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vunblr · 1 month ago

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A Star Without a Sky (#2)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.7k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

When she came back to retrieve the plate, he was already halfway to sleep, with heavy eyelids, slow and shallow breathing. The enamel dish rested on his lap, spotless. Not a drop left.

“Oh, you managed to eat it all. Any repercussions?” she asked, her voice a hush in the low-lit room as she picked up the tray.

His lashes lifted just enough to reveal the pale blue underneath. “No, ma’am. Just-” But the rest of the sentence faded off, swallowed by the weight of his exhaustion.

“Alright,” she murmured, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Let’s get you laid down proper.”

“S’not necessary,” he rasped, barely audible. “Can sleep sittin’. Be best if-”

“Nonsense.” Her hands were already at his shoulder, and one at his waist. She didn’t wait for permission. “Your back’ll be stiff as oak in the morning if you stay like that.”

He let out a rough sound -half breath, half groan- as she coaxed him down, his muscles tense with resistance. “Stubborn woman,” he slurred, somewhere between reproach and resignation.

She didn’t answer. Just kept working, tucking a pillow beneath his head, checking the bandage with gentle pressure along his side. The dressing held. No fresh bleed. That was enough.

“All good,” she muttered, mostly to herself, pulling the sheet and blankets up to his chest. Her hand lingered a moment, resting over the quilt. Then she looked at him.

“You feel cold?”

His head moved, barely a shake.

“You sure? No need to play at being made of iron.”

That got a twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. “Never been buried under this many layers in my life,” he murmured. “Can’t complain. You’re spoilin’ me rotten.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Alright then. Good night, Sheriff.” The lamp’s glow dimmed with a twist of her fingers, leaving him to rest.

As she walked back to the kitchen, tray in hand, her lips pressed into a line.

Spoilin’, he’d said. Her bed had two wool blankets, a patchwork quilt stitched by her aunt long before the war, and clean sheets that smelled faintly of soap. There was nothing special about it. Nothing soft enough to call luxury.

Unless, of course, you’d spent too many nights without a bed at all.

----

A scream tore through the night.

She jolted upright, with her heart hammering, and her breath caught high in her throat. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was -what time, what room- but then her mind caught up to her body. The sound had come from the master bedroom. Him.

She was up and moving before she had time to think, striking a match with trembling fingers, shielding the lamp glass as the flame caught. The hallway stretched long and narrow in the flickering light. The door was ajar.

Inside, the sheriff twisted beneath the patchwork quilt, slick with sweat. His breath came ragged through clenched teeth, and small, broken sounds escaped his lips, fragments of something no language could hold.

A nightmare. A vicious one.

She hovered at the threshold. Someone told her once, Don’t touch the person right away. Don’t call loudly. You never know how a man might wake from such a state. She hesitated only a breath before stepping forward, setting the lamp on the nightstand, and sitting carefully at his side on the mattress.

Her hand gently found his shoulder. “Sheriff Barn- James.”

No answer, just a low groan, and his brow twisted like he was being carved from the inside.

She moved her hand down his arm, in slow circles. “It’s just a dream,” she whispered. “You’re alright. Wake up now.”

His eyes snapped open.

Wild and glassy, pupils dilated as they darted around the room like he was searching for a threat. She didn’t move, but let her hand drop to her lap. “You’re alright,” she said quietly. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

His chest rose and fell fast, then slowed as something clicked behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, hard.

“Fuck-” The word rasped out before he caught himself. “sorry.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I’m not the type to faint over a curse, Sheriff.” He nodded once, fixing his eyes on the ceiling like he didn’t want to meet hers. “You want a glass of water?” she asked, gently.

He nodded again. Still not looking.

She remained seated a moment long before rising, bed sheets sighing beneath her as she stood. As she walked away, he clenched his fists beneath the quilt, trying to calm his breath.

It had been years since that particular memory came back to haunt him.

That place. That goddamn place.

When she slipped out of the room, he closed his eyes again. Not to sleep, but to chase the dream back. It clung to him. Its weight, its filth. It was years ago, but the air still tasted the same in his throat when he woke up. Damp wood, rusted iron. Straw soaked in blood. He’d forgotten the name of the man who held the whip, but not the sound it made. Not the smell of the cellar.

He breathed deeply. Tried to remember where he was.

A bed. A room. A quilt that smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. And her.

She returned quietly, soft steps on the wood floor, with the glow of the lamp sliding along the walls like water. In one hand, she held a glass. In the other, a small plate with something dark and glinting on it.

He shifted a little, lifting himself with a grunt, pressing his back against the headboard. His eyes flicked down to the offering. A dried plum, sugared and shining like a dark jewel on porcelain.

She sat again, with her knees just brushing the edge of his blanket. She handed him the water first. He drank slowly, grateful clean taste in his mouth. Then he looked at the plate.

“A plum?”

Her eyes flicked down. “Sugared. My ma used to give me one when I had a nightmare. Said it helped chase the bad things off.” Her voice was soft, and something about the way she looked down, not quite embarrassed but not fully confident, caught him off guard.

“I appreciate the thought.” He set the empty glass on the nightstand and took the plum with two fingers. He turned it once, grazing the sugar crust with his thumb, then slipped it into his mouth.

Sweetness bloomed slowly across his tongue. Rich. Dark. A softness he hadn’t tasted in years, maybe ever. He’d eaten food on the road that didn’t even deserve the word. This… this was something different. This was kindness, disguised.

He blinked down at the plate and cleared his throat. “I’ve never had one before.”

She gave the faintest smile. “There’s more in the tin by the hearth.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt, but didn’t look away from her this time. Just leaned back against the pillows, with the taste still on his tongue, foreign and warm. Something about the offering felt larger than it was. Too small to matter, too tender not to.

She let her hand brush lightly against his as she took the plate, casual but not accidentally.

“Good night, Sheriff. Try to get some more sleep,” she said gently as she stood.

He gave a slow nod, but his gaze followed her. Not obviously, not hungrily. She reached for the lamp, its warm light catching on the sheen of her hair, loose now for the night. The neckline of her nightdress had slipped a touch lower when she leaned forward earlier, showing a hint of collarbone. He hadn’t meant to look, but the image was scorched into his mind now, as unwanted and persistent as any fever dream.

She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she gave him the grace of pretending not to.

She turned down the wick until the lamp dimmed and lifted it by the hook. At the door, she hesitated. Then slipped into the hallway, softly shutting the door beside her.

He stared at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. Dragged a hand down his face, trying hard not to think about the glimpse of skin he'd caught or the way her loose hair framed her face just as he thought it would, or how she hadn’t hesitated to touch him when he was shaking and desperate. The plum’s sweetness remained in his mouth.

----

By the fourth morning since he’d woken, she rose before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. The house still held the hush of sleep, save for the soft groan of timber and the distant, half-hearted cluck of a hen not ready to greet the cold. She slipped on her day dress, wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and moved toward the stove, planning to start the fire to make breakfast.

As she passed the doorway to the master bedroom, she paused -a habit, by now- and glanced inside.

The bed was empty.

The covers were thrown back haphazardly, his pillow bearing the faintest dip from where his head had rested. She furrowed her brow and turned to glance around the kitchen, also empty. No sound of boots, no cough, no shifting of furniture.

Her stomach dropped with worry. She clenched her hand on her shawl and flung the door open in one smooth motion, and cold air bit at her skin.

He was outside.

Near the coop, sleeves rolled to the elbow, coat forgotten somewhere, chopping wood like the devil himself was in pursuit. His movements were efficient, but he was slower than he should be. Too careful. Every swing came with a slight hitch in his breath.

Her boots crunched across the frost-kissed ground.

“Are you insane?” she snapped, storming toward him with her shawl fluttering behind her like a snapped flag.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look up immediately. Just drove the axe down one more time, splitting a stubborn knot with a grunt. Only then did he lift his head, sweat dampening the locks at his temples.

“Morning to you, too, ma’am,” he said, unbothered.

She folded her arms tightly over her chest. “You're barely a week since you got shot. You could tear something inside. Reopen the wound. Pass out and split your skull-”

He huffed, more breath than laugh, and leaned on the axe handle. “Figured I’d earn my keep since I can stand.”

“You’re recovering,” she said, stepping closer. Her hand reached out to brush a stray woodchip off his shirt. She didn’t think about it before doing it. “Not laboring. That’s what healing is. Let me see.”

He didn’t argue, just let her lift the edge of his shirt, gently checking the bandage under it. It was stained a little, but dry. No heat under the gauze. Still, too much strain would tear everything back open.

They stood close, breath curling in the cold air between them. His skin was warm beneath her touch, solid.

“You’re shivering,” he murmured.

She pulled back like he’d struck her. “You’re the one half-dressed in the snow,” she snapped, more embarrassed than angry. “Do you think I need kindling that badly?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like she’d said something peculiar.

“I think,” he said eventually, “your tenant should’ve shown up to do it already.”

She huffed. “If you don’t get back inside this house right now, sheriff, I swear you’re getting nothing for breakfast. And I mean it.”

He muttered something under his breath as he passed by her, brushing snow off his trousers with stiff fingers. She caught the faintest smirk on his lips before it vanished.

She followed him inside and pointed at the chair at the head of the table with a sharp tilt of her chin. “You sit. Don’t move unless it’s to eat.”

He did as told, sitting with a faint grunt, hands flat on the table like he wasn’t entirely sure how to rest.

“Had ranch foremen less bossy than you,” he murmured.

She didn’t turn. “And I bet they didn’t save your life while elbow-deep in blood.”

He tilted his head, a wry half-smile creeping at the edge of his mouth. “Fair point.”

The scent of frying bacon and warm bread came to his nose, and he sighed. He watched her move about the kitchen, the occasional creak of the floorboards under her feet, the soft rustle of her skirts, domestic sounds, nice sounds. Sounds he didn’t know he craved.

He cleared his throat, glanced at the hearth, then back at her. “Don’t suppose that plum trick works for grown men in the morning, too?”

She glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow sharp enough to cut butter. “Did you just call me a nightmare, Sheriff Barnes?”

“I would never, ma’am,” he said, slow and smooth, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth like mischief trying to surface.

“Good,” she replied, turning back to the stove. “Because if I were, you’d still be screaming.”

----

It was strange, seeing the head of the table occupied again.

She’d grown used to quiet breakfasts. To the silence of her own company. A single plate, a single mug, the occasional thump of a woodpecker on the siding. But now, there he sat.

Sheriff Barnes. With his shoulders drawn in like he didn’t quite trust the chair not to break beneath him. Elbows tucked close, and deliberate movements. A man not used to being watched while he ate.

He worked slowly through his plate, pausing after each bite like he was trying to remember how a man was supposed to eat among company. After the second forkful, he glanced at her grip on her utensil, then subtly adjusted his own.

When she reached out to offer more, he hesitated. Cast his eyes down with a flicker of indecision as he glanced at what remained on his plate.

“I won’t be offended if you want seconds,” she said lightly, watching him over the rim of her mug. “You paid for this food, Sheriff.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, but one corner of his mouth twitched, wry, self-deprecating. “Don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.” She was already reaching for the pan. “That body needs all the nourishment it can get.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she stilled. So did he.

His head tilted ever so slightly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the table. The tips of his ears and his cheeks pinked under the stubble at his jaw. She busied herself with the spatula.

“For recovery,” she added, a touch too quickly.

He gave a faint nod and held out his plate in silent surrender. Still didn’t look at her. Just watched the checkered cloth like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

She refilled the plate and set it in front of him with care. He murmured something that might’ve been “thanks,” but it barely made it past his throat.

After that, they ate in a comfortable silence. Just the clink of cutlery, the low sizzle from the stove. The wind brushing the windows in slow, sleepy passes.

It was Bucky who broke it first.

“Given I can stand and walk, and that woodpile didn’t kill me… reckon I’d be fine to ride. If I take it slow.”

She looked up. He wasn’t looking at her, just nudging a bit of egg across the plate like it might offer him an easier way to speak.

“I’m headin’ back to town tomorrow,” he added quietly.

She blinked. Toast halfway to her mouth.

“Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”

His fork paused mid-motion. “Been gone too long. Folks’ll start thinkin’ I ran off. Or got myself buried somewhere.”

She nodded once, pressing her lips into a small, tight line. “Makes sense. I’ll take you, then.”

“I was thinking of borrowing the mare. Ride her in. Come back later with the stallion.”

“That’s a lot of riding, Sheriff.” Her voice didn’t rise, but there was something in it now. Something firm. “Even if you’re feeling spry, that body’s still healing. Let me take you in the cart.”

He finally looked at her.

His brow twitched. “They’ll see us. Together. And like you said, people talk.”

She gave a dry little smile, brushing a crumb off the table. “We say I found you on the road. Headed into town for supplies. Gave you a ride. That’s all.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “You thought that up quick.”

She shrugged, folding her hands in her lap to still the fidgeting. “I’ve lived here long enough to know how to preempt a rumor. It’s a fine story. Neat. Believable.”

His jaw clenched, and something unreadable shifted in his eyes. “You don’t mind?”

She tilted her head. “Mind what?”

“That folks might think… something improper.”

The silence that followed was a breath too long.

“I know what I did. And you know what happened. I can live with the rest. I’m a widow, not a schoolgirl,” she said, in an even tone. “If I gave half a damn what people thought, I wouldn’t live out here alone with a shotgun and a few fruit trees.”

He huffed a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Still, his eyes didn’t lift. He stared down at the edge of his plate, curling his fingers around the mug.

“Even so,” he said, softer, “I’d rather not have your name tangled up with mine.”

She watched him, then set her cup down with a gentle clink. “Well, it’s too late for that, Sheriff. You’ve been sleeping in my bed.”

He choked on his coffee.

Coughed hard, raising his fist to cover his mouth like he could maybe disappear behind it. The flush that climbed to his ears was impossible to miss.

“Right,” he rasped. “I- uh. That’s- true.”

She sipped from her mug, calm as anything. “Now that you’re better,” she said, almost absently, “can you tell me what happened to you?”

Across the table, he stiffened just a little, pausing his fork mid-air before he set it down neatly beside the plate. He looked at her, but not quite, more through her than at her.

“Was following a lead,” he said after a beat. “Cattle robbers. Had reason to believe they’d been riding east, crossing property lines without much concern.” He paused. “I think a few stayed behind to make sure I didn’t keep following. Or maybe…” His voice quieted. “Someone else used the distraction to take their chance. Either way…”

His jaw flexed.

She nodded once. “Is that something that happens… often?”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “No,” he said. “I’m usually the one doin’ the tracking, not the one getting left in the snow.”

He tried for a chuckle -soft, empty- but it dissolved before it reached his throat. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Is that so?” she asked, lightly. “How old are you, Sheriff?”

He hesitated. More than a moment.

“I don’t know.”

She blinked. “You don’t…?”

“Grew up in an orphanage.” He didn’t look at her. Just traced the edge of the mug with one thumb. “Nobody there cared enough to mark the day. As far as I know, I was six when I arrived. Maybe seven.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t reach for pity.

“For what they told me,” he added, “I figure I’m thirty-something.”

“Well, that ain’t old.”

He snorted faintly. “Ain’t young either.”

“I’m thirty this year.” Her brow rose. “You callin’ me a hag?”

That startled something out of him, an actual look. His head lifted, his eyes widened. “No, ma’am. No. I- certainly not.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “Mm. My ego’s bruised now.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Tell you what,” she cut in, grinning. “You do the dishes, and you’re pardoned.”

He stared at her for a beat, then leaned back in his chair, twitching his lips. “Ma’am,” he murmured, “you are cunning.”

She stood up and walked toward the counter, dish in hand. Then turned slightly. “You know what, Sheriff?” she said, gently. “Call me by my name.”

His brow furrowed.

“You’re leaving soon,” she said. “But still. Feels strange, hearing ‘ma’am’ this, ‘ma’am’ that. After all that’s happened.”

She turned back toward the counter, but not before she caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

He cleared his throat quietly. “Alright.”

She slid a plate into the basin, and the water sloshed faintly.

“Alright, what?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder with a raised brow.

He sat very still for a beat, then ducked his head, the faintest curl of a smirk on his lips. His voice came low, a little rough.

“…Alright, Y/n.”

----

He never asked.

Not once.

But he watched. Not directly -never- but he noticed things. The way she muttered to herself when the drawer stuck, pulling at it frustrated with tight fingers. How she shook her head when the shutter didn’t catch again, clicking her tongue softly before she walked off with a basket on her hip. He’d hear the sigh when the pump handle needed coaxing, see the look on her face when she leaned over the gate, checking if the wood had held.

And then, quietly, he moved.

She’d step into the kitchen and find the drawer gliding smoothly, like it had never stuck a day in its life. The shutter would stay closed with a firm, satisfying click. The fence post would be upright again, reinforced with fresh nails and rope that hadn’t been there yesterday.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t remain nearby to be thanked. Just nodded once, maybe, when she noticed.

Sometimes, she’d catch him rubbing his ribs after hammering something into place. And she’d frown. He’d meet her look with blank eyes and a face so still it bordered on stubborn. Like he hadn’t done a thing worth scolding.

That afternoon, she caught him stepping back inside, sleeves damp from washing, his hair shoved behind his ears in loose, dark waves. He paused when he saw her.

“You know, Sheriff,” she said, resting one hand on the table, “I appreciate the diligence. Creeping around like a fix-it sprite, patching up every squeaky hinge and crooked thing in this house…”

He stood still, blinking once.

“…but there’s no need to strain yourself, really.”

He scratched the back of his neck, brushing the edge of his collar with his thumb. “Don’t like sittin’ still. Don’t like feelin’ useless.”

His tone was flat, but the flick of his fingers through his hair betrayed something else, unease, maybe. A fight not with her, but something else.

“Mm,” she said, not arguing. “You’re heading back to town tomorrow, trying to play whole again. Maybe take it easy today.”

He glanced toward the window and didn’t answer.

She stepped toward the counter. “Tell you what. If you’re so desperate to be useful, I’ve got three pots of stew and jam to preserve. You can sit down, rest those ribs, and help me jar them.”

He blinked again. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Perfect. I love a good experiment.” Her smile was soft, not teasing. Warm. “Everything’s ready. Just spoon it in, cork the jar, and don’t spill. Think you can handle that, Sheriff?”

He hesitated, just a beat. Then nodded.

“Yes, ma-” He caught himself. Cleared his throat. “Alright.”

----

He’d seen preserves before, lined up behind store windows, or clattering in the back of wagons, sold by traders with half their teeth gone and dirt under their nails. But he never thought about the making. Who poured them. Who watched them cool. Who decided what was sweet enough to keep.

Now, spoon in hand, he stared down at a jar of pears like it might break if he held it wrong. The syrup caught the light, rich gold, and his fingers moved with slow care as he settled the slices inside.

Across the table, she worked by muscle and memory. Smoothly. One ladle or a little more, one glance, cork, cloth, and set it aside. Her hands never paused.

He watched a while longer than he meant to, then cleared his throat.

“You do this often?”

She didn’t glance up. Just nodded. “Every year. I’ve got trees just past the house on the bit of land I kept. Apples, plums. Some late pears. What I don’t eat, I store.”

Another jar sealed, another one ready.

“What’s left over, I sell in town. To Mr. Bell of the store, and to Mrs. Marshall who bakes it into her pies. The meat jars stay here, though. Can’t sell what I have to buy first.”

He nodded faintly, looking to his own jar. He moved more slowly. Less confident. But the scent of syrup and sugar in the air calmed something in him. His hands, usually meant for holsters and reins, adapted without argument. One spoonful at a time.

It was quiet work. Repetitive. Soothing in a way that surprised him.

He wasn’t used to that. Peace that didn’t come with a price.

He set another jar down and wiped a thumb across the rim to keep it clean. The syrup clung warm to his skin.

“It’s…” He paused. Eyes narrowed a little in thought. “It’s nice to do.”

She looked up, finally, and smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

He rolled his sleeves higher to keep them from the syrup, baring the lean muscle of his forearms. Her eyes, without meaning to, caught on the constellation of small, circular scars that patterned the inside of his left arm. Oddly neat, like a trail of punctures stitched in wavering lines. She’d seen them before, faint and pale when she washed his unconscious body days ago, but there was something different now. The skin flexed and came alive over muscle and sinew.

She didn’t glance away when his gaze flicked up and caught her looking.

“That’s an unusual pattern,” she murmured. “Is it all right if I ask what happened there?”

He hesitated. Just the briefest pause. Then, he breathed through his nose. “Spurs,” he said plainly.

She blinked. Furrowed her brow. “Doesn’t look like someone stepped on you.”

He cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the jar like he was making sure every pear landed just right. “Some adoptin’ homes got physical when they wanted to make a lesson to stick. The mister -one of 'em- he didn’t like that I left a horse unswept before sundown. Took one of his spurs and went back and forth ‘til it sank in.”

Her hands stilled, hovering the ladle above the jar. She said nothing at first. Just breathed in through her nose. “How old were you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Nine? Maybe ten.” Another scoop. Another pear. “Didn’t forget again, though.”

She didn’t look at him with pity. Just moved to gently cork the jar he’d finished, brushing his fingers in the pass.

His hand stilled around the lip of the jar, curling his fingers slightly as though he could still feel rough hands dragging him by the collar through dust and hay. The silence between them thickened until he broke it with the drag of breath through his nose.

"You talk... plurally. About the homes," she noted, her voice was careful, not cautious. Gentle, but not pitying.

He didn’t look at her, just passed the filled jar forward. Her fingers brushed his again.

“The orphanage had too many mouths to feed,” he said finally. “Didn’t care much for the kind of men who came lookin’ for boys to haul hay, run traps, clean stables. Said they were offerin’ an opportunity.”

She was staring at him, he could feel it. He rolled his sleeves further up his arms, leaning his elbows to the table now.

“Harvest season, branding, slaughter, when the work ended, most of us were tossed back like unwanted scraps. Some stayed longer if they worked harder. Or if they didn’t complain.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. He went on, with his gaze fixed on the jar.

“You figure out real quick not everyone showin’ up on adoption day is lookin’ for a son or daughter.” His tone was calm, measured, but underneath it, she sensed it. Rage. Old, cold, and buried too deep to thaw.

She swallowed. “Did you... did you ever get a home?” she asked, voice lower than before. “Eventually?”

He was silent for a long beat, raising his shoulders with a slow inhale. “When I was old enough to fend for myself, and the chance came, I ran.”

The rain had started then, soft taps against the windows like hesitant fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely more than a whisper. “No child deserves to live through that.”

His mouth twitched, neither smile nor scowl. Just a crack in the wall.

A sudden thought popped into her head. “The laundry. Damn it,” she muttered, stepping back from the table. “I left it out.”

Without hesitation, he stood up. She turned toward the door and heard his boots behind her. Outside, the drizzle had thickened, silvering the world. She grabbed the lines, quickly, while he moved beside her, pulling down the damp shirts and twisted sheets.

By the time they stumbled back in, with damp clothes and misted hair, the kitchen smelled like warm pears and rain-drenched wool. She dropped the basket by the stove and turned to him.

He was cradling the last armful of sheets like something fragile, as water beaded on his forearms.

“Well,” she said, trying not to smile, “that was very good teamwork, Sheriff.”

He stood there a second too long, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now. Then he slowly handed her the sheets.

“I didn’t drop a single pin,” he muttered.

She laughed, and the sound made him look up at her. Then his eyes crinkled a little at the corners.

“You’re a natural,” she teased, stepping past him to drape the damp linens over the backs of the chairs and other furniture. “Who knew beneath the brooding lawman, there was a capable housewife just waiting to come out.”

“I’ll have you know I’m still brooding,” he said, straight-faced.

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder, with her hands on her hips, and quirked lips. “That so?”

He nodded once, slowly. “Very broody.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, rinsing water off her fingers, “think all that brooding might ease up a little if I let you eat some of the pears still on the pot?”

He glanced at her from under lowered lashes, then let a crooked smile break across his face. Wry, a little sheepish.

“Can’t promise,” he murmured, “but you can try.”

----

They did try.

After dinner, when the dishes were stacked and the fire had banked low, when the kitchen was settled into its night hush -creaking timbers, cooling stovetop- she leaned back in her chair and stretched.

“I was thinking,” she said, “if I’m dropping you in town tomorrow, we ought to go at an hour I’d usually run errands. Makes it easier to believe I found you on the road.”

He stilled. The spoon in his tea mug made a faint clink against the ceramic rim.

Right. That.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The thought caught somewhere behind his tongue.

“I mean,” she continued, casually tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I usually bring preserves around midmorning. If that works for your great return.”

He nodded, curling his fingers tighter around the mug, then easing as he set it down with more care than necessary.

“You sure you wanna be the one to take me?” he asked. “Told you I could ride. Come back later with the stallion.”

She gave him a knowing look. “You’d still show up in town riding my mare.”

He blinked. Shit. How did he miss that?

“True,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes dropped to the grain of the table.

“Don’t be so serious, Sheriff,” she cheered, nudging his boot lightly under the table. “What could anyone possibly say? I was headed to town, and I found you on foot. Simple. Respectable.”

She leaned forward, almost conspiratorial. “And don’t worry. I won’t ruin your reputation as the town’s most coveted bachelor.”

He looked at her like she’d thrown cold water down his collar. Frowned, shifted in his seat. “That’s not-” His hand dragged through his hair again. “I’m thinkin’ of your reputation.”

She tilted her head, teasing tone falling to something firmer. “Because I gave the sheriff a ride?”

“What’s the harm in that?”

He exhaled. Long. Measured. “You’ll find out sooner or later.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. But he didn’t need to.

She went still, then leaned on the table with one arm.

He finally looked up, just a flicker.

“Do you know why they hired me?”

“I’d guess not for your jam-stuffing skills,” she offered, voice trying to be humorous, but it faded when he didn’t smile.

“I was a bounty hunter,” he said. “Then a vigilante. Rode with some fellas who figured the law was either too slow or too bought.” He paused. “They weren’t wrong.”

Her eyes didn’t narrow. Her lips didn’t twist.

He went on. “Got caught. I wasn’t proud of what they found. They could’ve hung me. Instead, they gave me a choice. Wear a badge, work out here, keep the dust quiet.”

His thumb ran along the side of his mug again.

“Didn’t seem like anyone else was eager to take the job.”

She pondered it for a moment. “And?”

He blinked, not expecting that. “And?” he echoed.

“Should I be scared of you?” she asked simply.

He stared at her like he couldn’t believe she’d said it that way. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

“Do you regret what you did?” she questioned.

He hesitated. “Some of it. Not all.”

She folded her arms. “You weren’t a bank robber or a rustler. You didn’t hurt women or children. You hunted bad men before someone handed you a badge to make it legal.”

His mouth parted, but nothing came out. His fingers tapped once on the table, then stilled.

“I appreciate you tellin’ me,” she added gently. “But if that was supposed to scare me off, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

His mouth lifted at one corner, just barely. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

“You’re not a monster, Sheriff. Just a man who’s seen too much and did what he thought was right. World’s full of worse.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just watched her, unreadable. Then, low and rough, the words spilled out. “Still… some of the townsfolk don’t feel thrilled with my presence.”

She didn’t look away. “For having a sheriff who knows what he’s doing?” she asked, matter-of-factly. “Screw them.”

