#Arc Training Program

[cc1010fox]

Alpha-17: Violence is never the answer. The other clones laugh. Alpha-17, after a good laugh: Jokes are a good way to disarm your opponents before you kill them.

[spkyart]

Almost all my fav panels in the kny manga are the scribbled scrimblos

[shironezuninja]

10 days of emotional contempt, and I finally put these OSTs on my iTunes program this Saturday. They were ready to be uploaded to my laptop’s music library by last weekend, but that dumb Spider-Man moral obligation got in the way.

[aceattorneyvsdanganronpa2025]

What does Arata look like?

//This is Arata from the cancelled Neo World Program Monitor blog.

[pttedu]

Discover how artificial intelligence and robotics are transforming welding—from early robotic arms to modern AI‑powered cobots, smart sensors, real‑time monitoring, adaptive control, and IoT‑enabled systems. Learn how intelligent welding robots elevate quality, efficiency, flexibility, and safety, while skilled professionals gain new opportunities through advanced training. This article explores key advances—arc welding bots, cobots, spool‑welding, sensor fusion, and machine‑learning‑driven path planning—that are reshaping the future of metal fabrication.

[em1i2a3]

Good Grief

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Enhanced!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Bob is spellbound when he watches you train. It’s his favourite part of the day, and it’s his way of getting to know you. This is how the two of you grow a bond that is practically inseparable, and extremely protective.

Warnings: Hints of Angst and Fluff, Mentions of Violence (because of the training), Reader purposely puts themself in danger to coax out Sentry (this is to test a theory), Accidental Training ‘Injury’, Reader is Enhanced (super strength pretty much)

Author’s Note: I liked this request and the idea, and I kind of ran with it a bit and spiced it up at the end! So I’m glad I could write a nice little blurb for it! Thank you for the request! :)

P.S. I may or may not miss a day this week to upload something for a different Lewis Character….I won’t say who…But some people might know who it is for lol 🤓, or we might get a double update day! Who knows. Just thought I’d put that out there though.

Word Count: 6,163

The training bay was silent except for the soft slap of bare feet on mat and the distant hum of ventilation through the compound walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows that pooled at the edges of the room. The space smelled faintly of sweat and vinyl, clean but lived-in, the kind of place where discipline lived in every corner.

Half a dozen padded dummies stood propped in a wide arc across the center of the mat. Each one anchored with care, their placement intentional–neither random nor symmetrical. You’d paced the bay in slow circles earlier that morning, nodding to yourself before gesturing for Bob to help shift one a few inches to the left, another slightly forward. He followed your directions without question, even if he didn’t quite understand the pattern you saw.

He stood beside you, palms resting awkwardly against the top of the shoulders of one dummy, eyes flicking between them.

“Yo-You sure you don’t want to go one at a ti-time?” He asked, his voice soft but edged with concern.

He didn’t mean to doubt you–he never did–but this setup was different. Not just reps. Not just sparring. It looked like a battlefield mapped from memory, and you were the only one who knew how to walk it.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile. “Trust me.”

And he did.

You stepped away from him, shedding the lightweight black zip-up that clung damply to your arms from your warmup. Underneath, you wore a ribbed charcoal-grey sports bra, cropped snug against your chest, the hem riding high enough to show every breath you took. Your training shorts were low on your hips–matte black, skin-tight, with thick waistband support and slits up the sides for flexibility. Scuffed tape wrapped around your knuckles and a faint sheen of sweat already coated your skin, catching on your collarbone, and the dip of your stomach.

Bob was doomed from the start.

He took his usual place–cross-legged at the edge of the mat, your water bottle already in his hands–and watched.

And then you began.

A sharp inhale, a roll of your shoulder, and the first strike landed–clean and fast, a side kick directly to the gut of the closest dummy. You barely touched down before twisting, rolling into a shoulder drop and springing up again in a tight coil of movement. Your limbs snapped into each new angle like memories were guiding you. Like your body had done this a thousand times in another life.

Bob’s grip tightened on your water bottle.

You had told him once–over take out cartons on the roof of the Watchtower–that you were a gymnast before any of this. Before the field ops program. Before the blacksite conditioning and chemical rewrites. Before they molded your hands into weapons and trained you to end lives instead of chasing crappy medals that meant nothing.

That past still lived inside you though, and every single movement was proof of that.

The way you twisted midair and landed softly on the ball of your feet. The perfect, calculated bend of your back as you rebounded into a cartwheel, launching into a split aerial that folded into a kick. It was impossibly smooth–violent and beautiful all at once.

Bob could feel Sentry stirring the way a storm stirs just beyond the clouds. A pressure in the center of his chest. A weight behind his eyes.

“God she is beautiful…” Sentry whispered.

Bob exhaled shakily.

He had never seen anyone move like you before, and he was obsessed with it. He wished that he was able to see you on the field, to watch you take down actual threats, but ever since he voided the majority of New York's population, they had him sitting out until he could fully control himself. So this–this was all he had. And still, he couldn’t imagine anything more intoxicating than what he was watching now.

Your punches echoed through the room like cracks of thunder. Each one landing with calculated force, a precise explosion of movement that rolled through your shoulders, down your spine, and out through your fists. Bob could feel the vibrations in the air.

He sat perfectly still, barely breathing, with your water bottle gripped between his palms, the plastic creaking faintly under his thumbs. Steam hadn’t started yet, but it would, and he could feel it building under his skin.

You didn’t look tired, but there was a sheen of sweat forming now–glowing against the line of your throat, collecting at your lower back, glistening on your collarbones with every twist–but you didn’t breathe heavily, and your pace didn’t falter. If anything you moved faster, like the rhythm inside you had finally caught up to the shape of the room.

Bob’s eyes followed you like a man possessed.

You twisted, and ducked, and rolled seamlessly into a sweeping leg kick that took one dummy down with a harsh crack. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t hesitate. You flipped up onto your hands and spun into a tight, two-point kick, knocking a second dummy halfway backward before landing clean, knees bent, palms open.

It wasn’t training anymore. It was a ritual. It was instinct. A muscle-deep, cellular kind of memory, more ancient than tactics and more intimate than breath.

Bob could feel his throat tighten.

Your fists snapped with brutal precision, thighs flexing with each powerful step. And your eyes–glistening with anticipation–were locked on the next target with such focus that it felt like gravity bent towards you.

You landed on one hand, and kicked upward with explosive strength, sending a dummy rocking on its base.

Then–you pivoted low, gathered your weight and launched.

A scream of momentum–nothing verbal, just kinetic energy in its purest form.

Your shoulder slammed forward, with one final strike, and the last dummy flew.

Launching across the room, skidding off the mat with a plastic-laced screech before it smashed into the far wall–loud enough to echo with a thunderous boom.

Silence followed.

Thick. Charged. Unmoving.

You straightened slowly in the center of the mat, chest still rising in a quiet rhythm, arms loose at your sides. A fine mist of sweat clung to your stomach and thighs. You tilted your head just slightly, watching the dummy slump on the other side of the bay with a smirk on your face.

Bob stared at it as well, not blinking, nor breathing.

“Oh to be a dummy…I’d let her launch me across a room.” Sentry whispered, “I’d kneel at her feet, just to feel her shadow pass over me.”

The water bottle in Bob’s hands began to hiss.

Not audibly, it was just a faint pressure, a heat coiling inward, steam threatening to rise. The plastic beneath his fingers had begun to soften, warping faintly where the heat of his palms pushed in. But he didn’t even notice, because his senses weren’t registering anything except you.

You were still on the mat, framed in the center of his vision like some living storm–shoulders rising and falling in slow rhythm, now a towel slung lazily around your neck, with its ends brushing the curve of your chest as you dragged it across the glistening lines of your collarbone.

You looked like power incarnate. Like something divine caught in a human frame. And Bob? Bob was drowning in you.

You ran the towel down your stomach, catching the sweat that shimmered on your skin like dew on glass. You weren’t even looking at him yet, but he still flinched when you finally turned and strode toward him with that same slow, dangerous confidence you carried on the mat.

“How was that?” You asked casually, voice still slightly breathless. “Good form?”

Bob blinked.

Then blinked again.

And the world snapped back into sound with a pop.

Literally.

The lid of the water bottle burst off with a sharp crack, steam hissing faintly from the top as the pressure released, shooting the cap somewhere behind him. It clattered to the floor and rolled in a lazy half circle before spinning to a stop.

“Oh…Oh Je-Jesus.” He breathed, glaring down at the now-lidless bottle in his hand. You laughed–a puff of amusement–as you stepped towards him, holding out your hand.

“I’ll take that from you now,” You said. Bob’s eyes widened still fixated on the warped bottle in his hands.

”I-I could get you a new one…Th-This one is basically boiled.” You shrugged, stepping even closer, your shadow now brushing over his lap like a tide coming in.

“Water is water,” You commented with a lazy smile, “I don’t mind.” He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to not hand you this half-melted, Sentry-steamed, probably-dangerous bottle of lava–but your fingers brushed his anyway, curling lightly around the neck of it.

Bob relented, blushing furiously as he let go.

You brought it to your lips without hesitation. The plastic crinkled under your grip as you tilted it back and drank–really drank–head tipped slightly, throat working, the rise and fall of your chest steady despite the heat. The soft sound of water hitting your mouth was too much, and Bob had to look away–eyes darting to the dummy you launched, to the vent above the door, anywhere but at the way your lips wrapped around the bottle’s edge.

You drained it in a few long gulps.

Then–with a snap of finality–you crushed the softened plastic in one hand and passed it back to him, like it was a token from a battle won.

A droplet clung to your bottom lip, and you licked it off slowly. Like it meant nothing. Like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

“Tell Sentry thanks for the impromptu tea,” You murmured, voice all syrup and smoke. Then you slung the towel back around your neck and turned away, already walking toward the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower off. Meet you on the roof?” Bob couldn’t look at you.

Not when his entire face felt like it was glowing. Not when Sentry was humming in his veins like molten sunlight.

He nodded, eyes on the mat. “Y-Yeah. I’ll–I’ll be there.”

—————————

The roof was quiet except for the soft rustle of wind and the distant city stirring far below.

Bob stood near the ledge, forearms braced loosely against the cool concrete, the weight of his body leaned into it like he needed the grounding. His hair was still damp from a quick rinse, curls pushed back by a hand that kept running through them nervously. The sun hadn’t fully crested the skyline yet, but the horizon was blooming in soft bands of color–mauve to gold to the faintest hint of fire. The sky looked half-awake, as if the day hadn’t decided yet whether to stretch or sleep in.

Behind him, the rooftop door gave a soft clunk as it opened.

You stepped out into the cool air wearing a hoodie that hung a little too long at the sleeves and a pair of loose sweatpants rolled once at the waist. Your socked feet were shoved into slip-ons, and your hair–still damp from your shower was clipped back, the ends brushing against your collar.

You were a completely different version of the woman who had just launched a dummy across the mat, and somehow, to Bob, you were even more dangerous this way.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you. You weren’t trying to be quiet–you never did up here–but there was something about the way you moved that always gave him pause. Even when you weren’t fighting, even when you were soft and warm and dressed in clothes he’d seen you nap in, you moved like a threat. Like someone who could shatter him without ever raising a hand.

He turned when you stopped beside him.

You held out one of the two containers tucked under your arm–clear plastic, condensation fogging the inside, layers of oats, berries, protein powder, almond butter, and a mess of chia seeds and yogurt.

“Added extra almond butter for you,” You said casually, like you hadn’t just left him speechless fifteen minutes ago in the training bay, “I’ve seen you eating it by the spoonful.” Bob smirked, and took the bowl from you with a soft, stuttered thanks, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.

You leaned against the ledge beside him, shoulder nearly brushing his as you opened your own container and sat it down on the concrete ledge. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The wind tugged at the strings of your hoodie, and your eyes stayed on the skyline.

It had started as a fluke, months ago. You had finished training early, Bob had offered to bring you a smoothie he’d prepped the night before, and you both ended up watching the sun rise in silence, chewing half-thawed berries in tired satisfaction. But the ritual had stuck. And now…This was just what you did.

Watch the city wake up. Together. Every time you trained early.

Bob peeled the lid off his breakfast bowl and picked up the spoon you’d shoved into the side.

“Th-this is my favorite one,” He said softly, glancing sideways at you, attempting to break the silence. You didn’t look away from the skyline when you responded.

”I know…You’ve told me.” That made his cheeks pink again. But he didn’t look away this time.

You were quiet for a moment. Chewing. Thinking.

Then, just barely loud enough to hear:

”I got a…Curious question for you.” Bob gulped softly, the sound nearly lost to the wind curling off the rooftop. His spoon paused midair, a dollop of almond butter sliding off into the bowl. He glanced at you, cautious but attentive, like someone approaching a line they didn’t know they were ready to cross.

“A-Alright…” He said carefully, the word sticking to the back of his throat.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

Instead, you scooped a spoonful of frozen berries from your container, crunching down slowly as the chill settled into your jaw. Your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, almost like you were tasting your words before saying them out loud.

“If Sentry is in there…” You said around the fruit, eyes still on the horizon, “Why haven’t I met him?” Bob’s eyebrows rose, and he blinked at you like you’d reached across the space between your shoulders and tapped directly on his soul.

”I do-don’t know,” He replied quietly, “Why do you ask?” You finally looked at him.

Not with challenge, not with anything harsh–just honest curiosity, softened by morning light and the glint of something deeper.

“I kind of want to see him, that’s all,” You said with a shrug. “Sometimes I can feel that he’s there, behind your eyes…” You gestured loosely to the general space around his face, your hand lifting just enough to draw a vague halo around his features. “But I just haven’t seen him. And I’m curious. That’s all.” You looked down into your bowl for a second, then added, “Yelena mentioned he talks differently too, so I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Bob choked on a breath.

Not dramatically, not loud–but just enough for his shoulders to twitch and the tips of his ears to go scarlet.

“Y-Yeah, well…He–He kind of only comes out in ex-extreme cases…” Bob glanced away again, fidgeting with the edge of the plastic lid. “I’ve been able to get a little bit of co-control over him these past few months but…I-It’s not like switching a light on…Not yet at least.”

“Extreme cases?” You echoed, your tone gentle but laced with curiosity. You swirled your spoon around the half-melted oats in your bowl, watching the almond butter spiral through the yogurt like a lazy storm. “What do you mean by that?” Bob cleared his throat. He adjusted his stance slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I–uh–I-if anyone I care ab-about is in danger…” He explained, voice tight, eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of the roof. “Th-that typically triggers him.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

Anyone I care about.

The air seemed to pause for a moment. Not in a dramatic, thunderstruck way—but in that quiet, split-second beat where something subtle shifts. Where the wind changes direction.

“Really?” You said, just barely above a whisper. Bob nodded, slow and honest.

You bit your bottom lip.

Then you looked away–at the skyline, at the bowl in your hand–and cleared your throat softly. “Huh.”

Bob glanced over, unsure what that huh meant. He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could speak, you placed your container down on the ledge beside you with a faint plastic clack, and then–you pushed yourself up onto the ledge.

Bob froze.

His breath caught like you’d pulled a pin from a grenade.

You didn’t do anything wild–not yet–you just perched there, casual as ever, one leg dangling off the edge of the rooftop and the other folded beneath you. The city stretched wide below your feet, vast and golden and humming with distant morning traffic. But Bob only saw you.

And your eyes–when they turned to meet his–were gleaming with something dangerous.

Playful. Calculating.

“I wonder,” You said slowly, tilting your head, “How close to the edge I’d have to lean before he decided to show.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “Wh–what? N-no, no, don’t–don’t you dare–”

You grinned.

“You just said it yourself…Extreme cases of danger.” Bob stepped closer immediately, alarm blooming in his chest, his breakfast long forgotten.

“P-please get down. Th-that’s not funny.” But you just arched an eyebrow, the wind tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“I’m not gonna fall. I’ve done this a hundred times.” Bob’s pulse was a living thing in his throat.

He watched–helpless, breath caught, fingers twitching–as you stood.

One slow, deliberate motion. A shift in your hips, a plant of your foot. Then the other followed. Smooth. Balanced. Effortless.

You rose from the ledge like it was solid ground, and there wasn’t a ninety-story drop waiting just inches behind your heels. His entire body went tight.

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“P-Please,” Bob choked, one foot already shifting forward as if sheer will might anchor you back. “Please don’t–just–get down, okay? I–I’m serious–”

But you weren’t listening. Or maybe you were–and that was worse. Because your gaze was steady. Calm. Amused. The wind tugged strands of hair into your face, and you didn’t even blink.

“Bob…I used to be a gymnast. I’m fine.”

Your foot shifted ever so slightly on the ledge—only an inch, maybe less—but the wind caught just right, and your body flinched. Just a twitch. A minor, involuntary jerk of balance.

And that was all it took.

One blink.

And then–

He was there.

A rush of gold.

A flash of heat.

Your breath hadn’t even finished catching before arms like tempered steel wrapped around your middle, yanking you from the ledge so fast your feet barely had time to register air. The skyline spun, the wind cracked, and then–you were grounded again.

Back pressed to a broad, heaving chest. Hands banded across your ribcage, fingers splayed like molten iron beneath your hoodie. You burst into laughter–a sharp, bubbling giggle that sounded almost wrong in contrast to the divine tension crackling through the air now.

The grip on your waist didn’t ease.

It tightened.

And when you tilted your chin back to look behind you–just slightly, just enough–you saw them.

Gold….His eyes that burned like sunlight through glass, pupils sharp as stars. Sentry.

“Hi,” You said cheerfully, still grinning, breathless from your own stunt.

