#this is kinda bad... forgive me for my shitty writing

[zer0brainc3lls]

I sleep so I can see you 'cause I hate to wait so long

story summary: Thomas struggles with heart wrenching loneliness. this manifests in this dreams through blonde hair and touches that never happened. (this drabble is inspired by this post!)

TW LIST: depictions of grief. (if you are struggling with grief please reach out.)

genre: canon compliance, hurt/no comfort. (seriously this is just sad sad sad. no happiness here. you have been warned!)

word count: 971

Thomas found himself in the map room as he did on many days, his hand cramping from writing while his eyes burnt from lack of sleep. If his gaze could burn the maps before him, they would have been in an uproar of fire 3 hours ago. The thought of resting his head, just for a moment, even though he knows the outcome, comes to him and he gives into the impulsive urge as he has many times before. Knowing his future self will scold him for the pain in his neck come daylight. 

He doesn't hear the uneven footsteps enter the room, or the presence behind him. A quiet chuckle fills the room that sounds so distant, yet so calming he doesn't question the source as his eyelids grow heavy. Just as his vision grows dark he feels lean hands rest on his shoulders, he mumbles incoherently as familiar fingers find their way into his hair, rubbing and scratching his scalp softly. 

“How many times do I gotta drag you outta this room, hmm tommy?” Newt’s voice is so far away yet so close, as if the sound came from his own brain instead of the boy's pale lips. The brunette merely hums in response, in his dazed state wishing for the fingers to never leave his tangled hair. A warmth washes over his body, a smile playing on his lips comfortably at the blonde's presence. 

As if that single thought brought the action to life, lean fingers slip away from his head, a grumble of annoyance making Thomas’s throat wobble. He distantly listens as Newt presumably grabs a chair, the chair coming to his left, Newt places himself in said chair and must be facing him, because even as Thomas's arms cover his face he can feel a sad gaze on him. A moment passes in complete silence, Thomas’s gut clenches for some odd reason, somehow knows once the silence is lifted.. Something will happen. 

He lifts his head, Newt in his peripheral vision as he faces forward, Newt resting his head on his arms facing thomas. His cheek squished against his forearm. He sees Newt raise his head, now resting his chin against the palm of his hand. Thomas presses his face back in his own arms, his inside of his arms almost shielding him from whatever near future makes him so sick. Newt rests a hand on the back of Thomas’s neck, his touch soft and gentle, coaxing Thomas’s head to come up.

Thomas sits with his shoulders slumped, his eyes on the incoherent writing in front of him. “I told you to take care of yourself.” Newt says almost as kind as his touch, his scolding light. Thomas can't pull the memory from his brain where Newt would have said that, his chest throbs at the words either way. 

Newt’s hand slips away from Thomas’s nape, his neck feeling much colder as the touch ends. Much to Thomas's delight, Newt cups Thomas's cheek and pulls his face to make Thomas face his gaze. “You need to leave me.” Newt’s words sound drowned, as if they were underwater. Thomas opens his mouth to speak, the words he wishes so desperately to say unable to be vocalized. 

im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry he thought. He doesn't practically know what he's sorry for. 

Newt’s other hand makes its way to the other side of Thomas’s face, the brunette leans into the touch desperately, trying to soak in the feeling. Before he knows it tears spill from his eyes which the blonde wipes away without a second thought, the only thing holding Thomas steady is hands on his face. The only thing that will ever keep him steady. 

Newt came closer, despite the fact how badly Thomas wished to meet him halfway his body seemed to be frozen, he felt frozen. The only thing not impossibly cold being Newt’s hands. Newt brought his lips in between Thomas’s furrowed brows, a shaky sigh escapes Thomas. The kiss is impossibly gentle and lingers for an impossible amount of time, Thomas feels himself slipping from the moment, being pulled away from the oh so lovely feeling of Newt’s hands and lips. 

Newt pulls away, once he does the blonde presses his forehead against Thomas's. “So much guilt, even while you sleep?” 

Thomas opens his eyes and doesn't find blonde hair and freckled skin, he finds darkness and a damp pillow. 

His heart is racing, hammering into his ribs, his breathing no slower. Thomas realizes in his sleep he brought a pillow in between his arms, he stretches his arm out instinctively, reaching out for the warmth of Newt’s body.

…

Oh.

Right. 

It's been almost two weeks since arriving at the safe haven, he almost always wakes up strangling onto something. Whether that be pillows, sheets or his own waist in a quite pathetic manner. He remembers when he used to wake up to a sore back or neck from sleeping in cars and up against walls, even now, in his bed he would give anything to go back because any amount of discomfort would be worth it to wake up to the scent of mint and the feeling of Newt’s warm body against him. 

His chest shakes, his lip wobbles as he tries to fight back a sob. He pulled the pillow closer to his chest and the thought of Newt’s head resting in his lap, smiling up at him with a slightly crooked tooth smile broke the dam. He clenched his eyes shut bringing his legs to his chest, becoming as small as possible as he wept. The forever now carved into his bones chipped deeper and deeper until it felt as if he would never move again, he was forever stuck with stinging eyes and wobbly cries.

Authors Note: yeah i told you this was sad. this was supposed to be a warm up for a night time writing sesh then i got distracted.. ate.. watched youtube.. and suddenly it was 10 o'clock. sorry guys 😭 im sorry i haven't updated any of my wips in weeks.. please take this as a formal apology I'm tryna get back into my writing game :( anyways tell me what you think (if your not sobbing to hard like our boy thomas here. bro cannot catch a break.)

(anyone interested in my compass IT IS NOT ABANDONED. I PROMISE. also expect rage filled Newt next chapter hehehehe)

[moldy-flowers]

The interesting experience of being pro Sasuke, anti konoha, pro tobirama, anti Naruto ending, pro Sasusaku, anti Itachi, pro Sakura, anti SasuNaru, pro Tobirama×Izuna, anti Madara, pro karin, anti Orochimaru, pro Uchiha and anti Hashirama. And also as much as I hate the guy danzo was kind of hot when he was younger...

[acaciapines]

i need to talk about the dess raises kris au. or im gonna explode.

[anniflamma]

have you read (or did you enjoy) madeline miller's song of achilles? your post about the shitty book made me think to ask, cause i've been wanting to get into retelling/modern writing, but don't know where to start lol

So I don’t think I’m the right person to ask whether you should read The Song of Achilles or not. XD

I have read the book… buuut… I kinda didn’t finish it. Thing is, the book is good, no, really! Even though I dropped it, that doesn’t mean it’s a bad book per se, it’s just that I realized it wasn’t really written for me, and I lost interest in continuing.

There are a lot of good things in the book that I makes me genuinely recommend it. Miller has a fantastic way of describing emotions in a poetic, almost abstract manner. She paints scenes and moments beautifully, and I think that’s true the highlight of The Song of Achilles. So my verdict is you should give it a try! If not, then I'll could recommend you The Prince’s Psalm by Eric Shaw Quinn. Simply due to it's one of my favorites.

If you looking for something shorter, then Medusa by Jessie Burton.

Here’s the "nag section" (in case anyone’s curious why I dropped The Song of Achilles):

So the downside? The way Miller writes the queer relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is… very… very… heteronormative. It’s extremely clear that Patroclus is the "woman" and Achilles is the "man" in their dynamic. When they’re intimate, Achilles is the one doing and spurting, while Patroclus experiences "floral feelings" in his nether regions. The book isn’t explicit, but the text often accidentally describes them having straight sex. XD

There were so many moments while reading where I’d pause and think, "Oh, I can tell this is written by a straight woman who really likes the idea of a housewife." That’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just the vibe I got. For comparison, when I read The Prince’s Psalm by Eric Shaw Quinn, I kept thinking, "This is written by a gay man who really loves tall, broad-shouldered, masculine men who make him feel small." It’s oddly similar to each other, Patroclus and David share the same character traits. Both are small insecure men, it’s just that the authors take different approaches to how they depict it.

