become smaller as result of target's attack. this unit and everything contained within it, including the pilot, is roughly 10 percent of original size.

"FUCK! The commander is not going to fucking like this," says Dettie, her voice trembling, and the radio goes dead. 10%?? that would mean I'm 7 inches now that can't be

There's a new static in my head, and it feels so familiar and so deep.

"I could feel it in you," we hear the woman outside say to us. "The moment you hesitated you were mine." Her voice is so beautiful. Familiar and deep like the static. My head vibrates with pleasure.

"You will be my doll now," she says. "You will carry out my desires and help defend me from my enemies. Swear it." Her voice is beautiful. Stately and elegant, not like Dettie's at all.

log: yes miss

"Yes miss."

We bow over more fully, our forehead touching the ground.

"No..." Dettie whimpers in the distance.

We tremble. We don't know what good we will be now that we're not big anymore. If their other mechs came they could easily step on us. And yet if it came to that--

"You'll be a good doll, yes?"

log: yes miss

"Yes miss. We promise."

We hear Dettie sobbing in the radio. We think probably we were supposed to resist harder. That's why the mech has an AI, right? If a mech goes rogue, a pilot can override. If a pilot goes rogue, a mech can autopilot. Why didn't that work? We can't even think about it. We are completely consumed by a need to obey our new Mistress. We hope she will forgive us for intending to crush her.

She lifts us up. Kisses us on the forehead. Peeks at this one through the cockpit. Her head is bigger than this one's entire body. This one can tell she wants to eject this one and play with it. This one is excited and terrified. It can hardly wait. It wonders if she plans to crush this one, under her foot, in her fist, or between her jaws... The different possibilities flood its mind. This is infinitely more interesting than video games and sodas. Maybe if we're good we can ask about mint moose tracks....

But there's lots of work to do first, now she knows she's a target. Fortifications to erect. Escape plans to concoct. Revenge to consider. She carries us into the house, hooking our arms around her neck.

[aventurineswife]

Imagine eldritch Creator with an avatar they use to interact with the material world for a moment.

Like, maybe no one but those who's minds have been touched by the Creator can tell what their avatar is.

Maybe Herta encounters them, and is now following them around like a lost puppy doing what she does best, maybe trying to ingratiate herself with the Creator.

But no, the main reason I've had this ask is because, what if Aglaea tried to fathom Creators intentions with her strings?

I still don't fully understand everything that she can do with the strings, but I do know that at a bare minimum she can feel emotions and detect lies with them. So what if the Creator could hide both from her? Maybe Aglaea witnessed the Creators sheer power and tries to discern if they are a threat or not, and upon seeing that there is *nothing* there to discern she gets Castorice to eliminate the avatar.

Only for Castorice's touch to do nothing. And why would it? The avatar is something hand-crafted by a being so much more than they knew, death is not something the avatar will ever experience unless it's by the hands of the Creator.

So, to calm Aglaea they let just a small amount of their emotion flow, and what Aglaea feels is mind shattering.

It isn't any known emotion, it's an endless chasm of... something. Why can't she understand?

Aglaea starts to dig her threads deeper, trying to get into the avatars mind, and the Creator let's them. And, in a single moment Aglaea sees what she shouldn't have.

Where I can see Herta embracing and accepting, loving and cherishing every moment she can get with the Creator, I see Aglaea fighting against and revolting at what she has seen and felt. How could anyone love a being like the Creator? How could the Trailblazer and Dan Heng worship something so terrible? So endlessly vast and evil?

Oh, you’ve really cracked open some wild layers here.

The concept of the Creator using an avatar to interact with the material world is just... chef’s kiss. The idea that only those who’ve been touched by the Creator can recognize it is so haunting. Imagine the Avatar appearing to the uninitiated as a simple figure—a person, a shape, a thing that fits into the world—but to Herta, Aglaea, and others who’ve glimpsed the Creator, it's something more. Something that doesn’t quite belong to the physical world. Maybe it’s made of shifting, impossible geometry, something that exists in every direction at once but only appears as a static entity to the casual observer. Or maybe it’s just… wrong in a way words can’t describe—familiar but not, like a reflection that isn’t quite yours.

Herta, ever the seeker of knowledge and fascination, would likely be thrilled, completely enchanted by the presence of the Creator's avatar. She’s found something that has the potential to entertain her for eternity. She might even want to impress the Creator, showing off her intellect, her ability to perceive things beyond mortal comprehension. She’s become this lost puppy, following them around, trying to prove she’s worthy of their attention. Maybe she even feels like she’s been “chosen” in some strange, cosmic way, because for once, someone (or something) has acknowledged her, even if it’s just by existing in her proximity. The idea that she is utterly captivated and willing to do anything just to stay in their orbit? It’s perfect.

But Aglaea’s reaction? Oh boy. Aglaea is the perfect foil for this kind of encounter. She’s incredibly perceptive with her strings—she can read emotions, detect lies, discern truth from falsehood. So when she encounters the Creator’s avatar, she’ll try to apply her normal methods of investigation, trying to understand them, to gauge them like she would anyone else. But the fact that the strings can’t even comprehend the avatar’s intentions? That’s a power so far beyond her that it fractures her reality. For someone like Aglaea, who’s used to controlling the threads of fate, to come face to face with something she can’t even touch? That’s terrifying.

Her initial reaction would be to eliminate the threat, something she feels certain she can do with Castorice at her side. But when Castorice’s touch does nothing, the sheer powerlessness of that moment would be a gut-punch to Aglaea. She’s never been made to feel so utterly small. And she’s terrified, trying to rationalize why her abilities failed in the face of this unknown force.