”No,” Sentry replied, voice rich and low, echoing like thunder rippling through marble, “No ‘hi’…You almost fell off the roof.” It wasn’t a reprimand exactly…But he took the kind of tone that was reserved for things that were precious, vulnerable, and untouchable. His voice vibrated against your spine like something too old and too vast to be fully human.

You glanced down at the way his arms were locked around you–solid and certain, pressed against the soft fabric of your hoodie, heat blooming where his skin met yours.

“I won’t climb back up…I just did that to bring you out, you can let go.” His grip didn’t ease right away. You could feel the tension humming in his limbs. Like holding you was the only thing anchoring the storm.

“Can’t believe you did this deliberately.” He stated, words molten. You smirked at his comment.

”I knew you cared about me.” You teased, then there was a beat of silence. Not empty, not cold–but charged. Like lightning was being held back by sheer force of will.

And then Sentry groaned softly, tipping his head forward, forehead nearly brushing your shoulder

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” He murmured, his breath warm against your neck. You swore you felt the heat of a small sun in that exhale.

“I think my plan worked perfectly actually,” You replied, twisting in his grip slowly until you were facing him. He let you go gradually–arms loosening, like letting go was something he didn’t quite want to do. You stood in front of him now, keeping your eyes locked on his.

“You’ve been watching me,” You added, softer now. “So I thought I’d introduce myself.”

Sentry stared at you, golden gaze intense, unreadable.

“And how do you know I’ve been watching you?” You shrugged.

”The room kind of gets super hot whenever I’m around you,” You trailed off, playfully, and then added, “And the boiled and semi-melted water bottle during my training this morning really confirmed my suspicions.” Sentry’s gaze lingered on you for a long moment–longer than most people could withstand without blinking, without looking away, without shrinking under the weight of something celestial sizing them up.

But you didn’t shrink.

You just stared right back, lit by the bleeding edge of sunrise, hoodie sleeves bunching slightly as your arms crossed beneath your chest

He inhaled deeply through his nose.

The kind of breath that stirred the wind around you. Like he was tasting the moment.

Then–

“Well…” He exhaled slowly, gold eyes narrowing faintly, heat rolling off his skin like he hadn’t quite put the sun back in its cage, “We like watching you train, so…” A slight smirk, nearly imperceptible, “Sue me for melting the water bottle.”

You laughed, head tilting, teeth catching your bottom lip for a second before you let it go. “Oh, you do?” You echoed, all exaggerated with mock surprise. “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

He said nothing.

So you stepped a bit closer, toe to toe now, looking at him, chasing eye contact.

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

The question hung in the air between you like a dare. A thread. A fuse.

Sentry’s jaw tensed.

Then slowly–very slowly–he bit the inside of his cheek and glanced away, gaze drifting out toward the edge of the city as though it might offer him a safer answer than the truth.

“Not that I know of.”

Smooth. Measured. Deceptively calm.

And a lie.

You could feel it ripple through him like static.

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the minute shift in his expression. The way his mouth twitched like there was something sitting right behind his teeth that he didn’t trust himself to say.

But he wouldn’t betray Bob. Not even a little. Not even now, not when his hands still remembered the shape of your waist and the weight of your pulse thudding wildly against his palms.

You let the silence stretch, the smirk pulling at your lips again.

“Liar,” You muttered, voice low. Not accusing. Not even disappointed. Just certain.

His eyes flicked back to yours–sharper now, searching.

And for one breathless second, you swore the skyline bent around the shape of his frame. Like the sun tilted its arc to catch the side of his face, painting him in a soft gleam of fire and gold.

“Maybe,” He murmured finally, voice like molten glass. “But I’m not the one you want to hear it from.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Not because you didn’t know what he meant.

But because you did.

And for once…You didn’t push.

Instead, you stepped back, just enough to give him space. Just enough to keep the tension intact.

————————

You stood at the center of the mat again, barefoot, hands wrapped, shoulder blades flexing beneath a sleeveless compression top. You were rolling your neck in lazy circles as you waited for your new sparring partners to get their shit together.

“Jesus, how many wraps does it take you to tie your boots, Walker?”

John scoffed without looking up, still crouched in the corner tightening the laces on his combat shoes. “Some of us don’t train barefoot like monks on a mountaintop.”

“That’s because you’d trip over your own ego,” You muttered under your breath.

“C’mon now,” Bucky called from across the mat, stretching his arms behind his back, black long-sleeve rolled to his elbows. “Play nice, kids. I’m not pulling any punches today.”

From his spot on the edge of the mat, Bob looked up quickly at that–eyes flicking between the three of you, concern flickering across his face like a warning light. He was already perched where he’d always sat during your solo drills, long legs folded under him, with your water bottle in hand–now reusable and stainless steel–watching quietly like you were the only thing in the world that moved in color.

Walker clocked it immediately.

His head turned toward Bob with a crooked grin, already half-laced boots squeaking faintly as he stood. “Does he always sit there like that?” He asked, nodding toward Bob. “Watching you like it’s a one-woman stage play?”

You didn’t even blink.

“He always does,” you replied smoothly, turning your wrist in a light circle to loosen your shoulder. “Is this a new thing you’re just realizing?”

Bob flushed–brilliant red blooming beneath the collar of his navy crew neck–but said nothing, just curled his fingers more tightly around the water bottle.

Walker smirked. “What–you need an emotional support human to pummel some dummies?”

You turned toward him fully then, one brow raised, lips already twitching. “I’m glad you’re calling yourself a dummy so I don’t have to.” Bucky let out a laugh from his spot near the wall, shaking his head.

“Alright, alright–enough with the bickering. Let’s go for another round, huh?” He rolled his shoulder and stepped toward you, that slow, loose gait of someone who’d seen more fights than birthdays. You nodded once, tightening the wraps on your wrists.

“Let’s.” You muttered.

Bob settled deeper into his spot at the edge of the mat, posture stiff but eyes locked on you. Sentry stirred beneath his skin again–he could feel it like pressure in his spine, heat behind his ribs. Watching you get ready, watching you glow with motion and discipline, was like watching a match hovering over gasoline.

And then you moved.

You and Bucky danced the way soldiers did–tight and calculated, strike and recover, quick feints that turned into fast contact. He wasn’t going easy on you, and you wouldn’t have let him if he tried. Walker hung back at first, arms crossed, smirking, tossing in the occasional jibe about your stance or form.

Until you spun low and landed a solid elbow to Bucky’s ribs. He let out a grunt, rubbing the area with the flat of his hand.

“Had my guard down,” he muttered, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

You cocked your head. “You always do.”

Walker snorted. “Alright, let me get in on this now.”

You cleared your throat, barely disguising your amusement. “Don’t be shocked when you get humiliated.”

“Big words for someone who’s at a one man disadvantage.” He said, cracking his neck as he stepped forward onto the mat.

You rolled your shoulders. “Yeah? Let’s see what you’ll be saying when you’re on your ass.” From the sidelines, Bob’s grip on the water bottle tightened.

It started slow–Walker lunged, you ducked, Bucky feinted–and then all at once, it shifted.

The three of you moved like an orbit, tight and reactive. A storm of limbs and instinct.

Walker threw strength. Bucky threw precision. You threw heat.

And Bob? He watched like he was studying scripture.

Your body was in constant motion–every movement timed perfectly, every dodge low and tight, using Bucky’s stance to redirect Walker’s force, using Walker’s height against him to launch yourself higher. You pivoted with a fluid snap, stepping off Bucky’s knee to catch Walker’s shoulder with your heel, spinning out of reach before either of them could tag you.

You were alive in a way that made the room bend around you.

Bob had stopped blinking. His heart beat like a war drum behind his ribs, the kind of rhythm that only came when Sentry hovered near the surface, watching through his eyes like a god hungry for movement.

You slid under a punch, twisted Walker’s momentum to force a stumble, and kicked Bucky’s thigh hard enough to send him back a pace. The two men glanced at each other then—silent communication—and came at you together.

You grinned like you were being handed a gift.

Your foot landed on Bucky’s shoulder and you pushed off, flipping neatly in the air, body tightening mid-rotation. Your leg caught Walker’s bicep and you twisted, but his center of gravity adjusted quick–too quick–and suddenly–

Your body slammed into the mat.

Hard.

The noise cracked through the air.

Bob surged to his feet.

You wheezed–chest collapsing, eyes wide, lips parted but no air catching–and for one sickening second, you didn’t move.

And that was all it took.

The heat slammed into the room like a detonated sun.

Sentry burst through Bob like goldfire ripping seams in his skin. One moment it was Bob’s widened eyes and open mouth–

And the next?

The mat shook under the force of Sentry’s arrival.

He was halfway across the floor before anyone could react, a golden blur slicing through the fluorescent haze. The floor steamed faintly beneath his bare feet. His fists were already clenched, molten lines of fury pulsing under his skin like veins lit with solar flares.

He didn’t think. He moved.

Straight toward Walker.

“Hey!” Walker shouted, palms already lifted as he stumbled back a step. “Jesus Christ–It’s not like I meant to do it!”

Sentry was drowned in the roar of protection and wrath, his eyes wild, glowing like twin cores of a star gone supernova. His mouth opened, teeth bared like something celestial barely contained in a human shape.

“You hurt her.” The voice wasn’t loud–it was deep. Like stone cracking under pressure. Like a threat too old to need volume.

Bucky stepped in without hesitation.

“Whoa–hey! Hey, easy! Stand down!” His voice was sharp but not panicked, hands up in a calm brace, body angled between Walker and the god.

Sentry didn’t listen.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just stood there, vibrating with heat, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Walker like he was calculating exactly how many bones to break.

On the floor behind them, you coughed–one harsh, painful breath, then another. You rolled onto your side slowly, eyes blinking hard against the light, one hand braced on the mat as you forced yourself upright.

“Sentry–” You wheezed, chest still hitching, still attempting to catch your breath.

His head snapped toward you. Immediately.

“I’m fine.” You said, firmer this time. You winced as you sat up straighter, hand pressed against your ribs. “Don’t…Don’t worry. I’ve had worse happen. Calm down.” Sentry’s eyes flicked from you…To Walker…Then back to you.

His chest rose and fell once. Sharp. Controlled.

And then–like a pressure valve easing open–he exhaled. The heat softened just enough that Bucky didn’t feel like he was standing in front of a furnace. His fists slowly loosened at his sides, muscles still taut, but held.

Sentry turned fully toward you, and for the first time since appearing, his voice shifted–just barely.

Lower. Softer. Still fire-wrapped, but laced with something else.

“He slammed you.”

You gave a weak smile through your breath, “We’re…We’re sparring, accidents happen, you don’t have to…Scare the crap out of Walker.” Sentry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

“Yeah, no need to scare the crap outta me,” Walker echoed, huffing a laugh like he was trying to keep things casual even though his heartbeat was still visibly pounding in his neck. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking between the three of you. “And also–when the fuck did Sentry suddenly come back?” He asked, motioning to him.

“He’s been coming back for a while.” You blinked at Walker, still cradling your ribs lightly, and shrugged.

“You’re the one that triggered him by hurting me, moron.” Walker’s mouth opened in disbelief.

“Me?!”

“You slammed me,” You clarified, not unkindly, but with a smirk twitching at the edge of your lips. “Like…full-body slammed me.”

“You jumped on me!”

“You adjusted your center too fast–”

“Guys,” Bucky said mildly, hands raised, “No more arguing please.” Walker, still shaken, jabbed a finger toward Sentry, who was still standing like a stone beside you, radiating enough heat to keep the entire bay at a slow simmer. His golden gaze hadn’t left you once.

“I’m just saying,” Walker said, eyes narrowed, “You make it sound like we should’ve known. Like this was a thing. I’m still caught up in the fact that we haven’t seen him appear in almost a year, and now suddenly he’s back up and running—no warning, no update, just–” He gestured to Sentry’s still-glowing hands. “–bam, golden demigod about to fry my ass.”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky said, his voice quiet, but laced with warning.

Walker rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m saying it’s insane.”

You leaned your head back, letting out a slow breath. Sentry’s hand moved–just barely–hovering again near your spine like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to touch you. You shifted to sit up straighter, letting your shoulder brush his forearm gently.

“It’s not like Bob can snap his fingers and summon him,” You said, keeping your tone level. “Sentry shows up when he wants to. Or when Bob needs him.”

“Which is usually when someone’s in danger,” Bucky added, folding his arms and glancing at Walker meaningfully. “Someone Bob—or Sentry—cares about.”

Walker stared at that. Then looked at you. Then back at Sentry.

The dots were not subtle.

Sentry still hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. His silence was heavy. Watchful. The sun pressed into a man’s body.

You reached out and gave his wrist a light touch, enough to feel the heat still thrumming beneath his skin. “It’s alright,” you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. “I can breathe now.”

Sentry blinked slowly. Then–almost imperceptibly–nodded.

The heat around him dropped by a few degrees.

Not gone.

Just…Tempered.

Walker, still trying to reconcile what had just happened, ran a hand over his face. “Look, I didn’t mean to–if I’d known he was even still awake in there, I wouldn’t’ve–”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” You interrupted, waving him off, wincing a little at the motion. “You’re just an idiot. But that’s not new.”

That earned the tiniest snort from Bucky.

Sentry, finally, tilted his head just slightly. “You’re in pain.”

You turned to look at him.

The golden light in his eyes had softened–just a touch. It was still otherworldly. Still ancient. But there was concern there. Sharp and clear.

“I’m sore,” You corrected. “Not dying.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Come on,” Bucky said, stepping forward, placing a steady hand on Walker’s shoulder as he glanced between the rest of you. “Training’s over. Let’s all cool off before someone actually does get launched through a wall.”

Walker muttered something under his breath and turned toward the exit.

Bucky lingered a moment longer, looking at you. “You alright?”

You nodded. “Just bruised, but I should be fine.” Bucky’s gaze slid over to Sentry.

”Should I be worried he’s gonna explode if you ever truly get hurt?” You smirked faintly.

”Let’s hope we never have to find out the answer to that question…”

[bloodandiron-if]

DEMO (TBA) | FORUM (TBA) | CHARACTER INTROS (WIP)

BLOOD AND IRON is a compelling and mature action IF made for an adult audience. This story includes content that some may find disturbing, such as explicit language, mentions of child trafficking, child abuse, sexism, psychological stress, homophobia, intense violence, death, gore, and much more.

Inspired by Batman, John Wick, Ninja Assassin, The Punisher, and The Equalizer.

ABBREVIATION: B&I

- - -

Chicago, 1994.

Chicago bleeds quietly these days. Not in the headlines, but in basements, behind unmarked doors, in the flicker of broken streetlamps, no proper badge patrols.

The world didn’t ask if you were ready. It just kept turning and grinding down the soft parts until only the sharp edges remained.

Raised in a hidden facility outside Chicago, you were one of many children. An experiment in obedience, efficiency, and silence. They didn’t call it a home. They called it a program. And you survived it.

Barely.

They stripped your name. Trained your body. Broke your will, up until they didn’t.

You escaped.

The world didn’t know what to do with you.

But he did—the man who saved you, giving you a name, cover, and a second chance dressed up as a normal life.

By day, you blend seamlessly into the crowd, adopting a new name and working a steady job making pizzas. To the citizens of South Chicago, you’re just another face on the street.

But by night, you take on a different role—one that cleans up the shadows left by a broken system: dismantling organ trafficking rings, confronting human traffickers, and bringing to justice those killers shielded by power or wealth.

But this isn’t just an act of heroism on your part.

It’s personal.

You’re digging through the filth of this city, tearing up every buried secret, because somewhere beneath it all lies the truth.

The Facility.

And the man who ran it.

Whitaker.

He’s not on any official record—and the place that you escaped from doesn’t exist on paper.

But you remember the rooms. The drills. The screaming. The numbers burned into your skin like a barcode.

Every body you drop might be connected. Every whisper might lead back to him.

You’re not a hero.

You’re a survivor searching for the ghost of the man who made you—and the trail of blood he left behind.

The closer you get, the more unstable everything becomes—your past, your purpose, his goal.

You can follow orders. Break free. Burn it all down. But one question echoes through every silence:

Who will you become when you finally reach the end?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary.

Define who you are beyond the number—whether you seek connection, crave freedom, or prefer to walk alone.

Be straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, aromantic, or asexual.

Establish your cover identity—first and last name. C-4 doesn’t exist outside the wire.

Explore Chicago in the 90s.

Experience flashbacks of your harrowing and unforgiving childhood at the facility.

Define your body and presence with scars, tattoos and more, including flavour stats that affect immersion and narrative tone.

Choose out of four languages your MC can speak and understand.

Choose your ride, customize it, and leave your mark in burnt rubber and broken taillights. Whether it’s a snarling muscle car, a rumbling motorcycle, a rugged Jeep, or a heavy-duty pickup, you’ll be behind the wheel.

Experience a world where the way you choose your character's appearance influences how others perceive and interact with you. (Intimidation Meter)

Choose your physical appearance, build and height—whether towering and lithe, or compact and deadly.

Meet six ROs, each with their own storylines, layered personalities, and emotional arcs that evolve with your choices. It’s up to you to decide how the story unfolds: as allies, enemies, or even the possibility of something more.

Get ready for action. This story pulls no punches—literally. You’ll be thrown headfirst into brutal gunfights, savage fistfights, high-speed car chases, and close-quarters takedowns.

Define your personality through detailed flavour choices: are you brutal or merciful, stoic or emotional, cautious or impulsive, friendly or rude?

Navigate the grim underworld of adulthood: surveillance, corruption, organized crime, and the scars of memory.

Shape your legacy in a world that tried to erase your humanity. It's all down to you C-4.

OPERATIVE D-6 (RO)

Age: 24 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Korean-American Vibe: Ghost of the past. Loyalty carved from trauma. Quiet intensity.

