#the horror of taking your own life and waking up anyways but something is wrong and you dont know what

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

Rough Night?

[shirogane-oushirou]

no promises anymoooooreeeee i'll appear online when i appear online 😭 every time i say "ooh i think life is almost done being overwhelming!" it. becomes even more overwhelming in the dumbest ways. all i can manage rn when i'm not stressing myself into a shut-down state is staring at the wall while listening to youtube essays + mindlessly crocheting.

i might queue up ppls art and fics w/o commentary in the tags... i want other ppl to see what all of my cool friends have made, but i genuinely can't think right now with this monstrous brain fog. i'm really sorry, just. yeah. maybe i'll think of some way to make it up later!!! once the dust has settled!!!! but until then i wuv u and miss u. smiles.

[venting in tags including familial manipulation and ableism. i. didn't mean to write all of that, thiss was originally going to be a main blog post but. aaaaaAAAAAA!!!!!

also no need for replies or anything, i'd turn them off for just the one post if i could kjsndkn, i just needed to get things out and go eep jsjndsfdn ok bye bye bye bye!!!!]

[explorevenus]

something permanent ♡ yandere!leon kennedy x reader

nsfw (18+) - minors pls dni i will scream

this is a dark fic for a multitude of reasons. if any of the following bothers/triggers you, do not read: yandere!leon, stalking, kidnapping, drugging, corruption/training, forced daddy kink, noncon, forced breeding, body horror, gore, & blood

in other words-- DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.

ahem. now that that’s over.

word count - 4.4k

description - nothing in leon’s life was ever permanent and his life circumstances made sure of that. over the years he was beaten down from a bright-eyed rookie police officer to a weary and angry shell of his former self. when a chance meeting brought you into his life, he knew what he had to do. he knew you had to be something permanent.

tags/warnings - yandere!leon, dark!leon, leon being patronizing and condescending and sickly sweet, fem/afab!reader, stalking, kidnapping, drugging, corruption/training, forced daddy kink, pet names (doll, sweetheart, princess, baby, puppy, etc.), noncon, forced breeding, housewife kink, body horror (spoiler alert he rips your IUD out with his bare hands), slight gore, blood, noncon, stockholm syndrome if u squint, dollification if u squint, descriptions of vomiting, no use of (Y/N)

a/n - ok i genuinely don’t know if anyone even wants this but i personally find it egregious how little yandere!leon content exists out there in this world because listen. i know a lot of people consider leon submissive and breedable but personally i believe this broken angry man just wants a sweet little thing to dote on and take care of to make him forget about the horrors of his life and he will stop at nothing to make that happen ♡ anyways. enjoy. and if it’s not ur cup of tea idc keep scrolling :^)

p.s. this is obviously a very canon-deviant, borderline crack fic so it’s not really established which leon this is outside of referring to the events of re2 being a long time ago, so go wild with your interpretation of that to read this as whichever leon is ur favorite ♡ i personally like to imagine post-re4 or infinite darkness leon !! ;w;

read part 2 here !! ♡

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ♡

-venus ♡

You were slow to wake, which wasn't particularly unusual... as of late, but your body felt so heavy, like your muscles had dissolved into mush overnight. Consciousness gradually took its hold of you, and as it did, you began to realize that something seemed off. Different. Wrong, even. You peeked your eyes open, vision blurry with sleep, but you could see you were beneath your pink comforter, a plush of yours held closely to your chest, all normal so far...

But your walls aren't navy blue, they're white... They're supposed to be white--

You jolted wide awake, panic coursing through your weak body as you struggled to even sit up. That's when you noticed an unfamiliar, muscular arm draped over your waist, and that dialed up your anxiety about tenfold. It was hard to move, but you were able to turn your head enough to catch a look at the man it belonged to.

Strong, blond, maybe a bit tired in the eyes... maybe a bit familiar looking... but you were crying now, blurring your sight all over again.

"Shh, shh... you're okay, sweetheart, you're safe now," He hushed, holding you closely to him as you struggled. Smooching the top of your head, he spoke into your messy hair, "I've got you. I've got you, princess."

But... how? The last thing you remembered was tucking into your own bed, in your own apartment, and falling asleep there, how could you have possibly wound up in a stranger's bed with zero recollection of ever leaving yours? Your head spun as you tried and failed to fend off the unwanted affection with weak arms. His hold on you didn't dare budge as he continued to coo softly into your ear, to reassure you that you were safe, that he wouldn't let anyone, or anything, hurt you.

The anxiety stewing within you finally reached a tipping point, twisting your stomach into tight knots, and that's when you spoke your first words since you'd awoken. "I-I'm gonna throw up," You wept, clawing weakly at the covers and, well, at him, for freedom. 

Thankfully he was quick to act, scooping you into his arms as he sat up and rose from the bed, carrying you to the adjoined bathroom. When he turned the light on, you managed to get a better look at his face as you passed by the mirror, and it took you a second to recognize him, partly due to your state of delirium, but primarily because you only knew him very vaguely. You had only met him once at work many months ago, when he'd sparked up a conversation with you as you made him his coffee. After that, he became a regular at the café you worked at-- you remembered his name was Leon.

So why were you waking up in his bed, with your belongings lying around like you'd lived here the whole time?

Your knees hit the tile and you began retching immediately, flinching as he reached forward to collect your hair away from your face. Puking on an empty stomach is never a fun time, but your nerves were alight with panic and every time you reminded yourself of your predicament, a new wave of nausea would crash over you. He rubbed your back sweetly, but it didn't help.

Once the vomiting eventually subsided, an awful, hollow pain took place of it. Your thoughts were running at a thousand miles per hour. You didn't have the time to acknowledge it, let alone nurse it, outside of clutching your shirt at the waist. 

"Let me get you some water, babe," Leon said as he hesitantly stood from your side, eyeing you worriedly like you'd just fall to pieces if he let you out of his sight. "You poor thing..."

But all you could think about was getting out of here. "N-No, no, what time is it? I have to get to work--"

"I don't think so, sweetheart," He interrupted. "You're sick, you should be in bed."

"I'm fine," Much to the protest of your jellied legs, you pushed yourself up from the floor and fought through the head rush in an attempt to slip past him, but he simply caught you at the waist and brought you to a halt. Your ears were ringing, the room spinning around you, and you still weren't sure how to interpret what was even going on here. "L-Let go of me!" You cried out.

He simply hushed you, holding you tightly to his chest and petting your hair as you writhed, failing miserably to get him off of you. "Don't worry about work, okay? Just rest up and get better. I'll call them for you."

Your stomach sank even further-- what the fuck is happening right now? 

Despite your thrashing he managed to lead you back to the bed as gently as one would fine china, scooping you up into his arms so he could lay you down exactly where you'd awoken earlier. Your chest heaved with sobs as you shrank into yourself in an effort to get away from him.

His eyes left you for just a moment as he reached for the covers, no doubt to tuck you in-- in a split second decision, you seized that time to scramble out of his bed and break for the door. Sadly, as perhaps you should have seen coming, he was more than strong and fast enough to catch up to you, even caught off guard. As soon as your shaking hand made contact with the cool metal doorknob, he halted you where you stood with a bruising grip on your bicep.

You cried out, trying in vain to peel yourself away from him, but it was no use.

"Come on, silly baby, you heard me," He tsked, dragging you back toward the bed. "No need to be running off anywhere, especially on a sour stomach."

"P-Please--" You gasped through tears.

"I'm sorry, little one, but that's final," Leon hummed with a patronizing but oddly sweet tone. It was as if he were scolding a temperamental child.

He basically wrestled you back into the bed, enveloping you tightly in his arms as he laid down beside you. You struggled against his grasp, but again, it was absolutely no use. He simply pet your hair and pressed soft kisses along your cheek and jaw, attempting to soothe you with restraint and unwanted affection. 

You sucked in a labored breath, hiccupping, "Don't do this to me, please don't do this to me... I-I just wa-wanna go home, jus' wanna go h-home... Leon please--"

"Shh... oh, good heavens. You are home, princess," He mused, brushing away a stream of your hot tears with his thumb. "You'll see. Just relax and let me take care of you."

Nothing in Leon's life was ever permanent.

All he'd ever wanted was the American dream, to serve his community and meet a pretty girl to share his life with, to settle down in a big house with a fenced yard and two or three little Kennedys running around, maybe a dog. What he wouldn't give to come home at the end of a long day to his beautiful wife, belly swollen with his children, preparing dinner in the kitchen while the existing little ones play with their toys in the other room.

He would enter, slipping off his shoes with a relaxed sigh and a "Honey, I'm home!" to which the aforementioned little ones would rush to the door to hug him at his knees. He'd put one up on his shoulders while the other tugged at his hand, turning into the kitchen to give his beautiful wife a kiss. She would ask of his day and he would say it was good, but better now that he's home with her. With his free hand he would cradle her belly and ask "What's for dinner, you two?" to which she would reply "Your favorite," and as he smiled and thanked her with a kiss he would be silently plotting to thank her properly after the kids are asleep by fucking her full of his cum.

That was all he'd ever wanted. But, day after day after god forsaken day, the chance grew slimmer and slimmer until it had shriveled into something molecular. He didn't even get through his first day at the police station before everything went to shit.

Because of this, Leon began to lose himself over the years. He was no longer the bright-eyed rookie officer looking forward to his even brighter future. He was a broken man, worn down to the bone by years of death, plague, losing everyone he'd ever loved in one way or another-- Leon couldn't take the loss anymore. He wanted-- no, needed-- something permanent, something to give him even the slightest taste of that dream he once had.

When he met you, it wasn't even a question anymore. He knew you were the one. One way or another, he would have you.

He couldn't court you in the traditional way, of course-- it was too dangerous for you to be seen with him. After all, everything he'd ever touched had a way of turning to shit. So, it began with following you home after work so he'd know where you lived. Soon after that he would let himself in when you weren't home-- you weren't smart enough not to keep your key under the mat, furthering how sure he felt that you needed him to take care of you-- he would take little things of yours home with him just to have your scent around.

At first it was just little things like near-empty bottles of shampoo and stray pairs of panties from your laundry basket. Then it was sweaters from your closet, chewed gum and used flossers from your trash can. He'd pay close attention to your grocery lists and what you kept in your pantry so he'd know what kind of food you liked. 

When you did come home, he would sneak out quietly and watch you through your windows, familiarizing himself with your routine. The first thing you'd do when you came home from a long day of work was kick off your heels and change into something comfortable to do your yoga. After a while, you'd pull yourself up from the pink mat and cook dinner. After you'd eat, you'd relax with a book or a video game for a bit before taking a shower and changing into pajamas. Then, you'd brew yourself a mug of tea and retire to the bedroom for the evening where you'd watch documentaries or put on white noise until you eventually fell asleep.

At 7:00 a.m., you'd wake up in the morning and do it all over again.

All he could think about was what he'd do when he finally had you all to himself. Under his roof, you would never have to work another day in your life. Gone would be the days of pouring coffee and baking pastries for random idiots who treated you like shit. All you would ever have to worry about is being pampered, having your entire day to yourself, waiting for him to come home, spending all the money on his credit cards.

And carrying his children, of course.

So, as he held you tightly in his arms while you sobbed and begged to go back to that tiny apartment, all he could think about now was how to fix this. How to convince you he really loved you, how to make you feel truly at home.

The first few weeks were hard for him. Really, really hard.

You were refusing to eat, laying wide awake at night, swinging rapidly between sobbing, screaming and complete apathy. Sometimes he would come into the bedroom and catch you fiddling with the window, or attempting to circumvent the lock on the door by stuffing the mechanism with tissue. You would hit him, kick at him and spit in his face, even as you grew weaker and weaker with malnourishment, not that you really stood a chance before that anyway.

Still, it was hard to watch you shrink in your clothes. It was hard to see your cheeks hollowing by the day. It was hard to hold back your brittle hair while you'd vomit from the nerves, still trying to fight him off of you. It was hard to watch your body tense every time he entered the room.

Just when he'd began to lose hope, he discovered a neat little tool to help you behave. In some countries it was called "devil's breath." The slightest bit of powder could be sprinkled into your water, or over your food, or even into your clothes-- it absorbs through the skin-- and within minutes it would render you quite pliable. Leon didn't want to drug you, of course-- he liked you better when you were lucid-- but it certainly felt like a good place to start, a helpful tool to train you.

When he'd give you a dose, you would let him coddle you without incident. You would lay limp on his chest while he played with your hair and felt your soft skin beneath your shirt. You would allow him to spoon food or tip water into your mouth. You would let him dress you up like his perfect little dolly. You would blush and whimper and whine, and more importantly, not fight him, while he fucked you full of his cum, just like his dream.

There was just one problem-- after about two months of trying daily, it would seem his seed wasn't taking.

Your heart pounded in your ears as the sound of Leon's footsteps nearing the bedroom door grew louder. You glanced over at the clock-- it was 6:15. He was off work for the evening and you knew what that meant.

The lock clicked quietly before the door creaked open, revealing your captor.

"Honey, I'm home!" He smiled excitedly, approaching the bed with a glass of water in hand.

You knew it was for you. You knew he had done something to it. You also knew you didn't intend to drink it.

"W-Welcome home, daddy," You said in a near whisper, forcing a half-smile. While you had definitely lost the majority of the fight in you, that didn't mean it didn't nauseate you to comply with his wishes. "Did you have a good day?"

Tucking your hair behind your ear, he offered you the glass of water while he replied as he always did, "My day was fine, but it's so much better now that I'm home with you, princess."

You smiled at him like it was the first time he'd ever said it, taking the glass with a shaking hand. You stared at it for a moment before mustering up the courage to say, "D-Daddy, I don't want the medicine anymore. I don't think I need it, and it doesn't make me feel good."

"You don't want your medicine anymore, baby?" He asked, tipping your chin up to look at him. You shook your head, rounding your eyes to convince him that much more. "Well, alright, but you have to promise to behave for me."

Now you were nodding, a little bit too eagerly. It was sort of humiliating. "I promise, daddy, I'll behave! I don't want the medicine anymore. I promise I'll be good."

With a proud grin he took the glass from your hand and set it on the nightstand, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "That's what I like to hear, babydoll. You know, good little girls get rewarded..." His large hand spread over your thigh, inching up toward the hem of your baggy shirt.

You stiffened, but didn't push him away. He smirked, dipping his head down to kiss at your neck, large hand sliding up your shirt until he nudged it up enough to pull it off. You were bare for him now, save for panties, and given your experience with him you knew it wouldn't be long until those were discarded somewhere across the room. With a gentle hand at your shoulder he pushed you onto your back, your legs hanging off the side of the bed, and you were curious where he was going with that until he sank to his knees in front of you and began pulling your panties down.

Your eyes screwed shut, thankful that he couldn't see your face as he spread your thighs and greeted your cunt with a slow lick up the length of you. You gripped the sheets with white knuckles, pretty much holding your breath to keep yourself from kicking him away from you. His fingertips buried into the plush skin of your thighs to hold you apart as he began to eat you out more passionately, suckling your clit up into his mouth and lapping at your hole like he was starving.

If there was one thing you would give him credit for, it would be his skilled tongue. Perhaps he was crazy and obsessed, but he certainly knew how to translate that obsession into something that benefitted you both. You wouldn't have succumbed to it so willingly if he weren't at least good at it.

Still, it was hard to feel any enthusiasm. His attention might have felt good physically, but it certainly didn't feel good mentally. 

You flinched when you felt a fingertip prodding at your cunt. He pulled away just far enough to tsk, "Relax and let me make you feel good, puppy. You said you would behave for me."

"Y-Yes, daddy," You muttered, continuing to clutch the sheets as you tried to control your breathing.

His thick index finger sank into you down to the knuckle, almost immediately curling up to brush against the spongy spot within you that made you see stars. As much as you tried to fight it you gasped, quickly bringing a hand up to cover your mouth, but the sound you'd made hadn't slipped past Leon. You felt him smirk against your skin as he pressed sloppy kisses to your thigh, reaching up with his free hand to force yours away from your face.

"Don't be shy, princess," He spoke against the inside of your thigh, trailing kisses up to your clit. "I want to hear just how good it feels."

You whimpered, hips squirming into his affection, and he chuckled approvingly, bringing his mouth back to you fully to continue eating you out while he fucked his finger into you. Soon after his index finger was joined by his middle, and you keened as he reached more deeply into you than he possibly ever had.

He pumped his fingers in and out for a moment, alternating between lapping at your cunt and kissing your thighs, and just as the coil inside began to tighten he suddenly... stopped?

You waited for a second, catching your breath, expecting him to continue any minute. But he didn't. Instead, he took on a tone that froze your blood as he asked, "Sweetheart, what is this?"

Then, you felt a sharp tug at your insides that made you yelp.

"Leon!" You shouted at him in a break of character, attempting to scoot away from him, but he grabbed your hips to still you. "That hurt!"

Another tug. You cried out, trying as you might to snap your thighs shut and push him away, but he wasn't budging.

"You never told me you had an IUD."

"Well, I do, so stop yanking on it! It hurts--"

The next words out of his mouth truly fucking broke you.

"That just won't do. It's no wonder you're not pregnant yet."

You sat up immediately. "Pregnant?"

He ignored you, tugging at it again. You screamed.

"L-Leon, don't! I can get it taken out by a doctor, I swear, I'll get it taken out!"

He shook his head. "And wait even longer to knock you up, pretty girl? Not happening. It's coming out now."

You screamed again, thrashing in his hold. He withdrew from inside you for just a moment, pinning you to the bed by your hip while he reached for your panties on the floor and shoved them into your mouth to silence you.

"There, there, angel. It'll be over before you know it, like ripping off a band-aid," He hummed, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you screeched through the cotton. "I'm gonna give you my babies, I promise. Gonna make you a mommy, and we’ll be so happy."

Before you could properly react he forced his fingers back inside you, yanking at the device until you felt a sickening tear and the unmistakable heat of blood rushing out of you. You curled into yourself, wailing, gasping for breath through the panties in your mouth as he withdrew his blood-soaked fingers, holding up the gory IUD in the light.

"There you are, princess. All better," He smiled contently, discarding the device on the bedside table. "You did so good. You were so brave for me."

You were bawling, shrieking through your gag as your vision blurred into white. Leon kissed up your thighs before standing to unbuckle his belt, and he didn't get much further than that before the panic and agonizing pain got to you and you lost consciousness.

You woke up the next morning with your thighs sore and sticky with blood. You lifted the comforter to see a deep red pool seeping out from between your legs, and the more you started to wake up, the more aware you became of the pain. You were cramping terribly, sweating buckets, your ears were ringing and you felt weak. Leon had left for work already, so it was up to you to get yourself to the bathroom.

Your entire body was trembling as you stumbled out of the bed, dripping blood in a trail behind you as you dragged yourself to the bathroom and crawled into the bathtub. You peeled off your pajama shorts and panties, watching in horror as a mixture of thick blood and cum spilled out of you and ran slowly toward the drain. Once again, you began to cry. Obviously he'd had his way with you after you passed out, buckets of blood be damned.

Even with your foggy, staticky brain, you couldn't stop thinking. Thinking about the fact that he had no intention of taking you to a hospital, so there was really no telling what might happen with your profusely painful and bleeding sex. Thinking about how fucking screwed you were now without your IUD, your best defense against falling pregnant with your captor's child. Thinking about the fact that if he wouldn't even take you to a doctor for this, he must be expecting a home birth if you were to become pregnant, which you doubted he was qualified to handle and therefore had a very good chance to result in your slow, painful death.

You couldn't stand the shivering anymore, so you filled the bathtub with hot water. It felt nice, though it was rather gross that the water was stained a glassy rose color with your own blood, not that you really had the strength to care in the moment.