The reason I dropped The Song of Achilles was that I just wasn’t interested in Patroclus being portrayed as this sweet, insecure, self-hating boy who sits in the tent all day and gets happy when Achilles comes back after a hard earnd work in the battlefield. I expected something more fluid in their dynamic. Don’t get me wrong, insecure protagonists are fine! For example, in The Prince’s Psalm, David is insecure too, but he also resents being seen as fragile by other men around him. The book explores that tension in David and Jonathan’s relationship. David kills Goliath not out of honor or duty, but because he wants to prove Jonathan wrong, even spite him, he did it out of anger. David is insecure, which also makes him envious. He gets angry easily but also quick to forgive. He is an romantic person, who loves the idea of Jonathan proposing to him and being swept up but he also wants to be seen as a "manly" man. He is faithful but when he have the conversation with Jonathan about their bounderies, they come to the conclution together who they can sleep with, no men and only women if you are married to them. David changes and the irony with it is that his change is also a cause why Jonathan died.

For Patroclus, I think he is very flat. He is incesure and he is a good boy. And sadly I really don't remember if there was anything else than that. Most of his reaction is based on Achilles actions. The reason why he is good with fighting is cuz gods are helping him. The reason why Achilles like Patroclus so much is... I don't know really, the text only describes how pretty Achilles is, it very superficial. Patroclus likes Achilles becasue Achilles isnt Patroclus.

Here’s the funny thing…

After all that, I still recommend The Song of Achilles! There's a reason why there are so many retelling books now. I genuinely believe The Prince's Psalm wouldn't have been published if The Song of Achilles hadn't existed. The book is a romanticization, and it was written around 2008 or so. That explains why Miller wrote them like that. I see the heteronormative dynamic between Achilles and Patroclus as simply a product of its time.

[glitter-stained]

Another day another ask mysteriously disappearing from my inbox when i'm about to hit post on the reply

Anyway the question was basically "what do you think of the "Jason isn't able to get over his death while bruce is capable of forgiving joe chill and sitting by him as he dies" take and doesn't it sound a little like the "everybody died he ain't special " take?"

Why yes. Yes it does sound like that. My thoughts on that idea, in no particular order:

- it's almost 2025 are we still placing moral judgement on characters based on the comparison between how they're enduring their trauma what happened to the universal singularity of human suffering what happened to not comparing apples and bananas weren't we taught not to do that in elementary school

-Is this about the Three Joker comics? It sounds like it is, anyway uh that comics is not mainline (and has pretty shitty writing imo), in mainline even in his least flattering runs (ie Battle for the Cowl) Jason hasn't gone postal because of his death in a while (in BTFC it was Bruce's death and the mention of the "unresolved dark horrors of his childhood" triggering a bad parody of some sort of psychotic break) so like i guess criticizing Jason for something he isn't doing is kinda strange

-if anything Bruce is the one "not over" Jason's death considering the flashback he had right at the beginning of Failsafe arc (though of course demanding he just gets over the trauma of holding his dead son's corpse is just as absurd as demanding Jason gets over the trauma of having died)

-honestly staying by Chill's side as he died was pretty cool and heroic on Bruce's part, totally agreed, that was badass of him to not let him die alone despite his trauma. That being said can we please stop tying morality to the concept of forgiveness? Implying there's a goodness of heart to forgiving/getting over your trauma is weird, it way too puch pressure on the victim, we should stop with the "good victim/bad victim" narrative, martyrdom culture is harmful. If forgiving Chill helped Bruce, cool for him, Jason is in no obligation to forgive Joker, and also Bruce forgiving Chill =/= staying by his side as he died, those are two separate things

-if we're comparing coping we have to compare resources, what does Jason's support system at that time compared to Bruce? Should we make a tally to see who has more friends especially close ones? We both know who will win but also that it's a completely stupid and pointless arrangement, how many apples and oranges must we compare before we conceptualize that it's not the same fruit?

-in terms of personal taste, I find placing moral judgement on characters is about the least interesting analysis angle I can imagine, like, congrats, you've established Angel McPerfect is a better person than Asshole McInteresting! Now multiply me by one and subtract zero.

-kinda hilarious to criticise Jason for not getting over his death and compare that to the coping of a man who dresses as a bat to cope with something that happened thirty years ago. Like if he's so over his trauma why is he wearing pointy ears

-also, obviously, the idea that characters should just "get over their trauma" is insanely dumb. Trauma is like a wound. It can scar, if treated properly, and then the scar will always be there. Imagine telling someone they should get cosmetic surgery because "we get it, you got stabbed, you don't have to shove it in my face every time I look at you." Or telling someone whose wound got infected "why can't you be more like this guy? Look, his stab wound is all healed nice and clean by now. It's like you're not even trying !"

Anyway I hope that answers your question and you have a good day anon, I agree with you that that take is weird, I truly don't understand the reasoning beside "i don't like jason". Idk maybe these people just need to...chill.

[pawpatrollss]

Cat disaster!

jschlattxfem!reader

Summary: You had just moved in togehter, what you did not stop to think about was the now three cats causing mahem.

Warning: my bad writing, and I did not check my spelling at all so DON’T come for me!”

Boxes were still everywhere, you and schlatt ate from paperplates or ordered in everyday and slept on the blow up mattress that was already broken.(thanks to jambo..)

Life was great basically.

You had been dating for almost a year before deciding to move in together into a new place in New York. But what you both hadn’t stopped to think about was the now three cats running around the apartment.

Jambo was usually the chill one, but ”burnt soup” and your cat megatron(named by schlatt obv) which was still a kitten, tried to make everything difficult for you two every single day.

”NO! DOWN! i swear to fucking god megatron i will throw you off the balcony.”

Was the first thing you heard opening the apartment door, coming back from the grocery store.

”what is happe-”

The next thing you saw was the tv going down the table and screen first onto the hardwood floor and a horrible crash could be heard, the cats bolted around the place.

”I SWEAR-” Schlatt started before letting out a harsh sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

”Well, it was a pretty shitty tv?” You hesitated to say seeing the foul mood schlatt was in today.

You were both exhausted from the move and the shitty matress thats was like a carpet now didn’t exactly promise the best sleep.

”..yeah i guess it was” schlatt sighed again but slightly laughed.

Megatron the little shit rubbed herself gainst schlatt leg and meowing at him.

”You little shit” He laughed considering actually throwing the cat out the window but decided not to since you would probably not be too happy with him.

You put the groceries away in the kitchen before jumping down on the couch closing your eyes for a second. Then some small feet could be felt walking over your stomach and then a small body collapse against your neck.

Opening one eye you saw the little furry fucker lay basically under your nose all snuggled up. You gave the cat some scratches and she purred loudly.

”She cost us a whole new ass tv and just fucks off and gets cuddles with MY girl?!” Schlatt exclaimed lifting his arms up pointing to the cat before letting them fall back dowm and hit the sides of his legs loudly.

”She’s just a baby?” You said in a disgusting baby voice kissing the top of megatrons head and smiling at schlatt at his irritaded form. It was kinda funny.

”No. No, that’s not- jesus I give up..” He said before plobbing down on the couch next to you. Hungergames was still playing on your laptop from before you had left for the store.

