#there's something to be said about the intersection of this kind of talk and the way we view disability btw

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

having a lot of inarticulate thoughts about pericles' genderousness this evening, in particular how i imagine/interpret his expression of it having changed over time, but they will not coalesce. when will my one brain cell for queer readings return from the war

[deeversuswords]

‧˚₊ Come and Get It

Katsuki drives you mad in his sleeveless turtleneck, so you act on it.

bakugou katsuki/f!reader (married) ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 2.5k words ⋆⭒˚.⋆ AO3 LINK

contains: smut, primal play, alley+wall+rough sex, spanking, biting and marking, dom/sub undertones, hand on throat (not choking)

“Mrs. Bakugou?!”

The officer rushed to block your path, but you were a woman on a mission and with an urgent problem that needed immediate attention.

“Who else?” You flashed him an innocent smile and slipped, ducking under the tape. “Sorry! But I really need to speak with Dynamight.”

A much-needed conversation you hadn’t had since this morning. It could’ve waited if you hadn’t seen him on your oversized TV screen earlier, sweaty in his sleeveless turtleneck and grinning like a maniac while he took down a group of villains. Katsuki could deny it all he wanted, but fighting gave him a certain kind of high. Anyone with eyes could see that.

Like his fangirls whining behind the tape, jealous that you were let through.

Wifey privileges, as Katsuki called them.

“Mrs. Bakugou, you can’t. It’s dangerous!”

“Watch me,” you muttered under your breath. 

You broke into a sprint toward the wrecked intersection, leaving the poor officer behind, quaking in his shoes about your safety. Your sundress clung to your skin as you darted past rubble and fallen traffic lights, their exposed wires sparking like fireworks. Smoke, dust, and humidity choked the air, making your lungs fight for breath, your throat ache for moisture.

Anticipation buzzed so hot in your veins a squeal bubbled up before you could stop it. Then you spotted Katsuki—one hand on his hip, expression blasé as a detective talked his ear off—and the sound burst from your throat.

As you sped up, his head whipped in your direction, brows shooting to his hairline. What the fuck was written in every single line of his handsome, sweaty, soot-streaked face.

Katsuki left the detective’s side without a word to meet you halfway, securing you to him when your body launched itself into his arms. His strong, powerful, thick arms. Bare arms.

“The hell you doin’ here?” he asked.

You sucked in a breath and puffed it against his face, then planted a quick kiss on his mouth. His taste, his smell—you internally groaned. “I have a problem. A big, big problem that can’t wait.”

He wiped the soot off his cheek on his collar. “What problem? You okay?”

“I’m not okay.”

“No?” Worry crossed his face, eyes zeroing in on yours. “Somethin’ happened? Someone hurt you? You feelin’ sick? Fuck, woman. Speak up.”

Squirming in his hold, you slipped free and dropped to the ground, snagging his elbow. “I’m in pain. Sick. Because of you.”

“Huh? Me? Hell did I do?”

“You wore that top.”

Katsuki sputtered somewhere between confusion and indignation. “What you on about? Oi!” His legs locked, stopping yours cold. “Got a problem with my gear?”

You spun around, your dress fanning around your body, distracting him for a moment, and strolled backward toward the next side street. There was at least one shadowed alleyway you could lure him into. Licking the back of your teeth, you shamelessly ogled him and nodded.

“That’s right. I hate it.” When his brows furrowed, you added, “You said you wouldn’t have that top made.”

“And? Changed my mind. It’s hot as hell, and I’m sweatin’ too much in the other,” he retorted, voice gaining that spark of anger that usually lit up your own. Today, it ignited something else, something closer to wanting to push his buttons until he had no choice but to give you exactly what you needed.

“Not my problem.” You shrugged. “Sweat.”

Your name rolled off his tongue like a lethal warning. “You jealous, or some shit? ‘Cause you actin’ like a damn  brat right now, and it’s startin’ to piss me off.”

“I know how you can punish me,” you drawled, tracing along your thigh through the slit of your dress. “I’ll tell you…if you catch me.”

Before you bolted, you allowed yourself a second to see his reaction. Katsuki’s head tilted in that way that usually had you either drop to your knees or climb into his lap. Those stunning red eyes darkened as realization hit him with the real purpose of your visit. His nostrils flared as if your dirty little secret scented the air.

Dynamight? Gone. 

Bakugou Katsuki? Present to give chase and claim.

For the second time that day, you ran like your life depended on it, hunted by the man you came for. Exhilaration spread like sonic waves through your veins as his pounding steps closed in. Your heart careened faster down the slope of insatiable lust, your breaths turning ragged, sweat breaking hot across your skin.

When he finally got his hands on you, your mouth might just beg for everything unholy. Katsuki looking at you like that, manhandling you the way he liked, cut off your better judgment. You couldn’t care less who witnessed, so long as he took you and gave you him.

Veering to the side, you slowed down and swiveled to face him, backing away.

“Came here to fuck me, huh.” His grin was wild, unhinged, tongue stroking his canine as he panted. It was never a question, always a certainty. And Katsuki knew that. That confidence he had, that you’d never not want him, made you wetter.

You shook your head. “Wrong. I’m here so you—” your finger pointed at him, then at yourself. “—fuck me.”

“Yeah?” He advanced with the grace of a feline, each step slow and measured. “What if I said no? You do know that I’m breakin’ the rules for you, wifey.”

“Do you think I came here without an ace up my sleeve?”

“‘Course you did. Impress me.”

“You hate this one.” Your fingers slipped through the slit in your dress, parting the fabric to show him you weren’t wearing any panties. “Because you can never say no to it.”

Katsuki stopped and widened his stance, his hands working to remove his gauntlets. “Callin’ me pussy obsessed when it’s you who made a run for my cock? Cute.” One gauntlet dropped to the ground. “Put your fuckin’ hands on that wall.”

“Catch me first.”

“You really wanna get fucked like you ain’t my wife?” He threw the second gauntlet aside like it was scrap and stomped forward once, his merciful way of giving you precious seconds to choose.

You licked your dry lips. “Well, I don’t recall the last time you made me your slut. You’re getting a little soft, Katsuki.”

Time stilled under the echo of your ego jab. You knew the kind of nerve you struck in him, and the twilight settling in overhead didn’t help in staving off the shiver rocking your body. Muted navy light accentuated the menace living under his skin. The thrilling danger you deliberately provoked.

Scary, but yours. All yours.

“Run,” he said in the calmest voice.

Zero chances to make it, but you tried anyway, barely managing a step. His gloved hand clamped down on your mouth, muffling your adrenaline-induced scream before you could register it. He shoved you front-first against the wall and flipped your dress up.

“Soft, you said?”

He delivered a slap to your ass so sharp your eyes screwed shut as you bit back a pained groan. It reverberated through the alley, loud and telling. If this was how it would go, the chances of getting caught increased. Oddly, that thought nearly had your back arching.

“This what you want?”

Reaching up, you managed to pry two of his fingers off your mouth to half-moan, “Yes.”

His hand slid from your mouth to your jaw, angling your head to bare your neck. In true feral Katsuki fashion, he took your skin in his teeth and licked slowly, growling deep in his throat as if your taste was his one and only drug. Then sucked on your pulse to bruise it.

You couldn’t help the pitiful whimper escaping you, the desperation rising like a furious tide. Your ass pushed back into him, feeling for the heat of his cock.

He rewarded your lack of shame with another harsh slap.

“Behave.” His utility belt crashed to the floor, followed by his glove, and you felt him working his pants lower, the waistband dragging slow against the back of your thighs. “You should see yourself. Fuckin’ soaked for me. What got you goin’ like this, huh?”

“The top,” you panted out, wanting to look at him, but his hold prevented you. “Should be illegal on you.”

“Uh-huh.” His feverish tip dragged over your entrance, coating itself in your slick, making both your breaths catch. “Shit. Keep talkin’. Tell me more about it.”

“Your shoulders and b-biceps look—” You exhaled shakily as he began to circle your swollen clit with the head of his cock. “—criminal in it. Please fuck me already.”

Katsuki pulled you back by the neck, forcing your spine to arch, and rasped hotly in your ear. “Don’t think for a second that half-assed beggin’ does it. I just ain’t got the time to make you cry for it. Later.”

He drove his hips forward, filling you up in one slippery thrust. A choked, broken moan tore from your throat as your hands anchored to him. One grappled his forearm, the many metal bumps on his bracer digging into your palm, while the other fisted the back of his collar.

The stretch was a piece of heaven he forbade you from savoring. He drew back to the tip and slammed in harder. Much harder and more aggressive. Fucking you like you existed in the moment to make him come, to satisfy his animal urges.

But while his cock might not care, the rest of him did. To make you crazier for him.

Katsuki’s hand braced against the wall on the knuckles as the one on your neck used his thumb to move your head to the side, giving you a delicious view of his veiny, straining bicep. He kept his mouth at your ear, so the only sounds you heard—save for the snapping of his hips—were his changes in breath.

“This what fucks you up?” His voice came out rougher than usual, packed with lust, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps over your skin. He flexed the defined muscles, and your pussy instantly contracted. “Yeah, you like that, huh. Want ’em bigger? More ripped?”

Words evaded you. You could only let out a helpless moan.

“If you want my cum drippin’ outta you, answer me.”

“You’re p-perfect like this. The best. Katsuki—Ah.” A gasp tore from your throat at the sudden angle change. “Need you deeper.”

“Keep your eyes where they are.”

He removed his hand from your throat to lift your leg, opening you more to him. That extra inch he got in had the first of his hoarse moans escape, a sign he was slipping under with you.

And your cue to disobey.

You let go of his collar and leaned toward his arm, licking over the bulged vein of his muscles, groaning at the taste of his skin. Salty with a tinge of ash. You heard him snarl mark me from somewhere deep in his heaving chest, and without hesitation, sank your teeth into him, alternating between licking and sucking hard. Like you would his cock.

“Fuck yeah. That’s my good slutty girl,” he grunted, his breath going shaky. “Chose you well. So fuckin’ well.”

Katsuki changed the angle, his throbbing cock stroking your sweet spot with a precision that filled your head with static as you burned up for him, for the fire he stoked deep inside you.

When you flared like the sun, it would be all him.

And if someone happened to catch you two? Their misfortune. Katsuki wouldn’t stop. He’d keep going until your brain melted from pleasure, and patronize them with one look. They’d have to remove themselves from the scandalous scene.

Something shut down in your brain at the thought—probably the last rational part. You met him thrust for thrust, your broken cries mixing with his string of profanities, both echoes of the depravity happening not far from the crowd screaming for him or hoping for an interview.

You stole a look at their pro hero over your shoulder.

All those people, unaware his prolonged absence was your fault. Unaware of how far gone he was, obsessed with watching where you were joined. Unaware that Katsuki looked ten times hotter when he fucked like a man who’d die if he wasn’t balls deep in his wife, sweat shimmering drops on his brow, breaths panted in harsh huffs.

Skin slapped skin in a vicious rhythm. Carnal sounds rang louder and louder. Lewd, obscene, uncontrollable.

“Katsuki,” you breathed out his name.

Glazed red eyes dragged up, clearing a fraction at whatever they saw on your face. 

He wrenched his arm from the wall and banded it over your front, fingers landing on your clit, working you faster to orgasm.

“I got you,” he promised, kissing your sweaty temple. Then under your ear. “Look at me.”

You tilted your head to the side through the lusty haze, toes curling at the anticipated intensity of having eye contact with him. What you got instead was his mouth on yours, kissing you deep and hungry, sending your insides into a frenzy of flutters that rippled between your legs.

His skilled fingers pressed harder. His cock hit just right.

You whimpered into his mouth, body locking up as pleasure consumed your nerves, flinging you over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you, making your legs shake and pussy clench hard around him, desperate to trap him, keep him there forever. You couldn’t breathe from the force—could barely hear your satisfied sobs over the loud pounding in your ears.

“That’s it. Fuck,” Katsuki groaned into the kiss, his hips snapping brutally through your convulsing walls, chasing his own addictive high. “So damn pretty like this. Gonna take it all, yeah? Milk my cock for all it’s worth.”

“Y-yeah. Give it to me.” You caught the stray bead of sweat on his jaw with your tongue. “Need it so bad.”

He grunted, reared back, and gripped your hips, fucking you with wild abandon. A sharp gasp tore from your lungs when he buried himself to the hilt seconds later with a strangled moan. His hands shook on your body as his cock pulsed, emptying every last drop deep inside you.

Katsuki’s arms wrapped around your middle, about to mold you to him, when foreign voices came too close to the alley’s entrance. The prospect of a minute of just being in his embrace stolen from you.

“Gotta be kiddin’ me. Shit.” He pulled out, fixed your dress, and turned you around. Afterward, he bothered with tucking himself in, completely coated with the evidence of your public indecency. He drew his tense shoulders back. “You were sayin’?”

Your mouth curved up. “I was saying that—Oh, I’m suddenly feeling faint.” 

You fell against him dramatically, fingers clutching at his top. Perfectly timed with the appearance of the two figures. Katsuki caught your so-called limp body and shot you a pointed look. But pride glinted in his eyes still drunk on you.

“You’re such a little shit,” he scoffed, failing to hide his grin.

[shanastoryteller]

okay now that i've had some coffee, let's chat

specifically, about how you act on the internet is a blueprint on how other people will treat you and how this intersects with the functionality of anon asks

if you've followed me for any significant amount of time, none of this will be anything i haven't said before, or i think be at all surprising to the rest of you, but i guess it bears repeating

so let's repeat: how you act on the internet is a guidebook on how other people will interact with you

like invites like. if you talk about a topic, you're going to get more commentary on that topic. this is because you're demonstrating that this topic is something you're comfortable talking about because you are talking about it

if you respond one way to something, people are going to reasonably assume you will respond the same way to them if they send you something similar. if someone asks for advice and you give it, people are going to think you're comfortable giving out advice and that asking for advice is an appropriate way to interact with you. if someone asks for information and resources and you provide them, people are going to think it's appropriate and acceptable to ask you for information and resources

i've seen this come up with other people before, where they do one thing and get frustrated and upset when that generates more of that thing. but people are just following your lead

now, anon asks

the function of anon asks is that the only way to reply to them is to respond to them publicly. you cannot privately reply to an anon

this means that every anon ask answered tells people how to interact with you. it is not and cannot be treated the same as a 1 on 1 conversation. it doesn't matter if that's not intention or what the anon wants. it's the reality of the situation

i don't answer non-anon asks publicly, with rare exceptions like it's funny or i think my answer to them would be interesting to others and non-upsetting for the askee for me to share (there are times i've given things like writing advice or commentary that i've thought might be interesting to the rest of you, but the askee had something in their original ask that i though they potentially wouldn't appreciate being immortalized on my blog)

if there's ever anything that someone doesn't want me to answer publicly no matter what, they can ensure this by just including it in their ask. even if i was inclined to be a hypocrite and ignore how people want to be interacted with (i am not) i am obviously not going to post it publicly if you ask me not to because then everyone would see me do that and think, rightfully, that i'm a huge jerk

when someone is rude or critical of me on anon, they're putting me in an unfair position. i can either not answer them or i have to turn their answer into a public performance, consumable by everyone. there is no other option

the vast majority of people use anon to say something kind or neutral where my public and private response would be basically identical and that's not what this is about. if i had an issue with anon asks in general, i wouldn't have them on

by sending criticism on anon, they're protecting themselves by not having any of their opinions or thoughts associated with them. nothing they say is connected to them and they're free of any consequences of their actions. in contrast, if i respond, my only option is to respond publicly. which means not only is my response attached to me and my name, but it has to be publicly consumable, i have to open myself up to the thoughts and commentary of everyone else if i'm going to reply

that means, before we get into anything the anon is saying, they're demonstrating both that they're a coward and they don't care about my comfort or my privacy - something they obviously highly prioritize for themselves

if that's the premise, why would i take kindly to anything they have to say after that, no matter what it is?

additionally, if i respond kindly and measured to these types of asks, that tells other people that it's an acceptable way to interact with me

it is not

if this ask had been sent off anon, my response would have been: "glad you enjoyed the story. feel free to toss any typos you notice into a comment (easiest way for me to keep track) and i'll correct them when i have a chance"

when it's just me talking to another person, i can choose to ignore or gloss over any awkwardness or mild rudeness because it's not going to come back to bite me. it's not a performance or a guidebook on how others will treat me. it's just you and me talking

but because it's anon, i have to keep in mind that i'm not just talking to them - i'm talking to everyone else too. so i have to establish that: i'm not interested in a beta, but am more than happy to correct typos; i don't care to hear about about how my typos personally upset you; and, in this case, that this is the type of message i don't want to receive on anon

because if i don't make it clear what i don't want, i'm going to receive more of it. that's simply a neutral fact of how people and the internet work

the more considerate you are of me, the more considerate of you i'm going to be in return

tldr: if you want a response meant just for you, you have to ask in a way that i can respond only to you. which isn't an anon ask. them's the breaks

[wild-aspen]

Transfeminism & Transandrophobia/Transmisandry

You know what, I'm angry about "transemasculation" too.

First, no, outside parties do not get to create terms for marginalized groups they are not part of. That's a HUGE red flag. It's an even bigger red flag when you remember that one of the major problems transmascs deal with is erasure! So not only did an outsider - a trans woman - try to create words for us, she erased the words we came up with for ourselves. It is incredibly patronizing and, frankly, infantilizing - which, surprise surprise, is one of the many prejudices transmascs have to deal with.

Secondly, as many others have said, it enormously flattens and minimizes the true extent of the multiple kinds of oppression transmascs face. It makes the focus "emasculation", as if the primary concern of trans men is other people minimizing our manhood.

I wish.

As any transmasculine person will tell you if you actually talked to one, transmascs face a multitude of intersecting forms of oppression, including but not limited to:

Sexism

Misogyny

Misandry

Racism

Transphobia

Homophobia

Infantilization

Erasure

And more!

And yes, misandry is on that list. Misandry means a hatred of men and masculinity and things associated with men. It does not mean "systemic oppression of men". Misandry becomes a form of oppression when manhood/masculinity intersects with other identities. Feminists of color such as bell hooks and Kimberlé Crenshaw have spoken about this extensively.