In fact, you didn't have much strength at all. It wasn't long before you found yourself losing consciousness once again.

"Fuck, princess, can you hear me?"

You were trying to open your eyes, to twitch a finger, anything, but it was so hard.

"Shit. Stay right here, babydoll, I'm gonna get you some help, okay? I promise. I never meant to hurt you... shit...”

You heard some shuffling, pacing and possibly Leon talking to himself in the other room. You figured he was trying to decide whether or not to take you to a hospital. Part of you hoped he would and the other part of you hoped he would just let you die there. More than anything, you just wished you would have let him drug you in the first place so maybe you wouldn't be in this level of pain.

After what could have very well been 20 seconds or 20 minutes, Leon kneeled beside the tub and draped a cold washcloth over your forehead, reaching into the bloodied water to pull the drain. With what little control you had over your own movement you managed to crack your eyes open, which seemed to please him.

"Oh thank god... thank god, baby. I almost thought I lost you there," He huffed, voice shaking. "Listen to me closely, princess. Stay with me. I'm going to take you to a doctor but you have to be a good girl, okay? You have to be good for me and go along with what I say, even if it isn't true. I'm just doing what's best for you so you can get all better, okay?"

You nodded weakly. You weren't in any position to put up a fight, and all you really wanted was an end to the pain. Besides, he couldn't supervise you constantly at the hospital. There had to be at least some opportunity to tell someone what he'd done to you.

He somehow managed to dress you in some comfortable clothes of his, a soft black t-shirt that hung halfway down your thighs and a pair of black shorts with some little socks of yours to protect your feet. Then, he carried you princess-style out to the car where he bundled you up in the passenger seat and buckled you in.

As he pulled hurriedly out of the driveway, he made a phone call to someone.

"Hey, it's me... I need the best people we have in the infirmary, stat. I'm on my way now," He spoke sternly into the phone, white knuckling the wheel. "I'm fine, it's not for me, it's my girlfriend. It's a long story that I'll tell you when I get there, but she's bleeding pretty bad. I found her unconscious when I came home... I appreciate it, thanks. See you in 10."

Leon reached over the center console to squeeze your thigh in reassurance.

"You're gonna be just fine, princess. I'm gonna make sure they make you all better, okay?"

Your stomach sank. He obviously wasn't taking you to a hospital. From the sounds of it he was taking you somewhere he had a good amount of leverage, somewhere everyone knew him, held him in high regard and wouldn't dare challenge his word, let alone take yours over his. You slumped to the side, resting your head on the cool window with a quiet bonk. Leon was quick to ask if you were okay but you couldn't muster up a response. Your ears began ringing again and the world around you collapsed into tunnel vision.

part 2 !!

[vaniloqu3nce]

More about the wenclair kids, this post is dedicated to @krystal-maiden because they wanted to know more about the twins! If anyone wants to ask anything about them, I’d happily share my hyperfixations with anyone (:

Leonidas is a pack animal and prefers company. He follows his moms everywhere and whenever his uncles visit he will hold something they have hostage so they can stay longer. Leonidas was jealous that Wednesday AND Enid had brothers, so he asked for brothers for his birthday. He got two twin sisters instead.

When the twins came home, Leonidas tried to return them because he thought they got the wrong kids.

Vittoria and Naenia are not identical twins, in fact one look at them and nobody could tell they were twins at all. Vittoria is the spitting image of Enid and Leonidas save for her nearly black eyes. And Naenia is the spitting image of Wednesday, except her bright blue eyes which stare into the soul of anyone and everyone.

Naenia and Vittoria were born with their dominant gene being psychic, and because of their twinship they share a connection. If Vittoria cries, Naenia will start crying soon after. If Vittoria is hungry, Naenia will cry, if Naenia wakes up in the middle of the night and sits there quietly, Vittoria will wake up and start crying. If Naenia needs to be changed, Vittoria will start crying. Leonidas noticed this and immediately started trying to experiment to figure out the limits of this. Wednesday always manages to catch him before someone gets beheaded though.

Vittoria was smiling as soon as they left the delivery room. (They had to make sure Leonidas didn’t cut the breaks) Naenia didn’t stop crying unless Wednesday held her and they didn’t like to be separated. Leonidas spent the entire car ride pouting because he wanted brothers.

Naenia has a permanent glare, unless her face is relaxed, like when she’s inspecting Enid’s fangs or near Vittoria. (Naenia will play with Enid and Leo’s fangs as a baby) The first time she smiles is at Leonidas as he’s about to set her on fire, and he decides she is more useful alive (his heart melts and he realizes he’d protect his baby sisters with his life). Vittoria is a very happy baby so long as she’s entertained. She’s very curious and tries to get into everything Leo owns (annoy him to death) and thus starts their life long prank rivalry.

Yoko loves the twins and Leo, she insist they call her aunty or dad (Wednesday firmly disagrees even though she is their god mother). Frequently Yoko just pops into the house with gifts for the twins and Leo. Vittoria loves anything colorful to chew on and expensive (she seems to be able to smell what costs money). Yoko very quickly becomes Vittoria’s favorite and Naenia loves her fangs.

Leonidas always tries to ambush and kill Yoko but she’s much faster and stronger than he is. Yoko just thinks he’s adorable every time he tries to jump on her back with a toy knife. He makes it his goal to defeat her in combat (even though he won’t say it, he respects her a lot). And he likes that she protects Enid, Leo is very protective of his moms.

Naenia loves being around Leonidas, she smiles most as a baby when he watches horror movies with her.

Vittoria loves when there are a lot of people around to watch, she doesn’t like to be bored at all. She often spends time in Leonidas’s old carrier with Enid because she likes to move around. And because Naenia doesn’t like to be far from her, Enid buys a second one for Wednesday to use in public. She is appalled. She wears it anyway. They’re in their snood colors.

Enid: We can match!

Wesnesday: …Leo I think your mom is trying to send me to an early grave.

Leonidas: Grave digging! :D

Wednesday, nodding: Yes we do have to take them on their first grave robbing expedition, they’re getting about that age.

Enid: …they’re five months old.

Wednesday: By that age my father and my uncle had already taken me across the sea to slay my first kraken with them. It’s a bonding experience for family.

[shorimochi]

Till the end of life #bingjiu

It was roughly two decades after his reign that Luo Binghe's harem was dissolved. Most of them returned to their hometown, some passed in their personal disputes against each other, while some chose to spend their remaining lifespan there.

Luo Binghe gave them the freedom to choose their own fate. However, the only one occupying him every night since then was his empress, Shen Jiu. A century passed had since they resolved all misunderstandings and got rid of their heart demons.

Shen Jiu took the position seriously, taking care of all household matters and getting rid of anything that threatened Luo Binghe.

Did his consort look sexy when he ordered for a traitor to be executed? Well, the throne can attest to that, it witnessed all the shameless things they did - things that Shen Jiu would never admit, no matter how much he enjoyed it.

It was truly strange whenever he thought about it sometimes. He could get tired looking at ten different women, but Luo Binghe could never get enough of Shen Jiu no matter how many years passed.

However for the past few weeks Luo Binghe now noticed Shen Jiu had been spending most of his time sleeping. He no longer even wanted to join the court meetings (understandable, who wants to listen to those demon elders rambling?)

He joked that his consort was growing old. Shen Jiu bonked his head lightly, but said nothing.

He even gradually seemed to be losing interest in Luo Binghe's favorite sexy times. Luo Binghe kept checking if his body smells, if his pillar wasn't working well, if maybe.... well, if maybe shizun wants to top now?

(He used to be weirded by the idea, but if it was Shen Jiu, Luo Binghe would immediately get the oil ready before Shen Jiu could even blink.)

But Shen Jiu asked for cuddles instead, and how could Luo Binghe refuse that?

Horror dawned upon him as one night while cuddling in bed together, Luo Binghe brushed his fingers in Shen Jiu's hair and noticed white strands. "Shizun, your hair..."

Shen Jiu snorted. "You only noticed now?"

Even if they were called immortals, they weren't really 'immortal'.

No matter how good their cultivation, a human's lifespan couldn't compare to a heavenly demon. And Shen Jiu, whose cultivation was ruined in his younger days, couldn't achieve his max potential - including a longer lifespan.

All healers were summoned. But they couldn't find anything wrong.

It was because there was nothing wrong. It was simply a natural passage of time, something that nobody could stop - not even a heavenly demon.

As days passed, Luo Binghe sat by his consort's bed in despair. By now Shen Jiu could barely walk. His time was mostly spent sleeping. There would soon come a day when he wouldn't wake up anymore.

Luo Binghe refused to accept that. He held Shen Jiu's hands. "Shizun...would you let me..."

Shen Jiu shook his head. "You promised you would never use it on me again."

Luo Binghe vowed that he would never use his blood on Shen Jiu, the day of their marriage. But how could he simply watch now?

Shen Jiu gazed fondly at him. He slowly linked their fingers together. "This is fine."

Luo Binghe trembled. "How can you say it's fine?"

Shen Jiu held his hand tighter. "Let me go before you, Binghe."

"Shizun-"

"I wouldn't be able to live if you were gone first, anyway."

Luo Binghe buried his face in Shen Jiu's palms. What about him? Did Shen Jiu think Luo Binghe could keep living without him?

Shen Jiu sighed. "My days are short, compared to other immortals...but the days with you weren't bad at all."

Those words were as close to a love confession he had ever heard from Shen Jiu.

Luo Binghe stubbornly stayed by Shen Jiu's side. All duties were taken over by his children and subordinates.

On a cool autumn day, Shen Jiu breathed his last.

For an entire day, Luo Binghe pondered quietly, eyes staring at the map of the holy mausoleum.

Then few days later, his children noticed that there were now also white streaks on Luo Binghe's hair.

He had let himself age.

Luo Binghe didn't want to disappoint Shen Jiu, not when he had passed peacefully. However, he couldn't bear to live centuries more without Shen Jiu.

He thus suppressed his own demon side and let himself age like a mortal.

Perhaps one day, his soul too will enter the next cycle, and they will reunite.

[widoglock]

Caleb with amnesia tho

Fic idea currently gnawing on the wires of my brain:

After Kingsley sails off on his own, the Nein don’t hear from him for months. It’s not long before the gang starts to worry. Caleb gets word of Kingsley’s last known location—luckily somewhere Caleb has seen, which permits a teleport checkup.

Caleb finds Kingsley in a pissy mood. He’s unkempt and cagey as an alley cat, dodging Caleb’s questions and rejecting his concern. Kingsley doesn’t tell Caleb, but the truth is: Over the past few months, he’s regained the last of his memories. The context of his old life has only worsened his sense of alienation from the Nein. Kingsley has witnessed all the little ways his friends have moved on without him—how his absence has shaped them into stronger, happier people. In the face of their growth, Kingsley feels like a shard that doesn’t fit.

So yeah, he sailed the fuck out of Dodge. Better that the Nein never find out how much he remembers; he’s sure now more than ever he’ll never live up to the rosy shrine of their collective memory. He’ll always be a ghost first and his own person second—a forgery, only as good as its approximation to the real thing.

Anyway. Caleb hates to push, but he knows something’s deeply wrong with Kingsley and he’s not about to let him sail off the face of the planet. So he’s like, “I am not leaving this ship until you tell me what is going on.” And Kingsley tries to call his bluff like, lol okay magic man!! :)) there’s a rat problem and the navigator has the flu and my cabin’s only got one bed!! :))) have fun and try not to get eaten by the crew!! :))))))

But of course Caleb is stubborn as a rock and he just...hunkers down, fully prepared to starve Kingsley out. The two orbit each other for days, Kingsley refusing to explain his predicament and Caleb refusing to fly away home.

Problem: a pirate fight or some-such. A wizard nukes Caleb with a powerful memory wipe spell. When Kingsley finds Caleb in the aftermath, he’s curled up and panicking in a corner of the ship, his latest memory being the stone floor of his sanatorium cell. He, Kingsley, and the rest of the crew are days from land (and therefore a healer), and Caleb has forgotten all but his most basic spells.

Kingsley does his best to catch Caleb up to speed. It’s not clear whether Caleb buys his story or not. When Caleb asks Kingsley how they met—

K: “It’s—I’m gonna do my best to simplify, all right? It’s a lot. So first: Lucian. Not the nicest guy, by all accounts. Lucian croaks, and when he gets resurrected...he wakes up sans memories, right? A blank slate. That blank slate names themself Mollymauk. With me so far?

C: “Sure.”

K: “That’s the guy you met, after you escaped with Nott. Adventures ensued; a fellowship was born, yada yada. Then Mollymauk got stabbed to death. Now—when Molly was resurrected, he came back as the first guy, Lucian. Still with me?”

C: “Ja, I...suppose.”

K: “Then Lucian died—”

C: “Again?”

K: “Took some practice to get right, I guess. Anyhow—with Lucian out of the way, you tried to resurrect Mollymauk—”

C: “Stop, stop. I am—Kingsley, I am sorry, but how many times are these two going to die and be brought back to life?”

K: “As many times as it takes for the joke to get stale, I guess. The point is, you didn’t bring...I mean, you brought back somebody. Just not...You brought back a sort of—an amnesiac hodgepodge of Mollymauk and Lucian. That’s me.”

C: “The ‘amnesiac hodgepodge.’”

K: “Just like grandma used to make.”

C: “Ha. So...You can’t remember your past. And I can’t remember my future. Have we always been so...”

K: “Unlucky?”

C: “Spiegelgleich.”

And now a pre-Nein Caleb and a post-memory-restoration Kingsley are stranded on a ship together for days with nothing to do but talk about their feelings...Oh, the horror!

[leonawriter]

Got tagged by @strangefellows yesterday, here goes

Rules: Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don't be shy and share anyway.  

In order of most recent/WIPs first. I don’t even need to list the fandom because they’re all P5R.

1. It hits him like a freight train in the middle of a meal out in a restaurant.

-Goro Akechi and the Great Name Heist (WIP/unposted)

2. Goro Akechi wakes up much the same way that he fell asleep, or must have done - with his head uncomfortably resting against the hard glass of a moving surface. 

-The Notes We Pass (WIP NG+ swap au/unposted)

3. Later, he'd remember he'd remember this in snapshots, much the same as how he'd always remember the shock of getting arrested the first time. In some ways, it wasn't too different - both of them were events that had come out of nowhere and he had been entirely unprepared for.

-In The Striving (WIP, second part of a series)

4. Kasumi wasn't one to get scared easily. Or at least, that was how she liked to consider herself.

-Not Fed By Your Lies (First chapter re-written/unposted, part of my urban fantasy au)

5. Goro knows exactly how he got here, and that's the problem.

-Only You 

6. He's not sure how he got here. Those memories are fragmented - he can remember the briefest of ideas of what Kaneshiro's cognitive Shibuya, but after that-

-The Glories and Pains of Tail Ownership (ch4)

7. So there's Maruki, standing there with K- Sumire, and he's saying you've seen what my reality is like now, haven't you? You've seen that your friends all feel happy here, and the damn thing is that he can't say Maruki is wrong.

-A Little Too Good To Not Be True

8. Goro Akechi, pissed off and relieved and furious, stalks into the Metaverse-

-and he comes out on the other side of something, not feeling all the way there anymore. Less like how in the Metaverse cognition reflects reality, and more like the idea that his own cognition of his existence is all that's keeping him there at all.

-But You’re Gone So Soon

9. Akira, not for the first time in his life, found himself staring in horror at Akechi, who seemed to be taking things perfectly in stride.

-Schroedinger’s Akechi

10. February third dawned in an anticlimactic but anxiety-inducing way - in other words, no different from any other day in Maruki's reality so far.

-Wake Me From The Dream

(I might’ve skipped some very minor stuff because it’s questionable if I’m gonna do anything with it. I have a lot of random ideas that don’t really go anywhere.)

hmmmmm gonna tag @jortsbian! Go for it!

[copyspaghetti]

Mobstuck AU Notes

Part 1

(The story that I have actually written down in my drafts, it is far far from everything 99% of the story only exists in my head lol)

Araaka Reigen is a rustblood non-psychic who fakes being a psychic to avoid being culled and to get resources from clueless highbloods, but will take requests from lowbloods too. From lowbloods he accepts any type of payment, including the brown handmade carpet a bronze blood gave him because they didn't own much else. Finally he can have warm feet when he gets out of his recuperacoon. It's the little things in life. For some reason his hands are always equipped. Prefers being asleep because he always dreams of a glowing golden happy place where everyone is always super nice to him and the clouds show him funny things and sometimes useful information and sometimes horrors.

Bansho Shinra is his biggest rival, a bronze blood "psychic" (actually real animal communicator but Reigen doesn't know that), Shinra doesn't take their rivalry too seriously but Reigen puts his whole pussy into it, fighting for his life (literally as he might get culled if he isn't someone special).

Shinra knows Kazuya vaguely through MOG the first guardian, a reclusive blue blood who shelters himself because he's too strong. Shinra thinks it's futile to follow along with Mogami's instructions to talk to him and make friends but he keeps his contact anyway.

Mogami is manipulating Kazuya for Toichirou's sake, convincing him that he is too strong to be near anyone and he will only grow stronger, and he can't get far enough away from people. Don't worry though, there is someone who can show you how to control your power (meaning Toichirou).

Kazuya knows Reigen because Mobu (pre-game), a first guardian, sleep-teleported himself into the void and wakes up to meet Kazuya who says he thinks he is too powerful to make friends but here in this purple dream world he feels more secure. Mobu says he used to think that about himself too but he has a best friend who helped him understand that his powers don't make him special, it's all about how you use them. They're like knives, so don't point them at people, use them to create something instead. Mobu says that his best friend is called arbitraryAscendent online if he wants to reach out and Mobu is gaffeTorque. They both wake up.

Kazuya can't find anyone called gaffeTorque but he can find arbitraryAscendent and Reigen is like I do not know either of these bitches but a high blood on my side wouldn't hurt. I can show you how to use your power. Smart? Not very. But he lives every day like it's his last because it very well might be for a powerless rusty and now he has some protection.

MOG is trying to manipulate Dimple by telling him he's going to become a God when he grows up if only he listens to Mogami. It leads him to get an obsession with being an object of devotion and delusional that he will be more powerful than the condesce one day.

This leads him to meet Kazuya and Shinra through Mogami and Reigen through Kazuya.

Dimple and Reigen can't stand each other, Dimple sees straight through Reigen’s act while Reigen thinks his God complex is annoying as hell and he's like what is wrong with you? You want to be like one of those high bloods looking down on the world? Dimple is like damn straight I do, some people aren't fine being bottom scrapers like you! Their kismesisitude is astounding.

Dimple meets Mobu when Mobu sleep teleports again and they're on derse and Dimple is turning Derse into a culture centred on himself and Dimple is like huh you're a really weird Carapacian. And Mobu is like I'm not a carapacian sorry. You kind of look like someone I met once in another dream. Dimple is like whatever you're joining the cult. Mobu is like no thank you. Dimple does the milk challenge and it brings up a rage inside of him so Mob explodes a bit and uses some first guardian powers that kill Dimple's dream and real selves through universe-bending power and Mobu wakes up. Mobu tells Reigen about his dream (Reigen is from the future and KNOWS that sounds suspiciously like Dimple) and he's like kind of weirded out and distraught but reassures Mob that sometimes things that are painful in the moment lead to something better in the future and really he helped all those carapacians and the prospit Carapacians too probably.

Mobu's life: he comes to earth on a meteor but instead of letting it crash in his neighbourhood he shatters the meteor and teleports into his dad's lap. Dad and Mom adopt him. A year later Ritsu is on meteor that crashes on a Pacific Island. Baby Mobu teleports to the island, grabs Ritsu and teleports back home. Mom and Dad now have 2 boys.