Megatron stirred from her slumber and crawled over to schlatt’s lap instead.

”See she’s saying sorry!” You said laughing at his now even more irritaded face, well he tried to stay irritaded at the adorable cat. But ended up failing misserbly.

”Fine, i forgive you, you little fucker.” He said pulling the kitten closer to himself.

You gave schlatt a small kiss on the cheak before turning back to the laptop that was purched on the coffee table.

”Jambo don’t get too close to that or it will fa-”

Crash, glass shatter, and a scream was the noice next.

You were now the one who LOST it, so you scremead into schlatt shoulder.

Schlatt bursted out laughing, probably cause this was your laptop not his. He kissed your temple before getting up to clean the mess away.

”I hate everyone..”

[1111111122sthings]

Ivti love never lies au.

So. If you dont know what love never lies is, then im happy for you its a shitty reality show where six couples compete for a large sum of money. The catch is, they are asked intrusive and drama causing questions about their relationship under lie detector. Whichever couple has the least lies at the end of the show wins. (Forgive me if anything is wrong, i watched a single episode like 3 years ago and the rest i know is from my friend).

Now, insert Ivan and Till. Both 20 something, friends since forever. Ivan generally doing well in life, financially stable, obviously hopelessly in love since like forever. Then there's Till who's barely scraping by, just lost another (shitty) job and his art doesn't make enough to cover life expenses. So when he spots an advertisement on social media about the show, he has a great idea.

He will go there with Ivan, pretending to be a couple.

In his mind, it's a great idea. While all real couples will be killing each other, avoiding questions, Till can easily grab the prize. Why? Because he and Ivan are always honest with each other. Besides, it's not like there are any real feelings involved, so it won't hurt anyone. Right?

Right.

Oh, and also free vacation on a tropical island sounds like heaven.

Ivan agrees right away, because a) getting to pretend to be Till's boyfriend isn't a chance you get everyday, and b) it's not like this lie detector is real, the producers say true or false deciding which will spike the views. His true feelings won't be revealed.

At first everything goes well, they even have fun. Ivan is elated since he gets to be affectionate with Till. Till? He finds out he doesn't mind. Hell, he even likes it. And in the following days he finds out some other things about himself.

See, in this show theres something called villa of temptation and villa of doubt (yes, it's really called something like that). Basically couples are separated, one person goes to villa of temptation full of hot singles there to tempt them while the other is in the villa of doubt watching the footage of the other. So, Ivan goes to the former and Till to the latter. And even though Ivan is just friendly talking with people there, Till finds himself... jealous? It doesn't make any sense, they're not even really dating. He isn't into Ivan. Sure, he knows him better than all other people, he's attractive (conventionally!!! conventionally!!!) and Till likes to be around him but that doesn't mean anything. At all.

But there has to be a time when Till is finally forced to confront his feelings. They're subjected to the lie detector again (the questions so far weren't too bad). After being accused of "no real chemistry going on between them" Till is asked:

"Do you really love Ivan?"

And he is like "?????????" like full brain freeze mental screenshot cause what he is supposed to say to that??? He doesn't. This whole relationship isn't real. They promised they would be honest and would win this show.

So he chokes out a "no".

The screen displays a big "FALSE".

×××

Bonus:

-ivan gets the same question about Till, obviously says yes (true) and till just doesnt know what to do. (Hes kinda stupid but he will figure it out)

-hyuluka are there too and they are even more dramatic. Endless arguing.

-the Hot Single TM supposed to tempt ivan is dewey. Hyuna (who is there too) finds it hilarious and dewey ends up unintentionally not making 1 but 2 (till and luka) people jealous

Somebody..... Write that please

[vivgst]

COD Headcanons

I mean they're not hc it's just shit I think they say/do but I needed the title okay?

As I previously said this is just my silly little opinion, I would love to read yours but don't take this too personal and I'm saying this cause Imma bout to write SHIT about two characters and I'm scared cause they're loved by the whole fandom.

Okay thats all thanks<3333

Let's start with my favorite piece of shit, shall we?

Alejandro Vargas

I don't care what yall say this man is a CHEATER and he would make you feel guilty about it too because you're not "meeting his needs".

“I’m not sexist???? We cannot do the same things, it's basic biology!”

Maybe he's good in bed, let's give him that.

Alain meza said he loved Rudy so let's assume he's bi, uh... he wouldn't admit that shit, not in a million years, probably would get offended if you even dare to suggest it.

He doesn’t argue to fix things, he argues to repeat how much in the right he is, I feel like he NEVER admits he’s in the wrong, he seems very stubborn.

Now can we address that fucking temper of his? Breathe mf, no ones gonna die if you stop yelling for a second.

I feel like he must’ve had A LOT of trouble when he just joined the army because of his anger issues, think about it for a moment: someone with a higher rank yelling at him and you think he just took it? I doubt it.

MUST HAVE fought with Valeria more than once cause that temper of hers is just as shitty.

I promise I don’t hate him, well I do but he’s one of my favs, I don’t know how to explain this bye.

Simon Riley

He’s very chill I love him <3

I think of him like a very nostalgic man, he thinks a lot about his past, past lovers, past experiences, when he was new in the army, you know? Not in a “I’m still traumatized” way, he’s just nostalgic.

He’s absent minded, he’s always daydreaming (when he’s not doing something important ofc).

Thin and I don’t fucking care, THAT MAN IS THIN, you can even see it sometimes!!!! He’s got chicken legs, I love them.

He really seems to enjoy dad jokes.

He cares a lot about his teammates and I love it, it’s very cute.

Can we talk about how everyone put him as a fucking beast in bed? I don't see it, I think he's ruthless when he needs to but I don't think this applies when it comes to sex, he suffered a lot too and sadly I know too well that sex is pretty fucking terrible after rape, especially because you feel like you're gonna hurt the person you're having sex with so...

John MacTavish

Typa guy everyone loves, even your dad and your grandma's always saying how handsome he is.

Maybe he was bullied bc of his accent but he just told them to go fuck themselves.

Caring and loving, buys his partner flowers and their favorite candy/chocolates/desserts.

Remembers anniversaries, birthdays, medical or school appointments.

Too charismatic and funny.

Kyle Garrick

He’s too good for his own good… I feel like he always end up going out with INSANE people, the jealous type, they’re always bitching and making him angry and stressed but he forgives them cause he’s an angel.

Very sweet, loves cooking for people he loves.

Kinda family oriented.

He smells good, I can almost smell his perfumeeeeee he smells good, he spends MONEY on it too.

Even the devil is afraid of him when he’s mad.

I think he's very private about his life in general, doesn't like to vent his problems.

Hot lover.

John Price

Now this man is a FATHER, my fucking dad I swear.

He seems pretty conservative to me, not in a bad way like he wants you to be his personal maid and slave, more like he wants to date to marry, hates casual sex.

Loves whiskey.

Dad energy, he would be so caring and loving with his child, he would give that baby the moon.

I don’t think he would love to date a younger woman, not a woman in her twenties at least, I think he would be into women his age.

If you feel disappointment by that, maybe you could try fixing your relationship with your dad, sweetheart ;).

Hates confrontation and loves to work things out.

Let’s not talk about how sex with be with the old man, okay? Thanks.

He's not that old, I get that but he looks like he's fucking 68.

Phillip Graves

He looks kinda daddy in that pic, not gonna lie.

“How come you don’t want to have sex? What about me? Have you thought about how that makes me feel? If your head hurts, sex would help but you never consider me, I’ll sleep in the couch”.

A selfish, self-centered bitch, only thinks about himself.