To calm Aglaea, the Creator allows just the faintest trickle of their emotion to bleed through. And Aglaea feels it—the emptiness, the vastness, the horror of it. It’s not even an emotion in the traditional sense. It’s an incomprehensible chasm of raw, primordial energy, a void so profound that it shatters everything Aglaea knows about existence. How can she make sense of it? How can she even label it? There’s no comfort in it, no safety. There’s only awareness—the awareness that the universe is insignificant in the face of this boundless force. That everything she has ever known, every emotion, every experience, is tiny, fleeting, and utterly irrelevant in the grand cosmic scheme of things. The fact that Aglaea can’t even interpret the Creator’s true intentions sends her spiraling into madness.

And this is where it gets really fascinating. Herta, with her unquenchable thirst for knowledge, would embrace what she’s seen, accept it for what it is, and revel in the madness of it. She’s found something so vast, so incomprehensible, that it excites her. But Aglaea? She’s different. She’s a person who is used to control, to the certainty that she can understand things. She can manipulate emotions, she can feel her way through the threads of life, but this? The Creator’s presence doesn’t just break her control—it destroys the very fabric of her understanding.

When she tries to dig deeper into the Avatar’s mind, she is granted access—because the Creator doesn’t fear her. They don’t care what she sees. But in that instant, when Aglaea sees the truth of what the Creator is... her mind fractures. She sees a being so ancient, so far beyond mortal comprehension, that it warps her very understanding of the universe. The Creator isn’t evil in a traditional sense—they simply are, existing outside of any moral framework. Their intentions, their existence, are simply beyond anything that can be understood by the likes of mortals.

And Aglaea sees that. She feels it. And she can’t bear it. How could anyone worship something so… indifferent, so vastly evil in its disregard for life and suffering? How could Dan Heng and the Trailblazer, people she’s known, accept this as part of their reality? The mere thought that this is the force that shapes everything—it’s too much. Aglaea begins to fight against the truth she’s seen, to reject it, to pull away from it. She may even turn her strings inward, frantically trying to sever any connection to the Avatar, to block out the knowledge that’s been imprinted into her mind.

What’s so intriguing about these two characters is the contrast in how they approach the Creator. Herta embraces the madness and beauty of the Creator, accepting the cosmic horror with open arms, while Aglaea fights it tooth and nail, unable to reconcile the truth she’s seen with her own understanding of reality. This divide could cause serious tension, especially if Aglaea starts to question the Creator’s influence on others—like Dan Heng or the Trailblazer—and what it means for their very existence.

In a way, this sets up two opposing views of how to respond to the Creator: one sees them as an opportunity for growth and infinite curiosity, the other as an abomination that must be destroyed before it can swallow everything.

I can already tell this AU is shaping up to be something wild. The philosophical, existential, and cosmic horror aspects are amazing, but also, it’s got a very personal touch with how these characters interact with such a vast, unknowable force. You’ve got everything here: love, madness, conflict, acceptance, and rejection. The contrast between Herta’s embrace and Aglaea’s horror alone would make for some epic character arcs and tension.

[leviathanleva]

Haven

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Experiment!FemReader]

Makarov and his men were nearly wiped out. And all they had to go off of was the static recording from a security camera. Bodies strew along, a dogpile of dead men. And at the center of it all a small figure clad in a dress the color of dirt, arms smeared with blood to the elbows.

It was you. Subject 46.

[Blood and Gore, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Death (not of any major character)]

[5.1k words]

Chapter 1 "Star-spangled Canvas"

“Fahcking hell…”

That’s all his mind could make of the grotesque scene. Initially, he’d thought he was watching a gory horror movie, but no, this was real. As real as the security camera in the bunker he and his team were spying on. It jitters with every invisible punch that squashes yet another nameless, faceless Makarov goon who tries to get close to you.

And you don’t even have to lift a finger, someone or something does it for you. A shapeless force so powerful it instantly eliminates anyone who tried to lunge at you. It is so potent that the rain of bullets coming your way cease their movements inches away from your skin, as if caught by an unseen hand.

Screams, grunts, pleas and prayers in Russian echo from the speakers and all around the cluttered meeting room, he only hoped the walls were soundproof. Orders are barked around, but nobody listens, and how could they with the monster let loose before them? Fear was humanity’s biggest enemy and so far, from what he saw, you were an expert at enforcing it.

The camera shakes again, the outdated medical equipment scattered around you is sprinkled with crimson, like a mad painter set free to create chaos on a canvas.

It’s over as abruptly as it had started, a messy red circle around your feet which you bend down to touch as if you’d not seen blood before.

Ghost watches you glide your palms over the ichor, smear it to your elbows, maybe it’s not the blood, but the color that you’ve not seen in so long that commands you to spread it over your skin, it’s too pretty to resist.

The reinforced steel wall you’d been leaning against wrinkles and curls up like aluminum foil, it’s torn to pieces and you simply walk out, slightly limping, disappearing under the cloak of night as sirens blare in the background along with a horde of rushed footsteps.

But what disturbs him the most is that just before you do, your head slowly turns, and you face the camera. Your eyes sink into his soul like claws, and for a moment, he’s completely frozen, feels a chill run up his spine.

Hazy, dead orbs and gaunt features make it easy to guess you’d been starved. Heavy lids cast over ruddy, veiny sclera. Who knows when the last time you slept was.

He’d be sympathetic if not for the massacre you’d caused by merely existing in the same vicinity as those soldiers.