They grow up similar to the anime except they don't go to the same school as the other kids. Mobu glows green in his sleep. Ritsu is insanely jealous of his powers. They don't remember how they were born.

[snowglobe-system]

You don't always know who you are. Sometimes the only answers you can give are who you are not. Your very identity is something that you can almost touch but never quite grasp onto.

There's never enough time. You can miss days, weeks, months, even years of your own life, only to come back and feel like a stranger in your own body. You want to live but the only life you have feels like it belongs to someone else.

For us polyfragmented systems out there; knowing that there are more pieces of you and not being able to find them. An endless cycle of finding and forgetting and wondering what all of this is even for.

Finding pieces of yourself that are stuck frozen in past fears. You want to help them. Nothing you say will reach them.

Your body feels wrong. It feels like it doesn't belong to you, but there is nowhere else for you to inhabit. You must make peace with that fact. You have no choice.

The complete lack of agency over your own life. Waking up and realizing that the other you said or did things you can't take back.

Sometimes you feel like you understand yourself perfectly, and at other times there is no one who is more of a stranger to you than yourself.

Being on the cusp of discovering something that feels important, only to have it yanked away from you by an invisible force. You know that you're missing something. No matter how hard you try, a mental block keeps you from accessing the information you want.

Looking in the mirror and staring at yourself, trying to remember what you look like. Something about this picture feels off in a way that you can never know how to describe.

Sometimes system members hurt each other. Sometimes parts do things that you don't know how you can begin to forgive, but you have to figure out how to do it anyways. You share a body and mind. There are no other options but to learn to get along.

Your thoughts never feel entirely private. At any moment, another part could catch a glimpse and realize something about you that you never wanted anyone to know.

Your thoughts aren't always your own. Sometimes they belong to another you, to someone else, and you don't even realize until later.

Knowing, with complete clarity, that you will forget later. You try to write down the experience. It feels like a story someone else has told to you.

Really, your entire life feels like a collection of stories, not something that's truly happened to you.

You experience trauma responses without knowing why. You know something happened to you to make you this way. You're afraid to find out what.

I will die on the hill that the true horror of DID isn't from witnessing it, it's from having it. It's like a horror mystery, but the mystery is your own self.

There is a Genuine Horror to being a system, and it's not what the media portrays.

The media portrayal of DID in horror is always "Spoookyyyyy there's another person in your friend! And it's a murderer!" To my horror community, there's much more horror to be had. the trope listed above... It's schlocky, it's boring, it's downright inaccurate, and you can branch out.

To my systems community, I hope you can relate

Dissociating real hard, and then when your "systems are back online", moving your arms for the first time feels like you're sliding your hands into a skin suit.

Not only do you experience the skin suit issue, right before that happened, your back straightened up to perfect posture. Now you have a bright smile on your face with empty eyes because you don't know what's going on, but you need to have a mask that pretends you *do* know. You can feel every vertebrae in your spine slowly adjusting into place as this happens.

Having a panic attack, struggling in your own head, then out of nowhere. You stand up from your corner, and then go about your business as if nothing ever happened. You felt something so strongly it was as if it would kill you, but now? You've never cared, and the only thing *You're* worried about is whether or not the dishes are getting done.

for my spiritual systems. Tarot. You ground yourself, let yourself sink, further and further below... you relax, until it almost feels like someone has their hands over your hands which are held up towards the sky. Then with that, it feels as if you've sunken into the lake, and now you're someone else. An hour or a few later, you're pacing in the kitchen and remember nothing

You have to be a detective towards yourself. you have to investigate bank statements, text messages, photographs, all to figure out what happened. You can only hope the person you're investigating was kind to you, leaving lots of clues.

When you Want to be in Front, and your time is running out, it feels as if some creature is dragging you from the depths, pulling you away from the light (Sorry if we're talking about horror, I HAD to reference the irritating movie with James McAvoy).

Suddenly being in control, and once you gain enough context, it's to know that you're there to fight, to survive, whatever you need to do to keep the system safe

Feel free to add on with more! Having DID sucks sometimes, sometimes it's neutral, sometimes it's helpful, but sometimes, DID horror can be fun, and make you feel like a creature in the best way : )

[pinkiealexie]

𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ♡ 𝘋𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰 𝘏𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘰

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❥ WARNINGS: Maybe a little ooc Donnie, kind of rushed the ending

[My brain literally can't sleep so instead it demands me to write this random oneshot I imagined just right now in my mind so apologies for any errors or it doesn't make sense lol]

PS: I literally had to reupload this whole this a day later because it didn't show under the hashtags I put for some unknown reason

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It was dark..it was 2 in the morning in fact.

The only thing that was giving off light in the room was the bright shine of the TV in front of you and the tiny flickers of light from outside the window.

Were you tired?  Maybe just a bit, but you and your lovely softshell turtle of a boyfriend had been staying up all night watching various genres of movies.  It was also a school night which really didn’t help at all with your case and probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but who cares?  Originally, the plan before was to have Donnie come over to your place and help you out with your homework then leave but then you both got kind of distracted.  Your parent(s) were out of the city for the weekend due to some personal reasons so you didn’t have to worry about them walking into your room then possibly ground you for life.

As of right now, you were in the living room with Donnie who had one arm wrapped around your waist with your head resting against the shoulder of the soft fabric of his purple jacket against your cheek. There were empty candy wrappers scattered around the floor with a half finished bowl of popcorn that was now stale in Donnie’s lap which you were pretty sure he had forgotten was even there.

You hadn’t noticed that the cheesy romcom that was playing was over as the end credits started to roll.

“God, that was so awful,” Donnie let out a quiet chuckle as he grabbed the remote from the armrest of the couch, his voice also snapped you out of your zoning out state.

“You want to watch something else, (Y/n)?”

Doing a frog blink, your eye’s gaze moved up to meet with his own gaze staring down at you.  It took you a moment to process his offer then it finally registered into your mind,

“Oh..Oh!  Yeah sure..” Lazily you reached out to take the remote out of his hand so that you could type in the movie you wanted in the search engine so the only noise audible was the sound of you clicking the arrows and ‘ENTER’ button of the rectangular remote in your hand.

“You seem tired, dear.” Donnies ‘observing’ of you came out more as a statement.  Right as you were about to speak a small yawn of yours cut you off and you heard Donnie’s silent laughter from above you.  He found it adorable.

Letting out a tiny huff you found a movie that had caught your interest, “Then maybe this next movie will wake me up a bit,” You never denied that he was wrong about you being tired anyways.  Donnie turned his attention back to the TV;

“A horror movie?” 

“Yes, I said it’ll help wake me up, Don.” You clarified to him. You wouldn't be surprised if Donatello confessed that he wasn't at all tired. You know how he sometimes stays up very late quite often because his sleep schedule is something you want to help him fix, but he said he will if you fixed yours as well. Ooooo he got you there.

“Fair enough.” was what he replied with before the living room fell back into complete silence again while placing the forgotten popcorn onto the coffee table in front of you guys as the movie began.

...

30 minutes into the movie and it was boring to say the least.  Donnie must’ve found it unassuming too as you noticed that he was scrolling through the media on his phone, you didn’t blame him though.  Gosh maybe you should’ve just ended it off with the romcom and called it a night.  Your eyelids felt so heavy that you nuzzled your face deeper into to Donnies shoulder as you were so ready to doze off.  

Just as you were about to fall asleep, out of nowhere a loud screeching noise and hideous looking creature appeared on the TV. 

Being unprepared for the sudden jumpscare you flinched rather obviously as both of your arms quickly went around Donnie’s plastron area.  Donnie on the other hand looked down at your shakened figure as he couldn’t help but try not to laugh at the sight of you all wide eyed and clinging onto him like a magnet.  

“Are you awake now?”

Quick to realize what he was referencing too you released him from your hold as you gave him a light punch on the shoulder, “Oh shut up!”

Donnie wiped a fake single tear from his eye, “Oh but your reaction was just so priceless oh I should’ve recorded it!  Oh wait- I did!” His phone was in his hand as he replayed the moment on his phone. Holding it right up to your face with such a smug smirk.

In the end, you were still tired.  So tired you weren’t even going to bother with Donnies tactics right now, “Fine, fine you win Donatello, BUT that is only because I want to go to bed!”

With a proud toothy smile on Donnie’s face he patted you head, “Alright, you should get your beauty sleep then my dearest (Y/n) for I, Von Ryan have to head back to my brothers!”

Using the remote to turn off the TV and cleaning up a bit of the mess you let out a laugh at his farewell, “Yeah, yeah, a goodnight to you too dear Von Ryan." Donnie just smiled back at you as he turned around to open open the door.

Just as Donnie was about to head out through your door you remembered something, “Oh- hey Donnie hold up!” you called out to him just in time.

“Hmm?” He hummed, turning his head slightly as you were now behind him, “I almost forgot!”

“Forgotten wha-” You cut Donnie off by pulling him down by the strings of his jacket to give him a small kiss.

Pulling away, he was thankful for the darkness of the house. At that moment as you would’ve been able to see the bright red all over his face.

“A goodnight kiss!  Now have a goodnight, Don!”

He gave you a single nod, “O-Oh yeah another very goodnight to you too (Y/n)!”

Once he was outside of your door now and making his way back to his place Donnie couldn't help but be excited for the next time you both decided to have a movie night like this together again.

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[ppersonna]

out of my league - knj | 01

you were out of my league. got my heartbeat racing. if i die, don't wake me, cause you are more than just a dream - out of my league, fitz and the tantrums

✹ summary- Kim Namjoon was never supposed to find out about your years-long hopeless crush on him. And he most definitely was not supposed to find out about it in front of all your coworkers in a company-wide meeting.

✹ rating- explicit/18+/nsfw

✹ pairing- kim namjoon x reader

✹ word count- 6.6k

✹ genre- angst, smut, comedy

✹ chapter warnings- swearing, descriptions of sex, sexual content, namjoon being a sexy flirt, jungkook being a himbo, awkward conversations, jimin being a protective bff

✹ a/n- hello and welcome to this fic thats lived in my google docs for almost a year now. without @ladyartemesia @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen and @chimoona, i would never have posted it. i truly owe so much of my brainstorming and creativity to their incredible brains and thoughts and ideas. i love them very much! i hope you enjoy this first chapter! please feel free to message me, talk to me abt anything!! im always here to chat. ILY!

MASTERLIST

Kim Namjoon was never supposed to find out this way.

You planned to confess your undying, unerring love for your coworker at a better time, a classier place. You would wear a dress that highlighted your features, hair cascading down your back, makeup done to perfection and spritzed with expensive perfume. You’d confess, he’d confess right back, and you’d live happily ever after.

You’d also dreamt that Kim Namjoon would have the slightest inkling of who you are before he finds out about your year long crush. He might know you as the mousy girl in the office who doesn’t talk and doesn’t contribute much other than some crunched numbers and apparently the best coffee brewer in the office. But you’d prefer he knows you well—your favorite colors and movies and foods, what makes you happy and sad; things future husbands should know.

You very much did not think it would happen in a company wide conference, full of over five hundred suit-wearing executives. You did not think it would be done by the office bully, Chungha, who carefully takes over the mic and speaks the words clearly as she presents awards of recognition.

“Congratulations to Kim Namjoon for 5 years with the company, over $4 million in revenue, and the object of ____’s lust and affection. I’m sure you two will have the happy life she’s written in her journal about. Make sure you celebrate with her today!”

The room is silent, so silent you could have heard a pin drop from a mile away. Your face is cherry red and you wish the earth would open up and swallow you whole. Your heart feels like someone has ripped it in half and you stare in horror at the girl smirking at the front. Is this what it feels like to be backstabbed? Namjoon looks perplexed—confusion written on his face as he gestures around to no one in particular like he’s saying ‘what the fuck was that?’

Awkward coughing and clapping begins and Namjoon stands to receive his award, a fine wooden fountain pen, and chances a glance around the room. He easily spots you, with your wide, frightened face. His look remains passive, not hinting what he’s thinking behind those stormy eyes, before he turns and sits back down at the table with his buddies from his department.

You seriously contemplate quitting your job. You could find a new one easily, right? Just stand up and tell your boss you quit and you’re out of there before Namjoon ever sees you again and you’ll never have to face the mean girl who’s ratting you out.

As much as the idea rolls through your head, you know you won’t do it. You love your job, love the security and finances it provides you, and you love to look at Kim Namjoon, all day every day.

You don’t understand where things went wrong.

( one month ago )

It’s 9:03 am. You finish brewing the coffee in the small staff kitchen and sigh at the aroma of the freshly ground beans. Coffee is your favorite meal, favorite time of day, favorite snack, and preferred beverage. You drink it constantly. You’re known as “coffee girl” at work, mostly because no one really bothers to get to know you beyond that. You drink coffee like it’s a devoted religion. You could drink a cup right before bed and still sleep like a baby. It was, put simply, your drink.

The office workers deem you to be the one to make the pots of coffee every morning, claiming you were the ‘best’. You didn’t mind—you preferred to make your own coffee regardless—but you believe your coworkers are trying to pass off the twenty-minute job to someone lower in the office hierarchy. And you were one step above the interns.

The coffee machine chimes to let you know it’s hot, and it’s ready for you. You eagerly pour a mug, a large one, and smile as the waft of freshly ground beans (by you, of course) fills your senses.

You nearly knock the cup out of your hand as Kim Namjoon strolls into the office, eyes set on the coffee.

You feel your throat swell up, like he’s an allergen and you’re caught without an epi-pen. Butterflies swirl in your stomach and you can’t stop staring at him. He pays you no mind, tired yet determined to pour a cup of coffee and get back to his office.

You stand in the small kitchen, clutching your coffee like a lifeline, and pray to god you don’t do something stupid.

Namjoon pours his mug, and you watch his muscular hands grip the coffee pot. He pours a hefty amount of cream and sugar into his cup—it appears even perfect male specimens have their faults. 

Your eyes dance on his face before they tango down his body. You wonder what he looks like in the morning, crawling out of bed with mussed hair and a sleepy smile painted on his face. He’d look at you and tell you you’re the most beautiful girl and kiss you deeply despite morning breath. Maybe he’d take you to the shower to press you against the tile as he fuc-

“Oh!” it startles Namjoon to see you, and the coffee in his hand swishes violently. “Didn’t see you there. Sorry!”

Your heart melts. He’s the picture of kindness and politeness. You recognize it’s been a few seconds and you still haven’t replied.

“It’s fine!”

“Great coffee, by the way,” he smiles. His teeth nearly knock you out cold with their brilliance. “Have a good day.”

He turns and exits the room without so much as a glance back at you. Your knees feel weak.

Kim Namjoon talked to you. He complimented you. He told you to have a good day. It’s the best and most significant conversation you’ve had with your secret crush.

You definitely file that away for another day when you need to reminisce on his compliment, and you scurry out of the kitchen towards your desk.

Park Jimin is waiting dutifully at your desk when you arrive, a smug smile still slapped over your features as you sip at your coffee. Namjoon spoke to you today—how lovely.

Jimin quirks an eyebrow. 

“What’s got you so perky this morning?” 

You��re normally quiet and passive, avoiding eye contact or any semblance of emotion on your face.

You look up at the blonde bespectacled boy. Park Jimin is the closest thing to a best friend in the company. He’s who you spend time with at lunch, see on weekends, and text often. You suppose he’s the closest thing to a best friend you have in your entire life.

You send him a smirk and lean in close to whisper. “Namjoon said hi to me today!”

Jimin sends you a pitiful look and pats your shoulder. Your best friend is well aware of your secret crush and while he thinks Namjoon is a nice guy, he thinks your crush is a little hopeless. He’s the most popular guy in the office, often has dates lined up every weekend. Jimin hears the way he and his friends talk in the break room. The man is definitely not hurting for female attention.

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, unenthusiastically. “That’s great.” He can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness over how excited you’re getting from a simple ‘hello’ from a coworker.

“I know, right? Anyway, lunch today?” You ask as you settle down into your cubicle.

Jimin pushes his glasses up his face and nods. “Of course! That’s why I came by this morning. I wanted to let you know that Jungkook from marketing will join us.”

You make a face, disgust etched in the lines creasing your forehead. 

“Why?”

Jungkook is well known in the company. He’s a loudmouth, a player, a clown, and everyone’s favorite comedian. He’s just not your favorite.

“Don’t be rude,” Jimin admonishes at your grimace. “He asked to join and well—he’s cute. I can’t say no to him.”

“Oh Christ, Jimin,” you groan. “Not you too! Don’t tell me you have the hots for the serial fuckboy?”

He blushes lightly and shrugs. “Maybe I do! Be nice to him today or I’ll eat all your chocolate ice cream I know you have at home.”

You stick your tongue out, petulantly. “Fine, now let me get to work or else Seokjin will be up my ass.”

Jimin smiles and kisses your cheek before he scurries away, back to human resources.

It feels as if barely any time has passed. You’re working hard, running calculations and updating spreadsheets. You have an eye for numbers, and losing yourself in an equation is just another day for you. You’re shaken from your cheerful place by a vibration from your phone, and a text alert popping on the lit screen.

jimin 12:01 pm- it’s lunchtime!! you better get your butt out here!

You smile and text back an affirmative reply, then move to grab your lunch from the company fridge. Gliding down the steps leading to the fresh outdoors, you meet Jimin at the lunch tables in the grass.

Jimin is sitting with Jungkook. You can recognize your best friend by his hair and glasses, and Jungkook by his obnoxious laughter.

“Hi,” you murmur as you sit down and open up the brown bag lunch you’ve brought.

“Hi!” Jimin is excited to see you, and just a pinch over eager to be sitting next to Jungkook.

“You know Jungkook, right?” Jimin asks, a harsh look in his eyes that reminds you to be on your best behavior.

You nod as you pull out a bag of grapes. “Oh, yeah, hey,” you smile. “I’ve seen you around.”

Jungkook delivers you a signature smirk and you feel yourself roll your eyes internally. “Yeah, you’re Coffee Girl, right?”

You pout and glare down at your brown bag lunch. Will you ever become more than just Coffee Girl?

“Yeah, I suppose that’s me.”

Jimin clears his throat to dismiss any awkwardness. 

“So, Jungkook, I hear you like working out? ___ likes to work out too. She drags me to the gym sometimes. Maybe we could all meet up sometime?” You don’t miss the hopeful lilt in his voice. Jungkook does.

“Oh, yeah?” He narrows a sexy look at you, rather—a look he thinks is sexy that you find off-putting. “What do you do at the gym? Little cardio sets with 5 pound weights?”

What an asshole.

“Sometimes,” you state as you take a bite of the homemade salad you handcrafted last night. “Most of the time I’m lifting heavy. I can bench 275 and deadlift 300.”

Jungkook looks taken back. “What, really?” He sounds breathless. “You lift more than Namjoon-hyung.”

At the sound of the love of your life’s name, you pause. Your face heats quickly and Jungkook smirks. Of course, he recognizes this and not Jimin’s obvious flirting.

“Why are you blushing?” He asks. “Did I say something?”

You’re quick to dismiss things. “Um--no. I just um,” you’re grasping at straws. “I’m hot.”

Jimin is trying not to laugh, hiding his mouth behind a petite hand.

Jungkook tilts his head. “It’s not even sunny today.”

You gulp. “Yeah, I must be hot. With a fever. M-malaria… probably.”

Jungkook snorts. 

“You have malaria? Bummer.” He picks at his nails. “I thought for a moment you had a thing for Namjoon.”

“No!” The retort is quick, too quick for normal conversation, and it gives you away.