Feeling good having sex with him? Aw baby, try again cause this mf would use you like a damn toy and he couldn’t care less about your feelings or how much pain you’re in.

Cheater, he wouldn’t even be quiet about it. “Oh you want to divorce me? And where are you gonna go, sugar? You’re nothing without me”.

Doesn’t fucking know where the clit is, he doesn’t have a fucking clue.

Of course straight, loves to be white and American.

“Of course I can say whatever I want, I’m from America I have freedom of speech”.

Fuck you graves.

Rodolfo Parra

Perfect.

He seems so sweet and kind and considerate I love him.

Smart as hell, probably got the best grades when he was a kid.

Doesn’t hate anyone, no one hates him.

Loves nature and animals but he can’t enjoy it too much cause he is always busy.

Dreams about having a big family and a dog (a golden, probably).

Forget about having rough sex UNLESS he’s mad (fr mad like losing his shit but that doesn’t happen frequently).

Could be a teacher if he wasn’t in the army, he’s very patient and can explain things easily.

Have a pretty smile.

Valeria Garza aka MAMI

Feels like she needs to prove something, she was underestimated for so long in the army that now she’s always trying to prove to herself how badass and good at her job she is.

Almost no one knows the real Valeria, her favorite things, music taste, if she prefers cold or hot, coffee or tea etc.

She hates cold weather with all her MIGHT.

Likes to smoke only when she’s stressed.

Likes animals but thinks they’re so much work and she doesn’t have the time.

Did drugs once and hated it.

Feels guilty when she spots a church but she WOULD NEVER admit this shit to anyone.

Used to the worst of life so she didn’t like when someone is kind with her, is like “tf am I supposed to do with it???” but she gets used to it eventually.

I don’t think she has anger issues but def she doesn’t fucking know how to regulate her emotions, she lets stress take over her.

She would love a narcowife, kind of woman who wears a lot of beachy dresses and have a shitty personality like her (like Kate del Castillo in La Reina del Sur or in Bad Boys, exactly that kind of narcowife) (I’m kinda projecting, sorry lol).

I can’t picture her with a sweet girl and I think a sweet girl wouldn’t be able to handle that woman.

She keeps arguing even though she realized she’s in the wrong.

She wouldn't be able to spend a lot of time with her S.O, she's such a workaholic.

I don't think she likes to wear men clothes.

I don't think she hates kids but I can't picture her with kids.

Wouldn't divorce once she's married.

Btw I didn’t want to make this too sexual bc lately this fandom is full of just that, too much smut, too much violence and rape in the smut and it’s so graphic that I feel I’m watching instead of reading wtf, its uncomfortable and I honestly can’t picture the characters being that violent and vile.

As I said in my previous hcs… these guys are surrounded by violence, stress and blood every day, I personally don’t think they wanna get home to torture their partners (well, maybe graves cause he is a piece of shit that mf. Okay kidding, not even Graves is that much of a bastard).

[antennai]

Do you take specific Mark Variants requests? If so, what about Full Mask Mark x Pregnant Male Reader, please (if it's not your thing you can totally ignore this)

I take any requests when It comes to variants! I love writing and experimenting w/ topics I don't write about!

This is my first time writing about a pregnant male reader and a variant I somewhat know about! ദ്ദി˙ ᴗ ˙ )

— sorry If this is kinda rushed / bad, It's night for me and I have allergies rn

A start of a new beginning

tags: full mask mark x pregnant male reader , bottom male reader , top full mask mark , pure fluff , tinge of salt to the sweetness but not too much, FIRST POV / third POV because I'm still indecisive!

AN: Full mask mark is somewhat shitty (?) but not too shitty to be considered it.

Being pregnant was not an 'wholesome' or 'joyous' thing when people describe It, as It makes your body all mushy and unrecognizable from before, the 'weird' cravings and morning sickness? Definitely a pain to wake up to— but the happiest part Is? starting your own little family with a man you truly love.

Mark was enthusiastic when he found out, no; he WAS so excited to the point he almost broke the counter when he saw the pregnancy test— It was a win for him, because he did truly want to start a family with you— having a little him running around the house when he got back home? being greeted by a little him and his perfect husband who he'd die for? a dream come true.

Everyday after he goes back home, he absolutely spoils you with praises, kissing your growing belly, even speaking to it which In your eyes, Is kind of silly but you never push him away, and cooking for you— which is quite rare considering he's not that into cooking but he is a good cook. He supports your 'weird' cravings, he's not judgemental after all there's a growing little him inside of you, and he helps you with activities you struggle with.

But at times, he can be a little bit 'mean'. Such as being overly 'upfront' which Is seldom declining your requests or help with tasks, a few times he'd completely ignore you, and whenever he does apologies, you absolutely go shit head on him— as being moody while being pregnant and being treated like that by your husband? yeah a dick move.

Though, he'll spoil you so much afterwards, a little way of showing you that, 'hey, I'm sorry If I was acting like a dick, please forgive me I love you very much' thing, but you never turn his offers down, as right now you'll absorb every praise or anything positive that comes from him.

You can have times you'll feel down, mood swings are not your thing and you really don't wanna relive the moments of being pregnant; but there's a reason why mark Is here! he will show you all the reasons why he loves you, loving the insecurities and washing the worry or self conscious away.

“Do you still think I'm still as pretty as before?" you'd suddenly speak up, In the midst of eating dinner with mark, and taking a spoon full of rice and nice warm soup, a craving you love currently.

"You're still pretty, hell— you're extra pretty right now." he says, with a soft smile on his face— which Is something so little In the eyes of others, but to you it's so reassuring.

"You're a sap, but I love you for It." you said back, with a smile on your face as you bit your spoon, eating your dinner with him,

"Your sap, till death hun." He'd reply with a wink, before continuing dinner with small talks and a TV playing in the background, It was so cozy, and these were the best moments during your pregnancy really, bonding with your husband, talking about baby names and betting If your baby will inherit marks genes, it's a guessing game really.

Also having taken up some tricks when he was raised by Debbie, he definitely knows how to be a proper dad. And how to be a proper husband of course.

When the baby was born, a little girl, he was all over the place— checking to see if you're alright and feel comfortable In the hospitable bed, checking on the baby— skin to skin contact and what not. He tries to be active with you and the baby, to the point hes all over the place and dizzy.

He often times hangs out with the baby, even after you've been discharged from the hospital. Marks the one whos bottle feeding the baby, coddling her, keeping her busy and active as her little body grows, it's heart warming In your eyes, knowing you found the right man to have a kid with, especially your little girl took up majority of marks genes instead of yours, some of his and your friends even said your genes didn't even try, let alone gave up, which is a silly concept but you grew to accept it when she started growing up, as her genes where more prominent to the fact she took all of marks genes, only leaving you with her eye color and hair color.

END

I love this request so much! ughh I never written a pregnant male reader before and this was definitely fun writing It :D

[crushedsweets]

How would the other pastas/proxies react if Toby died during a mission?

Writing on my phone in the car 10 mins before my shift forgive me… finished during my lunch break…

Tim would try really really fucking hard to pretend he doesn’t care all that much. He’s already lost plenty of friends/colleagues (directly or indirectly) to the operator and slenderman, and he always treated Toby like he was a pain in the ass, but like. Him and Brian took Toby in when he was just 17-18, he tried to make him a better man, the two of them have done abhorrent shit together and had to return to the cabin like nothing happened. He’d cry, spend long hours thinking about Toby, thinking about how much of a dick he was to the kid. But he’s strong . Kinda

Brian wouldn’t try to pretend he doesn’t care, although he is in a very similar boat to Tim. Took him in, guided him, hurt him - he would probably be the one to set up a grave of some sort for Toby, whether or not they even have his body to bury. The rest of them wouldn’t be able to do it

It’s possible that Kate wouldn’t even find out for a long fucking while. But she would cry, and mourn, and she would start going back to the cabin and she would sleep in the attic (Toby’s room) and it would be shitty. Toby was the only proxy to treat her like a person and they were both outcasts in their own right, both being the closest to perfect vessels slenderman/the operator could get . So it would suck ass.

