#the guy who went so far right he went left

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The sun shines on you once again, the past stretching behind you like a shadow. You escape one madman just to begin a search for another.

Tw: Homophobia

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [13] [14]

15 * Better If You Don't [5.2k]

"I feel it now,

The ghosts,

Of people who still exist but shouldn't."

Down the Drain - Sewerslvt

        "There's nothing here." He said.

        "But he said-" Tracksuit patted the walls, looking for a cartoon trapdoor on the slick cave walls. They were at a dead end miles and miles away from the central cavern. Every other path they tried re-looped back on themselves or were also dead ends. Maskless knew there couldn't be anything, he had mapped the area himself but was so hopeful, so hungry, he went along with Tracksuit, feeling fruitlessly in the dark. 

        And now he was going to die. Because it was a set-up, Phantom luring them away so he could have his way with you. He was expecting to find the fire dead and the main cavern empty. He couldn't have predicted what he walked into.

        "Jesus Christ." Tracksuit nudged Phantom's bruised ribs with his foot. "Is he alive?"

        The central cave was a wreck, the cots scattered, some floating in the water, others smoldering in the fire pit. But there was also structural damage, deep indents pressed to the floor, a Phantom shaped hole in the wall. 

        A rattling breath followed by a modulated cough told them Phantom was very much still alive. Maskless wasted no time, "What happened?"

        ***

        The cave air grew heavier every time the story was told and re-told to every Mark who turned up. Omni immediately left to scour the wastes for Scars and Lensless. Mohawk and Gray weren't far behind. Leaving Maskless and Tracksuit alone with Phantom who'd dragged himself onto a cot. He'd live, would be walking again in a few weeks. Viltrumite bone could knit itself together without medicine. Still, Maskless did his best to set the bone right and wrap it. He'd prefer Gray do the deed, but he was gone so fast there was no chance to ask. 

        Phantom was insistent, desperate, that they leave. Go look for (Y/n). But Tracksuit and Maskless didn't care enough, didn't need you to survive. If anything, the disappearance was a good thing, one less mouth to feed. Tracksuit would miss staring at your ass but it's not like he could change things. You were definitely kidnapped by those freaks and definitely dead. No more suffering, you were better off dead anyways. You got the easy way out while he had to live- one friend down because that's what you were. He pushed the feelings that thought evoked down.

        As dusk came, the trio returned, unsuccessful in finding the duo. So they laid in wait, hoping against reason they'd come to the fireside to gloat or show off your severed head. 

        "Did they also attack the ugly guy?" Tracksuit looked through the porthole, to the starless night sky. "Haven't seen him since earlier."

        Omni turned on Phantom who clutched his purple-ish chest. Never alone long enough to slip away. "Well?"

        "He-" Phantom suppressed a groan. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt. But he had to sell the lie. "He tried to keep her away when they-"

        "What are we talking about?" Lensless touched down with a smile. Head swiveling, immediately noticing your disappearance. "Is she peeing?"

        Scars descended, landing beside him with a scoff, "Probably out pity fucking that ugly freak."

        The whole room seemed to go packed-gunpowder tight. Omni was in front of them both, hovering off the ground to be inches taller. "Where is she?"

        Lensless blinked. "What?"

        Omni had him by the throat. Veins popping on his forearm with the grip. "What have you done to my wife?" Lensless choked. Both hands coming up to pry his grip away. Gone before he could escape. Omni realized Lensless couldn't answer if he was dead. "Tell me, now."

        Lensless swallowed, cracked his neck, and grinned. He'd been joansing for a good fight out in the wastes and it looked like he was going to get one.

        Though he was curious, "What are you talking about?" He looked past Omni, to the others and their death glares. "Did he go apeshit while we were gone? Aw, wait, shit- did you miss us that much big guy?"

        He ducked under Omni's fist. Laughing as he threw his own punch to Omni's gut. Wondering in the moments before bloody impact, how his blood would look, how it would taste. 

        The blow was blocked by a yellow glove. "Stop, you idiot."

        Lensless looked to find Scars scowling. He considered turning the fight to him. Scars obviously thought he was the better, smarter of the two and Lensless agreed, he was sort of right, but also that he was a dick. A dick that liked the same things he did. Not quite a friend but definitely no enemy. He lowered his fist. 

        "What do you mean 'where is she'?" Scars words made Lensless remember. There was a mystery afoot. You were gone, apparently not out pissing.

        "Don't play dumb, shithead." Mohawk was by his side in a second. "You took (Y/n). Where is she?"

        The realization dawned on Scars. Something heavy and sharp twisted in his gut. A feral need pulsed behind his eyes to find your form but nowhere he looked housed you. Under the surface, he was boiling, yet he laughed in their faces. "You think I kidnapped her and came back to get my ass kicked?" He was sure he could take on most of them but Scars was no fool. He was clearly outnumbered, even with Lensless by his side.

        Mohawk hadn't considered this. It was a... good point but he wouldn't accept it, "You're trying to keep up the routine so no one suspects you or something stupid like that. Yeah?"        

        Lensless furrowed his brow. "We've literally talked about this like a billion times. We were gonna take her, hide out, use her as bait to lure you, kill you, and eat you one by one. We wouldn't be with you lames if we had her- we'd be balls deep in some hole right about now." 

        Scars glared but Lensless didn't see the point in hiding things. Clearly, their plan wasn't happening if you were gone.

        He was too busy grinning at Scars to see the fist coming for his throat. Lensless shot back, rammed into the wall. Broke through rock in a person-shaped hole foot after foot until he decided the pain was enough, it was his turn. He blasted out of the hole, teeth bared happily, fist raised. Omni waited for him but the fist was a feint. Lensless slipped behind the man and grabbed him by that stupid red cape that reminded him so much of dad. Laughed as he spun him round by the neck, stopping when he slung him into a wall. 

        Omni recovered quick, came back strong, "You-"

        "We can't get answers like this." Gray's voice stopped him. Inches away from smashing Lensless's head in. The deed would be done, once he had some answers. He didn't back down. "Our comrade saw you take (Y/n)," Gray gestured to Phantom.  "In the process you either maimed or killed the Viltrumite prisoner."

        Lensless and Scars noticed Phantom wasn't on his feet or in the air waiting to attack, but hadn't seen the sorry state he was in. Now they watched like predators, peering over Omni's broad shoulders. 

        "If I attacked that one, he'd be dead." Scars says. 

        "Well, he's not." Omni growled. "You failed in your assassination attempt."

        "Assassination what?" Lensless zipped around him, got close to Phantom as he could before Gray was in front of him. 

        "You've done enough damage," Gray says.

        Lensless tried to peek around him, but Gray kept moving in his line of sight. He only saw Phantom's condition through momentary glimpses. "Uhm, yeah, I didn't do that. Did you, dude?" 

        "No."

        Phantom rose off the cot, aching and groaning but managed to balance in the air above it.

        "Stop lying." He huffed, holding his pulsing ribs, "I heard your voices before you came up behind us. I saw you kill him and take her." He came forward, just behind Gray. Weak but needing to sell the act that he was willing to fight for revenge, for you, wrongfully taken. 

        A smile broke out across Scar's cheeks. Stretching that old wound he liked so much. "Yer lyin' through your teeth." He laughed, once, twice, before it was a full blown belly-clutching fit that infected Lensless. Phantom bristled but tried not to let it show, this was not the reaction he was expecting. 

        Not stopping until Omni asked, "What's so funny?"

        "You actually believe him?" Scars wheezed, shoulders still hitching. 

        "Has he threatened her the entire time we've been here?" Omni asked, though they all knew the answer.

        Which made Scars smile stretch impossibly more, though the eye behind the busted lens gleamed with no mirth. Only a boiling, soulless fury. "That's good, man, real smart. You're not a half-bad actor either. One lil critique though-" 

        He was fast. Faster than Gray could turn, could defend, faster than Omni could grab his cape. He had Phantom by the throat with one hand while the other tore off his mask. Showing off his pasty pretty boy face and long hair dad would hate.

         "Look me in the eyes and tell me it was me." Phantom's eyes- slate blue, Nolan blue- slid to Gray who'd come to his rescue, but paused when Scars didn't immediately rip Phantom's head off. Restraint wasn't something Gray (or any of them) associated with Scars. It gave their doubt merit.

        Scars hand squeezed around his throat with a growl. "Don't look at them, look at me." 

        He knew the punch was coming. Caught it easily. Phantom was slower than him, even slower with pain. Punishment was immediate, a flex of Scars' hand around Phantom's. The crack of thin bones. Phantom writhed, kicked, thrashed in his grip but Phantom was a limb down and weaker, way weaker than Scars. 

        "The longer you make me wait, the more of you I'm going to break." Scars said. He saw it then, the beady glint of truth in Phantom's eyes. That burning malice Scars wore on his sleeve, hidden behind Phantom's mask and silence.

        Phantom snarled, tried to headbutt him, but was again, too slow. The sound replaced with the wet snap of Phantoms forearm, bone jutting out through kevlar.

        "You-!" He caught a flash of the others, hovering behind Scars. Wondering. Untrusting. He knew he should've built better interpersonal relations. 

        "Aaannd that's time, onto your left." Scars grabbed his good arm, the one beating against his chest. Was poised to snap it clean off when a foot to his ribs send him careening off.

        Scars hit the wall while Phantom hit the ground, scrambling for his mask. To not be naked and under so many judging eyes. He could lie with the mask on, but without it he was unsure. Things were always so much easier through a barrier of fabric.

        It was about time the others realized, lying or not, Phantom was the last of them to see (Y/n) alive. 

        "Enough," Omni said over the two. "I don't care who did what. Where is my wife?"

        "I don't know." Scars and Phantom both said. Scars rose from the rubble, muscles flexing, properly pissed because hadn't these idiots figured it out by now? He wouldn't pussyfoot kidnapping (Y/n). He'd have fucked her on the cave floor and left their bloody, combined juices as a calling card. 

        "Wait." Lensless counted off on his fingers. He'd been separated from the camp for some time but he still had the chore rotation memorized. Always counting down to when he could be alone with you. "Wasn't it your turn to watch her today?" 

        Attention turned to Maskless who had already been considering fucking off before this got any worse. He wasn't scared per se, but blame could technically fall on him for Phantom getting jumped.

        Better him than me, he thought but said, "He told me he found food." Finger pointed to Tracksuit.

       Tracksuit burned his brain cells in a space-weed smoke stack daily when not trapped in a wasteland. He never finished school and when he was enrolled, he flunked almost everything. Even gym by pissing off to fuck and smoke behind the bleachers. Him having an intelligent thought was as rare as finding diamonds digging in cow shit. He felt like Einstein when he said, "Wait. Wait. The bald guy told me he found food." He pointed to the cave they'd been in, "So we went to look for food so you," one arm crossed over the other to point at Maskless, "left (Y/n) with him," his hand twisted again, pointing at Phantom, "and while we were out looking for food, all that stuff happened and like... We never found the food the bald guy said was there... So like... You know." 

        "You left!?" Mohawk barked. Ready to pounce at whoever moved first. Angry at everything. At nothing. At the fact that you weren't here. At the fact that you could be dead- again.

        "I left her with him!" Maskless gestured to Phantom. "It's not my fault they attacked!"

        "We didn't." Lensless said. 

        "And why should we believe you!?" Mohawk said.

        "I mean, you shouldn't, but I'm not lying." Lensless replied with a shrug. 

        "So he just beat the shit out of himself?" Mohawk gestured to Phantom, trying to gather himself on the ground.

        "He wasn't alone." Scars said looking to Lensless, "He had a partner. Pretty smart, trying to make it look real but," he cracked his neck, stretched out his arms, "I'd never leave a weakling like him breathing."

        He lunged.

        It was chaos from there. Scars slamming Phantom through layers of rock, breaking into and out of cave systems. Some they'd discovered some not. Omni and Gray raced after them while Lensless and Mohawk shredded the main room apart fighting each other. Leaving Maskless and Tracksuit outside of the action and not particularly looking to be a part of it.

        They shared a look across the freshly bloomed hell, and an alliance was struck. Tracksuit grabbed the rest of the Emperor meat. Maskless grabbed basins and filled them with water. They were gone as Mohawk punched Lensless through the wall, as Scars battered Phantom around, avoiding Omni and Gray's pursuit, ripping apart the caves wall by wall until the whole thing collapsed. 

        Last they checked, days later, and found the ground above the caves had sunken miles down. Everything was gone, filled with dirt. Along with everyone. Leaving Tracksuit and Maskless alone in the desert, thinking it was over, thinking they'd have to kill one another for food once they ran out of Emperor and starting starving. 

        ***

        "That's it? They're all dead then?" You sat by the fire but didn't feel the warmth. 

          It'd been hours since Maskless pulled you out and you re-met with the sun. You were in and out of consciousness as the sun crossed the sky. Sweating for the first time in days while lying still in the sand, Maskless pulling together a makeshift splint. They'd dug themselves out a camp in the concrete ruins of what used to be a skyscraper. All the windows long since smashed out, all the paint peeled away. 

        When you woke up, really woke up, you tried to get them to take you back. Take you to Mark because he needed help. Maskless covered your mouth, let you beat at him while you screamed. You punched and punched and punched and bit and kicked until exhaustion and the truth caught up with you. He didn't have to tell you but you knew. Mark was gone.

        Only when he saw that dreading acceptance cross your face did he let you go. Truce shaky. Both of them were unsure if you'd lash out. You were unsure if you should or shouldn't lash out. You wanted to make them take you back despite the obvious truth you couldn't fully grasp. You didn't see the body. The wound. Whatever that bloody thing in his hand was. You knew you should fight, make them take you but part of you was too cowardly to go back to the cave. Terrified you'd be trapped all over again. So you stayed and listened while they filled you in on the happenings of the last two weeks. Thirteen days, actually, but when Tracksuit corrected you, you looked like you were going to bite his head off.

        The two glanced at one another. Haggard looking with longer hair and growing beards. Tracksuit kept his mask on but the hair poked out the sides. He'd complained of itchiness but made no move to remove it. 

        "Not exactly." Maskless conceded. "The others are around."

        "Yeah and batshit crazy," Tracksuit added. 

        "All of them?"

        "Yes." Maskless said.

        You nodded shallowly. Watched the bugs dig in and out of the sand around your legs. They had followed you up here. Showed up when you were still unconscious, digging up from the sand and chattering quietly. Maskless was confused when you mentioned the nursery. Apparently, there were no other caves except the main one, filling with sand. They'd collapsed, the queen-fed larvae crushed. You were the only thing left that smelled like the old queen's pheromone. The bugs around you now, were the last of the species, the last thing you had to hold onto, the last pieces of Mark. 

        Some of them were de-shelled and boiling in the basin now. At some point, Maskless left to fill the bowl which had been empty for days. The duo apparently took turns while you were out, eating bugs and drinking cave water. They didn't technically need to eat more tonight but they were both still hungry and you had practice making your little friends edible.

        They didn't bring up Mark. Not after your initial outburst. 

        "We split into groups after the big fight. Kinda unanimously decided it'd be better if we all fucked off, you know?" Tracksuit said. "We've been chillin' together. Wonder Boy and that stick-up-the-ass guy are rolling. We run into 'em sometimes, leave each other alone long as we give 'em updates on if we seen you or not. Mohawk dude's on his own but all three of 'em have been lookin' for the others. Wonder Boy said those two shitheads got away. And that other guy..."

        "You agree, right? He should've been here by now."

        Thirteen days in the dark. Thirteen days of isolation, re-traumatization, light deprivation.

        "He's leaving us down here on purpose."

        Phantom never came back. Left you to rot. Left Mark to regress. Left everything to fall apart because Mark was right. He was obsessed just like the others. He who snatched you up after you killed Psychopomp, who hid you away the first night in the desert, who wanted you all to himself with no competition in the way. He gave you a tracker and ignored the emergency alert because that meant Mark was cracking up, fucking up. 

        It was Phantom's fault things had ended up like this.

        "Where is he?" You barely recognize your own voice. It was hoarse, throat raw from earlier screaming. Eyes burned, all cried out. 

        Tracksuit surprised by the intensity, asked, "The School Shooter guy?" Mohawk would be glad the name stuck.

        But you were not calling him that, "Phantom."

        Tracksuit took a hissing breath, hand going to the back of his neck. "Well... Uhm..."

        "Tell m-" Your head bowed as if weighed down by the blood rolling down your nose. Your body telling you to quit while you were ahead. Mark soaked up your power like a bloody, bloody sponge. You still smelled him on you. His blood crusted your tank top brown, dried on your skin and made it itch. 

        You felt like you were trying to walk on a boat, though you were sitting. You leaned back on your palms, trying to retain a shred of dignity. "Tell me." You croaked as the blood ran over your lip.

        Tracksuit hesitated, a little more humane. Maskless didn't care, just wanted the conversation to be over faster. "For a day or two, we didn't know if anyone else was alive. Ended up running into Wonder Boy and his sidekick but not the others. They didn't know either. Wasn't long after that the screaming started."

        "The what?"

        "Ya'know, like... screams of torture?" Tracksuit said like it was nothing. "I'm surprised you didn't hear them." Maskless shot him a look. "Oh, right. It's usually pretty quiet out here but every once in a while this guy screams loud as fuck." 

        Since his partner didn't elaborate, Maskless did, "We think it's Phantom." He felt stupid saying the name but you seemed offended by the other one. 

        "Or he's dead and those goofballs are torturing each other to death?" Tracksuit added helpfully. 

        "The others haven't intervened?" You hope Phantom was still alive. Hoped, prayed to God. You were in dire, thirsting need for revenge.

        Tracksuit shrugged. "Dunno. Every time we see 'em they only ask about you 'n food. I'm sure they know where those two are 'n sometimes it's quiet. Quiet enough you think it's over, then boom another night of distant screaming."

        "What direction is it coming from?"

        Tracksuit spluttered, splayed out his hands. "You stupid? You don't go towards tortured screaming."

        "Mark is..." You can't say it. If you say it, it'll be real. "Everything that happened is his fault."

        "Everything that... Dude, you had it made in the shade! Fuck, if I was you, I wouldn't come back up here for nothin'. Speaking of, why aren't we kickin' it down there right now? Like, what even happened, dude?" He pointed to your wrists, raw from rebar, your cheeks, blooming with bruises, "And where's that bald guy?"

        Maskless elbowed him hard in the ribs. After he'd flown you out, he returned with Tracksuit to eat and drink. By then, the falling sand had buried him completely. He didn't bring up the corpse. Thought it wouldn't help things. Knew his counterpart would be stupid and tactless.

        Thirteen days worth of memories smack you in the face so hard they shake your tearducts into working again. You raised your head, snarling a smile, thin tears streaking your cheeks. "What happened? You want to know what happened?"

        "Uh yeah, that's what I asked." But he didn't sound so confident now. Tracksuit was strong, a killer, uncaring for human and alien life. Nothing scared him, but navigating other's emotions was not a strong suit. He hadn't seen you cry no matter what crazy shit went down, didn't know why you were now. Frankly, he was a little uncomfortable and off-put by the visual as your chest started to shake with hiccuping breaths. If this was your reaction he could only imagine what had happened. "It's just a question, jeez."

        "He fucked us, that's what happened. He knew what would happen. He knew." You were starting to sound like Mark. Days ago, you'd condemn the thought, be annoyed by it but now the anger was like a mother's swaddling comfort. "We were going to work together. Make it without you assholes and he-" You don't know if you were sobbing or laughing. Felt like both. Maybe it was. "Mark was good to me. I think I could've really loved him but I-" Tracksuit leaned forward, thinking oh, this is going to be good. Maskless pulled him back while you wiped your eyes. 

        You couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't go on. "Where is Mark?" You asked Maskless who'd taken you out, who had seen you laid beside him.

        "I buried him." He didn't need to tell you the sand did it for him. He was heartless but not cruel. 

        "That's nice of you man but like, shouldn't we eat him?" Tracksuit was ignored by you both.

        The tears came faster, hotter, running messy down your face, slipping down your nose, getting into your lips. "I want see him."

        "It's..." Maskless blinked and it was suddenly years ago. He was in front of his house, sweet and eighteen. William's car was pulled to the curb, Burger Mart for two waiting in a greasy bag in the passenger seat. Dashboard dinging, driver's side door open. Blood in the street. The neighbors screaming, running into their houses, they didn't know if wouldn't save them. 

        Dad held William by what was left of his narrow neck. The rest of him, mostly skin and some subcutaneous fat, was laid on the lawn. Mom stood in the window, hands over her mouth, tears on her cheeks. 

        "This is who you've been dating this whole time?" Nolan was planning on telling him about the murder of The Guardians soon. Pulling him to the side of Viltrum, but this expedited things. Mark wasn't supposed to be keeping secrets from him, not like this. 

        He knew Mark was a soft, funny boy by Viltrumite standards. He'd told him and Debbie months ago he thought he liked boys. Nolan could excuse it. On Viltrum, romance wasn't a thing. Unneeded. The only coupling that occurred was heterosexual for the sake of procreation. It was a foreign Earthly concept, but one he thought inconsequential. Debbie said it could be a phase, many teenagers went through them. Nolan thought he'd get a girlfriend eventually, settle down, and forget about that unproductive nonsense. Give him grandbabies that'd fight for the Viltrum Empire.

        But no. 

        He'd been dating that wispy, waste of oxygen for years behind Nolan's back. Today he'd come with flowers and a cheap drug store 'Happy Anniversary' card while Nolan was leaving the house. He was too slow to hide it, simple and human. He had tried to backtrack, lie and say it was for his girlfriend, but Nolan knew what William was. Still, Nolan beat the truth out of him. Then tore him in half for what he'd done to his son- for holding him back and making him soft even by human standards. 

        Mark threw himself at his father who let William's skinless, twitching body drop- splat- to the street. Dad won. Beat his face half in. He thought he was dead, the last thing on his mind William's puddle of a body. But his Viltrumite body wouldn't let that happen, he could come back from almost anything- as long as his heart was intact. Broken as his was. 

        In the time he was healing, the Earth was overtaken. Everything he'd known gone. Burnt and torn in the resistance. He was forced to join the empire, enforce Viltrum's rule on Earth. When Angstrom came along and offered him a way out he took it without question. 

        His eyes opened. William was dead. The planet was not cured of the Viltrum cancer. He was sitting across from some girl who was in his seventh grade science class and was crying about a bald, dead version of himself. And he thought God had a sick sense of humor.

        "...It's better if you don't." He finished.

        Your stomach churned. It was bad. Oh God, it was bad. It had hurt. He was dead and dying hurt the whole time. He didn't want to do it. He wanted to keep you safe in his twisted way and you made him do it. You killed him. Not just snap his neck or bite off his tongue but something so gruesome someone like Maskless was trying to hide it from you.

        Your hands pressed to your eyes so hard you saw stars. You couldn't stop crying.

        Tracksuit was very uncomfortable and wanted the sound to stop. He took a shot at comfort, overrated as he thought it was, "Hey, uhm. I'd kill his crazy ass if I was stuck in a cave with him too. I totally get it. You did the right thing."

        Maskless considered punching him in the throat. You only cried harder. There was no comfort or solace offered after that, but at least they let you grieve in silence.

        ***

        You don't know when you slept, only that you woke up to blistering heat even in the building's shade. Tracksuit leaned in the doorway to the desert, watching you stand and lean hard on one leg. "Took you long enough."

        You ignored him, sitting up and stretching on your own time. You saw Maskless not far behind him, also watching. Waiting for you as well. He walked over, reaching out to offer you a piece of rebar he bent to act as a crutch. 

        "The others will want to see you." He dropped the scrappy, stitched cave map at your side. They'd gone back to the main cave in the days after and found nothing but the map and stalactite stools. You'd been wearing the soldier pants and tank top when they found you, no sign of your armor or chest plate. "We might be flying awhile. You'll need to cover up from the sun."

        You didn't answer, took the cane and the fabric.

        "Wha- Hey, that's my hammock!" Tracksuit cried as you wrapped it around your head and shoulders. 

        "You'll live," Maskless said, gathering up some things before stepping out the pit and hovering above the dunes. "Come on."

        Tracksuit clicked his tongue. Wordlessly given the chore of carrying you along. He scooped you up, one bicep under your knees, the other supporting your back. You clung to him, numb and dry eyed. You could fight but you don't. Just let it happen, hot wind whipping at your face as you thought about Mark under the sand. Thought about revenge. Omni and Gray had information on Phantom, you didn't care about anything else. The trip felt short with your brooding, the wind slowing as Tracksuit lowered to the dunes. 

        You should've known it'd be a tent. Bigger than the first with more supports. Trash woven roof flattering in the sandy wind Tracksuit kicked up as he landed. "Knock, knock."

[nadas-dirthalen]

I need to say something in defense of Veilguard because I'm missing my Rook today.

I can't believe people are still this level of upset about Veilguard. If you hated it, that's your right as a consumer of media—but I can't believe people are still here, 6+ months out, vocally yelling at the devs, as if that will somehow fix their problem.

Moreover I can't believe it because after months away from the fandom, I spent a night the other night looking at old screencaps from my first playthrough and sobbing.

I chose the wrong romance. I got bogged down in some of the side quests because I wanted to reach the ending so badly. By all accounts, I should dislike this game at least a little, surely.

But I don't. Not at all.

This game made me feel things in my bones that are still there. My heart broke in ways that will show the cracks every time I think about this game, because the writers didn't just deliver. They knocked it out of the park so far, I'm not sure any of us will truly understand the depth of what they accomplished, or how they fought to accomplish it despite everything, everything that went wrong in an entire fucking decade.

I felt my Rook's feelings, in all these places.

And that's just act 3. I can't even go grab more without both overloading this post and crying. Nevermind the hours of game footage I have, replaying it all for the third, fourth time.

Take it from someone who wrote 30,000 words' worth of theories about the lore in the week and a half before the game came out. DATV did exactly what they said it was going to do: it expanded on the lore given to us in Trespasser. Maybe it wasn't your favourite book from the Vir Dirthara. Maybe it wasn't some obscure thing in the banter from Trespasser.

But I sobbed the whole day and a half before Veilguard because I cracked that Solas and Mythal started the blight. That was always there. Not everyone guessed right. That's the marker of a good mystery. The best twists are the twists that less than half the audience can guess, but they can be guessed.

I am sorry to everyone who headcanoned something and came out disappointed. Truly. I am.

That doesn't mean Epler is pro-slavery. It doesn't mean he—the guy who animated Solas' face in Trespasser, that thing you like—hates Solas, or anything about Dragon Age. Hell, after working on DATV for 10 years, he got a tattoo of one of the in-game tattoos that spans his entire arm. He started that a few months before the game came out. How could you possibly think he despises a thing that he has marked his own body with????

You have every right to hate the game. But please, don't forget that this game has so much to love. It has so much heart. It has a feast's worth of lore. You can hold both of those in your heart at the same time, just like how I can know that DATV's side quests left me fatigued and still appreciate the everloving shit out of the game's story.

It has me in a chokehold, after four months of not playing, to the tune that I get weepy at the memory of its title screen. It made me cry harder than I ever have at a piece of media, ever.

And I know many of you out there did, too.

For all its flaws, can't we be happy it did that?

[zeravmeta]

talking about a certain hundred line route, obvs spoilers

I think the Cult of Takumi route is kind of genius in how it's actually pretty easy to stumble into and serves as an exceptional tone setting route for those looking to 100% the game, or at least hunt for a few more endings.