It should be common sense for modern feminists to acknowledge that when manhood intersects with transness, it forms a new axis of oppression. This is something any transfeminist should know... if they are speaking in good faith. Unfortunately, that was not what the trans woman who coined the term "transemasculation" was doing. She was not speaking in good faith. She did not want to listen to transmasculine voices, she wanted to silence us.

When a trans man is refused gynecological care because he has an M on his driver's license, that's not emasculation. That's medical transphobia. When a nonbinary transmasculine person is refused a hysterectomy because they might "change their mind" about wanting children, that is not emasculation, that is medical misogyny.

As for misandry: when transmascs are told that testosterone will make us angry and violent, that it will make us ugly, that it will turn us into sexual predators, that is definitely not emasculation. It is misandry. When trans gay men who date cis gay men are described as "predatory cis women trying to force conversion therapy on gay men", that's multiple forms of bigotry including homophobia, transphobia, transmisandry and more. Trans men of color also face misandry in unique forms, and you should go listen to their voices about it.

To reduce all of this to "trans men are mainly concerned with being emasculated" is, honestly, insulting. It is beyond insulting - it is, in fact, transandrophobia.

[sarahsghosts]

the death and resurrection of jonathan price

john price x female, wife!reader

angst with an eventual happy ending

word count: 2,504

cw: violence. language.

this story has been re-edited/finished on ao3

chapter 7

songs: trigger - mississippi twilight, burn it down - nickelback, far from home (the raven) - sam tinnesz

it’d be another long day for tf141. they were exhausted when they returned to the team room.

price had still been working them to the bone in an effort to avoid spending too much time alone in his own head.

when they returned, soap dropped his stuff down onto one of the tables, and went downstairs to open up the cages so each man could lock up his gear.

ghost had stepped out to deal with flack from on high. something about the teams needing to be more clear in their communication.

evidently, the brass wanted the teams to start filling out an action plan on the daily: where they were going to go after checking out weapons, when they expected to return… bullshit admin stuff.

the exact kind of gov.uk nonsense that simon never would’ve handled before, but that he had been fielding for the last three years in their captain’s absence.

gaz leaned down and loosened his boots in an attempt to relieve the pressure from his aching feet. from deep inside his range bag, his cellphone began to ring.

he pulled it from the duffle, but stopped himself before answering it. he threw a glance at price, who was watching him, now.

historically, he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking a personal call, knowing that price trusted his discretion, but with the way things had been going lately, kyle wasn’t sure how he would react.

price looked at soap, who had emerged from downstairs, shoving the lockup keys into his pocket, then back to gaz.

“go home,” he told them. “you’re dismissed.”

gaz took the cue and answered his phone, which was on its third ring. “hello?”

“kyle,” your voice came in quiet and strained. “i need help.”

his eyes widened as he called your name. “hey, woah, what’s going on?”

“i was at a bar,” you started. a sob threatened to come out, but you quickly bit it back. “these guys, they followed me. i’m alone. kyle, i don’t know what to do.”

price and soap had their eyes locked onto gaz. they couldn’t understand what you were saying, but they could clearly hear your panicked tone from the other end of the line.

in a second, price was across the room, snatching the phone from gaz’s hand.

he pressed it to his ear. “where are you?”

“john?” his blood chilled at the sheer anxiety in your voice. you sounded terrified.

“where are you, love?” he repeated, a little softer, but still firm.

after a beat of silence, you rattled off the street name.

“what direction are you moving?”

“south,” you told him. “i’m coming up to an intersection.” after another moment, you told him the name of the street that crossed with the one you were on. “i’m too far from home, john, i don’t—”

“keep headin’ south,” he told you as he moved for the door. “don’t go home.” he didn’t want these assholes knowing where you lived, in case they decided to come back and pay you a visit. not that he had any plans to let them continue breathing. “i’m on my way.”

you’d been trying to keep yourself from panicking, but you were drunk, alone, and afraid.

“i’m on my way,” john said.

that was enough for you to let out a small sob, clutching your phone tightly to your ear. “fuck, i’m scared, john.” you could hear a rustling sound and a car door slam. “are you there?”

“i’m here, sweetheart.” you heard an engine turn over. “you have your piece?”

“no,” you whimpered, tears blurring your vision. you glanced behind you and saw your pursuers were still there. luckily for you, they didn’t seem to be in a hurry, as they nonchalantly trailed behind you, still talking and laughing casually.

you heard john curse on the other end of the line.

“that’s alright,” he said, quickly, “i’m not far. keep your head on a swivel and stay in the well lit areas.”

“i’m trying,” you whispered. “stay on the phone with me. please, john, don’t hang up.”

“i won’t,” he assured you quickly. “i’m coming, love, hang on.”

the minutes passed like hours, every laugh and taunt from your pursuers making your heart jump. you prayed he wasn’t very far…

you heard him before you saw him. the loud roar of an engine and the screeching sound of tires taking a sharp turn echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet night.

a bright light caught your attention. you turned around to see headlights coming down the street.

your pursuers noticed them too, as they spun around hearing the commotion headed their way.

john’s old, black suv sped towards them. just when you thought he was going to run them over, he swerved around the two men, putting the car between you and your would-be attackers.

he came to a screeching halt and leapt out of the car with the engine still running.

he didn’t so much as glance in your direction, but instead, began approaching cal and his buddy.

“you get off on terrorizing women, eh?”

the two assholes, initially startled by the commotion of john’s chaotic arrival, seemed to recover when he emerged from the vehicle alone.

cal chuckled, when it became apparent that he was gearing up for a fight. “listen, man, it’s two on one. you sure you wanna take those odds?”

you couldn’t make out john’s face past the glare of the headlights, but you heard his booming laughter ring out. “how about you get a few more guys and we’ll call it an even fight, then?”

your blood chilled at just how absolutely delighted he sounded, as if he’d been itching for a fight.

for a second, it looked as though cal’s companion was losing his nerve. he murmured something to cal who snapped back, “don’t be a bitch, pete. we can take him.”

the two men hesitated, taken aback by the positively manic look on john’s face, but then cal’s buddy, pete, stepped forward, throwing a well-aimed punch.

john caught his fist with a practiced ease, using the assailant’s momentum to drive his own balled fist into his stomach.

as pete doubled over, john wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, holding his head in place, grabbing the back of his shirt with his other hand.

with his buddy flailing in john’s grip, cal felt confident enough to take a swing at his head.

john planted his feet, leaned in, and took the punch straight to the face, yanking pete along with him. with a grunt and a bloody nose, he swung his captive towards his friend, sending the two crashing together, and down onto the ground.

they stood up, both of them cursing, their intoxicated egos clearly bruised. pete glanced at his friend, trying to gauge just how determined he was to keep going. cal said something you couldn’t make out and gave him a shove forward.

pete stepped up, preparing to take a swing, but john moved faster, punching him in the temple and sending him into a stumbling daze.

cal squared up, still undeterred. john threw a swing at him, which cal had backed up to dodge, when he hit the curb, and fell back onto the sidewalk.

john wasted no time. he stepped up and kicked him repeatedly in the stomach.

“piece.”

“of.”

“shit.”

he emphasized each word with another ruthless blow.

you watched, horrified and frozen to the spot.

pete, who was clutching the side of his head, was finally putting together that they were outclassed. he turned with a stagger, and began to run up the street.

the fear that kept you frozen to the spot, distracted you enough that hadn’t even seen the dark colored wrangler until it hit the man as he tried to escape.

your hand flew to your mouth. you watched in shock as pete was tossed onto the ground like a rag doll.

evidently, the car wasn’t going too fast, because after a dazed second or two, pete was back up and tried to keep running.

the passenger door opened and gaz hopped out. in three long strides, he caught up with him and barreled into his torso, tackling him to the ground. another punch, this one to the face, and pete went still.

johnny hopped out of the driver side and took a brief glance around, surveying the scene. he spotted you quickly and sprinted in your direction, looking you up and down.

“you good?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with worry.

he was still dressed for work, in his fatigues and a black tshirt. his gloved hands grasped your shoulders. “lass? are you okay?”

“johnny,” you choked, unable to look away from the fight. “he’s gonna kill him!”

johnny turned to see where you were looking and recognized price who hadn’t let up the hail of blows, despite cal’s bloody form lying motionless on the asphalt. gaz, having left pete in a pile on the street, was trying to get his captain’s attention.

john couldn’t seem to hear him as he landed another well aimed kick straight to cal’s teeth.

“shit!” johnny spun on his heels and booked it over to gaz. the two of them each grabbed one of john’s shoulders and hauled him backwards.

john cursed loudly as the two of them pulled him away from the mangled heap of a man.

“i’m fine! i’m fine!” he shouted, shaking them off, his shoulders heaving as he panted, seemingly coming out of a daze. blood trickled from his nose and a cut split his right eyebrow.

johnny leaned over and said something to him. his head snapped in your direction as if just remembering you were there.

he approached you, the wild look slowly leaving his eyes, replaced by something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

concern.

“love, are you alright?”

his bare knuckles were bloody as his hands ran up and down your arms.

as the adrenaline of the situation began to wear off, exhaustion swept over you.

you folded yourself into john’s chest, your brain processing only one thing: you were safe.

you were hardly aware of the fact that your entire body was shaking, but john noticed.

“it’s alright,” he murmured, putting a hand onto the back of your head. his fingers curled into your hair. “you’re alright.”

the two of you stood like that for a few minutes before you felt him slowly guide you to the passenger seat of his car.

he drove you home while johnny and kyle stayed behind to clean up the mess.

you had your feet tucked up in your seat, with your head resting against the passenger window.

john drove most of the way in silence until—

“you called gaz.”

you picked up your head to look over at him. his eyes were locked on the road, his scraped and bloodied hands gripping the wheel tightly.

“yeah?” you said quietly, missing his point.

“you called gaz,” he repeated.

this time, you recognized the unspoken words: you didn’t call me.

you didn’t reply right away, and the silence quickly grew heavy.

john pulled up to the curb outside your flat and put the car in park. he didn’t look at you.

finally you spoke.

“i wasn’t sure you’d come.”

his head snapped over to you with an incredulous look in his eyes, before it was masked quickly behind an emotionless stare.

“where’s your piece?” he questioned.

you bit your tongue for a moment, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer you gave him.

“in my nightstand drawer,” you muttered.

his eyes flared. “why weren’t you carrying it? i told you to always carry it,” he scolded, his tone even, but stern.

indignation grew hot in your chest. “i’m a civilian, john,” you remind him pointedly. “i can’t just walk around with a gun.”

he narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. he had the gall to sound irritated with you for trying to defend yourself. “that never stopped you before.”

your jaw tightened. “because,” you growled. “before, i knew i’d have you to bail me out if i got into trouble for it.”

earlier, the silence had been dense and heavy, now it was delicate in a way that made you want to hold your breath. you could’ve heard a pin drop.

it was clear john was thinking, but about what, you weren’t sure. his face remained schooled into practiced neutrality.

for a brief moment, you thought he might say something, but he didn’t. instead, he opened his door and climbed out of the car, walking around to your side.

he opened the passenger side door. he held out his hand and looked at you expectantly.

you didn’t move right away, but watched him warily.

a moment passed.

when he raised his brows, you sighed, took his hand and let him help you from the vehicle.

without a word, you turned to walk towards your flat, but john didn’t release his hold on your hand.

you looked back at him.

he watched you, his a gaze that was intense but betrayed no emotion.

“you call me next time.” it wasn’t phrased as a question.

you tightened your jaw as you bit back the urge to remind him that he hadn’t done anything to prove his reliability since he came home. you had no reason to believe he’d be there for you.

he had no right to be frustrated with you for calling someone else when you were in trouble.

the anger must’ve shown on your face, because he tightened his grip on your hand. not painfully, but enough to convey meaning.

“understand?” he pressed.

you watched him with a steely gaze. “there won’t be a next time.” you tugged your hand back, sharply.

he dropped his empty hand to his side, flexing it open and closed. he looked at you, appraisingly and nodded once. he walked back to his car, leaving you standing on the sidewalk, more confused than ever.

YOU CAN READ THE REST OF THIS STORY ON AO3

masterlist

—-

TAGLIST:

@fruitymoonbeams-blog @evergreenfields @galactict3a @who-needs-to-sleep @misscherry-26

[oaksgrove]

I wish I could share fanfiction with my mom because she doesn't drive anymore after being in a couple of terrible wrecks. And while my stepdad is great for her in so many ways, when he wants to be grumpy the only thing he can gripe about is her not driving.

I think a fic like your Passenger Princess blurbs would definitely soothe her soul a little bit.

❤️

Fear of Driving

Pairing: John Price x Reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader, Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader, Nikolai Belinski x Reader.

Synopsis: After a traumatic car accident, driving has never been the same for you. You didn’t mean to talk about it, but they always find a way to make you feel safe enough to speak.

Warning: Themes of past trauma (car accident), anxiety/PTSD, emotional vulnerability, gentle comfort, implied romantic relationships, reader struggling with post-traumatic stress around driving, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2988

John Price:

The first time John noticed it, he didn’t say anything.

He just watched—subtle, careful—the way your fingers curled a little too tightly around the seatbelt buckle. How your eyes flicked to the side mirror twice in ten seconds. How your breath caught every time a car passed too close.

It was in the way your body didn’t relax into the passenger seat, like even being still was a strain. The engine was barely humming, but you sat as if it could roar out of your control at any moment.

He saw it. And he didn’t need to ask.

John had seen enough fear in his life to recognize it even when it wore silence like armor.

So he adjusted the route without a word.

No highways. No merges. No weaving between trucks or tailgaters or blinking turn signals. Just slow roads with tree-lined sidewalks and sleepy intersections. Places where the world didn’t feel like it was rushing to crush you.

You noticed it the second time he picked you up from your appointment. The soft hum of the engine, the left turn away from the on-ramp.

“No motorway?” you’d asked, voice careful.

John shook his head, eyes on the road. “Not today.”

You didn’t ask why. You just stared out the window as the city passed by slowly, rhythmically. Like it was finally okay to take a breath.

Every trip became a quiet routine. He’d unlock the door for you first, open it with that same old-school courtesy that used to make you laugh. You didn’t laugh now—but you did smile. Small. Grateful.

Before pulling out, he always turned slightly, hand resting on the steering wheel, the other finding yours.

“Alright, love?” he’d ask.

You’d nod. Every time. Sometimes with words, sometimes just a quick look that said I’m trying.

And John would squeeze your hand and drive like the world was made of porcelain. Like any sudden movement would break something sacred.

Because maybe it would.

It wasn’t until one rainy Thursday that you told him the story.

Not all of it—just enough.

The car was parked in front of the pharmacy, windshield wipers ticking quietly in the background. You were both sitting in the kind of silence that didn’t need filling, and you just… said it.

“I used to be able to drive,” you said. “Before.”

John didn’t move. Just listened. Steady. Present.

“There was an accident,” you continued, voice thin. “Not mine. But I was in the car. Someone else was driving. It… changed something. In my head. I just can’t do it anymore. Not even sit behind the wheel without… without feeling like it’s going to happen again.”

Your voice cracked. You didn’t mean for it to. But the pressure had built up in the silence between rides and road signs, and now it spilled out, hot and aching.

John didn’t reach for platitudes. He didn’t ask for more.

He just took your hand, gentle and slow.

“You’ve been through enough, love,” he said softly. “Let me take the wheel from now on, yeah?”

And just like that, it wasn’t a weakness. It wasn’t something broken.

It was a promise.

After that, things changed in small ways. He always asked before starting the car. You always nodded. You stopped flinching when another vehicle passed close. You even hummed along to the radio one day—barely audible, but there.

And at every red light, he’d reach over, hand settling on yours. A silent reminder.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, he’d shift into park, turn to you with a half-smile, and say it every time without fail:

“Thank you for trusting me.”

And sometimes, when the light hit just right and the air was soft with late evening stillness, he’d press a kiss to your temple and add quietly:

“You don’t need to be brave behind the wheel. You’re already the bravest person I know.”

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

It was a small thing, barely there. A flicker in your hands, an almost-step backward, the kind of pause no one else would notice.

But Simon noticed.

He always did.

You stood beside the passenger side of the car, keys already in his hand, the day cool and cloudy, the kind of afternoon that should’ve felt still and calm. But you weren’t calm.

You hadn’t driven since. Since that night. Since metal screamed and brakes failed and the world spun sideways on impact. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t your fault—it stuck in your chest all the same.

Now the memory lived in your muscles. In the sharp inhale when you reached for the door handle. In the way your feet stayed frozen on the pavement.

Simon didn’t ask.

He just stepped closer. Close enough that his presence wrapped around you like a shield. His hand, warm and steady, cupped the back of your neck.

“Don’t rush,” he murmured, voice low, calm. “You don’t have to get in, love. We can stay right here. We’ve got time.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until you exhaled against the collar of his jacket. The air smelled like gun oil and pine. Like him.

And just like that, the world slowed.

You got in—not because you had to, but because he was there.

Simon always drove.

He never said anything about it, never pushed the keys into your hands, never even hinted. Just adjusted the seat for you without a word and opened your door like it was routine. Like it was normal.

And when you flinched—because you always did, a little—at the quick stop at a yellow light or the sharp curve on the roundabout, he’d reach out without looking.

Just his pinky brushing yours on the center console. Barely a touch, but it worked. It always worked.

“I’ve got you,” he’d say, voice a soft rumble.

No questions. No reminders. No pressure.

Only that steady anchor of him.

At home, it was quieter.

You curled up on the couch in his hoodie—oversized, faded, soft with age and wear. The sleeves swallowed your hands. You didn’t bother fixing them.

Simon brought you tea, set it on the table beside you, and sat down with that careful heaviness that came after long days and longer years. He didn’t touch you right away—just looked.

When he did speak, it was barely louder than the ticking of the wall clock.

“You never have to explain,” he said, hand resting gently on your knee. “I just want you safe.”

That was it.

No digging into old wounds. No advice. Just him—quiet, constant, unshakable.

And maybe you never talked about the crash. Maybe you didn’t have to.

Because Simon already knew.

And he’d keep driving, forever if he had to—through rain, fog, traffic, fear.

He’d take the wheel.