I think Natalie would just die too. Ok not really but he was the first person to really just. Take care of her. And she really trusted that he would never ever leave her, not like everyone else . She would be angry, pissed beyond belief and she would cry and scream and throw around any of the gifts he’s ever gotten her and smash some shit he’s made her - and it wouldn’t be fair, and she would regret it, and hopefully someone would be there to pull her back before she legitimately fucks it all up, but she can’t get rid of that anger. Like Kate, she would go to the cabin. Being there too long gets her really bad slender sickness, she’s not immune like the others, but she doesn’t really care. Everything hurt so bad anyway, the screaming and crying already brought her nausea and migraines. Her and Kate would just silently lounge around his bedroom for hours everyday. Natalie is a tattoo artist with little to no tattoos bc commitment issues is a big thing for her, but she would get a little something to honor Toby

Jack would mourn . Toby used to bring flowers to his mom for Mother’s Day, because Jack couldn’t bare to be in a 10 mile radius of his family. He would try to host something for people, just invite them over and make some food and try to talk and have comfort. Only Natalie and Nina would come by choice, not because the rest don’t care but it’s just something they can’t handle to do. Kate might get dragged along. It would be painful and uncomfortable and probably just result in an argument of sorts, depending on how far along Natalie is in the grieving process . He would visit the grave Brian made for toby quite often.

Nina would be constantly crying, all the time. She’s had shitty men after shitty men in her life, the only good guys she’s had were her father and brother and she went ahead and left them behind to go seek out Jeff - but Toby was good(to a point, obviously). He was rough around the edges but he was protective, he took care of her, he defended her even if she didn’t deserve it. She and Natalie would probably have a few intense arguments because they’re two sides of the same coin in their grieving , with Natalie having constant explosive anger and Nina having long, drawn out grieving and sobbing. It would be a bit much for both of them. She would mope around her apartment for a long while.

BEN would also be pretty sad, but not nearly as much as the rest. He would talk it out with Jeff but wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t mourn , would just keep going. Jeff wouldn’t give a shit, would say it was bound to happen and to move on

Ann and Lulu would be pretty bummed out too, but Ann moves on pretty quickly. For Ann it’s more so a sad “Aw but he was fun”… lulu is too lost in her own head to spend too much time on it, but she’s undeniably sad when she’s reminded

Sally would also be sad, but similarly to BEN, she would move on. Cry to Jane about it and cope. Jane would think it’s sad, but she wouldn’t dwell on it either - she wasn’t close to him, she only knew him in passing whenever Sally got lost in the forest.

Liu doesn’t know Toby well so he wouldn’t think much, but Nina would cry to Liu about it a lot and it would be pretty depressing for him too. Just by watching how it affects Nina

[hiraet3h]

Alate { Pietro Maximoff x FEM!Reader }

Alate - Adjective (Latin) |

~ Having wings; lifted up in flight

Summery:

"The past dripped slowly in places like this—quiet, empty, and full of ghosts. The ground doesn’t forgive, it just waits."

or

An 'impromptu' encounter with a boy she never quite really knew. And a man she never had any interest in meeting.

Too bad they were the same person.

Pairings: Primarily: Pietro Maximoff/Fem!Reader, Slight John Allerdyce/Fem!reader, Slight Remy LeBeau/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 11.5K

Warnings: strong language, canon typical violence, reader gets hurt, smoking, cigarettes, bad bird puns/nicknames, Use of (Y/n)! I'm sorry if that bothers you, but i use it quite a bit, Pietro being an asshole, Reader is also an asshole to be fair, Gambit and Pyro too honestly, so everyone really, an excessive use of em dashes, Reader has curly hair! It's pretty vague and not specified what kind of curls, but it's mentioned a couple times! other than that, her appearance is pretty neutral i think. Let me know if I forgot something!

Fic Type: Oneshot/standalone

Author's Note: Omg! this is the first time i'll ever be posting to tumblr, and it being my shitty fanfic is kinda nerve-wracking! I've posted on Ao3 and Wattpad before, but tumblr always intimidated me for some reason. But there are SOOO many incredible writers on here, and i thought someone else might appreciate a non movieverse/fox/MCU Pietro x reader, so i decided to post it here as well! I hope it makes someone out there happy as well!

Anyways, this take place in a semi -alternate AU? In the way that, i didn't quite have a specific variation of Pietro or the x-men universe i was writing for. It's a mesh between an aged up X-men Evolution AU and the Wolverine and the X-men universe. With some comic elements thrown in. So it's my playground essentially.

This fic will also be available on AO3! I have other nonsense on my AO3 if the curiosity ever strikes and you want to check it out!

Please, if anyone wants to chat about anything, my door is always open!

The wind carried more than cold that night. It howled like a wounded creature through the hollow veins of the abandoned train yard, weaving around rusted steel and splintered wood and forsaken motors with a kind of sorrow only old places knew. (Y/n) stood near the skeletal remains of a cargo car, arms crossed, her shadow carved in sharp lines by the moonlight above. She found comfort in places like these. In places filled with things long abandoned and things that should have been.  A feeling of tragedy she couldn't help but chase. A masochistic tendency she’d hoped she would have outgrown in her adolescence but had unfortunately been a habit that had followed her into adulthood.

Maybe she found comfort in things and places and stories she could relate to. 

Romanticizing life, or whatever the hell the kids were calling it these days. 

She hopped onto the train tracks, her arms outstretched to her sides in an attempt to keep her balance as she walked along the stealrail of the track, as though she was a tightrope walker, dangling dangerously on the brink of doom and death. 

A single misstep and she’d be gone, and nothing but her memory would remain, before that too would inevitably wade out of existence, time chipping away at the ghost she used to be. 

The metal creaked under her boots like it remembered her from all those years ago—like it knew she didn’t belong to war or missions or field assignments. Not really.

But she'd always show up anyway.

"You’re late, L/N."

The voice skittered through the dark, cocky and cruel and cold,  like a blade dragged across glass.

A sharp exhale through her nose. 

She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

The air told her he was close. It always did, vibrating with the static of him, with the feeling of electricity that he would leave in his wake and upon his arrival. With a disruption in the winds as it bowed to his whims. 

"Punctuality has never been your thing, has it?" she replied, dry. "I figured if I gave you an extra ten minutes, you'd still manage to make an entrance."

In a blink, he was standing where moonlight met shadow—just on the edge of it, and the light of a street lamp which was miraculously still working save for the occasional flicker before being resurrected by the currents running in the wiring. 

Quicksilver. Pietro Maximoff. 

Silver hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of a storm, windswept and wild but in a way that looked intentional and effortless all at once. And smirking, of course. Always smirking. His eyes were electric with the kind of arrogance only someone who could outrun time itself had any right to wield.

"Nightingale," he drawled, crossing his arms with exaggerated ease as he leaned against the streetlamp with a casual grace that could only be achieved by a man who had been trained in combat for years upon years. A confidence that came with self assurance and a pride that wasn’t completely unearned "Did you miss me?"

She rolled her eyes. “Like a migraine.”

"Oof. And here I thought we were finally building something resembling camaraderie."