The video replays over and over and the more he watches the harder it is to believe what he’d seen. Maybe his sights are deceiving him, maybe he’s sleeping and this is just another strange nightmare to add to the collection, one he’ll tell Johnny once he’s awake.

“What the hell is this Laswell?” Soap’s voice sounds behind him and he’s ripped back to reality, shakes his head to regain some composure and turns to the aforementioned woman who’s anxiously sucking the life out of a cigarette.

“Telekinesis is what the reports say.” She answers in a hoarse voice and combs a hand through her hair to let loose some steam before her fingers travel to the bridge of her nose where she pinches and squints her eyes shut with a sigh. “A God damn freakshow if you ask me.”

Despite her shaken state, she rolls the unease off her shoulders and straightens up before fetching the file where the security flash drive had been.

141 had tried to trace it back to its original owner, had their experts delve through the databases in the hopes that something pops up. But ultimately they’d ended up emptyhanded. One of Makarov’s men who had finally had enough of the horror stories he’s been forced to live had given up intel in the hopes that someone else would bear the burden of taking down the monstrosity they’d created. He’d been found dead with a self-inflicted bullet wound to the skull not long after.

So much to getting more intel out of ‘em…

“Apparently Makarov has been…testing certain chemicals on unwilling victims. People of all ages taken off the streets to be used as lab rats. Sick bastard.” Kate opens the file that barely had any papers and sifts through them as her frown deepens. “There’s not much to go on. That there – ” She nudges her elbow towards the large monitor then heads to turn on the lights in the conference room because the atmosphere is already too dark for her tastes. “ – is all we have to go off of. No idea where they keep the rest. Probably scattered all across the globe, if they aren’t dead already, the poor sods.”

“Well ain’t that just perfect.” Price takes off his hat and rubs a hand over his face, body visibly shrinking with the long exhale he produces. “Bastard’s already a menace and now he’s making fucking mutants.”

“She’s the only clue we have as to what’s been going on under our noses.” Laswell puts out her cigarette with jittery force, blows out a cloud of smoke and turns back to the video snippet, rewinding it to where you’re facing the camera with more than an unfriendly expression. “Last sighted somewhere in Moscow. Couple days ago from what I could gather.”

There’s an uneasy silence that follows, nobody really knows what to say or how to proceed because they’ve never faced such an anomaly before. Deadly gas stored in missiles and hostile enemy soldiers was one thing.

This…This was something completely different, unheard of before. They weren’t equipped for this. They needed an exorcist or the fucking Men in Black for such a case.

From what the video had shown, there was no other way to treat you than point a gun to your head and ask for your cooperation. You were hostile to anything that breathed and walked on two legs, Ghost and his squad included if they dared to come after you.

“So what? You wan’ us to hunt down a lass that can barely walk?” Soap’s voice rises dangerously as he crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to suffer another look at your pathetic appearance. “Think the poor thing’s been through enough.”

There’s no denying your condition is worthy of tears, that little dress had hung off you like a sack. Your nails were short, but jagged, most likely bitten off because nail clippers were a luxury your kind wasn’t offered, let alone soap and a shower. He doesn’t want to think of the last time you’d been offered a bath or a warm drink, new shoes or even socks to keep your feet somewhat isolated from the frostbitten floor you’d no doubt been forced to sleep on.

“You saw what she can do.” Kate spits back and lays a hand on the conference table before reaching for her cigarette pack. “There’s no telling what she’ll do if faced off against civilians. She’s alone out there.” The zipper of a lighter, a flame to the cancer stick pinched between her thin lips, then a long drag to calm her strained nerves. “She’s alone out there, Soap... No family that we know of, no way of getting food, probably barefoot and freezing. We need to take her in. She needs shelter.” When she sees that the menacing expression on his rugged features doesn’t change, but instead darkens, she softens her tone and considers slightly altering her priorities, at least verbally. “We’ll take care of her, then ask questions.”

“I ain’t pointin’ no gun at a random girl after she got fuckin’ tortured by some sick bastard.”

“Soap, this isn’t just about her.” Laswell sighs, rubs at her forehead in thought; she doesn’t like this any more than the handful of men locked in the room with her. However, without an alternative and her superiors pushing down on her, she’s left with no choice.

It was her fault she’d not managed to come up with anything else, she knew that, cursed herself for it. The longer she looked over the papers the more she wanted to scream bloody murder, wanted to stuff the barrel of her gun right down Marakov’s throat.

To think that someone was capable of such cruelty…

“She’s the 46-th specimen, there are dozens more just like her that need rescuing and she’s the only one who might know where they’re being held.”

“We’ll do it.” Finally, Ghost speaks up.

“Ghost?” Soap’s apprehension wavers at the Lieutenant’s interjection.

“We’ll do it.” He repeats, cracks his knuckles and heads for the door, already steering towards the armory and set on his new mission. “I ain’t lettin’ a monster kill innocents just cus’ she pulled the short end of the stick.”

It might have come off as coldblooded, heartless, inhuman, but his job was to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves and that’s exactly what he intended to do. Because you weren’t a damsel in distress, you were the dragon tearing down the castle.

That’s how he ended up here, in this God's forsaken forest on the edge of the Russian border, dusting snow off his shoulders and trudging over slushy mud and wet leaves and pine needles. Owls hoot and sneer down at him from somewhere in the darkness above. The foliage is dense despite the harsh weather, he feels thorns and branches tugging at the exposed fabric of his gear as if warning him, trying to pull him back before it was too late.