He blinked. Just once. But it was enough to show he felt that.

“I won’t shy away from being called your friend,” she said. “If that’s something you’re alright with.”

Blue eyes lifted in surprise, searching her gaze. “You’d call me that?”

She tipped her head with the smallest of nods. “You’ve earned it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. He exhaled through his nose, dropping his gaze briefly to his hands, then back to her.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s more than alright. And... call me Bucky, when it’s the two of us."

"Isn’t your name James?" One brow arched, teasing, just a little sharper than before.

"James Buchanan, ma’-" He caught himself mid-honorific with a huff and a faint shake of his head.

"So, James 'Bucky' Barnes, huh?" she echoed, folding her arms, pretending to weigh it like a choice in the market. “Well, it sounds kind of dangerous.”

That drew the corner of his mouth up, slow and crooked, with a flicker of warmth. “Only to the wrong people.”

“Well, Bucky,” she said pushing up from the chair, exhaling softly, and stretching her arms high over her head. The fabric of her dress pulled snug across her chest, the cotton hugging the curve of her breasts, and he looked. Didn't glance. Looked longer than he should have.

She didn’t notice.

“It’s late,” she murmured, rolling her shoulders loose. “And I’m dyin’ to unpin my hair and get out of these boots.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak, not right away. His eyes trailed the sway of her hips after she turned, the curve of her waist. He imagined her standing in front of the mirror, with her hands at her nape, tugging the pins free one by one, letting her hair fall on her shoulders. Pictured brushing it aside, pressing his mouth against the spot behind her ear, where her pulse would flutter if she let him close. She’d smell like rain and woodsmoke and soft things no one had ever given him.

His jaw clenched. “Good night,” he managed.

She glanced back briefly, then disappeared into the hall.

He stayed rooted in place, flexing his hands against his knees, with the image of her undoing herself still vivid in his mind. He swallowed hard, wishing it were him, wishing he had the right to lean close, to loosen every fastening, to make her sigh his name.

Instead, he sat leaning forward in the dim room, elbows to knees, dragging both hands through his hair, trying not to want.

----

Their breaths curled pale from their mouths in the morning air as they moved around the cart, boots crunching over the brittle ground, fingers red with the cold.

She was fussing, naturally.

“You really shouldn’t be lifting-”

“I’m fine.” Bucky grunted as he set the last box into the back of the cart, arms flexing under his shirt. The crate hit the wood with a dull thud, and he straightened his back slowly, flexing his jaw as a small breath hissed between his teeth.

“Don’t got glass bones,” he muttered, brushing his hands on his thighs.

She gave him a look, crossing her arms under her shawl. “Just because you're made of stubborn doesn’t mean you're healed.”

Still, she didn’t stop him again, just huffed and disappeared into the house. When she returned, it was with a folded wool blanket in her arms, soft leather lining showing at the corners.

“For the legs. Cold’s worse when you're sittin’ still.”

He nodded once, took it from her, barely brushing her fingers in the pass, and put it in the cart. Then he turned and stepped back inside. When he returned, he was a different man.

The sheriff.

Waistcoat snug over a crisp white shirt, and long black coat sweeping his legs like a shadow. He’d strapped on the gun belt, with the holster riding familiarly against his hip, and the brim of his hat cast a shade in his eyes. He looked taller. Dangerous. Distant. She stared for a second too long before she realized she was doing it.

“Well,” she managed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I guess I’ll have no trouble selling the story that I found you coming back from a job.”

He didn’t answer, just adjusted the collar of his coat, then looked at her beneath the brim.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

She climbed onto the driver’s seat, and he stepped up beside her. She put the blanket over their thighs, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of the wind through the bare trees.

Their thighs bumped. She cleared her throat. He didn’t move.

It wasn’t the first time they sat shoulder to shoulder, but somehow it felt different.

The mare clucked forward, hooves biting into the frost-hardened road. As the cart rolled over a rut, the wheel dipped deep, and she tipped sideways with a soft gasp, straight into him.

He caught her without thinking.

One arm came up, firm around her waist, the other bracing against the back of the seat.

She supported herself with her palm on his chest, breath caught halfway in her throat, close enough to feel the heat of his body even through the leather of his coat.

“Sorry,” she said, voice a little thinner than usual.

“S’alright,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once against the curve of her hip before letting go.

She pulled back just enough to sit upright again, but their legs kept still pressed together under the blanket, hip to knee, shoulder to shoulder.

Neither of them moved

It was a small bench. A cold morning. A practical thing.

But his weight beside her, the heat of his body, the scent of pine and saddle soap clinging to him like a second skin, it all felt far from practical.

Every bump on the road rocked them a little closer. Every turn made her more aware of how little space existed between them.

And he didn’t move away. Didn't shift to reclaim distance. Just sat still and quiet, with his gloved hands curled against his knees.

As they rolled toward the outskirts of town, the buildings rose slowly out of the frost, fences and rooftops touched gold by the weak morning light.

She shifted a little, more from nerves than chill, and looked over at him.

“Well… this is it.”

He nodded, adjusting the rifle strap across his chest. “I reckon I told you before,” he said, eyes still fixed ahead, “but I owe you. I don’t forget that kind of thing.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replied. “Any neighbor would’ve done the same.”

“No,” he said, this time turning to look at her. The hat didn’t hide his eyes now. “They wouldn’t. Not like you did.”

Her fingers clenched on the reins.

“If you ever find yourself in trouble,” he continued, his tone rough by something that had nothing to do with the cold, “if anyone gives you trouble, you come find me. Even if you think it’s nothin’.”

She laughed once. “I can’t have the sheriff ridin’ in every time someone forgets their manners-”

“I’m not sayin’ it as the sheriff.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m sayin’ it as a man.”

Her voice caught in her throat.

“Okay,” she managed to murmur.

The main street opened before them, busy with the daily rhythm, boots on wood, doors swinging open, the clang of a distant hammer. Heads turned. Some folks nodded politely. Others watched longer than courtesy allowed.

She slowed the mare in front of the sheriff’s office. The wheels creaked to a stop.

He shifted beside her, brushing off the blanket slowly before rising. She felt the space he left behind was too wide.

His boots hit the packed dirt, and he reached into the cart to grab the small sack she’d readied, two jars of pear preserve inside, and some apple pie.

He didn’t look at her at first. Just adjusted the strap of his rifle and touched the brim of his hat.

“Goodbye, ma’am,” he said formally.

She swallowed. Her knuckles whitened on the reins. “Goodbye, Sheriff Barnes.”

He paused. Just for a beat. Like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t know how. His gaze remained on her, not her face, but her silhouette against the morning light.

Then he turned.

His coat flared in the wind as he stepped onto the boardwalk, long and black like a curtain drawing closed. She watched him go, hands still curled on the reins, still feeling the heat under the blanket where his thigh had been pressed against hers.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier @muchwita @gentlelimerence

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Sheriff!Bucky #Sheriff! Bucky Barnes #Western! Bucky Barnes #A Star Without a Sky

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mocharyc · 3 months ago

Text

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 6✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ A new variant appears?♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Broken Convergence‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 12k+ [Part 6] ☆ TW: fluff ☆ Author's Note: Hi everyone. Sorry for the late update; I went to Knotts Berry Farm and got hella sick. People really need the decency to cover up when coughing (￣へ￣）Anyway, I wrote this chapter with a fever, lol, I hope y'all like it! ––––––––––––––

Omni had only a split second to react. His enhanced senses detected the threat before the sound reached his ears—a rush of air, the crack of wood splintering, and the unmistakable scent of rage. The muscles beneath his red and white suit tensed as years of combat training took over, his jawline hardening with determination.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD OMNI—!"

In one fluid motion, Omni slipped his mask back over his eyes, concealing the vulnerability he'd shown only to Y/N moments before. The black lenses obscured the conflict in his blue eyes as he covered her body with his own. His massive frame enveloped her completely, shielding her from the incoming assault. The mattress springs groaned in protest as he shifted his weight, his arms creating a protective cage around her smaller form.

Mohawk Mark burst through the doorway, the wooden frame exploding into splinters that scattered across the cabin floor like deadly confetti.

His blue and black suit was torn in places, smeared with dirt and blood—evidence of the destruction he'd been wreaking across the planet. His signature mohawk was disheveled, strands of dark hair falling across his forehead like jagged shadows. His eyes blazed with unrestrained fury, pupils constricted to pinpoints as he caught sight of Omni hovering protectively over Y/N.

Mohawk's lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing teeth clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed visibly at his temple. The purple-blue line throbbed beneath his skin in time with his racing heartbeat, a visual indicator of his barely contained rage.

"I KNEW IT!" he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. The veins in his neck stood out prominently, his face flushed dark with rage until it matched the crimson of his blood-splattered suit.

"Sneaking off to have her all to yourself!"

He launched himself at Omni, his body becoming a blur of motion. His fist connected with Omni's forearm as the red-suited variant blocked the attack with mathematical precision. The impact sent shockwaves through the cabin, rattling the remaining windows and knocking dust from the ceiling beams. The sound was like a thunderclap contained within the small space, reverberating off the walls and assaulting Y/N's ears.

Despite Omni's protection, Y/N felt the vibration of the impact jolt through her body. Mohawk's knee drove into her abdomen as he collided with Omni, reopening the barely-healed wound in her torso. Her vision exploded with white-hot pain, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as fresh blood soaked through her bandages. The warmth of it against her skin was instant and alarming, a stark contrast to the chill that began to spread through her limbs.

Mohawk's momentum carried both him and Omni through the opposite wall, their bodies tearing through the aged wood like it was paper. Splinters and debris showered the forest floor as they tumbled outside, uprooting trees as they grappled, each impact reverberating through the ground like thunder.

Y/N curled into herself, clutching her reopened wound. Crimson seeped between her fingers, warm and sticky against her skin. The copper scent of her own blood filled her nostrils, making her stomach twist with nausea. Her breath came in short, pained gasps as she tried to focus through the haze of agony. Beads of cold sweat formed on her forehead as her face contorted with pain, her brows drawing together and lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

"Damn it," she hissed through gritted teeth, her pupils dilated with shock. The wound from Prisoner's rusted pipe strike had never fully healed, and No-Mask's hurried medical work hadn't been enough to prevent infection.

As a man-made Viltrumite, she lacked the immunity to disease that true Viltrumites possessed. The infection had been festering beneath her skin, weakening her from within. She could feel it now—the unnatural heat radiating from her wound, the subtle but persistent throbbing that extended beyond the immediate injury.

The cabin creaked ominously around her, the structural integrity compromised by the variants' violent exit. A section of the roof had already partially collapsed, sending dust and debris raining down onto the bed. Y/N's eyes darted around the deteriorating structure, fear flickering across her features as survival instincts finally kicked in.

Outside, the battle intensified. Mohawk pounded his fist into the ground where Omni had been a millisecond before, the impact creating a crater six feet wide. The earth itself seemed to scream in protest, fracturing and buckling under the force of his rage.

"She's not yours!" Mohawk bellowed, throwing a punch that connected with Omni's jaw. The sound was like thunder, the shockwave rattling what remained of the cabin's windows. His eyes were wild, pupils constricted to pinpoints, lips pulled back in a snarl that revealed clenched teeth. A thin line of saliva stretched between his upper and lower lip as he shouted, his rage turning him feral. "None of us get to have her if all of us can't!"

Omni absorbed the blow, head snapping to the side before he recovered, his movements calculated and precise despite the fury of Mohawk's attack. Unlike his opponent, Omni's face remained a mask of calm, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his anger. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, the only evidence that Mohawk's blow had landed. He wiped it away with mathematical precision, not a wasted movement in sight.

"You don't understand what's happening," Omni stated, his voice level despite the situation. He dodged another punch, the air whistling as Mohawk's fist passed inches from his face. His body moved with fluid grace, each dodge and counter-strike executed with perfect efficiency. "She needed protection—"

"Protection?!" Mohawk laughed, the sound hollow and manic as he grabbed a nearby tree, uprooting it with terrifying ease. Soil and roots dangled from the massive trunk as he hefted it like a bat. Muscles bulged beneath his torn suit, veins standing out in stark relief against his skin. His eyes glittered with cruel amusement. "Is that what you call fucking her while she's injured? Some protection!"

Y/N felt heat rush to her face at Mohawk's crude accusation, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation. The cabin creaked ominously around her, the structural integrity compromised by the variants' violent exit. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, a section of which had already partially collapsed.

Something primal stirred within her—self-preservation that had lain dormant under the collar's suppression. With desperate concentration, she focused on the power that had been denied her for so long. The sensation was like electricity coursing through her veins, uncomfortable yet exhilarating. Her muscles trembled with the effort, her face contorting as she pushed against her limitations, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched.

The energy within her built slowly at first, then with increasing speed—a tingling at her core that spread outward to her limbs. It was like rediscovering a part of herself that had been amputated, painful in its return yet undeniably right. Her skin prickled with goosebumps, fine hairs standing on end as power surged through her.

With a strained grunt, Y/N launched herself toward the hole Omni and Mohawk had created. Her flight was wobbly, unpracticed—she ricocheted off the remaining wall, crying out as the impact sent fresh waves of pain through her torso. Blood trickled from the reopened wound, drops falling like crimson rain to the ruined cabin below as she corrected her trajectory and burst through the opening just as the cabin's roof collapsed with a deafening crash.

Dust and debris billowed outward, enveloping her in a cloud of particles that stung her eyes and choked her lungs. She coughed violently, each spasm sending darts of pain through her reopened wound. Her flight faltered, her concentration wavering as she struggled to stay airborne.

Outside, the battle intensified. Mohawk and Omni clashed in midair, the sound of their collisions echoing like cannon fire. Where Mohawk fought with wild, erratic movements fueled by emotional rage, Omni moved with precision, each strike calculated for maximum effect. Trees splintered and fell as they used the forest as their battleground, neither willing to yield.

"JUST FUCKING DIE!! She's MINE!" Mohawk roared, his voice cracking with emotion. His eyes were wild and unfocused, the veins in his forehead prominent as he drove his fist toward Omni's face. Sweat beaded on his brow, flying off in droplets with each violent movement. His mohawk had become completely disheveled, hanging limply to one side. "I found her first!"

Omni deflected the blow with efficiency, his expression composed despite the fury blazing behind his mask. His jawline remained tense, only the slight flare of his nostrils betraying his emotional state as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. Every movement was a study in controlled power, not a single motion wasted.

"Your claim is irrelevant," Omni replied, his voice cold and even. His eyes narrowed behind his mask, assessing Mohawk's weaknesses with clinical precision. Each word was delivered with perfect speech as if he were discussing a scientific theory rather than fighting for the possession of a woman. "You're too volatile, too unpredictable. You'll get her killed."

Y/N hovered uncertainly above the destruction, her limbs heavy and uncooperative as she struggled to maintain altitude. The forest below was being systematically destroyed, a mirror of the greater devastation they'd been inflicting on the planet before she had entered their lives. Massive trees lay uprooted, their ancient trunks splintered like matchsticks. Craters scarred the earth where superhuman blows had connected, the once-lush landscape now resembling a war zone.

"Enjoying the fight, my little warrior?" a silky voice whispered in her ear.

The whispered words caressed her ear, warm breath tickling her neck. Y/N flinched violently, her concentration breaking as she faltered in the air. The almost imperceptible scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more primal, invaded her nostrils. Her stomach lurched as she began to fall—only to be caught by strong arms that pulled her firmly against a solid chest.

Sinister's hold was both gentle and possessive, his yellow and black suit vibrant against the blue sky. His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes—eyes that burned with an intensity that made her breath catch. The scent of sulfur and something darker, more primal, clung to him as he pressed his nose against the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply like a predator committing its prey's scent to memory. His breath was hot against her skin, raising goosebumps despite the fever burning through her.

His entire body stiffened, the smile freezing on his face. When he pulled back to look at her, his expression had transformed into something dangerous, the mask of charm slipping to reveal the predator beneath. His pupils dilated, nearly swallowing the iris as his nostrils flared, drinking in her scent with animal intensity.

"Why does Omni's scent cover you so completely?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. His fingers dug into her arms, not enough to bruise but enough to demonstrate the barely leashed strength he possessed. The veins in his neck stood out prominently as he struggled to control his reaction, pulsing visibly beneath his skin.

"He was watching you… What exactly happened between you two in that cabin?"

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Sinister's grip shifted, one hand moving to cup her face. His thumb and forefinger pressed against her cheeks, squeezing until her lips puckered slightly. A drop of blood welled at the corner of her mouth where her split lip reopened, the metallic taste coating her tongue. His touch was paradoxically gentle despite the power behind it, his fingers warm against her fever-chilled skin.

"Why him?" Sinister whispered, his face close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes, a momentary glimpse of raw pain before it was swallowed by possessive fury. The muscles in his jaw worked beneath his skin, tension radiating from his body.

"Why not me? I would have protected you just as fiercely. I would have worshipped you more thoroughly."

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, wiping away the blood. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the tension radiating from his body. His pupils dilated as he stared at the smear of crimson on his glove, his breathing becoming more ragged. He brought the blood-stained finger to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the crimson smear. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the metallic taste of her. When they opened again, they were darker, hungrier.

"Release her, Sinister."

The commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife. Viltrumite Mark hovered several feet away, his pristine white uniform a stark contrast against the smoky sky. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his face a mask of disapproval, eyes cold with barely restrained anger. Unlike the others, Viltrumite Mark carried himself with an almost regal bearing—shoulders squared, chin raised, every inch of him radiating authority.

"This doesn't concern you, old man," Sinister snarled.

His grip on Y/N remained unyielding, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her suit where it clung to her fever-dampened skin. The heat of his body radiated through the material, creating a cocoon of warmth that simultaneously comforted and alarmed her. His arm snaked possessively around her waist, resting just below her wound. The subtle pressure sent lightning bolts of pain through her abdomen, yet there was something intimately protective in the way he held her—like she was something precious he'd lost and miraculously found again.

Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, the muscles in his jaw flexing beneath his skin like steel cables being pulled taut. Afternoon sunlight caught in his eyes, illuminating the amber flecks hidden within the depths of brown, giving them an almost supernatural glow. A subtle twitch appeared at the corner of his right eye—the only visible indication of his growing anger.

"Everything concerning her involves all of us," he stated, his voice dropping an octave, the words vibrating with barely restrained fury.

He moved closer, each step measured and precise, the pristine white of his uniform a stark contrast to the destruction surrounding them. The devastated forest stretched like a wound across the landscape, with uprooted trees, and shattered earth testament to the variants' earlier battle. The distant smoke of burning cities hung on the horizon, a grim reminder of the chaos they had unleashed upon this world.

"You will release her. Now." The command hung in the air, heavy with authority.

"Or what?" Sinister's lips stretched into a smile that was all teeth, gleaming white against his tanned skin.

His eyes never left Viltrumite Mark's face, challenge radiating from his posture—from the defiant tilt of his chin to the ready tension in his shoulders. His body coiled like a spring, prepared for conflict, fingers digging minutely deeper into Y/N's flesh. The small indentations would surely leave bruises, and violet shadows to mark his possession.

"You'll fight me? Go ahead," he taunted, his breath hot against Y/N's ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "But remember who bleeds if I drop her."

"Stop it," Y/N said, her voice stronger than she expected.

She pressed her palms against Sinister's chest, creating a small space between them. The firm muscle beneath her fingers tensed at her touch, his heartbeat pounding against her palms like a war drum. Her eyes flashed with determination despite the pain etched into the lines of her face, fever making her skin glow almost luminescent in the filtered sunlight that pierced through the swirling dust.

"I'm not a prize to be fought over," she declared, each word precise and cutting.

Both variants looked at her with surprise, clearly not expecting resistance from her in her weakened state. A bead of sweat traced its way down her temple, a testament to the infection raging through her system, yet her gaze remained steady and defiant.

Viltrumite Mark recovered first, his expression softening fractionally. The harsh lines around his mouth relaxed, though the tension in his powerful frame remained. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, becoming less threatening while still maintaining his authority—a predator choosing to retract its claws, but only momentarily.

"Of course not," he agreed, inclining his head slightly. The gesture was almost courtly, a curious formality amidst the apocalyptic landscape. "You are far more valuable than any prize. Which is precisely why you should not be manhandled by this—" his lip curled with distaste, "—degenerate."

Sinister's laughter erupted, sharp and brittle like breaking glass. It bounced off the ruined landscape, echoing in the unnatural silence that had fallen over the devastated forest.

"Such hypocrisy!" he spat, the words dripping with contempt. "You fucking smell her too, don't you?"

He leaned in closer to Y/N, his nose brushing against the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. The intimate gesture was performed with deliberate provocation, his eyes remaining fixed on Viltrumite Mark, gleaming with malicious amusement.

His lips, warm and soft, grazed her pulse point—not quite a kiss, but something more possessive, more primal. Y/N couldn't suppress the involuntary shudder that rippled through her body, her traitorous nerves responding to his touch despite her better judgment.

"Tell me, old man," Sinister continued, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that seemed to caress her skin, "does it burn you up inside knowing he got to her first? That she chose that cold, calculating bastard over the rest of us?"

Viltrumite Mark's nostrils flared as he took in the scene, his enhanced senses confirming what Sinister had said. The scent of another variant on Y/N's skin was unmistakable—the unique pheromonal signature of Omni lingering on her like an invisible brand. His expression hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening as his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek.

The white of his uniform seemed to glow in the afternoon light, immaculate despite the chaos around him—a visual representation of his attempt to maintain control, to rise above the base instincts that drove the other variants.

"What have you done?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. His gaze fixed on Sinister, misinterpreting the situation. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking with the tension. "You think you can claim her? Mark her with your scent like some animal?"

Sinister's lips pulled back in a sneer, his arms tightening protectively around Y/N. For all his antagonism, there was something genuinely defensive in the way he held her now as if shielding her from judgment.

"Are you blind? I just fucking told you it wasn't me," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. The vein in his temple pulsed visibly with each heartbeat, his anger a living thing beneath his skin. "It was Omni. The so-called perfect, logical Mark couldn't keep his hands to himself."

Viltrumite's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed to slits. His carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing a glimpse of the fury beneath. The perfect stillness of his body was more threatening than any movement could have been.

"Liar," he snarled, launching himself at Sinister with blinding speed.

Sinister released Y/N just before impact, sending her tumbling through the air as he met Viltrumite Mark's charge. The collision sent shockwaves through the atmosphere, the sound like a thunderclap as the two variants grappled midair. Their bodies moved so quickly they became blurs of yellow, black, and white, punctuated by the explosive sounds of their blows connecting.

Y/N struggled to stabilize herself, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. The infection was spreading rapidly, sapping her strength with each passing moment. Her vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously around her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her skin flushed with fever despite the chill in the air. The edges of her sight darkened, threatening unconsciousness as her body fought the invasive infection.

Below, the battle had escalated. Omni and Mohawk had noticed the new conflict and were now involved in a four-way brawl that tore through what remained of the forest like a tornado. Trees snapped like toothpicks under the force of their blows, the earth itself cratering with each impact. The air vibrated with the concussive force of their combat, dust and debris swirling in chaotic patterns around the fighting variants.

Most of the forest had been uprooted, leaving a desolate wasteland punctuated by splintered stumps and massive trees embedded in the earth like javelins. Boulders had been pulverized into dust, the very ground scarred and cratered by their supernatural strength. The destruction was systematic and complete—a microcosm of what they had been doing to the entire planet.

Y/N watched in horror as the variants tried to tear each other apart. All because of her. All because each believed she belonged to them alone. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribcage as if trying to escape. The stitches in her side pulled with each labored breath, blood still seeping through the bandages to stain her clothing.

"Stop!" she cried, her voice lost in the cacophony of destruction. Her face contorted with desperation, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "Please, stop!"

Mohawk, his face twisted in a feral snarl, ripped a massive tree from the ground and hurled it at Omni. The red-suited variant easily dodged, the improvised projectile sailing past him toward Sinister and Viltrumite.

Both variants moved in unison, avoiding the missile without breaking their combat rhythm. Viltrumite punched the tree as it passed, splitting it in half. One section continued its trajectory, spinning wildly through the air.

Directly toward Y/N.

Under normal circumstances, she would have easily evaded the danger. But weakened by infection, disoriented by blood loss, and out of practice with her powers, Y/N found herself frozen in place. Her muscles locked, her mind blank with sudden panic, eyes wide with terror. The fever clouding her thoughts slowed her reactions to a crawl, leaving her hovering helplessly in the path of destruction.

The massive tree trunk hurtled toward her, and she couldn't move.

Time seemed to slow. Y/N watched the projectile approach, oddly detached from the reality of her impending doom. She could see the rough texture of the bark, and count the rings in the exposed wood where it had been torn from the earth. She could make out individual leaves still clinging to its branches, trembling in the disturbed air. She could hear the whistle of air being displaced as it approached, feel the subtle change in pressure against her skin.

"NO!" The cry came from multiple throats at once, a chorus of horror as all four variants realized her peril simultaneously.

They moved as one, abandoning their fights to converge on Y/N. Four blurs—red and white, blue and black, yellow and black, pure white—streaked through the air, racing against the projectile threatening to end her life.

Omni reached her first, his arm wrapping around her waist to pull her aside. His body was solid and warm against hers, his grip secure yet careful to avoid her injury.

The scent of him—clean, masculine, with undertones of sandalwood—enveloped her, familiar from the night before together. For a moment, despite the danger, her body responded to his proximity, remembering the gentle yet passionate way he had touched her in the cabin.

Sinister appeared a fraction of a second later, his body positioned to shield her from impact. His back pressed against her front, creating a protective sandwich with Omni behind her. The heat of his body seeped through her suit, his powerful back muscles tensing as he prepared to take the brunt of the impact. There was something achingly vulnerable in his willingness to use his body as a shield for her—this man who had helped destroy her world.

Viltrumite Mark and Mohawk arrived in the same instant, each grabbing part of the tree trunk, their combined strength bringing it to an abrupt halt mere inches from where Y/N now hovered in Omni's protective embrace. The wood splintered under their grip, sap oozing from the fresh breaks like amber tears.

The sudden silence was deafening after the chaos of battle. All four variants were breathing heavily, not from exertion but from fear—fear for her safety. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated, faces drained of color at how close they had come to losing her again.

Y/N stared at the tree trunk still held in Viltrumite Mark and Mohawk's grip, her heart hammering against her ribs. The blood drained from her face as shock set in, leaving her pale and trembling, her lips bloodless and parted in silent terror.

For a moment, she couldn't process how close she'd come to death. Her mind struggled to reconcile the violence around her with the protective circle now forming.

A hot flush spread across her cheeks as she realized the intensity of their gazes. Each variant looked at her with fierce protectiveness—Omni's eyes burned with determination behind his mask, his jaw set tight; Mohawk's wild gaze was tempered with genuine fear, his usual sneer replaced with concern; Sinister's face showed naked possessiveness, his lips slightly parted and breath ragged; and Viltrumite Mark's regal features were softened by relief, his eyes reflecting a pain born from past loss.

Omni's arm tightened around her waist, careful to avoid her injury. "Are you alright?" he murmured in her ear, his voice low and urgent as his hot breath fanned over one side of her face.