The Operative — the life you left behind, still trying to follow you home.

D-6 is a shadow stitched to your childhood, moving with a precision that speaks louder than words ever could. They don’t flinch, don’t blink, and rarely break eye contact—yet there’s no threat in it. Just memory. Just calculation. The facility shaped them like it shaped you, but where you ran, they stayed. Hardened. Refined. Perfected into something cold and frighteningly still.

They barely speak, but understand everything. Loyal not by choice, but by conditioning—yet something in their gaze suggests the cracks are forming.

Whether D-6 is here to kill you, bring you back or break away with you… even they haven’t decided. But they’ve always been watching. And they never forget.

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES (RO)

Age: 33 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Puerto Rican-American Vibe: Gravely moral. Sharp-jawed justice. Righteous conflict.

The Detective — your ideological foil, and mirror of what you could have been with a badge instead of a body count.

Detective Juno Reyes is the type of person to walk like they carry the whole city on their shoulders, and honestly, maybe they do. Every crime scene clings to their coat, every unsolved case etched into the set of their jaw. They believe in justice, not the easy kind, but the kind that scrapes its knuckles bloody. The kind that keeps them up at night because they still think it matters.

Juno doesn’t trust you. Maybe they never will. But they understand you in the way only someone on the other side of the line can.

Where you cut through the rot with a blade, they try to dig it out with a badge. Righteous, relentless, and furious with the system that fails people like you, and maybe even with themselves for not walking away from it.

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO (RO)

Age: 22 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Italian-American Vibe: Snark-as-armour. Trash-mouth tendencies. Hot grease and soft heart.

The Co-worker — the one who has their worst days, yet still shows up.

Russo talks like the world owes them a fistfight and a cigarette break. All bite, all bark, and just enough burn to keep people at arm’s length. They’ve got grease on their apron, a permanent chip on their shoulder, and a mouth that never learned the word “filter.” You’re not sure they even like the job, but they’re here, day after day, late at times, but constantly grinding out those shifts like it's a special part of their routine.

They’re also halfway through a criminal justice degree at a city college they never talk about unless they’re arguing with the news playing in the background. Claims it’s all bullshit—cops, lawyers, the system. But you’ve caught Russo studying case law in the backroom between deliveries. Says it’s for the credits, but the way their jaw tightens during certain stories on the news? It’s more than that.

They're not just pissed off. They’re paying attention.

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES (RO)

Age: 27 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Half White, Half Mexican-American Vibe: Fragrance, coded language, and too many knives hidden in tailored jackets

The Interloper — the one who wasn’t supposed to be on your radar—but is.

Myles moves through rooms like a whispered secret and the scent of money—sharp, intentional, impossible to ignore. Head high, steps measured, eyes always calculating. They speak in layers, smile in puzzles, and dress like they’re late for a gala or an ambush, maybe both. Everything about them feels curated, controlled… until it isn’t.

You don’t know what they want, not really.

One minute it’s intel, the next it’s something softer, more dangerous.

Myles wasn't part of your mission. Not part of your world. But now they’re in it, circling closer, asking questions with too much knowledge behind the eyes. You're not sure if they’re here to ruin you, or to remind you there’s still something left worth ruining.

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE (RO)

Age: 25 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Scandanavian-American Vibe: Softness meets suspicion. The light in the hallway. The warmth in the cold

The Neighbor — the one who sees past the walls and doesn’t look away.

Monroe lives two doors down and leaves their window open when it rains. They laugh too loudly at sitcom reruns, forget to water their plants, and hum under their breath while waiting for the kettle to boil. On the surface: harmless. Gentle. The kind of softness you’d expect to break easy.

But there’s something behind the smile—something watchful—subtly. Thoughtfully. The way someone does when they’re used to reading what isn’t said.

Monroe doesn't pry. They just linger. Just look a little too long sometimes, like they’re trying to put a puzzle together without knowing what the picture will exactly be.

And worse, they still smile at you anyway.

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER (RO)

Age: 29 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: African-American Vibe: Revolutionary soul. Firebrand idealism. Beautiful, dangerous hope.

The Crusader — the one who wants to save the world, even if it means breaking it.

Carter speaks like every word could spark a revolution, and maybe it could, if they weren’t already carrying the weight of too many failed ones. There’s something magnetic in the way they move through a room, controlled chaos, dressed in confidence and defiance. Their voice carries conviction like heat, and they never seem to doubt it. Not publicly, at least.

They believe in something bigger. In justice. In tearing down the structures that rot people from the inside out. It’s not naive, what they preach, it’s dangerous. The kind of hope that gets people killed. The kind that inspires others to follow anyway.

Carter sees what’s broken and doesn't look away. They demand change, even if it has to be carved from ruin. That makes them dangerous. That makes them rare.

And when they look at you, it’s like they see the potential for something more, something bigger than just blood and vengeance. But whether that makes you want to run toward them or burn everything down before they get too close… that’s up to you.

- - -

ELIJAH CREED

Age: 44 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Irish-American Vibe: Cigars, classical music, hollow warmth. That voice that makes monsters feel like myths.

The Father — the one who gave you a name, a roof, and a purpose.

Elijah Creed moves through the world like a man carrying both a lifetime of regrets and the weight of unshakable resolve. There’s a quiet authority in his voice, calm, deliberate, the kind that can soothe storms or summon lightning. His days are marked by the scent of cigars and the soft notes of classical music drifting through the rooms of the house you guys used to share.

He’s not just a guardian, he’s the father you never truly had, the one who took you in when the world wanted to erase you. Behind that steady warmth lies a steel core, forged by loss and haunted by the past. Elijah gave you a name, a place to belong, and a reason to fight, but never illusions that the world outside is anything less than brutal.

He is both shelter and shadow, a man who knows the cost of survival—and who will make sure you never pay it alone.

- - -

MS. CLAUDIA BELLAMY

Age: 49 Gender: Female Nationality/Ethnicity: American (Afro-Puerto Rican) Vibe: Gold hoops, chipped nail polish, a cigarette always halfway gone. Keeps a revolver in her sewing kit and a bottle of gin under the sink.

The Landlady — the building’s backbone, eyes, and occasional judge, jury, and babysitter.

Ms. Bellamy has lived in the building longer than the cockroaches, and even they know better than to cross her. Her voice rarely rises, but when it does, even the radiators stop rattling. Always in gold hoops and a housecoat with yesterday’s cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray, she moves like someone who’s already seen the worst and didn’t flinch.

She doesn’t run the building. She rules it, half landlady, half neighbourhood matriarch. Rent better be on time, the hallways better stay quiet, and no one better mess with the kid on the second floor unless they want a lecture followed by a left hook.

She calls your new name like it’s your real one, sees through lies like smoke through sunlight, and keeps a .38 tucked behind the cans of beans in her pantry. Whatever history she has, it walks with her, but she’ll never speak of it unless the city starts burning again. And even then, only maybe.

- - -

SALVATORE “SAL” RUSSO

Age: 47 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Italian-American Vibe: Loud shirt, louder laugh. The kind of man who sings to the tomato sauce and cries at baseball games.

The Pizza King — a local legend with marinara in his veins and a heart too big for this city.

Salvatore Russo isn’t just the owner of the pizza shop—he is the pizza shop. Grease-stained apron, gold chain bouncing with every belly laugh, and a voice that could carry through a riot. He talks with his hands, loves like he’s got something to prove, and swears every pie has a soul.

To the neighborhood, he’s an uncle. To his niece/nephew, he’s a safety net and a headache. And to you? He’s the rare kind of man who doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want the answers to, so long as you show up, work hard, and don’t scare the regulars.

Somehow, Sal always knows when to push, and when to just slide you a slice and say nothing at all, but could all the smile and laughter be hiding a deeper truth than what's shown on the surface?

- - -

WHEELS

Age: 36 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Polish-American Vibe: Motor oil and Marlboro smoke. Burnt fingers. Mismatched socks stuffed into combat boots. A man who can hotwire your car with a bottle cap and grudge.

The Arms Dealer — your supplier and the only man in Chicago who listens to Public Enemy while cleaning an M4.

Wheels moves through the city like a ghost with a purpose—fast, sharp, and unpredictable. He’s not just an arms dealer; he’s a craftsman, a collector of weapons with stories carved into their blades. Among his prized possessions are three custom knives, each named after people who shaped his life, two exes who taught him lessons in pain and betrayal, and one for his mother, the only person he never wanted to disappoint.

His sharp gaze misses nothing, always sizing up threats and opportunities with cold precision. Reliable when it counts, Wheels plays the game on his own terms, offering more than just firepower, he’s a lifeline in a city drowning in chaos, but one that carries a warning: trust him carefully, or not at all.

- - -

DR. SILAS CROSS

Age: 55 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Lebanese-American Vibe: Tailored suits under his lab coat. Surgical gloves and bourbon. The hum of high-end equipment beneath the jazz playing low through recessed speakers.

The Surgeon — not your friend, not your enemy, just the man who keeps you stitched together.

Dr. Cross is not the kind of man you thank.

You show up bleeding, broken, maybe dying, and he fixes you anyway. No questions. No judgment. Just the quiet clink of surgical tools and the faint smell of antiseptic layered beneath expensive cologne. His clinic hides behind the façade of a luxury med spa, but the back rooms tell a different story. Marble floors, climate control, and machines that hum like symphonies, because pain, here, is handled with elegance.

He wears tailored suits under his lab coat, pours bourbon like it’s medicine, and plays Coltrane through speakers you’ll never find. Every stitch comes with an unspoken rule: you don’t ask about him, and he doesn’t ask about you. His price is steep, but he’s the reason a dozen corpses aren’t yours.

He’s not your friend. Not your savior. He’s the man who puts you back together because it’s the only thing he still knows how to do.

- - -

REESE

Age: 12 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: African-American Vibe: Scuffed sneakers. Sharp eyes. A heart still intact—but only barely.

The Kid — street-smart pickpocket and your stubborn follower.

Reese has a grin too big for someone who’s had to survive this much.

He moves like he owns the sidewalk, dodging adults, snatching wallets, slipping through crowds like smoke. Every scrape on his knees and tear in his hoodie tells a story, and most of them end with him outrunning someone bigger. Or meaner. Or both. But behind all the swagger and mouthiness, there’s a kid who still believes in something. Maybe not people. But moments. Mercy. Second chances.

Reese follows you like a stray cat that decided you were home. Doesn’t care how cold you get, how many times you warn him off. You’re a ghost in a city full of monsters, and somehow, he’s decided you’re one of the better ones. Maybe the only one.

He’s not smart enough to know who you truly are.

But is young enough to believe that there’s still more to you than what meets the eye.

TBA.

[lazysublimeengineer]

Everybody was fucking salty that Nanase made it and not Nagi.

Like some of you delusional fans get a grip.

Okay we get it. Nagi is a genius. But aside from that "miracle goal" he made during the match against BM? What did he do after the three consecutive matches?

Nothing.

That's right.

Nothing.

This is not a slander against Nagi but these are the facts.

He was not motivated, lost and don't know his ego yet in this arc. This is part of the character development that is still ongoing. Nagi not being a part of the top 23 does not mean it's over for him. The author has plans for him in the future. But this is just one of the consequences of him losing his motivations altogether when he beat Isagi back then.

Stop slandering Nanase because he deserves that top 23 spot.

He worked hard for it.

He swallowed his pride and begged Rin to train him.

During the match against BM, he's the MOST PROACTIVE, PRODUCTIVE AND USEFUL IN PXG. Nanase has the right mindset and motivation to survive.

That's how Isagi started in the First Selection.

It's not how skilled, talented or a genius you are - though it's a contributing factor.

It's about having that survival instincts, motivation and being egoistic that gets you far in the program.

[bruciemilf]

AU where everything is the same except All Might is a villain would be incredibly entertaining if you consider nothing would change about Izuku’s heart deep admiration.

Mind you, it’s not a case of delusion. Just a classic example of how bad the Midoriya obliviousness can get.

He fully believes All Might is a hero misinterpreted by the media. No, your honor, that city and that dead villain were like that when he got there.

Bakugou pinches his cheeks and he’s shaking like a tiny, angry dog. “I’m this fucking close. THAT MOTHERFUCKER PUT 20 HEROES IN THE HOSPITAL!”

“If bad! Why give me autograph?!”

“I’m blowing us both up I swear to god.”

To be fair, All Might (All Smite?) does evacuate every area before a battle, is nice to retail workers, and refuses to fight LITERAL TEENAGERS. Homelander could never.

“Alright, young Midoriya, after a 6 months of grueling and slightly unsafe training, you’re finally ready. You’re prepared to be the number one villain!”

“…VILLAIN?!” Izuku screeches, expression sinking with dread, “You were training me to be a villain?!”

Toshinori wants to rip his hair out. “What did you think I was training you for, you half boiled broccoli?!”

“To be a hero like you!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Izuku, with the biggest, saddest, wettest eyes in the world looks up to Toshi, and Jesus, he understands Nana. “But I love you. You can’t be bad.”

“…Of course I’m not bad. This was just another mere test, my boy! And you passed, as expected.“

He’s gonna suffer through the villain redemption program if it means Izuku keeps smiling like that.

“Alright, fuckmuppets, let’s get this over with.”

Mic is enraged, “YOU PUT MY HUSBAND IN THE HOSPITAL?”

“Womp womp. Do you prefer morgue?”

Bakugou almost rips off the door to the teacher’s office, “YOU MADE MY BOYFRIEND EAT YOUR HAIR?”

God, He hates redemption arcs.

[its-me-levi]

Yandere Batfam x Theatre Kid Sibling!Reader

Masterlist

Bruce Wayne (Batman):

• Sees {Name} as his second chance at parenthood—he will not fail them like he believes he’s failed his other children.

• Immediately bought out the school theatre department’s funding just so they had the best costumes, sets, and lighting for Treasure Island.

• Had a full replica 18th-century costume made for {Name} to rehearse in at home.

• Often silently watches {Name} rehearse their lines from a dark corner of the room, just nodding approvingly.

• Doesn’t allow {Name} to go on patrol, no matter how much training they’ve had or how much they want to. “You’re not like the others,” he says. “You’re… precious.”

• Hires private tutors for them, and none of those tutors are ever allowed to be under 50 or remotely attractive.

• Calls Lucius to “update” {Name}’s bedroom with the latest tech every other week—just to see them smile.

⸻

Dick Grayson (Nightwing):

• The clingy older brother who’s constantly draping himself over {Name} and calling them “my baby sib.”

• Sends dozens of texts every day. Mostly selfies with captions like, “Miss you :/” even if they’re in the next room.

• Takes them to Blüdhaven sometimes just so they can “spend more quality time without the others hogging” them.

• Offers to run lines for the play, but keeps getting distracted by how “adorable” {Name} looks when they’re focused.

• Buys snacks, plushies, and theatre books they mentioned even once. His Amazon account is full of gifts for them.

• Cries dramatically whenever they get slightly hurt—“How dare the world bruise our little treasure?!”

⸻

Jason Todd (Red Hood):

• Violently overprotective. Growls when strangers talk to {Name}.

• Keeps a list of everyone who’s ever made {Name} uncomfortable—including a teacher who said they “overacted” once.

• Bribes {Name} to hang out with him with things like motorcycle rides, rare books, or letting them shoot at his private range.

• Secretly watched five different versions of Treasure Island just so he could understand {Name}’s character better.

• Refuses to watch them on opening night with the rest of the family. Hides in the catwalk rafters instead, fully armed.

• Is constantly muttering things like “I’ll bury the world for you, {Name}” into their hair when they hug.

⸻

Tim Drake (Red Robin):

• Knows everything. Where {Name} is. Who they’re texting. What mood they’re in based on their typing speed.

• Pretends to give them space but monitors their devices via spyware.

• Programs reminders for {Name} to eat, rest, and hydrate during rehearsal season—and texts them every 5 minutes until they do.

• Gave the director of Treasure Island a fake resume just so he could be hired as an assistant stage manager and keep an eye on everything.

• Always offers to “help run lines,” then ends up falling asleep on their lap because he’s been up for 72 hours researching their character arc.

• Keeps writing an essay called “Why {Name} Is the Best Part of This Family (And Should Never Leave Us)”

⸻

Damian Wayne (Robin):

• Calls {Name} “Beloved sibling” with dramatic affection, like he’s in a Shakespearean tragedy.

• Has drawn multiple detailed pencil sketches of them in Squire Trelawney costume, often with himself as Jim Hawkins at their side.

• Hates everyone at {Name}’s school. Like. Everyone.

• Sends threatening letters (in calligraphy) to any classmates who insult or even outshine {Name} during rehearsals.

• Offers to train them in swordplay to “add realism” to their stage presence—but only so he can correct them and touch their hands.

• If {Name} mentions missing their old lifestyle, he’ll burn Wayne money just to impress them with how unnecessary it is.

⸻

Stephanie Brown (Spoiler):

• Gives “chaotic best friend/sister energy” but is actually tracking every person who gets close to {Name}.

• Sneaks into their room for late-night gossip and cuddles. Brings ice cream and blankets and demands movie marathons.

• Helped sew their Squire Trelawney costume and added extra flair “so you outshine those losers.”

• Pretends to be the fun one, but once tackled someone backstage for getting too flirty with {Name}.

• Keeps trying to get {Name} to do viral TikTok dances in costume. (“Do it for the aesthetic, babes!”)

• Threatens to marry them to keep them in the family, but plays it off as a joke. (It’s not.)

⸻

Cassandra Cain (Orphan):

• Doesn’t speak much, but her presence is always there. Watching. Protecting.

• Hugs {Name} from behind and gently sways with them whenever they’re stressed. It’s become their unspoken calming ritual.