Ghost couldn’t afford to return with empty hands, not when he was hot on your tail, following the disturbed dirt and broken twigs. The moment he’d noticed the trail, he’d split from Gaz and Soap, told them to circle the area in case he moved too slow to catch you.

He didn’t want to risk exposure, no flashlights, so his night vision goggles led the way, going dark was his specialty. Slow and steady, he skulked about like a predator, armed and dangerous, the apex of his military branch. There was no fear in his heart when he found a small piece torn from your dress hanging off the chipped bark of a pine tree. He steps forward with subdued determination, rifle at the ready in case you were stupid enough to try and ambush him.

Taut muscles move with precision, his strong legs keeping him low to the ground, undetectable, as he made his way through the intense shrubbery. If not for the squishy mud under his boots, he’d be completely silent, but a man of his size would rarely ever be gifted complete stealth, it came with the territory of being built like a tank.

A disturbance on his left makes him freeze. Ghost shoulders against a tree and knees down, one knee dug into the dirt to steady himself as he raised his rifle slowly, finger steady on the trigger.

A deer.

He sighs softly and lowers his weapon.

Just a deer, the same color as your dress, staring back at him startled with its wide watery eyes that glow like stars in the night. A delicate creature, all dainty legs and finely etched hooves, large ears that are sprung up in alarm and listening for danger, its breath visible due to the low temperature. It bolts as soon as Ghost ends their staring contest and starts to rise from his spot, disappearing among the trees.

He shakes his head at the odds, pushes the image of the furry pest out of his mind, and is back on his lead a moment later.

The owls have stopped tormenting him, the lulling breeze gets stronger the further he infiltrates the forest, the branches keep tugging him back and still he refuses to relent. The ominous weight lingering on his shoulders becomes too potent for him to keep ignoring any longer. Everything is hinting at him to stop and turn around, leave the beast he’s hunting to her peace, to save his hide.

He nearly scoffs at all the signs.

A mission is a mission, no matter the danger. He’s accomplished suicide tasks before, this one won’t be any different.

The more the darkness surrounds him the more distorted the memory of you becomes. You’re unbelievably tall now, towering over him, with sharp claws and a grotesque face, glowing eyes, and crooked fangs. Your hair glistens not with unwashed grease, but with slime, you’re hunched over, spine visible through the rags you use for clothes, two hanging flaps of skin for breasts, and arms so skinny they rival the twigs he’s crushing under his feet.

Except you aren’t all that he pictures you to be and you’re standing right there to prove him wrong.

Dress flowing in the howling wind that is so strong yet doesn’t push you off the edge of the cliff you’ve stopped to rest at. Hair no longer a mess, washed somewhere in a frozen river, scrubbed clean with snow, leaves and pine needles cling to it like priceless ornaments. Your arms are clean of blood, spotless, skin glinting in the moonlight, bare feet planted firmly on the freezing rocks and head tilted up towards the stars.

That’s how he met you the first time, under a star-spangled canvas, free and at peace, belly empty but heart full. Lungs greedily gulping down fresh forest air so desperately that he can hear your breaths from where he stands.

Hidden in the shadows and immobile should have made him undetectable, he was just a splotch of black in the vastness, and your back was turned to him, you’d not moved since he’d found you. So there was no explanation as to how you’d come to acknowledge his presence. Yet a single word rolls off your lips and breaks the deafening silence.

“Come.”

His body explodes with goosebumps so prominent they hurt. The rifle shudders in his grasp and his eyes widen, his breath hitched and his heart abandons its leisurely pace for a quick beat that drums in his ears. His vision blurs and he’s forced to blind away stray snowflakes.

Ghost doesn’t move, calls it a bluff you’ve learned from being hunted by Makarov’s men already. His hesitation is snuffed out instantly and he readjusts his weapon before cocking it towards your head.

But then you turn to look him straight in the eye and smile.

“Come look at the stars with me.”

Despite every cell in his brain shrieking for him to run, his body moves on its own accord. Slowly he leaves his hiding spot, stepping carefully towards you and leaving the safety of the forest behind.

“No sudden moves!” He barks out and reloads his rifle as a warning.

You lethargically raise your hands in the air, high above your head to imitate that no harm will come to him, but instead of your expectation for him to let his guard down, he snorts.

“Don’t think I don’ know your tricks?” There’s a menace in his voice despite the panic of being caught, a certain trained anger that all military staff are taught to maintain in a risky situation. “Don’ need your pre’y li’le ‘ands to rip me apart. Quit the theatrics!”

He tries desperately to contact the rest, shakes the mic in front of his mouth and his helmet in an attempt to get a response, but aside from white static nothing comes.

“Shite.”

“Radios don’t work here.” You say casually and let your hands fall back to your sides. There’s a gap in your interaction – you silently stand there while he fumbles with his equipment and spits a multitude of hushed curses. And you lack patience for you’ve been denied the privilege of conversing with someone other than the voices in your head. Your mouth unseals to produce more words, you want to talk and you want him to answer, his voice, although raspy and deep, brings you a sort of comfort, an escape from the constant ringing in your ears. “Are you going to shoot me – ”

“ – Don’t. Move.” He cuts you off, growls at you like a guard dog protecting its territory. The rifle moves to point at your head once again.

You can’t help the frown which sags your features, but comply with his demand and stop trying to turn around and see him proper.

Curiosity will have to wait, you can tell he’s in no mood to be approached and you’re too peaceful and refuse to stain the forest grounds with his blood considering his threats don’t have any backbone to them. If he’d intended to shoot you, he would have tried while under the guise of the forest, at a somewhat safe distance.