Despite the mask covering his eyes, she could see the concern etched into every line of his face—the tight set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the tension around his mouth. For once, his voice held a tremor of emotion, breaking through his usually perfect control. The hand at her waist moved in a small circle, a subtle, unconscious caress that sent warmth blooming through her despite her weakened state.

"I—yes," she managed, though her voice shook as badly as her limbs. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her weak and disoriented. Blood continued to seep through her bandages, the crimson stain spreading wider across the fabric. The world spun around her, fever and blood loss taking their toll. She leaned heavily against Omni, no longer able to support her own weight.

Mohawk and Viltrumite Mark discarded the tree trunk, letting it fall to the devastated landscape below with a thunderous crash. The four variants formed a protective circle around Y/N, their previous animosity temporarily forgotten in the wake of her near-miss. Their bodies created a wall between her and the world, a barrier made of flesh and bone and superhuman power.

Y/N looked at each of them in turn, seeing the intensity in their eyes, the tension in their faces, and the mix of possessiveness and genuine concern that animated their features. It was overwhelming, this circle of identical yet different men, all focused solely on her. Each face was the same, yet each expression was unique—Omni's controlled precision, Mohawk's volatile emotion, Sinister's predatory charm, Viltrumite Mark's regal authority.

"This is ridiculous," she said, her voice steadier now despite the blood loss making her light-headed. Her eyes flashed with defiance, fever giving them an unnatural brightness. "You're fighting over me like I'm some... some trophy, but none of you bothered to ask what I want."

The variants exchanged glances, a mixture of guilt and stubbornness on their faces. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that crackled in the air like electricity. For a moment, no one spoke, the only sound was the distant crash of falling trees damaged in their battle.

Mohawk was the first to break the silence, a bark of laughter escaping his throat. The sound was harsh and abrupt, startling against the sudden quiet. His blue and black suit was torn in places, revealing tanned skin beneath. Dust and debris clung to his signature mohawk, dulling its usual sharp silhouette.

"Well, sleeping beauty, what do you want?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, his mohawk flopping slightly with the movement.

There was genuine curiosity beneath his usual bravado, his brown eyes searching her face intently. A drop of blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, tracing a path down his temple like a crimson tear. His gaze flicked briefly to Omni's arm still wrapped around her waist, a scowl darkening his features.

"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like Omni already staked his claim." The accusation hung in the air, loaded with resentment and jealousy.

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks, painfully aware of how she must appear to them—Omni's scent on her skin, her lips still swollen from his kisses, her body cradled protectively against his. She felt Omni's grip tighten almost imperceptibly around her waist, a silent claim that contradicted his seemingly logical demeanor. His thumb moved in a small, soothing circle against her side, the gesture intimate and possessive.

"I don't belong to anyone," she stated firmly, though her voice lacked some conviction as she remained in Omni's embrace. Her chin lifted defiantly, eyes flashing with feverish intensity. "Not the GDA, not Cecil, and not..." she hesitated, her eyes moving from one variant to the next, lingering on each identical yet distinct face, "...not any of you."

They all pause, as the air around them seems to wobble, particles shifting in an unnatural pattern before turning to normal…

She sighed ignoring it as a bitter laugh escaped her lips. The sound was hollow, edged with pain and frustration. "Without the collar, I don't serve a purpose for any of you. I'm not a weapon, not a tool to be used and discarded." The words burned in her throat, raw with emotion. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white with tension.

Viltrumite Mark's expression softened almost imperceptibly. The hard lines around his mouth relaxed, his eyes warming with something akin to tenderness. The white of his uniform caught the late afternoon light, giving him an almost angelic appearance that belied the destruction he had helped cause.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it.

"We used the collar as just another means for us convincing ourselves there was a logical approach to keeping you alive. Now without it, our claim still stands,” he hums softly.

“We don't seek to own you or use you. We seek to cherish you." A flicker of vulnerability crossed his usually stoic face, a glimpse of the man beneath the regal exterior. "Each of us lost you once. We cannot bear to lose you again."

His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Y/N's eyes widened slightly, the sincerity in his voice striking something deep within her. Before she could respond, another voice cut through the moment.

"Can't we all just have her?" The question came from behind them, unexpected and startling.

All heads turned to see No-Mask hovering several yards away, his expression unusually thoughtful. Unlike the others, his face was still fully visible, allowing Y/N to see the earnestness in his eyes, the slight uncertainty in the set of his mouth. His face was somehow softer, more open than the others, lacking the hardened edge that years of wearing a mask had given them.

Without the barrier of a mask, his emotions were laid bare—confusion, desire, hope all visible in his expressive features. The late afternoon sun gilded his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the depths of his unguarded eyes. There was something disarmingly honest about him that made Y/N's heart flutter despite her condition.

"What did you just say?" Sinister's voice was dangerously soft as he regarded No-Mask. His body tensed, readying for another potential fight, the muscle in his jaw jumping with tension.

"I mean, she's clearly important to all of us," No-Mask continued, his expression thoughtful. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that was both nervous and thoughtful.

"Fighting over her is just going to get her killed." His eyes darted to Y/N's wound, concern evident in his gaze. "Look at her—she's already suffering because of our conflict."

Another figure appeared beside him, drifting lazily through the air. Prisoner Mark, his burned face twisted in a permanent sneer, his eyes roving over Y/N's body with unconcealed interest. The scar tissue pulled his lips into an asymmetrical grimace that might have been a smile. Light glinted off the metal restraints still attached to his wrists, remnants of his imprisonment that he wore like trophies.

"I mean, she's got three holes," he drawled, his voice rough and gravelly from smoke damage.

"But we can make it work." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the movement slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving Y/N's body. The crude suggestion hung in the air, made all the more disturbing by his casual delivery.

Disgust and revulsion flooded through Y/N, her stomach churning with nausea, her upper lip curling in distaste. Yet beneath her revulsion, there was something else—a flutter of confused interest as no one seemed to disagree with Prisoner's statement. The silence from the others was deafening, their lack of objection more telling than any words could have been.

She looked up at Omni, his hands still loosely around her waist. His face betrayed nothing, but the tension in his body told a different story. The muscles beneath his suit were coiled tight, his breathing carefully controlled. She thought she had built a connection with him in the cabin during their half-night together. She thought he saw her differently, as more than just a replacement for the Y/N he had lost. But now, surrounded by these men who all wore the same face, she wasn't sure anymore.

The realization hit her like a physical blow: Why were all these men so obsessed with her? Was it truly her they wanted, or the memory of the women they had lost? Was she nothing more than a ghost to them, a shadow of women long dead?

She needed to get away. Away from these men who looked at her like she was a prize to be won, a possession to be claimed. Away from the conflicting emotions they stirred within her—the disgust and the attraction, the fear and the longing.

With a desperate surge of strength, Y/N pushed Omni away and fled, pushing her weakened body to its limits as she shot through the air. The wind whipped past her face, cooling the fever heat of her skin. Below, the forest blurred into a sea of green, the destruction caused by the variants' battle a dark scar across the landscape.

Freedom was within her grasp. She could escape, could find somewhere to hide until she'd recovered enough to—

Strong hands closed around her waist, halting her flight so suddenly that the air was knocked from her lungs. Looking back, she found herself staring into Mohawk's face, his expression unexpectedly gentle despite the harsh lines etched around his mouth. The setting sun backlit his signature mohawk, creating a halo effect that softened his typically menacing appearance. Tiny beads of sweat glistened along his temples, catching the golden light. His jaw—usually set in a perpetual sneer—had relaxed, revealing a vulnerability she hadn't seen before.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice firm but gentle. His hands were steady on her waist, his grip secure without being painful. "Not in your condition."

Unlike the other variants, Mohawk wore his emotions openly on his face. The harsh lines around his mouth had softened, and his perpetually furrowed brow had relaxed. His eyes—those deep brown pools flecked with amber when caught in the right light—held a desperate intensity that made her breath catch. Behind the typical hardness of his expression lurked something raw and unguarded. When he looked at her, the snarky mask slipped, revealing not just desire but a terrifying depth of obsession.

Even now, as he held her suspended in the air, his thumbs absently traced small circles against her sides. The sensation sent shivers across her fevered skin, conflicting emotions of comfort and unease battling within her.

"Let me go," Y/N demanded, her voice weaker than she intended. She struggled against his hold, but her strength was fading rapidly. The infection was spreading, her temperature rising dangerously. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, trailing down her temples in rivulets that caught the dying sunlight like diamond tracks. Her skin flushed an alarming crimson, hot to the touch and stretched taut across her cheekbones. "I don't belong to any of you!"

"No, you don't," Mohawk agreed, surprising her. His voice cracked slightly, betraying his emotional state. The hand not supporting her waist came up to brush a sweat-soaked strand of hair from her forehead. His calloused fingers felt blessedly cool against her burning skin.

"But you need help. You're dying, Y/N. You are not a Viltrumite like the rest of us... you are man-made." His eyes dropped to her wound, where fresh blood was seeping through the bandages, the crimson stain spreading in a grotesque blooming pattern across the fabric. The metallic scent of her blood hung in the air between them, sharp and alarming. "Your body can't fight this infection without help."

The blunt assessment stopped her struggles. She knew he was right—could feel her body failing, the infection burning through her defenses like wildfire. Without proper medical care, she wouldn't survive much longer. The fever was clouding her thoughts, making her limbs heavy and uncooperative. Her vision blurred at the edges, reality wavering like heat rising from desert sand.

"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice small and vulnerable. She searched his face, looking for deceit, for hidden motives. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across his features, highlighting the tension around his eyes, the tiny scar at his jawline she hadn't noticed before. A muscle jumped erratically beneath the skin of his cheek, betraying his carefully controlled emotions.

"I'm not your Y/N. I'm not any of your Y/Ns." Her voice cracked on the last word, raw emotion breaking through. "Why can't any of you just see me for ME?!"

Mohawk's expression softened, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his eyebrows drew together in an expression of heartbreaking honesty. "No, you're not," he acknowledged.

His eyes revealed everything he couldn't say. As she looked into their brown depths, she saw beyond the anger and violence that defined him—saw the obsession simmering beneath.

Mohawk wasn't just attracted to her; he was consumed by her, possessed by her very existence in a way that bordered on terrifying. There was love there, yes, but twisted and desperate, born from loss and madness.

"But you're still Y/N. A different version, perhaps, but still the woman we all loved—in our own ways, in our own worlds." He faltered, struggling with words that didn't come easily to him. "Fuck it, I can't... Fuck," he mumbled, his composure cracking further.

His hands came up to her face, moving slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Y/N glared at him but remained still, allowing his touch. His fingertips were surprisingly gentle against her fevered skin, calloused thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with a tenderness that seemed out of place amidst the destruction surrounding them.

The physical contrast was striking—his massive hands, capable of ripping trees from the earth and punching through concrete, now cradling her face as if she were made of spun glass. She could see the dirt embedded beneath his fingernails, the scrapes across his knuckles from the earlier battle, the slight tremor that betrayed his emotional state. Each point where his skin touched hers became an anchor in her fever-hazed world, electric and alive.

Mohawk's eyes revealed everything he couldn't say. She could see the microscopic dilation of his pupils as they fixed on her face, the slight moisture gathering at the corners, the way the afternoon light caught the amber flecks within the deep brown. Tiny blood vessels mapped the whites of his eyes, evidence of exhaustion and stress. His lashes—longer than she'd noticed before—cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he blinked.

He traced the contours of her face as if memorizing them, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly—like he was touching a ghost he'd never expected to see again. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, the touch feather-light yet sending shockwaves through her system.

The pad of his thumb was rough, calloused from years of violence, yet his touch was exquisitely gentle.

"Please... fucking please, I waited so long..." he whispered, his voice breaking with need, quivering with a vulnerability that the cocky Mohawk would never normally allow anyone to hear.

His eyes dropped to her lips, darkening with desire, his breath coming faster, stirring the loose strands of hair around her face. "Let me."

“I know Omni got to kiss you first... to hold you first... but I need this more than I've ever needed anything…” His expression spoke volumes, raw emotion written across features usually set in arrogant lines. The late afternoon sun caught in his eyes, illuminating the desperate yearning there—a silent plea that went beyond mere desire.

Despite everything—her anger, her confusion, her illness—Y/N found herself nodding, a barely perceptible movement. Mohawk leaned forward slowly, giving her time to change her mind. His lips brushed against hers, gentle and questioning at first, then with growing hunger as she didn't pull away.

He growled against her lips, a primal sound that vibrated through her core. He spoke against her lips. At this moment, nothing else existed—not the destruction below, not the other variants flying towards them, watching, not even the infection ravaging her body. There was only this connection, this single point where past and present converged.

The kiss deepened, his lips warm and insistent against hers. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he drew her closer. The slight scratch of his stubble against her skin added to the sensory overload, a delicious friction that contrasted with the surprising softness of his lips. Mohawk kissed with none of his usual aggression, instead with a desperate yearning that spoke of years of loneliness.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open briefly during the kiss, catching glimpses of his expression—eyes closed in concentration, brow relaxed, the harsh lines of his face softened by something akin to peace. When his eyes opened to meet hers, she saw naked adoration in them, dreamy and unfocused with desire. His lips, usually set in a hard line or cruel smirk, were soft against hers, moving with a gentleness that belied his brutal nature.

Despite his obvious hunger, he held himself in check, fighting the urge to deepen the kiss further, to run his hands over her body. She could feel the restraint in the tension of his muscles, in the careful placement of his hands—one at her waist, one at her nape, both trembling slightly with the effort not to crush her against him.

Y/N found herself responding, her hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the thunderous beating of his heart beneath her palms. The solid warmth of him was like an anchor in a storm, steadying her as fever and desire made her head spin. His suit was damp with sweat and smooth against her fingertips, the powerful muscles beneath twitching at her touch. For a moment, the world around them faded—the destruction, the other variants, her illness—all of it receding as she lost herself in the passionate fire of his kiss.

He gently pulled her flush against him, a soft gasp escaping her as their bodies connected. The height difference between them meant that his evident arousal pressed against her stomach rather than her hips, the prominence of his bulge impossible to ignore even through his full-body suit. Glancing down briefly, she could see where the fabric stretched taut, a small dark stain spreading at the tip where his excitement had overcome even the containment of his uniform.

His response to her was primal and unashamed, his body reacting with an honesty his words couldn't match. Each small sound she made—each gasp and sigh—elicited a corresponding groan from him, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and into her own. He mumbled incoherently against her lips, soft words meant only for her, desperate professions intermingled with curses.

"Oh god," he whispered against her mouth, the words half prayer, half profanity.

The moment was shattered by a growl of rage.

Y/N and Mohawk broke apart to find the other variants surrounding them, faces twisted with jealousy and possessiveness. The passionate moment dissolved into tension as four pairs of identical yet distinct eyes locked onto them with tangible fury.

Omni's usually composed features were dark with fury, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. The perfect order of his appearance had fractured—his hair disheveled from the earlier fight, a vein pulsing prominently at his temple, his breathing uncharacteristically ragged. What made the display so shocking was how completely it shattered his carefully maintained facade of control.

Sinister's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits behind his black lenses, his shoulders rising and falling with each rapid breath. His gloved hands opened and closed reflexively at his sides, the leather creaking audibly with each movement. The smirk that typically adorned his face had vanished, replaced by a thin-lipped expression of pure rage. Unlike Omni, Sinister made no attempt to hide his emotions—his jealousy radiated from him in almost visible waves.

Viltrumite Mark's jaw worked silently beneath his skin, the muscle jumping erratically at the hinge. His white uniform, though still immaculate compared to the others, bore smudges of dirt and debris from the earlier conflict. His eyes never left Y/N's face, something possessive and dangerous lurking in their depths.

No-Mask's reaction was the most naked, his face contorted with undisguised pain and betrayal. Without the barrier of a mask, every emotion played across his features in high definition—the shock, the hurt, the jealousy. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, as if the sight of Y/N in Mohawk's arms had robbed him of speech. A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks crimson with emotion.

HI gaze dropped momentarily to the prominent bulge in Mohawk's suit, the wet spot at the tip of his erection visible to all. No-Mask's expression shifted from pain to embarrassment to anger in rapid succession, his own body responding involuntarily to the sight of Y/N's flushed face and swollen lips.

Sinister caught the direction of No-Mask's gaze and let out a bark of laughter, the sound brittle and sharp. "Getting a little excited there, Mohawk? Can't say I blame you." His tone was deliberately casual, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his own jealousy.

"Though I prefer a more... private approach to these matters." Despite his mocking words, there was an undercurrent of pure rage in his voice.

As soon as the other variants approached, Mohawk's arm tightened around Y/N, his moment of vulnerability disappearing behind a sneer. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken tension as the others formed a loose circle around them, hovering like sentinels in the devastated sky.

Omni's face was a study in controlled panic. While his posture remained rigid and his movements precise, his jaw muscle twitched beneath the skin, a hairline fracture in his perfect composure. The corner of his left eye spasmed minutely, and a vein at his temple pulsed in rhythm with his accelerated heartbeat. His breathing was deliberately measured, each inhale and exhale carefully calibrated to maintain the illusion of calm while his eyes, behind his mask, never left Y/N's face.

"I thought we forged something unique in the cabin," he stated, his voice carefully neutral despite the accusation inherent in the words. "Was that a lie?"

Sinister's head tilted slightly forward like a predator tracking wounded prey. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, leaving them glistening in the afternoon light. The corner of his mouth curled upward in a half-smile that never reached his eyes—eyes hidden behind black lenses that reflected Y/N's own pale face back at her.

"Don't act so surprised, Omni," he taunted, his voice silky with malice. "Did you think she would be satisfied with your clinical approach to pleasure? Your calculated touches and precisely timed kisses?" He moved closer to Y/N and Mohawk, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face with unexpected gentleness. "She needs passion, fire... not your cold logic."

No-Mask couldn't contain his panic, hovering several feet away, hands opening and closing at his sides. His eyes were wide and wild, darting between Y/N and the blood seeping through her bandages. The crimson stain had grown significantly larger during the brief kiss, the fabric now saturated to a disturbing degree.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Viltrumite Mark snarled, his regal composure shattered completely. His pristine white uniform stood in stark contrast to the chaos of his emotions, the fabric rippling as his muscles tensed beneath. His usually authoritative demeanor had given way to something raw and urgent. "She's dying, and you're all fighting over who gets to kiss her next? Are your dicks controlling your brains now?"

The crude phrasing from the typically dignified Viltrumite Mark shocked them all into momentary silence. He no longer hovered regally above them but had descended to their level, hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw set in a hard line.

"You need medical attention," Omni stated, his voice steady despite the worry evident in his eyes. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, disappearing beneath the edge of his mask. His hands opened and closed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly with each movement. "The infection is spreading rapidly. If we don't act soon, you'll die."

"So what?" Y/N challenged, her voice brittle with pain and defiance. She pushed away from Mohawk, her movements uncoordinated and weak. Blood had soaked through her bandages completely now, the fabric dark and heavy against her skin. The metallic scent hung in the air around her, sharp and concerning. Her eyes burned with fever, pupils dilated and unfocused as she swept her gaze across all of them. "Why should I trust any of you? You came here to destroy my world, to kill everyone!"

The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable. The devastation below—uprooted trees, cratered earth, the distant smoke of burning cities—stood as mute testament to her words. From their elevated position, they could see the destruction that stretched to the horizon—forests flattened, roads cratered, and buildings reduced to rubble. In the distance, several pillars of smoke rose from what had once been thriving communities, now reduced to ash and debris.

Silence fell over the group, heavy with unspoken guilt. It was Sinister who finally broke it, his usual swagger absent as he spoke.

"Because we lost you once," he said, his voice low and controlled, though something in it wavered ever so slightly. He didn't remove his black lenses, but the set of his mouth—usually twisted in a cruel smirk—had softened into something almost vulnerable. "All of us, in different ways. And it broke us."

He gestured around at the assembled variants, his movements precise and measured, lacking their usual predatory grace.

"Look at what we became without you. Monsters. Killers." He paused, a smirk returning to his lips as he added, "Well, I was always a killer. Enjoyed it, too. But the others..." He let the implication hang, eyes hidden behind his black lenses but his meaning clear.

He floated closer to Y/N, his approach cautious, as if afraid she might flee again. When he stood before her, he did something unexpected—he took her hand in his, the leather of his glove warm against her skin as his thumb traced gentle circles on her wrist.

"I know you're not her—not my Y/N," he said softly. "But when I saw you, something inside me that died with her came back to life." His free hand hovered near her face, trembling slightly before he let it fall away, as if he didn't trust himself. "I can't lose that again. I can't go back to being just an... empty fucking killer without you."

"Planet shit doesn't fucking matter!" Mohawk's voice cracked with emotion, the smooth veneer he usually wore shattering like glass. He pushed forward, hovering closer, his face contorted with an emotion too complex to name. Sweat beaded along his hairline, causing strands of hair to stick to his forehead in dark, damp tendrils. His gaze never left Y/N's face, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst. The prominent bulge still strained against his suit, a visible reminder of their interrupted kiss.

"The main point is—" He stopped, struggling to find the right words. In a movement both desperate and gentle, he pushed Sinister out of the way to take her hands in his. Sinister's face darkened with anger, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he was forced aside.

Mohawk looked deeply into her eyes, his own intense and sincere. The pupils were so dilated that only a thin ring of color remained visible, black swallowing brown in a visual representation of his emotional state. A muscle jumped in his jaw, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His expression mirrored the vulnerability he'd shown during their kiss—raw, unfiltered emotion that he'd never allow anyone else to witness.

"We won't fucking lose you again," he added, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that seemed to caress her skin like a physical touch. The sound vibrated in the air between them, intimate despite their audience. His grip on her hand tightened fractionally, not enough to hurt but enough to convey his desperation. "Even if we have to share you. We can find a way to work it out."

The last sentence hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's stomach flutter despite her condition. Mohawk leaned closer, his breath warm against her face as he uttered a final promise, the words carrying the weight of an oath: "You will love us, Y/N... Love me..."

The declaration sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with her fever. There was something in his tone—a certainty, a devotion—that both frightened and thrilled her.

Before she could respond, the air around them seemed to wobble, particles shifting in an unnatural pattern.

The variants tensed, sensing the disturbance—a tension in reality that they'd felt earlier but had ignored in their confrontation. Now it returned, stronger and more insistent like fabric being stretched to its breaking point.

With a sound like reality tearing, a black portal materialized twenty feet away in the air. The edges crackled with dark energy, ribbons of shadow writhing around its circumference like living things. From its depths, a body was thrown—no, hurled—into their midst.

Darkwing crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, his body a broken, bloody mess. His costume was in tatters, revealing flesh beneath that was more wound than skin. One arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly ripped backward if not worse. The other appeared to be barely attached, held to his body by thin strips of muscle and costume fabric. His mask was half torn away, revealing a face so bruised and bloodied it was barely recognizable as human. Through split and swollen lips, he drew rattling breaths, each one sounding more painful than the last.

From the portal stepped a figure that radiated casual cruelty—Lensless Mark. His uniform was tattered and ripped, his face and hands spattered with blood. Unlike the other variants, his mask resembled that of a luchador, lacking the traditional goggles and giving his face a strangely naked quality despite being covered. His lips were curled in a smile that held no warmth, only satisfaction at the suffering he'd caused. Areas of his suit were torn at the pecs and abdomen, revealing tanned, scarred skin beneath.

"How touching. The monsters have found their beauty," he drawled, his gaze sweeping over the assembled variants before landing on Y/N.

All heads turned to face him, bodies instinctively shifting to place themselves between Y/N and the newcomer. The protective formation happened without discussion or planning—a unified response from men who moments ago had been at each other's throats.

"So this is what's been keeping you all distracted," he continued, his gaze roving over Y/N's body with interest. Unlike the others, there was no warmth in his assessment, only a cold calculation that made her skin crawl. "I was wondering where everyone disappeared to after I got trapped in there. NO fucking help came for me. "

His appearance shocked the other variants. They had believed him dead, pulled into the shadowverse by Darkwing. Their expressions reflected their confusion and growing concern. With the war still ongoing and so few of them remaining after the brutal fighting, Lensless's return was an unexpected complication.

"What did you all call her? Y/N?" he mused, his head tilting as if considering the name. "Hmm. Yes. Rather mundane, isn't it?"

"This doesn't concern you," Omni said, his voice icy as he shifted to partially block Y/N from Lensless's view. His body language was pure protectiveness now, all traces of his earlier jealousy subsumed by this new threat.

Lensless laughed, the sound sharp and without humor. "Oh, but it does. Angstrom is looking for all of you. The final phase is about to begin." His eyes narrowed behind his mask as he focused on Y/N again.

"Though I must say, I'm curious about what makes this one so special that you'd take a detour from our true mission."

In a movement almost too fast to follow, he appeared directly in front of Y/N, brushing past the protective circle of variants. His gloved hand reached out, gripping her chin and tilting her face up to his. His touch was neither gentle nor especially rough, simply... clinical. His thumb pressed against her lower lip, forcing it down slightly as he examined her face like a specimen.

"Awww I don't see it," he pronounced, his voice tinged with disappointment.

"She looks like any other human to me. Fragile. Breakable." His grip tightened fractionally, enough to make Y/N wince. "Already dying from a simple infection. Pathetic."

The attack came from all sides at once.

Mohawk's fist connected with Lensless's jaw, the impact creating a sonic boom that shattered what few intact tree branches remained below. The punch sent Lensless spinning backward, a spray of blood arcing through the air from his split lip.

Before he could recover, Sinister appeared behind him, driving a knee into his spine with such force that Y/N could hear the vertebrae crack. The blow arched Lensless's back at an unnatural angle, his mouth opening in a silent scream of pain.

Omni and Viltrumite Mark moved in perfect unison, like dancers who had rehearsed for years. Omni struck high, his calculated punch landing precisely at the junction of Lensless's neck and shoulder, targeting the cluster of nerves there. Viltrumite Mark struck low, his fist driving into Lensless's solar plexus with enough force to expel all air from his lungs.

The combination of blows sent Lensless plummeting toward the devastated forest below. He crashed through three massive oak trees before hitting the ground with enough force to create a small crater, dirt, and debris exploding outward from the impact site.

No-Mask circled around, waiting for his opportunity, his face set in lines of determination rarely seen on his usually expressive features. He hovered above the impact site, ready to intercept if Lensless attempted to flee.

Y/N hovered, forgotten in the chaos of battle, her condition worsening by the second. The world tilted and spun around her, fever making everything blur at the edges. She pressed a hand to her wound, feeling fresh blood seep between her fingers. The warmth of it was alarming, spreading across her abdomen in a widening stain.

Below, the battle had expanded, the variants using the devastated landscape as both weapon and battleground. Mohawk tore a shattered tree trunk from the ground, hurling it at Lensless with enough force to level a building. The makeshift projectile whistled through the air, trailing leaves and splinters in its wake before Lensless dodged at the last second. The trunk embedded itself in the hillside behind him, quivering with the force of impact.

Omni calculated his trajectories, using precision strikes to herd Lensless into Sinister's path. Each punch was measured and deliberate, not seeking to cause damage but to manipulate Lensless's movements. Where Lensless dodged one blow, he found himself in the path of another, Omni's strategy becoming clear as Lensless was forced closer and closer to where Sinister waited.