• Rehearses movement blocking with them silently—her movements are so graceful, it elevates {Name}’s own performance.

• Threatened the student playing Long John Silver because his posture was “too aggressive” during a scene with {Name}.

• Always notices when {Name} is uncomfortable. Always acts on it. Silently.

• Carved a small wooden figurine of {Name} in full costume. Keeps it on her nightstand.

⸻

Barbara Gordon (Oracle):

• Has hacked into the school security system and watches the entire play from her command center in the Clocktower.

• Edits rehearsal footage and sends it to {Name} with notes. (“You were brilliant here—but what if you projected more in Act II?”)

• Will not let {Name} walk home, even in broad daylight. Someone in the family must pick them up.

• Personally blacklists any theatre reviewers who give {Name} less than glowing praise.

• Sends them personalized playlists for each scene of the play. Tracks their Spotify activity to see what mood they’re in.

• Has developed a program that monitors {Name}’s physical and mental well-being during high-stress weeks.

⸻

Duke Thomas (The Signal):

• The only one who acts normal around {Name}, but he’s just as obsessed under the surface.

• Always takes the best photos of them—on stage, off stage, laughing, rehearsing—and keeps them in a private album titled: “Sunlight.”

• Offers to help them with blocking and lighting cues; he’s lowkey the best tech assistant the theatre department’s ever seen.

• Made a Spotify playlist of mood music that aligns with {Name}’s character arc in Treasure Island.

• Wears merch from their show everywhere. Has five different versions of the Squire Trelawney pin.

• Sometimes jokes, “You should be the main character in everything, {Name}. The world doesn’t shine as bright when you’re not center stage.”

⸻

Alfred Pennyworth (Agent A):

• The most subtle but most powerful protector.

• Makes them herbal tea to soothe their throat after rehearsals and keeps a pot warm every night during production week.

• Custom-made {Name} a monogrammed robe for backstage use with “Squire Trelawney” stitched into the lining.

• Offers gentle but cutting critique after watching rehearsals. Always correct. Always kind.

• Keeps the other Batfam members mostly in check. Mostly.

• Tells {Name} stories of the old theatre legends from his youth, teaching them elegance, stage presence, and gravitas.

• “You are the heart of this family, Master/Mistress/Mx. {Name}. And hearts must be protected at all costs.”

⸻

At opening night of Treasure Island, {Name} is flooded with flowers, fan-made banners (from the family), a front row entirely reserved by the Waynes, and two different standing ovations—one after every act.

Backstage, someone tries to ask {Name} to hang out post-show.

Ten pairs of eyes flash dangerously from behind the curtain.

“They’re taken,” Jason growls.

And in perfect harmony, the rest chime in:

“Ours.”

Taglist:

@p1nkh3artz @lilyalone

[cc1010fox]

Fox, whispering: Wolffe...Wolffe... Wolffe, waking up slowly from a deep sleep: Wh--Huh? Fox? What's wrong? Fox: Help... Wolffe, sitting up worriedly: Help? With what? Are you hurt? Fox: No...I--... Wolffe: Fox, you can tell me anything. If you need my help, I'll help you, vod... Fox: There's something near my bed...I need you to kill it... Wolffe, realizing what it is: Don't worry. Wolffe the Spider Slayer is on it. You just wait here in my bunk until I tell you it's safe, ok? Fox, hugging him: ...Thank you so much...for not laughing at me. Wolffe, hugging back: I would never laugh at a vod asking for help. Cody, sleepily: Wolffe? Why are you awake? Fox? You're shaking! What's wrong? Wolffe: It's nothing. Go back to sleep. Cody: No way! Fox is shaking! Whatever is wrong, I want to help! Rex, hopping off his bunk: Fox needs help? Wolffe: No. You go back to sleep too. Bly: Did someone hurt Fox? Wolffe, letting out a frustrated sigh: You're going to wake up the whole room. Gree: Did I just hear that someone hurt Fox? Fox, whining: I'm fine! It's just...a...spider... Cody: ...Well, what are we waiting for? Let's squash that eight-legged intruder. Rex: I'll get Alpha-17 to let us into the armory. A blaster is more effective than a boot. Bly: I'll guard Fox. It'll have to go through me to get to him. Gree: It'll have to fight me first. Fox, touched: Guys... Thire: You're all di'kute. It was just a spider. I stepped on it, so go to sleep. Fox: ...

[cece693]

Just an idea that suddenly came to mind. What if you (the reader) have to fight Bucky during his winter soldier programming? What if something similar occurs to you guys as it did with Vision and Wanda? I plan for this to be divided into two parts since I don't have an ending in mind and this post isn't doing it for me. Hope you enjoy!

I Forgive You

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader tags: bucky can't catch a break, you are strong (power and skill wise), takes place during infinity war, open ended

You perch on the edge of the facility’s rooftop, the evening breeze ruffling through your hair as you stare off into the distance. The compound below you hums with activity—footsteps, clanging metal, distant voices—evidence of the Avengers preparing for the battles to come. You’re one of them now, and not just any member: you’re often dubbed the “strongest Avenger.” Some might say that’s an exaggeration, but you know what you’re capable of. You’ve trained in every form of combat you could get your hands on—hand-to-hand, swords, firearms. And to cap it all off, you possess powers that make you a formidable force, even among Earth’s mightiest heroes.

Still, when you’re alone, your thoughts drift to him. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes—your friend, your partner, the man you fell in love with. You think back to those frantic days when you found yourself on opposite sides in the battle between Tony and Steve. You were forging your own path, torn by loyalty and your own moral compass. Bucky was caught in the crossfire of past sins and present accusations. Through the chaos, you discovered each other and headed to Wakanda for Bucky to finally heal and escape the ghosts of his past. But things never were that easy.

The last 'normal' day you had with him you'll treasure for eternity. Bright golden rays washed over the Wakandan horizon the morning Shuri completed Bucky’s deprogramming. The moment felt surreal, the two of you standing among those tall grasses and budding flowers, watching the sun’s first light spread across the sky. Bucky’s hand tentatively found yours, his metal fingers brushing your palm. Despite all the horrors you’d both seen, despite the fracture lines left in his mind, he looked at you like you were his anchor to a life without darkness.

“You okay?” you asked him quietly, lacing your fingers with his.

He gave you a lopsided smile. “I’m not sure I deserve to be, but for the first time in a while, I feel almost free.”

And you believed him. You had to—he needed that belief.

Of course, that's when Thanos appeared, drawing you and Bucky into the largest battle Earth had ever faced. Battle lines were drawn in Wakanda, where countless outriders of Thanos’s army threatened to overrun the nation.

During the fray, you unleashed the full extent of your powers. Energy crackled around you, turning each of your blows into seismic shockwaves. You were almost unstoppable. At your side, Bucky fought with lethal precision, his vibranium arm glinting in the sunlight as bullets whizzed past. The synergy between you two was remarkable, like a dance choreographed through countless training hours and mutual trust.

But trust is fragile in the face of unimaginable power.

Suddenly, you felt a colossal presence. Looking up, your gaze locked onto the towering figure of Thanos. He stepped through the remnants of the battlefield, the Infinity Gauntlet glowing with stolen Stones. Even from a distance, you saw his gaze flick over your form, and something sparked behind his violet eyes—recognition. Fear, perhaps. The Titan raised his armored hand. A wave of twisted energy arced in your direction. You braced yourself, arms crossed in front of your body, channeling every ounce of power you had to shield your allies from the blast. Still, the force knocked you back, sending you tumbling across the ravaged earth.

When the shock subsided, a chill shot down your spine. You stood, shaking off the impact, and found the battlefield too quiet. Your eyes landed on Bucky just in time to see him freeze. His face contorted; his pupils dilated. It happened in a split second.

Hydra’s trigger words, carried on a faint, telepathic echo you couldn’t hear but Bucky could. An alien whisper from Thanos’s cosmic manipulations. And just like that, the Winter Soldier emerged once more. His steel-blue eyes turned ice-cold. The gentle man you loved disappeared behind an all-too-familiar mask of lethal focus. He turned away from the outriders, ignoring Thanos for the moment. His sights honed in on you.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, his lips parted, eyes dark with an unspoken mission. This time, the programming was crystal clear: Take you out. Kill the one threat that even Thanos couldn't account for. Your greatest strength had painted a target on your back. You raised your hands, glowing with the power you wielded. But your heart pounded. Could you really fight him at full strength? Bucky—your Bucky—was somewhere behind that cold stare.

“Stand down!” Steve’s voice cut through the chaos, but Bucky didn’t listen. He pivoted, leveling his gun at Steve, forcing the Captain to dodge.

“Barnes, snap out of it!” Natasha shouted, but her attempts to get close were cut off by a brutal strike from Bucky’s vibranium arm. Everyone else was busy trying to fend off the onslaught of Thanos’s forces. Your team needed your power, but now you were pinned in a conflict of your own.

Bucky lunged at you, knife flashing. You parried with your forearm, each metallic clash echoing in the war-torn field. You had no intention of hurting him, so you held back, turning your power inward, using just enough to keep him off-balance. His movements were a lethal dance—calculated, relentless, unstoppable. Blow after blow, you deflected each strike, trying to talk him down. “Bucky, it’s me!” you cried, voice cracking. “You don’t want to do this!”

For a heartbeat, his eyes seemed to flicker, memories surfacing. The time you both sat under the Wakandan sunrise, the moments you’d shared—everything hung between you. Then the programming crushed it back down. His knife sliced through the air again. You twisted, sidestepping, but you were too concerned with not harming him, too torn by love and heartbreak. The blade found its mark.

A searing pain tore through your abdomen. Your eyes went wide, and a gasp tore from your throat. One heartbeat, two—time slowed. Your hands flew to the wound, crimson blooming across your fingertips. The world started spinning.

Bucky stood over you, knife still gripped in his metal hand. His expression was empty, but the second he saw your blood pooling on the battlefield, the mask began to crack. His breathing quickened; panic gripped him. Something deep within those blue eyes shattered.

“No,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “No, no, no…”

You collapsed to your knees, desperately trying to keep pressure on the wound. The pain was staggering, and your vision wavered at the edges as you fought against the darkness creeping in. The din of the battlefield—roaring explosions, clashing metal, and desperate shouts—faded into an echo, leaving only the trembling sound of Bucky’s voice. The knife clattered to the ground from his shaking hand, the cold light in his eyes replaced by raw horror.

Bucky dropped beside you, arms sliding around your body. Another wave of agony made you cry out, yet you clung to the faint relief of his warmth—even if it was stained by regret. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. His vibranium hand cradled your cheek as though you were made of porcelain. “I’m so sorry.”

The Winter Soldier façade seemed to shatter then, peeling away like a final layer of armor. What remained was Bucky Barnes—the man you loved, tears tracking down his face in heart-wrenching clarity. Meeting his gaze, you rallied the last of your strength, silently conveying what words couldn’t: You forgave him. You loved him.

In the distance, Thanos lumbered toward the heart of the battle, where your fellow Avengers continued to fight, unaware of the private tragedy unfolding. The war raged on, but in that moment, time felt suspended—for you, for Bucky, for everything else that mattered.

With trembling fingers, he pressed down on your wound, desperate to stop the flow of blood. “Not you too,” he pleaded, voice tight with fear. “Please don’t leave me.” You forced a weak smile; you refused to let your final expression be one of despair. You wouldn’t let Bucky’s last memory of you be filled with nothing but tears and regret.

Bucky’s grip on you tightened, as if he could anchor you to consciousness by sheer will. Each breath you took felt like shards of glass in your lungs, but you clung to awareness, swallowing down the pain.

“Stay with me,” Bucky begged. He looked up frantically, searching for help that was nowhere to be found—Shuri was likely in the labs, the medical units were overrun, and Wakanda’s defensive lines were collapsing under Thanos’s onslaught. “I’ll—I’ll get you to someone. We’ll find a healer—”

“Bucky.” Your voice trembled, but you forced each syllable past your dry lips. You reached up with a shaking hand, brushing aside a strand of his hair matted with dirt and sweat. “Don’t…don’t blame yourself.”

His eyes squeezed shut as tears rolled freely, wetting the blood-streaked dirt beneath you both. The regret in his gaze was heartbreaking. “I wasn’t in control,” he rasped, “but it was still my hand. And I—”

You pressed weakly against his cheek with your palm, stopping him. You didn’t have enough breath to argue, so you let your eyes speak your truth: He had been a pawn once again, manipulated by Thanos’s cruel plans. You forgave him—truly. He held your hand against his stubbled jaw, turning his face into your touch. His vibranium arm remained clamped over your wound, red seeping over silver. Every passing second felt like a lifetime.

Above you, the sky lit up with another shower of blasts, the barrier around Wakanda flickering under the assault. Your teammates were fighting valiantly—Steve, Natasha, Sam, Wanda, T’Challa—all risking their lives to push Thanos back. But you knew the Titan’s power was immense. If even your strength might not be enough to stop him, how could anyone else stand a chance? In your heart, you felt a pang of guilt for not being out there, protecting the team as you always had. But there was no denying your body was failing, and Bucky’s terrified eyes told you he could feel it too.

“Help!” His cry rose into the chaos, ragged and desperate. “Somebody help!”

[fandomtrumpshate]

Just after we finalized our list of supported organizations, wildfires sprang up in southern California and have quickly become a major disaster. If you're a creator planning to sign up for FTH and thinking of adding a write-in to your list of supported nonprofits, these are doing good work in disaster relief for the communities affected by the wildfires.

The California Fire Foundation is working with local fire agencies and community-based organizations to provide direct financial support to impacted residents as details of the damage emerge.

Pasadena Humane is working with shelters across the state who have offered to take in the animals that were already in our care so that we can focus on providing emergency resources to animals affected by the wildfires.

Project Understanding of San Buenaventura Food Bank is helping ensure that those who have lost everything don't struggle to eat, as well as providing assistance regarding housing for the displaced.

The state superintendent of schools "has launched a fundraising campaign through SupplyBank.org Disaster Relief Fund. This campaign aims to support students, families, educators, and school staff affected by the wildfires. Donations will fund essential needs such as housing assistance, food, water, clothing, and school supplies."

And, not specifically disaster relief for the current wildfire crisis, incarcerated people make up nearly 30% of California's firefighting force - approximately 950 inmates are currently on the front lines fighting the Los Angeles wildfires. The Forestry and Fire Recruitment Program works to train formerly incarcerated persons for careers as fire fighters so that there are more qualified fire fighters available to help control future fires.

Similarly, in collaboration with CAL FIRE, DAPO, CCC & ARC the Anti-Recidivism Coalition Ventura Training Center provides previously incarcerated individuals with the following: Rehabilitation, Life Skills, Job Readiness, Professional Experience, and Firefighter Training & Certifications.

The situation is developing fast. Feel free to reblog or reply to this post and suggest other places to donate.

[johnstacoshield]

Unattached

Fives x Fem!Reader

NSFW Ahead Minors DNI 18+!!!

A/N: To all the girls who wish they lost their virginity to a clone trooper - this one’s for us.

Tags/Warnings: Loss of virginity, Best Friends to Lovers, Alcohol, Gambling, Lil bit of angst, Fluff, Smut, Oral Sex (F! Receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Slow burn (technically), Love Confessions, Happy Ending!!

Summary: Since the moment you were transferred to the 501’st as a Civ Medic you and Fives gravitated towards each other and over many months of friendship you can’t help but slowly fall for the charming ARC Trooper. The tension only increases when he finds out just how inexperienced you are.

Word Count: 9.8k

(For clarification, the italics are flashbacks)

The data pad read ‘Order for Civilian Medic Transfer’, which is really just a nicer way of saying ‘You can’t do anything about this, so just accept it and suffer’. 

You had no choice when you were inevitably rotated between legions, untethered. Your newest order was to the 501st, and you find yourself standing in an empty Medbay; it’s quiet. Too quiet. You’ve either been fortunately assigned to a legion that didn’t see much action, if that were even possible, or you were stood in the eye of a hurricane.

Your eyes are caught on the tattoo across the scalp of the head medic, ‘A good droid is a dead one’ and you suppress a smile at the sentiment. It’s why you were needed - clones weren’t fond of droids, even those programmed for medical purposes. 

“New?” The clone asks, eyes focused on a datapad. You weren’t, not by any means, you had been rotated countless times over the duration of the clone wars. But, you already begin preparing yourself for the usual gruff demeanour that often greeted you, although you were better than a droid, to many clones you were still just a ‘Civ’, despite the many sleepless nights of studying and GAR medical training. 

“No, sir, transferred from the 104th.” You keep your words short, formal, but the clone medic’s eyes light up in recognition.

“Under Commander Wolffe?” He asks, a hint of surprise in his tone as he actually looks away from the datapad.

“Briefly,” you admit, recalling how just a few days before the commander in question practically growled at you when you had to check his eye. You lasted a week there.  “I was with the 212th before that.”

The head medic eyes you with a curious look, waiting for you to elaborate, so you continued, “Typically Civ medics are just seen as temporary by the head medic, until a clone medic becomes available.” You explain, perhaps a bit too fast. How many times could you fit the word medic in that sentence? You internally groan, but he gives a small hum of acknowledgement, whether it was in agreement or disagreement of your statement, his face didn’t betray him either way. 

“Go get yourself settled, and then report back here in an hour.” He says with a slight sigh, passing you the datapad, a blinking spot on the screen indicating where your bunk is - at least this time you weren’t in the shared barracks. “We’ve only just got back from being planetside on Coruscant for a week.” Ah, that answers the question of why it had been so quiet then.

“Thank you, sir.” You nod, picking up your small pack of personal belongings, it wasn’t much, but it was the only anchor you had when you were transferred around so often.