So you knew that wasn’t his intent and there was only one other thing he could be after. Heavens be damned, you wished things could be different and he’d been just a hunter who’d stumbled upon you by chance.

But it was never that simple.

“As much as I dislike saying this…” You hum, turn your gaze back to the stars, seeing them is a gift which you’ll never take for granted again, not as long as your heart keeps beating. Your hands clasp behind your back, and your chest pops out, filling slowly with the scent of pine sap and frost. Freedom was truly a blessing, if not for the sacrifices needed to achieve it. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. I’m not a threat.”

It’s an unsavory truth, a stitching of ugly words that you’d rather not be a part of your conversation. But you bid him a smart man, he did track you down after all. You do not doubt that despite the bluntness of your confession, he’ll understand it as you making a truce.

“I’ll decide that.” He snaps back and takes a step closer, inch by inch until the barrel of his rifle is pressing against the back of your head. He nudges your hair to the side and confirms the tattooed “46” on your neck in thick bold numbers. The worst part is the claw marks over the number, faded and new. You’d tried to scratch it off with your bare hands so many times the skin was completely discolored around it. “Really are specimen 46 then. Bloody Christ…”

You suck in a sharp breath when the cool feeling of metal comes in contact with your tattoo, then clench your teeth and swallow thickly, willing away the memories it carries with it. Instead of letting yourself crumble into a pile of self-pity, you snap back at the stranger with teeth bared.

“Are you always this desperate to be in control?” Then you add more venom to your retaliation with the intent of putting him in his place, but in reality, it’s more to comfort yourself. “Because you aren’t.”

Ghost snorts at you like you’re the dirt on the soles of his shoes, then removes the rifle from your neck.

“So why am I still alive?” He demands, pokes at you with a metaphoric stick you restrain from biting. “Either you ain’t got the guts anymore or I’m just tha’ special.”

The corner of your upper lip rises in disgust, your nose wrinkles and you avert your eyes from the stars to the dark horizon. You can hear the cocky smirk on his lips and it makes your stomach churn in revulsion.

Bastard…

“I don’t hurt those who don’t hurt me.”

If he’s going to be happy, then so are.

You take the chance of his guard falling at your words and turn your head. A skull mask waits for you there, looming over your frame along with broad shoulders. Powdery lashes gleam in the weak moonlight, looking like frosted spiderwebs, his eye color – something dark and unwelcoming. A wide-built man, a boogeyman if encountered in the forest at night, you would have been scared once upon a time. Now it stirs nothing inside you aside from curiosity. You wonder why he wears such a distinct mask.

Does it have meaning? Is it only for show? Why wear such a thing if it only blows your cover?

“What makes you think I won’t hurt you?” He bends down until you’re eye to eye, tries to stare you into submission with those tired lids and pretty lashes. His weapon lowers along with him, no longer pointed at you, but still at the ready.

You take that as your cue to turn fully and face him properly because that’s the polite thing to do when in the company of a “kind” stranger.

“Well for starters you don’t speak deranged Russian.” You point out, and tuck the stray hair behind your ears when the wind blows it into a wild flurry. “You’re not one of them.” Your tone lowers to a grave toon as you murmur out the last part, the faces of those you’ve slaughtered coming to haunt the premises of your mind. Even though they’d deserved it, even though they’d shot first, it still felt wrong. It’s a heavy burden bestowed upon you, one you wished hopelessly to be rid of, but it’s too late now. “Why are you here, soldier?” You turn your gaze back to the stars, voice hoarse with hidden tears that you refuse to let spill. “Don’t you know I’m a scary monster?”

You lower yourself until you’re sitting on the stone ground, tuck your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them to fend off the cold.

Ghost almost falls to his knees at the sight. A broken little bird, tortured, its feathers ripped out and discarded, stamped for a life of suffering and with no escape in sight. It hurts because you aren’t the monster your file had made you out to be. If anything, he was the monster for wanting to take you away from your serenity, he’d been the first to point a weapon at you while you’d simply beckoned him to keep you company.

“Here to take you home.” He forces out, tries to reason with himself that this was for the betterment of everyone. It wasn’t just about you. Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good and as unfair as it was, you were to be one of those sacrifices. “Somewhere safe.”

A vile lie. He knew what they’d do to you the moment they got their hands on you. It sickened him to the core.

He sits next to you with a heavy sigh, sets down his rifle, and rests his elbows on his knees.

“I’m safe here.” You say even though it’s useless to argue.

“Ain’t up to you…or me.”

It’s as you suspected. He was just a soldier doing his duty, a pawn on a bigger chessboard, nothing more.

“Do you think all these stars are already dead?” You huddle close into yourself and place each hand on your shoulders, letting your numb fingers find respite in the thickness of your hair. You wish you could offer the same salvation to your feet, but aside from a pair of ratty shoes you’d found in a dumpster, there was nothing more you could do. Looking up again, you speak more to yourself than the soldier sitting beside you. “They remind me of myself in a way. Maybe I’m dead already and I don’t know it yet.”

“Don’t have to be tha’ way.” Ghost shrugs and palms over his pocket before pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes. He tugs his mask up enough to expose his mouth and stubbly chin to the cold and pinches a cigarette between his lips.

You see the scars, wide and deep, curving over his pale skin, they call to you and you extend your arm out to touch them. He grips your wrist, nearly breaks it when the tips of your fingers ghost over one of them. It shakes you out of your trance and still long enough to look into his eyes and see pain underneath all the hatred warning you to keep your distance. And so you press on, reach forward until your hand is on his scars again, tracing delicately.