So you could rest.

So you could breathe.

So you could heal.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You didn’t think it would come up. Not really.

But something about the way Kyle drove—one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything—made you feel… safe. Safe enough to talk.

It was late. The two of you had just left a movie, some indie thing he picked because he said you’d like the soundtrack (you did). The streets were quiet, empty enough to let your guard down. And when he asked—just casually, like he always did—if you were okay, the words came out before you had time to weigh them.

“I don’t like driving anymore,” you said softly, fingers curled in your lap. “Not after what happened.”

His eyes didn’t flick toward you, not right away. He gave you your space to speak, even as the silence stretched.

You told him everything. Not the dramatized version, not the one you shrink down when talking to others—just the truth.

The other car. The impact. The sound of metal crumpling and glass shattering and your own breath going missing. The way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking even hours later. The feeling of something inside you cracking.

Kyle didn’t interrupt. Not once.

By the time you’d finished, your voice had gone quiet, like the memory had drained it all out of you.

He was quiet too, a beat of stillness settling in the car as the red light bathed the dashboard in soft glow.

Then: “Damn,” he said, voice low and sincere, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “You didn’t deserve that.”

It wasn’t much. But it landed deep.

Since then, Kyle just… took over. Not like he was taking something from you. Just quietly adding comfort wherever he could.

He became the designated driver without needing a label.

He adjusted the seat heater to your perfect setting, kept a soft blanket folded neatly in the backseat—one you’d joked about stealing more than once. He even made a playlist just for nighttime drives. No lyrics, just warm instrumentals that felt like a balm for frayed nerves.

Before every trip, he glanced over, smile crooked. “Comfy?”

You’d nod.

“You sure?” he’d tease. “We can just sit here and vibe if you want.”

Sometimes you did just that. Just sat. Windows slightly cracked, cold air mixing with the low hum of music. He never pushed. Never expected anything from you.

He respected your boundaries without ever making them feel like walls.

And when he parked—every time—he’d turn to you, voice quiet but firm.

“You’re safe, alright?”

Then, with a warmth that never failed to reach right into your chest:

“With me, you always are.”

And the thing was…

You believed him.

With Kyle, you were safe.

And slowly—one drive at a time—you were learning how to feel it again.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

You hadn’t meant to tell him. Not then, not like that.

It had just slipped out, really—during a quiet evening when you were both sitting in his car outside your flat, takeout boxes on your laps, the smell of sweet and sour chicken fogging up the windows. You were watching the rain slide down the windshield in lazy streaks when your voice broke the silence.

“I don’t like driving anymore.”

Johnny didn’t laugh. Didn’t raise a brow or flash one of his usual smirks.

He blinked—once, then again. Then set his food down and turned toward you, serious in a way he rarely let show.

“Christ, bonnie,” he said, voice thick. He reached out and took your hand in both of his, thumbs warm and steady as they brushed over your knuckles. “That had to be awful. I’m so sorry.”

You told him the short version. You didn’t have to go into the details—he understood enough. The panic. The shaking. The constant hyperawareness of everything that could go wrong the moment you slid into a driver’s seat.

From that day on, Johnny made it his mission to never let you worry about it again.

He declared himself your “personal chauffeur,” complete with a dramatic Scottish accent (even thicker than usual) and an exaggerated bow every time he opened the car door for you.

“M’lady,” he’d grin, pulling the door wide with a flourish. “Your carriage awaits.”

Sometimes he even wore his aviators just to “look the part.”

And when you were in the car, he paid attention.

If he saw your shoulders creeping up toward your ears, if your hand gripped the seatbelt a little too tight, he’d flip the playlist to your favorites. He always remembered the ones that calmed you—soft acoustic melodies, the occasional ‘90s slow jam that made you snort through your nose.

He’d hum along, gently tapping the steering wheel in rhythm, voice low and reassuring.

“You alright, love?” he’d ask during longer drives. “Need a break? I saw a place with ice cream like two kilometers back.”

You never said no to ice cream.

And when the world felt too loud—horns and sudden stops, headlights too bright—he never made you feel weak for it. Never made you feel less.

“You never have to do anything that scares you,” he told you once, his hand warm against your thigh as he drove. “Not when I’m around.”

You believed him.

Because with Johnny behind the wheel, with his hand brushing yours over the console and your laughter echoing through the cab as he made another silly joke about being “the world’s most charming driver,” fear had a way of fading into the background.

With him, it didn’t feel like avoiding something anymore.

It just felt like trust.

And love, wrapped up in every turn he took.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The first time you told Roach, your voice shook.

You hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears came anyway—quiet and hot, blurring your vision as you tried to explain. Tried to tell him why your fingers twitched near car doors. Why you took the long way on foot, even when it rained. Why you hesitated before getting in the passenger seat, like the ground might shift underneath you.

Roach didn’t say a word.

He just wrapped his arms around you—tight, steady, warm. The kind of hug that anchored you, made it feel like the world wasn’t tilting so violently anymore. You clung to him, shaking with the effort not to sob. He held you tighter.

After that, things changed. Gently. Quietly.

You never had to ask him for a ride.

He was just there. Always.

Groceries? His truck was already idling out front, a playlist of soft lo-fi humming through the speakers.

Coffee run? He showed up with your favorite drink in hand—extra foam, just how you liked it.

Rainy day? He brought a second jacket, even if he got soaked himself.

He didn’t make a show of it. Never tried to be your savior. He just… showed up. Over and over. Reliable as the sunrise.

When Roach drove, it was like watching the wind flow through tall grass. Every movement smooth, deliberate. Never jerky, never rushed. He kept both hands on the wheel, but his body was relaxed, eyes scanning the road with the kind of practiced ease that made you feel safer just sitting next to him.

And if you flinched—at a honk, a too-fast car, a memory you couldn’t quite stop—his hand would immediately reach across the console. Palm up, fingers slightly curled. An unspoken offering.

Sometimes, when it got too much—when your breathing hitched and your skin felt too tight—he’d pull over without a word.

No pressure.

No questions.

He’d sit there, engine off, letting the quiet fill the cab while your heartbeat slowed. He never stared. Never asked for explanations. Just offered his open hand and let you take it when you were ready.

And when the worst of it passed, and you looked at him with tear-wet eyes, whispering, “Thank you,” like it wasn’t enough

Roach would only smile, soft and sure.

“I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

And you believed him.

Because that hand was always open. Always waiting.

And with him, you never had to be brave alone.

Nikolai Belinski:

You hadn’t touched the driver’s seat since the accident.

It wasn’t just fear—it was the kind of dread that settled in your chest like lead. The thought of pressing your foot to the gas made your hands sweat. The hum of tires on pavement, once so normal, now sounded too loud. Too sharp. Like sirens.

You didn’t talk about it much. But you didn’t have to.

Nikolai noticed the way your breath caught when you walked past the car. The way your fingers trembled when you held the keys but never used them. The way your voice always got quieter when someone asked, “Why don’t you drive anymore?”

So he took the keys from your hand one day and said simply, “You don’t have to, milaya. Not anymore.”

And he meant it.

Every errand, every trip, every mundane drive across the city—he took care of it. No questions. No hesitation. He just showed up, always with a smile, sometimes with fresh pastries in a bag between the seats or your favorite song queued up.

“You want fresh air?” he’d ask. “Come. I drive. You don’t even have to wear shoes.”

When you hesitated—stood at the passenger side with that old panic flickering behind your eyes—he never rushed you. He only leaned against the car and waited, patient as always, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the roof.

“No pressure,” he’d murmur. “Only if you want, da?”

He drove slow. Not overly cautious, but steady. Calm. The kind of pace that said I see you. I’ve got you. You could relax into the seat, close your eyes if you needed to, and when you opened them again, his hand was always nearby. Resting on the console, pinky tilted just slightly toward you.

For you to reach for.

For grounding.

For comfort.

And sometimes, when the weight of it all got too heavy, he’d pull over. Park under a tree or beside a quiet road and let the silence stretch. Let you breathe. Let you fall apart if you needed.

Once, when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, he reached over gently, cupped them in his warm, calloused palms, and kissed your knuckles.

“I know it scared you,” he said softly, in that low, rough voice of his. “But I will never let anything happen to you again. Not while I’m behind the wheel. Not while you are mine.”

You believed him. How could you not?

He treated you like something sacred. Like glass and fire all at once.

He never once made you feel weak. Never once made you feel guilty.

“You’re strong,” he said, forehead pressed to yours before one of those longer drives. “But even strong ones deserve to rest. Let me carry this, milaya. Let me carry you.”

And so you did.

Because with Nikolai, you didn’t have to be brave all the time.

You just had to say the word.

And he’d take care of the rest.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[plaidos]

You DO realize that if trans men being seen as cis women is "male privilege" then that also means that trans men being seen as cis men is also "male privilege", right? Like, aside from how ridiculous "cis women have male privilege" is and how MRA-esque "AFAB/female privilege" is, you are quite literally regurgitating TERF shit and implying that being seen as "cis"/aligning with their AGAB (which is something that rarely happens to ANY trans person, because we're all seen as a third category: queer) is a privilege. You are saying that trans people getting misgendered is a good thing and a privilege. This point does not, and cannot, exist in a vacuum. It inherently implies that misgendering is always a privilege, including and perhaps even especially trans women, given that "male privilege" is only given to people who are actually seen as MEN. Which, as we all know, is a point that cis transphobes constantly make. Because cis transphobes see us as men. Like.... You're straight up retarded if you think being seen as a "woman" is "male privilege" but being seen as a "man" isn't. At this point, you're denying that misogyny even exists at all, and positing that cis women are given the same privileges as cis men. Which should be clearly ridiculous to anyone who's ever gone outside, like, ever.

First of all, there’s a massive lodebearing typo in your opening point that kind of makes everything you’re saying nonsensical. Ignoring that, trans women who don’t pass aren’t seen as cis men — we are seen as insidious predators. If you don’t understand the ins and ours of a trans woman’s experience, maybe you shouldn’t be speaking on it.

also i never said cis women have male privilege you illiterate buffoon 😭 i said the fact that trans men who don’t pass are only seen as cis women (comparative to trans women who don’t pass, who are exclusively seen as predators) is a relative male privilege above women of the same demographic — trans women.

So many transmascs don’t understand that they have privilege above transfems because their brains totally short circuit when you’re talking about relative privilege. A black trans person is treated with greater violence & mistreatment than a white trans person. A disabled trans person is treated with greater violence & mistreatment than an abled trans person. And, of course, a trans woman is treated with greater violence and mistreatment than a trans man. This is basic intersectional feminism.

[coichii]

numb to the feeling ★

—(🎧)—> a bet with your friend Felix has you racing a self proclaimed “champion” at street racing. when the race takes an unexpected turn, what happens after that?

pairing - streetracer!chan ♥︎ streetracer!fem!reader

genre - street racer AU, fluff & angst

word count - 3.7k

warnings - cursing, weed, drinking, street racing, descriptions of car crash (blood, injuries, pain, car damage), smoking, honestly too many smoking references, and un edited writing

“So you’re saying if I beat this guy in a race, you’ll pay me $200?” You ask, blowing out a puff of smoky air as you look at Felix.

Felix proposed an idea that if you beat one of his friends in a street race, he’ll pay you a whole $200. Something about him being “too cocky to accept defeat” in some sort of street racing match they had already had.

You agreed of course. You’ve already won over multiple people in the past, even over Felix. You did it as a way to make extra cash on the side of your regular paycheck. Right now though, you’re honestly doing it to buy more weed.

You’ve beat countless people before, becoming a decently well known name in the street racing community in your area. It’s something you’ve been doing for years, and you were confident in it.

“Yeah, but wipe that smile off your face.” Felix jokes, rolling up bits of paper and weed in his hands. “He’s really good.”

“What’s the name of his “really good” racer anyways? You need to tell me more.” You nudge at his shoulder, trying to get a little more information than “this guy” out of him.

“His name is Christopher, but he goes by Chan. He’s a friend of mine.” He tilts his head in confusion at your snicker and immediate laughter.

“Christopher? I’m supposed to be intimidated by someone with that British ass name?” You cackle, and he passes you a jokingly annoyed glare.

“Shut up Y/N. You’re going to choke on your words.” Felix says, puffing out a bit of smoke.

“Yeah right.”

←♥︎→

It’s rather quiet in the streets when you arrive at the spot, only a few people surrounding the area, most of which are drinking beer and betting. It’s early morning in the city, the sound of the usual police sirens and hurried footsteps non existent.

You’ve done this time and time before, the aroma of smoke and alcohol not phasing you. If anything, it excites you.

Felix went with you of course, planning on getting some money off of betting against his friend. He said it was to support you, but you can see that smirk on his face from miles away.

“That’s him, I see his car” Felix says, pointing at the black mustang parked along the intersection. You quickly drive over, heart starting to bubble that delicious excitement feeling you love so much.

There, you see him lying against the door of his car talking to some other people, car keys in hand and you move to get a better look at his face.

He’s…kind of…handsome?

You park and get out of your car, instantly getting met with the fresh brisk air of night time in the city. It’s always a pleasant feeling.

“Hey, you’re Chris— Chan right?” You ask, holding your hand out to shake his when you walk up to him.

Yeah, he’s handsome.

“Yeah, I am. You must be who I’m racing. Y/N, right?” He asks, shaking your hand back. “Felix told me you’re pretty confident.”

“He’s right, I’m pretty confident I’ll beat you tonight.” You smile, and ooo’s break out from the bundle of drunk men behind you.

“All right that’s enough” he says to quiet down their immature cheers and boos. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He walks away at that point, sharing a small smirk of amusement before going to open the door of his car.

You make your way back to your car, fist bumping Felix on the way as he steps back to the sidewalk.

You drive you car up to the starting point, heart starting to race with happiness as a random woman takes her place in the between your cars, a beat up reg flag in her hand.

“Are you ready?” She shouts, the group of people all bundling up in one spot now.

“3…”

“2…”

“1!”

The sound of your engine revving rips through your ears as you hit the gas. Immediately a rush of adrenaline hits your body as you zoom past the intersection, pacing your self as to not mess up your engine.

It’s nothing you haven’t done before, easily overpowering his car and driving past him. You can’t hear the cheers, but you can see blurred images of the crowd as you pass them.

In your rear view mirror, you can see Chan’s car catching up. It puts a smile on your face; too often have you had to deal with boring matches, but this one seems like it could be fun.

You blast through the rest of the road, having multiple times where he almost passes you, but he never does. You know it’s over when you see an area where most of the crowd is congregated and cheers are louder than they usually are.

It was a straight path, so it was easy to clear, and you knew you would win.

Your car comes to a halt, the brakes screeching as the end of the road approaches. The adrenaline is still high, breath un even as Chan comes to a stop behind you.

There are cheers around you as people surround your car, their chatter a mere background noise. After catching your breath, you step out the car and Chan follows behind you.

“Well done, that was impressive.” He says, bringing his hand out to shake yours. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Thank you. That was entertaining.” You smirk, grasping his hand and shaking it. Felix runs up behind you, putting his arm around shoulders.

“So you’ll congratulate her but not me?” He rolls his eyes, putting down a bottle of beer that leaves you wondering where he found it.

“First, I still won that.” Chan responds, making you giggle and elbow Felix in the stomach. “Second, she’s pretty good at racing and pretty herself.”

That you weren’t expecting. It makes your eyes open wider for a moment, a heat rising up your neck. His blonde hair falls infront of his eyes as he pulls out a small phone.

“Could I get your number?” He asks, and your heart rate spikes. You analyze his tone, and he sounds sincere. Plus, you know Felix wouldn’t be friends with jerks anyway.

“Woah woah. You’re just gonna hit on my best friend like that?” Felix asks, removing his arm from around your shoulders and looking at Chan with stern eyes. Chan put his hands up in a joking retaliation, still smiling though and opening on the contacts section of his phone.

“Felix, it’s fine.” You giggle, putting your hand on the shoulder of the slightly annoyed boy. “Yeah, I’ll give you my number.”

Chan smiles deeper in response, handing you his phone as he wiggles his eyebrows at Felix in an attempt to piss him off.

You finish typing in your number, saving your contact as “y/n 🏁” before handing your phone back over to him.

“Hurt her and I’ll kill you.” Felix threatens, pointing at Chan’s eyes with two fingers before pointing them back at himself. “C’mon, I hear sirens. Let’s get out of here.”

Felix nudges your arm and all of a sudden you hear the faint whir of sirens coming your way. In an instant, everyone in the vicinity scurries away, their footsteps racing through the foot of the city as you get back into the car with Felix.

It’s a quiet drive back to your shared apartment, you two not saying much as you look at the window.

It must have been an hour long meeting because the sound of singing birds begins to grace your ears alongside the gentle rising of the warm sun.

You tune out the noise of sirens and early morning traffic from those with early morning jobs and those who never sleep. For right now, you bask in the peacefulness of the morning, trying to rest from the repercussions from your restless night.

The moment you’re about to drift off into a blissful sleep, your phone beeps.

It’s Chan.

new message from: xxx•xxx•xxxx

—

xxx•xxx•xxxx: hey

xxx•xxx•xxxx: just wanted to text you so you could save my number

you: oh, ty !

chan🏁: no problem ;)

—

He’s flirty. You can’t hide the fact that it made your heart beat just a tad bit faster than it should be for a man you just met.

He’s attractive, but you know nothing about him. You’d ask Felix but knowing him he’d might rather rip his own hair out than listen to his best friend show romantic interest to his other friend.

It’s a thought that washes out soon, the feel of the sun slowly creeping up on your skin enough to knock you out on your way to dreamland.

←♥︎→

“Hey, here’s that 200$ I owe you.” Felix’s voice sounds in your ear as you stir awake.

It’s probably 3pm by now, and a headache lines your face. Fuck. Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have smoked then stayed out until 5am.

“Mhm, thanks.” You grumble, grabbing the thin bundle of cash and stashing it straight into your wallet.

“You beat him with more ease than I thought.” Felix starts, sitting down on the small couch you were currently lazing on. “Honestly, I was gonna bet on him at first, but I got there too late.”

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.” you scoff, rolling your eyes jokingly. “Didn’t you trust me?”