“Kix is fine.” He nods, giving you a genuine smile. “Welcome to the 501st.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The small room is thrumming with energy that’s been ignited from an evening of drinking following a particularly rough mission for the men. Contraband in the form of amber liquid that burns your throat and fuels bad decisions, is grouped together on a small crate you’ve been using as a makeshift table for the evening. 

You’re currently sitting on the floor, leaning against a crate next to Fives as he divulges details to you about their most recent mission. Details that you probably aren’t supposed to know, but he tells you anyways, because ‘what are friends for if not to impress’, he had once told you with a sly wink. 

You knew most of the other Civ workers in the GAR weren’t as close to the clones they served with as you were. In all of the legions you had been bounced around from, there was a clear divide between the small number of Civ members, compared to the clones. But in the 501’st, those theoretical lines were blurred, or probably didn’t exist at all, with how Fives’s arm settled around your shoulder. He always had been the most friendly out of his brothers.

Your attention is drawn away from the warm expression of your friend, and you groan as you catch Jesse and Hardcase standing side by side, comparing their lengths. 

“Put it away, for the last time they’re all the same size!” You call out with a laugh, making Fives frown and whip around as he’s been interrupted from your conversation.

“Know from experience with clones?” Jesse sends you a drunken wink as his hands sloppily stuffs the offending body part back into his blacks.

“Medical experience with clones.” Your face almost hurts from smiling as you shake your head, before turning back to Fives. It’s faint and fleeting, but a look of annoyance crosses his features. You’re not awarded the opportunity to ask about it though, because he’s already delving into another over-exaggerated story of how he took out a whole group of droids on his own. 

You wouldn’t really care if they all weren’t true, you just enjoyed hearing him talk. The man could make even the most boring senate conversations interesting, you’re sure of it. So you smile, hooked onto each of his words, cursing the way your heart beats too fast when he reaches out to push away some hair that's fallen from the usual tight bun you have to wear it in. His fingers graze the skin of your cheek, leaving a burning trail.

It’s a small gesture that doesn’t even break the rhythm of his conversation. The touches are natural, instinctive on his part. He’s always touching you - you know to him it means nothing more than that, but your tell-tale racing heart screams at you that you wish it did.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once you had returned from being settled in, Kix had directed you to some neatly stacked crates containing new medical supplies to restock the old ones. Your sluggish movements remind you just how little sleep you’d managed on the transport here from the 104th, your body was still aching from the hours spent laying on the durasteel floor between containers of explosives. Not the best sleep you’ve had, and surprisingly not the worst.

“Hey Kix, can you tell me if this looks infected?” A voice pulls you from your thoughts, alerting you to the attention of a topless clone trooper, something that no longer phased you given how many entirely naked clones you had treated. Upon seeing you, the clone goes from being relaxed to formal instantly, clearing his throat as he fumbled to get the top half of his blacks on. 

“You,” he clears his throat, his voice now adopting the typical ‘trooper at attention’ tone as he pulls the clothing over his head, “Are not Kix.” His top blacks are on backwards, and he runs a finger along the collar which now presses uncomfortably to his flushed neck.

“No, I’m not.” You agree with him, suppressing a small smile at how he looks caught off guard, from his surprised expression you may as well be a battle droid standing in the medical bay.

“May I?” You gesture to his top, and he reluctantly removes it once more, taking a seat on a free bed. You see his issue, a common rash splaying across his shoulders from where his armour has been rubbing his skin through his blacks.

“You’re the new medic?” He sounds more nervous than you are, his jaw tensing when you run your fingers along the rash, checking for any signs of infection.

You give a small hum, confirming he’s correct as you step away. “And you are?”

“Echo. I, uh.. Wasn’t expecting a Civ?” They never do.

“Not infected, by the way, it’s just irritated.” You seek out a steroid cream, which you conveniently just restocked. “Here, use this twice a day, and keep the area as dry as possible.”

He gives you a short, formal nod before he redresses, correctly this time, and leaves the room with his face almost as red as his rash. 

You’ve moved onto another crate when you catch the movement from the corner of your eye, somebody passing the door to the Medbay. You think nothing of it until you see the figure again, this time he slows slightly to glance inside the room.

He walks past a third time - and then a fourth.

On what would be the fifth time you poke your head out slightly to watch him walk almost to the end of the hallway, just to turn around and begin his lap back past the door. He stops in his tracks when he sees you looking curiously at him, but quickly recovers even though he’s been caught, and strides back towards you. You catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his temple, but it’s his grin, framed by neatly trimmed facial hair, that seems to distinguish him from other clone troopers you’ve come across. It’s cocky, confident, and warm. Especially warm when he takes hold of your hand and presses it to his lips in a greeting that makes it feel as though you’re trapped in a boiler room, overheating.

“I’m Fives, and you are?”

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

You were settled between Echo and Fives, the three of you with empty cups waiting for the next round of the game. Each round you had to take a shot based on your answer to the question, which so far had ranged between ‘If you’ve been shot by a droid’ - which Rex groaned at, and ‘If you ever fucked a girl in the 79’s fresher’, which made several of the men cheer. 

Your heart sinks a bit when Fives drinks at that one, recalling the night just over a month ago on Coruscant. 

You had all been there together, his arm slung around your shoulder in the booth as you both laughed at some fleeting joke made by Jesse. You had grown closer, close enough to the point that he got teased relentlessly by his brothers for calling you his ‘best friend’ whilst under the influence of some strong pain medication in the Medbay. 

You left to get some more drinks from the bar when Sinker approached you, a spark of recognition in his eyes. You were trying to focus on ordering the drinks, blushing as you attempted to turn down the Sergeant who was whispering over-sweetened things in your ear at how he wished you’d stayed with the 104th for longer.

You smiled in thanks when Echo came to help, claiming he saw that you may need help with carrying the drinks. You were grateful for the assistance, laughing with Echo under the usual volume of the crowd until you caught sight of your best friend, stumbling through the crowd towards the fresher, his hand intertwined with a beautiful Twi’lek girl.

You remember how Echo looked at you as he realised the reason behind your tightened jaw and hoarse voice when you excused yourself for some air. You couldn’t stand the sympathy in his eyes, the eyes that looked identical to those of your best friend, the man you were in love with. 

So much for being unattached.

“It wasn’t that good.” Fives nudges your knee with his own, pulling you from your thoughts. A casual smirk plays on his lips and you’re about to laugh off the comment, ready to deflect the attention from your friend, when his twin interrupts you.

“Yeah, cause you couldn’t get it up!” Echo slurs as he leans against you, clutching his cup as some of the amber liquid sloshes down your chest before he apologises and wipes the stain above your breast with hazy eyes. Fives catches his brother's wrist, pushing it away from your chest lightly, and your mind races at Echo’s statement - Fives hadn’t slept with the Twi’Lek girl?

“Shut up, Vod.” Fives grumbles, his fingers tightening around his own cup as he looks away from the two of you. A blush, that must just be from a mix of alcohol and annoyance, creeps up to his face. Thankfully as most of these questions have been related to battle or women, you’ve barely drank, so you can at least try to be rational and push away thoughts that creep into your mind of how you think Fives would take you against the wall of a fresher stall. You can ignore the contemplation on if he would show restraint, or if he would make the walls shake.

“How about this - take a shot for how many people you’ve slept with,” Jesse calls out to the small group of you, an intoxicated grin on his face. Several hands reach for the last remaining bottle at once, ready to fill their cups, each of their owners immediately wanting to show off to the rest of the room's occupants.

“No!” Kix’s hand is the fastest to snatch the liquor away, holding it close to his chest plate.  “We are not looking after you all in the Medbay with alcohol poisoning!” He gestures between you both, and Jesse bargains, coming to a compromise for 1 shot for every certain number, but the specifics of the round are drowned out by your own heartbeat.

Your body stills and you look down to your half full cup. It would be easy to drink, to lie to yourself and those around you. You don’t even have to drink more than once and yet you just continue to stare at your reflection in the liquid, it’s as if the cup were judging you.

“You know you’re supposed to at least drink once, right?” Fives whispers in your ear.

“Yeah, just got distracted trying to work out which of your brothers are definitely exaggerating,” You nod, taking a sip from the cup as you avoid his eyes that burn you more than any liquor ever could. You place the empty cup at your feet and lean your head against Echos, managing a small smile at how he’s snoring against your shoulder. 

Fives gives a small hum of thought, finishing his own drink before placing the empty cup next to you, allowing his finger to linger on the rim for a moment. Your gaze is focused on the way the traces of liquor coat his fingertips, making the battle-calloused skin glisten. You close your eyes, trying to fend off the thoughts of how the whiskey tainted fingers would taste on your tongue, and the mental image of them coated in something sweeter than the alcohol.

“Remember the first time I dragged you here?” Fives’ amused tone forces your eyes open, his warm hand settling on your knee and he taps his fingers rhythmically, almost to the same beat as your unsteady heart.

It had been just over one standard month, one of your longest posts so far, and you were already finding yourself anxious that you could be transferred away at any moment. If you had told yourself just over a month ago that in your new assignment with the 501st that you would wake to two half-drunk troopers in your room, begging you to come play Sabbac with them, you would have diagnosed them with battle induced psychosis.

“Well, not with us-” Fives starts, rummaging around the small closet for something you could wear over your sleeping vest.

“For us.” Echo finishes, practically pulling you out of your bed with an eager nod as Fives approaches you with something in his hands.

“Hands up, sweetheart.” In your tired state, you obey thoughtlessly, allowing Fives to slip the sweatshirt over your head. His fingers trail down your sides, eliciting goosebumps across your skin as he pulls the heavy fabric down over you, and between the contact and his name for you, your heart skips a beat. It nearly stops when he winks before turning away to get your shoes.

Clone Troopers were often flirty, but over the last month, Fives seemed determined to earn the title of being the biggest flirt. Regardless which of his brothers got sick or minorly injured, he was always the one pulling them through the door and would then spend the entire time sweet talking you. Just last week, Rex had nearly concussed himself on a pipe and looked like he wanted to hit Fives who didn’t stop talking the whole time you examined the injury.

“And why do you need me to play for you? I’ve never even played before,” You swallow thickly, sliding your feet into the shoes as the twins guide you from your room, both of their hands on your back, ushering you down complex hallways that all look identical.

“Fives got caught cheating, so we both got banned,” Echo rolls his eyes, placing the blame on his brother, who begins telling you the rules of the game, which they are playing a slight variation of given that they only had items to bet, not credits. You had reluctantly allowed them to bring a full bottle of rather expensive vodka you had purchased last time you were on Coruscant.

“You did not wake up the new medic just to get her to play for you.” Jesse groans, and Rex begins apologising to you for his brothers, ready to scold them for waking you up, but you raise your hand to stop him.

“It’s no bother.” You shake your head, remembering Fives and Echo’s advice to act confident - so really you just had to ask yourself ‘What would Fives do?’

“You know how to play?” Kix asks, surprised by your sudden change in demeanour. He had been used to you keeping your head down in the Medbay, following orders, not showing up with a bottle of alcohol to bet on and Fives’s arm slung around your shoulder.

“Oh please, I’ve been playing Sabbac longer than some of you have been out of the tube.” You feel Fives give your shoulder a proud squeeze at your lie as he places the bottle of vodka on the makeshift table, and you both take a seat, “Deal me in?”

After several rounds of you finding your feet in the game, Fives drops his hand to your waist, giving it a squeeze - he’s signalling to go in for the kill. You turn your head slightly to look into his eyes, and he gives a slight nod that doesn’t go unnoticed by your opponents, he’s making it look so sure you’re going to win, but in reality your cards weren’t good. 

 You and Rex were down to the last cards, everyone else had folded. Either of you could have the winning hand, but if one of you backed out now before your cards were revealed, you could at least keep your own stake in the game. It was about the bluffing now, and thankfully you were good at that.

“Well, Captain?” You and Fives lean backward in sync. You press the cards to your chest, hiding how they’re on the verge of shaking from Fives’ grip on your waist, but also to hide your tell. It’s a small, barely noticeable movement, your forefinger running along the edge of your thumbnail -  a nervous movement that Rex hasn’t noticed past your arrogant smile that perfectly mirrors Fives’. “What’ll it be?”

There’s a short beat where the room is silent and you hold the gaze of the Captain, all of the others staring between you both like it’s an intense standoff. He looks away first, tossing the cards down with a huff as he backs out, giving the win to you; he actually had a good hand. 

“Oh and by the way, sir,” You lay your cards down, revealing that you had already gone bust, over the number limit to win. “I’ve never played Sabbac in my life.” You grin at the shocked expression on his face that melts into a warm smile and you’re enveloped into a hug from Fives while Echo reaps your winnings from the table.

After you all decide to have a drink from the bottle you bet with, the tiredness catches up to you, and you struggle to stay alert with the alcohol that casts a haze on your mind. 

“C’mon, I’ll take you back.” Fives nudges you, picking up the half-full bottle of vodka as he pulls you to your feet, shaking his head in amusement when he tugs a bit too hard and you fall into his chest. “Already falling for me, sweetheart?” his voice is low, something that can only be heard between the two of you in the room full of his boisterous brothers.

You roll your eyes in amusement, a defence against how the whisper makes heat spread throughout your body. You take a half step back, placing the empty cup on the crate as you exchange a short goodbye with Echo.

“I’m gonna walk our lovely medic here back to her room, I’ll be back soon,” Fives gives a mock salute as you both make your exit and you try to ignore the whistle from one of the men as Fives chuckles, shaking his head. “Animals aren’t they, Mesh’la?”

You hadn’t known this side to any of the clones you’d served with, albeit you were just a medic, none of them had ever been this relaxed around you. The entire time you had been in the GAR, it had been lonely. There was no one to celebrate with after battle, no late night conversations between friends, no one to just sit with and cry when you weren’t able to save a life. But walking through the corridors with Fives somehow made it all worth it.

“You did great, sweetheart, I’m impressed.” Fives brings the bottle to his lips, taking a swig of the clear liquid as you stop outside of your door. “You’re just full of surprises aren’t you?” His tongue darts out to lick the vodka off his lips and you can’t help but let your eyes linger there after the action. His gaze is already meeting yours when you look up, heat flickering in his eyes like the flame of a candle - he’s caught you staring.

Fives’ hand comes up to hold your waist once more, his grip tighter now, drawing you closer like you were a flower he wanted to admire. The scent of vodka from his breath intoxicates you, and you find yourself hypnotised, leaning closer. You don’t know what causes it, but at the last moment he freezes, his hand falling from your waist to press the panel outside your door, opening it.

“Goodnight.” He gives a tight-lipped smile before stepping away, walking back down the corridor in the direction of the barracks. Despite the heavy sweatshirt and warmth of the vodka in your blood, you feel empty as you enter your dark room. You find yourself lying awake in your bunk as you work through a mixture of disappointment, embarrassment, and something that ignites an ache between your thighs. 

He stopped himself from kissing you, and you didn’t know why.

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You know your way back, he doesn’t need to walk you, yet he always does. It’s been almost 8 standard months since you were transferred to the 501st, you could practically navigate your way around blindfolded. So, you know you're about to turn onto the corridor your room is on when he speaks.

“You didn’t drink.” 

Your mouth goes dry, it’s like you’ve just eaten a whole pack of ration crackers while sitting in the Tatooine desert with no water. The lights above feel harsher, as if you’re under a spotlight on the Medbay examination table, and Fives is the one inspecting you. He’s peering at you from the corner of your vision, gauging your reaction to his statement. 

“What are you talking about, Fives?” You shrug in an attempt to appear nonchalant, but unfortunately due to his metabolism he was as sober as you, meaning he was just as observant. You couldn’t brush off his attention when he places a hand on your shoulder, stopping you in your place just as you round a corner. From here you can see the door to your room, the third from the end. It’s taunting you at how close you were to getting away with the secret you’d been keeping against your chest.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” His free hand grasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger, directing your attention to him. You swallow as he draws your face closer, eyes raking over your features as he gives a small shake of his head. “You didn’t drink.”

“Yes I did.” Your voice is impressively steady, you’re good at bluffing. Fives already knows this, but he knows you better, and his eyes dart down in search of something. Your fingertip presses against the edge of your thumb in a movement that Fives had catalogued in his brain since that day you beat Rex at Sabbac.

The credit drops. You can see the moment it registers in Fives’ brain as his jaw goes slack, his grip on your chin loosening.

“Are you a- mph!” Your hand covers his mouth and you push him to the wall before he can shout aloud what you’ve kept unsaid for your whole time in the GAR. Fives was an ARC trooper, he could easily push you away, but his muscles seem to weaken against your grip. You feel the resistance in his body melt under your touch, as his eyes soften just above where your hand covers his mouth.

“I know you’re a loud mouth but please,” Your voice is low, urgent, as you give him a warning look, your face burning from embarrassment as he’s just come to the realisation of why you didn’t drink. You didn’t have any number to drink for. You can see him linking it together in his head - why you turned down flirtatious advances from his brothers, why he walked you back alone after every late night. It was why your body was so responsive to every small touch and honeyed word from his lips; like a flower chasing fleeting sunlight in the late afternoon. “Just this once, Fives, keep your voice down.” 

Fives gives a short nod down at you, assuring you he’ll be quiet. His fingers loop around your wrist, tugging your hand from his mouth. You unsuccessfully try to ignore the way his lips had felt against your skin, you’re so caught on the small patch of wetness on your palm that you miss the clench of his jaw and flash of emotions in his eyes.

“You’ve really never..?” He trails off, the words settling into the small gap between you, they’re not taunting or teasing, they’re simply disbelieving. Even though he’s released your wrist now, it’s still suspended in the air, as if you’ve been frozen in carbonite. You’re afraid to move away, that it would be just like all those months ago, that the moment would be shattered and lost.