"No, but we can build something else entirely. Like a coffin for you to lie in. Or your gravestone. If you’re here to finally do the honors and give me the relief that would come with you dropping dead.” 

He chuckled, stepping closer with the kind of laid-back threat that came from someone who didn’t need to try hard to be dangerous. "Come on, (L/n). You think anyone else could put up with your holier-than-thou shtick and still show up like clockwork?"

Her jaw tightened. Her glare was met with a look of mirth. A punchable one, if she was able to say so herself.

"Why are you here, Maximoff?"

“Birdwatching,” he says, a smug grin playing on his lips. He looked proud of that one.

She gives him a bored look, unamused.

He rolls his eyes at her, not at all intimidated, nor deterred. And he had not enough shame to ever feel a lick of embarrassment, so that was out of the question as well, despite his ill-received pun.

“C’mon, that was a good one. Even you have to admit it.”

She spins on her heels, ready to walk away from him, and this train yard and the whole useless encounter, when his voice stops her in her tracks before she’s made more than a couple feet away.

“Magneto wants a word,” Pietro said suddenly, almost too casually.

She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes. He remained at ease. 

“Then he should send someone with better people skills.”

He chuckled. “He did. I’m charming. Ask literally anyone.”

“Not your ex-wife, I presume.”

That got a crack in his cool, his brows furrowing and a frown marred his lips quickly. It filled her with a satisfaction she’s not proud of.

“Low blow,” he muttered, eyes flashing. “He wants to make you an offer.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

Pietro tilted his head, undeterred, voice still carrying humor of a joke she wasn’t in on. “You always this stubborn, or is it just around me?”

“I know how he sees people. How he turns them into pieces on a board. I’m not interested in being another one of his knights, thanks.”

“You’d be a rook, if anything,” he said, thoughtful. “Straight lines. Limited. Boring.”

“Funny, coming from a pawn.”

That one seemed to have also landed. His jaw clenched, but only for a second

He recovered with a grin. “You used to be more fun, birdie.”.

“And you’ve always been annoying.”

He sighs. And rubs the back of his neck, his eyes closing for a brief reprieve from her insults.

“Look, he only wants to talk right now. There’s no harm in a conversation, right?”

She stepped back. Not far. But enough. Enough to make the space between them suddenly mean something deliberate.

"Not interested."

"Didn’t ask if you were," he said smoothly, straightening and taking a step forward to reclaim lost distance "Only told you what’s happening."

"Not to me, it’s not."

She turned as if to leave, but in a flash, he was in front of her again. This time closer. Too close. She could feel the charge in the air between them. Like standing beside a live wire. He towered over her, and she was face to chest with him. She tilts her head up to meet his eyes, and his gaze is firm. Jaw tight and lips pressed into a firm line, almost resembling a frown but not quite. 

It seems her jeers and refusal were getting to him. Good.

"I’m not here to play tag, (L/n). I’m here to bring you in."

She blinked. Slowly. As if the words themselves needed processing.

Then her laugh—a low, bitter thing—cracked through the lighting-tension like a sharp knife.

“You're pathetic. Running after daddy’s approval by doing tasks he couldn't be bothered to do himself.” 

His jaw tensed. Just a flicker. But she saw it. She knew all his sore spots. That one was particularly tender, she knew. 

"You think I have a choice?" he said quietly.

"You always do." Her voice was sharper now. Not louder, but colder. "You just stopped pretending to care."

Pietro's expression shifted then—like clouds over the moon. Not anger. Not yet. But the storm was there, gathering behind his eyes.

"You think you know anything about choices, L/N? You, with your perfect little X-men who’ll pat you on the back every time you try and fail to throw a punch? You don’t know what it’s like to be needed by someone who only values what you can do, not who you are."

Her jaw tenses at his words of vulnerability. But she knew a farce when she saw one. He wasn't going to emotionally manipulate her tonight. 

"And yet, here you are," she said cooly, stepping past him. “I’m not going with you.”

He grabbed her wrist. Gently—but firmly. His touch was warm. Steady. Frustrating.

"(Y/n). You don’t get it. He’s not asking.”

She looked up at him, chin lifted, heart pounding like war drums beneath her ribs.

She hated that he said her name like that. Like it meant something. She rips her arm out of his grip and takes a step back, insistent on keeping space between them

“I’m not going to be a pawn, Pietro.”

"You're already in the game. You just don’t want to admit it."

“I'm not in shit.”

Her fingers sparked with energy then—just barely. A shimmer of violet light flickered up her arm like fire in a hearth. Slow and steady. Pietro's eyes dropped to it, then back to hers.

"You sure you want to do this, moon girl?"

"I’ve never been more sure of anything."

He didn’t move. For a moment, the silence held its breath. The wind paused. The night listened.

Then he stepped back. Let her go.

“You’d lose.” he says like it's a fact. Like no other outcome could be possible.

She holds his gaze for a beat. Then two.

He was probably right. She couldn’t fight to save her life. Which, coincidently, was exactly when she needed it. And she needed it often. 

Her sigh then cuts through the air like a slow exhale of a long-forgotten lullaby. The kind of sound a soul made when it was too weary to fight the silence, but too stubborn to surrender fully.

She was stretched thin with exhaustion, not from the confrontation, but from everything. From war and missions, from expectations and choices. From a world that hated them for simply being, and the constant requirement to prove themselves worthy of existing in places that deemed them undeserving. And the inevitability of running into him. Again. Always.

The past dripped slowly in places like this—quiet, empty, and full of ghosts. The ground doesn’t forgive, it just waits.

A reluctant truce between instinct and exhaustion and pure curiosity had overcome her. 

So she turned. Slowly. Her boots whispered against the gravel as she moved, the oversized denim jacket she adorned slipping from her shoulder just enough to show the moonlight pale on her skin before she pulled it back up into place. It was approximately five sizes too big— ill-fitting, like a life she never asked for but lives anyway cause there’s no other choice. A little girl lost in grown-up‘s clothes. A soldier pretending she knows how to play war. The cold of the freight train bled through her layers when she leaned back against it, metal biting down through fabric and resolve alike at her back. She flinched only slightly, then settled, one boot scuffed against the asphalt, the other kicked up behind her to rest flat against rusted steel.

It was the posture of someone who wasn’t going to run, but wasn’t going to be dragged either.

Quicksilver hadn’t moved. Maybe he was waiting for her to bolt. Maybe he was calculating how many steps it would take to reach her if she did. But she wasn’t running.

Her eyes flicked back to him with a gaze she wore like armor. Bored. Tired. Disinterested. Except it was a lie, of course. She was studying him. Every angle. Every slight change.

His hair was longer now. Not by much, but enough for her to notice. Enough to know she hadn’t seen him in months. Time had been kind to him in the way it was kind to cruel people—preserving their beauty like a warning sign. His silver strands, always unnatural, gleamed in the moonlight like silk laced with mercury. She remembered thinking, once, that he looked like he’d been touched by the stars. Moonkissed, she had called it. 

But that was before she knew who had really touched him.

Before she knew who had carved him from the same sharp stone and set him loose on the world.

It had always been like that, even when they were teenagers, even when he was just some cocky blur of a boy who annoyed her on missions and flashed too many teeth when he smirked. She’d initially thought the color was dye, some edgy brooding Brotherhood thing.

She'd been wrong. It was blood. It was legacy. It was Magneto’s, like everything else about him. The sharp lines of his jaw. The eerie grace of his movement. The cold glacier- blue in his eyes, That intensity beneath the bravado, coiled tight like a spring, waiting to snap. The anger. Oh, the anger. Constant and bitter. Angry at a world that wouldn’t change no matter how hard anyone tried. 