“Aha!” Jungkook points an accusing finger at you. “You have the hots for him, don’t you?”

Your features melt, and Jimin tries to assuage the situation. “Jungkook, please don’t tell anyone,” he pleads.

Jungkook smiles at you. “That’s so cute. It’s like a little nerdy freshman crushing on the senior class president.”

You bury your head in your hands, suddenly unable to stomach any food.

“Jungkook,” Jimin’s tone becomes more firm, authoritative. “I’m asking you this as a friend. Please, don’t say anything.”

Jungkook holds his hands up to prove his innocence and waves his proverbial white flag. 

“Secret is safe with me,” he promises. “But it’s cute. I know him really well, you know. I could try to hook you two up.”

You blanch, unsure if you want Jungkook saying anything about you to the man of your dreams. 

“I’m good, but thanks,” you offer meekly. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head back to work, okay?”

Jimin frowns, knowing you’re feeling like a cornered animal, and nods. “Feel better, babe,” he sighs.

Jungkook watches as you leave and turns to Jimin. “Man, he’s way out of her league.”

Jimin slaps the boy in the chest. “Be nice, asshole, that’s my best friend.”

Jungkook promises to be nice, and Jimin is blissfully unaware that others are listening and that the man beside him is easy to persuade.

( present day )

The company-wide meeting adjourns soon after what is likely to be the most embarrassing moment you’ve ever lived through.

You’re grabbing at your things and trying to run out of the room, desperate to get out before anyone sees you or talks to you or laughs at you.

A hand grabs at the coattails of your suit jacket and you’re pulled backwards with a yelp. You turn to seek your captor and find the concerned face of your best friend, Jimin.

“Are you okay? What the fuck just happened?”

Jimin’s concern makes it all real. Until now you could pretend you were in a fugue state, totally dissociated from reality. Now, you realize that everyone in the entire company is aware of your crush on Kim Namjoon.

You can feel your bottom lip wobble, tears threatening to spill. Jimin murmurs an ‘oh shit’ and drags you out of the large room and into the nearest bathroom. He pushes you to sit against the sink and passes you toilet paper to dab at your eyes.

“I don’t know how she found out!” you cry. “God, I feel so stupid and embarrassed.”

It incenses Jimin. He’s holding it back to ensure you’re okay, but in reality, it’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen. He’ll find who did it and punish them accordingly.

They will suffer. 

“It’s okay, babe,” he pulls you into a hug. “Everyone will forget about it soon. They’ll think it’s just a lame office joke, okay?”

You nod, feeling the slightest bit comforted by his words. 

“How could she find out, Jiminie?” You ask with a sniffle. “You’re the only person who knows.”

Jimin sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know, but they’re dead. I haven’t told any-... oh, my god,” Jimin stops suddenly. You look up at him to catch what he’s thinking.

He growls and balls his fists. 

“Jungkook knew.”

You let out a sob and bawl your eyes out into the tissue you’re holding. Jimin holds you tighter while he conjures up a hundred different ways to hurt someone and make it look like an accident.

“Don’t worry,” Jimin sighs, trying to comfort both you and himself. “I’m HR. I have to handle this. I’ll make sure they get what they deserve.”

You feel a sting of pain for Jimin. He’s been hopelessly doting on the man who spilled the beans for a few months now, even got to take him on a few dates. It was still nothing serious, but Jimin was clearly smitten.

“I’m sorry you have to do that, Chim,” you whisper. “I know how you feel about him.”

“Yeah, well,” he swallows thickly. “You’re more important than any asshole.”

Jimin holds you tight for a few minutes longer, before you clean yourself up and steel yourself. Ignore everyone, Jimin encourages. Just get to work, he says. Then you can go home and we’ll drink wine and forget about it all, he promises.

You replay his words in his head like a prayer as you walk down the corridors and towards your office. Everyone in the hallways stops to stare at you. They lean towards their friends and whisper. You hear snippets of their gossip, like “Namjoon” and “out of her league”. It drives the sharp blade lodged in your chest even further. It threatens to collapse your lungs and break your ribs.

You make it to your desk safe and sound and bury yourself in work and forcibly ignore the gawking and the stares. 

Just make it home. Just get through the day. You’re almost there.

You could do this.

You nearly make it the entire day before running into the one person you didn’t want to see, Kim Namjoon.

At the end of the day, you’re taking the stairs down to the parking garage instead of the elevator. The elevator is too busy, too many people, and you’re trying to avoid the stares and giggles at your expense. The stairs are always deserted and you figure it’s your safest bet.

You can nearly hear the wine calling your name at home. A delicate glass of Sauvignon Blanc and some chocolate ice cream and a good cry—it sounds like the best and only way to unwind after the worst day you’ve ever had in your life.

The chanting of your name gets louder and you wonder if you’ve finally lost your mind—if you’re actually hearing your wine bottles all the way at home talking to you.

No, wait. The voice is real, and coming from behind you. You turn around to face who’s calling you and nearly faint at the sight.

Kim Namjoon stands on the landing above you, one strip of stairs between you.

“Hey!” He seems glad he’s caught you. “I’ve been calling your name for a minute.”

You swallow and search for an answer. 

“Sorry, I’m-.. I guess I’m just a little out of it today.”

Namjoon grimaces. 

“Yeah, about that…” he begins as he takes the steps down to be on equal ground as you. Your heart is spinning wildly. He’s so close to you. He’s talking to you. On any other day you’d be erupting towards the sky like a firework. But today isn’t any other day.

“I feel like I should apologize,” he states. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t plan it or anything.”

Damn him and his kindness. Damn him and his cute, awkward smile.

“No, no,” you assure. “I know you didn’t. You don’t have to apologize.”

It’s hard to make eye contact with the man. You want to, know it’s important in intense conversations like this, but the thought of him seeing you—really seeing you makes you ache inside.

“It was a really shitty prank,” he begins. “I’m sure you don’t even know who I am, let alone have a crush on me.”

For the millionth time that day, your face heats to a near boil. You stammer and you’re sure you’ve blown any chance at even thinking about a date with Namjoon.

“Oh, uh, right,” you seek an answer, beg your brain to pick something to say that doesn’t make you sound stupid. “I do.”

“You do what?” He’s confused and you widen your eyes at what just left your mouth.

“I do know you! I mean, I do have a crush on you! Oh, fuck,” you shove your face into your hands. “Please, ignore that. I need to go. Sorry!” You don’t give him a chance to reply, you book it out of the stairway as fast as your heels will take you.

Today was the worst day you’ve suffered through in your life.

The next few days aren’t much better.

Not only are you “coffee girl”, you’re now also sarcastically called “Namjoon’s girl”. As much as you hate your initial title, you’d prefer it to the new one they throw at you as you walk by.

Jimin rats out Jungkook and Chungha to the bosses. They get two weeks probation and they have to write you apology letters if they wish to keep their permanent files clean of any reprimands. It’s a slap on the wrist, and everyone involved knows it. Jimin is furious and wants the boss to reconsider. You tell him not to push it. You’d rather this be over and everyone to forget it even happened. Jimin unwillingly agrees.

You’re working at your desk, earphones shoved in your ears to diffuse the gossip in the room, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn and are greeted with the face of Judas Iscariot himself, Jeon Jungkook.

“Hi,” he sounds sheepish, cheeks reddening.

You narrow your eyes at him, sharper than steel. “What the fuck do you want?”

He winces, knowing he deserved that. “Well, I just wanted to apologize. I know they told me to write you a letter, but it seems too impersonal…”. 

You can’t believe Jungkook is sucking his ego up and actually coming to you to apologize. You thought he’d for sure be the one to cop out and send a shitty letter.

He continues. 

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry that all went down. I didn’t mean to tell her. She got me drunk and said she saw me eating lunch with you and Jimin. I think she was jealous or something and it slipped out. I know that’s not an excuse. I fucked up your trust and Jimin’s trust. But I just wanted you to know I didn’t do it to be an asshole. She sort of duped me.”

You pause as you take in the man’s apology. He didn’t have to come to you in person. He could have easily taken the shitty route and half-assed a letter to you. But he didn't, and he owned up to his mistake. God dammit.

“I appreciate your apology, Jungkook,” you sigh and you see his body visibly relax. “I’m still mad, but I guess the anger is at her for doing it in the first place. I’m sorry she tricked you.”

He breathes a sigh of relief and kneels down beside you. “I’m really happy you believe me. I was worried you were going to kick me in the nuts.

“I won’t lie, I thought about it.”

He smiles with you, and you feel like this is the restart of a friendship. “I definitely deserved it.”

You shrug and smile. “Jimin would kill me for hurting you. He might even kill me for thinking about hurting you.”

Jungkook’s smile drops at the name of your best friend. Yikes. Looks like there’s still trouble in paradise.

“I think you’d be in similar company with Jimin right now. He’s not speaking to me.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Yeah, he’s a little protective of me.”

“For good reason,” he admits. “You’re like a cute little flower. A cute nerdy flower.”

“Jungkook,” you warn. “I just forgave you after I was humiliated in front of the entire company. I’d be careful with calling me nerdy right now.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

It’s hard to stay mad at the boy, no matter how much you dislike his reputation around the office. The fact that he humbled himself enough to seek you out and apologize is proof enough to you of his character.

“It’s okay, Jungkook. I forgive you,” you smile. “Thank you for apologizing.”

He rubs the back of his neck anxiously as his cheeks flare red.

“Yeah, it felt pretty shitty to just… do anything else. Plus, you seem really cool.”

“You seem great, too, Jungkook.”

He smiles and pulls you in for a hug, catching you off guard. For the fuckboy type, he’s surprisingly sensitive and soft. You like that about him.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” He says as he pulls away from you.

“Maybe you should apologize to Jimin, too?” 

His smile drops, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, maybe I’ll go find him now.”

“Good luck,” you offer with a pat on his shoulder.

With a sad smile, he turns and heads down the hallway towards the HR department. You pray Jimin shows mercy to the handsome boy.

A few weeks go by, and you’re sure that everyone has forgotten about you and your most embarrassing moment to date. You make the coffee, you calculate the numbers, everyone ignores you. Things return to relative normalcy.

Until it doesn't. The moment you think you're safe is the moment your guard comes down and everything falls apart around you.

It's when you're in the staff kitchen, grinding fresh beans to brew a second pot of coffee, that it happens.

The kitchen is fuller than usual. You normally try to wait until the lunchtime crowd dwindles and leaves to make your second pot, but you're so desperate for the caffeine that you can't find it in you to care.

You trudge into the kitchen with your handy coffee mug clutched in your tired hands and head towards the cupboards to grind up the beans.

There's a few groups of coworkers lingering in the room, and as your grinder whirs the beans around into a powder, you chance a look around to see who's among the crowd.

Your eyes flick immediately to where a hearty laugh erupts. It makes your heart still in your throat. Namjoon sits with his usual crowd of friends, hand gripping a homemade sandwich while the other assists him in telling his story to his friends. He pays you no mind—why would he?—and you can't help but stare at the way his dark brown hair lays perfectly against his forehead, and his eyes crinkle so cutely at the edges when he smiles.

You nearly forget about the coffee grounds—you're snapped out of your Namjoon-induced trance when suddenly a woman's laugh echoes around the room.

"Look at her," the voice states.

You peer up and see a girl you vaguely recognize. Is she from Marketing? Or perhaps Sales? You’re not sure, but she’s staring at you with a sneer.

“She’s so weirdly obsessed with Namjoon. It’s so creepy.”

Your face turns cherry red and you’re sure your lungs stop functioning. The air your body needs to breathe freezes and your chest aches. 

Namjoon turns to look at the girl before he looks and sees you grasping your coffee grounds tightly.

“Chungha was right—it’s so weird. Namjoon, you should talk to HR about this!”

Namjoon turns back to the gossiping coworker and frowns. “Can you leave it alone? She wasn’t even doing anything.”

The girl huffs and crosses her arms over her chest and looks back at Namjoon.

“How can you stand to be in the same room as her? She clearly thinks she has a chance with you.”

Her words come out like a bite. She punctuates her point with a harsh laugh and the group around her mumbles and chuckles in agreement.

You’re desperately grabbing at anything you can, wanting to leave as quickly as possible before you’re embarrassed further.

“Well, she does!” Namjoon replies loudly, annoyance written in his features. “I was actually going to ask her to dinner this weekend in private, but since everyone is so fucking interested in my love life, I have to do it publicly.”

The room falls silent, and your favorite mug falls out from your hands and shatters on the floor. All sets of eyes stare at you while yours widen with disbelief—you don't even care that you’re standing in a pool of old coffee and shattered ceramic. 

Namjoon stands and heads over to you, bending down to pick up the shards of your coffee mug. You take a few stunted breaths to kneel and help. 

His eyes peer into yours. They’re warm—a chocolate brown color that makes you feel safe.  

“What do you say?” He asks with a smile so gentle it nearly breaks your heart. “Will you let me take you out this weekend?” 

You’re gaping like a fish and the surrounding room is silent—bated breath waiting for your reply. 

“Yes, I would l-love that.” 

His smile turns even brighter, and he stands to throw the broken mug away. 

“I’ll email you the details, okay?”

Your head nods dumbly without thinking. His eyes sparkle as he smiles at you, and he extends his hand down to you to assist you off the floor. As your hand slips into his, you can’t help but feel how soft and strong he feels. You wonder what his hand would feel like caressing your face, smoothing down the expanse of your bare back, running down the length of your body.

The thoughts shake out of you as he winks and kisses your hand gently, causing the gossiping coworker to grunt her disapproval and for murmurs of shock to echo around the room.

“I’ll talk to you later, doll.” Namjoon winks at you before he grabs his sandwich and leaves the room, gesturing to his crew to follow along.

The place on your hand felt warm where his lips once lingered. You no longer cared about the angry glares from the rest of your coworkers. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, and you leave the kitchen nearly floating on cloud nine.

Email from: Kim Namjoon

Sent: 3:06 pm

Subject: Hey good lookin ;)

Hey! 

Just wanted to see how you are! I’m sorry about what happened at lunchtime. That was super petty and uncalled for. I really wanted to ask you out, and I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much by doing it in front of everyone.

I was wondering if you’d like to go out this Friday night after work? Say around 7? If you send me your address, I’ll pick you up.

Let me know!

Xoxo, Joon

You’re sure if you weren’t sitting in your tiny cubicle, you’d be screaming your lungs out.

The second the notification of the email came through, direct from the man of your desires himself, your body froze.

You re-read the message, over and over and over.  

The winky emoji, the xoxo, the nickname ‘joon’. It’s all so much and makes the grin on your face threaten to split your lips in half.

Your fingers press the “FWD” button and you quickly send the message to Jimin, before you stand demurely, attempting to give off an air of professional confidence. You need to talk to Jimin, now.

As soon as you’re out of the eyesight of suspicious coworkers, you bolt down the hallway towards Human Resources. Your high heels click loudly on the tiled floor, but the sound doesn’t even register in your mind. All you can think about is Namjoon, the email, the press of his lips on your hand, the way his smile made you feel as if you could fly.  

The door to HR swings open with your tight grip around the doorknob, and you open your mouth to call to Jimin, the lone employee, when you’re startled by the sight ahead of you.

Jimin sits on the edge of his expansive desk with his arms thrown around Jungkook’s neck and is clearly engaged in a deep, sensual kiss. At the sound of the door opening, they quickly break apart, with matching cherry red blushes on their cheeks and mused hair.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp. 

The men are silent and you can’t help but giggle after a moment passes. “I’ll take it you two made up?”

Jungkook flashes you a dopey grin, one that gives you an answer, while Jimin smirks haughtily.

“Jungkook and I were just discussing, umm… his 401k.”

Jungkook looks at the blonde boy for a moment, confused, before he gets it. “Yeah! Totally. Retirement. Love to t-talk about it?”

You laugh out loud and walk towards the couple.

“I’m sure it was a titillating discussion,” you tease. “I have good news though, if it’s okay to interrupt this retirement planning session.”

Jimin nods and Jungkook rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess I should leave?”

“It’s okay,” you smile. “I trust you.”

Jungkook smiles as if he’s just won the lottery. He looks between you and Jimin, face pure and excited like a puppy.

“What’s up?” Jimin asks as he moves to sit down at his desk.

“I forwarded you an email. Read it.”

Jimin nods and logs on to his posh computer, scrolling and clicking before narrowing his eyes and reading.

“Oh, my god.” Jimin’s face is shocked—it's written all over his features. “Namjoon asked you out?!”

Jungkook’s child-like grin turns into one of shock himself. He runs around to stand behind Jimin, eyes seeking over the words of the email.

“Well, hot damn,” Jungkook whistles. “He asked her out.”

Jimin exchanges a look with Jungkook, one that you’re not sure you can read. It quickly slips your mind, however, as you’re more focused on the task at hand.

“Can you come over tonight after work and help me pick out something to wear?” You ask excitedly.

Jimin smiles at you, a touch of sadness in his eyes, before he nods.

“Of course, babe,” he assures. “We’ll make sure you look nice and hot for the date with Mr. Kim.”

“Thank you!” You squeal as you wrap your arms around your best friend. He hugs you back before you scurry out of the office and back to your cubicle, itching to reply to the message.

Jimin sighs as the door to his office closes behind you.

“Kook, please don’t tell me he’s going to break her heart. He’s asking her out to make himself feel better about this, isn’t he?” 

Jungkook slips his hand into Jimin’s and squeezes. 

“I’ll find out, baby.”

Jimin smiles and nods appreciatively at the boy, before leaning up and kissing him.

Jungkook smiles against his lips, and is determined to ensure the young HR specialist never hates him again, even if he has to go behind his hyung’s back to ensure his new boyfriend’s happiness.

Jungkook has one mission now, and that’s ensuring Namjoon takes you on the greatest date known to man.

He grills Jimin with questions about what you like over dinner one night. Jimin finds it endearing that Jungkook is so eager to rectify his mistakes, but he still can’t help but worry that Namjoon is doing this to save face—not because he actually likes you.

“So, what does she like doing?” Jungkook asks as he spins his pasta around his chopsticks idly.

Jimin smiles as he takes a bite of the ramen Jungkook has thoughtfully prepared for their stay-at-home date.  

“I’ve told you already! She’s easy to figure out.” Jimin pats Jungkook’s hand gently. “She loves cooking and baking, working out, daydreaming about Namjoon.” 

“Cooking, hm,” Jungkook looks thoughtful as he takes a bite. “I think Namjoon can work with that. I’ll let him know!”

Jimin tries to hide the anxiety brewing in his stomach. He’s had to plaster on a fake smile for you while you tried on different outfits, wondering which will be the one to finally convince Namjoon he is the one for you. It’s hard to fake it around his boyfriend, too—but something tugs in his stomach that flares the cynical side of him.

Namjoon went from not knowing of your existence, to watching you get publicly embarrassed in a matter of minutes. While Namjoon isn’t a terrible guy, Jimin knows he doesn’t like anything to tarnish the gentleman reputation he’s built in the office. And as much as Jimin likes him, and surely likes his friend Jungkook, he can’t help but feel skeptical.

Jungkook hurriedly pulls out his phone and types away, letting his elder friend know of what he’s found out. Jimin swallows his food, and his pride, and hopes to god his growing cynicism is wrong.

Friday comes slower than you’d like. You wake up every day during the week, one day closer, and your eagerness hits peak levels. Namjoon sees you in the hallways during the week and winks at you, hands shoved in his tight slacks that make you salivate.  

He emails you again Thursday afternoon, confirming things and getting your address. You reply in nanoseconds, uncaring how overeager you come off. 

By the time your alarm clock rings on Friday morning, you’ve already been awake for 4 hours.