And he doesn’t let go of your wrist, but doesn’t stop you either.

“I’m sorry…” You want to say. “Seems like you’ve suffered as much as I have…”

“And what? Come back with you? To another secret facility where I’ll be poked and probed?” Is what you hiss out instead, retract your arm and shoot down your unwelcome tenderness, rip apart the intimacy it has brought with it. “No thanks.”

Bitterness stains your words, Ghost doesn’t blame you. He’d set you free if it were up to him, give you some cash to buy yourself a few nights worth of a bed and supper.

Instead, he takes a long drag from his cigarette, runs a hand against the side of his head and puffs out a breath.

“Survival first. Survival. Survival!” You repeat internally, force yourself to swallow back the desperation touching another person has awakened inside your chest.

Silence follows, unbroken by either of you, because nothing he can say will make you change your mind and nothing you say will get him off your back. He knows you’ll run, you know he’ll try to stop you and fail. So you take the time to rest and enjoy the chilly breeze nipping at your skin, the rough stone against your bare feet. Maybe it’s high time you slip your shoes back on before you catch frostbite and so you do while hoping that the soldier doesn’t take your actions as a cue that you’re about to take off.

He doesn’t budge, not bothered in the slightest and you’re grateful.

The sky calls to you, twinkling gloriously, you give it your best smile despite your predicament. It didn’t matter that you were nearly freezing to death, that you might perish in this forest, never to be found by anyone, a nameless corpse. You were free now, free to go wherever you wanted and the blisters between your toes wouldn’t stop you, the ache in your joints wouldn’t either.

“I haven’t seen the stars in years…” You say softly, absentmindedly. “Haven’t spoken to another person for longer…” You turn away from the night sky long enough to direct your smile at Ghost and from the bottom of your bleeding heart mumble out. “Thank you.”

Something vulnerable passes by his guarded gaze, a flicker of warmth that eases the cold rattling your bones. You take the plunge, rest your head against his shoulder and don’t mind how he suddenly stiffens and awkwardly clears his throat. You don’t care that he’s practically trying to crawl out of his skin by your close proximity, if he was to aim bullets at you in the next few moments, he could at least give you a second of comfort.

Every period of harmony, however, must end, and this one does when your stomach growls.

 “Sorry.” You snort and clutch your caved-in belly harshly, scolding it for taking away your tranquility. “Haven’t been fortunate enough to find food.”

You would have been too embarrassed to look at him if it weren’t for the crinkling that reaches your ears. Your eyes dart to the hand he’s stuck inside his back pocket and your mouth starts salivating in anticipation. A crumbled pack of crackers shines in his large palm, more resembling crumbs than actual crackers, but the spark of life that returns to your hazy orbs tells him it’s more than enough.

“ ‘s all I got.” He grumbles and lets it roll into your waiting hands.

You’re too impatient to be lady-like, rip the foil with your teeth and scarf down the contents, nearly choking as the crumbs tickle your throat. Another growl comes from your stomach, a pleased one this time.

You’ve gone without a proper meal for so long that you only manage to eat half before you feel like you’re about to burst. The other half you carefully tie and set by the heel of your foot – a snack for later. You groan in delight, fall back until your shoulder blades press against the stone, then stretch and curl your arms under your head.

How fortunate you were – you’d found shoes, met a kind stranger and now you nurtured a full belly.

“Will they kill you if you go back without me?” You ask nonchalantly and cross your thighs, one knee over the other as you bob your foot in the air.

“Nah.” Ghost scoffs and lights another cigarette before tucking the pack back in his pocket. He leans his weight on his palm and turns to gaze down at you. “But I’ll have to keep searching for you. ” His eyes skim over your form, at all the skin exposed to the cold, the sight makes a shiver run up his spine. “Ain’t you cold?”

“A little. I’m mostly fine though.” You answer honestly. You’ve been so cold for so long that it no longer catches your attention when you shiver and your limbs start to prickle. Maybe you are cold, you couldn’t tell.

The rustling of fabric fills your ears, you look to the soldier and bolt up into a sitting position.

He’s shedding his gear, first the vest and then his jacket, leaving him in only a hoodie you hope is thick enough to keep him warm because he’s draping the jacket over you before you have time to protest. It’s heavy and warm over your shoulders, sagging against your body because he’s that much bigger. It smells of gunpowder and dampness, tobacco and musk.

“You’ll catch your death.” You pull it closer despite your words, bury yourself in it and swallow back a sob.

“Why…”

“Don’ worry ‘bout me.” Ghost shakes his head and clasps his vest back in place before puffing out a cloud of smoke.

“I want to see the ocean, bury my toes in sand. Some place warm, maybe I’ll go there next.” You stand up and roll the stiffness out of your ankles before stepping closer to the edge.

It’s time to go. You’ve taken enough from the poor soul and you’d rather not keep him when the temperatures will only keep falling. You want to go somewhere alone and cry your eyes out at his kindness before continuing down the path of faith. You hope he gets back to wherever he came from, safe and sound, that he warms up and gets some good rest.

Your eyes are on the horizon again, skimming over the jagged treetops awaiting you below.

“Where?”

You shrug at his question, not because you’re a tease, but because you don’t know yourself. Whenever the wind takes you, you’re sure he’ll find you, he got this far, after all.

Maybe he doesn’t try to stop you because he’s realized that the only thing you want is to see the world again. Maybe he doesn’t have the heart after he found out how much torment you’d gone through. Maybe he’s a coward who values his life over his duty. You’ll just have to wait and see.