Here's the thing, the Cult Route is preceded by choices that seem pretty obvious to take on the surface if you share even a modecum of Takumi's goals in saving all his friends: sparing Eito, Takumi revealing his foreknowledge, and saving LDA vs SLDA on day 9/10

Now, if you're anything like me you probably went into the first loop thinking "alright how do i save all my friends this time, let's do less warcrimes" so sparing Eito initially seems like a good idea, you'd want that golden route ending where everyone manages to make it. Revealing your foreknowledge also seems like a good idea, it's a really easy thing to prove and the cast trusts you immediately as well, and going in blind and undivided is what caused all the problems in Route 0, so a unifying force in providing foreknowledge seems good. Going to save SLDA seems pretty obvious too, not doing so would result in Moko disappearing initially, but the fact that Takumi inadvertently buffed the commanders by going back in time also means that it's far likelier that ALL the SDLA members could die this time, PLUS you're right there, surely the LDA can survive ONE battle without you.

However, the game punishes you for this last choice by permakilling Darumi, one of Takumi's first friends in Route 0. Darumi's death hangs over him and serves as a constant reminder not only that your choices have consequences, but that you might not actually be making things better this time. Foreknowledge doesn't necessarily mean an easy go this time, and Takumi is faced with the risk that going back like this might actually make things far worse. This continually sticks with Takumi throughout the preceding days and haunts him before it gets even worse: The sacrifice choice between Kyoshika, Tsubasa, and Takemaru.

Kyoshika is terrified to die but still chooses to offer herself up, Tsubasa is even moreso because she didn't even expect to be a sacrifice option, and Takemaru... nudges you to choose him. Out of the three, he seems the most prepared for this.

Takemaru, the second of Takumi's first friends.

In Route 0, Takumi's first friends were Hiruko, Eito, Darumi and Takemaru. Hiruko did not last long and Eito was a traitor, but Darumi and Takemaru were Takumi's closest friends who continued to support him throughout Route 0. And for the Cult Route to form, he loses both of them.

Both of these deaths are what stuck with Takumi the most, even well into the ending of the Cult Route where he thinks of honoring them while taking over the world, but it's the starting point for him taking Yugamu's funny pheromone hentai drug, and it only gets worse because of Sirei. Sirei initially makes Takumi a leader, something he already doesn't want to be, but also sets the seed to make Takumi a cult leader. Initially, Takumi keeps swearing up and down that this is just a temporary measure to keep everyone united, that once they reach day 100, he can have this removed, but after Takemaru's sacrifice, there are no other big choices except for the very last day: choosing between Nozomi and Eito in making a cure.

However, the game punishes you again, this time for choosing Nozomi. If you try to correct the course and not be a fucked up pheromone alpha male guy right at the very end even if it might cause further problems (which I imagine is the FAR more chosen option, I'd love if this game revealed metrics on what choices people made the most), Takumi is left paralyzed and forced to watch as the cast brutally beat Nozomi to death, ending on a scene of Eito having his way with Takumi as he's stuck being a living idol.

The fucked up thing, though, is that if you choose Eito, this route really does work out in all their favors in the long run. Takumi managed to save most of his friends this time and reconciled with Eito, all of them as a collective take charge of both the planet and humanity and forcibly end the war, ensuring a better future that isn't a dead end for either humanity or the futurans, which we know because Takumi's inner monologue makes a point of bringing humanity to heel so that they don't wipe out the futurans. Takumi lost two friends but ultimately the entire situation is resolved in a way that doesn't damn either side to extinction.

But it's also horrific. The technically better for everyone ending is also one of the morally worst. Takumi is warped physically and mentally into this egotistical alpha male cult leader with all his friends being living subservient slaves and he uses a newly brainwashed Nozomi as a doll to replace Karua. Even with access to Takumi's inner monologue where he is presented as genuinely caring for all his friends, it's still a horrific turn to see Takumi this warped, justifying these actions with what are, in fact, tangibly better results compared to last time.

And I think that's so genius that this route with minimal casualties and a defined, almost hopeful ending for the future is also presented as so morally twisted, because this route I think is remarkably easy to stumble into if you're doing your best to try and save the whole cast: You tried to make all the 'good' choices, you try to save everyone and minimize as many casualties as you could even at the cost of your morality and principles, but even a 'good' ending isn't necessarily a better one.

And if this is one of the first endings you get, it really sticks with you for every choice going forward in hunting other endings. Just how much worse could things be?

[nonsscrapheap]

TFP: Universal Observations

YES YES HELLO I AM BACK!

so sorry for the delay! i was very busy irl, i had to move into a new place and things are still just settling here but i have FINALLY finished this next chapter of alien mecha! took longer than i thought but here we are!

another reason why it took so long is because this chapter OVERTOOK the last chapter's 6k+ word count... it is 11.8k long. so i really hope you guys enjoy this one!

ALSO! while this is DEFINITELY in the Aligned Continuity and based on the Transformers Prime show, i took more than a few liberties for their worldbuilding and lore. just to make things more fun for me and hopefully you guys.

anyway, here we go!

ACT I: Alien Mecha - II -

[ ----- TP : UO ----- ]

The Nemesis

After the… Actor? Universe? Thing? (After Lord Megatron got pissed at his own counterpart/actor for speaking uh, for disrespecting him. (Wow.)) And after that bot, the orange one- his name was… Ri-no, it was Rung? Rung, right, Rung. After Rung's one-sided conversation, which left all of them on edge, there was a moment of reprieve as the Autobots and their humans tried to figure out the sphere.

Observer.

Thing.

Breakdown had no idea what those guys were doing, and unfortunately, neither did Soundwave or Lord Megatron. It obviously grated on the warlord and even their communications officer, being unable to control the Observer as they wanted but there wasn't much they could do.

Anyway, while they were doing that, Lord Megatron had sought fit to move all of them to a meeting room with chairs so they didn't have to stand around and do nothing but gawk oin their pedes the entire time.

Now they get to sit around and gawk instead.

Not that Breakdown was complaining, it was just a little boring to just- watch whatever the frag was going on with the Autobots, humans, Observer while listening to the speculations from his fellow Decepticons.

Surprisingly Knock Out and Starscream were collaborating with Soundwave to figure out more of the Observer, at the start, mostly on Lord Megatron's orders but as they watched the Autobots somehow pull up blueprints of the Observer's inner mechanisms- well, Breakdown was lost when Starscream said something about 'alternate-universal planar' something, something.

The ex-wrecker had forgotten that Starscream wasn't just a vain second in command seeker, but had roots in science. Vaguely he remembered Knock Out mentioning that Starscream once went to an Iaconian Academy- impressive, really.

There wasn't much to do while the main processors were hashing slag out about the Observer but to passively listen and do a little vehicon management through some commlinks and such.

Sometime later, seemed like the Autobots were finally continuing as Soundwave, Knock Out and Starscream came to the conclusion that the Observer was capable of self-repair but needed to be in use to be able to do so.

Which meant watching more universes where things were weird and different.

Well, this was going to be fun.

Breakdown didn't even mean that much sarcasm, he was genuinely interested in what was going to happen. It wasn't everyday you get to watch other universes after all, sure, all of them so far were weird…

Decepticons acting chummy while the Autobots were actual menaces with con-like malice. Actors who were playing out their universe, fragging Unicr—

But honestly, it's more entertainment than Breakdown's had in a while on this hunk of rock. Reminded him of holovids and such, and he knows Knock Out is more than enjoying this since it also reminds him of the human media that they both tend to watch in private- some of them Breakdown doesn't really like but eh, they had their preferences.

( As an ex-wrecker he did like the demolition derbies and action movies, but only Knock Out would know that he had a soft spot for nice, well done romanctic movies and shows. )

[ KEY WORDS ; ALIEN MECHA ]

Alien Mecha?

He had to wonder just what was going on in the Autobot base, he knows the Observer was busted inside so the whole 'Key Words' input thing was probably fragged as well but seriously, just what led to those pair of words becoming literaly key words into looking in another universe?

And of course it starts weird.

Slow motion, edges frosted over, and a small human- a child, human equivalent to a sparkling- just standing there. Confusion was the first thing that came to mind as he watched things progress, before his plates bristled at the sight of an unknown creature standing so menacingly in front of the young human.

Look, humans were weird. Humans were weak, and squishy and he didn't have the best impressions of them especially because humans were the reason he lost a fragging optic. But as much as a Decepticon Breakdown was, he never approved of going after sparklings, regardless of creatures.

Even when he taunted Bulkhead over his female human pet, it was posturing and battle-focused taunting at best.

Also? He was with Knock Out, whatever the frag that was, it was hideous.

Imagine his surprise though, when he sees another human suddenly appear with a small metal stick of all things and bash the canine-like monster in the fragging face. Clearly terrified but mostly furiously protective over the young child, who Breakdown would learn was actually the much younger self of one of the Autobot's humans.

Arachnid apparently recognized her, muttering, "What a contrast, I had that woman cocooned helplessly yet here she is, trying to take on something beyond her size."

Breakdown hid a snort, Arachnid has never been around creators then. Organic or not, there was clearly something akin to the creator-protocols that demanded their young's safety overall. Breakdown watched curiously, only having seen such feats from humans in movies and shows, and though this felt like watching human media, this was undeniably real. Just set in another universe.

"Did I watch that right or did that tiny human manage to kill one of the- whatever the frag that was?" Breakdown asked aloud, in disbelief and slight awe at the sight of one of the monsters actually down despite the size-disparity and the clear danger that the monster was.

"She shoved her arm and weapon right through the mouth, unorthodox yet effective. Unfortunately not without its demerits." Huh, even Lord Megatron seemed impressed- just the tiniest bit, but that was saying something.

Carriers.

Breakdown never wanted to go against one, regardless of species.

Anyway, it turns out to be a dream. Or maybe a memory by the looks of things. The human, Jack, Breakdown was actually going to have to address the organics' names at this point since there were going to be other humans, wakes up then shortly after the other human, Raf, wakes up too.

Honestly the next few minutes are a bit boring, and he distantly hears Starscream grumbling over the fact they were watching the Autobot's humans. As much as he agreed a bit with the seeker, Knock Out's answer was the reality of things.

The Autobot humans were the ones in control here, so of course the Observer would focus on them. At least in the beginning, back in that other universe, the one with the blue-eyed Lord Megatron and malicious (yet hot) Optimus Prime, the focus had started out on the children before it drifted over to a Decepticon vs Autobot showdown.

Cut short because of—

"- My name is Rung -" Breakdown tried not to look at Soundwave, tried not to remember the other Prime cutting the mech's fa—

Give m—

Breakdown shuddered, shaking his helm and focused on the screen. The humans were walking now, down a hall and- wait a fragging minute. He recognized those uniforms! "Those're the humans that nabbed me and my optic!" He hissed, his glare at the screen shortly turned towards a chuckling spider-bot.

Finally Bulkhead's human comes unto screen, looking far different from usual- the pink of her hair was extremely faded, not to mention said hair was short. Weird. He could see Knock Out making a face at the faded human paint job, probably comparing it to his own paint job or something.

Then comes a name that no one expected— "SHOCKWAVE!?" Everyone exclaimed, even Soundwave! Although his exclamation, was of course, a recording of someone else shouting the cylcoptic mech's designation.

"What did happen to Shockwave?" Arachnid asked lowly, eyeing the way Lord Megatron glared at Starscream.

Breakdown shrugged, disgruntled at the question but not really blaming her for asking. She'd been out of the loop of the Decepticons for a while now. "Dunno, something about a bridge explosion back on Cybertron?"

"Or so Starscream says." Knock Out added in, smirking. "Who knows how reliable that information is."

Alarms blare from the screen, grabbing their attention again. Breakdown narrowed his optic at the 'callsign' being used, "Wrecker?" he couldn't help but mutter. Being an ex-Wrecker, hearing the callsign was definitely something.

Did Bulkhead consider his human charge to be part of the Wreckers? Did she think she was one of them? Hah! Breakdown wondered if this human, Miko, the other one on the screen, truly earned the callsign of Wrecker.

Whatever that meant in this universe anyway.

His amusement turned into a seething anger as he caught sight of him. Silas, on the screen. Looking not too different from the counterpart he'd met not so long ago. "That puny little— next time I see him, I'll smash him to bits!" He snarled, still not over his missing optic.

Arachnid laughed, sneering at him, "Do you need a hand with that, Breakdown? Or sorry, an optic?" Breakdown bristled, threatening to stand up if it weren't for Knock Out holding his arm and soon enough-

"Enough! Both of you, silence!" Lord Megatron commanded, glaring at the bristling cons who were quick to back down.

"Yes, Lord Megatron." He and Arachnid muttered reluctantly, though Breakdown didn't stop glaring at the bemused spiderbot. Damned Arachnid…

Wait a klik, that was Shockwave?! That human was Shockwave?!

"What the slag?!" "That's Shockwave?!"

There was a sound of a click among the voices, Breakdown glancing over to see Soundwave taking a picture of the humanoid Shockwave.

"Other universe people!" Knock Out exclaimed, reminding them of what was happening. "Remember, this is another universe! We don't know what's in store for any and every universe, safe to say this universe's Shockwave is human! In fact, maybe we're all human."

"Insidious." Starscream hissed, dramatically shuddering at the sheer possibility of such a thing.

"Well, at least Shockwave's… human? Self? Fits the mech. Can't really imagine myself as one." Breakdown grunted but sent a smile to his conjunx. "You'd look great as one though."

Knock Out preened, "Naturally."

They watched as the universe continued- they'd been too focused on the surprising appearance of Human Shockwave to notice the bodies- no, the mecha in the room. Watching in stunned silence as the three humans were lifted to their respective robotic… suits??

"… Okay, I think I know where this is going." Knock Out deadpanned, hiding how uncomfortable he was at seeing the mecha. It was uncanny really, how Cybertronian-like they were yet weren't. Each one reminded Breakdown of bots who underwent empurata… Thinking about it, that human Shockwave was wearing a mask, they didn't see his face. Did he suffer a face-injury? Did the humans have empurata there??

He really hoped not. Cybertronian empurata was bad enough, he'd rather not think of humans doing that to their own kind- too organic and squishy for Breakdown's tanks. Ugh.

They watched the humans 'clock in' as they said, stunned to see each human having to plug into their mecha via wires to neck port. Breakdown can't recall the last time someone had that type of mod installed- Breakdown may have above average medical knowledge thanks to being Knock Out's assistance but even he couldn't think of any procedure or reason for anyone to have ports on their necks like those humans.

Lord Megatron made a noise of intruige, "If only Shockwave was here, perhaps he could give some insight of what's happening." Starscream wilted over the pointed, displeased look the warlord leader gave him. "Even though his counterpart is human there, I'd imagine he would've had an inkling to his counterpart's thought process regardless… It's truly a shame that he died on Cybertron."

"Hahaha… i-indeed..."

Starscream seemed so nervous, enough that Breakdown had to wonder if the emotionless scientist was dead… Then again, Breakdown couldn't really care less? Shockwave was terrifying, even to the average Decepticon.

"Cortical Psychic Patch?!" Lord Megatron hissed the moment it was mentioned, soon afterwards the screen paused- the Autobots no doubt pausing because of its mention. And remembering the last time that thing was in use; the Autobot scout that once housed Lord Megatron's mind while the warlord's body was in a coma. Hand't that been a wild thing to learn about?

"Could a human recreate cybertronian technology like that?" Breakdown asked Knock Out, though surprisingly it was Starscream who answered.

"Technically, it isn't cybertronian technology- not in that universe. It's human, though Shockwave's involvement isn't a surprise. He did create it here, although now I'm curious as to what is going to be subjected to a patch-link." The seeker muttered, squinting at the screen, "These humans have mentioned these 'XTRs' multiple times already, perhaps that? That would beg the question as to what they are and if they're capable of patch-linking with a cortical psychic patch in the first place…"

"The monster from the start." Arachnid hummed, clearly more interested in the viewing now than earlier. "The one that almost attacked young Jack and no doubt, killed Jack's mother… what was her name again? Ah, no matter. Perhaps those are the XTRs."

"Big robot bodies for such small things." Knock Out pointed out dryly, seeing the disparity between the hound-like creature that was, sure, bigger than most humans but that other human's mecha, Raf? Senscript? That was surely big enough to deal with those…

So why build bigger ones like Ja-Tailbreaker and M-Wrecker's mecha?

The answer would come as the screen suddenly played, the Autobots no doubt wanting to know just as much as they did.

[ A series of clicks and deep beeps, mostly unintelligable even by Cybertronian standards was heard as the scene shifts to a rocky terrain. It wasn't exactly a natural type of rock as something was attempting to bore into the side of a gigantic clifface. Sharp, curved spade-like claws dug at the thick rock, connected to heavy muscled and plated limbs from lumbering giants that had comparatively smaller heads that had no mouths, just slitted eyes that held no intellgence whatsoever.

Around them, a small group of familiar hound-like creatures patrolled alongside a bigger group of gigantic, even somehow more monstrous versions of themselves. A group of heavily muscled and plated humanoid soldiers stood by guarding a smaller, in comparison, creature that seemed just as techno-organic as the rest of them. However, instead of being humanoid, it wasn't as such- it had crab-like claws on one set of large tentacles, smaller ones lining its sides with six insectoid-like legs supporting its weight. Its head was oval-shaped, bulging out of its oblong body with two-faces on its front and back. ]

( "Children, pause the screen right now!" Nearly everyone in the base jumped at the commanding and severe tone the Prime said.)

The screen paused just as Lord Megatron began to swear. Heavily.

"Of course. Of course, that's why that creature looked familiar at the start." Megatron hissed, glaring at the screen with caution that had everyone in the room instantly on edge.

"An explanation would be appreciated, Lord Megatron." Arachnid said dryly, though she was just as tense as the rest of them were.

The silver ex-gladiator invented sharply, "… What you see on the screen, that thing with two faceplates, half-organic, half-cybernetic… That is a Quintesson." He doesn't even wait a moment, doesn't glance over to their confused expressions as he continues. "Not many cybertronians would recognize it of course, it's an old, old race. From even beyond the Golden Age of Cybertron. During the age of the Thirteen Primes and its tribal era, not long after Unicron's downfall, shortly after a new generation of our people were just beginning to crawl out of hotspots, a cyber-organic race found our planet and introduced us to the stars… Only to try and take us to said stars in chains and boxes."

"The Quintessons had came to Cybertron looking for fodder, servants, slaves. Unfortunately for them, the Thirteen Primes were still in the apex of their rule, of course they weren't going to let our ancestors get taken and enslaved by such creatures like that. So they retaliated, and wiped out the Quintessons once and for all. The invasion was short-lived, so short-lived the records of the Quintessons were sparse and few, and the knowledge was deemed unnecessary in regular historic education."

"And yet you know of it." Starscream states, for once sounding genuinely curious.

Lord Megatron's optics didn't stray from the screen, narrows and trained on the now-identified 'Quintesson'. "… I had a contact who worked in the Iacon Hall of Records, an archivist that shared what he deemed as 'interesting' material to me back before the war." He replied in a stiff yet oddly quiet tone.

Knock Out frowned, about to open his intake when Soundwave shifted, a series of glyphs and pictures going over his visor before transferring it to a nearby screen within the room for a better look. Right, Breakdown forgot that they had access to the Iacon Hall of Records- most of it was encrypted of course, the important stuff.

But the information, or what little there was, about the Quintessons hadn't been deemed important enough to encrypt fully. Breakdown squinted at the file. There wasn't an actual photo of Quintessons, just old sketches and drawings that depicted a similar looking creature to the one on the screen right now.

"Astute as ever, Soundwave." Megatron complimented, finally looking away from the Observer's screen. "Although not a one-hundred percent accurate depiction, the similarities speak for themselves… They even tell of beasts that the Quintessons attempted to use to subdue cybertronians of old." A screen blinked, depicting a hound-like creature that was indeed, very similar to the one that had attacked Tailbreaker's human carrier at the very beginning and the creatures they could see right now.

"By the looks of it, the Quintessons weren't wiped to extinction in this universe, or perhaps they never attacked Cybertron- if it even exists there considering Shockwave's current… species." Arachnid theorized with a grimace, she didn't like the idea of being a human. None of them did.

Well, most of them.

The ones who didn't mind would never voice it aloud though.

( "So we're fighting actual alien enslavers and stuff? Sounds like a pretty good reason to build giant robots for ourselves and kick their afts!"

"Miko! This is serious! You heard Optimus, the Thirteen Primes had to wipe out the Quintessons and they were like- demi-gods or something, We aren't them, Earth is in serious, serious danger there!"

"You don't know that! I mean like, ugh- I know this is serious and dangerous, but we got this! Humanity isn't going to roll over and let those- crab-like things take over the Earth! By the looks of things, we're pretty experienced in kicking Quint-butt! C'mon just- let's watch it! You'll see, we are going to be awesome here, I just know it."

"Miko—"

"Jack, Miko's right- in that, we should probably keep watching. We do seem like we know what we're doing, and, uh, we do need to keep watching to repair the Observer… So, continue!"

A worried Prime quietly speaks with his old medic-friend before going silent as the screen continues to play. )

[ Hidden on an outcropping far above and away, Senscript hunkered down, spying on the group through his cameras. "Found them, sending coordinates and assessing troops… Hound units, scouts and K9s, six groups, two scouts for every K9. Soldier units, class 6 and 7, three of each in pairs circling the Commander." Senscript reported dutifully before frowning, "New XTR identified, unnamed and unclassified. Size comparible to a class 8, looks like a tank but doesnt have the proper armor or equipment, two of them, digging into the cliff… They're looking for something." ]

On one of the screens of the Nemesis, Soundwave was writing down information- XTR, K9, hound units, soldier units, class 6-8. As expected from the communications and information gathering officer and Lord Megatron's third-in-command.

Even had the whole thing alphabetized with accompanied pictures from the screen. Meticulous as ever.

[ Silas' voice came through comms. .: Any additional forces hidden among the ranks? :.

"Searching now…" Senscript replied, tensing in his chair as his mech froze in place. The back of his mech's head began to open, like a flower blooming, it reached all the way to the base of his mech's head as the sensitive sensory panels glowed dimly.

A wave of information and data flew across Senscript's mind and screens, not just there, but across the screens of MECH's main base as well as Tailbreaker and Wrecker's screens as Senscript transmitted the data.

In the shadows of the clifface, an outline of several invisible things were perched against the rocks. Hundreds of them. "Confirmed; swarm type 3 hidden within the area. Numbering to the hundreds but not surpassing two hundred." ]

Breakdown tilted his helm when the back of Senscript's head, the mech's head just- opened. It looked very familiar. "That's a sensory crown, huh, humans built that too? Freaky." He muttered aloud, continuing when he saw Knock Out's questioning look. "Had a couple of miner friends back before the war, lotsa' them had one of those. Helps them sense through the mines for energon and minerals and slag."

He was surprised to see Lord Megatron glance over to him, faceplate unusually tense yet thoughtful, considering. He didn't get why before his processor provided him a clip of a memory from earlier on—

"That's not the gladiator of Kaon! That's not the Decepticon Warlord who waged war for millions of years against Optimus Prime! That's definitely not the revolutionary who wanted to break free from his masters in his backstory back when he was a miner!" 

Oh slag, hadn't that actor guy said- had Lord Megatron really been a miner? Breakdown hadn't known that. So did that mean…

Breakdown's optic quickly glanced away when he realized that he was staring at the back of Megatron's helm with too much curiosity, the warning look his leader gave him was enough to remind him that he only had one optic left and he'd rather keep it that way.

Meanwhile, Lord Megatron could almost feel his own sensory crown twitch underneath his helm. It wasn't possible though, considering it was offline, he rarely used it anymore… seeing this human, this child that he had nearly killed in an offshoot future regardless of fictionality, ( his counterpart dared to call him disappointing?! ), seeing Senscript's unsettling human-made mech reveal his sensory crown…

It was unnerving.

It reminded him of memories he'd left behind eons ago.

( And elsewhere, a Prime remembers but keeps silent, glancing at the youngest human in the room before continuing to watch the screen. A medic explains to a curious boy about it instead, which leads to an epiphany.

"Oh! I think that is why my other self is so hypersensitive to light and sound!"

The medic pauses and worries. )

[ .: Ugh, swarms. :. Came Wrecker's reply, though it was quiet and swept aside for Shockwave's voice instead.

.: Mission parameters unchanged, deal with the rest of the XTRs and subdue the commander. Leave nothing else alive, test the cortical link and extract whatever data and information you can get from its processors. :.

.: Confirmed, engaging shortly. :. Tailbreaker replied, .: Wrecker focus on the Soldier units, I'll deal with the Hounds, when the swarm hits—:.

.: We wreck 'n ruin! :. Wrecker grinned ferally. ]

Breakdown couldn't help but mirror the grin- what can he say? He may be an ex-Wrecker, but the familiar phrase was pretty much etched into his spark. He was a Wrecker through and through.

And, okay, he can see why Bulkhead was so attached to the pink-haired fleshling if this was what she usually was. Pits, he can see his alternate being attached to her for good reason in that weird universe where Opti- uh, where Lord Megatron had blue optics. Yeah. That universe.

Maybe the little squirt was Wrecker material after all.

Just maybe.

( A girl cheered with her guardian, the green Wrecker practically preening and puffing his chestplates proudly at the phrase being used. )

[ Tailbreaker snorted, .: Not my style Wrecker, but sure. Senscript, you'll provide long-range support, keep us posted and keep your distance. Remember the mission. Things get dicey, fall back. :.

Senscript nodded, sensory crown closing once more. "Copy that." ]

Breakdown frowned.

The plan's basic, simple. But sometimes that's all you really need for a mission, however there was still the problem that the three humans, pilots? Were vastly outnumbered compared to the Quintessons. MECH had sent only three of them against what was essentially a large company of soldiers- regardless of classification.

That usually meant two things; they were overconfident and were being stupid. Or their confidence was justified.

Breakdown, biased as he was against humans, especially MECH, wanted the former to be true. But with how things were looking… might be the latter.

He kept a sharp optic on the screen, time to see for himself on which it was.

[ The screen shifted to the pair of digging XTRs, the commander was right behind them, barking orders with clear authority and a certain level of urgency. ]

"Just what could they possibly be looking for?" Knock Out couldn't help but ask aloud, squinting at the screen.

“Whatever it is, it seems important. Enough to require heavy enough protection yet discretion.” Starscream muttered with a critical optic, scheming as he was, there was a reason why Starscream was Second-In-Command, other than for Lord Megatron to keep an optic on him anyway. The Seeker was actually quite the tactician, especially in the air. "Is that their language? I don't suppose there's a possible translation lexicon or program somewhere in the Iacon Archive database for it? Uh, Lord Megatron."

Quintesson language sounded weird, even to them. It was both mechanical yet completely organic- a contradiction that seemed to fit the cyber-organic species that were more organic than cybernetic. Trying to understand it by audial went something akin to— { Exclamation - Negative - Positive - Urgency - Exclamation }, or something like that, which meant… nothing really understandable? To Breakdown at least.

For once, Lord Megatron didn't give Starscream his usual sneer- just a thoughtful expression as he looked over to Soundwave. The silent mech was still for a moment before an 'X' symbol made itself known on his screen. "Shame, although perhaps the screen will show us a way to translate the Quintesson language. Keep note Soundwave, and attempt to translate yourself if possible."

There was the tiniest nod, honestly Breakdown can't believe the amount of work that Soundwave accepted on Lord Megatron's orders. Wasn't he already cataloging the Quintessons, attempting to find the Autobots base based on whatever transmission connection the Observer had and stuff?

Soundwave was scarily good at multitasking.

[ One unit of Hounds were patrolling nearby, the scouts- the larger, more monstrous versions of K9s, sniffed at the air while their smaller counterparts were sniffing the ground.