All you can do is daydream about the date, the way his hand fits into yours, the warmth of his eyes when he smiles at you.

It’s what fuels you through work.

You hope to god the numbers you’re attempting to work during the day come out right, because your mind is elsewhere for more than most of the day. There isn’t enough coffee in the world, but also your body feels as if you’ve overdosed on caffeine already.

The clock eeks towards 5:00 pm and you’re bolting out the door at 4:56 to head home and get ready for your date.

Jimin attempts to meet you before you leave, but your desk is cold and empty by the time he gets there.  

He sighs and heads back towards his office to gather his things, waving bye to various coworkers as they file out of the corporate building.

He turns the corner towards his office but stops in his tracks as he sees Namjoon’s back to him, phone pressed to his ear.

“Baby, I’ll come over later tonight, okay?” Namjoon speaks into the phone.

Jimin feels his heart fall into the pit of his stomach. He retreats and hides behind a wall, ear carefully peeled to listen to the tall man’s conversation.

“I’m going on this date with that chick from work,” he sighs. “It won’t last more than a few hours. Poor girl has a crush on me and you know the usual assholes won’t leave her alone.”

Jimin bites his lip and clenches his fist. Namjoon thinks he means well, but he knows his suspicions have been confirmed, and he’s torn inside. He wants to tell you, to warn you not to get too invested in the man, but he also has no interest in popping the bubble you’ve been in since the day he asked you out.

Jimin lets it simmer for now. He decides he’ll monitor Namjoon and cut things off if it appears the man strings you along for fun.

Namjoon finishes his phone call with a promise to see whoever is on the other end of the phone later that night, and Jimin quickly pulls out his phone and fakes a conversation with no one when he hears the man approach.

“Oh, Kookie,” Jimin giggles, leaning against the wall casually. “I can’t wait to see you tonight, either, babe.”

Namjoon walks towards Jimin and makes eye contact with the HR specialist.

“Bye, Kook! See you tonight, baby.” Jimin finishes up the fake phone call as Namjoon arrives next to him, and he plasters on his best fake smile.

“Congrats on you and Jungkook,” he speaks sincerely.

Jimin hates how nice he is, hates that he’s a nice guy who gets too wrapped up in his own good looks and reputation.

“Thanks, Namjoon,” Jimin smiles uneasily. “You too! Have fun on your date tonight.”

Namjoon’s face lights up and Jimin desperately wishes he could go back in time to 30 seconds ago, before he heard the conversation, and believe that Namjoon truly wanted to date you.

“Thanks, should be fun, huh?” He winks and nudges Jimin, before he waves a goodbye and continues out the door.

Jimin pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials the number of his boyfriend.

“Hey, baby. We’ve got a problem.”

tag list! - @jimidol @aretha170 @dearbambideer​ 

[cinnamonest]

//extra toxic fuckboy behaviors especially at the end, impreg, slutshaming, blackmail, mildly sexist But anyway instead of Childe drugging post have Childe drunk sex post Childe with a cute fem subordinate darling. The thing is, he doesn't actually drug you, per se. It's a little more deceptive than that -- you're certainly under the influence, though. Like Kaeya, he's only doing this if he's reached a point where he's desperate. You've turned him down over and over, he's tried everything he can to get you to fuck him and you won't. He's frustrated and blueballed and that's a very unfortunate combination for poor darling, because he's considerably less nice when he's frustrated. But that's what you deserve. If you were good and just let him fuck you all those times he tried before -- and believe him, he tried a LOT -- then this wouldn't have to happen. He tried so many times, and he tried everything he knows! All the lines he rehearsed in his head didn't work, and he came on pretty heavy, leaving him just feeling sad and bitter. Obviously you want him, how could you not, so he’s just doing something wrong. He's your superior, he could just, dunno, demand it? But that would feel kinda emasculating, to be honest, at least, more so than the plan he does settle on. And that's why you won't be knocked out, not all the way. He's very particular about it. He doesn't have anything against this morally, no, it's normalized to him, and it's not like he'd get in trouble. Granted, he has plenty of drugs available. It's pretty well known that the Fatui guys do this kind of thing pretty frequently, the men go in groups to taverns in Mondstadt and pick through girls and even some young guys to find the most naive and gullible to spike and lure away when they start swaying. Luckily for those, at least, it's a one time ordeal they can forget and move on from, but you aren't going to be so lucky. Nor does he need to drug you to get what he wants. He thinks you're a little stupid, really. You accept his invitation so quickly. Camped out in the wilderness with nothing but liquor and your own two selves. For a moment, it occurs to him he doesn't even need to put you under the influence, he could just force you right here and you couldn't do a thing. Still, he did have to pay a bit to get this nice stuff, so he might as well, and he can't afford you screaming and drawing attention from a potential passerby. So he watches you take the cup designated as yours, and before you can even take a moment to question or doubt, he challenges you. You can't outdrink him, he says. Bet you're a lightweight. You'd probably get sick a few shots in. Where he's from, people actually know how to hold their alcohol, unlike you weak-livered people. And of course, you scoff, you fold your arms, you insist he's wrong, just as he knew you would, just as he hoped you would. And he just smiles at you. Ok, prove it then. You glare back and say you're on. You don't question that he's pouring out of two separate flasks. You can't see the color difference between the liquids in the darkness of the night sky, nor the grimace on his face as he drinks -- maybe he should have brought water from the town rather than filling his flask out of the river, yuck. Your determined face is so cute. Your eyelids start to get heavy. You scrunch your face as your blink and try to stay alert. You drop one of your shots on the ground and he smiles and says maybe you should just accept defeat. You shake your head and keep going. Admittedly, he's actually a bit impressed, you got more than he thought you would by the time you finally drop the glass for good and slump on the ground. Whew. About time, he was starting to get sick of drinking so much water. And you do twitch a bit, open your eyes and stumble around and mutter something about not accepting defeat, you'll prove him wrong, but he just laughs and picks you up and drags you into the tent with ease. He likes it when you're not blacked out all the way. That's why drugging you would have been no fun. This way, your eyes open just a bit, heavily lidded and blinking, you mumble out incoherent words. You protest just a bit when you feel your clothes slide off -- what are you... but you don't finish the question. He's a good guy, really, he cares about you, which is why he does a quick check and feels your skin to make sure you're not actually under any alcohol poisoning or something, but your skin is warm and dry, not clammy. Good, now you can get to the good part. He thinks about how grateful you should be. His friends and subordinates even have teased him for the longest time because he won't just go out with them to try to get lucky somewhere or participate in their drugging of randoms, no, he's whipped, they snicker, obsessed with this one little bitch that just won't put out. He can't say they're wrong, and that irritates him even more that you humiliated him like that. Which is why this isn't just a one time thing, no, this is part of the plan. He talks to you while he fucks you, maybe you'll remember some of it, maybe not. Actually, hopefully not everything, since he more or less admits how desperate he is in his lust-hazed rambling, how much it's irritated him that you wouldn't just be his and let him fuck you. Why can't you just admit you like him? Why do you have to play hard to get? He rambles about how soft your body is. How good pussy really does feel, holy shit, those guys were right, it's so warm and grips his dick so nicely. Not that he'd limit himself to that, while he's got you like this he might as well put his dick in your limp mouth, but admittedly he imagines that would feel a lot better if you were awake and actually sucking on it. Your mouth moves just a bit, and in your nearly-blacked-out state your tongue runs over the intrusion and you let out the softest confused little sound, but that's all you do. But he makes sure to breed you, cumming several times, all deep deep deep inside of your tight cunt. Again, part of the plan. Just not the most important part of the plan. The most important part is the kamera. It captures moment after moment. The first round he just leaves it aside, takes time to really just live in this sweet, precious moment... and then he breaks the kamera out. Gets all the nice shots with his dick in your holes. Gets a few full body ones, makes sure it's unmistakable as you. Captures your cute drunk face, with your eyes open just a bit, it looks like you're just awake but eyes lidded from arousal. You look awake. Willing. And so, when he finally goes to sleep, he does so very very happily and confident. And when you wake up, he was so rough that there's absolutely no doubt as to what transpired. Your throat and pussy are sore as hell, you're both naked in bed and his cum is still leaking out of you. The regret and shame comes crashing down, holy shit, you slept with your boss that's been trying to fuck you for ages now and your life is over. You'll have to transfer or something. But then... you know you drank on your own choice, but something feels... wrong. He's heavily snoring away, so in morning light you spot the flasks from last night. Your head is pounding, but you make your way over to the first one, and take a swig and spit it back out, yeah, that's the stuff you had... and then take a swig from the other... and when you taste water it all clicks. Bastard. You shake him awake in fury and immediately start telling him off, cursing and snarling. He was half expecting that, to be honest. Sure, obviously you want him, but he gets that you'd be a little mad over the way you got what you wanted, and you’re just embarrassed because you were so dumb, you're just hysterical like that. And you’re just naturally ashamed after fucking, like most girls apparently are, he gets that. But he just smiles and laughs in your face. It cuts deep, it's like a knife in your stomach, because you know why. He's untouchable, even if people believed you, nothing will happen to him, and he knows that. He has nothing to fear. You grit your teeth and your eyes tear up and your lip quivers and you finally drop your head and sniffle, asking him to just take me back. You'll quit, transfer to another department, and then, you tell him bitterly, I'll never have to see you again, at least. And that's what makes his smile drop. You're not gonna do that, he says. Your eyes widen with some new horror when you see the pictures. He talks to you like a child, in that dumb oversimplified way of speech, it's degrading and dehumanizing. Explains that this is how it's gonna go. You're gonna keep being his little subordinate. You're gonna be his girlfriend, publicly. And you're gonna fuck him whenever he wants. If you decide you don't like that, the entire branch, hell, the entire organization sees these photos. You have a very easy, simple choice. It's up to you to decide what happens. Oh, and you're probably pregnant, by the way, he timed this whole thing based on that calendar you keep that he snuck a look at. Would hate for you to have to deal with that on your own, right? People do envy you, down the line. How easy your job must be, since you're nothing more than an assistant now. Everyone knows you're just fucking the boss, that's probably how you got that position in the first place, right? And it's not like he doesn't make it obvious. Whenever he gets with the group of guys at his own level, when they all start saying horrendous things about the women they work with and sharing over-embellished tales as men do, he has plenty of very detailed stories to brag about the cute girlfriend he has. How she drops to her knees at any given moment, and how good and tight she is, and how eager she is, how much she loves fucking him, worships him, he's not like the pathetic bastards that have to go drug some poor unsuspecting thing once a month or so, no, he can get all the sweet, devoted pussy he wants at any time. He has the pictures to prove it! They roll their eyes because they've seen the pictures a hundred times now, everyone has, he shows every guy he works with, and they all know not to tell her that they've seen them. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter, she'd be dumb to leave him this late into pregnancy anyway.

[heliads]

Deserve You

Based on this request: “Bucky imagine where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good at all for him even though he loves you more than anything. one time he comes from a mission to you waiting in his room, doubting again but he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then? :)”

masterlist

You open your eyes gradually, the last remnants of sleep being dragged away by the brightness of dawn. You allow yourself one final moment of lingering silence before sitting up with a yawn. A brief spurt of panic flashes across you when you realize that you’re alone in your bed, but then you hear a quiet noise from the kitchen and your pulse begins to settle once more. Bucky must have already gotten up, there’s no need to worry.

You keep having moments like this, where you turn to find yourself alone and keep thinking that this is it, that he’s finally left you. Then you mentally chide yourself for thinking that way- every single one of the Avengers that you’ve met on your trips to the old Stark Tower keeps talking about how Bucky’s head over heels for you, so why would he ghost you out of nowhere? You always smile for a second, thinking about your boyfriend, and then the doubt creeps back in and you glance around to find him. Every single time, without fail, those lurking remnants of doubt always worm back into your mind, and sometimes it feels like there’s nothing you can do to get rid of them.

The only available option is to find Bucky and put your mind at ease by knowing that he’s still here. So, you slide your legs out of the still-warm blankets, grimacing at the shock of the cold air, and pad over to the kitchen. Sure enough, Bucky is holding a mug of some hot beverage, maybe coffee or tea, and staring out the window at the city below him. He does this, sometimes, just watches the city like he could do it for hours. You have a feeling that he’s studying the city for any last lingering resemblance to the New York he’d grown up in, when the most pressing news was World War II and he didn’t see himself in Siberia for anything more than a ski trip, if he could put together enough pennies to afford it. However, life has a way of throwing you for a loop, and all of Bucky’s plans for the future evaporated as soon as he plummeted from the train all those years ago.

Bucky turns when he hears you approach. “Good morning.” You smile, joining him by the window. “Good morning yourself. Are you up early for an assignment or because of a nightmare?” Bucky frowns. “The latter. Did I wake you? I thought I was quiet.” You shake your head. “No, I was asleep the whole time. I just knew because you have that same look on your face after you have your nightmares.” Bucky laughs quietly. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the spy who knew everything. Sure you don’t want a job at S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not sure that paying attention to my boyfriend really qualifies me for FBI: Avengers Edition, but I’ll keep it in mind.” You head over to the fridge, starting to pull out some items for breakfast. Bucky leaves within a few minutes, mumbling something about an early morning meeting, and you head to work yourself soon after. Your own workplace is no Avengers Tower, just a typical office building, and you slide into your seat just in time to start the day.

The morning itself is fairly uneventful, and you’re just starting to think that it’s going to be another boring day as usual when you head off to your lunch break. As you’re waiting in line to use the microwave, you hear a pair of women talking at a table near you. You had no intention of eavesdropping, but although their voices are fairly loud your attention was hooked from the beginning when you realize they’re talking about Bucky. More specifically, they’re talking about Bucky’s girlfriend, or lack thereof.

Ever since you started dating Bucky, he had been careful to keep you out of the public eye. When you work as an Avenger for long enough, you learn to keep everyone important to you out of focus, out of danger. If a HYDRA agent got word of the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend, you’d be on a train to Siberia with handcuffs and a blindfold within the hour, a ransom request already placed on your head. That’s if they were patient- if not, they would just shoot you to send a message. By making sure nobody heard about you, Bucky could keep you safe.

The downside of this is times like now, when you have to listen to two of your coworkers discussing how strange it is that a man as attractive as James Barnes would still be single. Obviously, you can’t say anything, and you’re not sure that they’d believe you if you tried, but it’s still slightly uncomfortable to hear the conversation swirling around you even as you have to stay silent. 

One of the women clicks her tongue in confusion. “I mean, isn’t it weird, though? He’s a friend of Tony Stark, there’s no doubt he’d have a shortage of girls who’d be willing to go out to a bar or something on a weekend.” The other woman laughs. “I bet that surplus of girls includes you, right?” The first woman grins cheekily. “I wouldn’t say no if he asked, but even I don’t have a chance. I mean, he’s an Avenger, and one of the hottest ones there. No one here could hold a candle to him. He saves lives on a daily basis and what do we do, sit around all the time? The only woman I could see him with is an agent or maybe Black Widow. At least then he’d be dating someone who’s his equal.”

The words feel like shards of ice threading through your heart, and you turn to go back to your desk, hunger suddenly forgotten. As you stare at your work, though, you find you can’t concentrate. You keep hearing what the women had said, that no one in this miserable office could be worthy of dating the famous Avenger Bucky Barnes. They’re right, aren’t they? Bucky was saving lives all the time while you complained and acted so needy. You sigh to yourself, feeling your spirits dampen by the second. Why did Bucky see in you anyway?

Bucky’s shoulders feel like they’ve been carved from stone. He’s been tense for so long that he’s certain he’ll never be able to move again. Today is the day that he has to begin reviewing case files from his time as a Winter Soldier. He’ll have to come face to face with photo and video evidence of all the wrongs he’s done, of all the killings and blood shed by his own damaged hands. He’s been trying to avoid it for a while, but S.H.I.E.L.D. needs his input on all of the past Winter Soldier missions in order to proceed with the ongoing investigations into the last HYDRA strongholds. Bucky has no choice but to confront his past, he knows that, but it doesn’t make his job any easier.

It’s not like he’s alone, though. Natasha is here, because her experience with the Red Room could prove useful with putting together some pieces of the HYDRA-Siberia-Soviet puzzle that’s been plaguing them for some time now. Steve is also here, one door down, looking at his old medical files that detail exactly how some brilliant scientists turned a scrawny kid with a death wish when it came to standing up to bullies into the strongest man of the century. 

Bucky clenches his jaw, and turns back to the manila file folder in his hand. He flips it open, taking out the diagrams and security camera stills and laying them out onto the table before him as he reads. He’s flipping through the rest of the contents of the folder when he pauses, staring at the images awaiting his acknowledgement. Natasha sees him freeze slightly and glances over to see what’s troubling him. Her brow dips in understanding.

Lying before him are photo after photo of death and destruction. Bucky remembers this day now, after it was buried so long under HYDRA mind wipes and his own crippling want to forget. The bodies of the dead line a small street, buildings reduced to rubble. He can see the dead, so many of them. There aren’t just the few military commanders he was sent to exterminate- no, HYDRA wants no witnesses and so Bucky had killed everyone in sight. There are children in pools of blood, their mothers reaching over them as if to shield them from the inevitable bullets coming their way. He tells himself that their deaths were quick, efficient, maybe even painless, but it is not enough. There is no way to justify this amount of bloodshed.

Natasha puts her hand on his shoulder. The gesture, meant to bring comfort, startles him and it takes all of Bucky’s self-control to not flinch. Bucky swallows hard. “I did all of this. I killed every one of them.” Natasha’s voice is low and quiet. “It wasn’t you. You had no choice in any of this.” Bucky laughs, thought it is heavy with horror and breaks in upon itself. “It’s easier to say that, but it was still my hand pulling the trigger.” He leans back against the wall, trying to steady himself.

“How were you and Steve able to convince anyone to trust me? Why did you even want to save me in the first place?” Natasha stares at the photos, taking in the broken bodies of the dead. “Steve knew the real you, the one who’s standing here right now and would never attempt this sort of carnage. I knew what it was like to lose all control and feel like your hands would always be stained with blood. Second chances are more powerful than you might think.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly. “I don’t deserve that chance. I don’t deserve any of this.” He closes his eyes for just a second as if by blocking out the world he can block out the memory of the methodical shudder of the rifle in his hands, the recoil as he fired again and again. “I don’t deserve Y/N. She-” Natasha cuts him off smoothly. “Y/N knows what you’ve been through, and she knows that you are not that same man. I’ve spoken with her before, and she knows the full extent of what you did.”

Bucky’s eyes cut back to the photographs. “Then why does she stay?” Natasha’s gaze feels like a leaden weight, unflinching and unyielding. “She stays because she loves you. She stays because she knows that the real Bucky Barnes is a hero, someone who is willing and able to move on from their past. Y/N is one of the most important parts of your life, not because she’s a good kisser but because she’s one of the only people who can see straight through you and know that you’re a good man.” 

Bucky nods. “I don’t need you to tell me twice.” Natasha’s right, though, and even the barest mention of Y/N brings back a wave of good memories to fight against the bad. She’s like an anchor, someone holding him in place even when all of the darkness he’s had to endure threatens to pull him under. It astonishes him sometimes that he still wakes up beside her every morning. She’s so perfect, so wonderful. What does Y/N see in him anyway that would make him so lucky to have her with him?

You’re in a despondent mood for the rest of the day. You slump home, not even bothering to turn on the lights but discarding your coat and bag in the dark of the room. The faint light still shining through the windows is all you’ll need. You stare unthinkingly at the apartment for a while, then head to your bedroom. As you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, you stop with a sigh, leaning your hands against the dresser underneath.