Your breaths are mingling together, you’re like an asteroid orbiting, drawing closer and closer to his planet, bracing for impact. Fives is unblinking, waiting for the answer he already knows, but needs to hear for himself. 

“No.” 

Something stirs in the depths of Fives’ eyes and there’s a tension you could almost reach out and grasp from the air. Your body acts on its own, hand breaking free from its frozen stupor to find interest in a small scar on his jaw. You remember treating the small cut, he never even flinched, but you had let him hold your hand anyways. ‘It’s for comfort’, Fives had told you, accompanied by the usual sly wink that made it all the more difficult for your free hand to remain steady when you cleaned the cut.

Fives’ eyes slip closed when your fingertips graze against the shining scar, his breathing becoming carefully controlled. You recognise the pattern, it’s the same pace it was during the times he would take you to the training rooms, his body pressed to yours as he taught you to shoot. He would chuckle into your ear when your hands would shake, causing you to miss.

Your hands are steady now, no signs of the trembling are evident when you raise your attention higher. Your finger traces its way over the inky ‘5’ on his temple, and you’re about to move it away but you find yourself held in place, fingers still pressed against the tattoo.

Fives’ constant touches were always casual, fleeting, and meaningless. But this? This was deliberate. 

His gloved hand is circled around the bare skin of your wrist once more, keeping your fingers pressed against his temple. After a short, breathless moment, he moves your hand, but not to push it away this time. He pulls it closer, making your fingers trace across his cheekbone, against his warm skin all the way on a deliberate path to his mouth. 

Fives’ lips ghost across your fingertips and in contrast to his rough exterior and battle scarred skin, they’re soft. Just above the point of your fixation is his heavy stare, focused and serious, like you’re his target in the heat of battle.

Your heart is thrumming against your ribcage like blaster fire and you wonder if he can feel the pulse in your wrist through his gloves at the sheer force of it. There’s barely any space between the two of you, and it only lessens with every beat of your heart.

“Just… stay still for a second, please,” Fives’ eyes burn into yours and he’s like a black hole orbiting you, pulling you in with his gravity. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” His voice is a strained whisper, just cosmic background noise, all you can focus on is how his breath fans across your lips. 

His eyes close again when you nod, and you allow yourself to slip away into the same darkness as he consumes all of your senses.

The touch is light, a soft brush of his lips against your own, and the gentle contact has a shiver running through your body. His hand has placed your palm back to his jaw, covering it with his own as he pulls you in deeper. The second kiss is more confident, the swipe of his tongue over your lower lip has the world around you dissolving into a meaningless void as he becomes the centre of your universe. 

Before you can part your lips for him, Fives pulls away, just enough so he can look at you. There’s a dazed expression on his face, like he’s been concussed but is strangely happy about it. The momentary bewilderment melts away into an unusually shy smile and he’s about to kiss you again when you’re interrupted. There's laughter echoing from the direction you just came and Fives pulls back further, a suddenly serious look taking over his face.

You’re filled with a strange sense of deja vu when he steps away, your heart already sinking. Before you can open your mouth to apologise for getting carried away, to try and repair whatever strain the kiss could have put on your friendship, you’re being pulled along by his gentle grasp. Fives is making urgent paces down the short walk to your door, slamming his free hand to the control panel to get you both away from whatever prying eyes may have stumbled upon your private moment.

The door whooshes down to swallow you both in the darkness of your room and just like all those months ago, your back is pressed against the cool durasteel door. Only this time, you’re on the other side of it.

You immediately miss the warmth his body has been providing you with when he walks over to your desk, fumbling in the darkness from your lamp switch. Your lips still tingle from where his own were pressed against yours, and you swear you can still taste him.

The room is poorly illuminated from the dim bulb, but it's enough to highlight the figure of Fives leaning over your desk and you take in the full sight of him. He’s still wearing his armour from the waist down, but his upper half is only dressed in his tight blacks, and the lamp casts shadows that accentuate every ridge of muscle. It’s times like this where you’re reminded the man in front of you isn’t just your best friend, but also a highly decorated ARC Trooper, a man who spends most of his days in battle.

The serious look doesn’t leave his face, even when he’s moved back in front of you, blocking out the rest of your room with his large frame. At some point in the darkness, Fives has removed his gloves, allowing you to feel the rough skin of his hand as it cups your face. His thumb tugs at your lower lip, smearing saliva across the swollen skin as he teases the sensitive flesh. You can make out the apprehensive desire in his eyes as he marvels down at your mouth, before looking up to meet your gaze once more.

“Kriff, I…” His voice is light, and there’s an uncertain, almost desperate edge to it before he swallows it down. “Sweetheart, do you want this?” 

It would be easy to lie to the both of you and back out. You never expected to meet anyone when you enlisted into the GAR straight from your medical school. Back then you had wanted to be a doctor, it was expected of you by your family, you sacrificed your entire social life to work for it. 

You were never given the luxury of free-time, how could you ever have met anyone when all you did in your later teen years, when all your friends were partying and meeting their partners, was study? It was never a case that you didn’t want to be with anyone, but life simply prevented you from it. You were in your third year when the war broke out, two more years at the university and you would have graduated, but instead you decided to take your study credits and enlist as a medic. In less than a standard rotation from the moment you notified the university, you were on a transport to your first assignment.

You had let your work and the war rob you of so many experiences, you wouldn’t let them take this from you too. You wouldn’t let them take him from you too.

“Yes, Fives.” You nod, allowing your hands to rest on his broad shoulders. You’re sure of this, sure of him.

“Tell me to stop,” There’s a hunger in Fives’ eyes when you say his name and his lips press back to yours in a kiss that’s over far too quickly. “At any time, tell me to stop.” He’s holding your face still, unmoving until he has your consent.

“Okay.” There’s no reluctance in your tone, just a breathless need that makes Fives’ jaw tick.

Fives exhales, his shoulders relaxing and your eyes close again in anticipation, awaiting his kiss. But instead you feel the heat of his forehead press to yours, as if he’s anchoring himself against you, just for a moment.

“Okay, sweetheart.” His mouth is instantly on yours, his right hand still cups your jaw, but his left slips around your back in search of the zip on your uniform. He makes quick work of pulling the zipper down to loosen the material from your skin, and both hands travel down to your hips, tugging at the edge of the fabric.

“Hands up.” Fives’ voice is low in your ear as he presses a kiss to your hairline, and you raise your arms, allowing him to slip the top from your body. He discards it on the floor, not wanting to waste any time that could be spent with his hands on your exposed skin.

Fives is slower this time. Each movement is purposeful when he guides you both towards your small bunk, his tongue slipping past your lips in a kiss that makes you dizzy as you taste him in your mouth. 

When the back of your knees meet the edge of your bunk, Fives’ lips begin to trail down your body. His path starts at the soft skin of your now exposed cleavage, and continues down past your bra, over the smooth skin of your stomach. There’s a soft scrape when his armour makes contact with the floor, he’s dropping to a kneeling position with his lips hovering over your abdomen. You look down at the man kneeling before you with his fingers hooked in the waistband of your uniform leggings, and you can’t help but smile. Fives pauses momentarily, sending a wink up at you before he tugs the fabric down, exposing the flesh of your legs. 

“Lay down.” Fives whispers, and you can feel his warm breath tickle your stomach.

You settle backwards onto the bunk, allowing Fives to remove your leggings entirely, along with your shoes. You’re left in just your simple, black GAR issued bra and panties. It’s nothing special by any means, but Fives eyes you as if you’re an oasis he’s stumbled upon in the middle of a month-long battle. One meant only for him.

You let your eyes slip closed as you hear the familiar noise of his armour being removed, clattering to the floor. It’s something you’ve heard many times when he’s come to relax with you on an evening and you find yourself counting each piece removed as a distraction until bare fingers brush your knee. It’s a comforting touch to draw you back to him.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, look at me.” Fives is sat just between your legs, bare aside from tight boxers that leave little of his anatomy to the imagination. You already knew what clones looked like naked, you had treated enough of them to not be phased by any part of their body. But a clone on a Medbay table was different to your best friend whose lips were pressing to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Is this okay?”

He inhales against your panties and you attempt to swallow your embarrassment and nervousness at the sight of your friend between your legs with only a thin layer of fabric between you. The sight of his ever-present smile between your legs sends a flood of heat through your body before it concentrates in your lower stomach.

When you don’t reply immediately, he pulls back slightly, giving the thigh he’s hooked over his shoulder a light squeeze. His brown eyes are filled with concern, searching your expression for any hesitation. 

“You still with me?” His thumb traces patterns against your skin, each movement only encouraging the fire in your body.

“I’m still with you,” You nod, watching as something lights up in his eyes. “What are you-“ 

Fives immediately silences your question with an action. His wet, open mouth presses to your thigh again and you feel yourself exposed to him when he hooks a finger in your panties, pulling them to the side. 

“I’m taking my time with you Mesh’la.” His hot breath fans over your now exposed cunt and you fight the urge to clasp your legs together, you’ve never felt more vulnerable lying in your bunk, entirely bare to the person you trust most and it’s a vulnerability that makes your heart race as if you’re under attack. 

Fives seems to sense your nervousness as he holds your knees firmly apart with his shoulders and free hand, keeping your legs open for him to litter small kisses on your inner thighs, all the while keeping you exposed for him. 

“Focus on me, Cyar'ika.”

Before your apprehension can get the better of you, Fives is licking a slow, experimental stripe up your slit, parting your folds with his tongue. His eyes are on yours the whole time, studying the awed look on your face and gasps of pleasure when his tongue runs over your clit.

Fives shakes his head, grumbling something under his breath. Before you can decipher it, he’s using one hand to lift your hips from the bed while his other practically tears the panties from your body, leaving you in just your bra. Strong hands move to grip the top of your thighs and pull you to him so he can secure his mouth to your core without obstruction, filling the room with wet, desperate noises as he laps at your cunt. 

Your hands twist in the thin bed sheets, desperately searching for something to ground you as his tongue delves inside you. His mouth is attached to you like you’re his last meal before an execution, the first drop of water after a mission on a desert planet, something he’s denied himself for far too long.

One of his fingers circles your entrance and your eyes snap open, finding him already looking up at you with a question in his gaze, asking for permission. You can only nod, not trusting your ability to speak with Fives’s tongue dragging slow circles around your clit. 

Your head slumps back to the floor when he proceeds with your consent, the sensation is entirely foreign as you feel his digit sink into you, testing your tightness. Your own fingers were nothing in comparison to his, even just the one is beginning to stretch you.

“Fives…” Your breathless plea encourages him and your teeth sink into your lower lip as he adds another finger to stretch you further. You let out a small whimper at the slight burn and he slows his movements slightly to allow you time to adjust.

“Shh, Mesh’la,” He changes the angle slightly, massaging his fingertips against the walls of your cunt as they search for a particularly sensitive spot. Your body jolts, arching towards him when he finds it, and a moan escapes you. “That’s it, relax.” 

The heat in your core is building as you grow wetter, making it easy for him to work his fingers into your tight hole, only adding to the growing pleasure building in every part of you, begging to escape. He presses his thumb to your swollen clit, one goal in mind.

“Need to make sure you’re ready for me, Cyar'ika.”

Fives withdraws his fingers from your gushing cunt, his hands instead moving from under your thighs and securing themselves back to their original position on your knees, keeping your trembling legs open as he continues to suck lightly on your clit when you reach your climax. Your body shakes, set alight with pleasure that’s only intensified by the way his head rests against your thigh, looking up at you as if committing the moment to memory.

When you finally relax against the bed, the pleasure having temporarily robbed your body of energy, you expect him to be done and move onto the next step. Instead, he lets out a low chuckle and begins circling your clit with his thumb once more. 

“Do you think you can give me another one, Mesh’la?” His soft smile contrasts his words, but his eyes gleam with mischief when you whisper a small ‘yes’ in response.

He’s using just his fingers this time, two of them working you in a scissoring motion, stretching your walls as his other hand slips between you and the mattress. His fingers expertly find the clasp to your bra, freeing you from the last item of your clothing.

His pupils are dilated, drinking in the sight of your writhing body, now entirely bare for him. He leans back slightly, taking in every detail, something between a smile and a smirk on his lips when his eyes focus on his own fingers pumping in your tight hole. The moment he feels your orgasm hit, cunt tightening around his fingers, he descends on you once more. Teeth pulling at your nipple, his thumb secured to your clit as he lets you ride out your orgasm, your hips attempt to grind up against his hand, chasing pleasure.

The world is falling back into place around you when he shifts his weight on the bed, and you hear the final piece of clothing hit the floor.

Fives is kneeling in front of you, a hand on each of your knees as you take in the sight of his bare body. His large cock makes the breath hitch in your throat, but he presses a soft kiss against your lips, prepared to ease the tension that threatens to overwhelm your body. His eyes are filled with a warmth that reassures you when he pulls back to press another kiss against your forehead, “You can take it, Cyar'ika, I’ll go slow.”

Fives settles his hips between your parted thighs, hooking one of your legs over his waist to keep you open beneath him. Soft lips ghost over yours and you feel the head of his cock settle against your entrance.

“Are you ready?” His thumb brushes along your jaw, a loving reminder that it’s your best friend above you, the person you trust the most. The same man who you would stay up with late at night after every difficult battle, who you would always pick up an extra ration bar for, the man you were in love with. 

“Yes.” Your eyes slip closed as you press your lips back to his.

The initial pressure of his cock entering you gives way to a sharp pinch that causes you to suck in a sharp breath through your teeth. Despite all of Fives’s efforts to prepare you, the unfamiliar pain seizes your body in an uncomfortable grasp.

“Relax for me, Cyar'ika.” He murmurs the assurance against your mouth, forcing his own breathing to slow, unconsciously prompting you to calm down. A hand presses to the underside of your thigh, pushing it upwards as he rolls his hips into you, he’s only halfway inside and you try to force yourself to relax around his impressive girth.

“That’s my girl.” He groans into your neck as his hand drops from your thigh to drag precise circles around your tight clit. The added layer of stimulation makes you gush around the half of his length inside you, making it easier to take his cock, but he doesn’t push any deeper. Instead he rocks his hips in a shallow motion, allowing you to adjust to this size first.

“Shh, don’t worry, Mesh’la,” He strokes your hair, continuing to press soft kisses of assurance to your mouth as he works your clit in time with his shallow thrusts. “It’ll be easier once you cum with me inside you, then you’ll be more relaxed for me.”

Fives’ hips pick up their pace, but he still limits himself, expertly watching your body's reactions to his cock. He’s continuously ensuring he doesn't go too fast, too hard, too deep. It’s a balancing act, one he seems to be perfect at with the way he already has the beginnings of another orgasm taking grasp of your body.

“Fives!”

You’re grinding helplessly against him now, one hand on his tanned chest and the other grasping at the short hair on the back of his head. Between Fives’s whispered words of adoration in your ear, you can make out the wet noises as he thrusts inside you, each movement causing more of your wetness to drip between your joined bodies, smearing you both with your arousal.

You’re hooked onto his words like a lifeline as he guides you through the experience.

“Kriff-” He shakes his head as he takes in the sight of you cumming around his cock. But it’s not lust in his eyes, it’s something far more intense. “I promised I wouldn’t do this..” His voice is strained, like he’s trying to keep the words inside of him. 

Before you can even catch your breath fully to ask what he means, your world is spinning when he pulls you upwards, slotting himself underneath you so you can no longer try to read the emotions in his face. Your back is now pressed to his chest, his body supporting you to stay upright and he’s hooking his right hand under your knee, spreading you apart.

His chin rests on top of your head, the position allowing him a full view of your body as his cock enters your cunt from behind; it’s more than before, but still not the full length. Your right arm curls up around behind you to hold the back of Fives’ neck, needily pulling him closer in the moment as you writhe against his body.

“Look at that, Cyar'ika,”  You feel the rumble in his chest just as much as you hear it, and it draws your attention down to your joined bodies. He shifts slightly to support your head as you catch glimpses of his cock disappearing into your tight hole in a series of shallow, restrained thrusts. “Look how perfectly we fit together.”

His eyes remain locked on your body, the way your chest heaves and cunt tightens, dripping down his cock as you cum once more, you’re already losing count. From what you were always told by friends when you were in University, losing your virginity was supposed to be a far cry from this. In fact you don’t think a single one of your friends had cum when losing theirs, and yet here you were, the room almost spinning from the pleasure Fives had given you.

Fives chuckles at the blissful look on your face as he pulls his hand from your clit, allowing you to relax against his larger frame. “You are really something else, Cyar'ika.” He’s slower this time when he rolls you both over once more, cradling the back of your head as he rests you back onto the pillows. 

He resumes his original position above you, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes are full of adoration when he looks down at you, and there’s no trace of the painful stretch from earlier when he slides the full length of his cock inside you this time.

He’s been so focused on your pleasure that his own has been forgotten, but you see the evidence of it. He’s coated in a sheen of sweat that makes him appear like one of those glossy paintings in the art galleries on Coruscant. He’s an artwork, beautifully crafted, every muscle in his body coiled tight in restraint as his hips grind against yours. 

It’s your turn to touch him this time, to appreciate every bit of the vulnerability in his face as he presses his forehead against yours and you angle your face upwards to steal a kiss. A tortured moan escapes his lips as his thrusts only increase in speed, he’s clinging onto you like it’s his sole purpose.

“Where?” His breathing is ragged against your neck.

You make a confused noise in response and he curses something in Mando’a.

“Where do you want me to cum, Mesh’la, hm?”

You‘re speechless from the pleasure, but thankfully your body answers for you, already locking your legs around his hips to keep you joined together.