Suddenly, both sets of grotesque alien dog creatures froze before growling lowly in warning, muzzles splitting open as if to alert the rest of the XTRs- but it was a little too late for that as—

BOOM

The ground shook when the massive form of Wrecker collided hard against the nearest Soldier Unit with a thick, bone-shattering, metal-denting sound. Tailbreaker was right behind her, bladed arms digging into the sides of the Hound unit that had almost alerted the rest of the XTRs just a few seconds sooner.

Not that it mattered as immediately Wrecker and Tailbreaker started to carve their way towards the commander who shrieked and shrilled at the sight of them. ]

"Woah."

The word spilled unconsciously from his intake as Breakdown watched both false-cybertronians essentially slaughter through the pack of Quintesson soldiers and scouts. For being such big, mechanical human-made machines- they were far more fluid than Breakdown had expected them to be.

Especially because they were, unfortunately, much bigger in size. Lord Megatron (and Optimus Prime maybe) was the size of Tailbreaker here from Breakdown's estimations, while Wrecker was heads taller.

However from the looks of it, there was a very good reason as to why they had to be bigger- the Quintessons were huge now that they were on the same screen as the piloted machinery, mostly towered over even Wrecker.

For being human-made, unsettlingly cybertronian-like mecha, they were functioning pretty much flawlessly as Quintesson killing machines.

Which was the entire point, Breakdown realizes as he watches with intrigued yet somewhat disgusted optics when Tailbreaker lived up to his designation when he grabbed the spiked tails of the large Hound units and broke it- tearing the sharpened tail off of a dead Hound just to accurately throw the spikes at the snarling smaller K9s that threatened his pedes.

"Ugh, I think I'm going to be sick." Starscream gagged at the sight and sound of organic flesh and bone breaking and tearing, disgust clear on his faceplate yet like the rest of them, he couldn't take his optics off of the horrifyingly compelling sight of the humans in empurata-like false-cybertronian bodies going against the Quintessons who were definitely more organic than expected.

If Breakdown hadn't been used to the sound of organic flesh being broken and torn apart from the human media that Knock Out had forced him to watch in secret, his tanks would've been roiling like Starscream's. Knock Out himself was only mildly disgusted, the look in his optic told Breakdown he was watching with a medical-intent of fascination, taking in what little Quintesson biology he could see and guess in his processor on what the insides of the cyber-organic creatures were like.

Only Lord Megatron, Arachnid and Soundwave didn't seem as disgusted, looking far more fascinated instead- with the exception of Soundwave for obvious reasons.

"Impressive, the humans must have been attacked by the Quintessons long enough to create adequate weaponry to counterattack. These… mecha, are all essentially war weaponry, Quintesson killing machines." Arachnid commented, chuckling when Wrecker started wrestling with a large Quintesson soldier only to lift the thing and slam it into another.

"Indeed." Lord Megatron agreed, optics narrowed with clear interest- it wasn't a one-sided battle, both Tailbreaker and Wrecker suffered hits and such, but their mecha were certainly made with tougher material that they had expected coming from the planet they were on. And by the looks of things, the young humans piloting them were very experienced in combat against the alien threat.

( Among the three humans, only one of them can watch with glee and minimal disgust, cheering on her alternate self while the her friends struggled to watch the carnage- cool as it was, it was far too graphic for their tastes. Still, for the eldest among them, it was cool to see himself piloting a giant robot and fighting aliens.

The Autobots on the other hand were disturbed and somewhat disgusted but were far too used to war to be truly affected by the carnage… however the fact that these were the alternate versions of their charges fighting head on, it made them worry.

A certain scout did try to shield his charge's view of the screen, but the young boy protested heavily, insisting he could handle it much to the chagrin of the others. )

[ The scene returns to Senscript, who was watching nearby, still hidden among the boulders atop the lower cliffsides. His mecha's sensory crown was revealed once more, data flying across his screens and mind as the XTRs numbers dwindled- though it was clear he was still keeping an eye on his teammates and the hidden swarm.

"Wrecker, four o'clock- Soldier unit heading towards Tailbreaker. Swarm activity rising, brace for it!"Senscript warned, the silhouettes of the hidden XTRs beginning to move, carapaces and plates shifting to reveal fast-flapping insect wings. "Commander seems urgent, but it's not retreating, whatever's buried in the cliff- it's not leaving without it!"

The intelligent XTR was barking order after order, urging its digging subordinates to dig faster into the rocky wall. Discretion was no longer an option, nor was stealth. ]

"I've asked this before, but what the frag are they looking for? What's so important that they're willing to risk it all just to uncover whatever's in the cliff?" Knock Out frowned.

"Must be something useful, powerful." Arachnid theorized, helm tilting with interest as the swarm began to ripple in and out of regular sight.

[ "Swarm activity; rising!"

.: Make sure the commander can't call in reinforcements. :. Shockwave commanded, .: Activate Signal Blockers. :.

"That's going to block everything other than local comm systems, are you sure about that?" Senscript asked a bit worriedly.

.: We cannot risk escalating the situation beyond what it is, having a commander on field with such little protection is a rarity, we can NOT let it call in reinforcements. Prioritize testing the Cortical Psychic Patch and scavanging data from its processors. Wrecker and Tailbreaker, remember your orders and ensure the commander is subdued and Senscript is safely able to extract information from it. I will not tolerate failure. :. Silas interjected, .: Deactivate the Blockers only after you've tested the link and extracted data. Is that understood?! :.

.: Yes sir. :. Tailbreaker replied tersely.

Wrecker snorted, .: Loud and clear. :.

Senscript noticed the swarm's movement and immediately began to pull some levers and activate some programs from his mecha. "Swarm incoming! Activating Signal Blockers!" Two antennae slid out at the side of his head, right before the edge of the sensory crown, sparking with power as Shockwave and Silas' voices disappeared from the communication line he, Wrecker and Tailbreaker were in.

.: Wrecker! :.

.: I know! Senscript, block shit out- I'm getting out the big guns! :. ]

Breakdown had wondered if the humans had weaponry installed in those gigantic suits of theirs- so far they'd done nothing but basic servo-to-servo combat. Which was admittedly already impressive enough.

But then the large servos of Wrecker's mecha shifted alongside the shoulder pads- not by much, thick plating shifting back to reveal strange circular indents- subwoofers? Meanwhile, the arms of Tailbreaker's mecha shifted to let out sharp serrated blades that reminded Breakdown slightly of the Autobot femme's weaponry.

Arachnid was thinking the same thing, looking at the blades with interest and annoyance. Because of course Jack's counterpart's mecha would have weaponry resembling Arcee's own blades. They were longer and serrated at the end though.

( A femme scout smirked, commenting on Tailbreaker's weaponry, saying it was a good choice. Her human partner grinned in turn. Meanwhile a certain teenage wrecker hollered at the subwoofers, suspecting what was to come. )

[ .: WRECK 'N RUUUUUUUIN! :. Wrecker screamed with excitement as the subwoofers of her mecha let out a deep, frame-shaking noise towards the majority of the swarm that flew towards her and Tailbreaker. Tailbreaker positioned himself right behind Wrecker, wincing in his cockpit at the noise, adjusting his auditory sensors and trying to brace from the ridiculously effective sonic weapon.

Senscript had hastily retracted his sensory crown, but left the Signal Blocking antenna out. Even with his sensors fully blocked out, he flinched in his cockpit, pressing his hands against his helm.

The swarm faltered, blown back by the sonic wave that messed with their senses. Some even beginning to smoke and fall from the air. They, along with the other units, the Soldiers and Hounds, were temporarily stunned from the auditory attack.

Which was all Tailbreaker needed to start his own attack. ]

Alright, so the human girl was definitely Wrecker material. He could see how she got her callsign, but it was another thing to see if she deserved to keep it. Sonic attacks weren't exactly common among Wreckers- though he does know of a mech who did that. Blaster… Never knew the mech personally, he had joined after Breakdown had left the Wreckers, but they did fight on a few battlefields.

"Hm, reminds me of an old weapon my scientists created- what was it again…" Lord Megatron said aloud, turning when Soundwave let out a ping, showing a picture of a weapon on his visor. "Ah yes, the resonance blaster. It was a fine piece of weaponry… unfortunately it got stolen by the Autobots and locked away in the Iacon Vaults."

"There are similarities, however so far it's not on par with its capacity and power. The only commonality is that its a sonic weapon." Starscream muttered, unimpressed with the screen. "With the actual blaster, that swarm wouldn't have stand a chance."

"You know of it, Starscream?"

The seeker bristled at the condescending question from the arachnoid con, "Of course I did! I oversaw its creation!"

"As well as oversaw as one of the ones who lost it and the blueprints to the Autobots." Starscream's intake shut firmly, torn between withering underneath Lord Megatron's sneer or indignantly glaring back. Self preservation won out and the seeker grumbled silently in his seat.

"Hm, to think that humans could create such suits with that much fluidity and motion. You'd be hardpressed to see even some average cybertronians move in such way." Knock Out commented, watching with interest as Tailbreaker weaved, slashed and hacked his way through the swarm. Targeting not only the insects but the stray Hound or Soldier in his way. His suit was almost elegant in its movement, "No doubt, Shockwave, human as he is in that world, had a hand as to why and how. But still, it's impressive."

( A pink-haired girl whooped and cheered at the sight of her and her friend absolutely wrecking the swarm and the Quintessons. Shaking the older teen besides her as his other swiftly moved through the swarm like a living blender almost. )

[ Wrecker's subwoofer weapons stopped, the young woman taking a deep breath as her screen showed that the wave had been set to 45% output damage and that the integrity of her mecha suit was now at 80% with fuel just at 78%.

She looked through the cameras of her mecha to see Tailbreaker slicing through groups of the swarm. Dodging soldiers attempting to attack him and even using a Hound to launch himself up into the air to get to the higher flying XTRs.

Her attention shifted back to the commander, who was snarling, tentacles whipping around it but was unable to do anything but bark more orders- this time at the unknown digging XTRs. One of them halted from its task of digging into the wall, joining the rest of the living Soldiers and Hounds, pointing right at her with a clawed tentacle.

"Oh you want a piece of this huh? COME GET IT FUCKERS!" She cackled, adjusting her output to 52%, aiming all of it into her mecha's hands which slammed into the floor as the XTRs rushed towards her. The ground shook, cracking underneath the sound of the deep bass sound, the vibrations moving the very earth underneath her hands, making them stumble in place. ]

Breakdown had to wince at the deep sound those subwoofers made- though it seemed like it was mostly muffled through the screen compared to the damage it was actually making. So it looked like that despite using sonic weaponry, their audials weren't being blown up so thank frag for that.

And it looked like her subwoofers were adjustable. He had to wonder what it would look like if she cranked it all the way up to 100. Probably nothing good.

( Continuous cheering, a green-painted Wrecker watched on with pride. Grinning and cheering alongside his charge. )

[ Wrecker quickly stood her mecha up as fast as it could, which wasn't as fast as Tailbreaker but with the XTRs trying to regain balance- it was enough. She joined into the fray, going back to hand-to-hand combat in dealing with the XTR but this time with the occasional sonic attack from the subwoofers in the palms of her hands and her shoulders. Occasionally letting out a big sonic attack against what was left of the swarm which had dropped from its two hundreds to less than even one hundred.

Tailbreaker was swiftly dealing with the rest of the Hounds and taking out more of the swarm that was trying to avoid Wrecker.

The commander seemed extremely frustrated, body turning around with both faces snarling and shouting in its language as it stomped its pointed legs and lashed out with its tentacles. Crab-like claws gouging the rocks around it. Finally it raised its tentacles in the air, as if to summon something… Only for nothing to happen and finally shriek with something akin to panic. ]

"Lord Megatron, not to put in any doubt to the information you've provided us. But are you sure these were the aliens that once tried to enslave our ancestors?" Arachnid couldn't help but ask a tad snidely, sneering at the pathetic display the Quintesson 'commander' was showing from its tantrum to it finally showing panic from its situation. "After all, it took the Thirteen Primes to deal with the Quintessons, yet this one is struggling with the humans. Granted, the humans have those mecha suits but still…"

Luckily, Lord Megatron was sneering at the screen as well. "They have the resemblance of Quintessons, but after this unimpressive display… I am starting to have my doubts. However keep in mind that this is merely a small group of Quintessons- soldiers, hounds, a swarm, a single commander." His optics narrowed. "We have yet to see their full armada nor see the full extent of they can do. The humans built entire false-bodies to deal with the Quintessons, complete with class-typing and unconventional weaponry and tools. There must be a reason for that."

The femme fatale made a face before conceding with a reluctant nod, sharp digit tapping the table in thought as they continued to watch the screen.

[ Wrecker's palms slammed into the small head of the digger XTR, which had been flailing wildly- clearly it was not created with combat in mind. The digger had no chance against Wrecker even as it tried slamming its spade-like claws into Wrecker's mecha frame, merely scratching the plating before dying when Wrecker activated her subwoofers directly against the digger's head.

The head contorted from the vibrations before splurting with blackish blood. Wrecker was quick to grab the now limp body, hauling it into her grip just to use it as a shield against the more combat-oriented Soldiers that aimed their weapons at her. And from a shield, she turned it into a ram as she charged right at them.

Tailbreaker was getting closer to the commander, who seemed far too busy to notice his gradual approach. .: Senscript, confirm- how many XTRs left? :.

Senscript had been gradually moving closer to the field, having climbed down from his perch at the cliff edge but keeping discrete and stealth in his approach. His antennae pinged, helm unfurling just a bit, .: Majority are dead and injured. Two Soldier units by the commander, four Hount units, twenty-seven- ah, twenty-four insects from the swarm and the other digger. Wrecker just needs to finish off the Soldiers she's facing :.

.: Alright then, Wrecker, wrap it up! We need to secure the commander ASAP. :.

.: Roger that. :. ]

Breakdown hadn't really thought much about the Autobot's humans outside of whenever they appeared. They were humans after all, why care? Other than the fact they could be used against the Autobots, not that Breakdown usually thought of that anyway. Not exactly his type of thing to do, but he knows mechs like Starscream, Arachnid and even Lord Megatron would think of such things.

But now the Observer was pretty much making him think about the humans beyond of what they were, first with the 'Shattered Glass' world, then the 'Actor' world, and now with this 'Alien Mecha' world.

The three humans were doing a solid job as a three-man team.

Wrecker was the muscle, Senscript was the support and it was clear that they took to Tailbreaker who was their leader. Breakdown had to wonder if that was the dynamic the humans took here as well, and if it did… Breakdown will have to keep an eye on that.

The ex-Wrecker watched as the other humans made quick work with the rest of the Quintessons, even if Arachnid was right earlier on- even she would have to admit how impressive it's been that the humans have been dealing with the invading alien forces. Though Breakdown did want to see them going off a bigger group than this one.

Lord Megatron muttered something quietly as they finally reached the Quintesson 'Commander', disposing the remaining Quintessons with relative ease. Wrecker ended up pinning the shrieking creature down, however it kept moving. Struggling. Flailing to get Wrecker off of itself. Tailbreaker ended up intervening and cutting off the flailing tentacles that tried to las out as well as the legs. Essentially dismembering the Quintesson alive, leaving only the torso and the head in tact.

Yikes. Brutal. but effective.

The humans here didn't have any giant robot suits, at least not to Breakdown's knowledge, but still. Just in case.

He's already underestimated humans before.

HIs empty socket twitched, and he frowned deeply.

He was never making that mistake ever again.

( Multiple bots winced at the dismembered Quintesson, expressing from disapproval but it wasn't like they could say it to the other humans. And their own humans were expressing their own disgust at it, it seemed unnecessarily brutal. It may be a Quintesson but to be dismembered yet left alive… It certainly disturbed them all. )

[ .: Commander subdued. All yours Senscript. :. Tailbreaker said, gesturing to the smaller mecha.

"Right. Commencing first field testing of Cortical Psychic Patch created by Doctor Waltz Stein, callsign 'Shockwave'." Senscript said aloud, a screen within his cockpit showing that he was recording the moment. ]

"Waltz Stein." Knock Out repeated with a rear of his helm, faceplate twitsted as he tested out the name. "I'm sorry but, I just cannot see Shockwave having a human name. It just… feels wrong."

Starscream looked perturbed, nodding his agreement. "Even as a human, I feel like his 'callsign' is far more suited for him… Waltz Stein, hmph."

None of the Decepticons present could ever see Shockwave referred to as 'Waltz Stein', even if the Shockwave of that world was human. It just didn't fit right. Shockwave was Shockwave, that was that.

If that was Shockwave's human name, Breakdown couldn't really imagine what name he and the others would have… Great, now he was thinking of what name he would have as a human.

( There was a similar reaction for the Autobots, the thought of the mad scientist having a human name was… incomprehensible really. The humans just shrugged. )

[ Wrecker leaned back against her chair, "So this 'Cortical Psychic Whatever' is what you've been working with Doc Shock? The one that's going to make a whole new class?" She asked Senscript, watching with interest as Senscript's head unfurled once more. In the middle of the sensory crown, at the very middle of the back of his mecha's helm, something shifted, a tentacle-like cord with orange ring-lights slid out with a sharp looking point at the end. "Oh, wicked."

.: Yes. And again, it's Doctor Shockwave at least. Anyway, the Cortical Psychic Patch is supposed to link my mecha to the commander's processer- the mechanical part of it mostly but we're hoping to translate the biological aspects of it as well. That way, we can find out more information about the XTRs and figure out just what they want from Earth and humanity. Please keep the commander's head still, I need direct access to the top of its head. :.

.: Woah, hold on. Wouldn't this also link you to the commander's processor? You're clocked in with your mecha. You've got four ports Senscript. :. Despite the worry Tailbreaker had, he still complied, he and Wrecker gently but firmly holding on to the squirming XTR's head, with the larger mecha making sure its body didnt squirm too much.

.: Five, actually. I needed a new port to accommodate the new cord in my mecha. :.

Wrecker sat up, suddenly alarmed. "Wait what? Raf! You're already on four ports, you don't need five!"

.: Callsigns! Wrecker! But- I-I'm with her, Senscript, you were already too young for more than three ports but now you're on five in your second year of piloting? That's not good, you're going to end up Crashing at any wrong point, which will be WORSE for you considering you have FIVE connecting ports! When did you even get that fifth po— Shit, two months ago you were called to California. That's when you got it didn't you? Fuck. :.

.: I was the only one strong enough for the prototype which needed a port of its own to fully control and search for important information. I know you're both worried but I worked this out with Doctor Shockwave, I know the ramifications, the risk, but I can handle it. If this works, we'll be creating a new sub-class of mecha. Hackers, intel-focused pilots that will get vital information from these XTRs and help the Earth. It's worth it. Now shut up, I need to concentrate and keep holding him still. :. ]

Knock Out's optic ridge raised in interest, "Oh? Do tell." He said, leaning forward. "How interesting, naturally I knew there would be side affects to these humans hooking up their biological systems to a mechanical suit like that but whatever this 'Crashing' event is, it seems dire."

"Seems like it also involves and is exacerbated by the amount of ports one 'pilot' has. The other two humans have two ports so they seem relatively safe from this 'Crash' but the youngest is the most at risk." Starscream muttered, optics narrowed in thought over the tidbit of information provided.

Lord Megatron hummed, "Intriguing… Looks like they're about to test human Shockwave's cortical psychic patch link, let's see how this Shockwave's human intelligence and ingenuity fairs. And just what information he'll be able to uncover from the Quintesson."

( In a base elsewhere from the Nemesis, the Autobots were not liking the information that was given to them. Glancing to their youngest human charge in worry, said human smiled lopsidedly in hopes of reassuring them. He was fine, his other was… well, it was worrying, what was said. But there wasn't much they could do about it.

He also couldn't help but apologize to his friends who waved it off, feeling the same concern for him as the bots.

A medic grumbles and bristles over every word, indignant words masking over the concerns he had for the youngest pilot on the screen. )

[ Senscript's cortical patch link stationed itself over the top of the XTRs head, Tailbreaker and Wrecker keeping the commander still despite their concerns. "Field testing commencing. Engaging."

SHRLK!

Immediately Senscript tensed in his cockpit, alien data and symbols flying over most of his screens as the orange lighting of the cord glowed brightly. The XTR roared once from both faces before falling limp underneath Tailbreakers and Wrecker's grip.

.: Senscript? Senscript, come in! Senscript, are you conscious? :. Tailbreaker asked after a few minutes of silence, getting worried over Senscript's silence and stillness.

Both he and Wrecker let out sighs of relief when they heard his voice over their comms, .: S-Shut… up I'm— processing, ugh, processing- the data. Translating… Give… give me a few… minutes… fuck… :.

All over most of Senscript's inner screens were alien symbols and glyphs, rapidly flashing over before changing from one thing to another. On another screen, a program was being run, the words 'PROTOTYPE TRANSLATION SOFTWARE ACTIVATED; TRANSLATING XTR LANGUAGE…' flared before more words in English were being added underneath.

Unbeknowst to the pilots, even Senscript himself, his nose began to bleed slightly. Leaving a thin trail down his face. ]

"Hm, it's working." Arachnid said, a bit surprised but definitely intrigued.

"Seems like it." Breakdown couldn't help but reply, optic narrowed at the sight of presumably the Quintesson's written language being shown- it was going too fast for Breakdown to understand. Soundwave seemed enraptured, recording the entire sequence to no doubt look at later on on his own or by Megatron's orders.

"It's different from our Shockwave's actual Cortical Psychic Patch Link," Lord Megatron said with a purse of his derma. "However it is working… just not like what ours does… Again, if only Shockwave was here to make sense of what is happening. Visually dissect how they've managed to do this." He didn't bother to look Starscream's way this time but the seeker still avoided looking at the warlord anyway.

"It's working… but not without its side effects." Knock Out said quietly, seeing the blood beginning to drip from Senscript's face.

( "Raf!/Beep!" "Guys I'm fine! I- oh forget it. C'mere Bee." "Beep…" )

[ Wrecker grunted, turning her mecha's head towards where the XTRs had been digging. Curiosity started to bleed in as she thinks she sees something embedded in the rock. "Hold him down Tailbreaker, I think I see something…" She ignored his protests, releasing the XTR to stand up and head over to the cliff wall. "Hey Senscript! Think you can figure out what they were trying to dig up?"

.: I… m-maybe? Why? :.

"'Cuz I think I just found whatever they were trying to find." With a short cry, she launched her fist at the wall, just to break the rock a bit more. Afterwards she dug into the wall a bit more, prying apart sediment and rocks to reveal something silver buried in the wall. "C'mon… Aha!" She lurched backwards, yanking with her something that had been lodged deep within the cliffside.

It was a silver disk with blue lights, it was barely the size of Wrecker's servo. To Wrecker, it meant nothing, but to the XTRs? It meant something. ]

"The Apex Armor?!" Starscream blurted out in shock, standing from his seat at the sight of the disk. "That's- that's the Apex Armor! But how?! That's a Decepticon invention! It looks exactly like the Apex Armor's de-activated form from this world!"

It definitely looked identical to the Apex Armor of their world, it looked of Cybertronian make. Not one difference whatsoever.

They all stared at it in shock, thankfully it seemed that the Autobots were just as shocked as they had paused the viewing.

( "Pause it! Pause it now!… Primus, can it be?" "That is… the Apex Armor…" )

"How is that possible? I thought we were all humans in this world!" Arachnid exclaimed, puzzled.

"When we saw Shockwave we just assumed we'd be human as well, but perhaps that isn't the case." Lord Megatron murmured, "It seems that our race does exist in that world, however they have yet to find Earth. However it seems that some of us are not Cybertronians, but humans. Which makes me wonder…" Just who were humans and who stayed Cybertronians?

It's not a question that Breakdown and the others had been expecting to ask today, or ever. But with the new info, the possibility of Cybertron and their own species existing in that world yet seeing Shockwave as a human…

"Another good question would be why is the Apex Armor on Earth? And if it's on that Earth, then is it here as well?" Knock Out wondered aloud.

"Soundwave, figure out where they are and see if you can find its location here." Lord Megatron immediately ordered, "If the Apex Armor is indeed here, possibly launched from the vaults of Iacon Archives after our attack on it, then we must retrieve it before the Autobots."

"Easier said than done." Starscream grumbled.

"What was that Starscream?"

"Nothing! Nothing…"

( "But how are we going to find it? It's not like we know where it is! Besides, it might not be here, or at that exact location! It could be somewhere else for all we know."

"It's still a risk we cannot allow to be known, we mustn't let the Decepticons know of the Apex Armor's whereabouts. Possible or likewise… Perhaps we can find out more by watching."

"Alright, observer! Continue!" )

[ Tailbreaker leaned closer in his cockpit though his mecha did nothing, still holding down the commander who was still limp underneath him. "Doesn't look human-made. Think it's one of their tech?"

.: No idea, but why would one of their tech be here? Did they lose it a long time ago or what? :. Wrecker came back to their side, holding on to the mysterious silver disk. .: Got a clue what it is, Senscript? :.

The smaller mecha finally moved, Senscript lifting his head while still connected to the XTR. .: That's… hold on, retrieving relevant information- found s-something. Translating… :. It cuts to within Senscript's mecha, a screen showing a picture of the silver disk in question. .: It's called… 'The Apex Armor'? It's not… not theirs I think, it's from- someone else? :.

Wrecker held up the disk, her faceless mecha couldn't convey the bewildered puzzlement that was on her face. .: Someone else? What? Who? Also 'Armor?' How's this thing supposed to be armor? It's a disk! :. ]

"It's not just a disk, girl." Starscream huffed angrily, "Humans… honestly."

"To someone who doesn't know what it is, it is just a disk though." Breakdown couldn't help but point out, rolling his optic at the bristling look he got from the seeker.

"Are you defending a human Breakdown?"

Breakdown snorted, "I'm not defending slag, just pointing out the obvious… Woah, hey. I don't think humans are suppose to bleed that much blood." He comments, a little bit alarmed as more blood seeped from Senscript's nose on screen. That had always been depicted as a bad thing in the human media, hadn't it?

"Something's happening." Knock Out's servos clenched slightly in anticipation as all of a sudden, Senscript's screens flared red and the little human cried out in pain.

( "Wait, what's happening?!" "Rafael! Humans shouldn't be bleeding that much blood from their nasal area!" "Uh, no duh, Ratchet! Something's wrong!" "B-Bee, I'm okay! Please don't tighten your grip." "B-Bweeooo…" )

[ .: Senscript! :..: Senscript?! What's wrong!? :.

Senscript's hands flew to his head, both his actual hands and his mecha's. "Agh- AUGH! M-My head! Something's- i-in my- head!" His screens flared red, alarms going through his mecha's internal sound systems as he could feel something interfering with the link. Blood slipped into his mouth but he had no idea, too preoccupied with the pain that lanced through his skull. "You're- you! Get out! Get OUT!"

On his screen, a few lines were typed out in English.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHEDOBJECTIVE: APEX ARMOR - LOCATED AND RETRIEVEDENEMY ACTION DETECTEDSIGNAL BLOCKERS DETECTEDDEACTIVATING SIGNAL BLOCKERSACTIVATING SPACEBRIDGELOCATING COORDINATESCALLING FOR REINFORCEMENTSENEMY PRESENCE DETECTED WITHIN INTERNAL SERVERBEGINNING MENTAL DE—

.: That's it! :. Senscript felt a large spike of pain, crying out as Tailbreaker yanked the cortical cord's out of the XTR's head, finally noticing the wide, unnatural grin on the twin faces of the XTR. .: You bastard—:. He interrupted himself, moving to catch Senscript's swaying mecha before it could fully fall over. Senscript was limp in the chair, it wasn't clear whether or not he wsa conscious and he was only propped up thanks to the seatbelts that kept him from fully slumping over.