Viltrumite Mark moved with regal fury, each blow causing sonic booms to ripple through the air. His white uniform was a blur of motion, seeming to be everywhere at once. Unlike the others, his attacks held nothing back—each punch and kick was delivered with the full force of his Viltrumite strength, intended not to subdue but to destroy.

Despite being outnumbered, Lensless held his own, his childish laughter echoing across the battlefield as he taunted and dodged. His fighting style was unpredictable, and chaotic, making him difficult to pin down. Where the others fought with purpose and strategy, Lensless fought like a child pulling wings from insects—with casual cruelty and evident enjoyment.

"You're all pathetic!" he called out, evading another coordinated attack. His voice carried across the battlefield, high and mocking.

"Pining after a ghost! She's not even the same woman you lost!"

His words struck deeper than any physical blow could have. For a moment, hesitation rippled through the attacking variants, a half-second of doubt that Lensless immediately exploited. He surged upward, breaking free of their formation, and shot directly toward Y/N.

"Let's see how quickly you forget her when she's gone for good," he snarled, his hand reaching for her throat. The afternoon sun glinted off his gloved hand as it stretched toward her, fingers curled like talons.

Time seemed to slow. Y/N watched him approach, her body too weak to move, her mind oddly clear despite the fever. She could see every detail of his face as he neared—the hatred in his eyes, the cruel twist of his mouth, the tiny scar that bisected his right eyebrow. She could hear the panicked shouts of the other variants as they raced to intercept him, too far away to reach her in time.

In that moment of perfect clarity, something shifted inside her. The power that had been dormant since they'd removed the GDA collar flickered to life, responding to her desperate need. Energy surged through her veins, temporarily burning away the fever's fog.

As Lensless's hand closed around her throat, Y/N's eyes began to glow with an inner light. The blue-white radiance started at her pupils, spreading outward until her entire eyes were luminous pools of energy. Power radiated from her in visible waves, her hair lifting in an invisible wind, strands floating around her face like a dark halo. Her skin took on an ethereal glow, veins beneath the surface illuminated with the same blue-white light that consumed her eyes.

Her hand shot up, gripping his wrist with strength that belied her condition. Her fingers—moments ago weak and trembling—now closed around his arm with crushing force. The material of his suit compressed beneath her grip, the bones of his wrist grinding together audibly.

"Not today," she whispered, her voice resonating with newfound power. The sound seemed to come not just from her throat but from the air around them, as if reality itself amplified her words.

The energy exploded outward from her body in a concussive wave, sending Lensless flying backward with such force that he created a trench in the earth when he landed. The ground split open beneath the impact, dirt and rock spraying outward like water from a broken dam. Trees that had survived the earlier battles were flattened in concentric circles from the epicenter of Y/N's power.

The other variants braced themselves against the blast, shielding their eyes from the brilliant light emanating from Y/N. The wave passed over them, powerful enough to push them back but not to harm them—as if her power somehow recognized them as not-enemies.

For a moment, she hovered above them all, radiant and terrible, her body still suspended in the air by her own power. The infection that had been killing her was temporarily burned away by the energy coursing through her system. Her wound glowed from within, the damaged tissue knitting itself back together visibly, the process accelerated to a speed visible to the naked eye.

Beneath her torn clothing—the fabric of her suit shredded across her abdomen, exposing the smooth skin beneath—they could see muscle and tissue regenerating. The deep gash that had been leaking crimson life across her stomach closed before their eyes, angry red flesh knitting together with pulsing blue-white light. The tattered edges of her suit fluttered in the energy field emanating from her body, occasionally revealing glimpses of the curve of her breast where the fabric had been torn diagonally across her chest. The legs of her suit, stained dark with blood and dirt, ripped low on her hips, frayed and revealing a sliver of skin just above her hipbone.

The variants watched in awe, their identical faces transformed by different shades of the same emotion—wonder mixed with desire, concern tangled with reverence. The setting sun cast them all in amber light, highlighting the tension in their jaws, the dilation of their pupils, the parted lips as they struggled to comprehend what they were witnessing.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the power faded. The light dimmed, starting with her skin, then her veins, until finally, her eyes returned to their natural color. The glow receded like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving Y/N looking small and vulnerable once more. Her eyelids fluttered, exhaustion replacing the momentary strength, and she began to fall.

Five figures moved as one, racing to catch her. The air crackled with their passage as they broke the sound barrier, converging on Y/N's falling form from different directions. They reached her simultaneously, each grabbing a part of her with careful strength—Omni supporting her shoulders, his gloved hands cradling her with gentle precision; Mohawk at her waist, his fingers splayed possessively across her exposed midriff; Viltrumite Mark securing her legs, his normally stoic expression softened with concern; Sinister cradling her head with uncharacteristic gentleness, leather-gloved fingers threading through her hair; and No-Mask hovering protectively above them all, his unobscured face displaying every nuance of his worry.

As a unit, they descended to the forest floor, moving in perfect coordination despite their earlier antagonism. They touched down on a relatively undamaged clearing, gently lowering Y/N onto one of the few untouched patches of soft grass left. The setting sun painted the scene in gold and crimson, the long shadows of the men stretching across Y/N's still form like protective fingers.

Omni knelt beside her, his pulse quickening beneath his uniform as his fingers sought the pulse at her neck. The skin there was soft and warm against his fingertips, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat a counterpoint to his own racing pulse.

"It's steady," he reported, relief evident in the softening of his shoulders. The usually immaculate lines of his uniform were marred by dust and blood, a physical manifestation of the cracks appearing in his carefully constructed facade.

"The wound is healed on the surface, but the internal damage may remain. Her fever has broken, but she's severely dehydrated and exhausted."

"What the hell was that?" No-Mask asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at Y/N's unconscious form. His hand hovered near her face, not quite touching, trembling slightly with the effort of restraint. Unlike the others, his unmasked face revealed every emotion—awe, desire, fear—all written clearly in the widening of his eyes and the tension around his mouth. A smear of dirt marked his left cheek, a bead of sweat tracing its way down his temple.

"I've never seen power like that from any Y/N in our universes."

"The GDA must have modified her differently in this reality," Viltrumite Mark mused, his regal stance betrayed by the concern in his eyes as they remained fixed on Y/N's face. His white uniform, normally pristine, bore the marks of battle—a tear across the chest, a smudge of dirt on the shoulder, droplets of blood spattered across the fabric. The sun caught in his hair, turning the brown strands gold at the edges.

"Perhaps removing the collar didn't just free her from their control but unlocked abilities they were suppressing."

"Who gives a fuck about the how," Mohawk interjected, pacing restlessly nearby. Each step left an impression in the soft earth, his movements jittery with excess adrenaline. His signature hairstyle, usually maintained with meticulous precision, now lay partially flattened on one side, giving him a lopsided, almost vulnerable appearance. A bead of sweat traced the sharp angle of his jaw, disappearing beneath the high collar of his suit. "Did you see what she did to Lensless? One fucking touch and she sent him flying like a rag doll."

A grin spread across his face, carving deep lines around his eyes that crinkled with genuine joy rather than his usual cynicism. He gestured expansively, his gaze never leaving Y/N's still form. "My—our girl's got teeth."

His expression softened as he knelt beside her, one gloved hand hesitantly reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. The touch was feather-light, his fingertips lingering on her temple with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his usual brutality. "She's more than just a pretty face. She's fucking magnificent." The admiration in his voice was tinged with possessiveness, his eyes darkening as he added, "And she's ours."

"She's not out of danger," Omni cautioned, his hand resting lightly on Y/N's forehead. Though cooler than before, her skin still held an unnatural warmth beneath his touch. A muscle in his jaw twitched with suppressed emotion, a hairline crack in his usually perfect control.

"That power surge likely depleted what little reserves she had left. She needs proper care, not just field medicine."

A groan from the nearby trench reminded them that Lensless was still a threat. The sadistic variant was pulling himself from the ground, blood streaming from multiple wounds. His suit was torn across the chest and abdomen, revealing muscled flesh beneath, scored with deep gashes that oozed crimson. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheek mottled with bruises. Blood dripped steadily from his split lip, splattering onto the churned earth beneath him in a rhythmic pattern. Despite his injuries, his visible eye gleamed with manic intensity, and his lips were twisted in a grin that spoke of insanity rather than humor.

"You think this changes anything?" he called, staggering to his feet. Each movement was labored, with evidence of broken bones and internal injuries. Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips, pattering onto the churned earth beneath him like macabre raindrops. His chest heaved with each breath, a wet rattle suggesting punctured lungs or broken ribs. Still, he straightened, defiant even in defeat.

"She'll die, just like all the others. And you'll all go back to being the monsters you truly are," he taunted, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground. The crimson spatter formed a grotesque pattern at his feet, shining wetly in the dying light. "We still have a mission to complete! Fuck this world and its beings. Angstrom is waiting for us!"

Mohawk's expression darkened, shadows gathering in the hollows of his cheeks as a savage smile spread across his face. "You know what? I'm going to enjoy this." He cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshots in the quiet forest. His body tensed, muscles bunching visibly beneath his suit as he readied for the kill.

"Go," he said to Omni without taking his eyes off Lensless. "Take her to the meeting point with Angstrom. I'm done with this piece of shit."

Omni hesitated, looking down at Y/N's pale face. For once, indecision was written clearly in the set of his shoulders, the tension around his mouth. The evening light caught the moisture gathering in his eyes, transforming them into pools of liquid amber behind his mask. A single tear escaped, tracking a clean path through the dust on his face before falling onto Y/N's cheek—a glistening diamond against her flushed skin.

"Don't die," he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. The kiss was feather-light, almost reverent, his breath warm against her skin, carrying the scent of aftershave and something uniquely him. His fingers brushed her cheek, lingering as if trying to memorize the texture. "Please."

With that, he was gone, streaking through the sky with Y/N held securely against his chest. His arms formed a protective cage around her, one hand cradling her head against his shoulder while the other supported her back. The wind whipped past them, ruffling her hair and cooling her fevered skin.

The remaining variants turned as one toward Lensless, spreading out to surround him. The setting sun cast long shadows ahead of them, turning four figures into monstrous silhouettes against the devastated landscape.

"Four against one?" Lensless laughed, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear across his cheek. The sound was wet and choked, bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. "Hardly seems fair."

"Good," Sinister replied, his smile all teeth, sharp canines gleaming in the dying light. His eyes were cold behind his black lenses, his posture deceptively relaxed even as his fingers flexed in anticipation.

"We don't play fair anymore."

–––––––––

As Omni flew with Y/N toward their destination, her eyes fluttered open briefly. Sunlight filtered through clouds, casting dappled patterns across her face as the wind tousled her hair. Despite her condition, a small smile curved her lips as she looked up at him, raising a hand weakly to touch his face.

"You're crying," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rush of wind. Her fingers, warm and gentle, traced the damp trail on his cheek, sending shivers down his spine.

"No, I'm not," he denied automatically, his usual defenses kicking in even as another tear escaped to contradict him. The droplet caught the light, transforming into a prism for a heartbeat before the wind whisked it away.

Y/N's smile widened slightly, her hand weakly reaching up to touch his cheek again. Her fingers came away damp, glistening in the sunlight. Her lips, still tender from Mohawk's earlier kisses, parted slightly as she whispered, "Liar."

A laugh escaped him, the sound rusty from disuse. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the tension in his jaw easing for the first time since they'd arrived in this universe.

"Just stay with me," he urged, tightening his hold on her slightly. Her body fit perfectly against his as if designed as his missing piece. "We're almost there."

"Will you share?" she asked, her voice fading as consciousness began to slip away again. Her eyelids grew heavy, dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks like butterfly wings. "With the others?"

The question caught him off guard, making him falter slightly in his flight. "What?"

"Will you share... me? Can you all... love me?" Each word seemed to cost her tremendous effort, her eyelids growing heavier with each syllable. Her fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his suit, holding on as if afraid he might vanish.

Omni was silent for a long moment, considering. The idea of sharing her with the others—his other selves—went against every possessive instinct he had. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he battled with himself. And yet... if the alternative was losing her entirely...

"Yes," he finally said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. His voice softened as he added, "If that's what you want."

The admission sent an unexpected warmth through him. The knot of tension in his chest—a constant companion since he'd lost his Y/N—loosened slightly. Perhaps sharing her was the only way any of them could truly have her. Perhaps, in this fractured reality, they could find a new kind of wholeness with her.

Their Y/n.

–––––––––––––––

I'm losing motivation for this story (Even though I already had the whole storyboard written out). (っ- ‸ - ς), But I'll PULL THROUGH! Let me know if you guys are interested in more plot and perhaps smut later on in the story. Quite literally, maybe even the next chapter...

I'm really trying to include 'love' for all the variants. let me know if you want another or specific one to be included more.

Lensless Mark = No Goggles Mark

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

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iydiamartinx · 20 days ago

Text

THIS MEANS WAR VIII

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.2k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'll be honest this wasn't my favourite chapter to write since not much goes on, but I'm thinking of it more like a filler chapter that needed to be written.

UNKNOWN LOCATION

Joker had trashed another one of his safe houses.

The bastard was getting closer—closer to him, and closer to the formula he never should’ve helped create.

With a hollow thud, his head hit the concrete wall behind him. He exhaled hard through his nose, eyes burning with frustration. His pulse roared in his ears, but it wasn’t the fear that gnawed at him—it was the guilt. That relentless, festering guilt.

She’d warned him. Over and over again, she warned him that the nature of his unethical research would have consequences. And God, was hindsight a bitch.

He should’ve listened to his sister. She’d tried everything to pull him back—pleaded, reasoned, even threatened to expose him if he didn’t stop. But he was too far gone by then. Too enticed by the promise of discovery, of power, of being needed by the wrong people.

And once someone was in, there was no such thing as getting out—not really. He thought he could. After years of working with Gotham’s worst, he’d been foolish enough to believe he could slip away unnoticed, sever his ties, and walk free.

He had tried to leave—and that was how he ended up in this mess.

He should’ve known the Joker would never keep his word. Trusting a lunatic to honour a deal was like handing a lit match to a pyromaniac and hoping he wouldn’t strike it.

Stealing the formula back had been the only move he had left—the only way to try and make amends for the damage he’d done. But he’d underestimated just how badly the Joker wanted it.

He was running out of options.

He was brilliant enough to create a weaponized toxin—yes. But crafting an antidote? That had never been his strength. His genius lay in design, not repair. And this toxin, twisted using the strands of the newest Joker venom, was the worst thing he’d ever created.

Joke venom was notorious precisely because it had no cure. No antidote. Yet, there was only one person he knew who’d ever come close to breaking that fact.

You.

You had cracked Scarecrow’s fear toxin. You’d neutralized half a dozen of Poison Ivy’s most lethal poisons. You’d even managed to stall the effects of early-stage Joker venom—something the best minds in Gotham had written off as impossible.

He had hoped—foolishly—that he’d be the one to fix it. That he could undo the damage he’d done without dragging anyone else into the fallout. Especially not you. He hadn’t wanted to involve you because that risked putting you in Joker’s sights.

But he was out of time. Out of places to run. And deep in his bones, he knew the truth he’d been avoiding:

You were his last chance.

And more than that—you were the city’s best hope.

BATCAVE

It only took Dick a day to decide that if Jason wasn’t going to play fair then neither was he. If Jason was going to use Tim as an accomplice then Dick would build his own damn team to help him with the case and the girl.

He kicked a protesting Tim out of the Batcave with little ceremony—ignoring every muttered complaint and dramatic sigh—and pulled out his comm to make a few calls.

It didn’t take long for his backup to arrive.

Now, Dick stood at the helm of it—arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other, posture deceptively casual, like it was a casual meet-up and not, in fact, the beginning of his carefully orchestrated campaign to absolutely destroy his younger brother in the world’s most passive-aggressive war over a woman.

He wasn’t in uniform tonight. Just dark jeans and a Henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

The soft whir of wheels broke the silence as Barbara was the first to arrive, her auburn hair damp, twisted up in a lazy clip. She rolled out of the elevator with one brow arched high and a tablet tucked under one arm, her other hand dragging down her face.

“This better be good,” she said, her voice dry. “You dragged me out of a bath and three episodes deep into a murder docuseries.”

Stephanie trailed behind her, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder, nursing a cold brew like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The hoodie read Crime-Fighter, Coffee First in bold black letters.

Damian, on the other hand appeared from the shadows from god knows where, his posture stiff with irritation and a frown tugging at his mouth, as if simply being summoned here was an inconvenience to him.

“This better not be another attempt to make us play game night again, Grayson,” Damian warned, arms folded. “I will not pretend Monopoly is a viable training exercise.”

Dick rolled his eyes and nodded toward the glowing holoscreen behind him. “It’s about the Joker case.”

Stephanie squinted. “Then… where are the others?”

“And why is the girl I set you up with on the screen?” Barbara asked, already suspicious.

Damian whirled to face her. “You set him up with the only lead we have?”

“Lead?” Barbara repeated, eyes narrowing. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Grayson was assigned to extract intel from her,” Damian stated before Dick could speak. “She’s the sister of the target Joker has been pursuing—and the individual we’ve all been trying to locate.”

“Wait, what?” Stephanie yelped, nearly sloshing her coffee. “This is the woman Tim was telling me about? The one you and Jason are fighting over?”

Dick exhaled hard through his nose, jaw flexing. “We’re not f—”

“She’s pretty,” Stephanie cut off, squinting at the projection as she leaned forward. “No wonder you’re both acting like idiots.”

“Can we please go back to the part where the woman I matched you with on a dating app is now a lead in an active Joker case?” Barbara said sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Dick.

“It’s not like I knew who she was when you set me up!” Dick snapped, voice rising in defence.

“You could’ve called!”

“I know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly across his scalp. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But can we please focus on why I called you all here?”

Stephanie didn’t miss a beat. “You want our help sabotaging Jason.”

“No!” Dick said too quickly, then paused. His mouth tugged into a grimace. “Okay—maybe slightly.”

Barbara groaned.

“I’m serious,” he said, the humour draining from his voice. “I need your help to figure her out. Get closer to her. Her brother’s the only thread we’ve got in this whole mess, and she might be the only one who knows where he is. But she’s not going to tell me a thing unless she trusts me.”

He glanced back at the projected image, something unreadable flickering across his face—frustration, maybe. Or guilt.

“So I need intel,” he continued, voice lower now. “What she likes. What she hates. What makes her laugh. What pisses her off. I don’t care how small—anything that gives me an edge.”

“And if that intel just so happens to give you an edge over Jason…” Stephanie prompted, eyebrow raised.

Dick didn’t even try to look innocent. He shrugged one shoulder. “Then that’s just a bonus.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “You do realize if she finds out about this, she’s going to hate you.”

“Good thing Jason and I are in complete agreement that she won’t,” he said, far too confident for someone with a growing list of poor decisions.

“Steph’s right. You two are idiots,” Barbara muttered, dragging her palm down her face.

Dick exhaled slowly. “Look, I’m not trying to manipulate her. I just need to understand her. If we figure that out, we get closer to the brother. That’s the mission. And yeah—if it happens to help me one-up Jason in the process…” He gave a lopsided smile. “Well, I’m not going to lose sleep over that.”

Barbara stared at him for a long moment, like she was trying to calculate just how much of this was about the case—and how much was pure, unfiltered ego. Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of years of dealing with these boys, she flicked open her tablet.

“Fine,” Barbara said, already typing as her eyes scanned the screen. “I’ll start hacking into her communications—look for any mention of her brother and flag any unknown calls or suspicious messages.” She didn’t even bother looking up. “Just so we’re clear—I’m doing this for the case. Not to help you win whatever stupid romantic grudge match you and Jason have going.”

“It’s not a grudge match,” he insisted. “It’s… a strategic lead acquisition initiative. That just happens to come with some personal incentives.”

Stephanie nearly choked on her cold brew. “That’s the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone say, ‘I’m losing and I hate it.’”

“I’m not losing,” Dick muttered, jaw tightening.

“Uh-huh,” Stephanie said, dragging out the sound, clearly not believing him. “Sure. Denial looks great on you.” She leaned back in her chair, sipping noisily from her drink. “Alright, boss. What do I need to do?”

Dick straightened, grateful for the shift back to business—even if it was steeped in sarcasm. “I want you to build a psychological profile on her. Dig through her digital footprint. Socials, archived forums, anything public. Old blog posts, research articles, maybe even school club bulletins.”

Stephanie grinned. “So… you want me to cyberstalk her.”

“It’s not stalking. It’s remote behavioural analysis,” Dick corrected.

“Sure.” She gave him a knowing look. “You want me to find out what kind of coffee she drinks, which books she reads, and whether her Goodreads account is a shrine to tragic vampire romances or slow-burn academia smut.”

Dick opened his mouth, thought better of it, then sighed. “I have no idea what that even means. Just stay focused. If she has any habits or preferences—or mentions Jason—flag it.”

Stephanie’s fingers were already flying across the screen. “I’ll compile a profile. Interests, habits, emotional cues, digital presence.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “The more we know, the better.”

“And if I stumble across her dating history?” Stephanie asked sweetly without looking up.

Dick hesitated. “Only if it’s… relevant.”

“To you or the case?” she teased, flashing him a grin that danced at the edges of mischief. But she didn’t give him the chance to answer. She was already turning away, her voice trailing over her shoulder as she shot him a wink. “Don’t worry, Boy Wonder—I’ll be discreet.”

Damian made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disgust. “You’re all embarrassing.”

Dick ignored him. “You’re tailing her. Quietly. No interaction unless absolutely necessary. I want to know if she’s meeting anyone connected to her brother or Joker’s network…Or Jason.”

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of sound that somehow conveyed the full weight of his disdain for everyone in the room. It was the sigh of a boy who believed he was surrounded by fools.

“Tt. Fine,” he muttered, arms crossing stiffly. “I’ll tail her. Discreetly. No contact. No interference. Happy?”

He didn’t sound happy.

Dick gave a short nod. “Good. Just remember—this doesn’t mean you can skip school.”

That earned a visible twitch in Damian’s jaw. He crossed his arms tighter, glaring like Dick had personally insulted his lineage. “I am engaged in tactical surveillance on a high-priority target.”

“And you’re also twelve,” Dick replied, entirely unfazed. “If Alfred catches wind of another all-nighter and hears you slept through algebra again, I’m not covering for you.”

“I do not sleep through algebra.”

“Sure,” Stephanie muttered. “You meditated aggressively with your eyes closed and your hood up.”

Damian shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“Anyways,” he said, raising his voice just enough to halt the impending bickering. “Glad we’re all on the same page. But remember—most importantly…”

He paused, gaze sweeping across the room.

“She, Alfred, and Bruce cannot find out.”

MEANWHILE...

Tim hadn’t meant to overhear. Not really.

But the cave echoed, and Dick’s voice—especially when wound up in righteous competitiveness—carried. Loudly. And Tim had lingered—just a moment too long—behind the server banks, just long enough to catch the important bits

“…You want our help sabotaging Jason…”

“…if she ends up being a better match for Jason, I’m not lying to you…”

“…we get that, we get closer to the brother. That’s the mission. And yeah, if it helps me beat Jason…”

Tim blinked, deadpan.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

It wasn’t the fact that Dick was crushing on a girl. Or that Jason was too. That brand of drama barely registered anymore—not after years of rooftop arguments, near-death team-ups, and family dinners that often ended in batarangs embedded in walls. Honestly, it ranked somewhere between mildly irritating and background noise on the Wayne household disaster scale.

It wasn’t even the part where they were turning a high-priority Joker lead into some twisted rom-com disaster.

No. The true offence—the unforgivable part—was that Dick didn’t include him.

Tim pulled out his comm, thumb hovering over the screen as he debated just how petty he wanted to be. The answer came quickly.

Very.

He tapped the name with a smug flick.

Jason picked up after one ring. “What?” He grumbled.

Tim didn’t waste time. “Dick’s building a team to spy on your future girlfriend.”

There was a pause on the other end. A beat of stunned silence.

“…You wanna say that again?”

“I said,” Tim repeated, already turning down the side tunnel toward the garage, “Dick dragged Steph, Barbara, and Damian into a secret meeting in the cave. He’s using the Joker case as cover—but it’s very clearly a dick-measuring contest over Y/N.”

On the other end of the line, Jason exhaled slowly, “That little—”

“Yep.”

Tim could practically hear the scowl forming on Jason’s face.

“It’s just the three of them?”

“Barbara’s hacking the communications. Stephanie’s building a profile on her. Damian’s tailing her.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“…And you?” Jason asked, his voice slower now.

Tim’s jaw tightened. He kicked a loose bolt across the garage floor with the heel of his boot, the metallic clink skipping into silence. “I wasn’t invited.”

Jason snorted. “Ouch.”

“I know, right?” Tim muttered, irritation bleeding through the sarcasm. It wasn’t about the girl. It wasn’t even about the case. It was the exclusion—the assumption that he’d pick sides without even being asked.

Jason’s voice came back cool and sharp. “Alright. Then we build our own damn team.”

Tim’s steps slowed, a grin tugging at his lips. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Cass?”

“Told her to head to your place.”

“Duke?”

“I’m sending him the same thing.”

“So that I guess this means you’re now my tech guy,” Jason stated..

Tim grinned. “Obviously.”

The amusement didn’t last. Jason’s tone shifted to something more serious. “This is still about her brother. Joker’s not finished. If she’s in the middle of this, she’s a target—maybe the only one who can figure out an antidote to that damn toxin.”

Tim’s smile faded. He nodded to himself, already flipping through the mental file he’d started building the second her name crossed his screen. “We’ll figure out what she knows. Piece it together.”

“Whatever happens, we protect her,” Jason said firmly. “and during all of this, if we happen to beat Dick in the process?”

Tim shrugged. “Then that’s just a bonus.”

JASON'S APARTMENT

The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the open window where the city glowed in quiet pulses. It smelled faintly of gun oil and leather, and the TV was playing some old movie on mute. Jason stood at the kitchen counter, arms braced against the surface, fuming quietly.

Across the room, Tim sat perched on the arm of the couch like he owned the place, sipping a soda with far too much smug satisfaction. He didn’t say anything, but the occasional sound of his slurping straw was loud enough to be irritating—If the twitching of Jason’s left eye indicated anything.

There was a knock—two short, one sharp.

Jason pushed off the counter and crossed the room, unlocking the door in a single motion. Duke stood on the other side, a backpack slung over one shoulder and confusion etched into his brow.

Behind him, Cass stood in silence. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were scanning the space like she was preparing for a fight.

Duke stepped inside, gaze bouncing between Jason and Tim. “Okay, what’s the emergency?” he asked, frowning. “Tim said it was important.”

Cass didn’t say a word. She just drifted toward the window and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

Jason nodded at both of them. “Glad you came. We’ve got a situation.”

Tim tossed a chip into his mouth. “A tactical situation,” he said dryly, voice laced with sarcasm.

Jason threw him a look. “Shut up.”

Duke glanced between them, eyebrows raised. “So… are we talking Joker, or—?”

Jason held up his phone to show a picture of you.

Duke blinked, squinting at your image. “…Is this not Dick’s date?”