“I did but Chan is pretty good. He wins like 13 out of 15 races.” Felix responds, and you’re eyes widen.

“Damn. I’m really just that good then, huh.” You snort, and Felix slaps you playfully on the shoulder in response.

You’re genuinely surprised though. 13 out of 15 is a pretty good ratio, it’s definitely better than yours. He might as well make that shit his profession.

“Do you like him?” Felix asks, breaking the silence that took over. A flush re enters your cheeks as you re adjust your shirt.

“Well, I just met the guy so I don’t know. But he seems charming and attractive.” You tell the truth, crossing your legs in an attempt to get more comfortable.

“He is a good guy. I hope you get to know him well.” He smiles, getting up from the couch and leaving you alone with your own thoughts.

And get to know him well you did.

You guys started talking frequently, hanging out as regular friends by day and competitive street racers by night. The more you got to know him the more you got to slowly melt away his outer shell and see more of his inner personality.

When you first met him, you saw him as this flirty but genuine person. A guy that is reliable, but you’ll never truly get to see the real and full version of. You couldn’t have been more wrong.

You quickly learned just what type of guy he was. Someone who was gentle, caring, kind, and every synonym there is for loving. He let you break down the walls he placed around his sweet, sweet soul, and that soul is the one you ended up falling deeply in love with.

It went from only seeing eachother at big night time events to going over to each-others place every week.

He started being your company when Felix was busy, started being someone you could run to when you were going through a hard time, started being someone who you could rely on.

And you loved it.

Right now, it’s 2am and you just got home from an extremely long night shift at the bar you work at that Chan generously drove you home from.

All you want to do is go to sleep, skipping a shower and settling with just changing clothes before plopping down on your warm and fuzzy bed. Your eyes were on the verge of closing before you get a ping sound coming from your phone.

new message from: chan ☺️

—

chan☺️: hey y/n

chan☺️: i know you’re tired, but i wanna race you tomorrow.

chan☺️: 50$ if you beat me, and 50$ if I beat you. ;)

you: running low on money aren’t you?

chan☺️: that’s not important 😅

you: sure, downtown?

chan☺️: we race there all the time and you always beat me

chan☺️: let’s do inner city this time

—

Your stomach drops, fingers suddenly stopped to a halt on the keyboard.

You never felt comfortable racing in the inner city. Not only was police presence higher, but the roads were very windy, something you didn’t have much experience with.

Most of the races you took on were straight roadways with the occasional turn. This one would be mostly bended road.

Your heart starts racing at the idea of needing to turn sharply while going 90 miles per hour while one of your best friends sneaks up close behind you.

What if your car looses control? What if you overshoot a turn and fly off the road? What if a car suddenly comes rushing through the lanes without you noticing? What if you get hurt? What if Chan…

—

you: I’m not to sure about that, chan

you: I think that’s too risky for me

chan☺️: it’s not that risky

chan☺️: you’re experienced, you beat me so many times

you: that’s true, but still the roads all bendy

you: im not experienced with that

chan☺️: we don’t have to go too fast if you don’t want to

chan☺️: but please give it a try?

—

Something turns in your stomach. He’s usually not this pushy. Most of the time if there’s something you even show the slightest discomfort towards, he backs away before you can even say it. This is out of character.

Your brows furrow, your mind running scenarios as for what is causing him to ask you like this. You know chans charecter, you know he’s one of the most kind hearted people you know (second to only Felix).

What ever it is, he must have a good reason.

you: hmm

you: will you buy me food afterwards if I do?

chan☺️: yes ma’am

chan☺️: anything you want

you: fineeee

you: I guess it’s okay

chan☺️: see you tommrow, y/n😊

—

You sigh, sloppily putting your phone down on the nightstand next to your bed. You’re two tired to really understand what you just signed up for.

Drifting off, your eyes finally close, your texts of approval sitting idly on your phone as morning rolls in.

←♥︎→

“Hey, ynnie.” Chans sweet voice rings through your ears as you step out your car, his arms enveloping you in a hug as soon as he sees you.

There’s a small crowd around the area, two cars doing donuts as a way to keep the mass of people entertained as you arrived.

It’s around 1 am, the sounds of sirens distant and the crowds low. This place might be the inner city, but it’s not that busy at night. The perfect terrain for your average low stakes race.

But this isn’t low stakes for you, far from it. The usual excitement and enthusiasm you usually felt is no more. Instead your heart is filled with the feeling of nervousness and anxiety.

There’s no backing out of it now, especially in front of a crowd of 30 something people and the man you desperately want. All you can do now is suck it up and hug him back.

“Hi, Channie.” You greet, trying to keep the quiver you felt in your throat choked back. He smiles at you, reaching his hand out for you to shake.

“Let’s try our best.” You take his hand in yours, squeezing it before repeating his words back to him.

He lets go, walking back to his car and reving its engine. With a heavy sigh, you walk towards yours.

A random person steps in front of the middle of your cars, getting everyone’s attention before starting the count down.

Here goes nothing.

“3…”

“2…”

“1!”

Your car goes zooming, but not as fast as you usually do. Normally, you break 80 to 90 instantly, but you’re just under 75, allowing for Chan to overtake you immediately.

The first turn comes up, and your cars speed drops, allowing you to make the curve in-front. Chan keeps his speed decently stable, now becoming out of your view, something that’s never happened before.

When you see his car again, it’s because he’s slowing down for another bend in the road. To catch up to him, you speed up slightly, but your foot slips out of nerves, and suddenly your flooring it.

Your car skirts out of control, your hands freezing up on the steering wheel as you aim straight for a ditch.

“This is it.” You think, eyes closing in fear, trying to brace yourself but being met with the inability to move. You’re frozen. You’re done.

Your car suddenly slams into the ditch, the sound of crunching and bending metal inaudible as your body is met with the force of the collision.

The feeling rings through your body, the power of the car being forced to a halt hitting before the pain does, adrenaline on the high.

The car rests to a stop, your heaving breathing slowly fading away into labored breaths, the expansion of your lungs feeling more like a chore than an everyday bodily function.

It’s not long until your vision starts to black out, ears rings and limbs going limp. The only noises you can hear being the pinging of the car and the faint noise of footsteps and yelling. It’s a familiar voice.

Wait… Chan?!

“Holy.. y/n! y/n are you okay?” His distant voice yells, his tone laced with fear and panic. You can only focus on this for a moment, a static filter taking over the functions of your brain.

“Y/n! Shit.. that’s a lot of blood. Can you hear me?!?” Chan screams, trying to get through the crushed door that might as well be a brick wall.

“Fuck, im coming. Don’t worry, I’m coming. Somebody call 911!” He yells impossibly loud, eliciting a scratchy groan out of your throat. He turns around, expecting to see a crowd of people, but it’s deserted. Everyone one is gone.

Everything fades out, the pressure of trying to keep your head of ceasing as you fall completely limp.

“I’m coming, y/n. I’m com…”

←♥︎→

Fuck. Everything hurts. Your eyes can barely crack open, everything blurry and sore. Every noise is too loud, every light is too bright.

When you finally manage to open your eyes, you’re met with a hospital room, white & blue colors flooding your eyes along side the smell of saline solution.

When you recognize your surroundings, you notice the feeling of a heavy weight on the left side of your stomach. Cracking your eyes open wide, you recognize the blonde figure besides you.

There laying on top of you is Chans tired figure, his head buried deep into his arms that lay on your stomach. At the feeling of your quickened breathing, he lifts his head up and faces you.

His eyes, tired and bloodshot widen slightly, his mouth becoming agape at the sight of you. His hands tremble and reach up to your face, slowly caressing the bruised at cut skin.

“Y/n..?” He asks, voice genuinely unsure if it’s you. You reach your hand out to his, watching his eyes slowly brim with tears as you weakly grab it.

“Hi, Chan.” You speak, voice a little bit raspy from un use. “Why are you crying.”

“Oh my god, y/n. You’re okay!” He whimpers, burrowing his head into your chest as tears slip from his eyes.

“Ouch! Watch out Channie.” You groan, sucking your teeth at the sharp feeling of pain alongside your ribs. Chan jumps off of you, whispering a small sorry before continuing to speak.

“Y/n, I’m so glad you’re okay. When you crashed I was so… there was a lot of blood. Fuck, I never should have pressured you. I’m so so so sorry.” He wailed, clutching on your shirt as if you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Chan, it’s not your fault. I should’ve said no, it’s on-“

“No. No don’t apologize. You said you were nervous and I told you it’ll be okay. I should have just taken your word for it. I didn’t even want you to race me for some stupid 50$.” He bashfully admits, a red blush appearing on his cheeks.

“Wait, what? What do you mean?” You ask, tilting your head to the side before wincing in pain. Chan brings his hand to your neck, rubbing a few comforting circles on it before answering your question.

“I didn’t race you to get 50$ out of you, that was my way of getting you to come. I wanted to race you because afterwards… I wanted to ask you out and I had no better way of doing it. But still, I shouldn’t have lied to you and I’m so-“

You cut him off by placing a soft kiss on his lips, his hands going still on your neck. Once he registers whats happening, he gently kisses you back.

His lips lock on to yours, hands moving to caress your cheeks. It’s soft and warm, drowning out all the soreness of your body and instead having you feel borderline euphoric.

You can feel his hot tears cascading down his face as they land on your cheeks. You gently wipe them away, pressing further into the kiss before pulling away.

“I’ve liked you for a very long time, Chan. Stop apologizing.” You whisper, moving your hand to ruffle his hair.

“God, you’re a fucking saint.” He says, voice laced gratitude. He places another kiss on your lips, working small pecks across your face as you giggle.

“Jeez, I can’t get enough of you.” Chan whines, pouting as you push him away to catch your breath.

Just as you were about to kiss him again, your phone goes off with all sorts of messages from Felix. Oh shit… you forgot he’s your emergency contact.

“Well, if you want to kiss me.” You start, showing Chan your phone as his skin turns pale. “You’re going to have to do it before Felix gets here and kills you.”

At that he pulls you into to his arms gently as to not bring back the soreness in your body.

“That, I can certainly do.”

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

girl i love your stories that i reread them A LOT. idk if your request is open but if it's not then you can do it whenever I WILL WAIT MY WHOLE LIFE FOR IT

some angst (but end with fluff) about y/n being bad at directions (me tbh) so she keeps clinging to minho and his friends (during idk maybe their tour in japan or other vacations)so when minho snaps at her she left the restaurant immediately and thought about going back to hotel but get lost and her phone died then when minho find out she's not back till late at night he starts going crazy looking for her around

i'll let you get creative from here! tq!!!!

I hope you enjoy!!!

The trip to Japan had been an exhilarating whirlwind of sights and sounds. But for you, it also became a constant struggle to keep up with the group. Your terrible sense of direction was something you’d always laughed off, but here, in the bustling chaos of unfamiliar streets, it felt like a glaring flaw. You clung to Minho more than you intended to, relying on him to guide you when you inevitably got turned around.

By the third day, his patience began to wear thin.

It started with small sighs, then curt remarks. But tonight, as you hesitated once again at an intersection, unsure which way to go, Minho snapped. His voice cut through the group’s chatter, sharp and biting.

“For God’s sake, Y/N, can you stop acting helpless for five minutes? It’s not that hard to figure out where we’re going.”

The words stung like a slap, and the embarrassment that followed was suffocating. The others fell silent, their eyes darting between the two of you. Chan stepped forward, his voice firm and reprimanding.

“Minho, that’s enough! You don’t ever talk to her like that. You hear me?”

Minho opened his mouth to retort but quickly shut it, guilt flashing across his face under Chan's firm glare. Still, the damage was done. You felt small and out of place, like an unwelcome burden. Chan gave you a shoulder squeeze before going to scold Minho a bit more. The group resumed walking, the atmosphere tense as all the boy looked over in your direction with awkward and pitiful glances. Felix and Jeongin tried to lighten your mood by talking casually with you, but the lump in your throat wouldn't shake.

When you reached the restaurant, you quietly excused yourself, claiming you needed some air. No one stopped you. Outside, the cool night air hit your face as tears blurred your vision. You decided to head back to the hotel, thinking it was better to remove yourself from the group altogether.

But as you wandered through the maze of streets, panic began to set in. Every turn seemed to lead to another unfamiliar alley, and your phone’s battery was dwindling fast. When it finally died, leaving you stranded without maps or a way to contact anyone, fear took hold.

Back at the restaurant, the group noticed your prolonged absence. Jisung was the first to speak up, glancing around nervously.

“Uh, has anyone seen Noona? She’s been gone for a while.”

Minho, who had been unusually quiet since his outburst, froze. Chan frowned, his protective instincts kicking in.

“I’ll check outside,” Jisung offered, already heading for the door. He returned a few minutes later, his expression grim.

“She’s not out there,” he said, his voice edged with worry. “I think she’s gone.”

Minho shot to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know!” Jisung replied, his voice rising. “I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not answering her phone either.”

The weight of the situation hit Minho like a freight train. His earlier anger dissolved into a nauseating mix of fear and guilt. Without another word, he bolted out of the restaurant, desperate to find you.

You’d been wandering for what felt like hours when a man approached you. He looked to be in his fifties, his kind eyes and warm smile a stark contrast to the bustling city around you.

“Are you lost?” he asked in Japanese. You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you tried to explain your situation.

“Come,” he said gently, switching to broken English. “My daughter recognized you. Said you are with boyfriend, Minho? Safe at our house. You charge phone.”

Too exhausted and desperate to refuse, you followed him to a modest house nearby. His daughter, a young woman about your age, greeted you with tea and a charger. The warmth of their home was comforting, but your heart ached with the weight of the evening’s events.

Minho was spiraling. He darted from street to street, asking anyone he came across if they’d seen you. When he entered a small cafe, the owner paused, recognizing your description.

“Yes,” she said. “She left with an older man. He seemed…kind. Not dangerous.”

Her words did little to calm Minho’s fraying nerves. The thought of you- vulnerable and alone- with a stranger nearly pushed him to the brink of a breakdown. His hands trembled as he tried to focus.

“Where? Which way did they go?” he demanded.

She pointed him in the right direction, and he took off without a second thought. When he finally reached the house and saw you through the window, sitting safely with the older man and his daughter, the relief was overwhelming. He knocked and burst through the door, his chest heaving.

“Y/N,” he choked out, rushing to your side. “Are you okay? I was…I was so scared.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Minho pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if to make sure you were really there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I…I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t mean it. I…I can’t lose you.”

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could respond, the daughter handed you a photo card she’d been holding. It was of Minho, from a recent album. She giggled nervously, gesturing to the collection spread out across the table.

“I'm a big fan,” she said in English, and you couldn’t help but smile. "So, I recognized her from your posts."

“Thank you for helping her,” Minho said to her and the father in Japanese, his voice hoarse. Then, in a move that stunned everyone, he sank to his knees. Lowering himself further until his forehead almost touched the ground, he bowed deeply, the ultimate gesture of gratitude and humility, as he cried out words you couldn't understand, but the small family did.

“Thank you,” he said again in English, his voice trembling. “Thank you for keeping her safe. Thank you.”

The father’s eyes widened in surprise before he helped Minho up, patting his shoulder reassuringly before he looked at you. “She…good girl. You take care of her, yes?”

Minho nodded fervently, his gaze flickering to you. “Always.”

As the family waved you off, Minho kept a protective arm around you the entire walk back to the hotel. Neither of you spoke much, but his grip on you never loosened, his actions speaking louder than words ever could.

By the time you reached the entrance you took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry-"

Minho pulled you into his chest before you could say anything else. "You scared me." He whispered. "I was so scared- people...they can be dangerous."

You didn't say anything, just sunk further into his embrace, your lips turning into a pout as Minho held you.

"You found her?" Chan's accent cut through the sound of Minho's rapid heartbeat as him and Han rushed over. "I'll call the rest of the guys and tell them to come back."

Another wave of guilt hit you and you tried to sputter out another apology but Han spoke.

"It's not your fault Y/N. It's Minho's for acting that way."

You looked up at Minho, whose eyes were blank. "I'm tired. Let's head to bed." He said quietly, pulling you along. He walked into your hotel room and kicked off his shoes, pulling you under the covers with him.

He pulled you flush against his chest and rested his chin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He said again. "I'm a horrible boyfriend." You turned in the bed towards him, and your heart tugged at seeing his eyes. He had been silently crying, and when he felt he didn't want you to see him cry any longer he buried his face in your chest, hugging you closer.

"I forgive you. You don't have to say sorry."

"I do. I put you in a dangerous position because of my frustrations. That's ignorant of me. If anything had happened-" His voice was muffled but you heard the slight crack in it.

'Well, nothing happened so I'm okay. I'm safe. And the father and daughter were such a cute little family and kind. You were her bias as well so if anything I was probably the most safe there." You teased. Minho didn't say anything instead pulled the blanket tighter around you.

You sighed and closed your eyes, deciding to just let Minho wallow. When he thought you were asleep he moved the strands of hair stuck to your cheek and laid a gentle kiss there.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight for the rest of this trip." You stayed still as he placed another kiss on the corner of your lips, then forehead.

"I love you, jagiya." He murmured, before resting his forehead against yours, a drifting off into a dreamless sleep with you.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

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@rockstarkkami

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[mesetacadre]

So, like, have any of you actually ever had a conversation with a fascist offline about what they believe? I have.

To be clear, this wasn't a sit-down-let's-talk conversation. He (the only one) tried to start shit, and we (me + 2 comrades) confronted him in the act and regrettably got into a 30-minute "conversation".

Fascists, individually, are very mentally feeble. They are cowards who always seek to start conflict while trying to make themselves out to be the victims. This is, of course, until they gain enough popularity and canon fodder to throw 20 unstable fascists at anyone they don't like. But until this exaltation occurs¹ and their organizations enter a relatively stable cycle (in contemporary liberal democracies, they last between 2 and 7 years before disintegrating), there remains a contradiction between their aggressive desire to seek confrontation and their individual and collective insecurities. Fascist ideology is mostly not rooted in reality (more on this later), and it also has an important component of self-hate. They are an inferior specimen, unable to achieve what the fascist martyrs before them achieved (in Spain, Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera usually occupies this position), and to add injury to insult, it's those who they perceive as weak and undeserving who rule over them. They ignore this perceived inferiority by joking about being chads, the superior race, or non-degenerates. But behind their rhetoric and "humor" there is usually a tinge of insecurity and hate against anyone who doesn't fit their increasingly narrow standard, including themselves.