.: Wrecker! We're done here, retreat! Now! :. He barked, lifting Senscript's mecha- it was a bit awkward but he did his best to make it work. ]

"The cortical psychic link is usually a one-way connection," Lord Megatron commented with a surprisingly soft voice, "however if one isn't careful, that one-way connection can easily become two-ways… They should have prepared for such an outcome." He finished with a low smirk, remembering how he managed to hitch a ride with the Autobot's beloved scout to free himself from his coma.

He wonders if the Quintesson had managed to do the same here… But then again, it was one thing for the mind of the same species to share a space- the young human was an entirely different species than the Quintesson. Would it be compatible? Or would there be other side-effects? Only time would tell.

"Considering it's Shockwave who created the link, I'm sure he thought of it… Only whatever defenses he prepared with Senscript clearly wasn't enough." Starscream said with a small smirk, taking some delight that a version of Shockwave's efforts had been for naught.

Arachnid hummed, optics glittering with delighted interested. Having found the last few minutes very entertaining and interesting, "It seems the Quintesson's mission was to retreive the Apex Armor with discretion… I don't know about considering the mission accomplished when the Quintesson is missing all its limbs and its forces are wiped out, but it seems to have a back-up plan."

"One involving a spacebridge." Knock Out said, having noticed the later texts.

( A young boy yelped as he was handed over to a medic, a scout angrily beeping and shrilling at the screen while gesturing heatedly, possibly rudely, at the grinning Quintesson. His fellow scout and friend grabbed his shoulder, trying to calm him down while trying to quell her own anger.

The medic couldn't help but carefully prod the young boy, who whined and reassured all those who listened that he was alright but paled as he listened to the possible injuries his other could have thanks to the cortical link he had with the Quintesson. No one was happy at the moment. )

[ Before any of them could even move from their spot though, light bloomed above them. Startling them as they suddenly found themselves underneath a colorful swirling vortex that grew to encompass them all. .: W-What the— :.

.: NO! :. Wrecker suddenly shrieked, panicked as she grabbed Tailbreaker's mecha with her own, tugging and trying to escape the vortex only for both of them to suddenly lift in the air, they were heavy though and so their ascent was unfortunately slow but steady. .: No- nonono! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Wrecker to MECH HQ! We are being sucked into some sort of vortex portal! It's the thing that took Ja—:.

Abruptly, the speed of their ascension was accelerated, interrupting Wrecker who shouted in surprise as Tailbreaker was desperately trying to hold on to Wrecker and Senscript, the younger pilot was still seemingly unconscious.

.: —me in, come in— —aker, Senscript, Wr— — —ome in! Status report! Do you co— :.

The screen showed Wrecker's pin-prick eyes before something, a series of images? Flashed in quick succession.

A mecha, smaller than Wrecker's, a different build and clearly holding a sword, painted white, green and red, standing in front of a swirling vortex before something pierces through it, dragging it inside.

"WHEELJACK!" Wrecker screamed before the screen went dark. ]

"Wheeljack?" Breakdown and Starscream chorused together in varying tones of disbelief.

Lord Megatron raised an optic ridge, "Wheeljack? I know of him, he was part of the Wreckers who took down Shockwave's tower back on Cybertron… It seems like he's a human here. Interesting."

"A human who seemed to have died in front of Wrecker's optics." Arachnid snorted, smiling at the way Wrecker had screamed the Autobot's name. Or 'callsign' in that world. She has to wonder how the Autobots themselves were taking this reveal… How she'd love to see the look on their faceplates right now.

( A Wrecker and his charge shouted together, concerned and worried. After a moment, with the help of a Prime, they calm down. The Wrecker promises to try and contact his friend before marveling at the fact his friend's other was a human.

The same goes for his charge, the tiny human cheering at the fact that she knew him but was worried after remembering how he disappeared. )

[ The scene abruptly shifts, no longer the desert area of Earth but a strange city under attack, smoking and smoldering with the sounds of screams and roars in the distance. Buildings were crumbling, smoke was all over the air and fires were starting or being put out.

It was a war zone on another planet. ]

"Praxus."

Breakdown has no idea who said it, too busy staring at the burning, crumbling city with a heavy spark. There it was. Cybertron.

Cybertron that was still alive by the looks of it, there was still a city to burn. His servos clenched as he heard the distant sound of screaming and blaster shots, it made him slip into his memories of… orders faintly being shouted, the sharp hum of seekers in the air, bombardments on each and every corner. Autobots and Decepticons alike scrambling through the streets, firing shots at each other at every opportunity—

Breakdown shook his helm, a tense silence was in the air as it was official; Cybertron existed in that world.

And the war was still going on on that version of their planet.

( For a moment, it looked like someone was going to ask to pause the screen. But in the end, no one did, all the bots watched on with heavy expressions on their faceplates and when asked about it. They would simply tell their human charges, that the city they were seeing was Praxus, a city on Cybertron which fell early on in the war.

Though it begged the question, how was it still standing now? )

[ A mech runs through the desolate but burning and cracked streets, his paint was scuffed but was clearly red, blue and silver. A double-headed axe in servo, .: Optimus Prime to Prowl, Optimus Prime to Prowl, do you read me? Does anybody read me? :. He asked hurriedly through his comms, blue optics narrowing as he heard nothing but static from his comm. Which would make sense considering there was a clear dent on his helm where his comms were supposed to be. One of his finials was even snapped off while his battlemask was partially broken.

He kept running, jumping over fissions in the ground the best he could, he kept moving even as the ground began to shake and explosions went off in the distance. ]

"Optimus Prime…" Lord Megatron growled, yet there was a look of nostalgia as he sees the axe within his arch nemesis' servo. "I suppose it wouldn't be fun to have him as a human, but oh. That axe, I haven't seen that since the bombardment of Iacon!" He cackled, grinning wildly. "I almost miss that treacherous weapon."

Breakdown winced at the sight of the axe, the Prime had a mastery over that thing and quite frankly been more than just a pain in the aft than usual, more than one Decepticon had cheered at the news that he'd lost the damn thing.

"Hm, I don't remember what battle this is… perhaps it's something exclusive to this world." Lord Megatron pondered, optics narrowed at the sight of the other Optimus Prime running through the exploding streets of Praxus. Trying to find the memory of the attack from his memory bank.

( "You wielded a two-headed AXE?! WHAT?! Optimus! That's amazing! What happened to it?!" "Unfortunately it was lost a long time ago, Miko." "Aww… Why couldn't you get another one?" "That axe was rather special to me, and I never had the time nor were there available resources to recreate it or find a replacement." "Awww…" )

[ Out of nowhere, a bomb dropped from the sky behind Optimus, sending him flying for a brief moment from the explosive shockwave. It send him nearly over the edge of a large fissure in the ground, looking more of a canyon as the bottom couldn't be seen whatsoever.

Optimus' optics narrowed and he grunted, using his axe to prevent himself from being sent over, dangling from the edge with only his weapon keeping him from falling. He struggled to reach for the edge with one servo, pedes scraping the side for purchase.

Something heavy landed in front of his axe, kicking up dust that made Optimus close his optics for only a brief moment before opening to see silver pedes standing at the edge. Blue optics roamed up to meet a pair of red optics glaring down at his.

Megatron stood before him, armor scuffed and dirty yet looking all too intimidating as the fire gave him light from behind. The Decepticon symbol clear on his chestplate. ]

Lord Megatron brightened, his grin turning sharp and wild at the sight of himself. "Yes! There I am, with Optimus Prime at my pedes!" He roared, standing from his seat, slamming a servo on the table with eager bloodthirst. "Kill him! Kill him now!"

"Are we really going to see Lord Megatron kill Optimus Prime in another world?" Starscream murmured, a bit stunned to see the moment before snorting. Privately, he thought that something was going to interfere- the Prime had too much luck to just die to Lord Megatron just like that. And in such an easy way as well. Thankfully for him, Lord Megatron was too caught up in his excitement to notice Starscream's doubts and derisions.

Soundwave tilted his helm, a red dot signifying he was recording the moment clear on his visor.

Breakdown and Knock Out shared a look, keeping quiet as their leader called for Optimus Prime's blood.

Arachnid also kept silent, but was eager to see whether or not Optimus Prime would finally die. It wasn't Arcee, but she would never say no to seeing Optimus Prime's death.

( The Autobots and their humans raged and worried, shouting at the screen. Once abruptly confused and stunned at the switch from Earth to Cybertron and the fact that Cybertron existed in that world, they would never stay silent at the scene of their beloved leader possibly dying in front of them.

A medic in particulr was swearing from Cybertron's Pits to Earth's Hell about Megatron, snarling threats in Cybertronian as if to protect the humans' ears but the way he was growling made it clear to them that whatever he was saying, it was nothing nice.

Their leader tried to calm them down, but was disheartened to see his other in such a position. Hoping for the best, hoping that this was not the end, and that the humans and his team would not see his demise…)

[ Megatron glared down at him, before sighing deeply. Reaching down to grab Optimus' servo in his, grunting as he pulled the mech up from his precarious position and into his arms. One arm around his chassis and the other underneath Optimus' knees, holding him bridal style. "What have I said about leaving my side, my Prime?" He growled, leaning in to glare directly into Optimus' optics before smirking. "I can't leave you for even a klik, can I?"

Optimus' battlemask snapped open, revealing a small, fond smile on his faceplate. "I would apologize, but it was not my fault this time my Protector. I am entirely blameless in this endeavor."

Megatron's smirk turned into a charmed smile, "We'll see about that, but for now…" He raised his helm, letting Optimus down from his hold as they stood back-to-back. Surrounded by all sides by large, monstrous creatures with Soldier Quintessons riding atop them. "Let's deal with these mongrels, shall we?" His fusion cannon hummed to life, charging.

Optimus' battlemask snapped close as he readied his axe. "We shall." ]

Complete.

Utter.

Silence.

Even as the screen pauses—

( "PAUSE! PAUSE PAUSE PAUSE—" )

There was nothing but silence for a solid klik before Starscream blurted out what they were all thinking;

"What the frag?!"

[ ----- TP : UO ----- ]

HEUAHEHAEUHEAHEHAEH THE MEGOP REVEEAAAAL admittedly it was short here but don't worry! we're getting right into it next chapter!

AND YES! I TOOK LIBERTIES AND CHANGED THE QUINTESSONS HERE IN THE ALIGNED UNIVERSE! this is my story and i do what i want! if i want the quintessons to be barely known in the tfp uo universe then dammit, i will do that! makes it more fun when i do their reactions anyway hehehehe.

next chapter will take a bit since i'm still debating whether to switch back to twice the primes or dance of the firebot, we'll see which fic calls to me most. dont think ive forgotten them! im just.. letting whatever motivates me into writing take over.

anyway i hope you guys enjoyed! i'll see yall later :D

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[strawb3rryg2l]

How to lose 'Bob' in 10 Days, Part 2

Characters: Bob x Y/N, Robert Reynolds x Y/N, Sentry x Y/N, The Void x Y/N

Summary: You thought you'd lost, your husband, Robert Reynolds forever. Consumed by the Void and the chaos it left behind. But then you woke up in a world not your own. One where he's alive. Where he goes by Bob. Where he doesn't know you. To him, you’re a stranger. You have 10 days to lose him, before everything falls apart. But the cracks are already forming. Time stutters. Reality bends. And something followed you here, something made of grief, memory, and everything you refused to let die. As you try to lose Bob in 10 days, the world unravels with every lie you tell yourself. You’ll have to make an impossible choice: hold on to the man you love, or face the truth and finally let him go. Because if you don’t... this world won’t just end. You might go with it.

Word Count: 3,724

Warnings: A dark twisted version of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, spooky, creepy, Spoilers maybe? (Please let me know if I should add anymore.)

Note from the author: This is my work, and I will be posting on here and @ strawb3rrygal on Archivesofourown. Keep in mind these are my ONLY TWO accounts. Please feel free to reblog if you like it! I've been working on this one as I write my other fic 'The Temp' which you can also check out if you'd like.

New here? Go back in time -> Part 1 Done with Part 1 and 2 -> Part 3

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Y/N didn’t want to go out.

But Tara had been persistent. “You need to stop living in your head,” she said, eyeliner sharp. “Even if it’s just for one night.”

Marlene seconded it with her usual warmth. “Come on, love. You haven’t had a drink in weeks. We’ll take care of you.”

So Y/N let herself be pulled out into the city’s blur of neon and cigarette smoke, thumping bass and soft laughter. The bar was warm, cozy, cluttered with mismatched furniture and bathed in amber light. A small band played near the back, their sound quieting conversations and clinking glasses. She let Tara drag her toward the booth in the corner, Marlene ordering a drink. Y/N sat, half-listening. Her mind wandered like it always did now. Things still didn’t feel right. She still had the lingering sensation that she was a piece of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. The voices of her friends came and went in waves, drifting past her like white noise. 

It wasn’t until she turned her head half-heartedly scanning the room that she saw him. She blinked.

At the far end of the bar, under the low hanging pendant light, sat a man alone. Elbows on the counter. Quiet. Thoughtful. A glass of something in front of him. He wasn’t talking to anyone. He wasn’t smiling. She couldn’t see his face clearly, not yet. Just the shape of his shoulders. The curl of his hair. His posture. The way his fingers toyed with the rim of his glass.

Her stomach twisted.

It couldn’t be.

“Hey,” Tara snapped her fingers in front of her. “Earth to Y/N?”

“Hm? Sorry.” She turned back, but her gaze flicked over again. The man shifted. He leaned back a little. Light hit his cheek. It was almost Robert. Almost.

Her chest tightened not in recognition, but dissonance. The nose was slightly different. The jawline softer, less rigid. He wore black, but not a suit, just a t-shirt, plain and worn. His hair was tousled in a way Robert would have hated. He looked alive. Present. But...not right.

“Who’s that?” she asked, interrupting Tara mid-story.

“Who?” Marlene leaned over.

“That guy. At the bar. Alone.”

Marlene followed her gaze. “No idea. Cute, though. You want me to—?”

“No,” Y/N said, too quickly. She stood up before she could think better of it. “I’m gonna get some air.”

But she didn’t go outside.

She wandered toward the bar.

Not directly. She kept her distance. Walked slowly. Pretended to look at the drink list posted behind the counter. Her fingers drummed against the side of her thigh. Every step made her heart beat louder. Louder than the music. Louder than the chatter.

He didn’t notice her.

Not yet.

Up close, he was even more strange. Familiar. Unfamiliar. There was a scar on his knuckle that Robert never had. His eyes, when they glanced sideways, catching hers just briefly weren’t the exact same shade. Greyer, maybe. Or just colder.

But when he nodded at her in that polite, wordless way it made her breath catch. Something in her wanted to run.

Something else, something deeper, wanted to ask him his name. It’s what she needed to do anyway, right? She wanted desperately to convince herself this is why she wanted to talk with him. The only reason being that her job required she lose an Avenger romantically in ten days, nothing more, and well… she supposed nothing less.

Maybe she also wanted to figure out what the hell was going on. Why this Bob looked like her beloved husband? And maybe she also wanted to see him close up, the freckles that lined his face, did he smell like her Robert? This was too much. She huffed, exasperated. She needed some liquid courage. She turned in her seat and called over the bartender. Two tequila lemonades.

The drink tasted more like tequila than lemonade. She swallowed both drinks before she had time to process if this was a good idea. With an audible ekh and a scrunch of her face, she breathed in and out, grabbed her purse, and moved toward where Bob was sitting.

She tried to exuberate confidence, hide the nerves from her features. Her gray dress swayed like smoke as she crossed the floor. The low amber lights flickered above her like ghosts, shadows slipping past her heels. The band in the back began packing up, soft acoustic giving way to a thudding pulse. A new song clicking into the speakers with industrial synths and a Berlin-style bassline that rolled like thunder underwater.

The energy shifted. The room darkened. It felt like stepping through a threshold. Like stepping into a dream she didn’t remember having. She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t afford to. If she did, she’d turn and run.

She slid onto the stool beside him before she could second-guess herself, her movement fluid, practiced. Like muscle memory. The sleeve of her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder, intentional or not, exposing the soft line of her collarbone to the light.

He glanced at her. Slowly. Not surprised, not wary, just aware. Present. The way someone might glance at a stormcloud on the horizon. Not yet threatening. But worth noting.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” he said, voice low, voice wrong. Not Robert’s. Not quite. A little rougher. Less precise.

“No?” she replied, mirroring his calm, trying to keep her breathing even. “What do I look like, then?”

He looked at her fully this time. His eyes weren’t the same. Not exactly. They had depth, but none of the warmth she remembered. They were colder. But not cruel. Analytical.

“Like someone who’s somewhere they don’t quite believe exists.”

Her mouth went dry.

“Is that your way of saying I’m out of place?”

“Maybe.” He turned back to his glass, letting the rim kiss his lip before taking a sip. “Maybe you’re… just lost.”

She laughed softly, the sound catching in her throat. “Aren’t we all?”

He gave a half-smile at that.  There was a silence then. Not awkward, but weighty. She watched his fingers. They were similar to Robert’s same shape, same veins beneath skin but the way he tapped the glass, the rhythm of his breath, even the angle of his jaw… all just slightly off. Like a song she used to know being played in a different key.

She cleared her throat. “I’m Y/N.”

He nodded, almost slow enough to miss. “Bob.”

“Is that short for something?” she asked, casually, because it was a lifeline she needed.

“Could be,” he said, smiling into his drink. “But most people don’t ask.”

She tilted her head. “I’m not most people.”

“I figured that much out already.”

The beat dropped the music behind them warping slightly, echoing through the floor and into the soles of her shoes. It made her feel unsteady, or maybe that was just him. Just this.

“You come here often?” she asked, voice a little sharper, shielding her own nerves with a blade. Trying to engage in some flirty banter.

“Not really,” he said, setting his glass down. “I tend to avoid places like this.”

She raised a brow. “Then why now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in, just slightly, enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne sandalwood and something darker beneath. Not Robert’s. Not hers. Something new.

“I guess I was waiting for someone interesting to talk to.”

Her heart thudded in her ribs.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something knowing. Or maybe she imagined it. Maybe her brain was just reaching, grasping for anything to tether her to the past she couldn’t make sense of anymore. She smiled.

“So here I am.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, swirling the last of his drink in the lowball glass. The ice clinked like wind chimes in a dark room. Something flickered in Y/N’s peripheral not light exactly, but a shift, a disturbance, like when a person stands just close enough to your shadow to alter its shape.

Before she could turn her head to see what it was, Bob stood.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, trying and failing to hide the disappointment that slipped into her voice.

He nodded once. His eyes flickered over her shoulder, toward something or someone. “It was nice seeing you… Y/N.”

The way he said her name made her still.

It sounded like Robert. Not just in voice, that wasn’t it. It was in the rhythm, the weight he gave it. The reverence. Like her name meant something. Like it still did. Her throat closed. Her fingers gripped the edge of the bar. She watched him turn, his silhouette sliding back into the haze of bodies and colored light.

She didn’t know what to do with herself. For a second, she just sat there. Her heart pounded in her ribs, uncertain. Her brain tripped over itself, trying to be logical. It’s fine. It’s over. You did enough. He’s gone. But that aching part of her, the one that still dreamed in grayscale, screamed louder. Go after him.

She blinked. Took a shaky breath. And maybe it was because of the column she was going to write that she did it, but she stood.

It took everything, every ounce of courage, pride, adrenaline, to push off the stool and into the crowd. The bar had filled while she was with him. Shapes jostled and blurred. Laughter spiked and broke like glass. That pulsing, guttural bass rolled through her, louder now. The music had warped into something dark and surreal a synth-drenched, Berlin-style rave track that shook the walls and made the world feel distorted, hyperreal.

Her heels clicked against the old wooden floor. She moved fast, scanning for him, tall, broad, dark shirt, her eyes darting past couples, past dancing limbs and swinging lights. She caught him near the door. He was paused, one hand on the frame, like he was deciding whether to stay or vanish.

“Wait,” she called.

He turned slow again, like gravity fought him.

“Can I—” she faltered as she got close, breathless. “Can I get your number?”

His gaze was unreadable. The light caught just enough of his face to remind her how close he looked. How far he really was.

“You want my number?” he repeated.

She nodded, suddenly aware of how hot her skin felt under her dress, of how exposed she was in every sense of the word. “In case I… in case I want to talk again.”

For a long beat, he said nothing. Then, that half-smile again. Quiet. Careful.

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pen, not a phone, and gently took her hand. Her heart jumped at the contact, soft and sudden. He scribbled a number across her palm. Not a name. Just a number.

“You sure you’ll call?” he asked, his voice lower now, like the question was meant for her and some shadow version of her heart.

“I might,” she answered, the corner of her mouth curling.

Another beat passed between them electric, reverent, unreal. And then he stepped out into the night. The door swung shut behind him, muting the sound for half a second. When it clicked closed, it felt like a chapter being sealed.

Y/N stood there, staring at the number inked onto her skin. Her breath came in shallow pulls.

Who the hell are you, Bob?

She walked back to the booth on unsteady legs, as if the floor had shifted under her while she’d been gone like gravity had slightly changed its rules. Her dress swayed at her knees with each step, and her fingers curled instinctively into her palm, clutching the number he’d written. The ink had smudged slightly with sweat, a soft blur of dark lines against her skin.

Tara spotted her first. She lit up like a firecracker. “Who was that?!” she shouted over the thudding bass, her voice riding the wave of electronic pulses now thundering through the speakers.

“The new Avenger Elise wanted me to date, if you’d believe it.” Y/N slid back into the booth beside them, shrugging like it was no big deal. She hoped her smile looked cool and detached, even though her heart still hadn’t quite slowed. Her skin buzzed with adrenaline and something else, something far less manageable.

Nothing about her felt nonchalant. Not the way her body still leaned in the direction he’d gone. Not the way her pulse beat in her throat. Not the way she kept rubbing the inside of her thumb over the numbers on her palm like she needed to remind herself they were real.

Tara’s eyes went wide. “That guy?” She whistled, dramatic and impressed. “Elise has taste.”

“Good for you!” Marlene said, nudging her playfully. “I don’t know how you’ll ever lose him in ten days — that man is gorgeous.”

Y/N forced a laugh. “I’ll find a way.”

That was the mission, wasn’t it? Ten days. Break his heart. Report back. Easy enough. She’d done harder things. She’d faked deeper smiles. And yet, when she leaned forward to grab her half-finished drink, she realized her hand was trembling. She took a long sip, trying to still it.

These versions of Tara and Marlene, these strange, nearly-right reflections of her best friends didn’t know. They didn’t know anything about her husband. About Robert. About the night she watched the man she loved become someone else entirely. To them, she’d never been married. Never watched a god break down in her arms. Never grieved a man. She was just Y/N here. Just the girl assigned to seduce and leave a hero.

And yet he said her name like Robert used to.

The memory stung like a paper cut. Small, sharp, and unexpectedly painful.

“I’m proud of you,” Tara said suddenly, her voice cutting through the noise. She leaned in, sincerity softening her features. “Seriously. You’ve been floating lately, like you’re not all the way here. I was starting to get worried.”

Marlene nodded, looping her arm around Y/N’s shoulder. “He looked at you like he saw you.”

Y/N looked down, her breath catching. That’s what scared her most. He had. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. She just gave a half-smile, tipping the rest of her drink back.

The music shifted again, the beat deepening, crowd pressing in tighter. The strobe lights danced over faces and glasses, over lipstick smears and glistening eyes.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” Y/N mumbled, standing again. She needed to breathe. Needed to think. She slid through the crowd, shoulder brushing strangers, the warmth of bodies a dull throb around her. In the hallway past the bar, she leaned against the cool tile of the wall and finally opened her hand. The number had faded slightly, but it was still legible. A quiet thread tethering her to something or someone who shouldn’t exist.

The bathroom was empty. Dim lighting flickered overhead, casting sharp shadows on the tiled walls. Y/N stood at the sink, staring at her reflection like it might offer answers like it might morph into something she recognized. But all she saw was herself: hair slightly messy, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline.

She ran cold water over her hands. It helped a little. But when she looked up again, she wasn’t alone. There was a woman behind her in the mirror. Not in the room. Just in the reflection.

Y/N froze, breath caught in her throat. The woman stood perfectly still in one of the bathroom stalls, the door wide open behind her. She was pale, barefoot, wearing what looked like a dark trenchcoat. Her eyes were impossibly dark, like bruises like ink bleeding through paper.

And she was staring right at her. 

Y/N turned around fast.

The stall was empty.

Silence settled over her like dust.

She turned back to the mirror.

No one.

She blinked, her fingers curling tight around the porcelain sink. Maybe it was the tequila. Or the music, the lights, the emotional whiplash of the last hour. Maybe she was seeing things. This reality wasn’t her own, after all. Strange echoes came with the territory.

Still, her heart wouldn’t calm. Just as she reached for a paper towel, the bathroom door creaked open behind her. She flinched, shoulders going stiff. But it was only a woman in a red dress, humming softly as she walked past her into a stall. No ink-eyed ghost. No figment from the other side.

“Get it together,” Y/N muttered under her breath, drying her hands.

She stepped back into the bar’s main hallway, head still spinning. The crowd had thickened, music deeper now, vibrating in her bones. She started back toward Tara and Marlene when she felt it, that same tug. That flicker. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

Y/N turned.

In the narrow corridor near the fire exit, just past a “STAFF ONLY” door, something moved.

A figure, tall. Male. He stepped halfway into the light, enough for her to see the side of his face. He was watching her. Bob. But he was supposed to be gone. He had left, hadn’t he? Her breath hitched.

She hesitated for just a second, then took a step toward him.

“Bob?” she asked, louder than she meant to.

He didn’t speak. Just tilted his head, like he was studying her. And then he turned and slipped through the “STAFF ONLY” door. Y/N didn’t think. She followed. The door creaked open to reveal a narrow staircase, lit faintly by flickering yellow bulbs overhead. It smelled of old wood, beer, and something metallic underneath. She gripped the railing and started down, each step groaning beneath her.

“Bob?” she tried again, her voice lower now.

No answer.

The stairwell emptied into what looked like an unused lounge, long-abandoned couches, broken jukebox, crates of dusty glassware. It was cold down here. Quiet, compared to the storm of music upstairs. The silence had a hum to it. Her eyes scanned the room, heartbeat climbing. He was nowhere. But something lay on one of the tables. She stepped forward. It was a photo. Old. Worn. Curled at the corners. She picked it up slowly. It was a picture of Robert.

Her Robert, not Bob. Not the one upstairs in the bar.

He was standing in front of a government building, arms crossed, wearing his full suit. The Sentry. The man she loved. His eyes were softer than she remembered, almost at peace. A rare moment of calm captured. Her fingers trembled. There was writing on the back. She turned it.

“Do you remember the first version of him?” —D

Her breath left her in a slow, shocked exhale. The air in the room shifted, like something unseen had just moved behind her. She stood frozen, the photograph trembling slightly in her hand.

Do you remember the first version of him?

The words burned into her mind, inked in an unfamiliar script, precise, slanted, too clean. The “D” was signed like a whisper, and yet it roared in her ears. It made her feel like she was being watched. Her breath quickened. There was something wrong with the air. It was heavier now. Denser. She turned slowly, eyes scanning the room, the cracked furniture, the shadows stretching far too long for the size of the space.

She didn’t want to say it out loud. But something down here felt wrong. “Who’s there?” she asked, voice quieter than she meant.