You stare at yourself, at the dark circles under your eyes. Who are you, anyway? Who are you to think that you would ever be good enough for an Avenger? At this point, it’s only a matter of days before he breaks up with you. No wonder he keeps waking up before you- he’s trying to leave without seeing you that often, as a way to lessen the blow of the eventual goodbye.

The problem about gloomy thoughts is that they tend to wrap around you, pulling you away from everything else. You’re so distracted that you don’t hear the front door open, and you don’t notice Bucky enter the apartment until he knocks softly on the wall of your bedroom as he stands in the open door. You turn around with a flash, plastering on a smile, but your reaction is too late and his brow furrows. “Are you alright?”

You try for a smile, reaching out to kiss him in greeting. “Of course I am. How was your day?” Bucky is not to be deterred. “I saw your face, Y/N. You looked really upset. Is everything okay?” Maybe it’s that velvet tone of his, or the concern laced in his eyes, but your few fragile defenses break down. You turn to him, fighting back tears. “Why are you still with me?” Bucky frowns. “What?” You hold your hands up uselessly. “You’re an Avenger and you’re out there saving lives all the time. Why would you ever be interested in some girl from the city? I’m not half the person you are.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, then wraps his arms around you, drawing you close. “Y/N, love, why would you ever think that?” You look away. “Because it’s true. You should be dating some other superhero of a woman who could be your equal.” Bucky’s frown tinges slightly with anger. “Did you hear about this on some news show? I told that one news outlet that if they said a single thing about me I’d shut them down, and I’ll do it-” You cut him off. “It’s not like that. It’s just- You’re an Avenger, Bucky, and you deserve someone equally as brave as you are.”

Bucky guides you gently over to the bed, and the two of you sit down on the edge. He pulls you into his arms. “I don’t want some superhero. I want you. Y/N, I love you because you’re the only one here who sees me for who I really am, not just some soulless Avenger but a faulty person. Honestly, if anything I’m surprised that you’d still stay with me.” Your tears dry up as you stare at him. “What?” A quiet smile spreads across Bucky’s lips. “Every single day, I come home and you make a difficult day a thousand times better. You know me better than I know myself, and even despite everything I’ve done and the monster I’ve been, you still make me feel like a good man again. You’re one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met, Y/N, and you deserve someone equally as good as you are.”

You shake your head slowly. “That’s not the same. Anyone can be nice.” Bucky cups your cheek in his hand. “Nobody else knows that I always get up in the mornings and pace around because of the nightmares. Nobody else knows that I always stare down the alleyways on the walk home because I keep thinking I’ll see Steve in there getting beat up, or help me pick out jackets based on how easy it will be to remove the left sleeve. You’re the only one for me, doll, and I wouldn’t trade you for a heartbeat.”

He reaches into a pocket. “Here, I’ll prove it.” He takes out something silvery, like stamped metal. With a jolt, you realize they’re his dog tags, the ones he had from fighting in World War II all those years ago. He gestures for you to turn around and you do, feeling the weight of the metal around your throat as he fastens them. When you look back at him, he’s smiling. “See? You can’t get rid of me, love. Not in a million years.” 

You smile, running your fingers over the faded lettering. “Won’t you want them? You know, as a memory of your old life?” Bucky shakes his head, a content expression lingering in his eyes. “I don’t need them to remember. I’ve got you, and you’re the only home I’ll ever need.” When he kisses you again, you can feel the dog tags right over your heart, like a promise that he’ll always be with you, no matter what.

[animeomegas]

Omega!Sasuke - Domestic headcanons

Anon: I love your omega sasuke writings!! Their sooo cutee!Could I ask for fluffy domestic headcannons with omega sasuke and his mate pleeasee!

(Thank you so much! My omega!Sasuke writings have become something of a feature of this blog heehee. This ask is the oldest one I have, so I apologise for the wait <3<3 Enjoy)

Warnings: None.

Sasuke is not the most domestically skilled (although he’s not bad either), but he is definitely a homebody.

Sasuke is just the happiest when he’s at home. There’s no pressure, no judgement, no expectation, and for those reasons, it’s his favourite place to be.

And to share that space with someone he loves and cherishes makes him very happy. 

I want to write this by taking a look at a perfect day at home when neither Sasuke nor his mate has to work. 

Morning

Sasuke has always been an early riser. Never in his life has he been able to sleep in. Whether it was following his brother around, training, nightmares, or missions, Sasuke considers 7:30 am a lie in. Most people disagree with him. 

But something that has changed compared to all those times, is that now he likes to spend a few extra minutes in bed, taking in his alpha’s scent, and revelling in the warmth of another person. (He also sometimes leaves a few kisses on his alpha’s face but will deny it if he’s caught.)

Sasuke gets out of bed, gets dressed and goes downstairs silently. He always makes a pot of tea. 

Sasuke finds a great interest in tea as he gets older. He enjoys finding rare blends and brings back tea whenever he goes travelling. 

He sits and enjoys his tea on the porch in the peace and quiet of the early morning.

When he’s done, he waters the plants in your garden, mainly tomato plants.

He had started a small tomato garden after prompting from you and his therapist. Sasuke thought it was stupid, but you convinced him to give it a shot. After experiencing so much death, curating life was like a breath of fresh air. 

As an introvert, Sasuke enjoys spending this time by himself in the mornings.

When he’s done, he heads back into the kitchen and starts to cook breakfast for the both of you. 

And he can never keep the smile off his face when he feels your arms snake around his waist.

“Morning,” you whispered, leaning you head on Sasuke’s shoulder and watching him fry some fish. 

“Morning.”

“Did you sleep okay?” 

Sasuke hummed in the positive as you started to place kisses on his neck. You buried your face into his neck and took a deep breath. Sasuke huffed and pushed your face away.

“Go be useful and lay the table.”

You laughed and pulled away from him to do as you were asked, but not before giving him a slap on the behind. Sasuke rolled his eyes at your behaviour and swatted you away.  

Sasuke is the sort of cook who is very good at cooking a small collection of meals and as such, tends to lean towards traditional meals, the kind his mother used to make for him. For breakfast, he always makes fish, rice and miso soup.

You both always eat breakfast at your dining table. If you ever suggest eating it in bed or on the sofa, Sasuke will judge you heavily. He’s a dining room table only kind of guy.

Sasuke is very traditional in a lot of ways, and his mother and father always taught him that meals were eaten at a table.

 Afternoon:

The afternoon, the perfect time for errands and cleaning. According to Sasuke, anyway.  

As long as he doesn’t bump into anyone he knows, he actually finds running errands pretty relaxing.

Unfortunately, he almost always bumps into someone he knows, so you’re on errand duty, and Sasuke will stay safe inside his own house and clean.

He gives you a list of things to pick up. The list is very extensive and specific. And Sasuke will be grumpy if you buy the wrong kind of thing.

While Sasuke doesn’t have the largest repertoire of meals he can cook, he’s very good at cleaning.

He likes to keep a minimalist, traditional style, very similar to the style of the house he grew up in. This style only works with a tidy and clean house.

Sasuke gets stressed if his home space is messy, so he tidies and cleans every day unless he’s on a mission.

If he is on a mission and the house isn’t at least mostly clean when he gets back, he gets salty about it.

 “Sasuke!” you called out. “I’m back, can you help me with the bags?”

 He immediately shunshined next to you.

 You swore in surprise, dropping the bags that you had cradled in your arms.

 Sasuke was unperturbed, catching them smoothly with a muttered, “Don’t drop the bags,” before sweeping them into the kitchens.

 You stared after him from a moment.

 “’Don’t drop the bags’,” you mocked him under your breath.

 “I heard that.”

 You ignored him, walking into the perfectly clean kitchen. He managed to clean everything before you were done shopping? You shook your head in disbelief. Before you lived together, you would never have pegged Sasuke as the neat freak type, but he absolutely was. You can still remember the horror on his face when you spilled wine all over the tatami mats in your bedroom. You laughed lightly at the memory.

 “Did you pick up the aubergines?” Sasuke asked, rifling through the bags.

 “Yes, of course.”

 “And the green tea?”

 You huffed out a laugh and rolled your eyes.

 “I got everything you put on the list, Sasuke, I promise,” you put your hands on his shoulders, leaning down to kiss him to shut up his nagging.

 Sasuke sighed quietly into the kiss, bring his arms up to wrap around your waist.  Eventually, you broke the kiss, but continued to rest your forehead against Sasuke’s.

 “The house looks amazing by the way, thanks for cleaning it,” you whispered.

 “If it was up to you, we’d live in squalor, so someone has to do it,” he grumbled, trying to cover up the pleased blush covering his face at your compliment.

 You just shook your head, leaning down to steal another kiss from your grumpy husband.

 Evening:

Evenings with Sasuke are very calm.

He enjoys an evening of coexisting while working on different tasks.

Maybe you’re sewing something and Sasuke is reading a book, his head on your lap.

Or perhaps you decide to do some writing while Sasuke gets some work done, shoulder brushing together.

He’s not one for talking, but casual physical affection with his alpha is something Sasuke loves.

Evenings like this after long missions, Sasuke often falls asleep on your shoulder, leaning instinctively into the warmth and comforting smell.

If he’s in a good mood, sometimes you can hear a few purrs escape, which is the cutest thing ever of course.

Sasuke’s purr is very quiet generally, but it’s a lovely sound. Every time he does it, it just fills you with a warm feeling.

Peaceful coexistence really it Sasuke’s bread and butter.

 You sat as still as possible on the sofa, supressing a smile as you felt Sasuke’s head get heavier and heavier on your shoulder. He was falling asleep.

 When you had first met, he wouldn’t have trusted you to tell him the time correctly, but now? Now, simply being in your presence put him at ease enough that he simply fell asleep.

 You turned ever so slightly to press a gentle kiss to his head. His hair was still slightly damp from his bath. He smelt clean and a little sweeter than normal. Sasuke had tried out a new shampoo when the shop had run out of his favourite one. You made a note to tell him that you preferred this one; it mingled much better with his natural scent.

 You looked out the window briefly, noting how dark it had become. You had to get yourself and Sasuke into bed soon, but you just didn’t have the heart to wake him up.

 The silence was suddenly broken by a quiet purring sound.

 Sasuke was purring into your neck.

 Well, now you definitely couldn’t wake him up.

 You could feel the vibrations from Sasuke’s chest on your arms, while his steady breathing tickled the hairs on your neck. You sighed in resignation. Guess you were stuck here for a little longer, not that you were complaining, of course.

 You grabbed a book from the side table to entertain yourself while Sasuke slept peacefully on your shoulder. Peaceful rest didn’t come often for Sasuke, so you weren’t going to be the one to ruin it.

[gretagerwigsmuse]

every single time i go into a mild panic wondering what horrors will befall on my dear bradley and anya - but alas! merry christmas the war is (almost) over! and now i can panic that anya is going to be stuck behind the iron curtain or suffer from memory loss from that cliffhanger or bradley’s one of the unlucky boys to head to the pacific before the war ends on that front too 🫡 god i wish i didn’t know this much about wwii and the cold war because my mind is SPINNING?! anyway i have more thoughts before, lovely as always! 💕

At least he’s no longer grounded, but he hasn’t felt like himself since returning to England. It’s like Bradley woke up, and reality wrapped around him like a coat he had outgrown — constricting his movements, leaving him uncomfortable in his own skin. He can forget that only when he flies, at least for a moment. - the last line hurt my heart!! bradley my sweet boy! you’re without your other half, that’s why you feel uncomfortable in your own skin. i’m still thinking about how the mean raf guy reduced bradley and anya’s relationship to a sentence and didn’t even use her name

Everyone is doing their own part — their own small resistance. There was no discussion; there was no structure or organization. Just a hope that every little bit helps bring the war to an earlier end as the Allies and Soviets are approaching. - okay this is the wrong war, but i got major doctor zhivago vibes from this section of anya’s life in the factory. like just being so so cold and weary and tired and the threat of something worse(?) coming, and being forced to work in the factory and sabotaging the nazis in any way they can?

Far from any sea or ocean, Bradley wouldn’t be there, but — and you hate yourself for hoping it so fiercely — maybe you could ask someone to contact him? Tell you where to send a letter. If only to find out that he is still alive. To let him know you are still alive. That you are waiting. - oh wow. god it makes me heart clench and my eyes fill with tears. i want them to find each other again and go to the beach and have a long life together one day 🥺 i don’t care how long it takes them to find each other again, i just want her to smile and him to be easier

Ironically, what feels even stranger is the foreign weight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. You’ve never worn it before — it was always tucked in your pocket or twisted around your fingers. It feels odd as it’s a bit big on you, almost sagging down your hand. But more than anything, it feels right. There’s a reason you still have it; there’s a reason you put it on tonight. - ARE THEY SOMEHOW GONNA GET IN CONTACT WITH HIM NOW AFTER SHE WAKES UP FROM THE BOMB BLAST?? mila i will jump off a plane (but seriously i love that she’s WEARING the bracelet, it’s not just on her person, she needs his strength)

“I’m flying,” - STOP THIS RIGHT NOW

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 16 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 9.1k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Library

Chapter 16 - The End of The World 

That summer of 1943 that you spent with your parents will be the last light before the long and dark night that follows. The war is going badly — for your occupiers, that is. The Allies have taken Sicily, and the Soviets have booked a major victory at Kursk. News coming in is sporadic, the censors working overtime to downplay military setbacks, but rumors persist. The pincer is closing from the south and east; they whisper: Stalin’s Red Army will punch through the Eastern front after winter, and the Allies will be crossing the Alps.

More tangential proof of how the war is going is how more and more men disappear from public life — Hitler must be getting desperate, drafting reinforcements from the traitorous country that assassinated his right-hand man. And where the men disappear, women take their place. 

Registered as unemployed, you received a summons in the late fall of 1943 to report for labor in support of the war effort. At the outskirts of the capital, a car factory has been converted to produce army trucks — massive 3-ton personnel carriers. Every morning, when the sun is barely up, you get on a bus with about fifty other women of all ages, all dressed in the same drab, dirty blue coveralls. The only splash of color in the early morning twilight is the scarves everyone ties around their head to protect their hair. 

Your nimble fingers earn you a position wiring the dashboard and ignition systems; your once soft hands and manicured nails are definitely a thing of the past now. Your fingertips start forming blisters and calluses from twisting the copper wires into place; your nails are chipped and broken, caked in dirt and thick black grease. The harsh degreaser soap cracks the skin on your palms, leaving them sore — the cold winter air stinging the raw skin.

You haven’t heard from anyone in the resistance since your last encounter with Jan — he probably reported you as compromised to Emil, and everyone has been steering clear of you since then. Rationally, you know it’s not personal. But in your heart, you cannot help but be bitter: after all you’ve done, after all the risks you have taken, you end up on the assembly line building trucks for the enemy. And not a peep from your comrades. 

But you don’t need them, you think sourly. You took your first steps into resistance activities by yourself, stealing food stamps here and there to help the people you knew. It grew from there, but it wasn’t until late 1941 that you actually got in contact with the resistance proper and your activities were scaled up. And now that you’re on your own again, you’ll just do what you always did: as much as you possibly can.

The factory is run tightly. Hawk-eyed supervisors check every aspect on the line, writing up workers for faults, deficiencies, and mistakes. They are supported by the armed guards — young boys with large guns and on an even larger power trip — that patrol the grounds and the factory floor and gleefully punish poor performance. 

Poking and prodding, trying to find cracks in the system, you knew you’d push the envelope too far at some point. It’s a risk you’re willing to take — you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t at least try. So you experiment: wiping sand on the fine gears behind the fuel gauge, making the cursor stick. It’s simple and subtle enough not to get noticed during inspection. The first time you get caught, it’s for cross-wiring to the headlights with the windscreen wipers — which, in terms of sabotage, is mostly harmless, at most an inconvenience. A warning and compulsory study of the manual is all you get. But you know you probably overstepped when you get caught not tightening the contact cables in the ignition system, which would cause them to fall out sooner rather than later, stalling the whole machine.

“With me, missy,” Your supervisor sneers, her red-painted lips twisted into a scowl, knuckles whitening as she clutches her clipboard. It hasn’t escaped your notice how your supervisor has dressed quite nicely daily: makeup, well-fitted dresses, nylons. 

“It was a mistake,” You lie, defending yourself. “It’s cold, and my fingers-” 

You don’t finish your sentence as the supervisor grabs you by the collar of your coveralls and pulls you out of the factory hall. “Are you insane?” She hisses. “Sabotage is treason.”

“They’re going to kill us anyway,” You choke out, stumbling after her. 

Harshly pushing you out the factory door into the snowy courtyard, she stares after you, coiled with anger. “I’ll take my chances,” She spits after you. “Stay there until I come get you!” She adds, yelling.

Folding your arms, you shuffle your feet in an attempt to get warm. It’s still early in the day, and it’s freezing cold. Your breath is coming out in puffs of opaque smoke, and within a minute, you are shivering. Opportunistic bitch, you seethe.

You nearly scream out when you are suddenly doused in ice-cold water, your sopping coveralls now so cold it’s practically burning on your skin. From the boyish laughter behind you, you know these are the guards, joking in German — there’s nothing you can do. 

You stand frozen in place, the cold water trickling from your wet hair down your spine — it’s like you’ve just run a marathon; you struggle to catch your breath, thoughts running through your head in a blind panic. Finally, you sink into a squat, your legs almost giving out from under you — you need to hunker down, tucking your hands under your arms, desperately trying to preserve your core temperature. You are shivering so hard it’s making your stomach hurt, like your intestines themselves are violently shivering too.

It’s impossible to say how long you sit there. You notice it starts snowing again, but you can’t feel it. It’s like you’re frozen into place, your insides still quaking. The snowflakes stick to your lashes, making your lids heavy and your movements even more sluggish. It feels like your blood flow has slowed down to a crawl. You want to cry from pain, from humiliation. From anger. But your tears are frozen solid with the rest of your body.

When you are forcefully pulled up back onto your feet, no sound makes it out of your mouth. Your lungs hurt — your throat is so dry it’s numb. Whatever sound of pain or protest you try to make only comes out as a puff of air past your ice-cold lips. Your legs are stiff and barely cooperating, but the supervisor, who is holding you by your arm, nails digging through the layers of freezing fabric, doesn’t stop pulling until she shoves you down by the coal furnace near the offices. 

The moment she lets go of you, your legs immediately give out again — your knees skid over the concrete floor. The warm air is like relentless pinpricks on your skin. 

“Let this be a lesson for you and everyone that has any ideas,” She hisses at you venomously, grabbing your chin to force you to look up. “Warm up and return to your place on the line.”

It’s a lesson, alright.

Next time, you won’t get caught.

The winter of 1943 into 1944 is long, and the cough you’ve developed doesn’t disappear until late spring. Miraculously, you never really got sick after your punishment besides the persistent coughing, but as your grief wanes, a wave of new anger emerges in you. You never wished ill, hurt, or even death on specific people — your ultimate goal was always freedom. But now you find a macabre kind of glee as you sprinkle sand on the fuel gauge and fray the cables in the ignition. 

I hope your truck stalls as you run. I hope you run out of fuel. I hope it kills you.

When you catch sight of the supervisor, you smile sweetly at her. You’ll get yours too, you think. 

At night, you sit with your ear pressed against the radio, listening to the BBC news on the lowest possible volume, running Bradley’s bracelet between your fingers like rosary beads. You are desperate for any news of the advance. Southern Italy is so far away — is Bradley there now? The reports say the fighting is heavy; progress comes at great cost. You stopped being scared for yourself, but the more you are scared for Bradley. Alone in the dark apartment, tears roll down your tired face. 