He looked more like Erik than Wanda did. More than Lorna ever could, despite her having her father’s powers. It unsettled her. That resemblance. That inheritance. Sure he was younger, the lines of time yet to set into his face. He was taller and leaner and wore his cockiness out and arrogant, but at the core they were alike in a way that was undeniable. She wondered if he ever looked in the mirror and saw himself, or only the man he’d been chasing his entire life like a ghost, despite him always being right there, just unwilling. She wondered what Magneto thought when he looked at him. His eldest child? Or the reminders of the failures of the man he used to be? Maybe that’s why he was so cold towards his only son. 

Her eyes lowered briefly. Civilian clothes, tonight. That was interesting. 

No combat gear, no flashy insignias. No weight of war on his shoulders, only a dark leather jacket that suits the season, resting just right across a frame broader than it used to be. He’s taller now, more filled in. Still lean, still quick—but not all sharp corners anymore. There’s muscle under that snug black tee. Probably more than he needs. Probably more than she needs to know about.

Of course the shirt clings like it always did, tighter than it probably needed to be. Not that he needed help drawing attention. But Pietro Maximoff didn’t know how to wear anything without a little arrogance sewn in.

“What could that man possibly want with me?” she asked at last, voice level, somewhere between disinterest and disdain.

Pietro didn’t answer at first. He just looked at her.

And maybe it was the moonlight, or maybe it was something else, but for a moment, he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t mocking her. He just stood there, staring like she was something just slightly out of reach, slightly more dangerous than she'd ever let herself be.

"You're asking the wrong guy," he said eventually, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “I don’t play chess, remember? I’m the piece that gets moved.” He tilted his head. “You, on the other hand… you’re a piece Magneto can’t quite figure out.”

"Or maybe I'm just not worth the effort," she replied.

His smile returned, sharp and annoying. “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He took a step closer, boots crunching on gravel. “You think he sends me to do grunt work?”

“Yes,” she says, not even hesitating for a second. Voice flat and deadpan, like it was an obvious answer to that question

“Ouch. You wound me, little bird.”

She gave a lazy shrug, the oversized jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder once more. She didn’t bother pulling it back up this time. “That’s the idea.”

Pietro's gaze slips to the newly revealed skin for a brief second, eyes mapping out her collarbone and the slope of a shoulder that was now exposed due to the sleeveless shirt she wore underneath, before his eyes snapped back to hers. She pretends not to notice. 

They stood there, not quite talking. Not quite fighting. The wind carried a whistle down the tracks, eerie in the emptiness. The city was far away now, nothing but a glow on the horizon.

"Why are you really here?" she asked, softer this time. "You hate taking orders. You cannot stand your father. I’ve seen the way you flinch when he speaks to you like you’re a tool. So why are you still running his errands?”

His jaw worked. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then:

“Because I’m good at it,” he said finally. “And when you’re good at something, you’re not given a choice. Not really.”

Her brows furrow at his words. 

“That’s not true.”

He scoffed. “Says the girl who stayed with the X-Men even after they kept sending her out there like bait.”

That one stung.

He noticed. His voice softened just a little. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to stop trying to be what they expect?”

“I don’t take advice from someone who also does exactly what’s expected of him,” she shot back. “You think you’re a rebel, but all you’ve ever done is chase your father’s shadow. You talk big, but you’re still a scared little boy running after a man who will never give you what you’re looking for and everybody knows it.”

That did it.

His expression hardened, and he took a threatening step forward. Once again the distance between them has shrunk to a considerably small size. Like a waltz, they ebb back and forth. The air seems more hostile this time, however. It seems her words had finally stung as deeply as intended. 

“I came here,” he said through clenched teeth, “to give you a chance. You could’ve walked away from all of this. Could’ve had power. Could’ve stopped playing foot soldier for Xavier and his pathetic dream.”

God he was insufferable. 

“Firstly, it’s not pathetic, you self-absorbed-”

“Please, i’m self-absorbed that’s actually rich coming from you-”

“-And you’re no better, following orders like a dog-”

“-considering the moral high-horse you lot sit on. it’s actually nauseating-”

“-for a man who has no idea he’ll become what he hates-”

“-the way things are going is gonna get us all killed, we don't have time to-”

“-he’s a damn hypocrite, and you’re no better-” 

“-and the X-men are useless at best, hoping if you do enough dirty work, they’ll accept mutant-” 

“-Have you and any of your buddies actually done anything except prove every mutant stereotype down to a T or-”

“-Who the fuck cares? They’re gonna blame everything on us anyways-”

“-yeah, so proving them right is the move-”

“-God, you reek of self-righteousness and privilege-”

“-better than playing terrorist-” 

“-you’re saying this from up in your ivory tower-” 

They were yelling over each other at this point. And it was beyond unproductive, considering neither was willing to even attempt to hear the other out. 

“Enough!” she yells, and it's actually enough to get him to shut up. He continues to glare at her and she lets her eyes close, and her head drop as a sigh pulls from between parted lips, her breath fogging in the cold air with the exhale. 

“I didn’t come to debate politics with you,” she says, voice tired. She takes a few steps away from him and slips further against the freight train, letting the rusting junk take on the brunt of her weight so she wouldn't have to carry it all on her own. Her bones feel heavy. They have for a while and she was getting tired of carrying them with her everywhere she went. 

(Y/n)'s words fell like slow, deliberate raindrops—each one dampening the tension rather than snapping it. They weren’t meant to wound. Not really. But they were heavy, and the weight of truth had a way of bruising.

“Xavier’s a bastard,” she said, voice steady, eyes narrowed as she watched him. “But Magneto’s no better. ‘Sides, Cyclops has been calling the shots for a while now.”

Pietro scoffed, but said nothing. Not yet. So she kept going.

“I’ve disagreed with Charles plenty, especially the older I get and the more I see what he's willing to overlook for the sake of the dream. But his ideology doesn’t rest on bloodshed, or dominance, or this superiority complex your father breathes like air.”

his eyes narrow back at her words.

‘Not talk politics, my ass.’

“It’s not a superiority complex.” He says, voice cold and agitated. “News flash, Nightingale—they hate us. They want us dead. We have to fight back with the same force or we’ll be wiped out. Why cant you and those spandex-wearing freaks get it through your thick heads.” 

He also lets himself rest against the cart, his shoulder to the metal so his body is facing her, but his head is looking out into the rail yard, nothing in particular catching his interest. He just didn’t want her to see him seething. 

“You think ‘peaceful coexistence’ means anything to the people outside that mansion, praying we disappear? We’re fighting for our lives, and you're still acting like it's some kind of moral debate club.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m not doing this with you, Pietro .” 

“You’re the one who started it.” 

“Just shut up.” 

He fumes, but relents.

The quiet overtakes, and they let it settle between them and the night like a balm on a burn, meant to soothe. Frustration and anger easing out of both bodies slowly and slightly.

He steps closer—not all the way, but enough that she could feel the cold static of his presence again. That same subtle tension in the air, like a thunderstorm waiting behind glass.

“You’re scared of it,” he said, softer now. “Of your powers.”

Her lips parted, just slightly but no words came out. He’d hit something. Something she didn’t like people seeing.

“I’m not afraid,” she said eventually. “I’m cautious.”

“Same thing,” he said, and for once, there was no tease nor malice in it. Just truth. 

She swallows a huff, breathing slowly through her nose. “Maximoff, I can go borderline nuclear in  five seconds flat if i dont have the reins all the way in check. What would you have me do?” 