No reply. Just the low buzz of a dying lightbulb above her, the faint drip of water in some unseen pipe. And then  footsteps. Not hers. Not above her. Below.

From another room just past the shadowed hallway.

Y/N took a step back. Every instinct told her to run. That the hallway, the basement, the photograph, none of it made sense. This wasn’t just a weird dream of a night. Something had cracked beneath the surface. And now the wrong things were seeping through.

But something else inside her, the same thing that made her follow Bob down here in the first place, told her not to leave yet. To keep going. She pocketed the photo and moved toward the hallway. It was narrow, pitch-black at the end. She reached for her phone to use its flashlight, and just as she lifted it—

click.

The hallway light snapped on by itself. Y/N flinched. The room beyond was small. Storage-like. But on the far wall, written in red across the crumbling plaster, was a phrase:

“HE DOESN’T REMEMBER YOU. BUT HE WILL.”

Her heartbeat thundered. Then came the sound of the “STAFF ONLY” door upstairs slamming shut. She turned fast, bolting out of the room and up the stairs, her heels pounding on wood that suddenly felt brittle beneath her. She burst through the door and found herself back in the crowded bar, lights too bright, music far too loud.

Everything looked the same. But she didn’t feel the same. She staggered back toward the main room, disoriented, her friends nowhere in sight. She didn’t realize she was shaking until someone caught her arm.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice.

She looked up.

Bob.

He wasn’t smiling. But his brows were furrowed, eyes focused on her like he was seeing through her.

“You alright?” he asked.

Her mouth opened. Closed. The words felt caught in her throat.

“I… I think someone’s messing with me.”

Bob’s expression didn’t shift. Not much. But she swore something flickered behind his gaze.

“Where did you go?”

“The basement,” she whispered. “There’s a hallway… a room. Someone left a photo of—” she stopped herself. She didn’t know if she should say his name.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t ask what she meant. He just glanced toward the back of the bar.

“There’s no basement here,” he said. Her stomach dropped.

“What?”

“I’ve been coming here for years. This place doesn’t have a basement.”

Y/N took a step back, her world tilting. But before she could speak again, Bob stepped forward, slowly, and leaned in, his voice brushing just above her ear.

“You should be careful,” he said, low. “There are things here that wear familiar faces.”

And then he pulled back, turned, and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N stood motionless, her pulse roaring. The photo burned like a weight in her pocket.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's post note: I wanted to have a layer of mystery and spookiness so I hope I succeeded hehe

[truuskn]

the transformers uk, #42-44

a confrontation between close friends

part 1: prowl and jazz

first i would like to make a note of the fact that prowl is written preeetty out of character in this story. but i won't focus on that because even such atypical (for marvel prowl) behaviour can be easily justified and even organically woven into the narrative. this arc actually gives depth to this version of prowl, we can see - no matter how endlessly compassionate, noble, benevolent this guy is, even he has a dark side, even he makes mistakes, even he has a lot of cruelty deep in his soul. no one's truly perfect

there's a rift in the autobot ranks. and prowl is the cause of it. he's openly conflicted, he doesn't hesitate to express fierce displeasure and anger, he rallies people around him, he doesn't let the subject go, even when optimus puts a stop to the discussion. a wild episode of defiance for prowl. caused by a trivial moment of weakness. he's so tired. so tired of the grueling pointless battles and eternal losses. and he's not the only one! he and many others realize, they cannot keep ignoring harsh reality - they're in a dangerous position. if they don't act decisively and firmly, they're gonna lose. it is time for a change, it is time to put an end to this war and the decepticon menace, they have a chance to finish it all and they should take it, before it's too late

but optimus is too afraid to see the truth. he’s hesitating, missing the opportunity to stop this conflict once and for all, not understanding that his insecurity is dooming his people to pain and suffering, leading them to their deaths. don't get it wrong, prowl realize why prime is so uncertain, god, he's not heartless. he knows exactly what he's offering, he knows he's asking too much, he knows he’s suggesting to go against all their ideals and believes, so close, so important to his own self, he knows he’s unjust and merciless, but he acts from the finest intentions! he's just trying to save what they have left. everything he does, he does for his people. at least that's his main excuse. but no matter how sure he is of his rightness, no matter how much he tries to justify himself, his conscience cannot be silenced. in the future prowl will deeply regret that he ever had the nerve to propose such a disgusting notion to his prime, he will see how wrong he was, he will be horrified that he went against all his principles, against everything he fought for, against optimus, jazz, his friends and against this fragile, innocent planet. but that time has not come yet. and for this moment he allows himself to believe that they've reached a point in their history where the ends justify the means

and jazz… completely disagrees with him. it is simply doesn't fit his worldview that an autobot could even think of such a thing. and it certainly doesn't fit his worldview that his dear friend prowl would be the leader of such an opinion. these two are old friends. close friends. practically family. yes, they have their quarrels and disagreements, but what's happening now... just think of how hard it must be to watch someone you care about step into the darkness, to watch the decepticon calls being made by them. what it’s like to look at someone you've known for what seems like forever and barely recognize them? well, the fate has decided to introduce jazz to this horrifying sick feeling. a feeling of utter devastation and disappointment

jazz is faced with the most frightening scenario imaginable. he realizes if prowl, prowl of all, goes that far, something truly wrong is starting to happen to them. so many years of fighting for the light, so many sacrifices for a better, fairer world, and where has it gotten them? the autobots are in crisis. darkness is creeping in from beyond their reach. if this continues, it won't be the decepticons causing their downfall. jazz can't let that idea spread. he'll be the one who will root out any attempts by the autobots to get out of their way, the one true way. and if he has to face his friend, if he has to sacrifice their bond, so be it. oh, dear, he wishes he could fight for prowl, but he cannot, he doesn't even try, he knows prowl’s already crossed the line. jazz doesn't appeal to his compassion and kindness, only exposes his cruelty, injustice and foulest words. jazz is straightforward and unstoppable. he is the last line of defence. and this fight is no longer just a confrontation between close friends, it's one of the moments that decides the fate of their faction

of course this story has a happy ending. how could it not? of course prowl admits his wrongs and backs down, of course the autobots stay true to their beliefs, prime leads them and both jazz and prowl follow him faithfully. what had happened would not be enough to destroy the strong friendship and absolute trust between them all, but those days, all those words could never be erased from their memories. perhaps it's for the best. everyone has learnt their lessons and the trial was passed

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, smut, angst

pairing: tooru oikawa x fem!reader

summary: touch is memory, silence is confession, and love is the one thing neither of you were trained to survive.

notes: this might just be the saddest shit i’ve ever written i’m gonna be honest guys.

they raised you to be no one.

a ghost in the cradle. a theory before a person.

you don’t remember the first test they ran, but you remember the lights: too bright, always. the hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead while you lay flat on metal tables, eyes wide open, lungs silent, waiting for permission to breathe.

the government called it developmental efficiency modeling. the kids in it called it the program.

most didn’t make it to adolescence.

you did.

by age ten, you could assemble a firearm blindfolded, lie without blinking, fake a seizure, seduce a mark, drive a car, fake an accent, fall off a rooftop without breaking your spine. you’d never celebrated a birthday. never been hugged. never been called a real name.

until him.

oikawa tooru was the first person who ever asked you a question without barking it.

fifteen years old, jaw bruised from a sparring session gone too far, blood still wet on his teeth. he leaned over during mealtime, pulled your tray closer to his, and asked what your favorite city was, just like that. like it wasn’t forbidden. like curiosity hadn’t gotten kids iced before.

you said, “none.”

he said, “you’ll like paris.”

you weren’t assigned to the same unit until a year later. by then, he already spoke fluent russian, slept four hours a night, and had a reputation for smiling at corpses.

but you knew the truth. you’d seen him cry once, kneeling over a dying target in singapore, whispering something in spanish that didn’t show up in the debrief transcript.

they partnered you anyway. and that’s when everything got dangerous.

you’d been trained to work in tandem, but not like this. not like him.

not with someone who made you laugh mid-mission. who always looked back to see if you’d followed. who called you “sweetheart” in morse code just to see if you’d blush. not with someone who knew the shape of your hands well enough to hold them in a fight. not with someone you started dreaming about. not with someone you let inside you in the safehouse in macedonia, quiet and desperate and wrong.

you weren’t supposed to love him.

you both knew it. but it got harder to hide. harder to ignore.

by the time you were twenty, the rumors had spread. a little too much eye contact. a little too much hesitation when he got shot in marrakech and you went off-script to drag him out. they said love made you stupid. soft. selfish.

they were right. you proved them right in bangkok.

you were alone, waiting for extraction, when the van pulled up. not yours. wrong plates. wrong tint. you fought. killed two. but the third didn’t need a blade. he had a phone.

he played a voice memo. it was oikawa.

panicked. breathless. “don’t do anything stupid. please—please.”

you stopped fighting.

they offered you a choice. disappear. join them. or let him die for your loyalty.

you didn’t hesitate. that’s how you were raised. the mission is survival. the mission is adapt. the mission is live.

so you faked your death.

you burned the prints off your fingers, took a new name, boarded a boat to sicily.

left oikawa bleeding in the back of your memory.

…

sicily made you soft in ways you weren’t proud of.

not emotionally. emotionally, you were colder than ever; burned hollow and sealed off, a vessel carved by survival and stitched shut with discipline.

but physically, your skin smoothed out. your shoulders relaxed. you started wearing rings again. soft things. things with gold. you wore linen in summer and cashmere in winter. you folded your scarves the way they taught you, loose at the collar, just enough to hide the faint scar behind your ear.

they called you giulia corsi. not agent. not number. not asset. just giulia.

you moved into a second-floor apartment in ortigia, yellow shutters, heavy doors, marble tiles that clicked beneath your heels when you paced at night. you kept a ceramic knife in every room and a gun in the freezer, wrapped in butcher paper.

you were fluent in italian within six weeks.

they trained you harder than the americans did. not physically, you already had that. but in the art of masks. performance. fluidity. they taught you how to be six people in one room without blinking. how to soften your vowels to mimic sicilian roots. how to hold wine without drinking it. how to seduce in silence. how to disappear in plain sight.

the italian division didn’t want loyalists. they wanted believers. agents who didn’t ask where the blood went after they made it spill.

they gave you the missions no one else would take. the messy ones. the ones with girls in cages and politicians in penthouses. the ones where they sent you in as bait. the ones that didn’t come with backup.

you wore red often. they said it made you look powerful. but you knew the truth: red camouflaged blood best.

you didn’t sleep well. not even in ortigia, not even with the sea breeze threading through your windows and the late-night jazz bleeding from the bar downstairs. you’d lie in bed, perfectly still, hands tucked beneath your pillow, waiting for nothing. waiting for something.

you never brought anyone home.

you fucked when necessary, sure. for cover. for intel. once, even for pleasure.

it was another agent, kiyoomi sakusa. quiet. clinical. impossible to read. the kind of man who wiped his knife before checking if you were still breathing. the kind of man who never asked for your real name, even when you offered it. he already knew it anyway.

you’d worked with him three times before it happened. two extractions, one shared hotel room, and forty hours of silence broken only by the hiss of radio static and your own uneven breathing.

it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t gentle. he kissed you like he was trying to erase something. fucked you like he couldn’t let you win. and afterward, he didn’t speak.

you didn’t ask if it meant anything. you didn’t need to. because in this line of work, no one stays. not in your bed. not in your arms. not in your life.

your phone never rang. your mail was always blank. you filed mission reports with ink pens and never signed your real name.

the one time you almost cried was on a thursday afternoon when an old woman in the market told you to smile more.

you hadn’t smiled in months.

…

you had three identities at any given time. one for transport. one for extraction. one for death. you wore them like gloves. discarded them just as easily.

your missions blurred together: casablanca, zagreb, marrakesh, doha. sometimes you’d wake up and forget where you were. a lot of the times, you didn’t care. you got used to the taste of metal. the sound of panic. the way men begged when they realized you weren’t a tourist.

you got good at not flinching when people said oikawa’s name. not that they said it often. he was a ghost. like you.

you heard once that he’d been promoted. that he ran his own cell now. that he’d stopped asking about you.

you believed it. you wanted to believe it.

because if he hadn’t, if he had spent the last three years searching every shadow you left behind—

then what you did was unforgivable.

and you couldn’t afford to believe that. not if you wanted to keep breathing.

so you learned to walk like giulia. to flirt like giulia. to kill like giulia.

and for three long years in sicily it worked.

until the file showed up.

…

tokyo was colder than you remembered.

not just in temperature, but in tone. in atmosphere. in the way the city swallowed you whole without blinking, like it hadn’t once been a backdrop to the worst and most sacred moments of your life.

you stepped off the plane dressed like a woman who belonged. pressed navy suit, low heels, minimal makeup. your hair pinned into a language of professionalism. one that whispered translator, liaison, nothing to see here. it was the kind of outfit you could blend into a boardroom with. the kind a surveillance camera wouldn’t remember.

but your hands still trembled inside the gloves.

it had been years. since your first kill. since the old train station in chiyoda ward, the smell of rain and smoke in your lungs, and oikawa’s voice over the comms, steady and soft: “pull the trigger, baby. that’s the only way out.”

your finger hadn’t stopped shaking for two hours after.

you didn’t think about that now. not consciously. but your body did. you felt it in the set of your shoulders, in the extra second you took before crossing the street. your body remembered what your mind had buried.

the mission should’ve been simple.

a rogue agent, takahiro sugiyama, was allegedly moving weapons through shinjuku’s outer docks under a shell company. you were told he’d be posing as a freight inspector on pier 12. the plan was to intercept him quietly and confirm identity. extraction if possible. elimination if not.

but the intel was thin. thinner than anything you’d ever worked with. the photographs were grainy and off-center, like someone had taken them on accident. the listed aliases were blank. the handler who briefed you was fifteen minutes late and didn’t make eye contact once.

you flagged it immediately.

but there were no channels left to push back. no way to reroute. and that seal, priority black, it meant one thing: there was no way out of it.

you knew it.

…

the shinjuku port was always a mess of concrete and fog.

you arrived just past dusk, when the light was thinning into bruise-colored shadows and the harbor air turned brackish, thick with salt and diesel and rust. ferries honked in the distance. gulls screamed overhead. the kind of chaos that could swallow a body whole and leave no trace.

you walked along the perimeter, your badge clipped neatly to your blazer, fingers lightly brushing the interior seam where your concealed blade sat. every step echoed across the wet asphalt.

dock workers passed without looking up. crates stacked like forgotten tombstones. a crane swung overhead, groaning under the weight of a shipment.

you breathed in, long and shallow. kept moving.

checkpoint one was a narrow gate flanked by two bored-looking guards. one smoked a cigarette with his head tilted back; the other scrolled through his phone.

“freight assessment. client sent me ahead,” you said in fluent japanese, flashing the badge just long enough to be seen.

the smoker grunted. waved you in.

too easy, you thought.

you walked another hundred feet before you touched your earpiece. “alpha-two, confirm entry,” you whispered.

static.

you tried again.

more static.

louder now. sharp and hissing. you stopped walking—and that’s when the air changed.

you couldn’t describe it. just that it happened. a drop in pressure. a shift in tension. like the moment before a car crash, when instinct grips the base of your spine and whispers something’s coming. the hairs on your arms rose beneath your sleeves.

you scanned the yard.

crates. shadows. steam hissing from a nearby valve. no movement. no sound, beyond the groan of distant machinery.

you turned. nothing. turned again. crack.

not loud, just close—but the pain bloomed so fast you didn’t even hear yourself cry out. just dropped, knees slamming into wet cement, hands grasping for something solid.

your leg burned. no. tore.

it felt like someone had taken a strip of your thigh and set it on fire with a serrated knife. hot, jagged, molten pain that radiated upward and downward at once. the bullet hadn’t gone deep, but it had kissed you, ripped the skin, ruptured something beneath, and dragged itself through the edge of your muscle.

you couldn’t stand.

blood began to spread beneath you, thick and dark, soaking through the fabric of your trousers until it clung to your skin like syrup.

your breath caught.

adrenaline tried to rally, but your head was already spinning. your limbs shook.

you rolled toward a stack of crates and collapsed behind them, pressing your hand to the wound, biting your lip so hard you tasted iron.

you had to move. you needed to move.

there were footsteps now. two sets. fast. purposeful. you reached for your blade and a hand caught your wrist mid-draw.

and then, it was chaos—you kicked, thrashed, tore at sleeves, clawed at skin, sank your nails into flesh. you felt your boot connect with someone’s shin. felt the wet crunch of a nose breaking beneath your elbow.

but there were more of them.

rough hands caught your arms. pressed a cloth to your mouth. you held your breath. bit down. they kneed you in the ribs.

the last thing you saw was the blur of warehouse ceiling lights flickering above you. the last thing you felt was the slow burn of blood slipping down your leg.

then: black.

…

you wake to the sound of water dripping. steady. rhythmic. not close, but not far, either.

your mouth is dry. your head aches behind your eyes like someone poured static into your skull. it takes you a second to recognize the taste in your mouth: blood. old. yours.

you try to move and your wrists scream.

you look down: ropes. not handcuffs. thick, course, looped tight around your wrists, which are raised just enough to make your shoulders ache. the bindings are knotted with military precision. over-under pull. marine-grade tension. your pulse flutters beneath them.

your legs are worse.

your right thigh is wet—no, sticky. blood clots have formed in the fabric of the trousers they left you in, and your skin pulses beneath them like a warning. the pain is deep. raw. like fire sealed in a vacuum. every twitch makes you nauseous.

you breathe shallow. listen.

the room is concrete. low ceiling. a single window, too small to crawl through. no furniture. no cameras visible. faint smell of mold and copper. the kind of place built for disappearing people.

they changed your clothes. you’re in a t-shirt now. someone else’s. too big. rough cotton. men’s standard issue.

they didn’t bother washing you. blood crusts the corner of your jaw. your hands still smell like steel.

your fingers twitch automatically toward your ankle. your last blade: gone.

you scan the floor. nothing. not even a bolt to pry loose.

they knew who you were.

you lean back against the pole they’ve tethered you to. close your eyes. force your breath to even out. you count the seconds between drops of water. fifteen. maybe twenty feet away. a pipe, probably. leaking from the ceiling.

your leg throbs. you ignore it.

this is a black site. not a holding cell. not a legal op. you’re somewhere off-record. the kind of place governments pretend they’ve never built.

you keep your eyes on the door.

five screws on the hinge. manual latch. no keypad. one guard, probably. two if they’re being cautious. maybe more if they know who you are.

you wait. and then— click.

the door unlocks. slowly. deliberately. not rushed. not like someone in a hurry.

your spine goes taut. you watch the metal swing open. watch the boots cross the threshold, black, polished, silent.

then the rest of him follows.

he claps once. then again. a third time, slow and sharp, echoing across the concrete.

“well,” he says, “this is a surprise.”

your throat tightens.

oikawa tooru looks like a ghost dressed in armani. his hair’s darker now. longer at the sides, disheveled on top, like he runs a hand through it when he’s thinking. his eyes are the same. warm brown. unkind.

he’s wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow. slacks. no tie. a shoulder holster slung casual across his chest like a seatbelt. he’s taller. broader. colder.

a new scar curves over his right temple. thin, white, ugly. but the one just below his collarbone… you know that one. you gave it to him, once. a blade in the dark. too close. too late. he didn’t cover it.

your heart stutters. you don’t let it show.

he stops three feet from you.

“y/n,” he says, voice light. too light. “or should i say… giulia?”

you don’t speak. his mouth curls.

“nothing to say?” he tilts his head. “not even a hello?”

your eyes flick to his belt. gun, left hip. blade on the right. standard. predictable. he always wore his weapons opposite his dominant hand; forced himself to draw cross-body to throw people off. he hasn’t changed that. you file it away.

he sighs, theatrically. “you look good. a little pale. bleeding out, but… still good.”

you say nothing.

he crouches.

you flinch. not visibly. but your body goes tight.

he notices, because of course he does. his eyes skim your face, slow. lingering on your mouth. your collarbone. the bruise on your jaw.

“they didn’t clean you up,” he says. voice quieter now. “should’ve at least done that. you were always particular.”

you turn your face away. not fast. not enough to count as emotion. just enough for him to notice.

and he does. you see it, the twitch of his lip, the minute shift in his brow. he’s trying to stay cold.

but you know him. you knew how his voice used to soften in hotel rooms. how he hated tying knots around your wrists even when protocol called for it. how he’d whisper your name like a secret, not a threat.

but that was three years ago. and you left him bleeding.

he stands again, slower this time.

“i appreciate you taking time out of your day to come,” he says dryly.

you finally speak. your voice is low. raspy. bone-deep. “you kidnapped me.”

he smiles. doesn’t reach his eyes. nothing ever does now.

“if it helps,” he says, “i didn’t know it was you. not until they brought in the file. i mean… you were supposed to be dead, right?”

you watch him. his tone is light, but there’s something behind it. tightness. a flicker in the way his hands curl briefly at his sides. a shift in breath.

you’re trained to notice these things. you were trained with him. you know the signs of a man trying not to feel something.

“so,” he says, stepping back, “how’d they do it?” he starts to pace. slow, even. measured.

“how’d they turn you? was it the money? the silence? they promise you a life? hm?”

you don’t answer.

“was it stockholm? rome?” he spits the words like they taste bitter. “let me guess, some black-haired boy with surgeon hands and a god complex? was it him? did he tell you to walk away from me?”

he laughs, sharp, cruel. but underneath it: something raw. he stops. turns.

“you know who comes in after me?” his voice dips, colder now. “someone who doesn’t remember you. someone who doesn’t care if you’re hungry. if you’re hurt. someone who’ll ask questions with pliers and won’t mind if you scream.”

your leg twitches. involuntary.

he sees it. he steps closer. crouches again, and you can smell his cologne. cedar. clove. faint. familiar. he leans in.

“but me,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “i’m giving you a chance. just one. tell me who gave you the op. and i’ll walk out of here. alone. and the next person doesn’t come.”

your eyes flick up. you stare at him. at the mole beneath his left eye. at the flex of his jaw when you don’t answer. at the way his breath is slow but uneven. like he’s holding back something sharp.

he’s angry. he’s trying not to be.

you blink. slow. deliberate.

“go fuck yourself.”

a beat. then— he laughs. not loud. not amused. just one exhale. sharp, bitter, ugly. like it hurt more coming out than he expected. he stands in one smooth motion. wipes his palms on his thighs. doesn’t look at you when he steps back.

“suit yourself.”

he turns for the door. hand on the latch. shoulder tense. but he pauses, just long enough for it to feel intentional. just long enough to twist the knife.

“hope you ate recently,” he mutters, not turning around. “gonna be a long night.”

and he’s gone.

the lock clicks and you’re alone again. but not really. you feel him in the air. in the ache in your wrists. in the blood cooling on your leg. in the part of your chest you thought you buried in sicily.

the silence returns heavier than before after oikawa leaves. the room settles into something thicker, more oppressive. the air doesn’t move the same. the tension doesn’t fade. it lingers. it waits. like it knows someone else is coming. someone worse.

you shift your weight. slowly. your wrists drag against the rope again, burning. the skin is raw now. chafed, angry, stinging with every breath you take. your fingers are starting to go numb.

you roll your neck, just enough to relieve some of the pressure along your spine. your leg pulses again, sharper now. you can feel the crusted blood flake off in patches where the fabric rubs. it’s beginning to smell: iron, sweat, something else, something wrong.

you catalog everything. every object in the room. every weakness in the structure. you count the bolts in the door again. five. the fifth one is loose. the frame isn’t sealed properly. if you had your blade, you could wedge it—

but you don’t. you have nothing. not even your name.

and you hear it before you see him. not footsteps. not a voice. but the lock turning again. only this time, it’s faster, less performative, less slow-clap and sarcasm. more… business.

the door opens. the light outside is no brighter. still dim. still sterile. but the silhouette is different. it doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t pause in the doorway for effect. he just walks in. shuts the door behind him. locks it.

your eyes don’t go to his face first.

they go to his hands. thick fingers. scarred knuckles. something white clutched in one of them—a cloth. surgical. clean. the other hand carries a black case.

you feel the weight of it before you even see what’s inside.

iwaizumi hajime hasn’t aged much. still broad. still calm. still terrifying in the way only a man built for pain can be.

his face is unreadable. clean-shaven. jaw tight. no expression. his eyes don’t linger. don’t flicker. don’t acknowledge. he doesn’t look at you like he knows you, and that cuts deeper than anything else.

he sets the case down on the small metal table in the corner, one you didn’t notice before, tucked half in shadow.

your breath catches. you blink once, slowly. you listen.

he opens it. metal clicks against metal. something soft being unwrapped.

you don’t have to see to know what’s inside. you’ve packed kits like this before: forceps. gauze. shears. electrical leads. blades of varying length. and a roll of rubber tubing for restraint.

you breathe through your nose. deeper now. slower. you shift your gaze. not too fast. not reactive.

he turns to face you.

his expression hasn’t changed. he walks toward you. not slow, not fast. just… inevitable. like gravity. like war.

you study the way he moves. the way his shoulder tenses when he sets the cloth down. the way his foot lands hard with each step, but not loud. he’s still trained. still deadly.

he stops in front of you. looks at your leg.

you follow his gaze. the blood is worse now. leaking again, wet in places. it stains the concrete in irregular shapes. a trail. a warning.

still, he says nothing.

you wonder if this is part of it, this silence. this slow ramping up. let you stew in it. let you imagine what comes next. but no.

iwaizumi was never theatrical. never one for games.

you breathe again. brace as his hand reaches out.

you flinch. you don’t mean to. it’s small. barely there. a twitch in your jaw, a shift in your shoulders—but he sees it. his hand pauses, just an inch from your leg, and he looks at you. only for a second. and then back to the wound.

he kneels. pulls the fabric away.

you grit your teeth as it tears, dried blood ripping open again, nerves shrieking.

he doesn’t flinch. with steady fingers, he begins cleaning it. the cloth is cold. soaked in something antiseptic. it stings so deeply your vision blurs.

you bite down hard on your tongue to keep from making a sound.

he’s not being gentle. but he’s not cruel, either. he’s precise. methodical. detached.

you watch his face the entire time. you look for anything. a flicker. a glance. but he gives you nothing.

“you shouldn’t have come here,” he says, voice flat.

you don’t respond. you don’t know if it’s meant to be a statement or a warning.

he finishes cleaning the leg. tosses the bloodied cloth into the corner. doesn’t bother to bandage it. he stands again and you see the cable in his other hand now: long. black. clipped at both ends.

you know what it’s for. you know what comes next.

he attaches one end to a small metal terminal from the case. wraps the other around your upper arm. tight. his hand brushes yours in the process, faint, careless, but enough to make your fingers twitch against the restraints.

you remember that hand.

the calluses along the thumb. the faint scar that splits the skin between his knuckles. the steadiness in his grip.

once, it held a gun for you. steadied your aim when your shoulder was blown out and you were seeing double. once, in belgrade, it wiped blood from your temple, his thumb dragging clumsily through it while you tried not to pass out in the back of a burning van.

now, it’s securing a strap against your forearm. tightening the contact node. locking you in place so the current will hit cleaner.

you look down at it. not afraid. just… watching.

his hands move methodically. practiced. but his jaw ticks. just once.

you finally speak. your voice low. not pleading. just rough with dust and disuse.