This fascist we talked with kept referring to Jewish conspiracies, to the freemasons in every position of power, to old Falangists, to fascist "theorists", to some kind of esoteric spiritualism within the bounds of Christianity, somehow, and hyperborea. He talked about communists, how they were already in the government (referring to the social-democratic PSOE), how we were degenerates, how the day will come, etc. He attempted to scare us by saying that he was an ex-member of this more notorious fascist party and that they were looking for him to beat him up, which isn't something you admit to people you're trying to start conflicts with. After a while of his ramblings, one of my comrades couldn't help but laugh at him. It was all very ridiculous; I don't remember exactly what he said that made my comrade laugh. He got slightly more agitated, and the conversation ended in ~5 minutes.

Individually, fascists are also not the brightest people you'll encounter. For somebody to internalize fascist beliefs, they have to be unconsciously willing to never dig deeper about their beliefs, to contrast them with one another, or to contrast them with other fascists. They'll read a text (they may be stupid, but a lot of them do read more than you'd expect) about, say, the concept of race, and never really address the fact that it contradicts their own beliefs, or a fellow fascist's beliefs about the nation or about Europe.

And a really interesting thing is that fascism is far from a monolith. It's more akin to an entelechy². The specific contradictions of fascism manifest themselves much more between individual fascists than within a single individual. Like I mentioned before, there are contradictions when it comes to race (racialists like the nazis vs anti-racists like Falange Auténtica), to Europe (the idea of a Great Europe vs every idea of Nationality/Empire, which generally coexist poorly), to the nation (its intersection with race and/or Europe and how it interacts with these), to the reaction against progress (a conception of fascism as progressive, reactionary, or neither³), to science (a realist position based on scientificism such as race science and Kameradschaftrecht (nazi feminism) vs metaphysical conceptions, such as esotericism or the Thule society, reliant on aesthetics and mysticism), or to the economic policy (bourgeois positions, corporatism, vs workerist positions such as Strasser or Bombacci).

These contradictions aren't unique to the contemporary fascist situation of fragmentation and the peculiarities of social media either. Back in the 30s and 40s, there was a lot of disagreement on who counted as fascists. On one end, during the rise of the NSDAP, there was a small cadre of orthodox fascists who narrowed fascism "a la Italiana", and did not consider nazi-fascism to be fascism because of its differences on the scientificist conceptions of race. The Nazi party repressed this small wing. On the other end, it was a prevailing position in the USSR to not consider fascism to start with Italy's fascii di combatimento, but rather in Russia's Black Hundreds, having a broader conception of fascism.

This fascist we talked with considers himself a Carlist⁴, while another member of his groupuscule considers himself a national-socialist, while being Moroccan, and a third is a run-of-the-mill reactionary concerned with the 2030 agenda, globalism, immigrant invasions, the great replacement, that sort of thing. When fascist groups are relatively small and lack any form of inertia and/or formalized structure, their activity is extremely sporadic. There is no discipline to be found, no real planning or broad strategy, they are, rather, a group of similarly-enough-minded friends who sometimes like to do some vandalism or threaten/agitate leftists of any stripe. Their only method of growth is to generate controversies, fights, have a provocative tweet go semi-viral, to generate noise. When it comes to agitation for the fascist, concrete ideology is not relevant. They appeal to both rage and the satisfaction of, for example, seeing x annoying leftist org get their posters ripped off. Discussions of fascist theory rarely, if ever, influence their pragmatic activity, sometimes it's more similar to a circlejerk to see who has the most esoteric, exaggerated and offensive positions.

This is not to say fascist infighting is irrelevant, far from it. Fascists have their own petty disputes between groups, periods of extreme fractionarism, inter-fascist and intra-fascist violence. But when it comes to the philosophy of action, to how they apply all these beliefs, you'll be pressed to find meaningful, material differences. Some might be more or less aggressive, more or less esoteric, more or less contrarian, more or less effective. But they all rely on building that momentum, that controversy -> confrontation -> growth -> controversy cycle. The moment fascist groups lose that momentum, or one too many campaigns fall flat and fail to garner attention, they'll start to turn against themselves, to deteriorate their own structures in the permanent search for conflict that their beliefs demand. There is no way to hold the belief that, for example, race is a scientific category that makes the white/national/aryan/european/whatever race constantly threatened to disappear without exhorting you to seek conflict, whether it's against immigrants or other fascists who don't place as much importance on race.

If you find yourself in the context of a few small fascist groups festering and seeking conflict, it is a strategic error to confront them outright. Unless you're willing to downright kill them or injure them severely enough (with the bigger threat of legal repercussions that entails), fascists will be able to turn your explicit opposition against them into ammunition to attract more reactionaries to their own ranks. The best you, as an organized communist, can do in the period before exaltation, is to quietly collect information about them, study their patterns, and exert as much opposition as is possible without letting them turn it into a visible confrontation. If you're going to cover up their symbols and posters, do it when they can't film you or try to start a fight. If they're threatening someone to provoke them to then cry and hue about the rabid leftists, use the fact that they have low numbers, record them, and intimidate them without physical violence. Even if you can leave them writhing on the floor in a fight, they can use that as ammunition, but they can't use a video of them putting their tails between their legs and running off. You can't debate with fascists, this much is clear. You also can't just use violence to scare them away, because they'll use that violence to gain momentum, and then you can end up with an actually decently-sized and consistent fascist organization.

This is how we have been opposing these small groups of fascists attempting to grow through controversy. We opposed them non-visibly, effectively and professionally. When this group of about 15 fascists total (they never appear with more than 4 at a time because of their inconsistency) encountered this, they were at one point scared enough to stop all activity for about 2 months, and after that have yet to appear again. Meanwhile, other, more infantile orgs, overreacted by opposing them with full force and very publicly, which only encouraged the fascists to keep going and wasted energy in a futile back-and-forth, as well as putting their members in unnecessary risk by engaging in unplanned situations.

¹ Throughout this entire post, all analysis of the behavior of fascists offline assumes this exaltation has not occured

² Entelechy here means an impossible ideal, built entirely in the imagination, or with an unstable and shoddy manifestation.

³ Fascism often positions itself as a revolutionary movement, while other times it places more importance on the opposition against progress.

⁴ Carlism is a Spanish political current originating in the rejection of Isabel II as a legitimate heir to Fernando VII, it became very intertwined with Franco's dictatorship and the Falange during the Civil War

[websterss]

THE DEVIL WEARS CONVERSE — LUKE PATTERSON

SUMMARY: If there's one thing Caleb is scared of it's the color red and the devil.

WARNING(S): angst, some fluff, implications of smut, some making out

WORD COUNT: 3,603

PAIRING: Luke Patterson x fem!Reader

A/N: I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed! This was one fic I lost when I made a new blog and was reposting my works.

MASTERLIST

You had caught Luke's eye as soon as he stepped out onto the floor. Many people flaunting and going amidst their night caught his attention. He felt that he and the guys were a little underdressed for the fancy club, but it had been your appearance alone that had you catching their eyes like flies. They were drawn to you in particular. Luke most of all, couldn't sway where his sights were directed towards.

"Hey boys, I'll be right back." He made to move past Reggie, his hand on his chest in passing but was stopped when Willie intersected him. Luke looked down at the hand that Willie pressed against his chest. He scoffed in amusement. "Where's the fire?"

"N-Nowhere, but there could be. I wouldn't recommend it. Not her. Y/n isn't someone you just go up and talk to." Willie's face fell with fear.

"Oh yeah, why's that? Is she important or something?" Luke laughed, but Willie wasn't finding his advances towards you hilarious. "She off-bounds?"

"Yeah, yeah, she is in fact," Willie said nervously. After taking notice of Willie's shift in tone when he spoke of you, Luke's eyebrows furrowed with curiosity.

"What are you getting at, Willie? You seem protective." Luke questioned as he put two and two together. He was almost certain that Alex was Willie's crush, he didn't take him to swing both ways or had he simply misread him, that and the way he reacted just now…it seemed unprecedented. "I thought you liked Alex?" Luke crossed his arms.

"I do—It's not like that. Just promise me you won't approach her. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you guys." Willie pleads.

Luke couldn't help but raise a brow, Willie was acting like she was some sort of monster. "A heartbreaker then, that's okay Willie. I've had my fair share of girls like her." He smiled boyishly. He reached up to slap Willie on his upper arm in reassurance. "Nothing's going to happen." Luke shrugged off Willie. Willie was being dramatic. The interest of doing something irrational intrigued him like a child who was told to not play with fire.

"Luke, I mean it. She's not even a regular. You won't see her that much. She's only ever here on business."

"Only ever here for business, huh?" Luke repeated curiously with an eyebrow up. "Then why can't I talk to her? What's gonna happen, Willie?" Luke wasn't one for following orders, that was not in his nature. He couldn't stand being told what not to do, it only made him crave what he wasn't meant to have or do even more. So, it was no mistake that Willie had made one just now. This little curiosity of Luke's was going to get the best of him. The way Willie made it sound like you did some kind of illicit activity intrigued him even more. "What, does she work for the mob or something?" He said half-jokingly with a brow lift. It was only natural to be enticed by a beautiful woman whom people were being tight-lipped about, it only made you seem more interesting and willing to know more about in his books.

"N-Nothing good." He muttered softly. "Why don't I show you guys to your table?"

"Yes, please!" Alex raised a finger, eager to move past Willie's sudden fear-stricken face.

"You guys go ahead. I'll be right back." Luke finally did move past Reggie and began making his way over to you.

"Luke, I wouldn't!" Willie exclaimed.

"I'm just gonna say hi." He turned to walk backwards as he faced him with a cheeky smile. Then turned as he approached the empty bar, beside you and the bartender giving you your drinks with shaky hands. That had him raising his brows with interest.

-

"Hi Marcus, long time no see." You flashed the man with a sweet smirk. Marcus's smile fell upon the realization you were sitting before the bar. He stopped cleaning the glass in his hands letting it fall to the ground with a smash. He winced at the sound of it breaking. He remained composed as your smile didn't let up. You were the mere image of innocence, you conjured up the identity of a teenage girl this time around. Last year you looked older, dressed up as a woman in a black dress, but this by far was his least favorite one on you, your childlike nature and appearance was scaring him shitless. Your soul was pure rotten, you by no means represented youth and innocence.

"Y/n." He dipped his head in greetings.

"I see Caleb still keeps you around." You tilted your head.

Because he knows I can keep you tranquil. He wanted to say but opted not to. "I'm the only one who can make a dirty cocktail." He lets out nervously.

"That you can, sweetie. Though I'm more in the mood for something sweet tonight, like you." You poke his sternum. Your sweet angelic laughter unsettles him, but he laughs along with you. Knowing Caleb would have his soul again if he made you angry.

"Perhaps a living soul?" He offered with a timid smile.

"Hell no, Lucifer knows I deal with too many of them back home as it is. Why on earth would I waste my time on one tonight? Though you do have a fair amount of them tonight..." You hum surveying the floor. You turned back to the bar. "How about a slushy, make it strong, and fruity." You order.

"So you're not here to collect a soul?"

"I have other matters to tend to Marcus. I've been getting screwed over you see. My bargain with your showman has not been followed down to the last letter, and I am not happy Marcus." You sigh. "I mean how stupid does Caleb peg me? Stealing souls from me." Your laughter darkens with every word that escapes you. "I am a woman of business, and I don't see my need to be tethered to one so insidious. You understand, Marcus?"

Marcus nods furiously. "Where's Willie? As of now, he's my new eyes and ears. Caleb still has his soul right? Of course he does that's how he controls you all. If this gets out to Caleb sweetie, I'll be the one to devour that pure soul of yours." You raise a brow in question gesturing to his chest. Marcus nods and snaps his fingers. Your requested drink appearing before you. You raised the glass to your lips and let your shoulders drop. "This is why I love you, Marcus."

"Am I no longer your eyes and ears?"

"No." You could see Marcus's disappointment flash in his eyes. "You've been upgraded to my personal assistant."

Marcus felt honored. "Oh wow. Does this mean I don't have to be behind the bar anymore?"

"Only when we come to the club, but other than that..." You snap your fingers nonchalantly. Caleb's stupid stamp floated off of Marcus's wrist. The poor man looked as though he'd cry.

He did.

"Consider it a gift, sweetie. That's all you're gonna get...really." You shrug. You didn't like getting too sentimental with others. Marcus palmed his mouth. Covering it to muffle his cries. You looked around hopefully no one was watching the scene unfold before you. You shrink in your stool and take another sip of your drink. You took another gulp of your drink, enjoying the flavor it had, it was indeed what you had asked for.

"Marcus." You called his name softly when the tears finally stopped flowing. "Look at me." Marcus's head raised and eyes widened with fear once again. "Stop, please."

"S-Sorry. I'm good, I'm good." You nodded with him, your eyes widened with concern. "Thank you..." He muttered softly.

"Sure." You laughed out nervously wanting his hands off you. “Marcus.” You spoke sternly this time which brought him to pay attention and made him stop touching you. “How about another drink, yeah.” You shifted the mood, hoping to reassure him by taking his mind off of being freed by you. "Surprise me this time."

"Yes–Yes, right away." He composed himself as best he could and began to make your new drink.

Luke's gaze was fixated on the bartender's shaky hands, having caught the last of your conversation with him before he grew close. It was something that caught his attention to no end. A burning hole in his brain as he wondered why you had such an effect on people, good and bad. He wanted to know more about you. So he sat on the stool right beside you.

He turned towards you; his hands were resting on the counter, as he tapped along to the melody playing throughout the club. Luke's gaze met yours, raising a brow as he took notice that you were eyeing him. It made him a little self-conscious, but he hid that fact with an amused smirk.

"Nice shoes." His grin brightened. "I'm more of a vans guy myself but I think it's time I make a drastic brand change." Luke turned in the stool, next to the very pretty girl, who looked completely out of place. Your leather jacket and dark blue denim, not to mention your incredibly red shoes, didn't fit the club's dress code.

You peered over the glass in your hand. Your eyes narrowed curiously at the curly-haired stranger who unashamedly sat in the vacant seat next to yours. Surely he had to be pulling your hair. When you saw no falter in his charming smile, you played along. Hoping to amuse the poor lad unaware of the person you were, of your identity. Most would cower at the sight of you but his lack of knowledge told you all you needed to. He was clueless...and a pretty sight. You set your drink down and smirk, turning your full self towards him.

"Thanks. I had them dyed with the blood of the damned." You stuck your leg out, tilting your head in admiration of your shoes.

Your brows pinched closer together upon his laugh. You were confused by his reaction, what had been so funny? You were being your most sincere.

He snickered again, trying hard not to laugh, in fear of offending you. He let out another brief laugh, trying his best not to lose it. It was the way your words so casually rolled off your tongue that got him. He smirked. "Damned you say. Does that mean that you had to damn them yourself or were they already damned and you just decided to take advantage of the opportunity." He joked around, though curiosity filled his mind as he wondered what your answer would be. He sure wasn't expecting your sweet angelic tune that escaped you as a response. Your head fell back. Marcus stilled, looking at the new stranger who caused such a reaction from you and then at you. Was this a stroke you were having and he was completely unaware? He opted to join in, his fake laughs weren't noticed by you luckily.

He eyed Luke as though he put the moon in the sky. He got you to laugh. Completely unheard of.

Luke felt satisfied. His grin widened as he softly joined in on your bubbled display of joy. "I mean they do make killer shoes. I kind of want some now." He shrugged with half interest.

Marcus finally released a stifled laugh. The poor man was holding it in, not knowing where you two would take the conversation. "I can't say I've ever had the urge to wear shoes made of human blood," He spoke in an attempt to keep the energy at bay.

"Well," Luke started, "they're rather fashionable, right? I mean, I know leather clothing is still in style, you're perfectly on top of that trend already." He joked back casually. You felt something strange in your chest as he raked his eyes up and down your entirety. "All I'd be missing is the shoes..." He bit his lip.

"Yeah?" You looked back at him amused. "You want a pair?"

"Why not?" He entertained the idea.

What is happening? Marcus mouthed in shock.

What was happening indeed? Didn't he know who you were? His lack of fear was the most shocking part of this whole interaction. Surely he wasn't one of Caleb's newest edition of collected ghosts. Another soul he had taken, or made Willie lure him in to take it while he's blindsighted by the pretty picture Caleb paints for him. For once you wanted to lay your claim on a soul. To rub it in Caleb's face for stealing your portion of the bargain. You extended your hand out to him and asked him what any wise girl would do. You asked for his name.

"I'm Luke." He took your hand gently. Unaware of the marking you placed under his skin. Your bargains, your markings, were more subtle than Caleb's, where he wanted to show them off, you kept yours hidden behind a mere handshake. Along with the idea of never actually telling them you had done so.

"Pleasure." Your grip on his hand remained firm and tight as your eyes searched his own. You could already envision Caleb brewing with envy once he sees you and Luke engaging in a friendly, and dare you say romantic conversation. Luke didn't appear to know the full truth of what was going on. He appeared to be so blindly curious and unaware. So you went ahead and lit a spark to that curiosity as you pressed a finger to the back of his hand, caressing the length of it.

"Luke," you said slowly, testing it out. The name sounded nice; it rolled off your tongue perfectly. Luke, Luke, Luke. He would be your plaything for tonight, perhaps another time as well should you choose to extend that privilege. You felt a tinge of regret for marking a soul as pure as his, you could feel his warmth the second he sat down, but that was soon washed away with his charming grin; it made you want to make him break his moral barriers all the more. He seemed so different from the others, he was your next perfect leverage on Caleb. "I'm Y/n." You leaned forward, Luke's eyes falling in a daze at your sultry voice and doe eyes.

"Y/n..." He breathed out, mesmerized.

"Marcus I want a private space." You turned to the poor lad who was still stunned that this one guy alone was able to sweeten you down like honey. Get on your good side in the blink of an eye. "Now!"

-

Willie had paced back and forth, going over what he would say to Caleb as he waited for him at the bottom steps of his dressing room. When the man of the hour finally descended the steps Willied perked up.