Cass tilted her head, lips twitching in something that might have been curiosity.

Jason didn’t answer.

Duke’s eyes widened slowly. “Oh my God. This is about a girl.”

“It’s about a lead,” Jason corrected flatly, lowering the phone.

“A lead Dick did in fact go on a date with,” Tim added helpfully, not even pretending to hide the amusement in his voice.

Jason shot him another warning glare.

“This is the emergency?” Duke asked, incredulous. “You said it was important. I thought someone died.”

Jason huffed, the sound tight with frustration. “Someone could die. Her brother’s the lead we’ve been chasing for months—the one Joker’s gunning for. And she’s the only real shot we’ve got at finding him before he does.”

Duke gave him a long, slow look. “So this isn’t about stealing Dick’s girl?”

Tim snorted. “Oh, it totally is.”

Jason bristled. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter, jaw tight. “She’s not Dick’s. Yet. She hasn’t chosen.”

Duke blinked. His frown deepened. “Wait—she’s dating both of you?”

Jason looked away, suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. “She… doesn’t know it.”

There was a pause.

Duke stared, mouth parting slightly. His voice, when it came, was flat with disbelief. “…How the hell doesn’t she—?”

“Look,” Jason cut in, rubbing a tired hand down his face. His fingers dragged across the stubble on his jaw, like he could scrape off the weight of the conversation. “Me and Dick agreed not to tell her we know each other. It’s a… gentleman’s agreement. No interference. Let her choose without pressure.”

Duke blinked. Then squinted. “You both agreed to lie to her?”

“It’s not lying,” Jason muttered defensively. “It’s withholding a minor detail.”

He pushed on. “Anyway, Dick broke the spirit of the deal. He’s already called in backup—Stephanie, Barbara, and Damian are all running surveillance for him now.”

“Wait—what?!” Duke’s voice pitched up, shocked indignation blooming across his face. “He didn’t even ask us?”

Cass, who had been silently watching, gave a small nod—her lips drawn into a frown, the betrayal practically radiating off her.

“I talked to him this morning,” Duke muttered. “We had breakfast. He said nothing.”

Jason leaned back against the counter. “Exactly. He’s building his team. So now I’m building mine.”

Duke threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

Cass tilted her head toward the picture of you still lit up on Jason’s phone, then looked back at Jason. “You care about her,” she said quietly, but it wasn’t a question. It was a statement

Jason met her gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

Cass nodded once, decisive. That was all she needed.

Duke stared at them both, then slumped into a chair with a dramatic groan. “Fine. Count me in. But when this ends with her hating both of you and ghosting the entire family, I want it on record that I saw it coming.”

Tim, still sitting smugly on the arm of the couch, raised his soda can in salute. “Duly noted.”

Jason pushed off the counter and started pacing, the natural commander emerging. “Tim, you’re on tech. I want to know everything. Her schedule, her habits, what makes her laugh, what makes her cry—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim cut in, waving a hand, “you want a list of guys she’s slept with too?”

Jason hesitated.

Tim blinked, staring at him over the rim of his soda can. “Oh my God. You do.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jason muttered, scowling.

“You didn’t not say it.”

Duke groaned into his hands. “This is gonna end so badly.”

Jason ignored them, jaw tightening. “Just… get me the information,” he gritted out. Then he turned to Cass, tone shifting again. “Cass, you’re tailing her. No contact and don’t let her know about your presence. If Joker’s anywhere near her, I want you between them first.”

Cass sent him a two fingered salute.

He nodded once, then pivoted to Duke. “And you’ve got surveillance. I want everything—traffic cams, building feeds, street-level activity. If Joker’s people show up… or if Dick so much as breathes near her, I want eyes on it.”

Duke, still half-lounging in his chair with a faint scowl tugging at his brow, straightened slowly. “So just to be clear—I’m tracking a girl, her possibly homicidal brother, the actual Joker, and the Nightwing himself?”

He let out a long, exhausted breath and grabbed his bag off the floor, slinging it over one shoulder. “This is either going to be brilliant… or the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.”

Tim raised his soda can in lazy salute. “I vote both.”

Jason ignored the jab. “I’ll handle the direct approach. I’ll find out what she knows about her brother,” he said, his voice calm but hardening at the edges. “The rest of you—watch her. I want everything. If she’s hiding something, I want to know. Who she trusts. Family, best friends. Any unusual changed in routines.”

He glanced around the room, making sure every pair of eyes was on him.

“If she mentions Joker—or if Dick starts getting too bold—I want a full report.”

His voice dipped slightly, “But most importantly… she can’t find out. Alfred can’t find out. And definitely not Bruce.”

YOUR APARTMENT

You came home after a long day at the research lab, the key turning in the lock with a soft click before the door swung shut behind you. The heels came off first—kicked lazily into the corner with the kind of relief that only came after hours on your feet—and were quickly replaced by a pair of fuzzy socks. You peeled off your work clothes and slipped into your favourite oversized sweater and loose shorts.

Your phone buzzed once against the table, screen lighting up with an incoming call—but you didn’t check it. You were off the clock. Whoever it was could wait.

Padding into the kitchen, you flicked on the stove and poured a bag of popcorn into a pot, humming the chorus of a catchy pop song under your breath. It wasn’t long before the music took over completely. With no one to hear and the apartment walls blessedly thick, you gave in, singing freely and swaying your hips with every beat.

You didn’t notice the flicker of movement in the shadows behind you.

The glow of the television lit up the living room as you scrolled through movie options, finally settling on an action flick with gratuitous explosions and an absurdly high body count—just the way you liked it. The title screen illuminated the apartment in soft bursts of light as you turned back toward the kitchen to check on your snack.

Behind you, a figure stepped silently out of the darkness.

Jason moved like a phantom, his eyes scanning your living space. He paused at the bookshelf, fingers brushing the edge of a vintage car figurine, seems you had an interest in cars.

You were still humming, still lost in your own rhythm and oblivious to the intruders in your home, as you disappeared into the bathroom.

The second shadow emerged from the stairwell.

Dick moved lower to the ground, planting a bug inside the hollow base of a decorative lamp. He lingered just long enough to glance at the painting on your wall and the artist who painted it.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying your hands, Dick had already melted back into the dark.

Jason, meanwhile, was at your laptop. The screen’s soft glow reflected in his eyes as he skimmed through your recent work—notes from the Charity Gala, advocacy for underserved kids in the city, a half-written proposal aimed at funding science programs in rougher neighbourhoods.

Dick had moved to the living room, eyes catching on the paused screen. The sequel was releasing in a few days—he remembered the trailer.

The sound of your footsteps pulled them both into motion.

By the time you re-entered the room, popcorn in hand and still humming softly, they were already gone

You had no idea that your apartment was now a surveillance web. Microphones tucked inside air vents. Cameras disguised in houseplants. Motion sensors hidden in innocuous corners. Only your bedroom and bathroom had been spared—barely. That was the one line they both agreed not to cross with their teams.

But even then, microphones had been installed just outside the doors.

Just in case they could pick up something about your brother.

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strelles-universe · 2 years ago

Text

Strike the Match - Chapter 8: Growing Concerns

“She’s so thin.”

“I can’t believe any faction would treat an elder like this.”

Cardinalpaw hummed his absent agreement - the return to the barracks had been incredibly slow. Nettleflower’s leg slowed her down and Asterdawn hadn’t seemed inclined to rush her - on the other side, Deerleap was so thin that she had no energy reserves left. By the time they’d made it to the ridge, Lionbelly was just short of outright carrying in her - something she refused to allow to happen even as her legs trembled with every step forward. As for Quietpaw… they’d ended up needing to stop mid-way back, catching a pair of small birds for her after the third time her stomach turned and rumbled loudly enough to be heard.

Upon returning to the barracks, Cardinalpaw had volunteered to ensure the survival of Deerleap (who he wasn’t quite certain would make it through the season) and Nettleflower while Jackdawpaw had eagerly insisted that he could help Quietpaw settle in. As it was, the thin cadet remained curled in on herself; sitting just a little ways from the other cadets who were sprawled around their stump. Now that she’d eaten, she seemed content to just listen to the discussions happening around her.

“Do you think it has anything to do with the invasion on the Galespun?” Cardinalpaw voiced aloud, the thought having rattled around in his brain since the announcement when they returned.

“How bad was it Ravenpaw?” Wrenpaw demanded.

“Awful,” said the lanky tom, flattening his ears. “Everything reeked of the Fennyield - and there were a few cats trying to live in the hollow. We couldn’t smell Galespun anywhere - even in the barracks.”

“They were trying to live in the hollow?” Cardinalpaw echoed.

“Yes but Galespun territory is terrible if you don’t live there. I didn’t see a single stream the whole walk - I bet the Fennyield couldn’t find any water either.”

“And going to the river risks clashes with the Shorerisen,” he murmured to himself, rolling the concept through his head.

“...underground.”

“What was that?” Chaffinchpaw asked as they all turned to the Galespun cadet. The dilute tortoiseshell watching with a cautious expression, as if unsure she wanted to reiterate her point.

“The water. It’s underground,” she explained, ducking down.

“...that explains everything,” Chaffinchpaw said aloud, her tail swishing across the ground. “If the streams are underground… no cat is crazy enough to go looking for water in tunnels with no guide - what if they flood?”

“Didn’t Our Storm say Fennyield territory is muddy?” Cardinalpaw jumped in, springing from her concept. “Wet-grounds would keep Fennyield cats from trying to burrow - the chance it floods is way higher than in the Galespun. And with wet mud, the tunnel entrances could collapse and trap them inside.”

“So if all the water is underground, they’d have to leave,” Chaffinchpaw concluded.

“Which means the Galespun was chased out for nothing,” Wrenpaw scowled.

“Not for nothing - they still got some hunting territory,“ Cardinalpaw pointed out. “And anyway with the Galespun gone, the Stormborn will be their next target. There’s more to gain from invading us - Snakerocks, good hunting territory, above ground streams…”

“Skua Raggedjaw will have a lot to answer for,” Jackdawpaw said, narrowing his eyes. “No way Our Storm will just let him get away with driving off another faction.”

“And may the Souls get him too,” Chaffinchpaw grumbled, tucking her legs beneath herself. “It’s been a tough couple cycles for everyone but no other faction has needed to push another out.”

“They’ll get what they deserve,” scoffed Jackdawpaw, rolling his yellow eyes. “Sure they got territory but Fennyield cats don’t even know how to hunt on the moor - may Slysoul starve them for their greed.”

“Larkwing is worried,” Ravenpaw sighed, glancing towards the clearing. Larkwing had gone into Asterdawn’s den with the rank heads and thus far, none of the cats have come back out since. “The Skua has always been a pain in the tail, aggressive too but he’s so prideful of Fennyield territory… he wouldn’t push another faction out.”

“The Skua may not be the source but he’s their leader,” Jackdawpaw said stubbornly, swishing his tail. “He has to know what his legionaries were doing.”

“...well maybe Raggedjaw isn’t The Skua anymore,” Cardinalpaw said slowly.

“But they would’ve told us and the Galespun if he lost his lives,” Chaffinchpaw said.

“I mean, what if he was overthrown?”

A silence settled over the cadets. Looking around at the faces of his denmates, it was like Cardinalpaw had claimed the sky would rain mud from the clouds themselves. A flicker of confusion passed through him - had it never occurred to anyone else that their leaders could be ousted by the faction itself? He searched his memories - doesn’t the Stormborn have something about deputies standing up to bad leaders?

“But-but what kind of cat would just attack their own leader?” Wrenpaw asked with horror. “And why?”

Cardinalpaw flicked his ear, “Power, a grudge, manipulation tactic - there are a lot of reasons to attack a leader.”

“...but that’s so amber-hearted,” Ravenpaw whispered, pinning his ears back against his head.

“Didn’t Pineheart challenge the Mad Star?” Cardinalpaw asked, half-confused and half-exasperated.

“Yeah but the Mad Star was… you know, mad! He starved his own faction, pitted his cubs against each other, tried to start a war with the Shorerisen and a bunch of other stuff!” Jackdawpaw objected. “Skua Raggedjaw was a dung-head but he wasn’t evil!”

“Well maybe the cat who took over was evil,” Cardinalpaw said with a sigh. “Whoever the Fennyield is following right now was evil enough to attack an entire faction in their the barracks, invaded their dens and attacked elders - he wouldn’t care about ousting a leader to get the position.”

“But leaders have nine lives granted to them by Meadows under Moonsoul’s blessing!”

Wrenpaw shuffled, “...well, what’s nine lives to an entire faction of cats?”

They exchanged uneasy glances.

“You guys were there - did you see if it was Skua Raggedjaw?” Chaffinchpaw demanded of Quietpaw, her voice held a slightly desperate edge. His denmates seemed deeply disturbed by the idea that anyone would attack their own leader like that.

“... I didn’t see anything,” Quietpaw admitted, shuffling with obvious discomfort from the attention being directed to her. “I was too busy trying to get away - they were dragging all the cadets away to do Souls knows what to them. Brownpaw was dragged right from our den by his leg.”

“Temekur watch us,” muttered Ravenpaw. “We’ll only know the truth at the next Gathering. If it’s not Skua Raggedjaw… who’s in charge? His heir was his son - they must have-have taken care of him too…”

“If that’s true, we know why Deerleap and Nettleflower ran away then,” Chaffinchpaw said grimly, flexing her claws. “If Nettleflower tried to defend her leader and failed, she could’ve retreated and maybe Deerleap went away with her?”

“Why run? She’d still be a valued member of the Fennyield,” Cardinalpaw said - the monarchs of the Stormborn were certainly pampered after all.

“The Fennyield has Executioners for certain crimes,” Ravenpaw said grimly, his lessons as a diplomat being displayed at the forefront. “If Raggedjaw lost, then anyone who defended him would have to swear new fealty to the Skua of the Fennyield or be deemed traitors. Treason is an executable offense.”

Cardinalpaw’s muscles twinged, “Flames - we better be on guard then. How many other loyalists have scattered? What if they come looking for them?”

“I am not looking forward to these extra patrols,” Jackdawpaw groaned, stretching his forelegs. “I smell double dawn patrols.”

“Look on the bright side - if the Fennyield does attack and we push them back, we’ll be made legionarys for sure,” Wrenpaw purred and nudged Chaffinchpaw. “Wouldn’t it be cool? We’d get awesome names from defeating the Fennyield - Chaffinchclaw maybe?”

“Or Chaffinchstrike,” she grinned in response, her expression taking on a wistful air. “...dad would love it. He would be the loudest cat in the crowd.”

“...yeah,” Wrenpaw agreed softly, shifting towards her. “He’d be so loud cats would tell him to shut up.”

They shifted into a gentle silence for a moment, no-one willing to disturb the two of them until a loud yowl rang across the clearing. Cardinalpaw sighed to himself, regretting his decision as he turned an irritated look in the direction of the sound.

“You better go feed the bone-bang,” Jackdawpaw teased, turning his ear away from the yowling.

“You’d think she would be nicer since you’re feeding her” Chaffinchpaw grumbled. “Typical Fennyield - no gratitude.”

Cardinalpaw rose to his paws, stretching his front-legs out in front of him as he flexed his toes. Nettleflower’s yowling was a bit rude but Deerleap had eaten most of the rabbit given to them. She’d needed it, the elder was going to need at least a few moons of consistent feeding to put on some healthy weight but Nettleflower had to still be hungry. He trotted over to the ukennva, ignoring the way Longtail attempted to jeer at him from the side-lines and selected a robin. Turning, he headed back to the place the molly had been placed.

As they weren’t exactly prisoners, Asterdawn and the rank heads had all agreed that it wasn’t worth the time and effort to dust off the prisoner’s barracks - especially when they didn’t have enough spare legionarys to guard the place. With Deerleap so old and frail, it was decided that Spottedholly should watch her as she regained her strength out of worry for the high chances that the molly got sick. Nettleflower on the other hand - though still clearly starving - was in much better shaped and as a result, was placed in plain view of the legionaries and elder’s dens so if she tried anything, every fully trained legionary in the barracks could put her down.

Unfortunately, not only did this give her something to prove, it also gave her an audience to prove it to.

Nice as Cardinalpaw was, he wasn’t going to tolerate her bad attitude towards him. So continuing to ignore the taunting of Longtail, he settled a tail-length from her; a paw placed upon the feathered prey and kept it close to his paws. He started grooming his chest pointedly ignoring her when she tried yowling even louder.

“I am not feeding you until you’ve stopped yelling at me,” Cardinalpaw said idly, dragging his tongue across his paw.

“This is humiliating,” she spat at him, her tail lashing. “I may not be a Fennyield cat anymore but I still have my faction!”

“I don’t care about your faction, I’m just here to feed you,” Cardinalpaw said, rolling his eyes.

“Why do you even care - just leave me alone! I’m not so crippled I need to be watched by the likes of you!”

“You aren’t in your territory anymore - you either eat what I bring you or you starve,” he said bluntly.

She stared at him, her ears still pulled back as she flexed and retracted her claws. On one paw, Cardinalpaw knew that whatever it was she went through would make her wary to trust him - especially with being in the center of an enemy the barracks. On the other paw, the shouting and snapping was getting tiresome when he was already drained of energy so he’d like to put an end to this as quickly as possible.

“...fine,” Nettleflower growled, staring down at her paws.

Cardinalpaw tossed her the robin, watching the molly catch it before it could land. The starving queen tore into it the second she could, devouring it like it would return to life and fly away from her. With a swish of his tail, he dipped his head to inspect her injured leg. Spottedholly had patched the bite marks with cobwebs and spread a strong smelling poultice along the leg. The muscle around the limb twitched, but given that she was moving it, it was at least not broken.

Still, I can’t imagine it feels very good, he muses to himself.

He walked to Spottedholly’s den, looking around for the tortoiseshell molly. He didn’t see her so he walked deeper in, poking his head into the overflow den. His guess was proven correct, the mender was working her way through a small collection of herbs with the elderly molly just within reaching distance if necessary. Cardinalpaw chirruped, announcing his presence as he made his way over.

“Did you need something Cardinalpaw?” she asked with a kind, if tired smile.

He nodded, “So - do you have anything for Nettleflower’s leg? It looks like it still hurts.”

“You bit her good kitty,” Deerleap voiced from her nest.

Cardinalpaw glanced at her while Spottedholly rose to her paws, likely to look through her herb storage. From the sleek and shiny patches smeared across her pelt, the elder had more than just starvation at her paws. None of the patches were too large but they were big enough to be spotted easily - not a cut from brambles or thorns but potentially the markings of claws or a rough fall. His ear twitched as Spottedholly returned with a small bundle of herbs in her mouth.

“It’s very kind of you to look out for others - even when they’re not being very nice to you,” Spottedholly told him.

Cardinalpaw ducked his head in sheepish embarrassment, “Yeah well, she needs the help. Although it is getting annoying to hear ‘kitty this’ and ‘kitty that’ every time I was to help.”

Spottedholly paused in her inspection of Deerleap, a slightly conflicted expression crossing her face before pale green eyes fell on him.

“...what is the right word?”

“Huh?” Cardinalpaw blinked.

“What’s the right thing to call you? I’m a faction cat, a Stormborn cat to be specific and you’re…”

“Oh,” said Cardinalpaw a bit surprised. Four moons into his stay with the Stormborn and Spottedholly was the first cat to ask, to seem to care. “...akyeŕai. It means ‘sun born’ - and you guys are akyeedan, faction born.”

Spottedholly nodded, seeming to be absorbing the words, “I’ll be sure to remember that.” She pushed the pouch of herbs towards him adding, “These are poppy seeds - give her a few to ease the pain. Bring it back if she seems like she’s taking too many.”

“Ya anesina,” slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. He couldn’t help it - the warm kindness in her voice despite the exhaustion in her form was just so familiar. He half-expected to look up and be met with golden brown fur and a gentle tail rested across his back.

“What does that mean?” Spottedholly asked as Cardinalpaw slipped around her.

Cardinalpaw paused still within earshot and glanced over his shoulder, “... older sister.”

Cardinalpaw trotted from the den, a sense of faction filling his chest as he committed the spark of joyous delight breaking through the haze of sadness on Spottedholly’s face to memory.

He hoped Mottletail was happy.

| | |

“Here.”

“Thanks Cardinalpaw…”

Cardinalpaw flicked his tail - Nettleflower still insisted on insulting him but lately they seemed half-hearted, as if she was going through the motions rather than truly meaning it. A good thing really - she seemed less and less stressed out with every passing day which would help with her recovery. His paw touched the damp, slightly disheveled moss that made up her nest with a slight frown.

“We should move your nest,” he mused aloud, eyes flitting across the clearing as he tried to decide on a location. “All this water can’t be good for your creaky old bones.”

“I’m not old!” Nettleflower snapped, glaring up at him from the vole she was swallowing.

Cardinalpaw ignored her, instead slowly beginning to shift the nest towards an overhang not far from the nursery. He’d have to replace the moss later anyway, but the new location would do. He wasn’t too worried about the cubs - Asterdawn had claimed Nettleflower was a queen herself so he figured it wasn’t too much of a risk. And besides, as gentle and kind as Brindleface was, the Head Sitter would absolutely shred any cat who so much as coughed at the nursery threateningly. She and the other sitters would likely be quicker than the guards on the defense.

His ears pricked at the sound of innocent giggling and false snarling, an amused expression crossing his face as he watched the cubs scamper about.

“Feel my claws Styrman!” shrieked one of Daisyflower’s cubs. The cinnamon molly lunged forward, tackling her squealing brother.

“Oh no!” wailed her target dramatically, squirming free of her hold. “The Stormborn is too fierce! Retreat Shorerisen!”

‘The Shorerisen (made of Frostfang’s larger cubs)’ started to scramble back towards the nursery on unstable paws. One of them - a little curly furred tom - tripped over his own legs, tumbling head over tail into Nettleflower. The molly jumped reflexively whipping her head around to bare her teeth.

“Watch it!” she snapped.

The tom squeaked in fright and darted over to Cardinalpaw, hiding his face between his legs. Cardinalpaw ducked his head and gentle scooped him up, carrying him back to the nursery where Frostfang had scooped the rest of her cubs up. Cardinalpaw set his bundle down earning a grateful expression. The white furred molly shot a mutinous glare at Nettleflower, pressed her nose to Cardinalpaw’s cheek then vanished into the nursery with her son.

“Daisyflower’s cubs are getting restless,” Cardinalpaw remarked neutrally, returning to Nettleflower. “It’s about time they start shadowing cadets.”

“Just keep them away from me,” Nettleflower mumbled.

Cardinalpaw tilted his head, “Our Storm said you have your own cubs right?”

“...not anymore Cardinalpaw. The Fennyield have not been a good-place for cubs.”

Cardinalpaw frowned at her sad expression and the way she slunk by him, climbing despondently back into her nest. She didn’t even seem to mind that it was still damp from the morning dew. Whatever had chased her from the Fennyield seemed to be catching up to her. He wondered if her cubs had gotten sick or if they were angry with her for siding with Skua Raggedjaw if their theories about a take-over were true. He pressed his cheek to her shoulder in an attempt to soothe her - she’d been annoying, grouchy and an around pain in the tail these last few days but it hurt to see her so saddened.

“Thanks Cardinalpaw,” she sighed, sinking down a bit further into her nest. “I - could you ask Spottedholly for frog-bile? These fleas are killing me.”

Cardinalpaw trilled his affirmative before pulling away, bounding for Spottedholly’s den. This time the long-furred tortoiseshell was in the front clearing, sorting through the various herbs laid out before her paws.

“Sivaŕai Spottedholly,” he called to her in greeting.

She perked up, turning to him as she sounded out, “si-vo-rai Cardinalpaw.”

“Close,” Cardinalpaw encouraged her. “Sivaŕai.”

Since their little discussion about heritage, Spottedholly had taken to learning a few words in Sivake. She was cautious when she first asked, unsure if she was allowed to learn (apparently the faction’s own Old Tongue was only spoken fluently by menders and sacred ranks) but had jumped in all four paws first when it became clear that Cardinalpaw was happy to teach her. It felt good to have someone in his faction so interested in his home and culture before the factions - even better, her efforts had begun to be noticed by his denmates. He’d even caught Jackdawpaw and Ravenpaw practicing one night in their nests when they thought he was asleep. Spottedholly was steadily getting better - mostly she seemed to stumble over the purred sounds.

“Sivaŕai,” she recited.

“So-ya!” Cardinalpaw purred to her proudly.

“This is harder than I thought,” she laughed lightly, swishing her thick tail. “It felt easier when I was an cadet. Did you need something Cardinalpaw?”

“Just some mousebile for Nettleflower.”

“The fleas are finally showing themselves hm?” Spottedholly mused, rising to her paws. She led the way back towards the gap in the entry-clearing that Cardinalpaw had deciphered led into the herb storage, returning with another small bag (this one smelling of boar leather). Cardinalpaw wrinkled his nose at the pungent was familiar scent touching his nose - the first time he’d smelled mousebile, he’d been torn between gagging and being delighted at finally recognizing the source of the musky undertone that tangled with the chamomile scent that made the faction’s odor so distinct. “Now remember, you only need a little dab to kill the fleas. Place the moss back in the pouch and return it to me or pass it off to another cadet when you’re done. Then wash your paws in a stream not with your tongue. You’ll be cursing Treesoul to your grave if you try to clean the quick way.”

“Of course,” Cardinalpaw said, giving a dramatic shudder as he remembered Wrenpaw neglecting to heed that suggestion. His denmate had gagged the entire night, refusing to eat before he slept and went on dawn patrol hungry. Cardinalpaw would never do that to himself. “Yekiyai Spottedholly.”

He grasped the strap of the bag between his teeth, darting back out into the barracks. He dodged around a couple cats heading for the gorse tunnel and settled back beside Nettleflower. He took the moss, combing through her tangled mess of curly fur searching for the fleas she mentioned while she stared blankly into the distance. A twinge of concern prickled at him and he made a mental note to mention it to Spottedholly - it had been happening more lately and he thinks it was linked to the poppy seeds. He flexed one of his claw, using the curved edge to cut through some of the thicker tangles that he knew for certain couldn’t be freed with only a rasping tongue. It was tedious but from the gentle sigh she released when he was finally able to reach the base of her fur, he thinks it was worth it.

A slightly chilly breeze broke through his coat and his thoughts turned toward the impending suminahrak.

If the Fennyield situation extended for long enough, Nettleflower and Deerleap would likely have to be moved to the prisoner’s the barracks. It would be the only place that satisfied his factionmates of not letting the two ex-Fennyield mollies linger in vulnerable areas of the barracks while also protecting them from the impending snow-fall. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that; the Prisoner’s Camp wasn’t what Fireheart would consider far but it wasn’t exactly close either. He’d heard older cats talk about snow before and if it was truly as bad as it sounded, it would be harder to deliver herbs to them.

“I think that was the last one,” Nettleflower said, dragging him from his thoughts and back to reality. She stretched a little yawning as she twisted around, sniffing her pelt curiously. “Thanks for that maggotpaws, I can handle the rest. Go do whatever it is you cadets do.”