Talking during work is forbidden, but on break, huddled together in the corner of the factory courtyard, whispered rumors swirl out of the earshot of supervisors and guards. When one of the armed guards passes, everyone dissolves in a fit of giggles, not from nerves but as a carefully honed defense mechanism. The bored guards don’t bother with women’s gossip. 

Soon, rumors and gossip are the only things to go around: rations are tightening, and more and more is getting diverted to the war effort. Cigarettes get passed around after a single puff, soup becomes more water than anything else, and you even resort to sharing mugs of ersatz coffee. The less there is, the more you care for each other. During breaks, you brush each other’s hair, braiding it or pinning it into curls. Sometimes, someone procures some hand cream, and you take turns massaging it into each other’s sore hands. It establishes a strange sense of normalcy in a world that steadily feels like it’s in free fall.

***

Every key Bradley touches on the creaky piano seems to be the wrong one. He can hear the melody so clearly in his head, but when he tries to play it or even just hum or whistle it, it’s like he cannot find the right tone. It sounds off.

He can remember the moment so clearly: the starry spring night along the river bank, the melody floating down from the open window. Flexing his hand, he can almost feel your fingers threaded through his, your body pressed against his as you followed his lead. Just like he tries to remember the melody, Bradley tries to remember your smile.

He knows he remembers, but he just can’t recall it. When Bradley tries, he is unsure if he remembers you correctly. It’s like it all happened in a dream, and he remembers shapes and colors, but the more he tries to grasp the details, the vaguer they become.

It’s January 1944, and the last six months have been one frustration after another for Bradley. At least he’s no longer grounded, but he hasn’t felt like himself since returning to England. It’s like Bradley woke up, and reality wrapped around him like a coat he had outgrown — constricting his movements, leaving him uncomfortable in his own skin. He can forget that only when he flies, at least for a moment.

Except it’s making him forget everything, he desperately wants to hold onto.

“I thought I’d find you here, Rooster,” 

Bradley sighs lightly before turning to the voice. Mav stands at the door opening, in his crisp dress uniform, an easy grin on his face. As he saunters into the empty pub, a gust of cold air follows him from outside.

“Long time no see,” Mav continues as he pulls out a chair, still grinning, plopping himself down across from Bradley. 

“Yeah, good to you again, Mav,” Bradley responds neutrally as he closes the lid on the piano, slowly turning around to face Mav. “How are Penny and Amelia?” He asks conversationally.

For a moment, the older man’s looks soften, his cocky grin faltering. “Good, good,” He nods. “Amelia sent you a letter to thank you for the postcards. Did you get it?”

“I’m not sure; it might have gotten lost in the mail,” Bradley replies vaguely. It’s probably somewhere in the packet of unread mail piling up in Bradley’s footlocker. Writing letters has been a chore because he cannot talk about what he wants to. The censor would not allow it, so putting pen to paper and pretending that everything is just okay is something Bradley rarely can summon the energy for.

He feels guilty. He knows this makes him a terrible friend, and he cannot explain why he can’t just write a short message home.

Mav just nods but doesn’t reply. An uneasy silence falls between the two men. They haven’t seen each other in a good two years, since before Bradley went on detachment to the UK. For a while, Bradley thought it would do them good — the distance would soften the sharp edges of their fraught relationship a bit more. Maybe he put too much stock in it.

“So,” Bradley starts, tone forcefully light. “What brings you here, Mav?”

“Mass mobilization,” Mav shrugs in response. “You know that something big is afoot.”

“I meant here,” Bradley’s voice is a little bit sharper as he gestures around him vaguely. He ignores the jab of guilt in his gut. “In this empty pub.” 

“Oh, yes-” Mav pulls an envelope from this heavy woolen navy coat. “You are getting recalled to the US Navy Fleet.”

Bradley reaches out and plucks the envelope from Mav’s outstretched hand. He scans the letter's contents — he’s due to report at Navy command for the European theater in five days. There’s nothing odd about the order in the larger scheme of things.

“Why are you the one delivering it?” Bradley looks at Mav, eyes tight. Is he getting picked up like a small child?

Mav’s eyes widen for a split second, before his easy grin returns. “Wouldn’t want to get this lost in the mail,” 

Another moment of silence.

“And I have shore leave, so I thought…” Mav trails off, face suddenly serious. He looks at Bradley intently, who meets his gaze almost defiantly. “I wanted to check in on you. See you are doing okay.” Mav adds levelly. Bradley sighs.

“I’m fine,” He replies softly. Even to his own ears, it sounds like a lie.

“So I thought…” Mav starts again.

“It’s funny,” Bradley cuts in, unable to stop himself. The burden of guilt is weighing him down — leaving you behind, failing his friends and family, forgetting — so he lashes out. From guilt. From shame. From pain. He wants to pretend it makes him feel better. “It’s really funny how you always tell me not to think, and yet that’s all you seem to do.” 

Mav stares at him, face neutral, unimpressed. The lack of reaction is making Bradley angrier. “So you thought — you thought what? That you know better? That you know what I need?”

“Calm down, lieutenant,” Mav simply replies, suddenly and simply pulling rank, effectively ending the conversation. Knuckles white, Bradley grits his teeth. Deep breaths. 

Mav gets up, dusting himself off, not a tremor of anger in his movement. He is the picture of calm, not sparing him a single look. Bradley stands up automatically, as he would for any ranking officer.

“Something is in the works,” Mav simply says. “Something big — bigger than we’ve ever seen.”

Finally, he meets Bradley’s eye again. Mav’s expression betrays little, but his eyes are full of hurt. “I th- I had hoped we could make amends,”

Before it’s too late.

Bradley nods — the guilt now like a stone around his neck. No one knows what is happening, only that ship upon ship of American armed forces is being unloaded and stationed in England. There are whispers of an attack on a scale never seen before. A landing. A suicide mission.

“I trust no one in the air more than you, Mav,” Bradley finally admits, the last of the frustration finally ebbing away. Why does he keep getting so angry? “It’ll be an honor to fly with you again.”

Mav cracks a smile — a genuine one. “Thank you, Bradley, and welcome back to the fleet.”

Bradley chuckles, but inside, he knows he’s not ready. Forgiveness is more difficult than a few words. 

But does it really matter?

In the end, when he will inevitably fly to his death, the very fate Mav tried to shield him from — will it matter?

“How long are you staying, Mav?” He asks instead, grabbing his coat. “Enough time for a drink or two?”

***

It’s dark in the small, crowded room. You sit on the floor, packed in like sardines. The bare bulb that had been burning in a harsh yellow light earlier spluttered before softly popping out of life. The noises from the outside are disorientating — you hear screaming and yelling, doors slamming and shots. You have your arms around a girl younger than you, softly stroking your fingers over her hairline as she cries into your shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the whine of Stukas as they fly towards the capital. You think.

The thing is, you haven’t been allowed to leave the factory for over a week now. After the news broke that Berlin had fallen and the Führer was dead, all the guards, the young boys with rifles too big for them, went into a blind panic. They locked the gates, screaming orders, pointing their surely loaded guns at the sacred factory workers. 

Since then, you’ve been sleeping on the hard concrete floor as the next shift picked up. You suppose you should be happy it’s May, so the floor is not so cold anymore.

The winter of 1944 into 1945 had been the harshest you’ve seen in years: it was bitingly cold, rations were lower than they’ve ever been, and there was no bread, milk, or flour. Soup was more water than anything else, more potato peel than vegetable. Even if you still had extra ration books, they wouldn’t do you any good — there simply wasn’t anything to trade them for. Gas and coal became a rarity, turning the city into an unforgiving ice-cold hellscape. You had never been so cold for so long in your life. 

The ugly blue coveralls were increasingly ill-fitting, hanging off your frame awkwardly.

It shouldn’t have brought you joy, but as production was being pushed into overdrive, supervisors were forced to join the line, leaving behind their clipboards and clean clothes. More shifts were added, the factory now roaring day and night — sometimes shifts were scheduled in such quick succession there was no time to go home. You would huddle up with the other girls in the corner of the factory on the cold floor (because god forbid you’d use the now-empty offices), so exhausted you couldn’t even hear the noises of the line anymore.

The guards were getting rotated out quickly, replaced by seemingly younger and younger boys — some almost dwarfed by the rifle on their back; their too-large uniforms make it look like they're playing dress-up. 

In the end, this also meant that since winter, all regulations were out the door — no more clipboards, no more testing before the trucks as they joined the motor pool, ready to be distributed over the rapidly approaching front. It made sabotage a lot easier: the majority of trucks that rolled off the line in your factory were faulty in one way or another. Knowing looks were exchanged: nuts and bolts were not fully tightened, hoses were not fully screwed in, and contacts were not fully connected. 

Everyone is doing their own part — their own small resistance. There was no discussion; there was no structure or organization. Just a hope that every little bit helps bring the war to an earlier end as the Allies and Soviets are approaching.

You hear gunshots now — the wave of terror that moves through the room is almost physical, as everyone recoils as one. You tighten your arms around the girl as she chokes out a sob.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetie,” You console her softly despite wanting to cry yourself. You’ve been cut off from the world, and there’s no guessing what has been happening since the fall of Berlin. Are the Allies here? 

Naively, your heart feels a little bit lighter at the thought. Far from any sea or ocean, Bradley wouldn’t be there, but — and you hate yourself for hoping it so fiercely — maybe you could ask someone to contact him? Tell you where to send a letter. If only to find out that he is still alive. To let him know you are still alive. 

That you are waiting.

In the dark room, shaking from fear, the small fantasy brings you comfort. 

More shots ring out — you hear shouting, but you cannot make out what language through the thick concrete walls of the factory. When the heavy door suddenly rattles violently, like someone is trying to force it open, the room suddenly erupts in a flurry of chaotic and panicked movements; the air is pierced by crying and screaming. Everyone is scrambling up, trying to get away from the door. In the crush, you fall back, awkwardly wedged between bodies—the girl you had been holding before has disappeared in the darkness. The door rattles again; it sounds like someone is trying to break it down. 

More screaming, the mass of people moves back even more. It’s getting hard to breathe and the uncomfortable angle of your body—upper body leaned back, feet barely touching the ground—makes it hard to push back. It’s getting hot.

The door explodes open—the last oxygen is pushed from your lungs—light streams into the room. You aren’t sure if the spots in your vision are from the sudden blinding brightness or it’s your consciousness slipping. Just when you think you’ll lose grasp, eyes fluttering closed, the bodies disperse. Stumbling forward, you follow the flow of the crowd out the door. All the noise seems far away as you try to catch your breath. 

A tall figure is motioning sternly at the door opening, commanding everyone to come out. You do your best to keep pace with the rest, coughing dryly, trying to keep yourself from tripping over your own feet. 

Hurrying out the door, tearing up from the bright May sunshine stinging your eyes, you’re stopped dead in your tracks by someone calling out your name.

“Anya? - Anya!”

You haven’t heard that voice in so long, for a moment, you are confused. You should know who that is. Turning toward the voice, eyes still struggling to focus — your breath stocks mid-cough.

“Emil!” You choke out. It’s been almost two years now since you last saw him. Blinking, you stare at him — he’s dressed in his pre-war military uniform, looking more clean-cut than you have ever seen him, two rifles slung over his back. It’s making you acutely aware you are standing there in dirty coveralls and messy hair after sleeping on the floor for the past week.

He pulls you into a hug, clapping his hand a little too hard on your shoulder, rattling your skeleton.

“I’m so glad you made it,” He admits.

“I’m glad to see you well,” You reply with a smile. “What’s the occasion?” You motion to his uniform as you pull away, awkwardly straightening your coveralls as if that would hide the grease stains.

Emil smiles at you — and it’s probably the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen on him. “We’re liberating the city.” 

“I want to fight too.” The words are out of your mouth before you fully realize the implication — but you are determined. 

“I didn’t expect anything less from you,” Emil laughs, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way a big brother humors his younger sibling. “And I could use your help right away.”

A dizzying amount has happened since the fall of Berlin, since you’ve been locked away in the factory — the Allies under Patton are crossing the border into Bohemia, while the Soviets have punched through the eastern defensive line at the Dukla pass. The Wehrmacht and SS are retreating from the oncoming fronts on both sides — which is, unfortunately, driving them straight into the valley of central Bohemia and straight into Prague.

“We will not allow them to have their last stand here,” Emil concludes as you follow him through the motor pool. You nod fiercely. If the Nazis are allowed to build a final stronghold here, the Allies and Soviets will not hesitate to raze the entire city to the ground if it will end the war. 

“But first, we need trucks,” He states, looking around pensively. “Unfortunately, the guards were probably warned of the government army mutiny in the city, and they’ve gotten rid of all the keys.”

“You need mechanics first,” You cut him off. “Most of these trucks were sabotaged in one way or another.” You add sheepishly. Emil shakes his head, laughing.

“Again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you in a factory where they had the misfortune of putting you to work.”

“How many do you need?” You get straight to business. “I can put together teams to check the trucks and-”

“And how will we start them, Anya?” 

“Lucky for you,” You frown, trying not to sound arrogant as you pull the cabin door of the truck open. “I’m quite the expert on ignition systems now.” 

Clambering in, you waste no time ramming the heel of your boot repeatedly into the metal plating under the steering wheel. The ongoing shortages of almost everything meant that the overall quality of factory parts had decreased. The screws are weak — you’ve turned so many of them just but simply trying to affix the plating, you know that a few well-placed kicks will shake them right out of their holes. 

Emil has climbed up the steps and is looking at you skeptically. But you are right; at the fourth kick, the metal plate practically pops out of place. Prying it away with your fingers, the small screws scatter over the cabin floor. Now for the best part. Reaching into the hollow under the steering wheel, you gently tug at the contact cables. One comes out so easily; you know it would have probably disconnected at the first large bump in the road. The other one needs a little bit more cajoling before it releases from the ignition.

Triumphantly, you show the two cables to Emil, stepping on the clutch as you twist the exposed copper ends together. The truck roars to life. 

“So, how many did you need?” You reiterate lightly. Emil claps you on your back as he laughs again. You cough uncomfortably. Spending several years traveling in partisan groups has robbed Emil of some of his gentler habits.

You have a renewed energy as you pull out your toolbox and direct the women who decided to stay, check over any trucks in the motor pool and ready them for rollout. You work until your fingers bleed — but it doesn’t matter. Liberation is close, and you're determined to speed up the process in any way you can. 

It’s late afternoon as the last of the trucks rolls out from the motor pool. Emil climbs into the cabin; you are hot on his heels.

“What’s next?” You ask almost breathlessly, so wired in anticipation you can barely feel the pain in your hands and the tiredness prickling behind your eyes. Emil smiles down at you from the passenger seat, as you balance on the bottom step of the truck cabin. “Go home, Anya,” He tells you, in that same borderline patronizing voice that a big brother would use for their annoying sibling.  

“I want to help,” You defend yourself. Haven’t you proven again and again that you are capable enough? Why are you being sent home like some small child? “I can help.”

“Go home, eat, and rest up,” Emil re-iterates, undisturbed by your acerbic tone. The truck rumbles impatiently. “When you are ready, come find me.”

You deflate a little. “Find you where?” “Do you remember where old Vineyard Street is?”

“Of course I do!” You bite out, almost offended. It’s one of the main streets on the eastern side of town, leading from the river valley over the large hill and ending somewhere on the far outskirts of the metro area. It was renamed to Schweiner Street at the start of the occupation, like so many streets, but you never forgot.

“Then I’ll see you there!” He grins, hand on the door, slowly pulling it close. You jump back onto the ground. 

“Wait!” You call out over the roaring engine sound. “Where on Vinyard Street?”

The longest fucking street in the city, half of it steeply uphill.

“You’ll know it when you see it!” 

Fuck. As the trucks roll away, the energy leaves you, too. Dragging your heavy feet, you finally start getting ready to get home.

You’ll know when you see it? Fucking riddles are the last thing you need now.

***

It’s pitch dark when you finally reach the bottom of Vineyard Street. A warm shower, hot gruel, and fitful sleep strangely make for the best few hours you’ve had in weeks. Dressed in fresh clothes, hands buried deep in the pockets of your increasingly threadbare green wool coat, you keep your gaze down. 

It’s chilly for a night in early May when the sun takes all the warmth with it as soon as it goes down. But you can smell the blooms in the air, and the first lilacs are dotting the streets in happy colors. There are no stars in the sky; only an occasional flicker of the moon peeks out between the heavy clouds rolling by. 

It’s eerily quiet. The streets lights are off, and most buildings are dark. The whole city looks like this. As a precaution, you have been moving through side streets, keeping out of sight from patrols. Small groups of people are moving through the dark — you can’t tell if they are friend or foe, so you’re not staying around to find out.

There is a strange buzz in the air. It has you on edge.

Before leaving home, you emptied the old cardboard box you had wedged deep behind the heavy wooden armoire in your bedroom. It’s where you kept everything you never wanted anyone to find: the old fake identities, your gun, and Bradley’s identification bracelet. The cold metal of the gun presses uncomfortably against the small of your back. 

Ironically, what feels even stranger is the foreign weight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. You’ve never worn it before — it was always tucked in your pocket or twisted around your fingers. It feels odd as it’s a bit big on you, almost sagging down your hand. But more than anything, it feels right. There’s a reason you still have it; there’s a reason you put it on tonight. If anything, it makes you feel less alone as you make your way through the darkness, preparing for the battle ahead. The road ahead of you goes up at a steep angle. From your vantage point at the bottom of the hill, the street disappears into the darkness before you. It’s eerie, like you are looking at a ghost town. Not a single light is on as far as you can see, the buildings flanking the road looming.

You’ll know it when you see it.

As you trudge up the street, you can’t help but feel hesitant. See what? What are you on the lookout for? What if you miss it?

You hear the faint echo of voices. It stops you dead in your tracks, heart beating frantically. Hands sweaty, you can fumble open your coat, reaching back for the gun tucked in your waistband. Back flat against the wall, you edge up the street. 

You can’t see over the top of the road, where it flattens out for about a block before it the way pitches up at a severe angle again. But the flicker of lights, reflected in the dark windows around you, catches your eye. Someone or something is just over the edge.

Holding your breath, afraid to make the smallest sound, you shuffle up the sidewalk. The light becomes brighter, growing from small sparks reflected in the dark windows, to a soft flickering glow cast on the walls. You hear the echo of whispers. It’s hard to pinpoint where they are coming from, the sound strangely, hauntingly, bouncing down the barren street. Craning your neck, trying to peer up, catch a glimpse of some movement at the top of the road. The closer you get, the more you expect to see over the bend, see where the voices and lights are coming from.

But there is just darkness. If it weren’t for the surrounding buildings, you’d be sure the way up was simply vanishing in never-ending darkness. Your hands are shaking, fingers gripping the gun tightly. The more you try to calm yourself down, the harder the tremors become. The strange sense of impending terror has been creeping up on you with every step, slowly completely devouring you, until your breath is stocking in your throat, your chest is tight, and your legs feel like they are filled with jello.

You can’t stop the small whimper escaping your lips. You have to keep going. Standing on an unlit street, by yourself, with a gun in your hand in the middle of the night, is bound to get you into trouble. You have to trust that you will find Emil.

Willing your legs forward, almost tripping as your ankle gives out as you put weight on it, but it doesn’t deter you. If anything, it makes you angry enough to keep going. 

It’s only another minute before you reach the top of the road, and it’s like a bubble pops and you’re stepping into a completely different world.

The cobblestone street is dug up, the stones built high in three-line deep barricades — cars, trams, and furniture are haphazardly piled between the cobblestones. The whispers are clear now, yet as unintelligible as before — there is no one source of light, just flashes of lanterns between the barricades.