“do you remember the safehouse in belgrade?” your eyes don’t leave his hands. “the one with the green door. two stories. cracked tile in the kitchen.”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look at your face. just keeps working. tightening. adjusting.

you keep going. “it was raining that night. you gave me your jacket and said not to bleed on it.” you huff, bitter. “i did anyway.”

still, he says nothing. but his fingers stall. just for a second. barely more than a breath. then he moves again. faster now. more mechanical. like if he hurries, he won’t have to listen.

you let the silence sit heavy between you.

“no,” he says, finally.

the machine whirs. the current should surge, sharp, bright, biting. but it doesn’t—not fully. not the way it should.

instead, the current slams through you, sharp, blinding. it locks your jaw mid-breath, wrenches your spine into the air like a puppet string yanked too hard, tears a raw, involuntary sound from your throat before you can catch it.

it hurts. god, it hurts. hot and fast, like fire dragged through your nerves, each one lit up and screaming. like your body’s trying to crawl out of itself and failing. your teeth grind until your jaw aches. your muscles seize. your vision flashes white at the edges, then black, then white again, like your brain can’t decide whether to pass out or endure.

and still, you know: this isn’t what they’d use on a real agent. not at full voltage. not if they meant to break you for good.

they’d crank it higher. they’d leave it running longer. they’d make it ruinous, the kind of pain that strips you of thought, name, purpose. the kind that leaves people stuttering for the rest of their lives. if they live at all.

but this—this is pain calibrated just under the threshold. enough to burn. enough to scare. but not enough to break someone like you. not yet. this is civilian level. rookie level. fear-theatrics for people with soft hands and sellable intel.

but your body still writhes. still clenches. still feels every jolt like it’s tearing muscle from bone. your stomach churns. your lungs can’t catch a rhythm. your heart pounds so loud it drowns out the machine’s low, cruel hum.

you know he’s holding back. you feel it in the charge’s rhythm, how it cuts off before it crests. how the pain flares but doesn’t fry. how your skin doesn’t blister. how your mind still works, still calculates.

you slump forward when it stops. head heavy, vision pulsing. your breath comes in wet, uneven pulls, like each one’s a fight. your hands twitch in the restraints. metal slick with sweat. skin rubbed raw.

he’s still there. still standing beside you, silent.

he hasn’t looked at you once. his face stays angled toward the wall, like if he turns, something in him might crack. like if he meets your eyes, he’ll have to admit he still knows the shape of your brows when you’re in pain. that he still remembers what it looks like when you’re dying and trying not to show it.

“who gave you the op,” he says once, voice low. clipped. rehearsed. the script they probably drilled into him.

but the next time—next time it’s different. this time, your name comes after.

“who gave you the op, y/n.”

and it’s not a demand anymore. not really. it sounds like pleading. like he’s asking so he doesn’t have to do it again. like he’s begging for you to give him a reason to stop before he has to go further, before he loses the last piece of himself he swore he’d keep intact.

but you can’t. you know you can’t.

because the united states can’t protect you from them. not from the things you’ve seen. not from the horrors even italian agents have to endure just to become one of them.

what they do to you if you fold doesn’t end when the lights turn off. doesn’t stop at pain. it ends with pieces of you pulled apart and filed away. it ends with a hollow version of yourself, speaking someone else’s language with someone else’s eyes.

you lift your head. just barely. you open your mouth. not to answer. but just to breathe through the blood on your tongue.

and so he presses the button again.

the second wave hits harder. like thunder detonating in your bones. your knees jerk, your throat locks, your head snaps back. your voice breaks on a sound that never makes it out.

and when it stops—you crumple like wet paper.

he says it again. softer now. voice rough. broken at the edges. still not looking at you. but his hand—it’s still on your wrist. not steadying. not comforting. just there.

like maybe it’s the only part of him that still remembers who you were. what you meant. and maybe—it’s the part that doesn’t want to let go.

…

you don’t really remember when iwaizumi packed everything out. you think you blacked out halfway through, maybe more.

you remember flashes, fragments: the snap of gloves being peeled off. the cold hiss of the machine winding down. the squeal of metal dragging across concrete as he pulled the cart away.

but mostly, you remember the pain. not just the burn of voltage, but the after. the way your body vibrated with it long after the current stopped, like your nerves were still catching echoes, like your cells hadn’t realized they were free.

your throat was raw from a scream you didn’t know you made. your eyes burned. your lashes were sticky. you couldn’t tell if the tears were hot because you were crying, or because your skin had heated past the point of knowing better.

and now—now, the pain doesn’t spike. doesn’t roar. it settles.

not all at once, but slow. creeping. like cold air crawling in under a doorframe, unnoticed until it’s in your bones. it sinks into your spine. it drags through your blood.

your leg throbs in time with your heart, a wet, blistering kind of hurt that pulses up your side and curls behind your ribs like a fist. your jaw’s locked. your teeth ache. your shoulders twitch with every ghost of what’s been done. you can still feel the electricity humming in your skull. phantom voltage. like it didn’t just hit your body: it stained the marrow.

your hands are trembling. your spine feels bent in the wrong places. your wrists are raw from the ropes, deep, red gouges scored into your skin like punishment. like ownership. you try to lift one, just a fraction, but your arms feel like bricks. every inch of movement costs too much.

iwaizumi didn’t bandage you. didn’t speak again. didn’t even look back as he left.

and now it’s just you. and the dark. and the sound of your breathing, shallow. too fast. too loud.

you know this state. you were trained for this.

phase two: disorientation.

they teach you early that pain isn’t what breaks people. it’s what follows. the silence. the isolation. the panic that starts to rise when the adrenaline burns off and your body realizes it’s been left behind.

you close your eyes.

you can’t sleep. you can’t let your mind drift. you know what happens if you do.

so you fall back into protocol like muscle memory. like prayer.

start with the language exercise. you force your brain into sequence. five languages. five phrases. your name, your city, your first weapon, your exit route, your blood type.

italian. spanish. russian. japanese. french.

repeat.

you whisper it under your breath, lips barely moving.

“mi chiamo giulia. roma. coltello. ovest. ab negativo.”

again.

“me llamo giulia. madrid. cuchillo. oeste. ab negativo.”

you keep going until the syllables feel like anchors. until the world stops spinning. until you know, no matter what happens, they haven’t taken everything. not yet.

but your leg is still bleeding. you can feel the fabric dampen again. you know what that means: re-opened. no clot. you’re losing more than you can afford.

your throat tightens. your mouth is dry. too dry. your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. you start cataloging the symptoms. like you were taught.

pulse: elevated. blood loss: moderate to severe. consciousness: slipping. lucidity: flickering.

you blink.

the water is still dripping from the pipe. fifteen seconds apart. you count. again. not for any reason. just to stay. just to keep your mind tethered to something that isn’t heat or blood or the echo of that current running through your bones.

one. two. three. four…

you think about oikawa. you think about the way he crouched down to your eye level like he used to, like he cared, even if it was through gritted teeth and rage. you think about the way he said you left me. and you remember the way you didn’t say i didn’t want to.

you wanted to.

your breath hitches. you don’t let yourself cry. crying is inefficient. it wastes energy. water. salt.

instead you do what you were trained to do in white rooms with no clocks: you build a place in your head.

you picture sicily. your apartment. the one with the yellow shutters and the tile floors. the chipped mug you always used for coffee, the one you stole from a bar in catania. the way the sunlight filtered through your balcony door and painted the bed in stripes. the way the sheets felt after a mission, when your hands were still shaking and your feet were blistered and all you could do was lie there, wide awake, listening to jazz from the street and the low tide pulling in.

you try to smell lemons. espresso. you try to feel linen against your legs, not blood.

but it’s slipping. everything’s slipping.

you open your eyes too fast and your vision swims, then steadies. your stomach turns, sharp. dry. empty.

food deprivation setting in. 36 hours minimum. no protein. no sugar. no salt.

you taste bile. your fingers twitch again, and it sends a lightning bolt down your wrist into your forearm. you choke on the pain. grit your teeth again. but your body’s twitching now, too many nerves misfiring at once. your leg jerks, useless. you slam your heel against the floor once, just to feel it. just to know you’re still here.

you are still here. you are.

you press your head back against the pole, cold concrete against your scalp, and you breathe. slow. through your nose. deeper this time.

think. analyze. adapt.

they haven’t starved you yet. which means they want you awake. they want something. still.

and oikawa—he’s not done. you can feel it in your ribs. like a tide coming in. like a storm hovering off the coast. he’s going to come back. you know it. and when he does, he won’t be calm.

he tried the question route. the taunting. the guilt. and when it didn’t work, he sent hajime.

which means next time… next time, he’ll be different. and you’ll need to be ready, even if your body isn’t. even if your vision swims every time you blink. even if your lips are cracking and your head is buzzing and your body is screaming at you to sleep.

you stay awake. because he’s coming.

and part of you is afraid, yes. but the other part?

the part still bleeding under your ribs, the part that still remembers how his voice used to sound in the dark?

that part wants to see him. wants to hear what else he has to say.

…

you hear the lock before you see him.

not like before, this time there’s no hesitation in the metal, no slow turn or echoing theatrics. the key slides in like muscle memory, a quick flick of the wrist, a sharp click, and the door groans open. no footsteps follow immediately, which tells you he’s standing there. watching. waiting. letting the tension curl into the room ahead of him like smoke.

you force yourself to lift your head, slow and stiff, ignoring the lightning shooting up your spine. your shoulders have settled into a dull ache, the ropes digging deeper with every breath, your thigh long past numb and now burning again in pulses, wet, hot, alive.

the pain’s returned just in time for an audience.

and when he steps into the room, you already know who it is. you knew the second the air shifted. knew it in the silence, the weight of his presence. oikawa always carried himself like a blade, sleek, sharp, reflective. but now he’s something else entirely. he’s ice. not even the kind that cuts—just the kind that seeps. spreads. suffocates.

his eyes scan the space with calculation before they land on you. not immediately. not like it matters. you’re furniture in here now. a job. a nuisance. an old stain on the carpet someone’s tired of scrubbing out. but when he does look at you, really look, something flickers. not pity. not pain. just… familiarity. recognition of what you are now. what he helped shape.

he walks in without speaking, a takeout container balanced casually in one hand, the other still curled around the holster strapped beneath his coat. the smell hits you before he’s close: rice, maybe. something spiced. something lukewarm. it makes your stomach churn violently, not with hunger, but with the humiliation of it. he doesn’t offer it. doesn’t pretend to be kind. just sets it down on the floor in front of you, just out of reach.

“they said you’d break quicker,” he says after a long pause, voice quiet, clipped, without rhythm or tone. “not their fault. your file reads like a woman barely holding it together. shallow breathing. scar tissue over old wounds. doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. cracks under prolonged silence.”

he crouches again. this time slower. his knees bend with less effort than before, like he’s done this same motion a hundred times in a hundred different cells, like you’re no different from anyone else he’s interrogated. he rests his elbow on his thigh and cocks his head, watching you the way someone watches a clock. something inevitable. ticking. temporary.

“but you’re still here,” he murmurs, and the edge of something sharp curls at the corner of his mouth, not a smile. not even a smirk. just a twitch. “still bleeding. still breathing. still not talking.”

you hold his gaze. he hates that.

his eyes move down your body, not with desire, but with a surgeon’s detachment. cataloguing injuries. reading the way your left arm twitches involuntarily every few minutes. the way your breathing’s shallow but paced. he can tell you’ve been keeping yourself conscious through recitations. pain mapping. training. he knows because he taught you some of those things. once. in another life.

“so what did they do to you over there?” he asks, quieter now, as if the question isn’t meant to be heard, only tasted. “what did they strip away to make you like this? did they make you kneel? make you forget how it felt to be touched like a person? is that what it took to make you stay gone?”

you say nothing. not because you’re defiant, but because the words feel too human, too soft, and you refuse to give him that. not here. not now. he’d see it as weakness, and he’d use it.

oikawa’s hand lifts, not toward you. just to run through his hair, rough. frustrated. the motion breaks for a second. unscripted. and you see it, buried beneath the cold: the exhaustion. the fury. the years. all of it sealed behind a clean black shirt and a holster worn to shine.

he looks back at you, finally. the stare longer this time.

“you didn’t even hesitate,” he says. and this time his voice is steadier. not angry. just… tired. “they showed me the photos. your ‘body.’ your prints. the fake blood. i knew it was staged. i knew it. and still—” he cuts himself off. laughs once. hollow. “i kept thinking, maybe you were forced. maybe you were protecting me. maybe it was a trade. but no. you just… left.”

your throat tightens. it’s involuntary. it burns. you breathe through your nose and pretend it didn’t happen. he notices anyway.

“what?” he asks, tone sharper. “you’re gonna cry now? after everything?”

you swallow, slow.

“i’m not crying,” you rasp, voice cracked and dry. “my fucking throat hurts, asshole.”

he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the lie. like part of him wishes it were true. then, suddenly, he stands. just like that. sharp and unannounced. and the energy in the room shifts again. colder now. more exact.

“you wanna eat?” he asks, gesturing to the food like it’s an afterthought. “go ahead. drag yourself over there. earn it.”

he turns to the door. doesn’t open it yet.

“i’ll be back in an hour,” he says without looking. “maybe next time i bring the blade instead of the rice.”

the door shuts behind him like a verdict, and this time, you don’t count the water. you just breathe. and breathe. and breathe.

you leave the food sitting where he left it.

you stare at it for a long time after the door shuts. chinese takeout, half-warm, sweating inside its little white carton, untouched and just far enough away that crawling to it would mean tearing open the clot on your thigh and dragging your dignity with it.

oikawa knew exactly how far to place it. he didn’t need to say it out loud. he never does. he speaks in implication. in silence. in theatre.

you count five slow, excruciating minutes before the scent starts to turn. oil, rice, soy, something too sweet. it smells like everything you haven’t had in days. your stomach turns on itself, hunger curling up into nausea. you don’t move. you won’t give him the satisfaction. you won’t reach for it. not yet.

the rope around your wrists has gone slick with sweat. the skin underneath pulses raw, the fibers grinding bone-deep every time you shift. your leg feels hot again—not from the outside, but from the inside. fever. the slow, creeping kind. the kind you were warned about during survival training. you taste salt on your lips. your spine pulses.

you breathe. you endure. you let your mind go flat and clinical, scan for patterns, predict outcomes. it’s the only thing that keeps the panic out. the only thing that keeps you you.

he’ll be back soon. you know that much. and he’ll want something worse than an answer.

and when the door opens again, there’s no warning. no footsteps. no voice. just the lock. a clean metallic rotation and the soft whine of hinges under weight. you don’t flinch. not even when he steps back into the room, darker this time. something about his silhouette feels heavier. tighter.

he’s not holding food anymore.

he closes the door with his foot. doesn’t look at you at first. just walks to the edge of the room like he needs to collect himself, like he doesn’t trust what will come out if he faces you too soon.

he rolls his sleeves. deliberate. slow. first the left, then the right. his forearms are cut with old scars, some you recognize, some you don’t. his watch ticks loud in the silence. the silver catches the light when he turns.

and finally, he looks at you.

“you’re still awake,” he says softly. not impressed. not kind. just… acknowledging it. like it irritates him. like it ruins a plan.

you meet his eyes and don’t speak.

he crosses the room in three quiet strides, and when he crouches again, it’s not slow. it’s sudden. fluid. like a hunter settling into position. his hand braces on his knee. his other hand—

you feel the pressure before you realize what he’s done.

he’s pressed a knife flat to your neck. not cutting. not slicing. just resting. cool metal against warm skin. the blade’s dull from disuse. ceremonial, almost. not meant to kill. just to promise something.

he watches you. doesn’t blink. his voice is low when it comes.

“so,” he says, “torture didn’t work. silence didn’t work. nostalgia didn’t work.”

his thumb brushes your chin, slow, measured, like he’s checking for weakness.

“how about this,” he murmurs. “how about i fuck it out of you?”

your breathing stutters. it’s small. barely there. not enough to mean anything to anyone else.

but he sees it. because of course he does. his mouth twitches.

“oh,” he whispers. “there she is.”

you don’t move. you won’t.

“did they train you to resist that too?” he asks, voice still velvet. “or did they think you wouldn’t need it, since they stripped everything else out of you?”

his hand doesn’t move from the knife, but his weight shifts forward, just a fraction. just enough to make the pole dig into your back and the breath in your lungs catch from the closeness. he’s not touching you, not really. but you can feel the heat rolling off him. feel the hum of energy between his knees and yours. you can smell him again, same cologne. same breath. same man, except not.

“i should kill you,” he says. flatly. suddenly.

it’s not a threat. it’s not dramatic. it’s a statement. one he’s practiced saying in his head. one he’s probably already imagined carrying out. clean. fast. maybe even painless, if he’s feeling merciful.

but he doesn’t. because you haven’t said a word, and the silence is driving him insane.

he pulls back. not fast, not sharp. like he’s disappointed. like he wanted you to flinch. to fold. to break. but you didn’t.

instead, you look him straight in the eye. your voice cracks when it comes, but it holds.

“you don’t kill things you still love.”

his eyes flash, and for the first time in the entire interrogation, oikawa falters.

it’s barely there. but you know him. you know the tick in his jaw when something hits too close. you know the twitch in his cheekbone when he’s been caught lying; to you, to himself. his gaze drops for half a second, and when it rises again, there’s something violent behind it.

not rage. not fire. something colder. cleaner. a kind of violence that doesn’t need to yell.

his hands move without a word.

you feel the pressure shift first, his grip on your shoulders loosening, the weight of his attention narrowing. then the brush of his knuckles along your wrist. not gentle. not apologetic. just practical. he reaches behind you, fingers tugging at the knot, pulling it free in three sharp jerks. the rope slackens. the burn releases. the tension in your arms stutters, your shoulders dropping, too fast, too heavy.

you freeze.

the blood starts moving again before your brain catches up. your hands tingle, pins and needles laced with acid. the joints scream from the sudden freedom, the weight of your arms collapsing into your lap. you feel everything at once, your back soaked in sweat, your legs trembling under you, your wrists so raw you could weep.

you blink. shallow. uncertain.

he crouches again. same position. same voice. like this is all part of the procedure.

“go on,” he murmurs. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

your breath hitches.

he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t restrain you. just waits. and in the space between you, the implication fills the silence like smoke. he’s watching. cataloguing. betting.

will she?

you do.

your body moves before your mind decides. your leg coils, weak and useless, your arm swings too wide, sloppy, uncalculated, pure adrenaline and stubborn desperation. it’s not a strike, it’s not a kill shot, it’s the idea of one. and that’s all he needs.

he grabs you before you’re even halfway up.

his hand locks around your bicep, his weight shifting like a second skin, and he slams you forward with terrifying ease. your shoulder hits the ground first. then your cheek. the cold concrete bites hard into the side of your face, the shock rattling through your jaw, your ribs, your spine. your thigh flares hot again, bright white agony as the wound tears wider.

you gasp without sound. bite back a scream. your teeth grind together so violently you taste metal.

his knee is in your back now, not hard, just there, pinning you the way he used to pin targets against glass windows overseas. your wrists are yanked behind you again, but this time it’s chain, not rope—tight, surgical, unforgiving. the kind they use on black site detainees. no flex. no give. you feel it click closed like a collar around your wrists.

you stop moving.

“that’s what i thought,” he mutters.

he doesn’t sound surprised. doesn’t sound pleased, either. just… unsurprised.

you breathe against the floor. slow. labored. your mouth tastes like blood and dust and your own frustration. the second your fingers twitch, the chain digs deeper.

he stands without a word. doesn’t look down. doesn’t offer anything—not a hand, not a warning, not even a threat. you hear him cross to the door. the echo of his shoes now feels deliberate. performative.

when he opens it, he doesn’t speak to you. he speaks into the hallway. curt. bored.

“she’s ready.”

and a moment later, you hear the second pair of footsteps. lighter. more precise.

you lift your head, barely, and see her.

kiyoko.

the sight of her gut-punches something old in you. it’s not even what she’s wearing, black blouse, slacks, latex gloves. it’s the expression. flat. clinical. unimpressed. she doesn’t even blink when her eyes land on you. you’re not a friend. not a former comrade. not a ghost come back to haunt the program. you’re a case. a box to check. a subject for a file.

clipboard in one hand. bandage roll in the other.

oikawa glances back at you once. you don’t think he means to. it’s too brief to be intentional. just a flicker of recognition, like your name tried to reach his throat and died halfway up.

“get her showered. something hot, not too long,” he tells kiyoko. “give her the meal. small. protein-heavy. prep the bed after. she needs to look alive for tomorrow.”

and then he’s gone. except this time the door doesn’t slam. it closes soft. sealed.

kiyoko doesn’t speak. she just steps closer, kneels beside you with the same detached calm as a surgeon scrubbing in. her hand touches your arm, adjusting the chains to keep your wrists in front of you now. less for comfort, more for transport. she doesn’t explain it.

you try to speak, but nothing comes. you swallow hard. once. again. your mouth is sand. your throat full of heat.

kiyoko doesn’t help you up. she waits for you to try. and when you collapse halfway to your knees, she doesn’t reach down.

“get up,” she says. not cruel. not even annoyed. just matter-of-fact.

so you do. because there’s no other choice.

your body moves like it’s being puppeted. every step hurts. not in isolation, but everywhere. your feet don’t land right. the ground feels too close. too loud. like it’s tilting underneath you. your thigh pulses in time with your heartbeat, and every shift of your weight drags pain up your spine like fishhooks.

kiyoko walks behind you, not beside you. close enough to correct, far enough to stay clear. her footsteps don’t echo. her presence barely exists. you know better than to turn and look for emotion in her face. she’s not here to see you. she’s here to process you. assess you. keep you alive enough to bleed another day.

you walk through the hallway. the walls are cement. the floors are tile, cheap, gray, a little uneven. fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead like a living thing. no windows. no doors open. just blank steel on both sides, punctuated by cameras that don’t blink. the silence is suffocating. every footstep feels stolen.

you don’t ask where you’re going. you already know.

you pass a mirror. not a real one, just a piece of steel polished to reflect.

you catch your own face by accident, and it almost undoes you. your hair is matted in places. dry in others. your lips are cracked. blood crusts the side of your face in a smear, half-dried, half-fresh. your eyes look too large, like someone sucked the soul out of you and left just the shell. your collarbones are sharper than they used to be. your arms look thinner. smaller. your wrists are an angry mess of rope burn and bruising.

you look like a corpse that hasn’t learned it died yet.

kiyoko doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. doesn’t let you linger.

the next room is pale blue tile. a drain in the center of the floor. plastic chair against the far wall. one towel folded on the bench. one pair of black sweatpants, one white shirt, no shoes. a tray with a sealed container of food. protein bar. water bottle. syringe.

you hesitate in the doorway.

she nods once toward the wall. “shower,” she says.

you move.

the water turns on automatically when you step close enough. it’s not warm. not cold. just enough to shock your skin. your body tenses so hard you nearly fall. kiyoko doesn’t help you. she doesn’t leave either. she turns away slightly, enough to give you the illusion of privacy, but not enough to make it real.

you strip slowly. every movement takes calculation. your leg doesn’t want to cooperate. your shoulder burns. your muscles seize. when you pull the shirt over your head, the dried blood pulls at your skin like a second layer. it peels. flakes. smells like rust and sweat and rot.

you step under the water, and the first thing you feel is shame. not pain. not cold. shame. your body is covered in bruises. some fresh. some old. some from oikawa. some from the fall. some from yourself. the inside of your thigh is dark purple. your hip is yellowing. your chest is blotched with fingerprints and old restraint lines.

you try not to cry.

you wash. slow. deliberate. there’s no soap. just water. just enough to rinse the surface. the blood on your leg turns the drain pink for a while. the water turns clear again before you finish.

your breath catches when you try to bend. your ribs don’t like it. your wrists scream. you sit on the plastic chair when it gets too much. you close your eyes and let the water fall over your head like a second skin.

kiyoko speaks once. “five minutes.”

you nod. your throat is too tight to answer.

when you’re done, you dress in silence. your hands shake when you pull the pants up. the shirt sticks to your skin. the material is coarse. unfamiliar. it doesn’t feel like clothes. it feels like wrapping a body for transit.

you don’t touch the food. not yet.

she walks over. picks up the syringe.

you tense. instinctively.

she shakes her head. “vitamins. antibiotic. eat first.” she raises the protein bar and tosses it at you. “start with that.”

you catch it. barely. it tastes like cardboard and sugar and sawdust. but it’s food. real food. not memory. not imagination. real. your hands don’t stop shaking while you eat. you want to devour it. you don’t. you chew slow. methodical. you’ve seen what happens when agents eat too fast after too long.

she watches the whole time. when you finish half the bottle of water, she steps closer. uncaps the syringe.

“arm.”

you hesitate.

her voice doesn’t change. “don’t make me call him.”

you roll up your sleeve, and the needle stings. the second she pulls it out, she’s already cleaning up.

you want to speak. to ask. to scream. to exist. but nothing comes out.

she says nothing back. just opens the door. gestures. “come on,” she says. “bed’s prepped.”

you follow. because there’s nowhere else to go.

the room they bring you to isn’t what you expect. it’s small. clean. bare. too clean. too bare. one narrow bed bolted to the floor. a sink. a chair. a metal hook set into the wall by the headboard. there are no windows. just a light above that flickers faintly every ten minutes, as if it’s reminding you it’s still watching.

kiyoko doesn’t explain anything. she just leads you in with a nod. someone else follows, a tall guard you don’t recognize, silent, stiff, holding the end of your chain like a leash. it drags behind you, heavy and cold, slithering along the floor as you limp toward the bed.

your body’s moving on something synthetic now—painkillers, maybe. not enough to make you high. just enough to mute the sharpest edges. your thigh still burns. your wrists still ache. your spine still screams every time you breathe wrong, but it’s dulled. dulled enough to let you stand. dulled enough to let you think.

you don’t speak. you don’t ask questions. you just sit.

the guard doesn’t hesitate. he lifts your wrists without a word, fastens the cuffs to the hook by the bed—click, click, lock. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just checks the chain once. tests the tension. two feet of slack. not enough to move far. enough to lie down. enough to sleep. enough to remind you you’re still theirs.

kiyoko sets a small bottle on the nightstand. water. sealed. you hear her speak again for the first time in almost twenty minutes. “sleep,” she says. “don’t make this harder.”

and then they’re gone. the lock clicks. and you’re alone.

you lie back slowly. the mattress is thin. industrial. barely more than fabric and foam. your body sinks into it in pieces, shoulders first, then spine, then hips, then legs. your wrists stay suspended above your head, the weight of the chain pulling down just enough to remind you: you’re not free.

you don’t cry. but you almost do. your eyes close. but you don’t sleep, not right away. your thoughts flicker.

you wonder if oikawa’s on the other side of the wall. watching. waiting. timing your breath. if he was the one who ordered the meds. if he told them how much to give. if he told them when to feed you. how to shackle you. if he told them what parts of you not to break.

he’s planning something. you feel it. it coils around your ribs like a promise.

but you do fall asleep eventually. not because you want to, but because your body gives out.

and you wake in stages. not with panic, not with clarity, but in layers, like rising through molasses.

the first thing you feel is the cold. not the kind that bites, but the kind that settles into your skin like it belongs there, stale, recycled air filtering from the corner vent, humming against the back of your neck. it’s artificial. controlled. the type of cold that exists in rooms built to keep people quiet.

then the ache returns, low and humming, sweeping like a tide through your body. your leg is a lit fuse beneath the gauze. your spine is one long bruise. your arms throb with a familiar weight you’ve come to know intimately these past few days: restraint. raw skin, stretched joints, blood pooling in awkward places. you expect to feel the tug of chain, the bite of iron at your wrists.

except… it’s not there.

your wrists don’t ache the way they should. they’re not suspended. not twisted upward above your head. they’re resting. flat. at your sides.

that’s when your body jolts. not all at once, just a sharp internal spike of adrenaline cutting through the haze. your mind catches up a second later, too slow, too fogged from painkillers and dehydration to understand what it’s registering.

you blink. once. then again.

your arms are still sore. the skin is hot and torn in places. but your hands are free.

you flex your fingers on instinct. each tendon aches, but they move, untethered. unshackled. raw skin catches on the inside of the shirt they left you in. the cotton clings to half-healed scrapes like a second wound. but there’s no metal. no tension—

and your heart kicks like a warning shot.

you shoot upright too fast. the blood rushes to your head and your spine screams in protest, but you’re already reaching for your wrists, already scanning the mattress, the corners of the room, the floor near your feet, anything.

no cuffs. no clamps. no chain to drag across the tile. just skin. skin and heat and the faint tacky residue of medical tape where they must’ve wiped you down in your sleep.

you stare at your hands. you turn them over. they shake.

you didn’t wake up.

they unhooked you in the night, and you didn’t wake up.

your stomach twists violently.

that’s not just bad. that’s lethal. stupid. that’s a rookie mistake. a civilian mistake. you were trained to sleep light. to wake at the shift of air, the scrape of rubber on tile, the breath of a body too close to yours. you should’ve felt them. you should’ve heard it. seen it. something.

and you didn’t.

a wave of nausea crashes behind your ribs, cold and bitter. your mouth tastes like salt and sleep and failure.

you were vulnerable. and you didn’t even know it. your chest tightens as the shame comes fast and deep. you could’ve been killed. you could’ve been dragged out of this bed and butchered and bagged and you would’ve gone without a sound. what the fuck is wrong with you?

you spin around. and you freeze. because he’s already there.

he’s sitting in the far corner of the room like a secret waiting to be found. no announcement. no movement. just presence. quiet. composed. watching.

oikawa looks like he’s been there all night.

he’s leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, legs spread just enough to anchor him in place, his gun dangling loosely in one hand. it rests on his thigh, not raised, not threatening, just visible. a piece of him. like it always was. his finger’s curled against the trigger guard, relaxed. easy. familiar.

his eyes are locked on yours. his lips curl, slow. tired. cruel.