"Oh hey um, Caleb." He smiled. "I brought those ghosts I met, um it's still cool they're here right?"

"Of course William! I even reserved a special table for them." Caleb shrugged him off nonchalantly.

"Woah! Uh alright, um thank you!" Willie reeled back, not expecting him to do something so nice.

"No, no, thank you!" Caleb sipped at his tea and watched as Willie made his way to leave but turned the wrong way.

"That way!" Willie laughed as he turned to go in the right direction this time.

"Hey William, while I have you here. Make sure to let me know when Y/n has arrived. I need at least half an hour to ready myself before her arrival."

"Oh, Y/n? She's already here." Willie shook his head confused, hadn't he known?

Certainly not, it appeared.

"What!" Caleb screeched, making Willie to flinch. The cup in his hands clattered onto the steps. Willie shrunk in on himself as Caleb berated him. "You useless monkey, why do I even keep you around? Oh my god, I'm not even dressed. Quick go make sure she gets everything she wants. Hopefully not my soul...Whatever she wants give it to her. A lifer's soul, it's hers. I don't care. I need to go look presentable. Go!" Willie straightened out as he walked away from Caleb's dressing room with haste. Caleb ordered staff to make sure you remained in a good mood. He was late, you had been earlier than expected and he was about to lose his shit.

-

When Caleb dispersed from the dancers and band, you had rolled your eyes as he made his entrance past the golden curtain.

He gulped nervously when his eyes danced back and forth between you sitting back on the sofa, and Luke kissing down your neck like a lovesick puppy. You hadn't stopped his attack on your skin. Caleb straightened out, clearly his throat to make his presence known.

"I don't like being kept waiting, Caleb, I have better things to do." Your voice broke in soft breaths as Luke found your sweet spot.

"Y/n, nice to have you back my sweet. We've missed your presence at the club and I-"

"Don't patronize me, ghost." You rolled your head back against the cushion.

"Ah, I see you've found our special guest of the night." He laughed nervously. "Have we bored you already, the night has only just begun." Caleb was thankful he didn't have to find you in a much more compromising situation. As he watched your hand run through Luke’s hair, a pang of emotion rose in him, jealousy? Anger? Regret? He felt his emotions bubble over as he watched Luke's lips meet your collarbones, his hands running down your back to your waist. Caleb bit his lip to keep an audible curse from escaping his lips.

You smirked, he was lucky that Luke wasn't getting too ahead of himself, but seeing how things were playing out at the moment it wouldn't take much for Luke to slip. Your attention turned back to him once Luke's lips had moved elsewhere on your body.

"Caleb, how stupid do you think I am?" Your question had caught him off guard.

He was speechless for a few moments before he regained his composure. He laughed a bit in your face. "Y/n, it's obvious," He took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. "He's a soul I promised to you in our deal. I got two more waiting on you out on the floor."

Luke's head dropped lower to your chest, his kisses stooping lower down your blouse. Caleb's eyes narrowed at the sight.

"Luke's already mine." You sigh in contentment. "I meant about the souls you’re taking for yourself, Caleb."

"What of them?" Caleb's face remained emotionless. He kept his arms crossed while your head was nuzzled into Luke's neck, you were barely holding on to the conversation while your chest had been preoccupied with Luke's hot breaths. His hands slide up and down your body.

"You can't even deny you've broken our bargain." You reminded him, your mind clouded with the sensation of his kisses. "You know what happens when people cross me, Caleb." You giggled as your breath hitched with every word spoken. You placed a hand over Luke's curls to stop him from continuing his kisses down your torso, his lips rested on your chest instead.

"Surely, we can work something out." He begins softly.

"I don't think so." You spoke plainly, your eyes finally focusing on Caleb. Your hands placed on the back of the sofa, you were feeling a bit confident and sassy, something Caleb hadn't seen for a good while, not with him at least. You sit up causing Luke to fall off you. You grip his chin gently and turn his face towards Caleb. You watch as the ghost shrinks back into the shell of the man that he is as Luke's gorgeous brown eyes flash red at him.

You staked your claim on him. "You touch the other two, and this all goes away." You gesture to the room, to the entirety of the club. "I’m going to need Willie's soul by the strike of midnight. Poor thing needs a break from you seeing as you can't do your job properly. He's mine until I say so. You understand, Caleb." You recline back into the cushion.

"Yes ma'am." He nods, feeling like a child being scolded.

"You can see yourself out now. It's like you said the night is only getting started." Your angelic laugh is one for his nightmares. Not to mention your red eyes. You hold his gaze as you push down on Luke's curls, his body sinking to the carpet before you. "You might not want to stay around for this next part Caleb. Wouldn't want to traumatize you as it is." Caleb gasps and turns in place of the sound of your zipper being pulled.

Caleb's jaw went slack. His head tilted to the side. He tried hard to hide his surprise, but he wasn't sure what he should have said in this occurrence. "Right… I will be leaving. Enjoy yourselves." He uttered stiffly. Caleb retreated out of the room.

Luke's warm hands gripped your thighs, squeezing them slightly. His lips moved back up to your neck. His fingertips trailed lightly along your collarbone, his breath hot, you could feel his blood rushing. Once you were sure Caleb was out of earshot you pulled Luke up by the collar of his shirt.

"What's wrong?" Luke's dazed-out look had you feeling a smidge of guilt. "I thought we were having fun?" He breathed out a laugh as he tried to lean in to kiss you.

"It's not that kind of business, baby. Another time." You gripped his chin and sweetly placed a kiss on his lips. 

[3vln]

Prologue, Part 1

Words: 5k+

C.W.: missions, galas, Spain, banter, pre-FATWS, no usage of Y/N, tried to keep Reader as vague as possible (might change in the future), Reader is Widow-trained but mostly uses training for combat training and espionage, dives a little into Black Widow plot, somewhat bilingual (2nd half is set in Spain, tw: Spaniards), no smut yet but will have (so MINORS DNI), smidge of exhibitionism (for the mission, right?)

A/N: If fleshed out how I want it to be, this should be a 4-part story: the Prologue I & II (pre-FATWS) and the Epilogue I & II (during FATWS or CA:BNW). Please, please, please, if anyone wants to proofread future stories, please lmk.

Pairings: Lt. Joaquin Torres x WidowTrained!Reader

Joaquín met her when they were both just starting out in the Air Force—young, restless, and burning off the weight of training with cheap drinks and too-loud laughter in some forgettable dive bar. She was adaptable, mostly quiet, and knew when to get rowdy to keep the vibes going. She wasn’t in his cohort, just another face in the sea of military friendships that came and went. He’d be lying if he didn’t try to get to know her a little in the beginning, but something in her eyes or tone said she wasn’t interested - he’s been met with rejection multiple times to know that tone - and left it at that.

Over time, though, their paths kept crossing. Base assignments, joint training sessions, overlapping missions—until familiarity turned into something steadier. As they climbed the ranks in their respective fields, their work intersected often. But while Joaquín’s role was clear, hers always felt… murkier. She never volunteered details, and he never asked. Still, he noticed things—the way she disappeared without explanation, the way her conversations died the second anyone entered a room. Whatever she did, it wasn’t standard military work.

"Remind me what you’re working on these days," he said, securing the wraps around his knuckles as he eyed the punching bag. He had just arrived at the gym as she was gearing up to leave.

She hummed, filling the environment with a light-hearted air. He knew better, she thought, so she shrugged, “Stuff.”

He chuckled back, shaking his head. “Always so secretive, swear to God,” he muttered, and continued wrapping the other hand. He looked up at her for a moment, and found her smiling at him. She shrugged again in an “oh well’ manner, and went for the exit.

Joaquín felt his chest swell after she left, the flirty look she gave him engraved in his brain - and soon doubting himself if it was something he thought he’d imagined. He wished she’d stay a little longer to get to know her more. 

She wasn’t like that. Or at least, had never seen her be flirty. 

Deep down, she had to admit—he was cute. Not in an obvious, heart-stopping way, but in that boy-next-door kind of charm. Annoying at times, sure, but somehow still endearing.  

"Hey!”

They were in the hallway now, the door clicking shut behind them as Joaquín lingered, still gripping the handle. She arched a brow, waiting. Seconds stretched. His lips parted slightly, as if a thought had almost formed, then—nothing. Joaquín, who always had a sharp remark, a clever comeback—something—found himself choking on silence.  

Her brow furrowed. “No, yeah, good talk,” raising her thumb after a few long seconds.

“No wait,” he sighed, jogging toward her. “Listen, listen. This is… weird… to say,” he started, “and I acknowledge that, but I really don’t know anything about you, and…”

“Yeah….”

He sighed, “I’m not trying to come off wrong, but I’d really like to know you more, what you do – here, at least, you know? I’m just generally interested in your… line of work.” He swayed side to side in his words, trying to find the correct wording to things.

She considered his words. Trying to figure him out, understand what he can or can’t keep up with. He was smiling sheepishly, hoping she would open up a little by his nervous smile. But he was just irritating to look at, at this point, and turned away to walk towards her room, ignoring his protests.

Poor Joaquín Torres didn’t know what he was up against if she took up his request.

-

But of course, that wasn’t up to her, because if there’s something he’d do, is find a way.

“I guess I’ll be joining you and the others for this one, huh?” He walked alongside her, too distracted by his own achievement of joining the woman next to him on the mission she’s leading, to notice her fuming. “I mean, it’s nice, and seems pretty straightforward, and–” in an instant of a moment, she grabbed his arm and shoved him in the nearest supply closet and debated locking him in before stepping in herself and setting things straight. 

“Listen to me carefully,” she whispered inches from his face, a finger on his chest keeping him in place. This was the closest in proximity she’s ever been to him, her closeness putting him at unease. “You will hear my orders; you’ll follow my lead. Do I make myself clear?” 

He looked down at her, the proximity intoxicating him, stilling him. Her face was lethally calm, collected, and serious. He wondered how she could express so much in her voice, while remaining cool and in charge. Something about this was new territory for him, but a new high was building; an excitement that was new to him. He wasn’t sure if it was her pointed finger giving this effect, but he felt his chest clench.

“Do I make myself clear?” she repeated, emphasizing each word. She dug deeper into his chest through his uniform, snapping him out from her trance.

He nodded stupidly. “No, yea-yeah, yes ma’am.”

She held his gaze and groaned after a while, resting her hand on her waist while the other ran through her hair, a headache already taking place. “Jesus.” 

She took a moment to think ahead and plan the debriefs, the strategies, the roles her teams were going to have to play in this mission, and how Joaquín could be an active player in all of this…. from a distance.

“I think you should have a little faith in me,” Joaquín said, his voice light but laced with sincerity. She studied him for a moment, taking in the way his expression softened just slightly—earnest, hopeful. He was an eager guy. She’d give him that. “I’m just trying to learn, that’s all. I think it’ll be good to be a sort of jack-of-all-trades type, you know? Kick ass,” a karate chop, “be the ‘computer guy’,” fingers feigning typing; that earned him a scoff, “do spy stuff–”

“‘Computer guy’?”

“Yeah, the-the guy with the comms and stuff in the mission and the-” he snapped his fingers trying to find better words.

“Yeah I don’t know….”

“You do know,” he said, exasperated.

She blew raspberries, “You mean like a Communications Specialist?”

“Well, sure, and–”

She smirked. “Ok well, you have to get better at communicating,” she chuckled 

The corner of his mouth twitched at her teasing, but something about the way she laughed, effortless and a little self-satisfied, made something twist in his chest. He tried to ignore it. Instead, he exhaled sharply and cocked his head. “Oh, you think you’re funny?”

“Yeah, hilarious, actually,” she stated matter-of-factly. She bobbed her head side to side, “It’s a burden, really. A gift and a curse.”

Joaquín let a beat pass before he gave her a lazy, knowing smirk. “Yeah?” His voice was lower this time, something smug and amused settling into the word. Something about that Yeah sent an inexplicable shiver up her spine. “More like a curse, I’d say.”

She clutched her chest, feigning hurt. “Woah, that was almost as sharp as my wit.” 

“Yours is as sharp as a butter knife. Dull and mildly annoying.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh please Joaquín, that’s all you.”

He mirrored her stance, crossing his arms right back, eyes twinkling. “And yet, here you are. Must be captivated,” he grinned.

She rolled her eyes, and started towards the door, “Whatever, more like suffering through it with grace.”

“Ah!” He nodded his head with a gotcha look, “so you admit I have a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Yeah… ‘je’ no sé why I’m still talking to you,” she waved him off and started walking out of the supply closet. "Just, follow my lead when we get to Spain." Joaquín rocked back on his heels, smiling curiously to himself.

“Wait! So, when do we go into the details?” he called after a distance.

She didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around—just threw up a lazy wave over her shoulder. 

- 

It was during this mission that Joaquín started to understand her a little more. Before, she’d always been a bit of a mystery—never offering much about herself, never filling in the gaps. She never liked talking about herself. Maybe it was habit, maybe it was survival, but letting people in had never been something she did. Information was a liability. It could be twisted, used against her, turned into a weakness. And yet, here she was—sharing pieces of her past over frozen yogurt on a quiet evening in Madrid.

“I’ve heard about the Red Room, thought it was just a conspiracy,” he mused, spooning another bite of frozen yogurt into his mouth.

“Nope, was the real deal,” she nodded.

They had just wrapped up an infiltration, posing as CIA informants to dismantle an underground operation. Joaquín had handled himself well, but tonight, for the first time, he seemed to really see her. Not just as a teammate, or someone filling in the gaps between departments, but as a whole person—one with a history, one with ghosts.

“So why the Air Force?” he asked after a beat. His voice was casual, but there was something beneath it—genuine curiosity. “I mean, with everything you know, why not just—” he gestured vaguely, “S.H.I.E.L.D. or something?”

She considered that, tapping her spoon against the rim of her cup. “Oh, I am,” she admitted with a chuckle. “That’s probably why you barely see me.”

Joaquín blinked, then leaned back in his chair, nodding as realization settled in.

“What Dreykov did, it was rough. All of the Red Room thing in its entirety. But I learned to fly planes, it was my specialty, or trained mostly on. I figured the Air Force was the most straightforward choice. I just needed approval to join since ‘immigration’ and whatnot,” she yawned. 

Joaquín hummed in understanding. He respected that. No probing, no need to drag out things she wasn’t willing to elaborate on.

He scraped the last of his frozen yogurt from the cup and grinned. “Alright, last question.”

She deadpanned. “It’s never the last question with you.”

“Promise, this time it is.” He held up two fingers in mock oath before leaning in slightly, eyes glinting. “Did you ever meet Natasha Romanoff? Like, the Avenger?”

She gave him a long, unimpressed look. 

Joaquín just grinned wider.

She chuckled. “Nah.” She tried recalling back to her time while training, and heard about the infamous redhead that escaped Dreykov’s reach. She was the reason the Widows became chemically rewired to follow his orders–not that she blames her or anything. She mostly remembers the scientist one, Melina; she’d show up on base from time to time. “Anyways, I’m tired, and we have an early plane to catch tomorrow.”

As expected, his “last question” was never really a last. Walking to the hotel, he kept asking about her past, what she remembers about her childhood, questions about the chemical that had the Widows under Dreykov’s spell. A lot of them she didn’t really care to answer, others were just too personal to share. It was getting really exhausting, until she told him to shut up.

“How’d you learn Spanish?” he finally asked. It was like she told him something from one ear and out the other. 

“Huh?”

“Don’t think I heard that little ‘no sé’ lingo in there from last week,” he shimmied. “Even here, hearing you speak Spanish, it’s perfect Spanish.” 

“Honestly Joaquín, you’re like a nonstop yapper, how do you have the energy after all this time?”

“Wha–I’m just curious!” he grinned.

“Yeah good night.” She stepped into her hotel room, adjacent to Joaquin’s own room. The rest of the team had their own rooms as well, sprawled out across the hotel, all possibly in their bed asleep, or working on their briefs or reports. Others probably out partying. Whatever the case, she was just glad to be heading home soon. She sighed. 

There was just one last thing to do before she could call it a night.

The night's mission wasn’t complicated—no intel to extract, no targets to eliminate. A simple side job. Something she could handle in a few hours, then return like nothing had happened.

She slipped into a black cocktail dress, the fabric sleek against her skin, something that would help her effortlessly blending in with the right crowd. She pinned her hair up with a clip-on fringe for a 90s updo, a few strands framing her face just right. The disguise wasn’t elaborate, but it didn’t need to be. The right outfit, the right posture, and people only saw what they wanted to see—a woman heading out for the night, nothing more.

She made her way down, weaving through the soft hum of conversation in the lobby, heels clicking against polished marble. She didn’t notice Joaquín sitting at the bar, sharing drinks and laughter with a few others from earlier.

But he noticed her.

At first, he barely registered her—a pretty stranger dressed to kill, a woman disappearing into the night. But then something tugged at his subconscious. The frame of her shoulders. The way she carried herself, poised yet alert. He frowned, lips parting slightly.

She had told him she was exhausted, ready to crash. But the moment she stepped under the golden glow of the chandeliers, something in the way she moved confirmed it. It’s her.

Joaquín straightened, setting down his glass. She looked different—glamorous, effortless, like a damn movie star. The strapless dress hugged her in a way that made it impossible not to stare. But beyond that, beyond how good she looked, something didn’t sit right.

He excused himself from the group without explanation, watching as she slipped through the lobby doors. His mouth opened to call her name, but he stopped himself. Instead, he followed, keeping his distance.

She didn’t hesitate at the curb, stepping into a black car with the ease of someone who had planned every second of her evening. As the car pulled away, the neon lights from the street flickered across her face, and for the briefest moment, her side profile was unmistakable.

Joaquín’s jaw clenched.

Something in his gut twisted. Whatever she was up to—it wasn’t just a night out.

And he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Follow that car,” he ordered the taxi driver, pointing out to the sleek car ahead of him. It’s not that he didn’t trust her, but he didn’t trust that she’d all of a sudden decided to get up, get pretty, and go clubbing. If she had, then this would be one big misunderstanding, and there was more to her he didn’t know. But what if this version of her is an evil clone and the real one was back at the hotel, injured? Guess he’d have to find out later.