Cardinalpaw purred his goodbyes to her, allowing the molly to begin finishing the task of grooming her pelt. He was leaving the mender’s den again, ready to head off to one of the many streams that rain through Stormborn territory when he was intercepted by Lionbelly.

“Where are you off to Cardinalpaw?” the golden tom inquired.

“Just cleared Nettleflower’s fleas.”

“Ah, off to the nearest body of water then. I’ll let you go, but please try to find one or two things to add to the stash.”

“The stash?”

Lionbelly flicked his thickly furred tail, “Our Storm refuses to let be chased from our home but the fate of the Galespun means we must then be ready for a siege. If we must spend our time trapped in our own the barracks, the Fennyield will not starve us out.”

“Ah,” said Cardinalpaw. It made sense when it was laid out like that though it felt strange for him to be included in such plans. As the second-youngest prince, he often wasn’t included in war-talk like this. Combat and great kingdom security was reserved for his sisters - even if Ahasra had had to fight for her right to be included, it was very transparently a molly thing. Joining the factions was now putting him in the position of having to know all the stuff his sister had been learning herself. “I’ll bring whatever I can carry.”

Lionbelly gave him an approving nod, dismissing him to dart off from the barracks.

It didn’t take him long to find one of the shallow streams flowing peacefully across the ground. He slipped right in, letting it drench his paws and clean any lingering stench of mousebile from his fur. He dropped to the ground, rolling through the water with a light purr as he soaked himself thoroughly, water dripping from his pelt alongside any lingering moss and dirt from being in the cadet’s den. He sat up, drawing his tongue swiftly across his flanks to dry himself; water rippling around his paws slowly.

He was just stepped out of the stream, coat now fluffy and soft from the proper bath when Jackdawpaw and Ravenpaw appeared standing on the ridge above him.

“Uh…” said Ravenpaw, eyes roving over his friend.

“I always thought he was a Shorerisen cat,” Jackdawpaw claimed. “Ever since we talked about Siyeyim - look at his spots!”

Cardinalpaw laughed at Jackdawpaw’s dramatics, walking towards his friends. He flicked some of the water from his paws at them, both of his denmates immediately jumping back with a hiss as Cardinalpaw added, “I was cleaning Nettleflower’s fleas before I came out.”

“Oh mousebile then,” said Ravenpaw with a grimace while Jackdawpaw gagged dramatically behind them. “Good for fleas, terrible for your tongue.”

“You licked it?”

“Wrenpaw dared him,” Jackdawpaw said, snickering. “You were out from a dawn-patrol and we were bored so we were doing stupid dares. He regretted it.”

“It was gross,” Ravenpaw agreed, wrinkling his nose with disdain.

“That was your fault,” Cardinalpaw laughed, earning a shove from his friend.

“So did you get told not to come back without prey too?” Jackdawpaw asked, his fluffy tail curling over itself in thought. “Lionbelly practically pushed me out of the barracks.”

“No in those words but it was implied,” Cardinalpaw admitted.

“Wanna help us then?”

| | |

“Are these are?”

“...dock leaves?”

“Correct - well done Cardinalpaw!”

He purred a little at her praise straightening up. He, Ravenpaw and Jackdawpaw had had a very successful hunting spree. This being the second in only a few days, the hunters had begun jokingly ribbing him about his intentions towards becoming the next head hunter. Jackdawpaw’s words seemed to have held true - with all the rabbits they’d been finding in Stormborn recently, it was unlikely the Fennyield was catching many of them. As it was, all three cadets had dragged one home, draped across their backs with a couple of smaller creatures dangling from their mouths. After being thoroughly praised for their work, Asterdawn had rewarded them with a day off.

Jackdawpaw had gleefully darted off, taking the chance to get a good nap in while Ravenpaw spread his wings as little, choosing to spend time with the slowly settling the Galespun cadets who now insisted on helping their hosts prepare for attack.

Cardinalpaw however had chosen a different route.

With the forest covered in dangers and the understanding that menders can’t be everywhere at once, Stormborn cadets were all taught how to at least recognize most common herbs to be capable of fetching them. They’re even taught how to dress basic wounds to minimize the chances of wounds getting infected before a mender could get to them.

Spottedholly was very patient with him, not getting upset when he confused some herbs with each other; offering small tips and tricks to remembering the minute differences between each of them. She didn’t mind his struggles in remembering what they all did either, just giving him time to think until he could recall for himself and she would praise his efforts anyway. She put the large, slightly rounded green leaves back with the rest of the herbs she planned to leave to dry, grabbing a different collection of small little black seeds.

“Last one,” she said encouragingly.

Cardinalpaw’s ears perked up - he knew these at least.

“Poppy seeds,” he identified, a triumphant note in his tone.

“Correct,” purred Spottedholly. “And they’re for?”

“Dulling pain and encouraging sleep,” Cardinalpaw recited.

“Well done Cardinalpaw,” Spottedholly praised him, turning to set the poppy seeds back into the little pouch she’d poured them from. “You would be a good healer.”

Cardinalpaw’s tail swished as he opened his mouth - he appreciated the praise but being a mender wasn’t in his dreams. Memorizing herbs was one thing but the other aspect - the actual healing part - wasn’t something he was interested in. He planned to say this, attempting to untangle his tongue into a way of communicating his intentions when a hot feeling flooded his body.

His muscles locked up and he found himself frozen in place, a shudder rolling down his spine as he blinked furiously ahead. His eyes darted about in panic, trying to figure out what was happening when a flick of a tail caught his eye. Suddenly released from his equally abrupt petrification, Cardinalpaw whipped around; arching his back in fright. Cats made of shadows - dark and featureless no matter how hard he tried to focus crawled from the ground, charging through the barracks tackling cats make of billowing smoke. Green eyes darted about trying to make sense of the scene - who should he help? Should he help? Was this even a battle he could win?

A distraught scream echoed through the air and he startled, turning with bared teeth towards the sound and reached-

Cardinalpaw’s gaze abruptly focused, a highly concerned Spottedholly staring down at him. His legs felt shaky and weak, like he’d been on a sprint only seconds before. He trembled for a bit longer, his eyes stinging like when he was a cub and rubbed ash on his face by mistake, dropping to the ground; flopping on his side. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, his stomach rolling in his nausea. He grasped at the ground for a bit as the heat clawing through his body began to cool, returning to his usual temperature.

“That was a vision.”

Cardinalpaw looked up tiredly, his flanks still heaving from exhaustion. He blinked tiredly, slowly trying to climb to his paws; swaying a little as he tried to balance himself.

“What?” he asked her blearily, his mind catching up.

“That was a vision,” the healer repeated delighted, though she pushed a lightly damp ball of moss before his muzzle. He accepted it gratefully, lapping weakly and enjoying a deep sigh of relief at the cool water touching his tongue. “You’re a starseer.”

“A what?” he asked.

“A starseer - a cat naturally attuned to the Souls who speak through them!”

He stared blankly for a moment before he translated the truth of the matter - visions and gods speaking through him?

“By the skies,” he groaned, lashing his tail in annoyance. He’d hoped that after coming to the factions, his odd dreams and feelings would stop. And now, he didn’t even have Ahasra to complain about them to and feel heard when she complained about the chilling feeling she gets at random during the day. “This is supposed to only happen to the ovisha.”

“We have to tell Asterdawn,” Spottedholly said eagerly. “And since you don’t have an official pathway it shouldn’t be too hard to get you reassigned-”

“No!” Cardinalpaw blurted out worried, his exhaustion burning out quickly. “I don’t want to swap!”

Spottedholly looked immediately disappointed, her tail slowly lowering from its position of delighted eagerness.

“...you don’t want to be a mender?” she asked.

Cardinalpaw shuffled a little before sighing, “...not really. Seeing cats in pain makes me feel queasy. And I like training as a guard.”

The tortoiseshell seemed even more disappointed - which made him feel bad - but she nodded reluctantly all the same.

“... I still have to tell Asterdawn,” she sighed, glancing towards the entrance. “Starseers have to be reported. But I won’t make you change tracks if you don’t want to.”

Cardinalpaw sighed in relief, “Thank you Spottedholly.”

She ducked her head down, touching her nose to his with a gentle purr. Tension bled from Cardinalpaw’s body at the confirmation that she wasn’t angry with him - he liked spending time with her. Every day she reminded him more and more of his eldest sister - protective, kind and gentle with a fierce streak that others should be wary of. He would hate for this to have ruined what they had. She opened her eyes and pushed a small pile of herbs towards him.

“Take these,” she insisted. “And then get some rest. We can try to work out whatever you say later - you’re dead on your paws.”

He nodded tiredly and pressed his nose to her shoulder in one last show of thanks before staggering from her den. He yawned loudly, ignoring the chuckling from the cats around him at his display of exhaustion and bee-lined for the cadet’s den. He stumbled to his nest between Jackdawpaw and Ravenpaw - already asleep, leaving a place just for him. He stepped inside the gap, curling into Jackdawpaw’s thicker warm coat as his eyes drooped.

He purred to himself when his friend instinctively cuddled closer and fell asleep.

| | |

Kingdom Translations

So | Yes, a sound of affirmation

Akyeŕai | A cat born in the Shining Sun (lit. sun born)

Akyeedan | A cat born into the Soul-Guided, (lit. clan born)

Yekiyai | Thank you

So-ya | Well done, great; a general expression of encouragement (lit. ‘yes yeah’)

Suminahrak | Fall, the harvest season; (lit. harvest peak)

Ovisha | Crown heir, the one who will inherit the throne

Kingdom Culture

Revolt | The (New) Shining Sun was founded on the backs of a rebellion and it feels weird to Cardinalpaw that others wouldn't consider it a viable solution

---

Empire Culture

Amber-Hearted | Referring to the empire god Amberspirit, often referred to as the Savage Side of a legionary; they hold the domains of fear, cruelty, bloodlust and nightmares; amber-hearted refers to a cat corrupted by or acting in accord to Amberspirit’s ways - cruel or violent

Frog-Bile | All of the factions use a different animal's bile to handle the various biting bugs that ail them and it's this difference that gives them their recognizable faction scents.

---

Allegiances | Previous | Next | First

#strelles au #strike the match chapters #strelles ravenpaw #strelles jackdawpaw #strelles quietpaw #strelles chaffinchpaw #strelles cardinalpaw #strelles wrenpaw #strelles nettleflower #strelles spottedholly

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usagii-bun · 21 days ago

Text

someone to protect — b. Reynolds [part 1]

𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 彡 you only came to the grocery store for bread. you didn’t expect to run into the man who once broke into your apartment, stole your tv, and fled through your window with second-degree ramen burns. and you definitely didn’t expect that same man—now shaggy, awkward, and uncomfortably familiar—to be dragged into your life again by a booming russian in a red tracksuit who insists on borscht and redemption dinners.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 彡attempt at comedy, mentions of past drug addiction (meth use and overdose), violence, language, and mature content in future chapters (including trauma-related themes and emotional intimacy). Please read with care !

if you prefer to read it on wattpad 🔗

word count: 6.1k

enjoy !

The grocery store’s air-conditioning blasted cold enough to raise goosebumps on your arms, a sharp contrast to the muggy New York summer outside. You shivered, rubbing your forearms as you grabbed a basket and drifted through the isles. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a bright, sterile hum that matched the strained pulse in your temple. You needed to focus. Just stick to the list. Get in, get out.

First on the list: bread. You turned down the bakery aisle, weaving through a pair of kids wrestling over a trolley like it was a prized race car. You wondered, just briefly, if one of them might suddenly turn into a super-soldier and crash into the shelves. You caught yourself. That paranoia had been creeping up ever since that day, and you had to admit it was exhausting.

Two months. Two months since the floor beneath your desk had cracked open like a jaw, spilling glass and drywall onto the street below. Two months since you had stumbled through the smoke and the alarms, clutching your laptop and half-eaten sandwich, your brain caught in a vicious loop of your worst memory, replaying over and over like a scratched CD.

You gripped the handle of your basket tighter, nails digging into the cheap plastic. You’d made it out just in time to watch a helicopter tilt sideways into the third floor, shattering the windows of the office you’d been sitting in minutes earlier. You remembered the heat, the blinding white flash of the rotors slicing through glass and steel, the rush of air that had nearly pulled you back into the chaos. You hadn’t been able to process it then, and you weren’t sure you could now.

You drew in a slow, steady breath, blinking back to the present as you grabbed a loaf of sourdough. Focus. You had more pressing problems than intrusive memories. Like rent. Or the fact that your employer had declared bankruptcy two days after the incident, leaving you and the rest of your department with nothing but a final, pitying group email about “unprecedented circumstances.” You scoffed, shoving the bread into your basket a bit too hard.

Moving into the canned goods aisle, you scanned the shelves for soup, your eyes lingering on the discount labels. You were still trying to convince yourself that this whole unemployment thing would be a short-term inconvenience, but your bank account said otherwise. You hadn’t even had the energy to look for a new job yet. The idea of sitting in another sterile, glass-panelled office, tapping away at spreadsheets while waiting for the next disaster to strike, felt like a cruel joke.

You turned the corner, debating the merits of tomato versus chicken noodle, when you nearly crashed into a broad chest that felt as solid as a concrete pillar. You jerked back, your basket swinging dangerously close to clipping your own hip and looked up.

The man you’d almost barrelled into towered over you, his shaggy, overgrown hair brushing the collar of his thick, grey cardigan. It hung loose on his frame, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing surprisingly defined, sinewy muscles that stretched the wool in a way that suggested he was used to lifting more than just grocery bags. His eyes, a stormy mix of grey and blue, blinked down at you with a hint of surprise, like he hadn’t expected to be standing here either.

“Oh,” he said, his voice soft and unsure, like someone who rarely spoke first. His hand reached out instinctively as if to steady you, fingers hovering just a breath away from your shoulder before he hesitated, withdrawing his arm like it might burn him.

You blinked up at him, something niggling at the back of your mind. He looked… familiar. Not just in the ‘guy you pass on the street every day’ kind of way, but in a way that prickled at the edges of an old, half-forgotten memory. You stared at his face, the scruffy jawline, the faint scar along his cheekbone, the haunted, cautious eyes that flicked away the second they met yours.

You knew this face.

You knew his face.

Your pulse stuttered.

Then it hit you. The flicker of a greasy hoodie pulled tight around a gaunt, desperate face, a figure silhouetted in the light of your open fridge, a whispered, frantic apology cut off by a steaming cup of ramen splattering across a narrow, bony back.

“Oh my god,” you said, your voice coming out more breathless than you intended.

His eyes widened, a deer-in-headlights kind of terror flashing across his face.

“It’s you.”

“Uh…” He took a half-step back, one hand coming up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It’s… me?”

“Yeah, you.” You jabbed a finger into his chest, immediately regretting it as your finger hit something disturbingly solid beneath the wool. You winced, pulling your hand back quickly, masking the sharp sting with a tight scowl. “You’re the one who broke into my apartment and stole my TV a few years back!”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He blinked once, twice, then seemed to shrink a little into his cardigan, eyes flicking to the side as if he might find an escape route between the rows of chicken noodle and tomato soup.

“Oh. Oh.” He grimaced, his ears turning an impressive shade of pink. “Uh, yeah. I’m… I’m really sorry about that.” He stammered, rubbing his arm awkwardly. “I-I told you I’d replace it.”

You scoffed as you remembered his desperate face twisted with pain from the hot noodles that was thrown at his back, his words barely coming out coherent. “Yeah, well, that’s hard to believe from the guy who bolted out my window with a 43-inch flatscreen and a bad case of ramen burns.”

He flinched, a guilty look crossing his face as he glanced down at his shoes. “Yeah… I deserved that.” You were about to snap back, something cutting and cathartic, when a booming, heavily accented voice echoed down the aisle.

“Bob! There you are my friend!”

You turned, just in time to see a massive, bear-like figure stomping toward you, arms outstretched like he was about to crush the both of you in a bone-cracking bear hug.

Bob turned a little, his head dropping like a guilty puppy. “Oh no…”

The mountain of a man, dressed in a bright red tracksuit and sporting a bushy beard, clapped a meaty hand down on Bob’s shoulder, nearly sending him to his knees. “I have been looking for you everywhere! What are you doing here, hiding among the soup cans like a little mouse?”

You blinked, your mind struggling to keep up. You do know now that the man who stole your TV is named Bob, such a peculiar name.

Alexei’s grip on Bob’s shoulder tightened, his thick fingers nearly disappearing into the oversized grey cardigan, and for a moment, you almost felt a little sorry for the guy. Almost. The big Russian’s bearded face split into a grin, his eyes twinkling like he’d just found an old friend in the canned soup aisle.

“Ah, Bob! Did you find the canned corn ?” he boomed, his deep, accented voice carrying down the aisle and probably into the frozen foods section.

You took a small, instinctive step back, watching as Bob visibly shrank beneath the older man’s enthusiastic grasp. Alexei’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, almost childlike excitement. Without warning, he released Bob’s shoulder, reaching into his shopping basket as he brought it up, the box crinkling slightly in his massive hand.

“Look, look!” He leaned in towards you, jabbing a thick finger at the front of the box. “You recognize this?”

You blinked, leaning in despite yourself. The box was a generic-looking brand, the kind that’s always on sale but no one actually buys unless they’re desperate or trying to save a few dollars. The front featured a group of people, posing – Alexei’s finger pointing at a specific man.

You glanced at the person he was pointing at on the box, then back at him. Then back at the box. Then at Bob, who had gone a peculiar shade of pink beneath his scruffy, overgrown hair, his eyes fixed on the tiled floor like he wished he could disappear into it.

The Red Guardian’s grin only grew wider as he watched your confused expression, his finger tapping insistently on the printed image.

“See? See? You recognize, yes?” He straightened, puffing out his chest as if to match the image on the box. You blinked again, torn between second-hand embarrassment and a bizarre kind of awe. “Uh… yeah.” You muttered out, fingers awkwardly playing with the handle of your shopping basket.

His eyes sparkled, clearly thrilled by the recognition. “Yes, yes! You know me!” throwing his hands up causing you and Bob to flinch at the sudden burst of movement.

You tilted your head, watching as he posed with one fist on his hip, the cereal box still clutched in his other hand like it was the Olympic torch. “Red… something?”

He leaned in closer, his beard twitching with anticipation, like a giant, overeager bear.

“Red… Guardian?” you finished, half-question, half-statement.

He slammed the box down onto the edge of the nearest shelf, the impact making the metal rattle and the box to tremble. “Yes! Red Guardian!” he roared, clearly pleased with himself. You took a step back, fingers tightening around your grocery basket. This guy had the energy of a particularly loud uncle at a family barbecue, the kind that smacks you on the back hard enough to make you lose your breath.

“And you?” He pointed at you now, his massive hand blocking out half your vision. “You, what is your name?”

You hesitated, glancing at Bob, who was now staring resolutely at the floor tiles, his shoulders hunched like a child expecting a scolding. You felt a strange, uncomfortable twist in your gut, that same old unease from the ramen incident years ago prickling at the back of your mind.

“It’s, uh…” You cleared your throat, feeling oddly exposed under the Red Guardian’s intense, expectant stare. You croaked out your name, this also catching Bob’s attention, the both of you making eye contact but he quickly broke it off when you glared at him.

Alexei beamed your name out loud, rolling the name around in his mouth like a fine wine. “Beautiful name! Strong name!” He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing down the aisle, his gaze now falling on Bob

“And how do you know our Bob here?” he asks, the grin on his face not disappearing.

Your eyes slid back to Bob, who was now shuffling his feet, his hair falling into his eyes as he fidgeted with the fraying edge of his cardigan sleeve. You squinted at him, a sudden flash of irritation tightening your jaw. Right. You remembered exactly how you knew this guy.

“Oh, Bob here,” you said, making sure to put a lot of emphasis on his name long with letting a hint of your old anger creep into your tone, “stole my TV a few years back.” You scoffed out, you did not have a TV for a good few months and you was just a struggling college student.

Red Guardian’s smile froze, his thick eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. His gaze snapped to Bob, who winced, his ears turning an even deeper shade of red.

“Bob,” Red Guardian said slowly, his thick, bushy eyebrows knitting together in a mock expression of fatherly disappointment. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a loud, exaggerated whisper that still echoed down the aisle. “You did this?”

Bob flinched, his head jerking up as he stammered, “I-I, uh, I told her I’d replace it!” He shot you a panicked, pleading look, his hands wringing the hem of his cardigan like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, yeah. Right before you dove out my window with my flatscreen under your arm!” you pointed your index finger towards him in an excusing manner watching as he flinched at his, your brows furrow at this…he seemed like someone who is always on edge.

Red Guardian made a deep, disapproving sound in his throat, his head shaking slowly as he clapped a heavy hand down on Bob’s shoulder once again, making the man visibly wince.

“Tsk, tsk, Bob. This is no good.” He turned back to you, his eyes sparkling with a kind of mischievous, paternal glee. “He must make this right, yes? Repay his debt. Prove he is a good man! And no longer bad chicken Bob!” he exclaims out loud, your even more confused now.

‘Chicken Bob?’

Before you could protest, the Red Guardian’s grip tightened on Bob’s shoulder, his other hand sweeping towards you in a grand, magnanimous gesture. “Bob, you must invite this fine woman to dinner. Show her that you are reformed, yes?”

“W-wait, what?” Bob’s eyes shot wide, his face blanching beneath his scruffy beard.

“Yes, yes!” Red Guardian barrelled on, clearly delighted with his own idea. “You will come to dinner with us, yes?” He turned to you, his eyes bright, his grin nearly splitting his face in two. “It will be great honour to have such a strong, brave woman in our home. We make great borscht! Very delicious!”

You opened your mouth to object, to point out that you still had half a grocery list to get through, not to mention a few years of lingering resentment towards the man who had once made off with your only decent piece of electronics, but the Red Guardian’s booming voice cut you off.

“Come, come! Do not worry about groceries. I will make you borscht. Bob will show you he is a good man. Yes, Bob?”

Bob made a small, strangled sound, his eyes flicking between you and the Red Guardian like a trapped animal.

“Uh… y-yeah?” he managed, his voice so small it was almost swallowed by the grocery store’s humming lights.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the Red Guardian was already steering you and Bob towards the exit, the cereal box abandoned on the shelf behind you, his booming voice echoing through the aisles.

“Come, come, we will have great feast! You will see, Bob is very good man now!”

You shot Bob a sharp, exasperated look as you stumbled along beside them, your brain still scrambling to catch up. How the hell had this become your life?

⊹

The walk to the Watch Tower – the tower that now housed the ‘new’ avengers - was mercifully short, though it felt longer than it was with the Red Guardian practically booming with every step, his heavy boots clapping against the pavement like a small parade. The morning air was crisp, the sun cutting through the towering glass and steel around you, casting long, sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. You managed to get your groceries- Alexei insisting to pay for them as you clutched the bag tighter, the contents rustling softly against your leg as you tried to keep pace with the oversized man beside you.

Every few steps, you felt Bob’s presence behind you, shuffling quietly, his cardigan sleeves pulled down over his hands like a nervous schoolboy. You caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glossy glass doors as they reached the base of the tower, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before darting away again.

He still looked like a ghost of a man, all messy, unkempt hair and slouched shoulders, you almost felt bad for him, but the memory of your missing TV kept you firmly on the side of irritated.

Alexei, however, was in a world of his own, practically vibrating with energy as he slapped his massive palm against the sleek, polished metal of the tower’s entrance, his voice echoing off the glass.

“Come, come! We are home now!” He gestured grandly for you to enter, his broad, calloused hand sweeping towards the sliding glass doors.

You hesitated, glancing up at the towering structure. The sleek, reflective surface stretched up into the cloudless sky, the sunlight catching on the edges of a large A near the top. You swallowed, feeling a flicker of nervousness and nostalgia – you had been here before, long ago – work purposes, memories you just wanted to tuck away.

Before you could fully process the absurdity of the situation, the Red Guardian had already marched through the doors, his heavy boots clanking against the marble floors inside, leaving you and Bob to awkwardly shuffle in behind him.

The lobby was cavernous, the high ceilings stretching upwards like a cathedral, glass and steel arching around you in a way that felt both futuristic and oppressive. Soft, ambient music hummed through hidden speakers, the faint, sterile scent of air conditioning tingling in your nose. You glanced over at Bob, who was still staring at his shoes, his long, bony fingers twisting into the frayed edges of his cardigan sleeves.

You shifted your grocery bag to your other hand, your fingers starting to ache from the weight. Alexei was already jabbing at the elevator button with one thick, impatient finger, muttering something in rapid Russian under his breath as he waited for the doors to open.

With a soft ding, the elevator slid open, its brushed steel doors parting like the jaws of some enormous, metallic beast. Alexei stepped inside without hesitation, gesturing for you and Bob to follow.

You stepped in, feeling the air turn colder as the doors slid shut behind you. The soft, mechanical whirr of the elevator filled the silence as Alexei punched in the floor number, his massive knuckles practically dwarfing the tiny, glowing buttons.

For a moment, the only sounds were the gentle hum of the elevator and the faint rustle of your grocery bag as you adjusted it against your hip. You glanced sideways at Bob, who was staring intently at the corner of the elevator, his face a study in nervous concentration.

You tightened your grip on the bag, the plastic cutting into your fingers as you felt a fresh wave of irritation bubble up. How the hell had this guy gone from petty TV thief to… whatever the hell this was? You eyed him again, trying to reconcile the image of the jittery, scrawny man beside you with the half-forgotten memory of him scrambling out your window, your flatscreen clutched awkwardly in his arms.

The Red Guardian’s deep, rumbling voice cut through the silence like a hammer on glass. “Ah, Yelena will be so happy to meet you! Maybe you and her can be friends, yes? She needs more friends” He gave you a broad, toothy grin, his beard twitching as he chuckled to himself. “And you, Bob, you should also make more friends. You are too quiet, like a little ghost.”

Bob made a small, strangled sound, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for the briefest of moments before darting away again. You scowled, your fingers tightening around the grocery bag handle.

You shifted awkwardly, your eyes darting around the room as the uncomfortable silence stretched on. You felt Bob’s presence beside you, his hand twitching slightly as if he wanted to shove his hands into his pockets but was too nervous to move.

The elevator ride felt long- longer then you remembered. Finally, you shot him a sharp, sideways glance, Alexei was humming something in Russian lost in his own world as you lowered your voice to a harsh whisper. “How the hell did you end up here?”

Bob’s eyes widened, his head jerking up like a startled deer. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stammered, “I-I… it’s a long story.”

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the weight of the forgotten ramen incident settling heavily in your chest. “I did not know the b-vengers also took on petty thieves” you muttered, your grip tightening on your grocery bag.

Bob’s head tilted slightly, the harsh white light casting faint shadows across the sharp lines of his face. Your words stung like a bandit aid being ripped, his hair hung loose around his shoulders, a little too long, a little too messy, and his jaw tightened at your words. He tried his best to block memories of his past, breaking into peoples homes- stealing their valuables- all in order to buy meth – to get high.

“It’s… complicated,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking down to his scuffed boots.

You huffed, eyes narrowing further. “Complicated? You broke into my apartment and stole my TV. That’s not complicated, that’s just petty crime.”