“sloppy,” he says. his voice is quiet, too quiet, like it’s meant to cut you in half, not echo. “sicily must’ve gotten soft.”

you try to swallow, but your throat’s too dry. your whole body is too slow. too heavy. too exposed.

he stands.

he doesn’t move quickly. doesn’t stalk. he just rises like a tide, controlled and inevitable. his shoulders straighten as he steps toward you, every movement smooth, silent. his eyes never leave yours.

“you really didn’t wake up?” he asks, and there’s a twist in the middle of the sentence, like it hurts. like he’s mocking himself for expecting better.

you don’t respond. your chest is locked tight.

“i could’ve done anything,” he says, softer now. a note lower. almost contemplative. “could’ve broken your neck. could’ve put a bullet in your mouth while you dreamed about being anyone but yourself.”

he lifts the gun. slow. methodical. not a threat: an invitation. and then, without hesitation, he brings it to your face.

the barrel presses against your temple, firm and cold, smooth against skin that’s still warm from fever. you can feel the shape of it, metal shaped by repetition, by force, by memory. his hand doesn’t tremble. yours does.

your breathing spikes. you don’t let it show, but he sees it anyway.

you don’t scream. you don’t cry. you just sit there, spine curved, bones aching, dressed in borrowed clothes, half-healed and humiliated. trembling in your own skin, hands twitching in your lap.

he watches you like a scientist. like you’re a theory he’s finally proven right.

“you’ve been trained to disarm,” he murmurs, voice low enough to rattle your ribs. “so disarm me.”

your body doesn’t move. not even an inch. you twitch. a single shoulder trembles. your hand flexes—

but nothing follows.

he smiles. not the real one. not the soft one you used to kiss off his lips in the backseat of armored vehicles after getting out alive. this one is sharper.

“no?”

he steps back just a little. not far. just enough. then, without flourish, without warning—he flips the gun in his hand and drops it into your lap.

“oops.”

the word lands like a knife in your sternum.

the gun is heavy. heavy in a way only yours can be. the grip still fits. the shape still knows your hands. the weight of it isn’t just physical, it’s historical.

you don’t look down, but your hands move. your fingers close around it before your thoughts catch up. the cold spreads fast. it’s like holding a memory you were never supposed to see again.

“pick it up,” he says, even though you already have.

you shift your grip automatically. thumb along the side, press-slide-check. chamber’s loaded. safety’s off. it’s second nature. it’s still in you.

you hear his breath change.

not a flinch. not fear. just readiness.

you raise it, but your hands are shaking again. not violently. but enough. not from fear. from memory. the stance is perfect. your aim is sharp. he’s close. you could shoot through his skull in a heartbeat. drop him where he stands.

you were trained for this. he trained you.

but your eyes don’t see the man in front of you. they see the boy beneath. seventeen and too tall for his own center of gravity. grinning through blood and glass. holding your hand in the wreckage like he could keep it from shaking. pressing his mouth to your temple like that would fix it.

and this version, with the button-up and the half-crazy eyes and the mouth that curves like a blade—this version is still him.

you lower the gun. barely. just a breath. your hands still tremble.

he doesn’t blink.

“do it,” he says. “go ahead.”

you raise it again. your arms burn. your fingers squeeze tighter. but nothing follows. your throat’s closing up. your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. your vision blurs.

and you can’t.

he steps in. just one step. close enough that your knees brush his thighs. close enough that his breath stirs your lashes.

“do it.”

your heart pounds so loud you can’t hear the room anymore.

and then, he leans in. his nose brushes yours. his eyes are on your mouth. his voice is low. soft. final. “that’s what i thought.”

your grip loosens. you let the gun fall. not dramatic. not violent. just… surrender, slow. quiet. inevitable. it hits the mattress between your knees and you look at him. not the weapon.

he hasn’t moved. his eyes haven’t left yours.

he says it so low, so intimate, it sounds like he’s whispering it into the hollow of your throat.

“you always hold on too tight.” his mouth twitches. “but you never pull the trigger.”

your jaw tightens. your eyes sting. your hands fall to your lap, useless.

he looks down at them. then back at your face.

“you could’ve ended this,” he murmurs. “right here. clean. final. after everything.”

he doesn’t sound surprised. he sounds… disappointed. and that burns worse than any wound.

you open your mouth. to defend yourself. to explain. to lie. but you don’t get the chance, because he moves first, not fast, not like a strike, but like a decision already made.

his hand comes to your face, knuckles dragging your cheekbone, thumb catching at the corner of your mouth. he studies you like a blueprint gone weathered with time.

“you’re still soft,” he says under his breath. “even after everything they taught you.”

your lips part to argue.

he kisses you.

not soft. not hard. slow. like he’s daring you to push him away. like he’s asking: is this what you came back for?

you make a sound against his mouth, low, pained. your fingers fist in the front of his shirt before you even realize it, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the one person you should’ve severed from years ago.

he tastes the same. like metal and breath and that impossible version of home you pretended never existed. and you hate it. hate how natural it feels to open your mouth for him. to let him lick back in like no time has passed at all.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you shouldn’t have come back.”

your hands stay on him. “i didn’t,” you whisper. “you brought me.”

he laughs, quiet and bitter, like it physically hurts him to let it out. “right. i forgot. i’m the villain now.”

his hand moves to your throat, not to choke, but to hold. to feel you breathing. to remind you that you are.

“you think they erased me,” he murmurs. “you think sicily taught you how to forget this.”

he leans in again. mouth at your jaw, your throat, the place just below your ear where your skin still flinches.

“but i remember you,” he says.

his hands slide down your shoulders, slow and deliberate. he brushes past every scar like he knows where they came from. like he cataloged them before you were gone.

“i remember how you sounded when you couldn’t stay quiet.”

his hands move lower.

“i remember what you did with your hips when you thought i wasn’t paying attention.”

your breath shudders as his fingers catch the hem of your shirt. he lifts it. you let him.

it comes off slow, dragged over your head, exposing skin that still bears the bruises from iwaizumi’s hands, from ropes, from restraint. he looks at them. at you.

and something flickers in his expression. not pity. not regret. recognition.

“they really tried to break you,” he says.

you meet his gaze. “they did.”

he’s quiet for a beat—then his mouth is on yours again, harder now. his hands on your waist. your ribs. pushing you gently back, lowering you down to the mattress like he doesn’t quite trust you’ll stay if he lets go.

his mouth never leaves yours. and when it does, it only travels. to your neck. your collarbone. the line of your sternum.

he pulls your pants down next. slowly. methodically. he exposes your thigh, the wound, the scar. his fingers ghost over it, barely touching, but it makes your whole body twitch.

his lips move down.

he kisses just beside it. a soft press. intentional. not for you. for him.

his fingers slide up the inside of your thigh. find the heat there. the slick.

he exhales sharply. “you missed me,” he says.

you don’t deny it.

his hand moves slow. two fingers parting your folds like he already knows what he’ll find. and he does.

“wet already?” he murmurs. “so you do remember.”

his thumb brushes your clit and your hips jerk. he smiles.

“you always did like it when i talked.”

you moan. quiet. shaky. ashamed.

his fingers slip inside, just the tips—and your breath catches.

then deeper.

he fills you with two fingers and watches your body open for him. his pace is slow. purposeful. he curls his fingers just right, drags them back just enough to make you gasp.

you pant his name once, soft, like it slips out by accident.

his breath stutters. “say it again.”

“tooru…”

he leans in and kisses you, long. deep. and all the while, his fingers never stop moving. never stop knowing. never stop making you fall apart.

and when you come, it’s fast and quiet and humiliating. you clamp around his fingers, thighs trembling, vision gone blurry. your hands claw at his arms like you need something to hold onto. something that isn’t this. that isn’t him.

but he doesn’t let up. he works you through it. slow. brutal. gentle in the cruelest way.

and when you finally look up at him, wrecked, breathless, ruined, he says:

“good.”

he reaches for his belt.

“because i’m not done reminding you.”

his voice sits low and steady in your gut, vibrating through you like the echo of a threat. but there’s no rush to his hands, no frantic pull or clumsy undressing. he’s measured. deliberate. like he already knows what comes next. like this was always part of the plan.

his eyes stay on yours as he unbuckles the belt, one hand on the clasp, the other still resting between your legs, slick with you.

your chest rises with each breath, too shallow, too sharp. his fingers drag the leather free from its loops with a single slow pull, long, drawn out, smooth like tension unwinding, and you swallow hard when he drops it to the floor without a sound.

he unzips next. pulls himself free. thick and hard and flushed dark, and when your eyes flick down to see him, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you forget what it feels like?” he asks, voice rougher now, closer to a growl than a whisper.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

and that silence, that flicker of hesitation, is enough to light something in his eyes.

he grips your hips, fingers digging in just above your bones, and drags you closer to the edge of the mattress. your thighs fall open on instinct. he doesn’t touch himself. he doesn’t need to. he’s already hard, already ready, already decided.

and you feel it, when the head of his cock presses against your entrance, hot and blunt and almost mean in its stillness. he doesn’t push in. not yet. he just lets it sit there, like a question you’re too afraid to answer.

he leans down. his mouth finds yours again, slower now, less feral, but no less demanding. his lips part against yours. his breath is hot and tight. and when he speaks, it’s just above a whisper, full of something bitter and aching.

“you left me,” he says. “you didn’t even look back.”

your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. your voice shakes. “i had to.”

he pulls back from the kiss, just far enough to look at you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, like he’s still tasting the words in your mouth.

“no,” he says. “you chose to.”

and then, he pushes in. slow. deep. inch by aching inch.

the stretch rips the air from your lungs. your body clenches around him, too hot, too slick, too full. your back arches off the mattress and your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, only breath. only heat. only him.

he bottoms out and stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you locked together like two halves of something long broken.

“i thought about this every night,” he says into your skin. “how you’d feel if you ever came back. how i’d make you remember.”

he pulls out slow. thrusts back in. hard. controlled. punishing.

you gasp.

his rhythm starts there, not fast, but steady. relentless. each thrust slow enough to drag the friction, deep enough to pull moans from your throat you didn’t know you still had in you.

you claw at his shoulders. he grabs your thigh and adjusts the angle, tilts your hips up, sinks in deeper.

“you feel that?” he says, voice breaking. “that’s me.”

your walls clamp around him.

“they made you forget everything else. but not this.”

your head tilts back. your breath leaves in sharp little sobs.

his thumb drags down your jaw. “look at me,” he says.

you do. barely. barely keeping your eyes open. barely remembering what shame is.

his thrusts grow a little harder, a little deeper.

“say it.”

you choke on the word. “you,” you gasp. “it’s you.”

his hand wraps around the back of your neck. pulls your forehead to his, and he kisses you, but this time, it’s different. not taunting. not cruel. not even angry. this one hurts.

he fucks you through it. fucks you with it.

and when his hand drops between your legs again, finding your clit with unerring precision, you’re already spiraling. already close. already breaking open in ways you swore they’d trained out of you.

“that’s right,” he breathes. “let me have it.”

you fall apart around him. twitching. gasping. clenching down hard. your thighs shake. your nails dig into his back. you cry out his name, loud this time, ruined and raw and full of everything you didn’t get to say when you disappeared.

he fucks you through your orgasm.

chases his own with long, deep thrusts, groaning when your body pulses again around him, slick and overstimulated, trembling and unguarded.

and when he finally comes, hips stuttering, breath ragged, face buried in your neck, it’s with a sound you haven’t truly heard in years.

your name. your real one. the one you abandoned. the one he still says like a secret.

he collapses on top of you, chest heaving, body heavy, sweat clinging to both of you like surrender.

and for a while, there’s nothing. just the sound of breath. and the silence of everything he couldn’t say.

the silence is heavy.

not the kind that invites sleep, or peace, or even comfort. this one is the kind that sinks into the mattress with you. that curls up in the dark like a third body between your limbs. the kind that knows this is the last time.

your skin is still slick with sweat. your body aches in places you forgot existed. your leg throbs, but it’s distant now, muted beneath the deeper ache blooming in your chest.

you’re curled into his side, bare skin pressed to his. his hand moves in slow circles over your back, sometimes drifting down your spine, sometimes tracing the faded scars across your shoulder blades like they spell something he can read. his breath is steady beneath your cheek. the rise and fall of it grounds you.

you lie there a long time before either of you speaks.

his voice comes first, low. quiet. not even rasped, just tired.

“we used to talk about retiring.”

you blink against the base of his throat. your lips brush his skin when you speak.

“used to pretend we’d make it to thirty.” he exhales. it sounds like a laugh. it’s not.

“used to think we’d be on a beach,” he murmurs. “somewhere warm. bored. arguing about groceries.”

you nod. your fingers trace a small scar near his ribs, a clean slice, maybe a knife wound. old. shallow.

“i thought i could do it,” you whisper. “i thought if i just left—if i died the right way, they’d let you go.”

he swallows. you feel it. his voice cracks just slightly. “they don’t let anyone go.”

you close your eyes.

his hand pauses at your spine. then resumes. slower now. less rhythmic.

“i hated you,” he says. no malice in it. just fact. “for a long time. i thought you betrayed me.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t.”

you lift your head to look at him. your cheek sticks to his skin with sweat. your wrists are still sore. you feel so small like this. so unlike the weapon they trained you to be.

his gaze is soft in the dark. too soft. it makes your throat hurt.

you brush your fingers along his jaw. his lashes flutter.

“i loved you,” you say. “since we were seventeen.”

his jaw clenches. his eyes shine. “i know,” he whispers, and he leans in. kisses your forehead. your temple. your cheek.

you curl into him again. one arm draped across his chest. your fingers drift down, across the planes of his stomach. you touch the place above his heart.

“i think i’m gonna die here,” you whisper. you don’t mean it like surrender. you mean it like truth.

he doesn’t respond right away.

then—

“probably,” he says. “it’s what they’d want.”

you nod.

he shifts under you slightly, reaches for the blanket half-kicked to the edge of the bed. pulls it over both of you.

“maybe i’ll die here too.”

you don’t say anything.

his fingers move to your arm. his thumb presses gently over a burn scar near your elbow. one you got in bucharest. he wasn’t there. but he read the report. he traces it like it hurts him.

and then, softly, so softly it almost doesn’t reach your ears—

“i missed you so much.”

your heart folds in on itself. “i know,” you whisper.

“i’d do it again,” he says.

you blink. your voice catches. “do what?”

he swallows again. you feel his throat move under your cheek.

“i’d love you.”

you don’t cry. you thought you might. but you don’t. instead, you slide your arm across his chest. press your lips to his neck.

“i’d die for you,” you say. “again and again.”

he exhales shakily. his hand lifts. he pushes your hair back behind your ear. presses his lips to your temple.

and then, quietly, like it’s the only joke he knows how to tell anymore—“looks like i’m gonna have to put you down myself, huh?”

you smile. small. broken.

“do it gently.”

he laughs once. just a breath. but it dies halfway. you feel the way he stiffens. the way his fingers tighten in your hair.

“please don’t make me do this,” he says.

you don’t reply. because you both know what comes next.

there’s no way out of this. no extraction. no miracle. sicily doesn’t lose assets, and the program doesn’t forget deserters. and people like you, people like him—you don’t get second chances. you don’t get to run.

you bury your face in his chest. feel his heart beating beneath your cheek.

slow. steady. real.

and if this is the last time, you want to remember it like this. warm. quiet. his arms around you. the air thick with things unsaid but no longer needed.

you’re just two people now. two people who never stood a chance. but found each other anyway.

tags: @x3nafix @whoo0sh

[whyarewecalledtheshipname]

rambled this before but MAN that riku is paralleled to terra who's dad was so extremely aligned with Light that he basically nearly fell to darkness/evil out of his /extreme/ intolerance of it??? Eraqus who totally doesn't remind me of MoM??? GUH RRAHH

[al-mayriti]

idk if it's because my mum worked in a tv magazine or what but all the media wars and backstabbing and stuff happening behind the cameras is so so interesting to me

[snekdood]

the worst thing about that poly relationship i was vaguing about- is how willing i was to let any and all romance fall to the side for their little romance plot to be fullfilled and very "story book" or whatever, was literally trying to push him to be more romantic with the meta, I was already falling out of love with the dude involved anyways bc he just was not capable of being what I needed, I was perfectly content JUST being friends but nah. even thats too much of a threat. theres still too much of a possibility of him conceivably leaving that person for me or some shit I guess, even though I DONT FUCKING WANT HIM LIKE THAT ANYMORE.

[kisssukuna33]

HusbandSukuna! Who's never been the one to understand today's relationships. 50/50? No, his woman will never touch a single bill with her delicate fingers as long as he's alive and well.

HusbandSukuna! Who never understood the whole "giving your relationship time before proposing" thing. You aren't a real man if you drag out your relationship and take what you have for granted, Atleast that must have been what he was thinking when he put a big rock on your finger after dating for only 7 months.

HusbandSukuna! Who takes his role as your fiancé VERY seriously. He asked you to move in with him just right after he proposed. He does everything he can to make sure you feel comfortable in his house. He even went as far to renovate half of the house to your liking despite your much protesting that it's not needed.

HusbandSukuna! Who checks everyday to see if you are wearing the ring he put on you. it almost become a habbit for him to kiss the ring in your finger every single morning. Not just in the morning, whenever you two hangout in the public he intentionally kisses it to give other people the signal that his girl is strictly taken.

HusbandSukuna! Who wants to get married as soon as possible but he respect your time and choices. He doesn't want you to get overwhelmed by this at all, so he waits patiently ( had to restraint himself from asking like 5 times)

HusbandSukuna! Who gets so freaking happy when you finally confront him about being ready for marriage. The moment those words slip from your mouth his hands instantly go to your waist to pull you closer, closer till your foreheads are touching, He places a warm kiss on your temple and the next thing you hear makes your heart warm and fuzzy.

"You are the best thing that ever happened to me, I promise to be the best husband and I swear on my life I will take care of you and protect you till I die, I love you"

HusbandSukuna! Who jumps straight into the wedding planning. He hears from his married friends how stressful wedding planning was to them and he determines to not make you experience any bit of the stress, He tries everything in his power to make things go smooth as possible.

HusbandSukuna! Who breakdown in tears the moment he saw you walking the aisle to everyone's shock. The grumpy tatted 6'4 scary big guy who has given them nothing but attitude crying over seeing the love of his life walking down aisle? Who would have thought.

HusbandSukuna! Who immediately intertwine your fingers with his as he looks into your eyes like he sees nothing but the whole world in them and wait no minute to whisper "The prettiest, mine"

HusbandSukuna! who finally breaks free from his staring as the wedding officiant clears his throat to let him know that there's a whole wedding left to finish.

Everyone expect him to do a short vow and get done with it. Sukuna isn't known as the most expressive guy after all, but to everyone's surprise the vow lasted whole 15 minutes!! It was filled with nothing but love and appreciation for you and the little grin plastered in his mouth at the end of the vow makes it obvious how proud he was of himself ( I mean practicing this costed him a years worth friend too, after he suggested Sukuna to add some dirty degrading sex joke about you in the vows he ended up punching the guy as a result, so hell yeah he's proud of this!)

HusbandSukuna! Who keeps the honeymoon destination as a surprise till last minute, and your heart fills with joy as you realize he took you back to the beach you two first met, a place special to you both.

He booked the hotel room with the best view to the beach as expected.

HusbandSukuna! Who's heart feel warm all of a sudden, it's only a year ago he believed himself to be someone who's unable to be loved. Oh how much have changed since then.

HusbandSukuna! Who takes your hand and drags you to the balcony for a dance.

The smell of the beach, evening lightening, sounds of the ocean..All adds to the atmosphere as you two get lost in yourselves.

HusbandSukuna! Who takes a glance at the beach and sees a young family, not much older than both of you playing in the sand with their little girl.

HusbandSukuna! Who has a small smile tugged at his lips as he mentally promises to himself that he will return here again after you two finally complete your own little family.

No grammar checks, forgive me I'm too lazy

What do we think about part 2?

[plushieni]

what happens to a boy who's absolutely lovestruck by you?

poor megumi had been running all over the city, trying to make this date perfect. he picked out flowers, little trinkets, your favorite snacks, and even a necklace as a gift.

to say he was overthinking would be the understatement of the century. he had no idea how to go about any of this, so he went to nobara a few days before to get her opinion and make sure everything was just right.

he had asked you out earlier that week. you’d been hanging out in your room one afternoon when the question suddenly slipped out of him.

“would you, uh, wanna go out with me?” he asked, nervousness practically flooding his brain and butterflies going wild in his stomach.

he’d had a crush on you since you transferred to jujutsu high, but he never worked up the courage to do anything about it. same lame excuse, like, “she’d never like me.” but, that ideology changed when he saw some guy from another school trying to flirt with you at an event. jealousy lit a fire under him — he had to make a move, and fast.

unfortunately, crushes and dating were unfamiliar territory for megumi. it wasn't something he had much experience with at all.

his childhood had been far from normal. having starting training way earlier than most, and when gojo took him in, he left most of his younger years behind. unable to live the life many were given. 

the price of everything he got you was no joke. he nearly choked when he saw the total. he wasn’t even sure if giving a gift on a first date was normal — he always thought that was for anniversaries or holidays. but he used gojo’s card, so… it didn’t really matter.

when it was finally time to pick you up, he showed up early, terrified of being even a second late. he stood outside the car with the gift in hand and his heart practically beating out of his chest.

some time had passed, building the anticipation. then you stepped out with nobara, all dressed up and ready to go. megumi’s jaw nearly hit the ground. you looked stunning—so beautiful it didn’t seem real. how had you somehow gotten even prettier since the last time he saw you?

when you reached the car, he handed you the gift and opened the passenger door for you.

“hi, pretty girl,” he said, wearing the softest, most genuine grin.

being returned with a look of love. “hi handsome.” 

turns out, the date was going to be just fine.

[cloudedcreams]

[nsfw] thinking of a stalker! darling who doesn't expect the boy she admires to also be a freak.

you found solace in him. many a time you felt left out, so noticing him had felt like a breath of fresh air. somebody like you. he had seemed so enchanting, and what had felt like a small crush at first had morphed into a burning obsession.

you stalked him at first because you didn't want anybody to know. it'd be so embarrassing, admitting you had a crush on a guy who barely looked anybody's way. his head was always planted against the table in boredom, he'd click his pen a few too many times during a test. there was truly nothing interesting about him, and other than having the cutest dimples his appearance was bland, boring.

it didn't halt your interest though. you engaged in light and small notions like following him around when you could, snapping pictures when he had his back turned to you. you dedicated an album towards you, ending it with a '<3', scrolling through it during late nights when you couldn't fall asleep.

he found it oh so adorable that you couldn't notice that he was stalking you as well! rather than disturbed, realising that he had somebody following you had intrigued him. he found it so cute, lying on his bed with a dazed smile on his face, thoughts of you flowing through his mind. he'd do anything you asked him to, and he loved the thought of you taking advantage of him.

you'd look so pretty, bucking your hips from above him as pants spilled from your lips. there'd be tears running down your eyes and he'd be crying too, whining out in pleasure as you teased his tip against your entrance. the thought left him so aroused, pumping his cock through his hand as he cried out your name.

he wanted you to catch on. to realise that he knew who you were, he was aware of your weird fixation on him.

you'd be grappling your phone from your pocket to take a photo and he'd turn around and smile, his eyes staring right into yours as the flash went off. little gifts were littered around your desk, post it notes in the shape of a heart, candies you hadn't had in a while but remained your favourite. as you looked around to spot the culprit of who could have left it he'd already be looking at you, an intense gaze in his eyes before he smiled.

it freaked you out to say the least, but by the time you could pause your actions it was far too late. he was already too deep in a spiral of obsession aimed towards you, and he intended to let you know.

"you think i'd let you get away so easily? what a naive gem it is i've found."