He pulled up to a museum, an event taking place with lots of seemingly important people dressed up to the nines. He looked at his attire after stepping out of the car, and looked like he was ready to wander the wilderness or play pool, not waltz into high society. 

Amongst the crowd, he spotted her messy updo, by some stranger’s arm, laughing. Given the fake bangs, making flirty eyes at this balding guy, and laughing, he deduced she was possibly on a mission. He frowned, something had to give.

He made his way to the back entrance, where the staff was most likely entering from. His palms were sweaty, not sure if this little rendezvous was worth the risk. He never really thought things through, just ran with his first thought, until he realized he needed to think things through more. 

The museum kitchen was a controlled explosive environment. Expletives being yelled out in Spanish. Servers coming in and out of doors with equal enthusiasm with their own expletives. But everyone knew their place, and if he didn’t move past, people would catch on he wasn’t from there. But God the smell of the food getting prepped was incredible. 

He moved past the kitchen towards what he thought were the lockers, and couldn’t believe his luck when he got his hands on an extra all black attire someone had left, likely what the servers were wearing for the evening, and one of someone who was most likely late. It was a little tight, but nothing he didn’t feel uncomfortable with.

“¡Cava! ¡Vamos, vamos chicos! ¡Que no tenemos toda la noche!” someone had started to yell to get the champagne out. 

Joaquin walked out without anything in hand trying to find her-- that was a mistake.

“Oye, ¡tio! Pero que os haces? Aqui, valé. En andar.” The same man gave Joaquin his tray of Spanish champagne flutes to present to the guests and hurried him along. He muttered a quick “valé” to blend and started walking around, looking for his target. 

The museum was grand. Artwork displayed for everyone, the guests looked wealthy - more than he would make in his lifetime. He would stop to occasionally look at a piece, and continue to play his part in pretending to be the flute guy, eyes in search of her. 

He spent a good 10 minutes until he spotted the messy updo walk up a set of stairs with a different guy, smiling and laughing, making conversation and entering a secluded wing of the museum. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think. This wasn’t his mission, but his gut told him to keep watching. He needed to move without drawing attention, so he grabbed a new tray of champagne flutes from the bar, slipping into the role of an event server. The disguise wasn’t perfect, but in a place like this, people only paid attention if you gave them a reason to.

Balancing the tray in one hand, he made his way toward the wing—only to catch sight of her again, walking in the opposite direction across an overhead walkway, headed for the upstairs terrace. What the hell is she up to? 

Joaquín hesitated for half a second before following. He had no plan beyond figure out what’s going on, but he’d deal with that part once he got there.

Stepping onto the terrace, he set the tray down, scanning the area. A breeze rustled through the cypress trees lining the edge, their dense branches concealing an exit. He was just about to check when—

A sharp yank at his collar dragged him backward.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Torres.”

Oh she’s pissed.

“Hey! Oh hey, I…” he started. He tapped his thighs, thinking of something to say. There was no use lying, she earlier mentioned she has a good bullshit detector, making him hyper-aware of every nervous tell he might have. He wasn’t a good liar, either way. 

“Torres,” she pressed. “Go back to the hotel.”

“Why are you here? I thought you were too tired to go out,” Joaquín shot back.

“Confidential,” she curtly spit. She didn’t like that he was really prying now. 

He frowned, “I don’t like this, we’re supposed to be a team–all of us. Why are you on a side mission? On your own?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to know the truth, or how much she could tell him before he pressed for more. Or how much he could contribute to the mission now that he was here.

Joaquín took a step back, studying her. His gaze flickered up to her hair, and his expression shifted.

“And what's up with your hair?” He narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Actually, this Pamela Anderson vibe you got going on? Real sexy, not gonna lie.”

She scoffed, taken aback, “What's up with your wardrobe, why are you dressed as a server? Are you spying on me?”

“No,” he shook his head, his high pitch tone giving him away.

“Santa María, madre de Dios…” she groaned, pacing back and forth. “Listen, I really don’t have time for this, just go back to the hotel, or be my ride for the night but just, keep yourself busy, I’m working here.”

“And another thing! That.” Joaquín pointed at her. “That’s what I mean, how do you know Spanish? That isn’t just textbook level Spanish you learn through fucking–Duolingo!” he gestured wildly. 

Her patience snapped. “Joaquín, por favor, que te parto la madre. Hazte.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He knew when to quit—mostly because he was sure she could and would kick his ass if he didn’t. He stepped aside, silently letting her pass. 

On the way towards the entrance, she stopped before going in, he watched as she hovered there, shoulders tense, debating something. Then, finally, she turned back to face him.. “I… I have to do this thing later. If you want to make yourself useful, guard the door when I ask you to. And if you see anything, don’t… question it.” 

He frowned at her curiously, and nodded.

She huffed, like she’d just given something away she hadn’t meant to, then slipped inside. 

-

As if they had rehearsed this numerous times, she found Joaquín to make an excellent improv partner. As he was serving more flutes, and later hors d'oeuvres, she was schmoozing with the elites. He never really understood what she was doing. To him, it looked like she was networking, talking with peers. Flirting with men because she was bored. And damn she’s a natural. He wondered why he never saw this side of her. Whatever the case, she looked good. 

But to her, this was part of the job. She didn’t mind the small talk, the ditzy persona. It was fun to play pretend, and flirt with the men and women available. This would end up leading to the main guy she was in search of. 

“<<Yeah, Ivan and I go way back,>>” one of the drunk men slurred, leaning in close. “<<the guy’s great, I bet he’d like to meet your pretty face.>>”

“Ah, ¿si?” she grinned.

The man nodded eagerly, his eyes a little too glazed to be fully present. “<<He has a weakness for pretty girls, I can’t blame him. The dude can spot dimes from a mile away. You’re his type for sure. Maybe we can have a good evening together? And bring a friend for a good time all four of us.>>”

She bit her lower lip, feigning interest. “<<Don’t tempt me with a good time.>>”

“¿Croquetas de pollo?” Joaquín interjected with a plate of Spanish tapas, his eyebrow quirked in that teasing way he knew would annoy her. 

The male just shook his hand, eyes not paying attention to Joaquín.

She followed his lead, shaking her hand to shoo him off. God, he was so annoying.

“¿Qué te parece si vemos ‘ese tipo Iván, hm?” she purred, letting her voice dip into something more seductive.

The male’s eyes lit, a type of hunger scanning her, thinking of the different ways he’d like to have her in. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but the smile never left her lips. This was the part she hated—this look they gave her—but it was all part of the dance. Keep it light, keep it playful, and lead them exactly where she needed them to go. “Vamos,” he said as he pulled her hand between his, caressing her. 

Just before he strung her along further, she stopped in front of Joaquín to grab a piece of croqueta and held it up to thank him for it, silently telling him to standby. It was communication through the eyes, one where she was actually thanking him for sticking by, and not for the stupid piece of chicken meat he was offering her. He dipped his chin in understanding, barely mouthing a go.

Whatever this thing she was doing, it was one that he knew she could handle by herself, but he figured it was nice to have a partner in this. He watched her go up the stairs into the wing once more, and didn’t see her again. He wondered what she’d be doing, and felt sick if these were the types of missions she’d gone through during her years as a Widow.

He forced himself back into his fake role, serving tapas, keeping his hands busy, trying to anchor himself in the mundane. But his mind wouldn’t stay put. It kept drifting—to the slit of her dress, the way her long legs moved effortlessly through the crowd. The velvety fabric that clung to her, the shimmer at her collarbone catching the soft light.

To him, ella era la luna personificada.

Her lips—shining, plush. How they might feel against his own. How they might taste.

Joaquín exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Focus. He had croquetas de pollo to serve, champagne to pour. Not this.

This was Red Room training, he reasoned. The art of seduction. The carefully crafted illusion of a siren—luring men in with a glance, a smile, a whisper in the dark. And when the time called, strike at a moment’s notice. 

He let out a breath. If she was anything like the person she was during the morning’s mission, he knew she’d be okay. He’d seen how she maneuvered, how she struck with precision. That woman didn’t need saving. She didn’t even need backup. The more he thought about her skill, the sharper his confidence in her became.

As he walked around carrying a round of, now champagne, for the guests, he was met with a hand on his back, making its way down his arm. He felt a chill go down his spine, and saw her, a little frazzled, but composed.

“Me parece que querrán más tapas y cava,” she murmured, smooth, practiced.

Joaquín smirked, inclining his head in mock obedience. “En seguida.”

And then, just like that—a wink. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, and made her way to the women’s bathroom.

Joaquín wasn’t sure what was really going on now, but he was just glad to be a part of it. With a tray of Spanish champagne at hand, he made his way up the stairs with her, into the right wing of the museum. This side of the museum was dimly lit, and he started feeling unsure of himself. But she was leading him to a room, confidently walking with grace, as if she owned the place. He liked this about her. She was confident about everything. Never faltering to new things. She led with caution certain times, but confident nonetheless.

“You look real good,” his words escaped him. He mentally kicked himself.

She looked back, studying him for a moment if the champagne had gotten to him, but no. Figured this was the real Joaquín speaking. A little brash, or with little thought process, but still him. “Thanks,” she chirped over her shoulder. 

“Now,” she began, stopping behind some big doors, “remember what I told you–if you see something, stay quiet.”

He nodded, unsure, “yeah, sure.” 

On the other side of the doors, two bodies were over a couch, one on top of the other, half-naked. Joaquín’s eyes grew, and looked at her incredulously. She was making her way towards a desk, leaning forward to focus on what was on the display screen. He figured he'd ask about that later. “Get on watchdog duty; let me know if you hear steps nearby.”

He fake saluted and made his way out, leaving the flutes near the desk. “So what exactly are you doing?” he asked.

“Joaquín, hush,” she sang absentmindedly, and he closed the door.

The small USB drive she carried in her garter was taken out and inserted into the hard drive.

She thought she wasn’t going to need to extract information or execute anyone for the night. At least one of them is true. She was supposed to be pure arm candy and eavesdrop on a few conversations. But as soon as she got a hold of this Ivan guy, she knew she couldn’t miss out on this opportunity.

This wasn’t an overall SHIELD operation, but it was one she knew the information would be useful to pass along. She’d leave everything untouched after she was done, no proof that she was ever near the computer. As for the men on the couch? They were simply…asleep. Halfway through their ravenous evening, they were met with a strong desire for sleep, and she left them at that. In the morning, or if someone found them, they’d just think they had 1 too many drinks and that things led from one thing to another between them. She’d done her research on them to know it was a possible outcome.  

She looked at the monitor, only 85% of the extraction was downloaded. It was a lot slower than usual, but there were a lot of orgs, addresses, and key clients to take down. 

“Hey,” Joaquín stepped in, nodding towards the hallway, “footsteps.”

Fuck, she saw 87% on the screen. 

She glanced at Joaquín, already knowing what she had to do. If this went sideways, he could not be caught up in it.

“Take the tray of flutes,” she whispered, nodding toward the passed-out men on the couch. “Put it on the side table near them. Then leave through those doors.” She flicked her eyes to the set opposite the main hallway. “They lead to a corridor of lecture rooms. Find the exit.”

Joaquín hesitated, eyes flicking to the doors. He hadn’t expected them to lead anywhere but another room.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

He didn’t trust that she’d get this done in time, the footsteps were fairly close, but he needed to take the plunge. She was capable and he trusted that. He exhaled sharply and slipped through the doors.

Darkness.

Dimly lit artwork lined the corridor. For a split second, he thought he’d made a mistake and doubled back into the main hallway. He needed to find the lecture rooms. The exit. Fast.

Joaquín picked a direction and sprinted left. At the end of the hall, he skidded to a stop, swearing under his breath. No lecture rooms. No exit sign, just more hallways with artwork.

"Fuck… fucking—" He clenched his jaw. Why couldn’t she give clear instructions?

He heard the doors open of the room he’d just left, and quickly pressed himself against the wall, breath held. Heels clicked against the floor—sharp, steady. He risked a glance.

She moved fast, slipping through the opposite direction, already working to kick off her heels. Smart. In a matter of seconds, she was gone—disappearing around the left corner at the far end of the hallway.

The doors opened again, and this time, security. Joaquín stilled. One of them stepped out, scanning for movement. A pause. Then, they retreated back inside.

He figured it was now or never, and sprinted towards the opposite side of the hallway, hoping he wouldn’t get caught, and quickly turned to the left. He stopped to find a big lecture hall in front of him, and cursed her. Now where was that stupid exit?

The doors opened behind him again, “<<Yeah, I’m gonna check it out.>>” the security spoke, alerting their teammates.

Joaquín’s pulse spiked. He scanned his surroundings—options, options— there.

Joaquín spotted an empty conference room near the lecture hall and shoved the door open. Frosted glass walls—semi-private, good enough.

He caught a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, the movement a second too late, barely deflecting the knife with a high kick, twisting just enough to shield his ribs.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeated, incredulous, steadying himself.

“It’s a wonder how you moved in that tight-ass suit.”

“Yeah, we’ll talk about that later—someone’s coming.” He adjusted his pants, glancing toward the door. Heavy footsteps. Too close.

She exhaled sharply, brain working fast. A stupid idea surfaced, ridiculous but effective. Her lips parted in amusement before she said it.

“Kiss me.”

Joaquín blinked. “What?”

She stepped closer, urgency in her gaze. “Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable. If we look like drunk guests sneaking away for some ‘alone time,’ they won’t question it.”

Joaquín hesitated, searching her face like he wasn’t sure if this was just part of the job, or if she was messing with him.

Trust me, her eyes seemed to say. And finally, he did.

His hand found her waist, the other tilting her chin up. A split second of hesitation, then—

Her breath hitched as his lips met hers, soft but firm, tasting of heat and something unspoken. It started slow, deliberate, but the second she parted her lips, it shifted into something else. Something dangerous.

Joaquín followed her lead, and she let him. His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against him, and—fuck—he was a fast learner.

To him, she tasted like something sweet and dangerous, like champagne and trouble, lips parted just enough to draw him in. Her fingers curled into his hair, and just like that, he lost the thread of where performance ended and something real began.

She pulled him in, deeper, fingers threading into his curls. The table pressed against the backs of her thighs, and she let herself be lifted onto it, legs bracketing him.

From the hallway, voices neared. Slowed.

She knew better than to react, but Joaquín turned slightly, just enough to see their shadows lingering. Watching. He tightened his grip, selling the performance. 

For them. For the cover.

That’s what she told herself, at least.

But to him, the way she responded—the way she kissed back—made him forget, just for a second, that this was an act at all.

She made a small sound against his lips—something like a sigh, something like surrender——and any rational thought disappeared. His hand skimmed up her thigh, gripping firm, thumb pressing into soft skin, feeling the heat of her beneath the dress. She leaned into it. Into him. Joaquín deepened the kiss, angling it, molding her closer. 

Was it still an act? Because the way she kissed him back—the way she melted against him—made his chest tighten, his stomach coil.

His thumb dragged across her jaw, slow, almost reverent—possessive—and he felt her shiver.

Fuck.

His hips rocked forward before he could stop himself, chasing some kind of relief from the tension knotting between them. Her breath stuttered, nails digging into his shoulders, and—

A muttered curse. The sound of footsteps retreating.

The second the coast was clear, she pulled back. Blinking. As if shaking off something thick and consuming.

For a beat, neither of them moved. The air between them felt thick. Charged.

Her lips were swollen. So were his.

Joaquín looked at her—really looked at her—like he was trying to untangle something he hadn’t expected to feel.

She cleared her throat, her voice almost steady. “Nice work,” she murmured. She meant it.

But she also meant, we’re not talking about this.

Joaquín didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at her. Like he was trying to solve something he hadn’t expected to want an answer to. And he wasn’t sure if the moment had ended.

And the worst part? She wasn’t sure either.

[xxcalicofemmexx]

can you imagine if someone said something like "i believe white women experience a specific, targeted form of misogyny that intersects with anti-white sentiment"?

even if "anti-masculine sentiment" was a thing that mattered, it wouldn't be a specific kind of bigotry, and its intersection with transphobia doesn't demand new language in the same way transmisogyny does. it's just a tactic to redirect attention away from trans women getting removed from every online and offline support network. it's "all lives matter"ing transphobia

HELLO???? HELLO?????? IS ANYONE HEARING THIS????? IS THIS THING ON???????

THE ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF TRANSMASCULINE SUFFERING IS NOT THE SAME AS WHITE SUPREMACY

jesus fucking christ i can't believe that needs to be said.

do us all a favor and try LISTENING to the transmascs talking about this instead of playing the fucking oppression olympics. you're not helping anyone. you're not being an ally. all you're doing is proving to every transmasc around you that you're not a safe person.

you should be embarrassed to have sent me this. and on anon as well, bc you're too much of a coward to even take responsibility for your own actions.

[alexanderwales]

The spell showed you how another person saw you.

It was expensive, but not so expensive that it didn't find its use. If you were in the burgher class it was expected that you would experience it a few times in your life. One of those was before marriage.

Cordelia went in with great trepidation. She was sure that Aldwin was right for her, but less sure that she was right for him.

And then, two hours later, once it was all over, they had to talk about it, in a way that Aldwin loved to talk about everything.

"There was a sweetness to him," said Aldwin. "But now I worry, only lightly, that you think I make more concessions than I really do. There was more romance to him, I suppose. Very lovey, which I suppose is good."

"Well, that's good," said Cordelia.

"Is something the matter?" asked Aldwin.

"No," said Cordelia. "You can go on."

"I need some time to stew," said Aldwin. "We talked a lot, but I do fear that we got tangled in tangents. I think we could have been good friends, actually, if he were real, though ..."

"Yes?" asked Cordelia.

"He was intelligent, but I knew more than him, which I suppose is an artifact of the spell. He didn't know all the things that I knew, he knew all the things that you knew, except you don't expect me to know much about textiles, so some of those things that you knew were barred from him, and that meant that he sat at the intersection of our domains of knowledge." Aldwin looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I do wonder if there's a way around that."

"Perhaps," said Cordelia.

Aldwin looked back down at her. "Is something the matter? You haven't said what your experience was like. Was she pleasant?" He grinned at her, a winning grin that had made her fall in love. It was heartbreaking.