“Alright, Cyar'ika, inside it is.” There’s a soft rumble of amusement against your throat before his mouth finds yours again. One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip, both of them seeking to drag you closer. You’re two stars colliding in the void of the universe, no longer orbiting each other, instead becoming one as your light drowns out all darkness around the pair of you.

His name is falling from your lips, cries of it suffocated against him when his tongue slips into your mouth. Fives empties himself inside you, his cock unloading a flood of warmth that already overspills, leaking from your cunt with every slow movement of his hips. He pulls back, an unreadable emotion in his eyes before he buries his face in your hair, distracting himself by stroking at your burning skin. You stay there as you both begin to calm, hearts beating in sync with one another as your bodies remain joined.

He’s breathing heavily in your ear, an affirmation that you haven’t died and ascended to some afterlife when he drags his hips away from yours, leaving you empty as he stands up. 

“Where are you going?” You hate yourself for sounding so needy, but with his cum leaking from between your thighs, how could you not. You knew it was common for men to leave straight after sex. You’ve caught some of the boys’ one night stands sneaking out barely ten minutes after they had been brought to the barracks, hair messy and clothes dishevelled. 

“Relax, sweetheart, I’m not leaving.” He winks at you before disappearing into the small fresher joined to your room. You hear the water running for what seems like far too long, before he returns with a warm washcloth.

“Gotta clean us up before we make a mess on the bed, I’m not falling asleep in a wet patch.” He settles back between your legs, whispering soothing praises as he cleans your combined fluids. He’s thorough, making sure there’s no trace of him left before he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and discards the cloth into your laundry basket.

“C’mere.” He settles down next to you, lifting an arm to allow you to curl up against him and he pulls the bed covers over your waists. “You did so well, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, basking in a moment neither of you want to end. It’s sweet, intimate, and perfect. 

Yet you can’t stop yourself from asking the question.

“What did you mean when you said you promised you wouldn’t do this?” 

He pauses, an awkward smile tugging at his lips, you’d never seen him nervous like this, a blush creeping into his cheeks that he can’t even blame on the sex. “Caught that did you?”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. Your cards were on the table, it’s only fair that his should be too.

“I suppose it’s only fair given that I didn’t let you get away with not drinking.” There’s a nervous edge to his laugh as he drags you closer to him, like he’s afraid you could disappear at any given moment.

“Do you remember the first time we played Sabbac, you kicked Rex’s ass, and I walked you back to your room?”

You nod slightly. The memory still plagued your thoughts on sleepless nights, it embedded itself in a playlist of embarrassing moments that liked to keep you awake. Yet, it also featured on the list of thoughts that had your legs twisted in the bed sheets as you imagine what would have happened if he did kiss you that night. 

“I wanted to kiss you, but I couldn’t.” He sighs regretfully, admitting the truth he had been fighting against all of the months since that night.

“I think you’d only been here for what - a month?” You feel his laugh against your cheek as it rumbles in his chest. “And I couldn’t get you out of my damn head, I even made Echo fake being sick once just so I had an excuse to come to the Medbay and talk to you.” You remembered, and now felt slightly bad for insisting you give Echo all those unnecessary virus and anti-nausea shots.

“I needed the excuses to see you, because if I didn’t, and I saw you without them, it’d mean something that I’d been avoiding.” He trails off, trying to find a way to put it into words, it wasn’t something he had ever been good at. But he would try, for you he would try.

“The rest of the boys found out because I called you my girlfriend once when Kix gave me some of the heavy stuff in those green syringes.” He laughs, shaking his head and your mind begins to put the pieces together, that’s why they teased him so often about it. “They all promised they wouldn’t tell you how I felt though - I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

He drags a hand down his face, his jaw tenses. “And then I got jealous when I saw that Sergeant from the 104th talking to you, how he had his hands on you,” He shakes his head, an irritated look playing on his face, both at the other trooper, and his own actions on that night. “Thought I blew my shot, and I tried to cover it the only way I knew how.”

Your mind recalls him and the Twi’lek making a beeline for the 79’s freshers, how just a month ago you ended up crying in the alleyway, it was like taking a blaster bolt to your chest. No amount of Bacta could fix the pain that night, but you had certainly tried to heal it with whiskey.

“But I didn’t do it, and it’s not like Echo said, not because I couldn't,” He pulls himself back from you, but continues to hold you, to keep you in the moment with him as he explains what happens, a regretful look on his face. “It’s because she wasn’t you, Cyare.”

He presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes and your fingers trace over the tattoo again, just for a moment, just until he finds the strength inside of him; the strength to override his programmed instincts to be a loyal, unattached soldier and nothing more.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t…” Fives trails off, opening his eyes. He needs to see your reaction, whether it’s good or bad, he needs to know. “Fall in love with you.”

You wonder if this is what the Jedi feel with the force around them, but instead of the whole world, you just feel Fives. The warmth of his skin under your fingers, the certainty in his eyes, the utter devotion for you in his voice as he fights against every form of conditioning he’s received.

“Fives, you idiot…” His expression is concerned at first until he sees your teary eyes and beaming smile. “I love you too.”

You had loved him since the moment he kissed your knuckles on your first day in the Medbay, every interaction after that only strengthened the bond between you.

Fives smiles down at you, his quiet laughs tickle your skin with warm air as you’re lured back into his embrace. He laughs disbelievingly, shaking his head as he allows his body to press back against yours, a perfect fit.

“We have so much time to make up for, sweetheart.” 

You never want to lose this feeling, his lips marking your body, peppering reminders everywhere that you’re his, you have been since the moment that fateful order flashed up on your datapad. You’re anchored, attached, tethered to him - whatever word you want to give it, you’re his.

[kingkruell]

PULSE MEMORY | CHOSO KAMO

SYNOPSIS - in the aftermath of the shibuya incident, a researcher finds herself sifting through the remnants of cursed bloodlines, her focus now fixed on the death paintings. under the watchful gaze of choso kamo, the last of his line, the weight of history presses against them both. as the layers of the past unfold, so too does something quieter, more fragile: a bond between two souls bound by secrets— a bond created between the crevices of the mundanity that blurs into something soft, slow, and inevitable.

CONTENT- researcher!reader x post-shibuya arc! choso, post-shibuya au, canon divergent au, very slight angst, insecure choso, found family-type, intimacy, mutual pining, friends to lover, lingering trauma, hurt/comfort, soft choso, awkward choso in love, major fluff.

WORD COUNT 5335

[read in dark mode]

now playing: risk-deftones, i'm not in love-10cc

LATE DECEMBER

cursed energy lingers like mildew.

that’s one of the first things you learned as a junior field researcher working under the tokyo jujutsu tech archives division.

not a sorcerer, not even a grade 4 semi-trained assistant;  just one of the “non-combat staff,” as they put it. the ones who combed through bloodstained scrolls and transcribed fragmented oral histories from battered curse victims. you studied patterns. names. and the way those names persisted.

your current assignment isn’t just an anomaly, it’s practically sacrilege.

you're assigned to the death painting wombs.

or what’s left of them.

after the shibuya Incident, what began as basic post-conflict documentation turned into a high-level classified program under a new special division, one that suspected the death paintings were more than just failed cursed womb experiments.

you were the youngest non-sorcerer granted access.

and choso kamo, the only one left alive, was placed at your side.

 “he won’t talk much.”

that’s what ijichi told you, escorting you through the ruins of the old auxiliary training center. It was converted into a temporary lab space, walls still warped from residual cursed energy. the makeshift archive/research room isn’t built for comfort. the air is cold, stale, and smells faintly of old blood. shelves lean with age. cursed scrolls line the walls in crooked rows. each one hums with a faint, leftover energy — like a breath held too long.

you walked in expecting a monster

you found him instead — choso.

the request actually came from yuuji’s end: someone to assist with lingering questions about the death painting wombs. your job, as far as anyone can explain, is to help verify claims that a fourth womb — never accounted for — may have existed. you’re not even sure you believe it yourself.

arms crossed. eyes dull like old ash.

he didn’t look at you when you introduced yourself. didn’t move when you explained your research: tracing the cursed bloodlines used in the death paintings to determine the origin of their hybrid nature.

you’d expected hostility. Instead, you got apathy, and you don’t know if that is any better. 

“there might be a fourth womb,” you said after the deafening silence, voice barely louder than a whisper, “unrecorded. or sealed. somewhere they didn’t want anyone to find.”

cursed wombs aren’t born.

they’re built.

that’s what your research implied. a jarring contradiction to what most jujutsu records claimed: that the death paintings were failed organic hybrids of human and cursed spirit cells. you dug deeper.

noritoshi kamo had created the first three wombs using the blood of women impregnated by curse energy-infused embryos. a violation in every sense. but what you had found in the sealed texts was stranger.

there were four original subjects.

one disappeared from the records mid-process. redacted. scratched out in black ink, even in the most secret archives.

at that, his eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat,and he shifted his weight. “i’d know,” he said, voice flat and low.

you tilted your head, brushing back a strand of hair. “maybe not,” you replied, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “they didn’t want you to.”

for a moment, he seemed about to retreat into silence again. instead, he uncrossed his arms, hands opening at his sides. “i have fragments,” he murmured, gaze drifting upward as if recalling a distant memory. “dreams that aren’t mine. faces i can’t place.”

you leaned against a battered table, chest hollow with curiosity. the flicker of lamplight traced the curve of your cheek. “that’s why i think you’re resonating with something,” you said gently, tapping your pen against your notebook. he blinked slowly. “resonating?”

you nodded, warmth creeping into your tone as you explained. “in cursed memory theory, when an object or being is near a fragment of its origin, the memory responds—like a tuning fork.”

his lips parted, as though he wanted to argue, but the pause stretched into silence. finally, you asked, doubt threading your words, “and you think if we find the fourth, I’ll remember?”

his shoulders loosened fractionally. he met your eyes, and for once, there was something in them beyond ash. “no,” you added softly, letting the words settle between you, “i think you’ll feel.”

BLOODLINES, TEA STAINS, SOFTNESS

he doesn’t talk much, not at first. you spend your days parsing through old scrolls, obscure court records, kamo family history — most of it half-burned or politically redacted. he stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. You’re not sure if he’s observing you or guarding you.

then it becomes a routine.

you spend your days bent over ink-faded scrolls, tracing the jagged lines of kamo genealogy with a trembling fingertip. he stands just behind you—silent sentinel—arms folded, every muscle coiled like a spring. when a passage trips you up, you clear your throat and read it aloud, voice echoing against the chipped concrete. sometimes he hums under his breath, the note low and uncertain, as if testing how sound lingers here. other times he simply watches, eyes softening ever so slightly at the curve of your concentration.

one evening, the lamplight blinks out mid-sentence. your eyelids flutter shut before you can register the darkness. when you wake, your cheek is glued to the spine of a cursed register, and the room’s edges glow faintly in the after-hours lights. a paper cup blooms warm against your elbow.

“you were drooling on the 19th-century register,” choso says, voice hushed like he’s reluctant to break a spell.

you sit up with a soft groan, brushing crumbs of parchment from your sleeve. he’s cross-legged on the floor across the table. candlelight flickers across his face, revealing the barest lift at one corner of his mouth.

“you stayed?” you manage, voice thick with sleep and something like relief.

he shrugs, eyes shifting to the steaming cup. “didn’t want you to freeze.”

you tuck the scarf around your shoulders, careful not to disturb its pristine folds.

is this his scarf?

a gentle warmth settles in your chest, part gratitude, part something you don’t understand yet.

in daylight, you begin to fill that space with small curiosities. one afternoon, you twist in your seat and ask, “do you like sweet tea, or should i steep it longer next time?” your lips curve in a hopeful smile.

he glances at the scribbled teacup chart you taped to the wall—your makeshift flavor guide—and presses his lips together before answering. “sweet. just enough.”

you mark it down with a flourish, humming in approval.

another morning, you find him folding parchment scraps into neat piles. you lean over his shoulder, brushing a loose strand of hair from his braid. “what do you do when you’re not… here?”

his breath catches, as if surprised by the ease of the question. he pauses, fingers stilling on a corner of brittle paper. “train,” he says quietly. “or—” he hesitates, then adds, “think.”

you chuckled in amusement, , eyes bright. “thinking can be hard. sometimes it helps to talk it out.”

he doesn’t meet your gaze. you keep talking anyway, describing the way the sun falls across your favorite reading spot, the taste of your grandmother’s rice crackers. eventually, he looks at you again, each syllable of your stories turning the angles of his face a little gentler.

and then one afternoon, you offer him one of those rice crackers — golden studded with sesame seeds, cupped in your palm like an offering. he studies the simple snack, brows knitting, before lifting it to his lips and tasting. his shoulders loosen as he crunches softly, and a spark, uncertain but genuine, flickers in his dark eyes.

in that moment, the room feels smaller, warmer.

THE MOUTH OF FEAR

you don’t rush the research. you take your time. you go through the files together. on the nights it gets too heavy, choso makes tea without being asked. you cook plain meals and leave half out for him, knowing he probably won’t eat until hours later.

choso, on the other hand, is terrified, paranoid.

choso doesn’t sleep much. when he does, it’s never for long. he dreams of blood, mostly. the kind he understands: spilled, dried, humming with the memory of violence. it coats his hands, his mouth, his lungs. sometimes he wakes up choking on it, the taste of copper on his tongue. but lately, something’s changed.

the dreams are shifting. still fragmented, still dreamlike, but warmer. quieter. a thread of gentleness instilled through the carnage. there would be images of hands that cradle rather than crush. voices not screaming, not commanding, just… saying his name like it means something.

and always, he wakes feeling worse.

“i think your discomfort near certain artifacts isn’t coincidence, but resonance.” it was in the middle of the afternoon, another day in the research room.

he stares at you, pulse flattening under his skin like a drum caught in mid-beat.

“you think my body remembers things i don’t?”

you look at him then. steady. not like you’re trying to solve him, but like you already have a few pieces of the puzzle, and you're simply being patient with the rest.

“i think your soul does,” you say, voice careful but clear.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t let it show that the word hits like a curse.

he wants to laugh. wants to sneer. wants to disappear into the walls. but you’re still watching him, not flinching, not mocking.

soul. like he has one. like what’s left of him could be more than muscle and memory stitched together by blood and rage.

he crosses his arms, not out of defiance, but defense.

“you think i’m incomplete.”

it’s an accusation and he means for it to push you away.

but you don’t retreat. you soften.

“no,” you say, and it’s gentle in a way that guts him. “i think you were never given the full story.”

he looks at you, really looks — and for the first time, choso feels seen.

not as a cursed object. not as an echo of noritoshi kamo’s violence. but as a being caught between memory and blood.

and it terrifies him.

you terrify him

he tries not to watch. fails.

he tries not to listen. fails again.

he tells himself he’s just observing — staying alert. just in case.

but that’s not the truth. not even close.

the truth is: something about you terrifies him.

not because you're dangerous. but because you aren’t.

because you look at him like he’s more than a weapon. like he’s a question you want to understand. like he’s not beyond saving.

then, he starts walking you home.

it’s not official or discussed. it just begins one night after the cursed spirit incident; when it cornered you near the station, and you froze, and he stepped in like it was instinct. because it was. and ever since, something in him refuses to let you go alone.

you’d tried to laugh it off at the time, said it wasn’t a big deal, that you had it under control. you’d said it with your head tilted up like you believed it, but your hands had told a different story. shaking, tucked into your sleeves. he noticed. he notices everything.

he couldn’t sleep that night. not because he was afraid of more spirits or some unseen threat. no, what kept him awake was how his hands had trembled, not out of fear for his own life, but because something had snarled in your direction and he hadn’t been fast enough.

he didn’t know what that feeling was. not then. but it unsettled him more than anything else had.

so now, he walks beside you.

you argue the first few times, lightly, like it’s routine. “you really don’t have to do this,” you say with a little wave of your hand. “i’m not made of glass.”

“you’re not a fighter,” he replies, blunt as ever.

“you’re not a babysitter.”

the third time, you roll your eyes and say, “this is overkill, you know.”

the fifth time, you mutter, “you’re going to get bored of this.”

the seventh time, you sigh and say, “you could be doing anything else.”

you expect that to make him leave.

it doesn’t. he shrugs, barely looking at you, and says nothing more. but the next night, he’s there again, waiting at the same spot near the back exit of the research room. he’s always there now.

you get used to it faster than you expect. you even start adjusting your pace so he doesn’t have to slow down as much. sometimes you fill the silence with odd facts you picked up during the day. sometimes it’s a story about a cursed object someone mishandled or an old scroll that smelled like vinegar and regret. and sometimes… you don’t talk at all. just walk together, your steps syncing without effort.

he listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s real. not empty filler. when he hums in agreement, it’s because he’s thought about what you said. when he corrects you on an old name or a bloodline detail, he does it gently, never to embarrass, just to help.

he’s never been good with softness. not with receiving it, and definitely not with giving it. but it’s different with you. slower. quieter. and it scares the hell out of him.

tonight, it’s colder than usual. you blow into your hands and mutter something under your breath about forgetting your gloves again. he hesitates, wants to offer you his, but doesn’t. not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s not sure what it would mean if you accepted.

you walk slower than normal, and he matches your pace without thinking. when you reach your apartment building, you dig through your bag for your keys, muttering about how you always lose them at the bottom. he waits beside you, silent.

and then, without looking at him, you say it—like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t land sharp between his ribs.