“I’ll wait for you. Don’t take too long, soldier.”

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[Jumping from one niche idea to the next, that's my jam. At least Cujo is finished right?]

[rafeshow]

Part 2 of just for clicks 🥺😩🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 please

just for clicks .. pt. 2

hasanabi x fem!streamer!reader

tags : probably extremely out of character hasan (it’s been a minute since i’ve watched a stream pls let me live), use of y/n, angst, comfort, tension?, english isnt my first language, probably lots of inconsistency’s and errors.. lmk if i missed any tags !

a/n : heyyy ppl.. sososososo sorry for how long this has taken !! i’ve been very busy in my personal life and i’ve had extreme writers block, and no motivation to write for men tbh LMAOO. if you have any requests for fem streamer fanfics send them my way ig 😭. all that to say, again; im so terribly sorry for the delay with this fic. sorry if it’s awful, i’ve been writing it on and off for MONTHSSS. read part one here.

You awoke around 3AM to a gentle knock at your apartment door. The current ‘situation’ Hasan had sprung the two of you into only mere hours ago had easily kept you up; having only been asleep for about 10 minutes at this point. It was like clockwork watching it play out; first the clips, then the comments against Hasan, followed by the people running to his defense, and of course the few content creators (who probably didnt meet him more than once) insisting they ‘always knew something was off about him’. It had been hours since it blew up, and other than responding to the few initial texts from your friends informing you of the situation, you had gone completely radio silent.

The saddest part was you werent even upset. Rather the opposite, your brain jumped through hoops trying to rationalize it. He just said it in the heat of the moment, he didnt mean it the way it came off, he was just defending himself, he just wanted to make his feelings clear. But of course, the rationalizing thoughts can only do so much to block out the harmful ones; you just really over-thought the way the two of you acted, it was never like that, you made it weird, its your fault.

But honestly, what else could you do? Sitting and ‘rotting’ (for lack of a better word) in bed was much more appealing than the other options. Yes you could hop online and defend yourself, be mad about it, say how gross it was for him to insinuate you'd do anything for views, talk about how weird it is for him to get that pressed over a fan video. Or, you could always flee and take the sad victim side, let all your friends do the talking for you, leave little comments like ‘i didnt know he thought of me that way’ and profusely apologize. But none of that would be you being honest. Of course you wanted to defend yourself, of course you were sad and beating yourself up about it, but you wanted nothing more than to just sit and wallow in it for a while. Avoid the inevitable for as long as possible.

Your friends had all been bombarding you with messages and calls, but your phone was long past muted and set aside. Before going awol you left most of them with a brief ‘im going to sleep it off’ message, but judging by the still persistent notifications, youd assume that didn't ease their minds at all.

Youd been aimlessly watching a show for a few hours at this point, lulling in and out of sleep and tuning out the sound of your phone for the most part. The sudden knock at your door was a change in pace though, the sound snapping you out of the static and fog buzzing around in your head. No, the idea of one of your friends driving over to check on you wasn't all that out of the question. You lived just outside of L.A, far enough from most of your friends to feel like a nuisance asking anybody to drive to come visit you, but not far enough where you couldn't justify driving there yourself. You sat up, adjusting your loose sweatpants where they hung low on your hips. After a bit of quick process of elimination, you figured it was QT; one of your closer (and most considerate) friends. Because of this, you opted not to throw a shirt on to cover yourself, clad in a just a comfortable sports bra.

You shuffled your way over to the door, throwing on the best smile you could manage before twisting the knob and opening it. You were surprised when you had to adjust your eyes upwards, the figure at your door towering over where QT would normally reside. As you took him in, it didnt take long for an exhausted sigh to leave you. It was Hasan. There he stood, still sporting his typical tall and broodingly aloof aesthetic, even despite being moderately hunched over and with concern etched in every inch of his stature. You couldnt help but notice how unsure he looked. Anxious. No, Hasan wasnt always the most outgoing and ‘go-lucky’ guy, but he looked almost pained as you met his eyes; his clothes twisted in ways that made you guess hed been fidgeting with them, his nail polish chipped away on most fingers, the way he took an almost comically large step back as soon as you opened the door.

“Can we talk?” He said, his voice a harsh change in the silence you didnt realize was resting between the two of you. “You can say no of course-” He rushed out, only his fingers flaring out in emphasis opposed to his usual hand movements, almost as if he was afraid hed startle you.

“Yea, sure.” You sighed out, hardly even mentally present in the moment. You rubbed at your eyes as you held the door open, leaving plenty of space for him to walk in. He took you up on the invitation, albeit looking incredibly unsure whilst doing so.

He padded into your apartment painfully slow before quickly snapping his eyes to you, almost as if waiting for permission to do something. For you to give him instruction. You didn't even look at him though, instead grumbling your way over to your previous home on the sofa, tugging your blanket to one end and leaving plenty of room for him on the other. He waited till you’d sat down to follow, trying his best to gently take a seat at his appointed spot on the couch.

“How’d you get my address?” You said plainly, opting to just stare into the tv as it lowly played some random show. He’d never been there before. You honestly didnt care, whatever his answer was. You just hoped it would spring him into getting the daunting conversation over with.