"Aldwin, I'm ... not sure that I can do this," said Cordelia.

His grin turned to a frown. "Why not?" he asked. "I love you, you should have seen that."

"Aldwin, she was perfect," said Cordelia.

"You're perfect," said Aldwin. He laid his hand on hers.

"No, Aldwin, I'm not," said Cordelia. "And when I've heard you say that before, I've always thought that it was you being poetic, but I met her now, the me that lives in your mind, and she is perfect, she has none of my blemishes, none of my flaws, she's kind and gracious and intelligent and funny."

"My dear, you're all those things," said Aldwin. "That's why I'm marrying you."

"But I'm not those things," said Cordelia. "My version of you, did you think that he was handsome?"

"I suppose it didn't occur to me," said Aldwin. He looked to the ceiling again and considered that. "His hair was a bit curlier, and his nose somewhat broader, but no, I think he looked like me."

"The woman I saw was a goddess," said Cordelia. "I can't compare to her."

"You are her," said Aldwin.

"Won't you believe me when I tell you that I'm not?" asked Cordelia. "And if we follow through on the engagement, and you marry me, how can I help but worry that you'll figure that out one day and leave me?"

Aldwin frowned at her. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "You think my love is fickle? It hadn't even occurred to me to ask my other whether he was wavering."

"I think you're brilliant and handsome," said Cordelia. "But I looked at her, spoke with her, and kept thinking to myself that I couldn't live up to her. I yelled at her and she calmly defused my anger. When I cried, she comforted me."

"It was really so bad?" asked Aldwin, raising his eyebrows. He had very expressive eyebrows, it was something that Cordelia had always found herself appreciating.

"I fear that you don't actually know me," said Cordelia. "You don't see the ugly, twisted, miserable creature that I am."

"Come now," said Aldwin. He seemed befuddled. "Perhaps I think more highly of you than you think of yourself, but I won't have you talking so poorly of my bride-to-be."

"It's how I felt, next to her," said Cordelia, looking down. She had tears in her eyes. It was undignified. Her other would have never.

Aldwin moved closer to her and tilted her chin up. She looked at him, blinking away her tears, which rolled down her face and made her lip salty. His eyes, that saw her so.

"My sweet, we have our entire lives to get to know each other better," said Aldwin. "I will love you no less if you falter, if you yell, if you cry, if you flop around and fail. If we do this again, ten years from now, I expect that I'll have the same rosy view of you, overly rosy, in your estimation. That's love. That's what it is."

But of course for her, that wasn't true at all. He'd said as much, he'd spoken to his other, he'd seen a more or less accurate portrayal of himself. Didn't he see that? Or would he realize it only later? She wasn't sure. Did she not love him? Is that what it meant? She thought that she loved him.

"I do love you," said Cordelia.

"Good, because we're getting married soon," said Aldwin. He patted her on the hand. "Come, let's dry those tears and find someplace to eat."

She let herself be led for the rest of the day, and returned to herself within half an hour, letting the shadow cast by the spell slide off her, joking with him, engaging him in his interests, putting on a smile that she didn't entirely feel.

But that night, as she lay in bed, the image of the goddess, the woman she was not and could not become, would not leave her mind.

[xi4oyan]

Destined one - Sùchén

“You Don’t Have To Say Anything, I Know.”

No one exactly remembered when he had appeared. It was just that, suddenly, he was there. A new student, with a name tangled in the records like dust on an old leaf: Sùchén. And despite his presence being discreet — almost lazy — he attracted glances like a grumpy magnet.

In that school, where talking tigers argued over physics exams, reformed demons exchanged recipes in the cafeteria, and humans with enchanted skin scribbled runes in their notebooks, Sùchén was a kind of silence that didn’t mix. He never seemed fully present — like a note that echoes even after the music has stopped.

He often stayed on the rooftop, his hand pressed against the rusted railing, his eyes lost in some point beyond the fence, as if waiting for something no one else could see. The shirt of his uniform was almost always missing the first, sometimes second, button, and his tie remained forever absent — a small detail, but persistent. And there was something about his ears, too subtle to seem human, too distinct to go unnoticed. Maybe there was a beast hidden within. Maybe he was just tired of appearing normal.

You saw him first in the gardening club. It wasn’t a meeting, not yet. Just a scene crossing by chance — him standing between rows of chrysanthemums, touching the stems with his fingertips as if testing if they were real. The light passed through the glass leaves of the ceiling and rested on his face as if it already knew him. He didn’t notice you. Or pretended not to notice. And left without saying a word.

After that, he seemed to always be where you were. Sitting behind you in literature class. At the back of the auditorium when Mei and MK rehearsed some strange Kabuki theater number. In the corner of the court when Wujing gave reinforcement lessons to the noisy freshmen. Sùchén never participated. He just watched.

One day, the sky was too heavy for the late afternoon, and the corridor behind the temple seemed darker than usual. You turned the corner and almost bumped into him. He was there, with his back to you, shoulders too relaxed for someone who supposedly didn’t want to be noticed.

"Do you always take this way?" his voice came without weight, almost as if thinking out loud.

You answered without thinking. Something trivial. But he smiled. Just a corner of his mouth. As if waiting to see if you would run away or not. And you didn’t run.

Time began to shape itself around these small intersections. He started looking at you more closely, as if mapping your routine. His fingers brushed against your arm as he passed, too light to call a touch, too heavy to be ignored. Sometimes, he would lean his shoulder against yours, hidden in the midst of the crowd. Just a gesture. Just warmth.

Pigsy warned you once, with a sidelong glance and the pan still steaming in his hand: "That boy... he has old eyes. Don’t trust smiles that hide a history." But it was too late to not look back.

And Sùchén didn’t need to say he was staying. The way he sat beside you, silent, his eyes closed to the sound of the rain on the roof — that said everything.

Over time, things between you and Sùchén began to change, but in a way you couldn’t fully understand. It was as if the world that once seemed vast and distant had become tight, small, a space where only the two of you could fit. There was no more school, no more familiar faces and the sounds you knew by heart. Now, everything was silent, the only sound was the wind touching the dry leaves around the camp where you had taken refuge.

The campfire burned low, casting soft golden light on your faces. The warmth radiating from the wood was the only warmth there, while the stars above seemed silent, watching. Sùchén was beside you again, in one of those moments where he seemed to simply exist around you. He didn’t speak much, but still, there was no need for words. The way he looked at the fire, his eyes slightly blurred by the soft light, made you feel a warmth spreading across your skin.

You were sitting next to him, the smell of smoke blending with the fresh night air. Your jacket was slightly open, and the cold wind made the hairs on your arms stand up. Without realizing, you leaned a little closer, seeking the warmth of his body. He didn’t pull away. In fact, it seemed like he was waiting for this gesture. His gaze met yours for a moment, one of those looks that, if not taken carefully, could risk understanding too much.

"You’re cold," he murmured, his voice rough in the stillness of the night. Without waiting for a response, he extended a hand toward you, almost like a silent invitation. And that’s when everything seemed to speed up. You found yourself nestled in the crook of his arm, the warmth coming from him making everything around you feel calmer and safer. He wrapped you in his embrace, Sùchén’s fingers slowly tracing over your skin, a gentle, exploratory touch, as if he were trying to understand your presence the same way you did with him.

The silence between you was thick, but in a strange way, comforting. Your hearts beat in sync, the scent of earth and forest mingling with the aroma of something closer, something more intimate. He didn’t pressure you, but his proximity was inescapable. The heat of his body against yours made the air around you both feel denser, as if the night itself was waiting for something to happen.

Your breathing had quickened now, as if simply being so close to him was a silent violation of something you both had been trying to avoid. But when he ran his fingers along your back, the sensation of his touch was a strange comfort, a relief. He pulled you closer, as if he had the right to do so. And maybe he did.

The warmth between you grew almost palpable. Sùchén wasn’t the type to worry about boundaries — in fact, it seemed like he was always testing yours. His hand, which had been gentle until now, moved up your arm with unexpected firmness, as if he knew exactly what he wanted and how he’d make you want it too. His gaze, hotter than the fire, locked onto yours, challenging and teasing. “Are you shivering?” he murmured, his voice rough but full of something more. “Or is it just because of me?”

The question was more of a game than a genuine curiosity, and you knew that. Sùchén never asked questions without purpose. He leaned in a little closer, his lips almost touching your ear as he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “I like seeing the effect I have on you,” he said, a merciless smile dancing on his lips. The tension in the air lingered, even thicker now.

You knew he was waiting for a reaction from you. That the provocation was there, just waiting to be received. And, not really sure what made him act this way, you allowed yourself to take the first step. Your lips brushed against his, hesitant but certain. The touch was brief, almost like both of you were testing the limits, feeling out the contours of what might come before going any deeper.

But Sùchén wasn’t patient. He pulled you closer, his body now pressing against yours with an intensity that was both comforting and electric. Your lips met once more, and this time, he was bolder, leaning into you, his hands now at your neck, his fingers caressing your skin in a way that made your stomach tighten.

The kiss grew, dominant. He wasn’t just teasing anymore; he was definitely in control, and somehow, you were willing to let him be. His caress on your neck was slow, almost possessive, as if he were savoring every moment, testing the limits of both his patience and yours. When he pulled away slightly, both of your breaths were faster, and he looked at you with a nearly challenging smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something else.

“That was just an appetizer,” he said with a crooked smile, still carrying the scent of tobacco and dust on his skin. His tone was immensely confident, like he knew you would never escape this game. “And now... will you let me play?”

Your response didn’t come in words. It was in the way you moved closer again, surrendering to the inevitability of the moment. And Sùchén, with that smile that never seemed to fade, knew that this was just the beginning.

The air between you was filled with a silent, yet palpable tension, and as he pulled you closer, you could no longer tell where your anxiety began and where his ended. Every touch felt carefully orchestrated, as if he knew exactly how to make your heart beat faster and your body feel light, yet at the same time so full of heat.

Sùchén wasn’t in a hurry. He wanted to savor every second, and you could feel that in every movement, as if time was stretching between you, becoming elastic, malleable. Your lips met again, but this time it was deeper, longer, as if the kiss were a silent request, something you both already knew you didn’t need to hide anymore. The kiss was ferocious, but without haste, as if he were marking his territory, but in a subtle way, without actually asking for permission.

You felt his fingers moving across your skin almost mercilessly, trailing over your waist, as if he wanted to etch every curve of your body into memory. Your breath was heavier, bodies closer, and the feeling of heat seemed to grow from within, a fire that didn’t seem like it wanted to burn out. The way he enveloped you was almost possessive, but at the same time, there was something immensely comforting about it, as if he were exactly what you had always needed, without ever asking for it.

“Do you really think you can stay out of my reach?” he asked, his voice husky, the words leaving his mouth with a tone of challenge, but also something more intimate, something that felt like a silent provocation. He was enjoying the way you looked at him, the way your body responded to his gestures.

The answer came without words, just a deeper touch, an embrace that pulled him closer, his hands spreading more across your skin, moving to your shoulders, to your neck, feeling every small detail. You no longer knew if you were playing the same game or if you had surrendered, but what mattered was that you were there, with him, and nothing else seemed to make sense. The fire from the campfire crackled low, but the heat between the two of you seemed to be the only thing that mattered.

The other sounds around you, the wind and the leaves moving in the trees, seemed distant. There was nothing but Sùchén and you. He was no longer just teasing you with his gaze. Now, he was consuming you, but in a way that didn’t make you nervous; on the contrary, it seemed to only intensify the desire for him to do more.

“You want me, don’t you?” he whispered, a mischievous smile forming as he slid his finger along your jawline, down to your neck, applying light pressure. “You don’t have to say anything, I know.”

He stared at you with an intensity that seemed to read your thoughts, but instead of waiting for an answer, he tilted his head and kissed you again, more slowly this time, exploring every sensation with calm, with desire. He was the kind of guy who knew what he wanted, and wasn’t ashamed of it.

[planetesastraea]

I'm absolutely baffled by the reception my silly lil "Abby & Tommy as friendly exes" fic got over on AO3 so here it is! BuckTommy shipper's are adorable, thank you for the warm welcome 🥰

Tommy has been lucky enough not to end up in the hospital for more than a scratch in something like ten years so really, it's not his fault that updating his emergency contact slipped his mind.

Or: Tommy is an idiot and Abby has fun verbally tormenting him.

Read on AO3 or

Tommy blinks his eyes open, not for the first time–but this time at least, he feels like he's actually awake and not drowning under a cocktail of pain meds. He takes a breath of overly sanitised hospital air and looks around slowly, well aware that every single alarm in his body is warning him to stay put.

"Hey," a female voice says and he blinks a few times before she appears in his line of sight.

"H-hey," he says to Abby.

To Abby?!

"Wait," he frowns, and it hurts. "What year is this?"

She laughs and the crystal clear sound echoes in the hospital room.

"I think it's the year you update your emergency contact."

He groans and every vibration that goes through his skull makes him regret the decision.

"What happened?"

"You crashed your car."

He pauses as his heart jumps into his throat.

“I what?”

“Well, a delivery truck crashed into you, more precisely. The driver had a heart attack.”

He vaguely remembers driving home from Harbor, a green light, an intersection, and then-

"Casualties?" he asks, and Abby answers quickly.

"No," she says kindly, and Tommy allows himself to briefly close his eyes in relief. "EMS were on scene fast enough to revive the driver. From what I’ve heard he earned himself a lifetime prescription for beta-blockes.”

“Okay,” he whispers, still wrapping his head (and his headache) around the whole idea.

“I mean, really, the only casualty is the night of sleep that never was while I spent 8 hours driving from Napa,” Abby said teasingly, bringing him back to Earth. “That was right after telling my husband that movie night was cancelled since my ex fiancé might be dying."

"Uh,” he nods carefully. “Sorry about that."

"He's very understanding.”

"Well," he starts, voice filled with fake confidence and a whole lot of painkillers. "Thanks for stopping by, Abby-"

"You really think I'm going to let you off this easy?" She raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, I can try-"

"It's been nine years, Tommy."

"It slipped my mind-" he says, but she talks over him.

"--And I have it on pretty good authority that someone else deserved that call–I mean if he hadn't cut you out of that damn car himself, who knows when he would have heard about this–"

Tommy breathes in. The world stops.

"Oh, god-"

"God hasn't been worried sick about you for the last 16 hours, Tommy. Evan Buckley has."

He sees it, in his mind's eye, Abby and Evan sitting next to each other in an emergency waiting room, truly wishing for his survival only in hopes of tearing him a new one.

"Wha- what did you t- what did he tell you?"

"That I'm not the only one into himbos, for starters," she quips.

"God," he mumbles, his hand reaching up, IV and all, in an attempt to massage his eyelids. He stops just short of rubbing his swollen excuse for a face as he realises that’s probably the worst idea. "I can't believe he told you that."

"It's Buck. Of course he told me that. He also told me about every single detail of the things I've missed in the last five years since we've talked."

"Of course he did."

"The dead brother was a surprise."

"Wasn't it for everyone?" he asks, finally making eye contact.

"And you thought your family was weird."

"Gosh, you said it."

She smiles at him and he wonders if maybe she missed this a little. The banter. The friendship. The everything he'd ruined.

"So, what happened?" she finally asks, the kindness in her voice back again. As if Tommy deserved any of it.

"I don't know," he mumbles, and instantly knows it's the wrong answer.

"Well, I mean, I get it. He's sweet, he's kind, he’s-he’s gotten so bulked up and well, we both know he’s pretty good at what he does-"

"Please, don't-"

"Well don't sleep with my ex and break his heart, Tommy."

"You broke it first-"

"My mother passed."

"I'm-" Fuck. His train of thought crashes entirely. "I'm sorry. That I wasn't–I should have been there for you." The apology is way past due.

"It's fine,” she says, without spite. “Buck was."

It's not a barb, just a fact. He doesn't look away.

"It's fine," she says again. "She loved you and most of the time she forgot you'd left. You're forgiven."

"Alright," he says, doubtfully.

"So," she starts again, raising his eyebrows at him. "Buck."

He sighs. There's no way out of this and he knows it. He's tied up to too many machines to make a run for it and he’s fairly sure he’s at least busted a knee.

"He asked me to move in with him."

"I see. So it didn't even take a wedding for you to walk out on this one?" she smirks and he accepts his penance.

"Have you always been this mean?"

"Always, when I'm sleep deprived."

He laughs. His ribs hurt. He takes it. He eyes the wedding ring on her finger and thinks about all that could have been.

"I freaked out," he says, in a breath.

She sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for his hand.

"Okay."

Christ, it's even worse when she's kind to him.

"I said shitty things."

She hums. "And so did he, right?"

His eyes meet hers. "He really has told you everything, hasn’t he?"

"We don't have many secrets left from each other, Buck and I."

He makes a face. "I'd like to delete that from my memory, please.”

She laughs. "So. Question is, are you in love with him?"

He sighs again and tries to shrug but has to fight the bruised feeling of his everything.

"What do you think?" he asks painfully.

She smiles.

“I think you never committed domestic terrorism for me-”

“God, just unplug me now, Abby, it’s my time to go-”

Abby laughs again.

“Nice try. As if I’d let you break our engagement and then still let you end up miserable.”

“You’re like the hospital ghost of Christmas past-”

“It’s June, how concussed are you?”

“My head hurts, Abby.”

“Worse than the total agony of being in love?”

There’s a beat and he squints because he just can’t believe she just quoted his favourite movie at him.

“You’re the worst.”

“Update your emergency contact, Kinard,” she says as she squeezes his hand, stands and walks out of the room, a satisfied smile on her lips.

Tommy blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, Evan’s right there, watching him, his fingers threaded through Tommy’s--but only the tips. As if Evan had been scared it was asking for too much.

Tommy realizes right then that he never wants Evan to think he’s too much ever again.

“Hey,” he whispers, mostly because his throat is parched.

Evan startles and looks at him eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights–probably like Tommy in that truck’s headlights–before Evan reaches out for a glass of water and offers Tommy the straw. Tommy tries to convey his appreciation in a blink as he slowly drinks.

When Evan has carefully set the glass down again, Tommy opens his mouth before he has the chance to chicken out.

“So, how’d you like to be my emergency contact?”