Before Bob could sputter out a response, the elevator gave a soft chime and the doors slid open, revealing the sprawling lounge of the Avengers Tower. The space was sleek and modern, polished floors reflecting the city lights streaming in from the tall glass windows. Low, comfortable couches were scattered around, and a massive screen dominated one wall, currently flashing muted news headlines.

A lady with short blonde hair spots the three of you her sharp, curious eyes immediately locked onto the three of you as she crossed the room, her genie pig clutched in one hand, its tiny paws scrabbling against her fingers. She cocked her head, blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she sized you up, her expression unreadable before she turned to look towards Bob and Alexei.

“You do know you need to inform me first before you go anywhere with Bob, dad ?” she asked her voice laced with annoyance as Alexei gives her a sheepish grin.

“The boy needed the fresh air; thought grocery shopping will help him out.” He states, Bob just nervously standing next to him – Yelena gives the two a small smile – her dad was with Bob, she should not worry that much but at the same time her father has a blabber mouth and says things a bit too quickly before he thinks- which could trigger Bob.

Her gave now falls back on you as you were standing awkwardly through that little conversation, the urge to just run out, to disappear was becoming greater as her eyes locked with yours- stern.

“Dad,” she said, her tone clipped, her gaze still not leaving you. “You know you can’t just bring strangers in here.” Alexei’s face brightened, as if this was exactly the response he’d been hoping for. He clasped his large hands together, making the genie pig in Yelena’s grip flinch.

“Relax, Yelena. Bob here needs to make up for a mistake,” he said, clapping a massive hand down on Bob’s shoulder, making him flinch slightly. “And I thought, what better way than a dinner? A little easier on the champ.” He gave Bob a hearty shake, his bicep bulging as he grinned before he says he needs to prepare dinner in an excited tone, rushing to what you assume is the kitchen.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed further, her suspicion deepening as she looked from you and then to the clearly mortified Bob, who was steadily turning a deep shade of pink.

“What did he do?” she asked, eyes locking onto you, clearly expecting some explanation for this odd little reunion.

You didn’t miss the way Bob’s shoulders tightened, his jaw clenching as if bracing for impact. For a second, you considered letting him squirm a little longer, but the memory of your old, second-hand TV, the one you’d scrimped and saved for, flashed through your mind.

“He stole my TV a few years back,” you said, keeping your tone as casual as you could, but not quite managing to keep the bite out of your voice.

Yelena did not seem phased by what you had said as if its something of the normal as she turns towards him. ‘Did he steal her TV too ? is this a normal ? why are these ‘avengers’ so casual with a petty thief ?’ you thought, you must wanted to go home now.

“Bob,” she said, her voice soft and calm as if she switched off her scary demeanour to calm and soft one- just for him, just for Bob.

“You stole a TV?”

Bob shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, his face a deep, blotchy red. He muttered something under his breath, eyes firmly fixed on the floor, his broad shoulders almost curling in on themselves.

“Wow,” Yelena said, leaning back, clearly enjoying this. “You really are full of surprises, Bob”

Bob’s head dropped lower, and you could practically feel the waves of embarrassment radiating off him.

“ It was when I was on meth!” he quickly justifies, your eyes widen slightly at this new found information, that actually explains a lot. “I-I needed cash so I used to steal stuf-f” he stammered out his eyes now locking with yours, a guilty expression on his face but his eyes were soft and sincere “and I’m really sorry I stole your TV, I did not want to but the voic-” “Okay Bob, that’s enough you don’t need to explain yourself anymore, what has been done in the past is in the past, you don’t have to worry, right?” Yelena had caught him off, her gaze now hard on you, trying to intimidate you into saying right- you looked at her as she wrapped a hand around his wrist- not in a forceful manner but in a way to comfort him ? then you looked at him, his eyes seemed distant, he seemed to be drifting – something was not right as you gazed back to Yelena, her gaze still cold and hard on you as if telling you to go along with her.

You took a deep breath in; a small smile stretches on your face. “Right, the past in the past” you said as sweet as you could , Yelena letting out a breath she did not even know she was holding, Bob’s eyes flickering towards you, a slight shine to them.

What is wrong with him ?

“After all, to be here with the new avengers means you have done something super good” you said, you tried not to sound sarcastic, but Bob seemed to be like a deer caught in headlights, his mind slightly spiralling.

‘You are only here so that you don’t become a threat to others’ a voice, no- its voiced whispered in his ear – his breath hitching, eyes turning glassy. Yelena noticed this quickly, a hand wrapping around his shoulder.

“Why don’t we go and sit down ? huh ? Bob? Lets go have a seat, you can pet Cucumber!” she says all of this out quickly as she lead Bob to the couch, your gaze followed them, next to the couch was a guinea pig – ginger and white, it was lazily seated on a mini pillow before being gently grabbed by Yelena- the guinea pig let out a small ‘pip’ before it was placed in Bob’s hands.

“Here pet Cucumber – think happy thoughts!” Yelena says, you just watched all of this happen awkwardly with your grocery bag making your fingers red, why the hell was this woman babying this grown ass man ? was the first thought that came to mind – Yelena’s gaze snapped towards you, her head cocking towards the couch.

“Sit.” Her voice was stern, this caused you to gulp as you made your way almost tripping on the rug towards the couch. ‘God, did I do something wrong?’ you really wanted to go home now, your heart was beating fast.

You sink into the far end of the couch, the soft cushions sagging beneath you as the worn fabric creaks under your weight. Your grocery bags rustle as you set them down beside you, the thin plastic crinkling sharply in the quiet room. Bob hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking to you, then quickly away, before his gaze falls back on cucumber – who was happily sat on his lap. His knees bend stiffly, his limbs too long for the small space, and the fabric of his oversized cardigan bunches awkwardly around his wrists, the sleeves slipping down to cover his knuckles as he gently brushes his thumb on the animal.

For a moment, he just stares at his fingers, his thumbs rubbing slow, nervous rhythm on Cucumbers head, his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. You catch a faint tremble in his hands, the slight, uneven twitch of his fingers - it’s a small thing, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention, but you catch it – the subtle, constant fidgeting, the way his breath hitches slightly whenever you glance his way.

Yelena sighs a breath of relief as if she had just stopped a bomb from exploding - she perches herself on the armrest, her arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly scratching at a threadbare patch in the upholstery. The tiny guinea pig in Bob’s lap, sniffs at the air, its tiny pink nose twitching as it detects the faint, salty scent of your groceries.

Yelena tilts her head, her sharp green eyes flicking between you and Bob, catching the tension that crackles faintly in the air. Her gaze now falling on the paperwork that was scattered on the desk, a groan escaping past her lips “I thought Bucky was going to handle this” she sighs out annoyedly – it was mission reports that Valentina wanted back. Yelena thumbed through them, she knew her dad would want to do it but she don’t really trust him because he will say he is going to do it but ends up doing something else, Ava does not want to do them by choice, Walker – well he will straight up say no, and Bucky offers to do it but is also busy with his congress stuff and her? Well, it’s just tedious.

Yelena’s accent thick but her tone light, as if she’s trying to ease the awkwardness settling around you, “we really should get a personal assistant. Valentina keeps dumping more and more crap on us.” She mutters more so to herself, feeling a headache forming while she stares at the cluttered coffee table, where stacks of mission reports and loose paperwork spill over the edges, threatening to slide onto the floor. One particularly crumpled page still bears the faint outline of tiny teeth marks – Cucumber’s latest snack, no doubt.

You heard what she had said, the need for a personal assistant, maybe you could just add your little two cents as you let out a soft, bitter chuckle, your fingers curling tightly around the thin plastic handles of your grocery bags. “A personal assistant, huh?” you murmur, leaning back into the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot among the lumpy cushions. You catch Bob’s shoulders tensing slightly, his head ducking lower.

“Well,” you continue, tilting your head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at your lips as you glance at Bob, trying to break the awkward tension “I could assist you with that.” You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, “And maybe Bob can help me get the job, you know, as a favour. Since he did steal my TV.” You still did not want to let go of the whole TV stealing incident, this seemed to irk Yelena now.

“I don’t think we would need a girl plucked from the grocery store to be our personal assistant, especially one still hung up on a stolen TV from years ago.” She states, her voice clipped, each word a precise cut. “ Besides, I highly doubt you have the …mindset for such fields”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back a little “Depends on the field” you reply, tone light but your eyes sharp, catching the subtle shift in Yelena’s posture. “You’d be surprised what some of us pick up along the way”

Bob’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and startled, his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to find his voice. For a moment, he looks like a cornered animal, his dark eyes flicking nervously between you and Yelena, his fingers twisting together with renewed urgency.

Before Yelena could respond – her eyes held suspicion, Alexei bursts through the kitchen doors – the smell of food, seeping through as he grins widely.

“The dinner is ready!”

The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall, glass walls of the penthouse, casting long, slanting beams across the polished marble floors. The city below pulsed with life, a distant hum of engines and faint, echoing car horns rising from the streets, muffled by the thick, soundproof glass. The air inside was cooler, tinged with the faint, lingering scent of ozone from the tower’s advanced air filtration system.

Mel leaned against the glass railing, a sleek, black tablet balanced on her forearm, the screen flickering with a steady stream of security alerts. Valentina stood beside her, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of dark coffee, her expression sharp and slightly irritated, her eyes locked on the swirling security feed.

“Please tell me it’s not another one of Alexei’s weird karaoke nights,” Valentina muttered, her voice low, the edges of her words sharpened by a hint of annoyance. “Last time, it was that poor Pizza guy, and I still don’t know how he ended up in a Spider-Man onesie, belting out ‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me’ at three in the morning.”

Mel smiled slightly, tilting the tablet slightly to catch the glint of the overhead lights. “No, nothing like that. But… well, we might have a situation. Look at this.” She tapped the screen, the security footage flickering as the camera angles shifted, closing in on the lounge below.

Valentina’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene – Yelena’s wary posture, Bob’s hunched shoulders, and you, perched awkwardly at the end of the couch, your fingers still curled tightly around the crinkling plastic handles of your grocery bag, the faint sheen of sweat dotting your hairline despite the cool, climate-controlled air.

Valentina watched the security camera, a scoff leaving past her lips at Yelena complain about simple paperwork and you talking about being their personal assistant. Your face away from the camera, your hair obscuring your face.

“why does Alexei bring random civilians to the tower? Gosh, Mel please add that I need to give them a warning on that – especially to that Red Guardian” she could feel a headache forming, ever since she announced the bunch of morally grey ‘heroes’ as the new avengers, her days of peace had been short – needing to cater to every single one of their demands.

She was just about to tell Mel, that she did not want to see anymore until your face came into view - Valentina’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly as she took in the scene, her pulse quickening, a faint, instinctive prickle of suspicion tightening the muscles along the back of her neck.

“Wait,” she said, her voice low, her fingers tightening around the edge of her coffee mug. “Zoom in on the girl. Let me see her face.”

Mel hesitated, then swiped a finger across the screen, the pixels tightening around your face, capturing the faint crease between your brows, the annoyed twist of your lips, the dark, smudged shadows beneath your eyes.

Valentina’s breath hitched, her sharp eyes locking onto your face, the faintest flicker of recognition sparking in her gaze.

“Run facial recognition,” she snapped, her tone low, the sharp, edge creeping back into her voice.

The screen flickered, the system processing the command, the dull, mechanical hum of the tablet filling the brief, breathless silence. Then, with a soft chime, the results flashed across the glass, lines of text scrolling rapidly, the bright red banner of a classified file pulsing at the top with your picture on the left-hand side.

NAME: [Your Name]

ROLE: Strategic Planner, Stark Industries

PROJECT: [REDACTED] - Experimental Weapon Development (Scrapped)

STATUS: Resigned, Position Vacated

Valentina’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips, her fingers curling around the edge of the tablet.

“Well, well,” she murmured, her eyes still locked on your face, frozen in a moment of nervous laughter beside Yelena.

“Maybe the New Avengers do need a personal assistant after all.”

Author’s note

I’m so sorry if this feels rusheddd, I just wanted to get my ideas out uahajw but but I’m excited – reader is slightly a beech but but she will redeem herself!! I promise hehe

Please do leave a like, comment, reblog - would very much appreciate

Also if you would like to be added to the tag list comment below !!

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lacydollette · 7 months ago

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⋆˙⟡ BLESSING IN DISGUISE ⋆˙⟡

CHAPTER TWO

PAIRING lovely kook!reader x jj maybank

SUMMARY after reconnecting with your childhood best friend sarah, she introduces you to the pogues, and one of them definitely strikes your interest more than he should’ve

WARNING(S) slightly suggestive, jj being a flirt, kook x pogue dynamics, kie lowkey being a hater, mentions of readers and rafes past, spin the bottle, mentions of alcohol, kissing

The golden coast of Kildare Island's sunset painted the sky as Sarah guided you down the dirt path toward John B's chateau, feeling a bit anxious. After all your life wasn’t like any of theirs, and that scared you a bit. "Just... don't let JJ get to you. He's... well, you'll see." She warned you, knowing that her friend would try to hit on you every chance he got. You smirked, tucking your wavy hair behind your ear. "You're acting like I'm not used to guys like him. Trust me, I've handled worse."

Yet you couldn't stop the flood of nerves rolling through your body. Coming back to Kildare was one thing; entering the world of Sarah's pogues was another. For someone like you—Rafe’s ex, and being a "kook" in every sense of the word—this was like walking into enemy territory.

You couldn’t help but think of Rafe as you walked along the chunky trail, to him the pogues were always equal to filthy animals, so knowing that Sarah was now one of them made you curious. Of course, just like Rafe, you used to stay away from pogues, maybe with one exception, but that didn’t matter now. You were taught that your worlds shouldn’t mix, that it wouldn’t work, but knowing just how pathetic your old life was, it maybe wouldn’t be too bad of an idea.

Your little boots crunched against the gravel as you took in the sight before you: a quiet run down house that looked like it had survived one hurricane too many, mismatched furniture scattered across the yard, and a group of teens lounging in the chaos like it was their kingdom. As you stepped onto the property, a tall, blonde boy was the first to notice you, his face lighting up in surprise and excitement. He jumped down from where he'd been sitting and strode over, his grin wide.

"Dammit Sarah, if I had known that you'd bring over a goddess I would've put on less clothes." JJ drawled, his blue eyes locked on you. Now you definitely knew what Sarah was talking about. Nothing you couldn’t handle tho. Before you could respond, Sarah stepped between you, rolling her eyes. "JJ, seriously? Don't scare her off five seconds in.”

"Just being friendly," JJ said, holding his hands up in mock innocence. His eyes didn't leave yours, though, and you couldn't help the faint warmth rising in your cheeks. He was super hot. And you were definitely amused by his charm, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. "And you must be the rowdy pogue with a reputation to match." You replied smoothly. JJ seemed a bit taken aback, and his grin widened, clearly enjoying the challenge.

"Guilty as charged. But don't worry, I'm harmless... mostly."

"Come on," Sarah said, dragging you toward the group. "Before he says something even dumber." Getting closer to the group, Kiara was the first to get up. She crossed her arms over her chest, her sharp eyes piercing through you, feeling skeptical. "So, you're y/n."

"Guilty," you said, echoing JJ's words with a playful shrug. You extended a hand. "It's nice to meet you." Kiara hesitated before shaking your hand. "Yeah, nice to meet you too." Her words were clipped, and you didn't miss the side eye Kiara shot at Sarah. But you didn’t judge her, after all you were kind of skeptical too.

Luckily the rest of the introductions went smoother. Pope was polite but distracted, and John B—Sarah's new boyfriend—was laid-back and welcoming, though his smile carried a hint of curiosity, like he was trying to figure you out. But it was JJ who lingered, his gaze following your every move, his flirty comments never far behind. It felt all so exciting.

"So, y/n," JJ said as you all settled into your seats, beers in hand. "What's a kook princess like you doing slumming it with us?" Sarah shot him a warning look, but you just smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know, hm?" JJ laughed, clearly enjoying the way you confronted him, while Kiara rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

As the evening wore on, the tension in the air began to ease. You found yourself laughing at John B's ridiculous stories, paired with JJ's enthusiasm, and even getting a nod of approval from Pope when you mentioned your favorite book. Kiara, however, remained a mystery to you.

"Alright, truth or dare time," JJ announced suddenly, grabbing a bottle from the sand. "No backing out." Kiara groaned, “Oh, come on.” though she didn't move to leave.

The first few rounds were tame, the dares harmless and the truths revealing just enough to keep things fun. Then the bottle landed on JJ. "Oh, here we go," Pope muttered, earning a laugh from the group.

JJ leaned back, spreading his arms like he was owning the place. "Hit me, baby." He smirked, eyes locked on you as a devilishly, alcohol fueled, idea came to your mind. You just couldn’t hold back, lips curling into a mischievous smile. "I dare you to kiss me."

The whole group fell silent, every eye darting between you and JJ. Even the fire seemed to flicker in response, the crackling flames being the only sound. JJ blinked, his grin faltering for a moment. "Wait—what?"

"You heard me," you said, voice steady. Your confidence was unshaken, though your heart was pounding in your chest. You weren’t even sure where the boldness had come from, but there was no taking it back now. Sarah laughed, burying her face in her hands. "Oh my god, y/n."

"Bold move," JJ said, his surprise melting into amusement. "I like it." He stood, brushing the sand off his jeans, and walked over to you. The air felt electric as he crouched down in front of you, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

"You sure about this, kook girl?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Scared?" You shot back, smirk growing. JJ didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, he closed the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but shy. It was heated, bold, and left no room for misinterpretation.

The group erupted in cheers and whistles, John B's voice cutting through the noise. "JJ, what the hell, man?" As he kissed you there was an unspoken pull, the desire obvious in both of your movements. It felt good kissing him, really good, so when he pulled back you couldn’t help but pout a little. Yet his grin was even bigger. "You asked for it."

You laughed, cheeks warm, but you didn't flinch under the group's teasing. If anything, you leaned into it, your confidence high. You hadn't expected to feel this at ease with JJ, and his charm that ran just a little wild. It was different, and strangely, you liked it.

As the game continued, the bottle spun and landed on you. Not hesitating to pick truth, knowing you couldn't dodge forever and also not wanting to be a spoilsport. Kiara, who had been quiet for most of the night, leaned forward, her expression serious. "Why did you leave Kildare?"

The question hung in the air, and your earlier smile faltered. You felt your throat tighten, glancing at the flames and wishing you could disappear into the sparks. You hadn't exactly planned on going into your past tonight.

Sensing your tension, Sarah quickly jumped in, squeezing your hand. "Y/n went through a rough time," she explained, her voice softer than usual. "There was... a lot going on, and it was all a bit much. You all know how my family can be." She paused, eyes on the fire, then added, "And, uh... y/n dating my brother didn't help. It got... toxic, real fast."

Everyone went quiet, and you felt their eyes on you, shock written across their faces. Yup, somehow it’s always been a shocker for others when they found out you two used to date, cause now you both couldn’t be any more different from each other. Or weren’t you?

"You... and Rafe?" Kiara's voice was laced with surprise, though it held a hint of understanding now—maybe even sympathy. "Seriously?" You nodded slowly, not meeting anyone's gaze. "Yeah. It's not something I'm proud of. Trust me." You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of those words as you admitted them out loud. "I lost myself for a while. Leaving was the only way. I needed to figure myself out."

JJ was the first to break the silence. "Hey, everyone's got stuff they're not proud of." He shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter to him. "At least you're here now, right?" You managed a grateful smile, feeling some of the tension ease. The group smiled gently, their earlier reservations melting away. And somehow exposing yourself like that definitely made you feel good, the pogues giving you a feeling of security, treating you with a newfound gentleness.

As the fire died down, everyone began to yawn and stretch, the long hours of the day catching up with you, so John B offered to drive you, Pope and Kie home. While the two boys piled into the van, Kiara lingered for a moment, pulling you aside as you were about to walk up to the vehicle.

"Hey," Kiara said quietly. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. For being shady earlier. And for pushing you with that question." You blinked, definitely not expecting an apology from her. "It's okay. I get it—you didn't know." Kiara nodded, her expression softening. "Yeah, but still. You're not what I expected, but... you're cool. I'm glad you're here." You smiled, the words meaning more than you cared to admit. "Thanks, Kie."

As you climbed into the van, you felt something shift inside you. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you might actually belong somewhere.

LINKS .ᐟ series masterlist

TAGS .ᐟ @gibson-g1rl @beausling @bunnyrafe @rafescokewhore @starkeysprincess @rafesweetie @rafeslacy @rafesangelita @rafey-baby @starkeydolly @moremaybank @drewspinkbunny @drewsarms

#works ₊˚⊹♡#lovely!kook!reader ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀#lovely!kook!reader x jj maybank ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀#outer banks fic #outer banks #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron

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cherryblossompink303 · 8 months ago

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Patience chapter navigation

➼ kyoya ootori x fem!reader ➼ last updated: 21.4.25 ➼ genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut maybe

Season one!

Prologue Part one: Starting today you are a host! Part two: The job of a highschool host Part three: Beware the physical exam! Part four: Attack of the lady manager! Part five: The twins fight! Part six: The Gradeschool host is the naughty type! Part seven: Jungle pool SOS! Part eight: The sun, the Sea, and the Host club! *Bonus chapter*: Last night at the beach house Part nine: A Challenge from Lobelia Girl's Academy! Part ten: A day in the life of the L/N family! Part eleven: Big brother is a prince! Part twelve: Honey's three bitter days! Part Thirteen: Y/n in wonderland! Part Fourteen: Covering the famous host club! Part Fifteen: The refreshing battle in Karuizawa! Part Sixteen: Operation double date! *Bonus Chapter*: Degrees of separation Part Seventeen: Kyoya's reluctant day out! Part Eighteen: Chika's 'down with Honey' declaration! Part Nineteen: Lobelia girl's academy strikes back! Part Twenty: Until the day it becomes a pumpkin! Part Twenty one: Mori-Senpai has an apprentice candidate! Part Twenty two: Tamaki's unwitting depression! Part Twenty three: And so Kyoya met her! Part Twenty four: The host club declares dissolution! Part Twenty five: This is our ouran fair!

Season Two

Part One: The Ouran host club is back in business! Part Two: How to melt a frozen heart! Part Three: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 1! Part Four: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 2! Part Five: The Lobelia Girls academy meets their match! Part six: Join the black magic club! Part seven: Operation: Misuzu's reconciliation! Part Eight: the twins take the runway! Part Nine: Strike three for Tamaki and Kyoya! Part ten: Kyoya's big choice! Part eleven: The wizard of Ouran! (coming soon!)

#kyoya ootori x reader #ouran kyoya #kyoya ootori #ohshc kyoya #kyoya x reader #ouran highschool host club #ouran hshc #ouran host club #ouran high school host club #ohshc x reader #ohshc

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mydearestbeloved · 7 months ago

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Chapter 2 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW: Reader is still traumatized, she just got better at concealing it.

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

The system had one more surprise for you, a reward for completing the job-change quest. You felt a spark of curiosity as a partially uncovered map appeared on your interface, revealing new areas of the hanging gardens you’d yet to explore. Three distinct spots blinked on the map, each marked with a mysterious [?]. When you brushed your fingers across the symbols, a new sub-quest emerged:

[New Quest: Raise the Three [?] in the Greenhouse]

Requirement: Poison Resistance at Max Level.

You raised a brow at the word “raise” and the strange requirement. “Raise? As in… nurturing?” You frowned, glancing out at the poisonous remnants of the Hydra carcass you hadn’t used up yet. You’d learned quickly enough that the system was anything but straightforward.

Letting out a sigh, you renewed the barrier around the ruin you’d claimed as shelter—a small, stone building tucked into the dense foliage of the gardens. This place, it turned out, had a peculiar set of rules. The ancient ruins, once guarded by fierce beasts, had somehow become safe havens the moment you’d cleared their guardians. No more beasts dared to set foot inside, as if instinctively avoiding your territory. It wasn’t foolproof; an occasional daring creature would wander in, but a quick blast from your barrier, which aged intruders to dust upon contact, took care of any unwanted guests. You weren’t the best at spells yet, but this one was second nature by now.

You returned to the remaining chunks of the Hydra, your gaze hardening. Raising Poison Resistance meant facing discomfort—and lots of it. “Might as well let a few poisonous creatures in here if they’re willing to volunteer for a quick bite,” you muttered wryly.

With a sigh, you focused on the Hydra’s poison sac, the one that hadn’t yet dissolved into your weapons or alchemical tools. It took a moment to steel your nerves, and you tried not to gag as you bit into a small piece. The bitterness was overwhelming, coursing through you like liquid fire as your body struggled to process the deadly toxin. Pain flared through your body, yet with each swallow, you felt Poison Resistance inching closer to max once again.

When at last the skill reached its cap, the queasiness lingered, but you were used to the edge of discomfort by now. You eyed the map once more and headed toward the eastern greenhouse, where the first marked location lay waiting.

---

The greenhouse loomed ahead, in the center of a labyrinth shrouded in a thin, deadly mist that seemed to roll and pulse with each gust of wind. You recognized it immediately, the familiar caustic bite of poison that hung in the air like a warning. Vivid red spider lilies crowded the path ahead, their delicate petals as striking as they were venomous. You tightened your grip on your staff, now reforged with Hydra scales and sharpened claws from previous beasts. Its natural durability had been enhanced with your crafting and enchanted with the very poison resistance you’d just maxed out, making it as much a part of you as the skills you carried.

As you approached, the mist seemed to shift, parting just enough for you to slip through. “Well, system, I have to admit—thank you,” you muttered, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in your chest. Maybe it was just adrenaline, but you felt… encouraged. Supported, almost, as if the system itself was smiling in approval.

Inside the greenhouse, the landscape changed completely. Strange, vibrant flora covered the ground in carpets of emerald and violet, their beauty matched only by their toxicity. Every few steps, a new danger presented itself: dense patches of thorny vines, glistening fruits that reeked of acid, and piles of withered beast corpses scattered in clusters, likely succumbed to the poisonous air.

A faint energy pulsed from one such pile, drawing your attention. You watched as tiny threads of power drifted from the dead creatures, weaving a faint, ethereal trail toward the heart of the greenhouse. Steeling yourself, you followed the trail, wary of any surprises the system might throw your way.

At the center of the greenhouse, your destination awaited. Nestled amidst the toxic flowers was an egg, a large, beautifully marked shell with patterns that seemed to shift under the faint glow of the greenhouse. The egg was easily the size of an ostrich egg, just large enough that you’d have to use both hands to hold it.

"An egg…?” You knelt beside it, tilting your head in wonder. The system’s quest said to “raise” something, not conquer. Perhaps this was what it meant? Taking a steadying breath, you reached out and brushed your fingers against the shell’s cool, smooth surface.

Magic drained from you instantly, pulled into the egg like a sponge soaking up water. Startled, you pulled your hand back, but the system chimed just then, flashing a new progress bar on the interface.

[Progress: 0.5%]

“So, you’re hungry,” you murmured, glancing back at the egg with newfound interest. You fed it again, just a bit, feeling the faintest of tugs as the egg greedily absorbed your magic. There were no other instructions from the system, so you trusted your instincts, continuing to feed it carefully before moving on.

---

After days of tending to the eastern greenhouse, you made your way to the second, located to the north. This greenhouse was equally haunting, yet elegant, with silver-touched flowers shimmering under the toxic mist, their delicate forms reflecting your own silver-tipped butterflies waiting inside.