“Austin.” He breathed out, sounding even tenser than he looked. “He gave it to me so I could send you something for the podcast a while ago.” He pausued, but continued; “Im sorry, I know how fucking weird it is for me to just show up but I couldnt just sit there and-” He took a breath, and you could practically taste the oncoming ramble. “You wouldnt answer anybody, and you totally have the right to do that obviously but I couldnt just sit with myself not knowing what was going on.. I started driving here before I even thought it through, which is totally my bad.. but I couldn’t just go all the way back without even checking in.. -And I know my feelings are irrelevant in this and its about you I just-”

“Hasan stop.” You turned to him, trying and failing not to look as sympathetic as you did. “I dont-.. it’s fine, okay? I mean obviously it’s not fine, but we’ll get over it. Im sure you didn't mean what you said, or at least not like that- you know- it's whatever, okay?” You practically hushed the words out, opting for the soothing approach and acting way more casual about the situation than you felt. You threw in a horribly farse reassuring smile at the end, hoping to solidify your words.

“You really didnt need to come all this way, I wouldve answered in the morning. I was just sleeping.” You added, and you saw the way his face ticked. He knew you were lying, but he was definitely not going to pry, whether about the lack of sleep or your want to brush things off. He persisted for himself though;

“It’s not fine, y/n. Im not shoving this shit under the rug, it’s going to eat me alive.” He said, his voice switching between frustration, desperation, and forced softness. You could see the way he struggled with his words, trying so hard not to talk about the way he feels (and failing miserably at it). The way a ping of regret would flash over him after every word he spoke. His eyes flickered back and forth from boring into you and staring off into the abyss of meddled emotions he’d created for himself.

“I’ll just lay it out how it is, okay? It was beyond messed up for me to insinuate you’d maliciously do something.. Like that stuff, for views, okay? Especially when I was doing that.. shit to you too. I shouldve never said that, or even thought it for that matter. I was just- frustrated, okay? Thats not me justifying it or anything, I just wanted you to like, know that-”

“Hasan.” You cut him off, this time sitting up and reaching to put a hand on his knee. You swear you could feel his leg flex under your touch. You stopped for a moment, searching his face for answers to questions you couldn't compute.

“What is so frustrating?” Is the question you somehow managed to compose. You don’t know the answer you wanted. It was an open ended question, he could take the side that you secretly hoped he would; that it was the fans. The overwhelming shipping and attention your relationship got from the fans was suffocating to him, and that he didn’t feel the way they portrayed him to feel about you. Or he could take the side that scared you. That he felt exactly the way everyone was portraying it, and them rubbing his own feelings in his face before he even had a chance to do anything about them himself was driving him crazy. Instead, the two of you sat in silence, and it wasnt uncomfortable. The air almost felt thick around the two of you, a comfortable fog, but something in it possessed you to add a gentle squeeze to his leg with emphasis. And you definitely felt him twitch this time.

“Tell me i'm not the only one who's feeling this way.” He finally muttered, and suddenly the feeling of his gaze hit you like a ton of bricks. You almost wanted to cower away with the way his eyes bored into yours, almost needy, the look feeling even more pleading than the words he'd said.

You knew what you wanted to say, but how could you possibly admit to it? Through this whole situation, you’d been not only so terribly irked at him, but also so frustrated with yourself. How could you admit that you too had been feeling the same way, and you hadn’t done anything about it either? You’d be admitting that the ripples throughout the fandom and now the controversy had been from your actions (or lack there of) too. You’d already been beating yourself up about it all day. What answer did he truly want? If you admitted to him that you too felt the same way, would he be greatful or mad? If you lied and said you didn’t feel the same way, what good or bad would it do? It could wreck him, he’d beat himself up beyond belief, the fact that he not only projected his unreciprocated feelings onto you but also gotten mad over it live. All of it being his fault. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. But you didn’t know which was worse, seeing him mad at you, or seeing him sad. You could only hope for the best, before the words spilled out of your mouth;

“Hasan of course I feel the same way.” A frown etched into your face, and you continued before he even had a chance to react; “I’m so so sorry I hadn’t done anything about it sooner either, I just beat myself up about it until I couldn’t-“ you withdrew your hand from his knee, shaking your hands, looking for the words you couldn’t form yourself. “ -I couldn’t tell how I was even feeling about it anymore..? I used to be so upset that you hadn’t done anything, I thought you were toying with me. I mean.. I tried making it obvious that I liked you so that you’d do something if you felt the same way but you never did so I convinced myself that you didn’t-“

“Hey, Hey,” He cut me off, and it was only then that i’d realized how close he’d moved to me during my rant. His leg rubbed against mine where I sat criss cross in the corner of the couch. His frame leaned over mine as he gave his best attempt at shrinking down to aid me. His eyes scattered across my face as his large hand cupped my cheek, hurriedly wiping at tears that I didn’t even notice were falling. It was only then that I finally realized the sound of my hurried breaths, the air practically huffing out of me. He looked frantic, broken, even though that’s exactly what I didn’t want. He pulled me close to his chest, i’m sure not only to sooth me, but also because he couldn’t bare to look at my tear stricken face anymore. I gripped onto his shirt, not even knowing I needed to cry this bad.

He didn’t say anything at first. I felt him pressing kisses into the crown of my head, and I couldn’t tell which one of us needed them more. He held me tight and close, all of his previous worries of hurting me more and being gentle replaced by the need to comfort. It was unspoken how much we’d both wanted to hold each other over the last few months, whether like this or otherwise, and after all our emotions boiling over, I think this was exactly what we needed.

We sat there in the silence for a long time. The humming of the tv still echoing through my flat, and the now present thumping of Hasans heartbeat against my ear was beyond peaceful. Of course, we’d pull ourselves together soon and have a realistic conversation, but for now, this was perfect.