“you don’t have to walk me every time, you know.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

“i know,” he says. “but i want to.” he looks away, blushing.

you go still. fingers frozen on your keyring. you don’t look at him, but your breath catches just slightly, and he catches it. he always does. you unlock the door, but you don’t go in right away. your hand lingers on the knob. just for a second. maybe two.

he says nothing. he doesn’t ask for more. but when the door finally swings shut behind you, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

then he turns around and walks back into the dark. his hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he’s bracing against the cold—but it’s not the cold that unsettles him. it’s not fear the way he used to know it. not the kind that comes from danger or death or memory.

no, this fear is quieter. it waits behind his ribs and curls around the edges of his thoughts.

it’s not the fear of being haunted anymore.

now, it’s the fear of wanting to stay.

CHANGES AND THE SHAPE OF QUIET THINGS

they've shut down the fucking research.

all that time and energy was for nothing, wasn't it?

when they shut down your research, you weren’t surprised. not really. you'd been waiting for the day someone told you to stop digging.

they didn’t even try to hide behind bureaucratic pretense. not fully. the committee’s statement had been thinly veiled, draped in language like “too dangerous” and “ethically irresponsible.” some claimed it disrespected the dead. others said your work “blurred the line between reverence and obsession.”

but you weren’t naive. you knew exactly what this was.

it was political.

it wasn’t the theory itself that scared them. not the part about residual memory or cursed bloodlines. no, it was what your findings implied. the idea that choso and his brothers were not aberrations, not tragic footnotes, but the intended outcome of something far uglier. something deliberate.

they didn’t want to rewrite history. didn’t want the sorcerer world questioning what it meant to be “man-made.”

you were supposed to pack it all up. leave quietly. pretend it had been an academic misstep. write something more palatable next time. something soft and unthreatening.

instead, you found yourself standing in front of choso in the archives, holding out a worn, overstuffed folder.

“i have nowhere else to take this,” you said, voice low, hands steady. “but i think you do.”

he didn’t take it right away. just looked at the folder like it was burning in your hands. like it was both too heavy and too familiar. his eyes were hard to read — they always were. not because he was cold, but because he had learned to keep his grief folded inside, like a letter he didn’t dare open. but you’d been around him long enough to know the silence wasn’t disinterest. it was consideration.

finally, he said, “you’re coming with me.”

you blinked. “sorry?”

he looked up then, brows drawn. not annoyed, just confused, like he couldn’t understand why that needed clarification.

“you know too much,” he said. “they’ll come for you. you’ll need someone to protect you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you could handle yourself, that you’d lived among cursed records and forgotten truths for years without needing a bodyguard. but the words didn’t come. because the truth was, you hadn’t felt scared until now.

on that night, you packed what you could into a duffel bag and followed him.

he didn’t rush you. just stood by the door, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes somewhere distant. not impatient — just alert. like he couldn’t let himself settle until you were out of that building, and out of their reach.

the apartment he brought you to was in the outer edges of shinjuku — the kind of place no one paid attention to. third floor walk-up. rusty balcony. cursed energy traces so low you had to actively search for them. the front lock stuck if you didn’t jiggle it just right. the water pressure was terrible.

choso didn’t say much as you unpacked. he stood near the door like he’d only just arrived too, arms folded, eyes scanning the walls like they might shift. like he was still waiting for something — someone — to come crashing through. even in stillness, his body braced for violence. you didn’t mind the silence. you filled it carefully, humming under your breath as you shelved your books, folding clothes into corners, trying not to disturb the odd peace that hovered between you.

your mind is going insane. you don't know how you had agreed to this living situation; to a guy you know you are weak to. you're used to being calculated, never taking chances impulsively. but with him, it feels like everything will be alright. it's because of him.

just like you, he wasn’t used to sharing space. but somehow, it worked..

choso didn’t crowd. didn’t hover. didn’t ask why you sometimes left notes in the margins of your own research like you were talking to yourself. he just started sitting at the edge of the table while you worked, arms draped over the back of the chair, watching the way your brow furrowed when you were deep in thought.

sometimes he’d pick up a page and study it in silence. his fingers were gentle with the paper, as if it might bruise.

“what does this part mean?” he’d ask, voice low, thumb resting on a line like it mattered.

you explained patiently, even when you were tired. even when the words felt too big or too broken. he listened like listening was a form of worship. like your theories were scripture and he was trying to relearn the world through them.

you started noticing the little things.

the way he always washed his cup after using it, even if it was just water. the way he swept the balcony without being asked, even though no one could see it. the way he never slammed a door. like loudness made him ache.

and slowly — clumsily — he started trying.

one morning, there was a piece of fruit on the counter you hadn’t bought. another night, a pair of slippers had appeared beside yours. he never mentioned them. just looked away, a little too fast, when your gaze lingered.

one evening, as you sat hunched over your notes, your head aching, he returned from a grocery run and set down a small, beat-up box in front of you. inside: a cheap heat pack, a pack of those terrible-but-comforting convenience store cookies, and a bottle of green tea.

“you were frowning yesterday,” he said, like it explained everything. “i thought maybe this would help.”

it was stiff. awkward. but...painfully sincere.

you just looked up at him and smiled — soft and slow.

“thank you,” you said.

he blinked. then nodded. once. briskly. like he wasn’t used to the words being for him.

after that, he got bolder. in his own way.

a hand resting on your back for a second too long when he moved past you in the kitchen. a folded towel left on your desk after you spilled tea on yourself. once, when you fell asleep on the couch with your notes still in your lap, you woke up tucked under a blanket that wasn’t yours.

he pretended not to notice when you smiled at him the next morning.

you didn’t push. didn’t name it. love, for people like you and choso, had never come loud. it arrived in pauses, in half-gestures, in the space between breath and language.

and choso — for all his quiet, all his grief — began to soften.

not all at once.

but slowly, gently.

like winter learning how to become spring.

he said goodnight once. whispered it when he thought you were already asleep. the word caught in the air like it had startled even him.

you heard it. didn’t move. but the next morning, you left him half a mug of coffee, black, just the way he drank it.

he didn’t say anything. just drank it quietly. and stayed close the rest of the day.

you stopped keeping your research in piles. started keeping it in a single binder marked with both your names. he noticed. didn’t say anything. but you found him flipping through it that night with the softest expression on his face, something like reverence, something like fear.

the apartment was still falling apart. the ceiling still leaked when it rained. the wind still howled through the thin walls like a curse waiting to return.

but when you looked over at choso, shoulders finally unbowed, eyes soft with something he hadn’t named — it didn’t feel haunted anymore.

it felt like home.

spring has came, but still, the nights felt almost as cold as winter.

you’d been living there for weeks now. maybe months. it was hard to tell. time moved differently when survival wasn’t the first priority.

choso had softened in increments. it didn’t come easy, not when he was built from grief and blood and the weight of too many memories that weren’t entirely his. but he tried. in his own way.

he brought home groceries when you forgot. set your favorite mug on the table when you looked tired. asked if you’d eaten, but only when you weren’t looking at him. and sometimes in the rare, quiet moments, he’d sit across from you at the table and just… be there. in the same room. breathing the same silence.

you, on the other hand, had grown louder. not obnoxiously so but lighter, easier with your words. you joked more. nudged his shoulder with yours when he was being too serious. sometimes you sang under your breath when you were cooking, just to see if he’d react.

he never did. not really.

tonight, the draft through the cracked bathroom window had gotten worse, and the space heater choso kept in the corner of the main room clicked uselessly when you tried to turn it on. the landlord didn’t respond to messages. not that either of you had expected him to.

still, the apartment had taken on a strange kind of warmth, not from anything mechanical, but from the rhythm of two people learning how to be around each other without armor. your socks drying by the heater. his jacket hanging by the door. mugs left out on the counter in pairs, not one.

the living room had become a shared space, half cluttered with your research, half overtaken by whatever scraps of domesticity you both allowed yourselves to claim. choso never said it, but you’d caught him fixing a broken table leg once, muttering under his breath. he still refused to take the bed. insisted the couch was “fine,” even though he barely fit on it.

you didn’t argue anymore. not with words, at least.

and still — still — it ached. the feeling you’d been carrying. this soft, constant wanting. the kind that didn’t ask for permission. you’d grown used to the sight of him, tired and thoughtful and quietly kind, but never enough. he’d brush past you to reach a book, and your breath would hitch. he’d glance at you during breakfast like he wanted to say something, and your chest would tighten.

you loved him. you knew that now. and you weren’t sure when it had happened — only that it had rooted itself in you like a quiet, stubborn bloom.

tonight, the power flickered once, then died entirely.

you lit a few candles and found the emergency blanket. choso was sitting by the window, arms folded, staring out into the dark city. the glow hit the side of his face in soft orange, and for a second, he didn’t look like a weapon. he looked like something quieter. something tired and beautiful.

“no update from the grid,” you said, settling down beside him on the floor. “could be out for hours.”

he grunted in response.

you sat in silence for a moment. the kind that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. full of all the things neither of you had said.

then, after a pause — “come here,” he murmured.

you blinked. “what?”

he didn’t look at you. “you’re freezing.”

you hesitated. then crawled under the blanket he’d opened, tucking yourself beside him. your knees touched. then your thigh. you felt his breath falter the second your shoulder pressed to his.

you didn’t move away. neither did he.

you turned to look at him, your face too close. his eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest second — so quick you almost missed it.

“you’re shivering,” he murmured.

“no shit,” you replied, but it came out softer than you meant it to.

and maybe that was it. maybe the softness was what broke something open. because the next second, his hand rose, tentative, slow and brushed your cheek.

his fingers were cold. and you leaned into them anyway.

“you don’t have to—” he started.

“i want to,” you said.

the look he gave you then made your stomach twist. like he’d been holding his breath since the first night you showed up with a duffel bag and tired eyes. like he was scared touching you might undo him completely.

you kissed him first.

it was clumsy. a little too fast. his nose bumped yours, and your teeth clicked, and you laughed against his mouth because of course he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

but then he kissed you back and everything slowed.

his touch was reverent. unsure. like you were something he’d found, not something he could keep. he held you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

but you answered it anyway.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him in again, and felt the way he exhaled like he’d been waiting years for this.when you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. quiet. breath warm against your skin.

“you’re still shivering,” he said.

you smiled. “then maybe we should get even closer.”

his ears turned red.

choso sat stiffly beside you, arms still tight around himself like he didn’t quite believe what had happened. like he was worried you’d disappear if he looked at you too long.

“you okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded once. then again, like he had to convince himself. “yeah. just… thinking.”

you let the silence stretch.

he was always like this, heavy with thought, cautious with words. you’d learned to read the quiet between his sentences. to wait. so you did.

he shifted a little, turning toward you, eyes flicking to your face and then away again. he was blushing, you could see it even in the dim light, the faint red creeping over his cheekbones like warmth he didn’t know how to hold.

“i’m not good at this,” he said suddenly. “this—” he gestured vaguely between you. “being close to people.”

you smiled gently. “you’re doing fine.”

he huffed. a little sharp. but not annoyed ,embarrassed. “you say that, but you’re… easy to be around. and i’m—”

“a little weird,” you teased.

he blinked. then, to your surprise, he laughed. soft and low, the sound curling in your chest like a match catching flame.

“yeah,” he admitted. “a little weird.”

you nudged his shoulder. “i like weird.”

his smile faltered, just a little. and when he looked at you again, something unguarded flickered across his face.

“when you first moved in, i thought it’d be temporary,” he said. “that they’d come after you. that i’d have to protect you, then… send you somewhere safer.”

your heart clenched. “and now?”

he hesitated. swallowed hard. “now i don’t want you to leave.”

the words landed with a kind of softness you hadn’t expected. just honest.

he ran a hand through his hair; nervous, a little twitchy. “you make the apartment feel different. lighter. like… i don’t know. like it’s not just a hiding place anymore.”

you felt your chest tighten.

“you make me feel different,” he added, quieter now. “less like a curse. more like—someone.”

your fingers reached for his without thinking. he didn’t pull away. just stared, wide-eyed, as your hand slid into his.

“you are someone, choso,” you said. “you always were.”

he looked down at your joined hands. blinked slowly.

then, clumsily, awkwardly, he said, “i think i like you. i mean, i know i like you. but it’s not just that. i think about you a lot. not in a weird way. okay, sometimes in a weird way. but not bad-weird. good-weird. like… i want to make you tea before you wake up, kind of weird.”

you snorted. actually snorted.

he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “fuck. that was so bad.”

“no,” you said, laughing now. “that was...adorable. you want to make me tea before i wake up?”

“not anymore,” he grumbled into his palms. “now i want to evaporate.”

you leaned into him, rested your head on his shoulder.

he froze.

but only for a second.

then slowly, carefully — he tilted his head until it rested against yours. not perfect. a little stiff. but real.

“i like you too,” you said softly. “even when you talk about tea like it’s a grand confession.”

he let out a shaky breath. “it kind of was.”

you smiled into his shirt. “i know.”

outside, the wind howled down the narrow alley. the broken heater clicked once and gave up again.

but inside, everything felt warm. maybe not from the blanket. maybe not from the tea he swore he’d never make now. but from him. from the way his pinky hooked around yours. from the way he pressed the tiniest kiss into your hair like it took everything in him to do it.

and from the quiet that followed: not awkward, not tense.

just full.

like a silence you could live inside.

and maybe you would.

[utilitycaster]

I remember a post you made about how Sam is good at flavoring mechanics story wise, like singing his bardic inspirations, and a different post you made about how Marisha has seemed to struggle a bit with character motivations, and also how Laura was being conflict averse this campaign. What do you think each player’s biggest strengths and weaknesses are?

I think I may have answered this elsewhere but it's certainly not tagged in a useful manner and I am currently on a train meandering through the dumb state of Connecticut so:

Sam is as mentioned very good at knowing what makes a good story and specifically good entertainment. However, I think he tends to be one of the cast members who most wants very clear GM guidance; his boldest move was in fact one that required GM involvement and pre-approval. Honestly these are two sides of the same coin; caring about the audience is good, but caring too much can be an issue.

Marisha, yeah, I think tends to lean towards very loose/find it along the way character concepts and I think she actually does better when there is a stronger structure for her character. I'm going to be honest - prior to Campaign 3 I'd say her strength was interpersonal relationships, and to be fair the interpersonal aspect in C3 for everyone was kind of a mess so it's not specifically her (and if future works are good I'll write it off as just One Bad Campaign/specific to one character and return to this as her strength), but as is, not so much as a player, but I do genuinely believe she is excellent at creative direction. I think her switch to pandemic programming was one of the strongest and smoothest I saw in the actual play industry (granted, limited) and I think most shows CR has done that haven't gone over well have been issues of scheduling or uh. fandom entitlement, more than any missteps on her part.

Laura's weakness is definitely nonconfrontation/worrying that she is doing the right thing. (She and Sam are not dissimilar in that, but Sam counterbalances it by embracing failure and she also struggles with letting a character fail). Marisha benefits from structure, as with Keyleth, and Laura benefits from having a character that either lets her turn those anxieties off, like Jester, or who leans into that being the character's fear, like Vex. Her strength is that she is one of the strongest actors in the cast if not the strongest (Laura, Travis, and Ashley tend to top my personal list in terms of sheer acting chops). Even when I've found her characters frustrating I've found her acting compelling, hence what I said about soap operas that one time.

Liam's weakness is, and this is extremely a personal preference - all are, but whereas I can make a semi-objective case for many of the others this is just me, being sappy as hell. I had difficulty with Vax for this precise reason while still generally enjoying the character's motivation and arc; Liam is in my opinion at his best when he deliberately goes for more restrained or antagonistic characters. Like, there's a time to be big and cheesy (eg, the final scene switch of friends around a table in the Chicago live show) but my taste is more sparing perhaps than most (for metaphorical cheese. not for real cheese). His strength I think is also kind of the flip of this coin; he is exceptionally collaborative. I think it's no coincidence that the twins and Caleb and Veth are two of the most enduring duos of "characters who came in together" or that he's managed to do successful romances with NPCs or with a guest actor; during C1 and C2 he was really good at drawing in Ashley when she returned from extended absences.

Taliesin's strength is that he has some of the most interesting and weird character concepts that lend humanity to people who would often be denied it by a narrative - the creator of a horrible weapon; someone literally without a soul; a gutter punk - and he commits to them whole-heartedly, even the uglier parts. I think his weakness is honestly kind of similar to Matt's DM weakness, which is that he straight up has maybe a completely random chance of properly clocking someone else's character's motivations. Like, either he absolutely gets it (eg, Vex) or he says things on Talks or 4SD about other people's characters that make me go "????" and then the actor for the other character goes "????" and I'm like oh ok I'm not wrong. (This perhaps most easily demonstrated with Shardgate, which, great moment, absolutely tops, but the fact that Taliesin the Player thought Matt was doing anything BUT signaling "DON'T FUCKING DO THIS" is ????? to me and always will be; I cannot see how he could have made that more clear.)

Travis, frankly, just Gets It, like, I think the Age of Umbra session zero is demonstrative of him just being able to immediately get to the core of a work. He's strong mechanically, he's strong as an actor, he is able to generate plot hooks from pretty much anything (RIP sidequests from Novos, in a different campaign you would have been great), and he is unafraid to take big swings. He's definitely made choices I am personally less into, but honestly my only real criticism is that he sometimes plays a more jokey character in between the Fjord, Cerrit, Nathaniel types that I prefer (and even then, Grog and Chetney go at least five times harder then their concepts would imply, and it is an error to dismiss them as jokes).

Ashley is also as mentioned a very strong actor, and I also think she is unheralded as a worldbuilder for her characters; Pike, Yasha, and Fearne all have characters or locations associated with them who, even when she's had limited screentime or the story has followed other paths, feel incredibly real. I also think that she's grown a lot mechanically over the course of C3 and shows a lot of promise and I'm interested in seeing what she does with Daggerheart. I think she can be indecisive; as mentioned, I don't really blame her in C3 for a number of reasons not to mention she does a great job of integrating that as a character concept, but I really do want to see her make bolder moves.