The third greenhouse, farther west, was filled with golden flora, luminescent and even more otherworldly than the first two. You took it slow, visiting each greenhouse in turn, feeding each egg with careful doses of your magic every day, watching as the progress bars edged forward bit by bit.

The weeks passed, and one morning, you felt a subtle shift in the air as you entered the eastern greenhouse. The poisonous mist seemed lighter, less oppressive, and there was a hum of energy in the air.

As you approached, the egg began to crack, delicate fissures tracing across the surface. You took a step back, anticipation tightening your chest. With a quiet snap, the shell split apart, and dozens of delicate butterflies emerged, each one a deep, vivid red with black markings, like a living tapestry of flame and shadow.

They fluttered toward you, swirling around in a crimson cloud, their tiny wings creating a soft whispering sound. You felt a surge of warmth in your heart, and then, quite suddenly, a link formed. It was as if something deep within you opened, and a flood of emotions that weren’t entirely yours rushed in—a rush of joy, excitement, almost as if these creatures were children greeting a parent.

A notification pinged in the corner of your vision.

[First Summons Acquired. Skill Unlocked: Devour.]

You blinked at the message, feeling the butterflies’ connection as they danced around you, the link between you so strong that it was almost a presence on its own. You smiled. “Welcome,” you whispered, watching them respond to your voice with an excited flurry of movement.

---

The northern egg hatched next, releasing silver butterflies that glistened like tiny stars as they joined their red siblings. The system chimed again:

[New Skill Unlocked: Illusionary.]

You nodded thoughtfully, observing how they seemed to blur slightly at the edges, as though they could shift in and out of sight with a single beat of their wings.

The final greenhouse brought forth golden butterflies, their iridescent wings gleaming as they joined the colorful cloud around you. Another notification appeared.

[New Skill Unlocked: Conversion.]

Your butterflies had grown in number and color, each new skill adding layers to their abilities. Through the bond, you could sense their instinctual need to siphon energy, using Devour to draw life force from nearby creatures, even from enemies you struck down. They didn’t just drain mana but seemed to consume a deeper energy, one that left their targets visibly withered, almost as though they had aged.

The butterflies worked best with living enemies, but you noticed that they could still feed on fresh corpses. Excess energy would gather, like a reservoir they could channel into Illusionary, casting illusions that confused and disoriented anyone in the vicinity. And with Conversion, they could transfer this gathered energy back to you as stat boosts, enhancing your strength, agility, or even resistance as needed.

Your connection to them went beyond mere loyalty. They responded to your thoughts and emotions with a surprising level of awareness, almost like a family bond. You could feel their curiosity, their delight at each new experience, their fierce protective instinct toward you. It was… comforting.

As you sat amidst the crimson flowers, surrounded by butterflies shimmering in red, silver, and gold, the system chimed with a new message.

[Progress Update: New Territory Established. Summons Obtained.]

The butterflies pulsed with warmth, as if mirroring the glow in your heart, and you found yourself smiling. With each day, each trial, this strange, deadly world felt a little less lonely.

-----

Years had passed, each one carved into memory with sweat, blood, and an unyielding drive to master every corner of the Hanging Gardens. Now, standing at the apex of the tallest terrace, you looked over this dungeon. The once mysterious Hanging Gardens of Babylon—its poisonous flowers, mist-filled greenhouses, and vicious beasts—were yours, every leaf, every stone. The system’s notification chimed joyfully in your mind, its usual voice almost warm with enthusiasm.

[Congratulations! The Hanging Gardens of Babylon have been conquered. This domain is now fully under your command and may be summoned at will.]

A breeze brushed past you, carrying the fragrance of spider lilies, and you felt the soft hum of connection as your butterflies, red, silver, and gold, hovered nearby. They, too, seemed to share in the moment, fluttering around you in an almost celebratory dance. It was an accomplishment, one that had demanded not only strength but a near-constant honing of mind and magic. And yet, a subtle unease lingered.

“Five years,” you murmured, running a hand along the cold stone of the terrace.

The system’s voice, now more familiar than any you had known, spoke up, chiming with an almost playful tone.

[System Update: New Title Earned. Full access granted to all facilities. Congratulations on achieving a historical title! You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?]

Its words made you pause, an eyebrow arching. The system had certainly… evolved. It wasn’t just the usual messages of leveling up or congratulatory pings. It talked now, weaving a bit of personality into every line. Its tone had become lighter, its responses more intuitive. It was as if the system was growing, almost developing alongside you. At first, you’d thought you were imagining it, attributing quirks to a basic AI. But now, with it chiming in with what felt like an almost affectionate encouragement, you were certain.

These past five years, you’d had plenty of time to reflect on your unique system. Unlike Jinwoo’s cold, calculating Architect-driven system, yours seemed to possess a curious spark of life. Its instructions were often more considerate, almost guiding rather than commanding. The system didn’t merely throw you into battles; it often hinted at strategies, nudging you toward smarter approaches. In its own way, it cared.

“You know, I’ve been wondering… you’re not like… colder, more rigid,” you said, almost as if testing the waters. “You’re… different.”

There was a brief pause before the system responded, an almost contemplative pause, which only heightened your suspicions.

[Why, thank you! It’s nice to be unique, don’t you think? But… let’s just say, I’m invested in your progress. Besides, you’re different too, right?]

You blinked at that, genuinely taken aback. It wasn’t confirmation, but it wasn’t exactly denial either.

“System, who are you really?” you muttered under your breath, half-hoping for an answer. But as always, silence met your question, leaving you with nothing but a gnawing sense of curiosity. Was this truly the Architect, or had something—someone—else taken over your progression?

Before you could press it further, the system added another message, its usual chirp back in place.

[New Quest: The World Beyond The Garden]

“Alright, fair enough,” you muttered. For now, the Architect’s mystery would have to wait. There was a much more immediate issue at hand.

Your butterflies, your children, flitted around you, red, silver, and gold flashing in the sunlight, each one as lethal as they were beautiful. You could feel their excitement through the bond, a quiet chorus of joy thrumming in the back of your mind. This was as much a victory for them as it was for you—they had fought by your side every step of the way, each swarm expanding your reach, devouring threats that dared to approach the heart of your garden.

“Alright, my lovelies,” you whispered, extending a hand. They swarmed to you instantly, clustering around your fingers, resting on your shoulders. “We did it. Our own territory.” The swarm pulsed in response, their energies mingling with yours, a bond deepening with every beat.

Yet even with victory secured, there was little time to bask in success. If there was one thing you’d learned through these years, it was to always look ahead, to always be prepared. The system had been quiet about what lay beyond this domain, but now you could finally step out of the Gardens, explore what lay outside the invisible walls. A sense of anticipation bubbled within you.

“We need to plan,” you said aloud, pacing along the edge of a moss-covered stone wall, feeling the texture under your fingers as you surveyed the greenery stretching beneath you. “Let’s see…”

---

That night, you sat in what had become your home in the heart of Babylon, a former ruin now restored through countless hours of enchantments, remodeling, and sheer will. In the dim light, the place felt almost like a sanctuary—stone walls covered in ancient carvings, a table cluttered with potion ingredients, maps, weapons, and the occasional butterfly flitting around your head, like watchful little guardians.

You sat in silence, drawing up plans on a worn piece of parchment, contemplating your next steps. For five years, the outside world had been a mystery. But now, you had the Gardens as your fortress, a sanctuary and weapon in one. It was time to venture beyond its walls.

Still, this step forward needed more than a hasty departure. You had built power here, but the unknown was not to be taken lightly. You took a deep breath and gathered your thoughts, knowing you’d need every skill, every spell, every ounce of knowledge you’d gained in the Gardens to be ready.

First order of business. Over the years, you’d grown skilled at forging weapons, crafting potions, and creating everything you needed to survive. But now, with access to the entire Hanging Gardens, you could tap into the rare resources and materials hidden in its depths.

The Guardian beasts you’d slain, each of them, had left their remains scattered across the territory. You’d salvaged much over the years, but you still hadn’t harnessed it all. Each beast’s unique traits—strength, agility, regeneration, and more—could be integrated into your weaponry, imbuing them with abilities you couldn’t have dreamt of before. Your fingers itched with anticipation at the prospect.

“And there’s the greenhouse,” you murmured, glancing toward the faint outline of the glass-laced structure. Your butterflies had thrived within those greenhouses, feeding on the potent poisons and life force the plants exuded. It was a limitless source of strength that you hadn’t fully tapped into yet.

"Imagine the alchemical concoctions we could make with the plants here," you mused, addressing the system as if it were listening. You could almost feel its curiosity flare, and a faint message appeared.

[System: Experimenting with the native flora and fauna may yield unique abilities or enhancements. Proceed with caution.]

You smirked. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not that reckless.”

[…]

“Cut me some slack, will you?”

---

Second order of business. Owning the Gardens meant more than possessing the land—it meant defending it. The system had informed you that only you and your chosen people can enter, but it never hurts to prepare for the worst. Reinforcing the perimeter, setting up traps, and bolstering your creatures’ abilities would all be essential.

And your magic had grown stronger, too. You’d developed barriers that could age intruders to dust, illusions that could confuse and misdirect, and even the ability to harness the energy of the land itself. Now, the gardens were an extension of you; any intruder would feel your presence pressing down upon them like a storm cloud before they ever saw you.

“They’ll regret stepping foot in my domain,” you said with quiet conviction, gripping the scepter-like staff that had become your constant companion. “Won’t they, system?”

A gentle chime followed. It was as close as the system would ever get to an agreement, and it made you grin.

---

Third order of business. Preparing for what lies beyond was easier said then done. What should you do once you stepped out?

You need connections, maybe you should start a business? You considered finding potential allies. During your time in the Gardens, you’d learned to rely on yourself, but the idea of allies… could you even trust someone else in that world? Your gaze hardened. Perhaps, if they could prove their worth. And if they couldn’t—well, your butterflies were always eager to feed.

A flutter of red and gold filled your vision, and you looked up, smiling at your butterflies. They seemed to hover in silent agreement.

“Settle down, my children,” you said, reaching up to let them settle on your hand, “we still have a lot of work to do.”

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting shadows across the gardens, you took in a deep breath, filling your lungs with the scent of the rich, thriving land around you. This was yours now. Every stone, every tree, every creature. It was a haven, a fortress—and perhaps, one day, it would become a kingdom.

---

In the morning, you stood at the edge of a small floating island, more isolated than the rest, overlooking the Gardens in all its galore. Surveying your domain one last time before setting out, the gate situated at the heart of the small temple behind you hummed. The butterflies swirled around you protectively, their connection to you almost buzzing with anticipation.

You took a deep breath, grounding yourself. And with that, you stepped out of the Hanging Gardens, your butterflies trailing after you, their wings catching the first light of dawn. The world beyond awaited.

[Welcome to our world, Sovereign of the Hanging Gardens.]

End Note:

Draft of [08/10/2024] - Chronicles of The Hanging Gardens, Part II

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #yandere sung jinwoo #only i level up #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #fanfiction #fanfic #solo leveling fanfic

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softlymellow · 28 days ago

Text

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 8

☆⁠ PAIRING : Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☆⁠ word count: 3.2k

☆⁠ story themes: lovers to enemies to eventually lovers

☆⁠ warnings: spoilers to swtcw, angstttt

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

"You knew nothing."

Obi-wan sat across a seemingly asleep Dev. His eyes carefully watched the way his chest would rise and fall, rise and fall.

He couldn’t help but feel for the poor boy. A path led astray because of despair. Agony. Pain from losing loved ones. Dev felt the things that Jedi shouldn’t be feeling. He could pretend he was okay but those feelings would never go away. Not really.

Dev’s hair fell across his face, his blonde hair appearing much darker than it is. Dev’s hands remained cuffed but under his head.

Obi-wan didn’t believe in surface level peace. Not anymore.

Obi-wan stared at Dev for longer than he should, his eyes studying his behaviour until it crept towards the corner where a bag was. The force was quiet but he still felt it poke him.

Getting up, he crept to the corner of the room where Dev’s satchel was tossed when he was brought in. He crouched, his fingers brushing against the leather fabric.

It felt heavier than it looked.

Carefully, he unzipped the main flap. A cloth wrapped around a cylinder.

Obi-wan paused. He unwrapped it.

And inside was just as he suspected.

A lightsaber.

It was worn. Dark. It was scarred. Not like how a Jedi would maintain their lightsaber. Obi-wan’s hands moved to ignite the lightsaber— A flicker.

The force had shifted and there was a clatter on the ground.

The saber flew from Obi-wan’s grasp with a fast whiiiiip. Obi-wan’s eyes widened as he spun his body around only to see the saber in Dev’s cuffed hands. No longer cuffed as he speedily cut down his restraints.

With no time to waste, Obi-wan immediately reached for his own saber but Obi-wan’s lack of anticipation was no match for Dev’s patience. Dev’s foot slammed onto chest, sending him flying back against the wall.

Smirking, Dev spun his saber with his left arm. Having not spun his saber for a while, his wrists twisting felt more relieving than it did when it was cuffed. The room illuminated in an old blue as Dev menacingly walked up to a groaning Obi-wan on the ground. Ready to strike.

–-------

You felt the force stir you awake. Your vision was groggy and your muscles were aching.

The sound of a loud crash jolted you completely awake and you sat up immediately.

What the hell is going on?

Another crash.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart thumping and your hand hovering over your blaster pistol.

Anakin came running in, his own electrifying blue lightsaber on and ready for battle.

“Stay here!” He snapped, without looking at you and already making his way into Dev and Obi-wan’s room.

You followed anyway, your heart thumping against your chest and sweat beading off your forehead. You weren’t expecting to see Obi-wan pinned to the floor but his lightsaber out just in time to block against Dev.

Blue on blue.

The two lightsabers clashed and sparks of light burst everywhere. The sabers continuingly made a cracking sound as Obi-wan tried his hardest to push back Dev’s lightsaber — Dev being above him made this extremely difficult.

Dev was snarling and Obi-wan gritted his teeth as both men pushed against each other.

“DEV!” You shrieked, your eyes widened at the sight across you.

For a split second, your voice was enough to distract Dev. Obi-wan took the advantage and shoved his hand out, the force pushing him away. Dev stumbled back before regaining control of himself.

It was then, his face transformed. His lowered eyebrows and his squinting blue eyes directed towards a now standing Obi-wan were instead pointed to you, but his tightlipped mouth changed to a mocking smile.

“You really are just a dumb little Jedi,” He chuckled without any humour.

“Dev?” You watched as he took small, but carefully planned steps towards you. “What are you doing?”

Your eyes moved towards the lightsaber, the way he gripped it with familiarity. The way his wrists twirled the lightsaber once —lazily and effortlessly— like he had done it a million times before.

“You really thought I would help you Jedi scum?” His eyes narrowed in flames. “Like I gave a shit about you in Jakku?”

“What?”

“The Jedi betrayed me!” He snarled, causing you to flinch. His lightsaber waved around like a crazed man, pointing between all three of you. “I lost the ones I loved because of them!”

“-And you led me straight to them.” He menacingly said.

“Dev, stop. What are you talking about?”

“I was once just like you.” He admitted.

“Dev…” You shook your head ‘no’, making steady steps backwards as Dev continued to make steps towards you.

“Now I’ll finish off what I started.” He tilted his head, his eyes sharp.

“Get behind me.” Anakin instructed, his much larger and more built figure stepped in front of you, his lightsaber ignited and ready for battle.

The air felt sharp and tension bounced off the walls.

Dev pulled his arms back high, ready to strike.

And you?

You just stood there. Useless. His words hit you like a brick wall. How had you not noticed? Those moments where he would say something with hidden meaning. When he recognised almost immediately that you were a jedi. Calling the Republic corrupt. Saying that he knew more than you. You were so trapped in yourself that all those moments flew past you. And now you were paying the consequences.

Dev brought his lightsaber down to Anakin, and with no time wasted they began to battle.

It was strike after strike. He kept pushing Anakin with fury that it almost felt mechanical. Their lightsabers screamed and their boots scuffed against the floor. Energy crackled at every collision. Anakin held himself back slightly, he is a Jedi, but Dev did not. Yet still, they were even.

“You’re only making this worse for yourself!” Anakin yelled, gritting his teeth as he fought back.

Anakin ducked below as Dev let out a deep frustrated growl and his saber came swinging above his head before he brought it down by his side.

Without hesitation, Obi-wan joined him, catching the blow that would’ve split Anakin in half. Dev grinned as both Jedi began to make their advances towards himself.

The three bodies moved like lightning. Anakin was aggressive. Obi-wan composed. But Dev was angry.

This wasn’t the same Dev you knew and grew to trust. The Dev you knew was the Dev that celebrated your one year working together a couple nights ago. It was the Dev who took her in and covered her with his jacket on a cold night in Jakku. But here, he was snarling and ignited a blade that was meant for her.

Dev spun low, aiming for Obi-wan’s legs. He needed either one of them. At least one of them alive so he aimed for the non vital organs. Obi-wan lept, twisting up above and landing behind Dev. Dev barely brought his blade up in time. It was then that Anakin lunged in a heartbeat.

And Dev…

Dev struggled, catching both blades at once. An electrifying hum rattled the room. Both Jedi’s sabers forced Dev’s own saber down. Inch by inch.

You just stood there.

Not cumbled and not crying. Just frozen.None of this was real. You could fight and you knew it. You could pull out your lightsaber clipped onto your belt, leap in and draw it. But you couldn’t fight him. And that was worse.

“You were going to kill her,” Obi-wan said, breathless.

“I was going to use her,” He seethed.

Anakin moved before the words could even leave his mouth. He deliberately slammed his boot against Dev’s limp knee and watched as he staggered back on the floor. His lightsaber fell from his grip and without a second thought, Anakin snarled and his heel connected with the hilt of the saber. The saber skidded away before Dev could grab it and rolled across the floor by your feet.

“You think this is funny?” Anakin growled. “You think this is a game?”

Dev was panting, the palm of his hands scratched and scraped with blood. “I was going to let her live, you know,” he coughed, “after I got my bounty.”

Anakin stood over Dev, his chest heaving and the tip of his lightsaber inches away from his face. Dev’s face illuminated with blue, yet it made the shadows of face darker.

Obi-wan gently pulled Anakin back, his lightsaber off. “We need him alive. This is not the Jedi way.”

Anakin gritted his teeth as he fought himself back from delivering blows to his face with his own fist. Instead he kept his lightsaber drawed near him, afraid that he would take advantage of this moment.

Looking down by your feet was Dev’s lightsaber. Kneeling down, you picked it up. Your fingers caressed the scars left on the hilt. Both physical and mental.

Your eyes met with Dev, his gaze on you. It was direct. Almost apologetic. But you didn’t know anymore. There was nothing you knew.

You knew nothing.

You turned your back on him and into the hallway. You weren’t going to cry. Or ask why. You were done doing that.

You didn’t owe him anything.

You just buried another part of yourself, that’s all.

You’ve done that before.

The constant humming of an alive and healthy engine was soothing. It felt much calmer and peaceful than the ships Dev and you would take, it was almost nostalgic in a way. The Republic’s tax money was being put into good use.

You sat by the view port at the back of the ship, your knees brought to your chest and your arms resting on top. Your eyes were fixed on the blur of stars outside.

Dev was two corridors back.

The Jedi cruiser had a red-lit forcefield cell, perfect for prisoners.

The walk to the cruiser was silent. Dev was fully restrained and patted down by Obi-wan. Making sure he had no other tricks up his sleeves. Anakin still won’t talk to you, not that you wanted to anyway. Obi-wan also didn’t talk to you, but for different reasons. It was rather to give you your own space, understanding that the shock of Dev’s betrayal would have hit you hard. The protests had died down. Padme had contacted both Anakin and Obi-wan that the Senate was making a statement about Corellia and were now putting forward plans for a speech and aid relief.

Thankfully, Obi-wan made the decision to fly after the protests died down. If he hadn’t, the hyperspace travel would have been over eight hours to reach Coruscant with congested lanes and tight security. The trip now had an estimated time of arrival of 2 hours. It was a regular military exit after a mission and not at all a priority jump. Yet still, Obi-wan and Anakin’s military and Jedi status did give them a hot ticket to the top of the line.

You were okay though, really. Just numb. You handed Dev’s lightsaber to Obi-wan without a word, just wanting to get it away from you as fast as possible. He wasn’t who you thought he was. If anything, you almost felt embarrassed that the one person you had trusted with your life would pull a stunt like that in front of Obi-wan and Anakin. It felt belittling.

Obi-wan and Anakin were in the cockpit, the complete opposite end of the ship from you. But it was a small cruiser, so it was much closer than you thought. Obi-wan played with the control panel, rerouting through Jedi clearance codes. Anakin sat beside him, he was the better pilot but this was a quiet trip back home. He stretched his arms above him, his muscles and his mind aching.

Anakin had made the decision to no longer acknowledge you or your presence. You were here —yes— but a different person. He did feel conflicted though. He felt almost protective of you still, especially with the way Dev approached and spoke about you.

You played with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, in front of you were additional security hologram displays; one at the front of the ship and one at the back. The hologram illuminated the room with a dull blue and on it were many different viewpoints.

The entrance. The exit. Corridors. Dev’s holding cell where he was slumped against the wall. And the cockpit. Where Obi-wan and Anakin sat.

You weren’t supposed to be watching at all, but the console was still logged in with Obi-wan’s credentials. And it was transmitting live. Tapping on the screen, you enlarged the view.

Onscreen was the cockpit, but away from the control panel was a circular table. And on the table was another hologram. But what piqued your interest was Obi-wan and Anakin moving away from the panels and towards said hologram. As if on queue, a projection of the Jedi council was brought to life.

Mace Windu. Plo Koon. Master Yoda. Ki-Adi-Mundi. Saesee Tiin.

The human sized projections of them came to life as they all individually surrounded said table, but instead they were transparent blue.

You watched as Obi-wan and Anakin mouth moved as they spoke to the council. The video was mute, you could turn it up but part of you still had morals, so you decided against it.

Mace Windu crossed his arms, his own mouth moving with Yoda nodding to whatever he was saying. And then, with a flick of the wrist by Obi-wan, an image of you came to life. Your portrait taken when you first joined the Order as only a padawan.

Fuck that.

You twisted a small knob on the bottom right of your own screen, the sound filtering in.

“-She has clearly strayed,” Mace said. “Whether or not she was manipulated is irrelevant.”

Scoffing, you knelt in closer, your teeth gnawing at your lips nervously. You didn’t really like Mace so this didn’t hurt you much, it just felt offending.

“She never returned, she is not a Jedi anymore.” Ki-Adi-Mundi added, his fingers stroking his beard, deep in thought.

“We aren’t sure what her motives are now,” Mace Windu added.

The image of you flickering, like a memory nobody wanted to claim. And then, Obi-wan spoke.

Obi-wan furrowed his eyebrows, he glances at Anakin before speaking. But he spoke calmly. Controlled. “She’s not a threat.”

“She was working with one,” Mace Windu said flatly.

“With all due respect, she is a Jedi.” Obi-wan said, but concern etched onto his face. “This is not some stranger.”

“Too much time among criminals may blurr her loyalties.” Saesee Tiin added, arms folded. “The Jedi code isn’t something you can abandon and return to at will.”

The room was turning and you were being picked apart. Judged and dissected. Yes– it wasn’t an official meeting for judgement yet it felt like it.

Your own face stared back at you. Younger, softer, a small smile projected. Hopeful. You couldn’t recognise her.

Obi-wan didn’t speak again. Instead his eyes lingered on the image of you longer than the others. Trying to find a lie. But it wasn’t there. He kept replaying the moment when he walked alongside you captured, how you didn’t protest or fight back. The way you flinched when Dev yelled at you. How you willingly gave back his lightsaber.

Obi-wan had checked on you more than he needed to. Because he didn’t believe you were a threat. Part of him didn’t know what to do anymore as the masters beside him spoke like they had already sealed your fate. Funnily enough, no one had mentioned Dev once. It was because his outcome was predetermined -being a known fugitive- while yours was unexpected.

And then, Plo Koon who has been silent —his arms folded and his eyes weighing with memory — steps forward.

“We failed Ahsoka by letting her walk alone. We will not do the same here,” He inhaled deeply. The thought of Ahsoka aching him, the same girl who he helped raise. “Y/n, was a child of the Order. She was raised in our halls, she fought alongside us, she followed our teachings.”

His voice lowered. “We lost her. We owe her a path home.” No one interrupted him. Not even Mace.

Plo’s words hung heavy in the room. They were carrying a sense of redemption, but not only for Y/n, Ahsoka too.

Deep down, Obi-wan wondered. If they had allowed Ahsoka to leave so easily and turned on you just as fast…how long until they turned on everyone?

There was a beat of silence. And Anakin’s gaze flicked to the hologram of you. The same girl who he grew up with and fell in love with. It was just a flick. Then away.

And then—

Anakin spoke.

“You’re wasting time defending someone who wouldn’t hesitate to leave again.”

It was like a stab in the gut.

Anakin’s chest burned. He could feel all eyes on him, heavy, questioning. He forced his chin up, trying his hardest to look composed. When Anakin spoke it was like his voice had been pulled from somewhere far colder.

“Let her answer for her own actions,” he clenched his jaw.

Your breath hitched as you watched the way Anakin spoke about you like you were a nobody. Like you were a traitor. Like he didn’t know you.

“Conflicted, she is…But lost…perhaps not.”

Yoda said, breaking the tension.

You leaned back into your seat, your eyes wide and your throat tightening.

You turned off the transmission, not wanting to hear anymore. Rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands, you groaned. He didn’t even defend you. He didn’t say you were innocent. It sounded like he didn’t even want you back.

There was nothing more you could do. You would just let the council decide your fate. It seemed fifty-fifty as of now. But you at the back of the cruiser instead of a cell locked away told you enough.

But now you would just rest. Rest until you reached ‘home’.

-----------

Anakin rested in the small compact sleeping quarters, one arm under his head and the other across his chest. It wouldn’t be more than an hour until they reached Coruscant but his mind was racing nonstop.

He could feel your presence in the next room over. He would be lying if he said it didn’t feel awkward or strange. The one person he was longing for was finally here and he wasn’t able to reach out to you in the same way.

He could still see your face when he closed his eyes.

He remembered how you used to talk in your sleep. Shift under the covers and mumble his name. The way his fingers would caress the sides of your face as he would look at you lovingly.

But now?

He didn’t know if you still dreamt about him.

He hated how much he wanted you to.

And worse–

He wanted you to feel the same pain he went through. He wanted you to feel what he felt. When you had just abandoned him. When he tried his best to search and search for you everyday, when he would speak to comms at the late of night expressing his love for you. He would yearn for the moment the device would blink orange and he could hear your voice through the machine.

He wanted you to know that while you were out doing dirty work he was using every free second to search for you.

And what confused him the most was that he wasn’t sure if you still would want him back.

Not after what he has said to you.

Not after her.

Not after everything.

A/N: i hope u guys like it !!!!!!! also lowk love obiwan so much hes always looking out for y/n anakin is such an angsty teenage brat LMK WHAT U GUYS THINKKKK!!!!

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