You are stunned. For sure, there is no way you could have missed that, but of all the things you were expecting to find — this, whatever this is, wasn’t it. Even after years of living under occupation, bombings, and soldiers marching down the street, Bradley; you feel wholly unprepared for walking into, well, a battlefield.

Aimlessly standing before the first barricade, eyes wide, you only belatedly notice you are starting down the barrel of a rifle perched just over the top of the pile of stones. 

Shit.

“I - I,” The words barely make it out of your mouth between the shaky breaths. You put your hands up more by instinct than by rational purpose. Bradley’s bracelet is heavy on your wrist.

“Get down!” A voice hisses from behind the barricade. You practically fall to the ground, your knees buckling. Breaking your ungraceful movement downward with your hands, the gun you have been holding all this time clatters loudly against the stones. A few moments of silence pass before a hand, holding a burning cigarette between the fingers as the only source of light, beacons you with a simple wave.

“Stay low!” The voice hisses again. You scramble, clumsily cramming the gun in your coat pocket, before crawling on hands and knees to a lower spot in the barricade. Just when you start crawling over, someone grabs you by the arm and pulls you over forcefully. You yelp as you vault over the pile of rocks, landing on your elbow.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t make it, Anya,” Emil grins at you, a lit cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. His uniform still looks crisp but has a vague whiff of mothballs. Rubbing your elbow, you sit up, frowning. 

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” You deadpan, trying to save some of your dignity. Looking around, there are a lot more people than you anticipated. Now that you are inside the barricade, small groups of people are crouched down, huddled together. You realize that the flickering ghostly lights you have seen are matches lighting cigarettes. 

Keeping low, you follow Emil to the far end of the barricade.

“Did you sleep before you came here?” He asks, shrugging the rifle off his shoulder and sitting down, leaning against the smooth wooden surface of a dinner table jammed into the barricade as structural support.

“A couple of hours,” You reply, still glancing around, trying to understand what is happening around you.

“Good,” Emil yawns as he hands you the rifle before making himself comfortable. “You’re on night watch.”

Hesitantly, you reach for the rifle. You notice Emil’s eyes flash towards your wrist as you grab it from him. A little bit too fast, you pull the rifle from his hands, covertly trying to pull the sleeve of your coat further over your wrist before he can ask.

You’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your business and yours alone, you think tersely. So why are you so afraid of getting questioned?

Mercifully, Emil has already pulled his cap over his eyes. 

Before you manage to settle, trying to find a comfortable spot while leaning into the high barricade, rifle aimed over the top, you hear soft snoring. 

Peering into the darkness over the river valley, distressingly few lights spread throughout the city; these are the last moments of peace and quiet you will know for a long time. Before the sun comes up, someone comes to relieve you from the watch. Emil is still fast asleep. Handing the rifle on, you huddle beside Emil, burrowing in your coat. 

You don’t feel tired at all, you think. You are wired with anticipation. This is it. This is the last stand.

Freedom or death.

Your body catches up before your brain does — you don’t know how long you have been asleep. It could have been a catnap or hours. Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough. Your eyes feel so heavy. So much so it’s a struggle to open them. You sigh tiredly. Around you, voices are chattering — you can’t really hear what they are saying, just the shape of words and sounds that reach your ears. 

When you realize that you won’t fall asleep again, your brain finally starts up, and you become much more aware of your surroundings. There’s something heavy on your head, pulled over your eyes. Lazily shrugging it off, you blink heavily against the sun, still bleary-eyed.

“Anya, are you awake?” Emil materializes next to you, crouched down. He deftly picks up his cover from your lap, where it fell, neatly setting it on his head again. Did he put that on your head to shield your eyes from the morning sun? 

As aloof as Emil always has been, awkward in friendly gestures, he is kind.

However, following Emil as a shadow is Jan. He’s hard to miss, but you didn’t notice him last night. You look at him pointedly, daring him to say something. He meets your gaze shortly before huffing and turning away. Emil doesn’t notice, or isn’t interested in noticing, as he unfolds a map in front of you.

The battle is beginning. 

***

You are running. The ground is shaking under your feet; you’ve never felt something like it. Things you are pretty sure shouldn't move, like whole buildings, are quaking. The sound of the artillery shells tearing through stone and flesh is deafening, but somehow, your heavy breathing is louder than anything else in your head.

As a shell hits so close, you almost skid down the stairs you’re running up, as it turns the whole world into jello for a moment—the paper map of the city in your pocket crinkles as your hip collides with the wall. Between the explosions and screams, it’s such a mundane sound it sticks out. You clutch onto the railing for dear life. 

Is it possible to be so scared you just stop being scared?

You are not sure if you’re feeling anything right now.

All you can think about is that you need to get to the roof. High up on the hill, you and several others were sent sprinting up the road, looking for an even higher vantage point to see where the guns are. You hesitate to really think why some doors to buildings are open: the windows smashed, the facades charred. The silence, the complete lack of human sound in the buildings, is far more chilling than the hellfire raining down on you.

It’s quiet now.

You wait for almost half a minute, frozen on the stairs you almost slipped down, hands still around the railing so tightly your knuckles have turned white. The explosions don’t return. 

They may be recalculating their trajectory, picking new targets.

You scramble up, not even bothering to dust yourself off. Part of you wants to start running again to get to the top of the building as fast as possible. But your gut tells you to tiptoe, not betray your position.

Trust your gut.

It has gotten you this far.

Threading lightly in your heavy boots, holding your breath intermittently as you make your way up the next two flights of stairs. Outside, it’s still quiet; you can even hear the birds twitter in the trees again — it’s completely surreal.

But then you hear it. At first, so softly, you think you must be imagining it. There is no one here. But it sounds like a voice. Not like someone in conversation but someone dictating — flat inflection, clipped tones. 

You tiptoe up the next flight of stairs. On the landing, you see one apartment door open. Someone is here — no one should be here. This is dangerous. Should you be scared? But try as you might, you can’t really recall the feeling: the icy grip on your heart, the knot in your stomach. Is it because you haven’t felt anything but fear in the past few days? Is it just part of you now?

You pull out your gun with a calmness you hardly thought you could possess in a moment like this. Carefully, you click the safety off. The soft click echoes through the hall, but the voice drones on undeterred.

Creeping past the entry door, the house you enter is in disarray. Whoever lived here fled — afraid of the Nazis feeling from the east, afraid of the Soviets following them or the Allies closing the pincer from the west. Who knows. 

People spent the war in many ways. Someone was always going to lose. Those who chose to support the Nazi regime are already being rounded up—those who flee run west. The Americans are kinder captors than the Russians, they say.

A small twinge in your soul. Will the Allies beat the Red Army to Bohemia? Could it be that…

You bury the thought as you move deeper into the apartment. 

Now is not the time for dreaming.

You hold the gun pointed at the ground — grip firm, not frantic. Breathing steady, not panicked. 

The voice becomes louder. The door between you and the voice is slightly ajar, muffling the sound. It’s definitely a man’s voice. And he’s speaking… German?

You falter for a moment, coming to a standstill in the hallway. 

What are you about to walk in on? A scout? A spy? A group left behind?

Holding your breath for a moment, you close your eyes. Focus. 

You can only hear one voice — that much you are sure about. But as you listen, that is not what stands out. It’s that low buzz, the crackle of static. It’s a sound so etched into your mind you are almost surprised you didn’t hear it earlier.

You’re only hearing one voice because whoever is in there is relaying something through radio in German.

With the tip of your boot, you gently push the door open. The hinges whine softly. You slink through the opening.

It looks like a bomb went off in the sitting room. The floor is covered in books and broken glass. The windows are wide open, the curtains billowing into the room.  And there, by the window, crouched between the chaos, is a figure dictating coordinates he is reading from a map.

Suddenly, it all makes sense, but you also don’t understand anything about what you see.

Glass breaks under your boot.

Jan turns around, eyes wide. Within a fraction of a second, his face turns red, like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

That moment might have been less than a second; it might have been ten. You don’t know. You can’t feel. You can’t think. 

You just raise your arm, pointing your gun at his head. 

Not a single tremor in your aim. Not a hitch in your breathing. You squeeze the trigger.

The recoil is the only thing you feel. Jan slumps against the wall, the radio still buzzing. Blood gushes from this head, quickly pooling around his lifeless body. 

Methodically, like it’s just your physical form going through the motions, you simply brush past the body, turning off the radio and wrenching the Nazi map Jan had been holding. 

Every barricade on the hill is marked on it. Jan had been calling in the positions of the uprising strongholds to the artillery battery on the other bank. 

Your blood should run cold. You should be angry. One of your own.

Instead, you tear off the tricolor resistance armband off Jan’s arm. He’s not one of you. He will not be remembered as one of you. 

When you return to the barricade Emil is commanding, he’s waiting for you already. Wordlessly, you hand him Jan’s map and armband. Emil doesn’t say anything — he just looks at you. At first, you think it’s with pity.  When he claps his hand on your shoulder a little too forcefully, somewhat awkwardly, you realize it isn’t pity in his eyes. It’s sympathy.

Someone hands you tea in a chipped enamel mug. Sitting down on an upturned apple crate, the enamel too hot against your fingers, you catch sight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. In just a few days, the weight has become so familiar, such a constant, you almost forgot it’s there.

Your stomach twists. It’s the first thing you’ve really felt in hours. Bradley was the first person you ever pointed a gun at. It’s very vivid in your mind how much your hands shook, how breathing in the icy mountain weather hurt your lungs, and how the terror coursed through every fiber of your body.

You felt so much, you felt so deeply then.

It’s strange. Alien. You know it happened to you but in a different lifetime. It’s like you’re fragmented. The you who was a student wasn’t the you who met Bradley. The you who said goodbye to Bradley wasn’t the you who sabotaged trucks. The you that has killed… you’re not even sure if there’s anything left of you, really.

In the hours and days to follow, you barely get the time to ponder the changes in yourself when the world is rapidly changing around you. A world born from flames and blood. The artillery batteries pound resistance positions and soon get support from the air. The high whine of Stukas, in broad daylight, rain bullets and incendiary bombs down on the city. The plumes of smoke obscure the sky. The smell of fire, burning houses, fabric… bodies, permeates.

When a breeze picks up, you think, you hope you can still smell lilacs. Just to assure yourself that the putrid smell of burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and hair has not settled in your nose permanently. 

“Why aren’t the Allies coming to help?” A young man, his old uniform jacket dirty, sleeves slightly too short, peers out of the broken cellar window into the street as a sortie passes low overhead. Emil, after days of fighting, is not looking as crisp anymore — streaks of dirt cover his face, his uniform dusty, tired look in his eyes. “After all we’ve done -” The young man turns angrily. “Where is the RAF?”

You don’t bother looking up; instead, you inspect your dirty fingertips and broken nails. Idly, you wonder if your hands will ever be clean again. Mindlessly, you tug on your coat sleeve — the seam is fraying — gently brushing your calloused fingertips across Bradley’s nameplate. Every ridge and divot of his embossed name and the insignia are a comfort, a constant. Every time you remember to feel the weight on your wrist, your heart skips a beat —  it’s still there, it’s still real. It’s your final tether to him. Your final tether to you.

“The weather over the channel still hasn’t cleared up,” Emil finally replies, voice monotone. 

“And the Americans are stopped at the demarcation line in the west,” You add, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the bare cellar wall. When you first heard that Patton’s army crossed the border and liberated the city of Pilsen, you were so sure it was only hours until they’d make it into Prague. 

That was two days ago. 

“And we are stuck here, in hellfire, no air support, and cut off from supply lines by an entire Army Group and the SS,” The young man spits. “We are left to die while the Red Army takes its sweet time — they skipped liberating us to get to Berlin first, and now we’re the last defense for every Nazi in Europe!”

“To fight is to die, soldier,” Emil intones mildly, in that same bored tone as he plays with his lighter. “You knew that, and yet you picked up a gun.”

Silence falls in the cellar. Outside, the explosions rumble, sending tremors through the ground. You are not scared of dying. If you ever were, then you can’t even really remember anymore. Fear, anger, happiness, you know what they are, you know you’ve felt them, but now it’s like a thick fog has taken its place. All you feel is kind of nauseous, tired, and the chill from the wall behind you.

Before you know it, you are back on your feet, clambering into a truck, tearing down the hill toward Resistance HQ in the old town. Someone dumps a glug of clear alcohol over your hands, in a vain attempt to clean them. You wince as you desperately wipe down your hands with a rag, the alcohol penetrating every crack and cut in your skin. There is no running water anymore. This will have to do.

The uprising is only a few days old, but the horrors you’ve witnessed are more than you have seen in the years of occupation. The carcasses of burned-out residential buildings barely stop smoking before a new salvo of artillery lands. Bodies — fighters, civilians, enemies, limbs — litter the street. Fireballs light up the night sky so brightly it almost looks like daytime in a terrifying, incredible display. The smell is unbelievable. 

 A jumped-up schoolgirl playing at war. 

Maybe there was more truth in that than you’d like to admit.

However, you don’t have time to dwell on it as the truck finally comes to a violent halt. In the first few seconds, you barely recognize where you are. It’s like walking into a wasteland that was once the old town. You used to walk down this street every day, from the tram to class. The town hall, which was used as the HQ for the uprising, is… no there anymore. The air is thick with smoke and dust. The ground is strangely hot, and everything is cast in a strange orange glow from the surrounding fires. 

Pulling a rag from your pocket, you tie it around your face. It does little against the smell, but it at least stops some dust and smoke from choking you completely. After that, you move on autopilot. 

Save whom can be saved. 

Note who didn’t make it. 

Get out before the Luftwaffe returns.

Your heart is beating a mile a minute, adrenaline coursing through your veins. But you aren’t scared, focusing only on your task: pushing away rubble, helping victims up, trying to stop the bleeding on a too-deep leg wound, grunting in exertion as you push the stretcher with the man above your head so he can get pulled into the back to the truck—a flash.

You blink, disorientated. Colorful spots fill your vision.

Turning, you try to find the source of it in the chaos and the smoke. More flashes. Finally, your sight refocuses — someone is taking pictures. Through all the noise, you hear it clear as day.

“Let’s go; we need to get out of here.”

It’s an American. 

Your feet start walking before your brain catches up. The man is walking quickly to another truck with a Red Cross. The Red Cross is here? Your breathing is rapid now. You need to talk to them. You have no idea what you will tell the photographer, but you need to speak to him. 

You pick up your pace. The Red Cross photographer is disappearing quickly through the smoke.

“Wait!” You yell out, pulling the rag from your face. He is already climbing into the truck cabin. “Hey! Wait!” You yell louder, more desperately. 

He looks over his shoulder, straight at you. It looks like the Red Cross photographer waits for you to catch up for a moment, but then he slams the truck door shut. You break out into a sprint, almost reaching the truck before it tears away.

“Fuck you!” You scream, tears suddenly stinging in your eyes. Breathing heavily, you stay behind, seething, on the torn-up street, watching the Red Cross truck disappear in the mess of the medieval maze of the old town.

The desperate anger is the first thing you have felt in days. It’s overwhelming. Suffocating.

Distracting.

It’s only when someone almost knocks you over as they run past you in a mad dash, it’s like you wake up from the wash of madness that had you rooted in place.

A high-pitched whistle pierces the air, closing in on you at frighting speed.

You run, scrambling over the broken pieces of stone, slipping over pools of blood.

Don’t look back.

The truck with the wounded is behind you.

Don’t look back.

You need to get out of here, find any place to hide.

Don’t look back.

It must be a mere second before impact now; the whistle of the bomb is so loud your eardrums scream along with it. 

In a fatal moment, you turn your head.

A sea of flames melts the truck from sight. The pressure wave, so hot your mouth is drier than cotton on the first breath, is powerful it lifts your feet from the ground and carries you up like a feather in the wind.

“I’m flying,” Is all your brain manages to conjure up in the split second, almost with a sense of wonder and joy, before your body is flung against a wall. Crashing to the ground, you lose consciousness as fire rains down on you.

note | good news: war is almost over. bad news: everything else

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[ofmermaidstories]

hEWWo merms, i'm just gonna toss my... pitch for an isekai plot here if you don't mind: y/n has always been frail from birth or maybe she's very sick or something and likes reading superhero stories like bnha and maybe even self-insert/reader insert fanfic for wish fulfillment, and then idk something happens and one day she wakes up in the hospital and like bakugou is there and at first she's just like 'omg i read too much fanfiction i must be dreaming now' and bakugou says like 'yadda yadda yadda you fucking idiot why'd you go do some hero shit alone' and y/n just goes along with it because this is a dream right and yeah sure she could be a pro-hero in a dream world.... but then the 'dream' keeps going and she gets discharged from the hospital and eventually goes 'wait why is the dream not ending what's going on' and she's expected to go back to work as a PRO-HERO and she doesn't know what to do or maybe even what her quirk is supposed to be and she has to look 'herself' up to try and figure it out. all the while, bakugou and possibly even deku are like 'something very strange is going on with y/n' at this point i think either y/n (since she was sickly in the real world) would try to own the pro-hero life she's inherited- tho when i first thought this up i thought it'd be interesting if she quit because she finds out being a pro-hero is actually very scary when faced with some situations and y/n is not emotionally equipped to handle it/doesn't really know how to use her quirk and bakugou starts banging down her door and demanding to know why she quit like a loser or deku showing up and trying to ask what's wrong because she's been acting strange. maybe she'd try to quit after her first foray if something went wrong and she doubts if she can be a pro-hero at all... i'm unsure ANYWAY I'M SORRY FOR RAMBLING SO MUCH ABOUT THIS I JUST WANTED TO SHARE. ;;;;

NAHHHHH Stell!!!!! You gotta write this wtf, it’s so GOOD. 😭 Omg, imagine the angst LMFAO. ALSO???? “quit like a loser” BAKUGOU!!!! BAD!!!!! and omg, like—could you imagine Deku going into his tunnel-vision I have to save them mode??? He’d be so concerned. 😭 And both of them, watching Y/N flounder in a life she used to be so incredible in—the suspicion!!!!!!! the panic attack Y/N would have??? bc im telling you now, Stell, if it were me and I suddenly woke up in a life where i was expected to like, idk, lift buildings off of school buses full of children or an old folks home or whatever i would just simply lay down and die LMAO. lkdjflksdjlskdfr. i’d wait for my dreams to take me back home. 😌✨ not ONE THING could convince me to stay and play in a league where people regularly get thrown into buildings or fried to a crisp!!!!!!!!! i just simply would not. Bakugou himself could pound on my door demanding answers and i would simply pretend i can’t hear him <3 what pro-hero career??? what world filled with quirks????? idk what you’re talking about bestie, but i write fanfiction and mind my own damn business <333 ESPECIALLY!!!!! especially if our Y/N was like, so poorly beforehand. 🥺 Like nah girlie—don’t play their game!!! run free!!!!!!!!! take that new health and BOLT, LOL. sdlkjflksdjfklsfdg. (this is the literal opposite of what you were going for i know, LOL, im sorry stell sdljlksdfhjlksdj).

me n Cat were talking about isekais and i was like, “isekais are a form of horror” and honestly i stand by that LMAO, like, omg. the nightmare of waking up and having like, idk, people depend on you for their very lives……. no thank-you <3 not even the most beloved of anime boyfriends could convince me to square up to that. :’)

saying all that, i’d be curious as to how you’d end it, Stell. 🥺 Like… does your Y/N grow into herself and her new life and new responsibilities???? Is it her life forever, now?????? Does it get taken away from her???????????? This is why I’m sticking by my isekai=horror take, like, idk—imagine being all, “okay… okay this is fine, everything is fine” and like, adjusting to your new life and getting to enjoy it and learn to be good at it, to love your new relationships—to watch yourself grow—and then you wake back up in bed, in the real world. :’))))))))))))))