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being the youngest Avenger and joining the Thunderbolts*

Thunderbolts x reader

warnings: spoilers!!! blood and guns and death n such u know the drill

a/n: i gave y/n unspecified powers until about halfway through so i just based the powers on an oc i am weak

prompt:

you’d always been the odd one out in the avengers, being the “young one” was not easy

like, you were teens during the battle of new york

sure, you were respected as a valiant hero, one of earths mightiest, but there was struggle in not having many peers to lean on

when you had wanda around, things were a little different—but that didn’t last long at all

then the blip happened, you survived, your world crumbled, and you got everyone back—but nothing was ever the same and it took its toll on you

the avengers disbanded, everyone left went their separate ways and you realized that the avengers, your family, were all you’d ever known

so you found your footing elsewhere, tried to stay in touch with those who you found comfort in. people you could count on

this included sam, clint, and bruce. rest were either preoccupied, plotting less than ethical things, or you just weren’t close with to begin with

“yeah, this kid—kate—she reminds me of you. she’s a bit more clumsy, awkward, and desperate, but it made me think of you…having another young person aspiring to save the world and all. or at least new york” -clint over the phone

“it’s nice to hear, thanks for checking in. hopefully she doesn’t accidentally destroy any buildings like i did” -you

“well, about that—” -clint

you always really enjoyed when they called you first, but no one was calling for your calling

you didn’t know how to not be a hero, it was really fucking frustrating

you were only made an avenger that early on because you had powers, and you were already a public hero. it’s not like you could get a job at a coffee shop, as entertaining as that would be

that’s when bucky called you one day, and you didn’t get close with bucky until steve died. yeah, you helped him out of a bind in germany, but that was about as far as it went. you were just acquainted because of sam

but bucky knew how it felt to be alone, lost, misguided, all that

and he just decided to run for congress

“y/n, i’d like you to be my advisor. there’s no one i could trust more—that would agree to this, that is” -bucky

“are you serious?” -you

“about running for congress or the advisor thing?” -bucky

“both i guess?” -you

“yeah, i’m serious” -bucky “i heard from a mutual friend you were still trying to find your place after…you know, everything. i am, too. so i’m asking you as a friend if you will join me on this path. it could be good for both of us”

and that it was, bucky won the election and you were now being paid decend money to be bucky’s #2. it felt right

you’d briefly been a government employee as an avenger, but now you were a lot more autonomous in a sense

yes, you had a lot of red tape, but it beat that sense of impending doom you had living with the avengers

you and bucky fought to keep new york safe in a different way. fought for the little guy. tried to clean up the system a bit

that included getting valentina allegra de fontaine impeached from her job as the head of the CIA

if there’s anything bucky and you knew about intelligence agencies, they needed to be as clean as possible. or else you’d have disasters like hydra infiltrating shield and secret human experimentation and super soldiers and child assassins. all that good stuff

you backed it, regardless of what little sway you guys had

you gave him a death glare as he was interviewed about valentina’s impeachment and all he could do was say “worrying” 10 times in a row

“we need to work on your public speaking” -you, immediately following his embarrassing comments

“yeah, i know” -bucky

you and bucky lived nearby each other, you relocated to brooklyn following the new job

so when necessary, you’d lean on each other

let me be clear that this is strictly friendship. lightly professional. the teo of you have seen dark days in your own respective ways. you were both turned into weapons without any say. had a hard time controlling it for a long time. made some terrible mistakes. tried your hardest to move up in the world. carry demons with you. misery loves company.

and right now, being new to the office, not a lot of other government officials were fond of you two. there was a lot of distrust.

first, we have the hydra super soldier who’s ledger is running with blood. his slate was wiped clean, but that doesn’t mean the people see him differently. it was a miracle he was voted into office to begin with

then there’s you, the late-20s, early 30s former avenger who was never quite taken seriously due to your youth in the public eye. you were viewed as dangerous due to your powers, as well, and some people feared you two would use your abilities to influence and intimidate

so you advised taking a very gentle approach to congressman barnes, that way no one felt threatened

that was until you and bucky went rogue to bring in valentina’s covert ops team as a last ditch effort to get her impeached

bucky bombing several CIA vehicles? not very gentle

but fun and refreshing? check!

“it’s been a while since i’ve been able to stretch my legs—the suit’s a little tight, though” -you

“you’re still rocking it” -yelena

“aw, thanks! we’re not letting you go” -you

then the rogue assassins and you guys get into it about a guy named “bob” and then bucky gets a call about “bob” its a whole mess. whatever

“okay, looks like we’re letting you go” -you

“hey, i meant it, your suit still looks good! im not even tied up anymore and i’m still saying it!” -yelena

“she’s right, you look awesome” -ava

“yeah, i need to change. my range of motion is severely limited” -you

you guys got to NYC to go confront valentina…at the old avengers HQ

you got a chill down your spine as you arrived

“you good?” -bucky

“yeah, yeah. just a lot of memories here” -you

this was the moment where it clicked for the rest of the team that you were an AVENGER. a real avenger. you were close with natasha. you knew the real steve rogers. you fought alongside thor and the hulk and wanda maximoff. and here you were kicking it with what alexei was calling “the thunderbolts”

“don’t get all misty eyed, we’ve got work to do” -john

lets note that this interaction took place after bucky crashed a commercial sized truck into the lobby, you’d just beaten everyone’s asses, and valentina invited you all upstairs

and there she was at the bar pouring a drink for herself and for just a small moment you saw a glimpse of tony stark standing in front of you again. giving you a smug smirk and asking for your ID before he made you a shirley temple. even after you were of age.

and a darkness overcame you a moment while you stood there. you were in sokovia standing next to pietro maximoff as he laid facedown on the ground. you were perfectly safe, didn’t even notice he was down. you never even realized he was beside you he was so fast. you heard wanda’s screams and you panicked, froze, didn’t know what to do. you were watching yourself go through these motions again.

and then bucky’s hand touched your back and you snapped back to reality, meeting the infamous “bob” for the first time

or as valentina called him, sentry

and immediately you were disturbed, there was something off about his presence

and immediately the team began to attack

you even hit him with a shock as powerful as thor with mjölnir, but he didn’t even flinch

it was futile, he was knocking you guys around like you were nothing

but he had this strange, kind demeanor about him too

once he ripped bucky’s arm off, it was time to GO

you all evacuated the building, a place you once called home, and wandered down the streets of new york. pathetic

and not even five minutes went by before a new form of this guy was literally turning people into VOIDS

“you know, buck, i’m starting to get real tired of shit like this happening in manhattan. this doesn’t happen in brooklyn AT ALL” -you, beginning to attack once again

you were the only thunderbolt with ranged powers—literal thunderbolts, if you will

but that didn’t seem to be doing much

the rest of them were mostly using guns and that also wasn’t working, so this became more of a rescue op

you liked fighting with bucky, it’d only happened three times before this. in germany, wakanda, and the avengers compound

and yelena reminded you so much of natasha, you knew exactly what the next move would be

alexei was…well, he took some inspiration from cap, you could see it you guess.

john walker was difficult. send tweet

he was trying though. you guess.

ava was more of a loner. she kind of reminded you of wanda. you missed her

when you saw yelena vanish, the LAST thing you wanted to do was to do the same

but bucky assured you that you were in it together

he took your hand and you walked into the darkness together

and ended up facing the worst pain of your life

for him: amputation, brainwashing, brutal torture, murder, losing steve

for you: the accident that gave you powers, sokovia, the blip, loneliness, mistakes that cost lives

but you powered through. you got bob. you saved new york. and for you, it wasn’t the first time!

and the moment valentina introduced you as the new avengers, you clenched your teeth and bucky nearly had to hold you back

you agreed to stick together to keep valentina in check, much to sam wilson’s dismay

“oh, hes gonna kill us” -you

“he’s not the only one” -bucky

“oh, my god. clint’s gonna kill me” -you

“eh, barton sees you as one of his kids, i’m sure he’ll give you a stern talking to” -bucky

he did.

you cried.

he gave you a big hug after and apologized for yelling.

and there you were in avengers tower again

just like you were 15 years ago.

“you used to live here, no?” -alexei

“i did. i did a long, long time ago.” -you, about to have a full on meltdown

“that’s great! you can show me around, then. please, show me your old room!” -alexei

he did know how to lift your spirits, for sure

and then there was yelena, who so desperately wanted to feel closer to natasha

“will you tell me a story, please? it would make me feel closer to her” -yelena

ironically, hanging out with yelena made you feel closer to nat

“well, nat trained me a good bit when we joined the avengers. she taught me how to fight, to not depend on my powers, to be a spy, to use weapons. i would be who i am today without her” -you

“yes, that’s great and all, but give me specifics!” -yelena

“okay, she LOVED desperate housewives. she’d make me sit through HOURS of it when we were off-duty. it was a great distraction. when we came back from sokovia and moved into the new compound, she had me on that couch for three days straight” -you

yelena snorted laughing

she also loved to spar with you

in a way, you felt like a sibling to her these days

in the way she was raised, at least

you laughed everytime you noticed a little “oopsie” val overlooked before the full remodel

“oh, my god. i once shocked the microwave while i was half asleep and i shorted out the whole building. this dark mark in the wall is the explosion of the microwave that led to the power outage” -you

“how long did it take to fix?” -ava

“about 10 minutes. tony was thoroughly embarrassed it took him that long” -you

there were also little dents and dings and bullet holes and such, especially it what was formerly the training room and being revamped for an even better one

“the last time i was here was when ultron booted up and sent the whole iron legion in after a party with the avengers. it was actually quite horrific, i thought the avengers were gonna disband right then and there. i thought i was going to be homeless” -you

“jesus, you sure talk about your past a lot” -john

“oh, sorry, would you rather i talk about yours?” -you, semi-threatening

he backed off

you tried to make as many new memories as you could, but everything seemed to remind you of the past

all you knew is the people needed to look up to something and that had to be the new avengers

and to have a former avenger on it? that was good for optics

did it make you feel stuck from time to time? uh yeah, you never really could escape your past

but the congress thing kind of fizzled out

so this was the next best thing

“alexei is calling me, hold on” -you

“y/n! i need directions” -alexei

“okay, where are you?” -you

“twenty third floor. i do not know how you lived in this maze as long as you did! i cannot find anything around here” -alexei

“hang on. you’re lost inside the building?” -you

you’d go to your favorite restaurant in manhattan with bucky sometimes, just to get out of the tower

“so, be honest with me. is this what you want?” -bucky

“i want to feel like i belong. and i do” -you

“because it’s familiar?” -bucky

“basically” -you

you explained that it still was an adjustment. you felt like you were seeing ghosts in a sense

but it was like a do over too

a chance to be the hero you grew up to be, to make steve, tony, natasha, clint, bruce, and thor proud

sam was still a little pissed about it. rightfully so

but making breakfast with bob, training with yelena, drinking with alexei, having heart to hearts with bucky, shit talking with ava, and ignoring john was not the worst thing to happen to you

you heard over exaggerated war stories, had eventful training, shorted out the microwave again, started to give john a chance, found a friend in bob, and more in this new life

and you were always meant to be an avenger, your calling was to protect the world. thats why you guys formed the avengers 15 years ago. so you did it in the name of the family you’d never forget.

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @summersimmerus // @prettysbliss // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @beth-gallagher22 // @sk1bidi-n1k0-e4ts-people // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 //

[logansdoll]

hammered

you get a little too turnt during girls night, and logan comes to your rescue.

CW: heavily suggestive, profanity, Logan's your white knight, Ororo's gettin lit, men are creeps, you're actually drunk as a skunk, etc.

"You guys got together?! Why didn't you tell me?!" Ororo gasped, loudly, sitting up straight in her seat.

Your brows furrowed, eyes widening at her volume, a few passing party-goers sharing concerned looks.

"Say it louder. I don't think the rest of the city heard you..." you grumbled, face burning as you took a sip from your strawberry daiquiri.

She sat next to you on the little leather couch situated at the back of the club near the bar, which had began to trickle with activity.

The three of you had been there for only about thirty minutes, the buzz of the night starting to pick up, the dance floor packed with dancers and drinks flowing.

And the eyes, still staring.

"Ignore her, (n/n)," Jean smiled, kindly, as she rested a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "I think it's sweet you two took it at your own pace. It shows how serious you both are about this."

The three of you were having easy conversation, drinking and gabbing about whatever came to mind, when you and Logan were suddenly brought up.

And Ororo nearly died of shock when she found out you two were official.

"And speaking of seriousness... I believe we have an audience..."

Another group of three in particular, whose gazes were piercing you and your friends from across the way.

The three intense pairs of eyes belonged to three men in their best designer.

They each had their own outstanding feature: the tallest one sitting on the right had long, black hair, while the one on the left had arms roped in tattoos and lip piercings, the final one having a buzz cut and a snaggle-toothed smile.

Their lustful stares all but ignored by the two sitting next to you, your mind preoccupied with downing your second daiquiri that soon turned into a third.

You barely paid the men any mind, already knowing a man ten times hotter than all of them combined.

You actually missed him a whole damn lot.

You both were supposed to have a date night, but he got called last minute to round up Rogue and her friends who were causing havoc at some far off arcade.

So the girls dragged you out to the club, much to your protest.

'The kids just had to choose tonight of all nights...'

Ororo scoffed, gulping down another jell-O shot, "Waiting on him to come?" she chuckled, the flashing club lights making her light eyes sparkle.

You flushed in your mini dress, feeling hot despite the blasting AC and your exposed skin.

"You'll be waiting a while," she sighed, crossing her smooth legs over one another. "I heard Scott over the phone... those kids are in serious trouble."

You'd be lying if you said you weren't disappointed that he wasn't there, resting his hand at the small of your back, giving you those lustful stares on the dance floor, and complimenting your outfits in his own Logan way.

You'd done so much to make sure you looked hotter than hot, too.

You had raided your closet and pulled out a short, backless mini dress that made your legs look longer and showed off the curve of your spine sliding down towards your ass.

You loved, loved, loved it—how beautiful the black fabric looked against your skin; how sexy it made you feel.

Not to mention it was one of Logan's favorites.

He'd torn it off you many times.

Combined with your stiletto heels, fresh mani-pedi, the perfume adorning your wrists and the back of your knees, and hair that gracefully caressed your shoulders, you felt like a damn vixen.

Ororo sat up, taking your hand in hers, "No sense in sitting around while you wait, eh?"

She smirked at you, mischief in her eyes.

"Let's dance."

You paused a moment, hesitant.

But in that instant, those three daiquiris hit you like a truck, and all inhibitions went out the window.

'Fuck it.'

You stood up, chugging the last of your drink before taking her hand.

"Let's do it."

Famous last words.

Smoothly, you glided your fingers up your body, swaying your hips in rhythm with the beat as Ororo danced with one of the men.

You two had been dancing so well, you called the attention of the entire club. And with you about seven daiquiris in, it felt as if the music was coursing through your veins and melding with your bones.

The men of the establishment were hounding you both relentlessly—Jean having escaped to the bar to strike up some friendly conversation with the bartender—and even with your inebriated state, you fought them off vigorously, smacking away hands and returning advances with a sharp tongue.

Though the novelty was beginning to fade, and the urge to go home had began to set in.

As if on que, your phone began to buzz, taking your attention away from your thoughts.

"Hold up! I'm getting a call!" you laughed. "I'll be right back, 'Ro!"

She gave you a wink before you went stumbling off the dance floor, tugging a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You decided to go to the nearest ladies' room, leaning against the wall where the long line started, before flipping open your phone.

You looked down at the caller ID, grinning to see the name of your favorite guy on the screen.

"Heyyyy, Logan," you sang into the phone with a drunk giggle.

"There you are," Logan let out a sigh of relief from the other side of the phone. "I've been tryin' to reach ya. I just finished roundin' up the kids and droppin' 'em off back home, so I'm free for the rest of the night if ya still wanna go out."

"Oh!" you chuckled, "Sorry!"

As you paused, Logan suddenly became confused.

"Where the hell are you? It's so loud, I can barely hear ya."

You placed one foot up on the wall, leaning your back flush against the cool tiles. "'Roro 'n' Jean took me to the club 'n' these guys tried to join us," you slurred. "Oh, they bought us drinks, too. And one said he liked my dress. He wasn't as good looking as you."

"You wearin' the backless one?" he asked, sounding intrigued.

You giggled giddily in response, finding humor in his quiet curse.

"Damn... ya had to pull that one out?"

"Oh, you should see me, Logan... I look gooood," you smiled, looking down at yourself. "But it's not the same... s'not as fun without you."

You lowered your foot back down to the ground and crossed your arm over your midsection, suddenly feeling cold and small.

"I miss you, Logan," you said, quietly. "Could you pick me up, please?"

His chest warmed at your tone, unable to fight the smirk on his face.

Despite the fact that you were absolutely sloshed, your mind still drifted to him, and even missed him when he was away.

It was adorable.

"Sure, sweetheart. Where are—?" "Wait!" you shrieked, a smile blooming on your face as you got quiet.

Logan cocked a brow.

'Huh?'

It was your favorite song.

"Logan! It's my song! I'll be right back!" you smile into the phone before hanging up, scrambling back to Ororo.

When you shimmeyed back onto the dance floor, she happily greeted you, moving in sync with the rhythm as you began your own moves.

"Oooo, what's that?" you asked, pointing at the glass she was holding.

It was orange and topped with ice and chopped oranges and strawberries, reminding you of a tequila sunrise.

"Want it?" she giggled, holding it out for you to take.

Which you gladly did, tossing it back lie it was water, humming approvingly at the taste as you licked the remnants off your lips.

The two men next to her were close to falling out from the scene.

"Fuck," one of them groaned. "Can you do that to me?"

You turned to them, brows furrowed. "Fuck off. My guy's gonna be here anyyyyy second."

Ororo gasped as she threw an arm around you, pulling you close to her perfume-soaked neck, "He's coming? That's great!"

You both cheered together, throwing your hands in the air as you continued to dance.

"C'mon," a man smirked from behind you. "What's he doing leaving a pretty lil' thing like you alone?"

Your face fell, expression annoyed as you turned to him, "Didn't I tell you to go somewhere? He's gonna show up sooon..."

The man had gotten closer, so close that you could see him lick his lips, expectantly.

He scoffed, leering down at you under the strobe lights, "But he ain't here, is he?"

"I wouldn't put money on it, bub," Logan replied from behind him.

Your eyes lit up like stars as soon as you laid eyes on your dark, handsome bodyguard.

He stood there behind the man with his thick, leather-clad arms crossed over his broad chest, which was covered by his white tee.

And he looked less than pleased.

"Logan!" you smiled, moving to stand by his side like a magnet.

The man turned to face him, watching as Logan snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

"This is the boyfriend?" he laughed, amused.

His words hardened Logan's expression tenfold, and it took everything in you not to giggle.

"Yeah, I am. And why the fuck are you still here?"

His words forced the man's expression to meld into one of frustration, and you bit back an amused smile at the sight.

You were drunk out of your mind, but you knew better than to interfere.

The man swallowed thickly, "I was just—"

"Harrassin' my woman."

You felt your heart flutter at the nickname.

He'd been calling you that for a while, but somehow it always felt like the first time.

"I didn't know she was yours—"

In a flash, his Logan's fist was up, his claws were on display and right in front of the man's face, scaring the shit out of him.

"I don't like repeating myself," he spat, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Fuck. Off."

You both watched the man scatter, eyes wide as he scrambled toward the bar.

Damn.

'What a bitch...'

"You alright?" Logan asked, taking off his leather jacket as he glared around the room, taking notice of the other leering men on the dance floor. "This place is full of fuckin' sleazeballs."

You shrugged, running a hand through your hair, "Eh, I managed."

Wordless, he handed over his jacket, your nose wrinkled in confusion.

"What's that for?"

"You're shivering, (n/n)."

You looked down at yourself, realizing that you were, indeed, shivering.

"Oh."

"C'mon," he sighed, draping the jacket over your shoulders before resting his hand at the small of your back, steering you toward the exit. "I think that's enough fun for one night."

Glancing back at Ororo, he gave a small look, slightly concerned.

"Scott's on his way for you two... You gonna be good?"

"Tipsy, but okay!" she gave him a thumbs up, along with a little wink. "Have fun, you two!"

He ignored the innuendo, but nodded, going back to ushering you out the back door.

"I missed you, Logan," you confessed, a slight whine to your voice as you practically clung to him.

"I know you did, sweetheart," he sighed, approaching one of Cyclops' cars. "Let's get you home."

The moment you hung up the phone, he sped over to the club, breaking about fifteen different traffic laws in the process.

An annoyance he decided to deal with the next day.

Without warning, you grabbed him, shoving him up against a wall of the alley you were in, interlocking your fingers as your free hand traced mindless shapes in his chest.

"You look so good, Logan," you purred, eyeing him up and down with hungry eyes, heating him from the inside out. "So good."

Suddenly, your lips attached to his neck, lazily peppering the flesh with kisses and pecks, with the occasional nip.

"(n/n)... you're drunk," Logan stated, moreso for himself, as he weakly tried to pry you off.

"I'd do this anyway," you grinned into his skin, pulling back to look at him, gaze half-lidded. "You look so sexy..."

Slowly, your lips curled into a hazy, loving smile, your eyes staring up at him like he was the only thing in the world.

Fuck...

You'd think he was about to go into cardiac arrest.

'This woman's gonna be the death of me...'

"What's wrong?" you asked, lips pouty and eyes glassy as you looked up at him, your expression one of hurt. "You're not touching me..."

"Doll," he sighed, voice slightly strained. "As gorgeous as you look... and as much as I wanna pin you against this wall... you're fuckin' hammered. And I'd like to feel you up when you actually know what yer doin'."

He pulled back to see your reaction, only to find you were already out like a light, softly snoring and drooling all over his shirt.

A soft smile fell onto his lips at the adorable sight, the man brushing some of your hair out your face before scooping you up in his arms, pressing a long kiss on your forehead.

'Somethin' else...'

[all4yoi]

𝒥ust a bet﹕hyung line

𝑒nhypen x fem!reader ︎︎⚹︎ cw: angst, no fluff (yet), reader is mostly viewed as a loser and nerd, lowercase intended, kinda went overboard with hoon's, reader gets called a bitch once, not proofread!

synopsis﹕after a few months of dating, you find out you were just a bet.

part two !

★ LEE HEESEUNG (wc 0.3k)

you and lee heeseung has been dating for a total of five months, and throughout those months you can confidently say that you were the happiest. he was the perfect boyfriend, his family loved you and so did yours.

today, heeseung promised he would take you on a date after his basketball practice despite your protests on how he should be resting instead. you wouldn't have agreed if it weren't for the fact that he had shot you with his pleading big doe eyes that never fails to make you agree on whatever he asks for. 

so here you were, making your way towards the gymnasium with your bag hanging on your left shoulder. the lack of dribbling and smacking basketball noise from behind the closed doors told you that their practice was done.

entering quietly out of habit, you were about to approach your boyfriend when you overheard his teammates talking to him.

"don't tell me you're still with her?" asked one of boys, an amused smile on his face. heeseung only raised a brow.

"what? you won the bet, you can dump her now. you're ruining our image you know? plus she's a total nerd and loser, you're much better with someone like yunhee." and with only just a few words, you felt your world crashing down.

right, who would date someone like you? you always found it weird, that heeseung just approached you one day in your biology class with the cheekiest smile on his face. the fact that he wouldn't leave you alone until you've agreed to go on a date with him. it all made sense now, why the popular basketball captain suddenly gained interest on the school's "biggest nerd."

"speaking of.." another guy spoke, nodding towards you with a cheeky smile. heeseung turned around only to be met with your glassy eyes.

you didn't move, wanting to hear him defend you. wanting to tell his teammates that you weren't a bet and he actually liked you throughout the months you two have been dating.

his silence said everything and with that you turned away and ran out of the gym.

"shit." he muttered, running after you.

★ PARK JONGSEONG (wc 0.3k)

"i'll pick you up later, okay?" your boyfriend of almost a year said softly through the phone. you've been dating jay since the first week of your first year in uni, others found your relationship weird. maybe because back in high school, jay never and refused to even spare you a glance. he was an asshole who looked at you as if you were the epitome of disgusting.

but the past is in the past now, right?

"okay baby, see you." you reply and put your phone down on your table, knowing that he's usually the one who ends the call.

you go back to the papers scattered on your table. the silence in your room was disturbed by sudden noises in your phone, turning to look, you see that jay hasn't ended the call.

picking your phone up with a smile, you were about to call out for him but a voice stopped you.

"i can't believe you've gone this far dude." you recognized the slightly muffled voice, it was a friend of jongseong's.

"what do you mean?" your boyfriend grumbled. the audio was muffled, you figured he was moving and the phone was in his pocket.

"you're still dating her!" the voice exclaimed, as if amused. "seriously, i didn't think you'd take that bet seriously. fine you win, i'll clean your car for a month. but you've gotta cut it out, you're starting to disgust me." the boy laughed.

before you could hear what your boyfriend would say, you ended the call. your hand was trembling and tears were falling from your eyes unconsciously.

were all those months just a joke to him? were your feelings really worth a free car wash for just a month? were you that unworthy?

jay was an asshole back in high school, you thought he changed. turns out he didn't, you felt like a fool for falling for his antics.

★ SIM JAEYUN (wc 0.3k)

if someone would be asked who you were, they'd all say the same thing. a loner, pathetic loser, and a nobody with a pretty face.

because what was a pretty face if you had no friends and a social life?

you almost believed you would die alone, you were too socially awkward to make friends. so when sim jaeyun, the transferee, approached you with a warm smile and a hand outstretched for a shake, you were beyond shocked.

your relationship went from being block mates, friends, then next thing you knew you two were dating. at first you were reluctant to enter a relationship, scared that it would ruin your friendship, but he insisted you both tried. that was three months ago.

you didn't have any friends, but atleast you had jake.

jake who smiles at you as if you had carved the stars in your hands. jake who would never forget to bring your coffee every morning. he was everything you ever needed. he was it for you, you only hoped he felt the same towards you.

walking through the hallway of the school, you stopped infront of your locker only to be met with a sticky note on it.

HOW LONG CAN JAKE LAST WITH LOSER L/N?

A WEEK : 卌 - 卌 - 卌 - 卌 - III

FIVE MONTHS : 卌 - I

A YEAR : II

Furrowing your brows, you stare at the note as your breathing grew heavy. It was obvious that the paper was old, it had folds and it was only stuck on your locker with a washi tape.

"what are you doing l/n? go on, cast your vote." a mocking voice said from beside you followed by a bunch of laughter. "personally, i thought he'd last a day. i guess i'll vote for five months then." then the hand went and tallied on the five months category.

"what's going on here?" upon hearing your boyfriend's voice, you fled away immediately, not wanting to face him. everytime something good happens in your life, it's always ripped away from you. jake was just like them, you were just a toy for their own entertainment.

★ PARK SUNGHOON (wc 0.5k)

"i'm sorry baby, i really am busy with practice tomorrow." your boyfriend, sunghoon, says in genuine sorry. it was the fifth time you have asked him to meet your parents, who also by the way was so desperate to meet the boy you've been dating for seven months now.

every time you ask him, he's always busy. either with practice, a project, a family matter, or whatever excuse he can come up with. but you always brush it off, knowing he means well and he really is busy as he's an athlete student.

"i'll meet them next week, okay? i promise." that's also the same thing he says everytime too, and once again, you only nod in response.

you and sunghoon met in a physics class. he was clutching his head with a frown on his face as he desperately tried to understand what the professor was going on about.

you remember clearly the way he approached you in the library, a physics book on his left hand as his right scratched his nape. "can.. i noticed- uh, can you help me with this topic?"

that was where your relationship started. you tutored him and helped him improve his grade. when he got an A on the finals, he kissed you on the lips in glee. he was taken aback by his own actions but nevertheless asked you out after.

"i love you," he whispers, pressing a kiss on your temple. "let me get something from my room." you hum in response as he takes his arm that was previously wrapped around you before going up to his room.

you can't help but notice the way his phone was blowing up from beside you.

you weren't the type to snoop around other people's phones, especially your boyfriend. it just felt wrong, you trusted him fully. but the way it kept ringing with text notifications, you just couldn't help it.

looking back to the stairs, you note he isn't back and there was still rummaging noises from his room.

taking his phone, you enter his passcode and read the messages from one of his group chats.

JONGSU

lol don't tell me she asked again.. em ba rrah sing

DAEHYUN

hahah when is she gonna take a hint?? 💀

JOON

you gonna blame her? hoon's been at it for months lmao

DAEHYUN

i actually can't believe he went that far, wasn't it only supposed to be for a month? 🗿

JONGSU

a week actually, but ig that bitch y/n was so easy. yk hoon likes to get his ego fed 💀💀

putting the phone down, you exhaled in disbelief. you took your bag from the floor and threw it over your shoulder and went to the door of his apartment to put your shoes back on.

"baby?" sunghoon emerged from the stairs, looking at you curiously. "you're going already?" he asked, extending an arm towards you but you slapped it away. the tears on your eyes shocking him.

"hey, hey what's wrong?" he tried again but his hand was yet again slapped away.

"i don't want to see you ever again." was the last words you uttered to him (shakily) before leaving his apartment.