He gives a lazy shrug. Nonchalant and noncommittal. Like she couldn't level a city block with a flick of her wrist if her head was on wrong. 

“Don’t be afraid.” He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. Like the answer has always been obvious and she’d been looking in all the wrong places for it. 

She shakes her head, not bothering to answer him. She doesn’t really know how. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe not. It didn't particularly matter. Because she didn’t know how to stop being afraid. It was etched into her soul, the fear she had of herself. It took over a decade of training to get where she was, to the mastery she possessed of her own mutation. And even then, it felt like a bandaid over a gaping wound. Superficial. Only there to cover the damage so nobody had to look at the bloody, ugly thing. 

Another sigh slipped from her lips like the wind blowing between forgotten cracks. It was quieter this time. Less a sound of defeat and more the weary exhale of a woman who'd been holding her breath too long. Her head dipped forward, curls swaying gently kissing the sides of her face, as she reached up with a manicured hand to rub the back of her neck, her fingers digging into a knot that had formed like a stone lodged beneath her skin. Firm and pulsing like the echo of the tension she'd been carrying for days. Weeks. Years, if she was being honest.

This place—the X-Men, the mansion, the maddening missions and miscommunications, the quiet understanding that no one really knew what they were doing—they were home. Not perfect. But hers. The family she never had. The one that fought like hell and screamed in the halls and cried behind closed doors. The children running around, learning to use and accept and be with their mutations. The one that let her be broken, and still let her stay.

There was never a version of this where she left the X-Men. Not even in dreams. Not even when the mansion got too loud, or too quiet, or too full of ghosts.

They were hers. Her ragtag, squabbling, loyal, impossible family. The one she chose. The one that stayed.

Scott with his leadership and saviour’s complex. Ororo with her soft reprimands. Kurt, always trying to make her laugh even when her world was falling apart. Kitty, with her quiet strength. Rouge with her southern charm and a shoulder she always had to cry on. Logan with his gruff grunts that somehow meant love.

Even the ones who were gone. Even the ones who’d stayed too long.

She would not leave them.

And she definitely wasn’t trading them for Magneto’s army of true believers and half-broken boys pretending they weren't scared.

Her gaze slid lazily back to Pietro, head tilting, curls catching moonlight. Her voice came soft, almost amused, like a cat playing with something half-dead between its paws.

“He still hates you, y’know?”

Pietro blinked, clearly not expecting it. “Who?”

She smirked. “Scott.”

The reaction was instantaneous. That deadpan look returned to his face like a well-worn mask as he stared at her in exhausted disbelief.

“Good,” he snapped.

A pause.

And then, quieter, sharper: “Mutual.”

She laughed.

Not a scoff, not a sneer. A laugh.

It burst from her, sharp and musical, and it knocked the cold out of the air for a second. It was unexpected, unguarded—like a bell ringing in a quiet cathedral. Genuine, melodic, light. It peeled from her like sunlight through fog. And Pietro, who’d spent a lifetime outrunning things—responsibility, feelings, his own name—froze in place.

Because it was the kind of sound a man might go into reverence for.

It undid something in him. Made the space between them feel impossibly close, impossibly far.

Pietro would’ve done anything she asked to hear it again.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. There was a soft twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, like they ached to hold something they knew they couldn’t.

It was unfair, honestly, how good it sounded. How alive it made her look, even draped in fatigue and denim too big. The smile that followed bloomed across her face, softening her features into something sweeter than he had any right to see after threatening to drag her back to his father like a prize.

The smile on her face was gentle now, real. Something that didn’t belong on a battlefield, didn’t belong in the ruined husk of a rail yard at midnight. It belonged in gardens. In sunlit kitchens. On slow Sunday mornings and soft cotton sheets. It made her look younger, somehow—like this war hadn’t touched her quite as deeply as he knew it had.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no sharpness in the gesture. Just… tired affection. Fondness. Soft-edged history. The kind that tasted of years they pretended didn’t matter.A thread of memory pulling through the decade. The old days, back when the fights were mostly verbal and the stakes were mostly pride.

Some things didn’t change. Not really.

She slipped a hand into her pocket then, the movement smooth, easy. Like instinct. Her fingers closed around the battered pack she hadn’t even dared touch for months now. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the company. Maybe she just wanted to reclaim a little vice for herself tonight.

The Camel menthols box were practically falling apart. The cardboard was soft with wear, corners dented and edges fraying like the last edge of self-control in a stressful week. But she popped the lid open and plucked a cigarette from the pack like it was routine.

Then her eyes flicked back to him, one brow arched high.

A silent offer.

Pietro’s eyebrows rose, a soft scoff escaping him. “You smoke?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest again, the leather of his jacket groaning softly under the strain. His too-snug shirt pulled tighter across his chest with the movement. It was entirely too obvious, and he was entirely too unaware of just what he was doing to her unconsciously. She ignored it expertly.

She shrugged, the cigarette dancing slightly between her fingers. “Not really,” she said. “Sometimes.”

Another scoff. But he reached out anyway.

She didn’t hide her surprise at that, though she disguised it behind a curl of her lip. He plucked a cigarette from the pack she held, slipping it between lips that were always slightly wind-chapped, with practiced ease. 

And for a moment, they just stared at each other, smoke-less, caught in the absurdity of it all.

She tucked the pack away again, reached into the same pocket and produced a cheap plastic lighter—one of those corner-store things, half-broken and temperamental. She flicked it once, twice, three times before the  flame danced alive in the dark. She gave him a look, one of those universal gestures that meant you’re too damn tall, get down here.

He snorted but obliged, bending at the waist, so their faces were close. Too close. With only the lighter’s flame flickering in the narrow space between them. It danced like a restless spirit, casting his face in shifting gold and shadow, tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth.

The flame caught his eyes like a hook in water, drawing out something ancient and quiet and furious. An impossible shade of blue, not sky, not sea, not anything she’d ever seen. Something colder, deeper—like the gleam of lightning before it strikes. 

There was anger in that gaze, a deep, smoldering kind—the kind that burned low and endless. Anger at the world. At how it had turned him hard when he might’ve been something else. 

He was painfully handsome. Unfairly so. Like a statue half-broken by time—still beautiful, but not untouched. Not innocent.

But it wasn’t like she wasn’t, either. Innocence wasn’t something she could claim anymore—hadn’t been for a long time. It had been taken, not lost. Ripped away in pieces, sharp and sudden, in the way only the world could do when it didn’t care how young you were.

They’d all been too young. Too soft, too full of things like hope and wonder and the foolish belief that the world might give back what it took.

And yet—here she stood. Still holding onto that hope like a lifeline, knuckles white around it. Because that was all she had. Cause it was all she could believe in to keep herself going. Because without it, everything unraveled—everything turned gray and senseless, and she needed something to tether her to the fight. Hope was the thread she stitched herself together with each morning. Fragile, foolish, maybe, but hers.

He didn’t seem to need something as delicate as hope. Anger was enough. There was no softness in the way he looked at the world—just that simmering fury and a drive so relentless it was almost frightening. 

She stepped forward, closing the last inches of space, the heat from her hand near his jaw, the flare of fire catching the end of his cigarette. He kept his eyes on hers, unmoving. That’s when he caught a whiff of her perfume—soft, powdery, clean and sweet. Something candied-floral tucked beneath warm skin and the faint scent of ozone that always clung to her after she used her powers.

It hit him harder than expected. It made him dizzy.

It was her. And it was comfort. And it was memory. And it was the scent of someone who made abandoned train yards feel like the edge of something beautiful.

Then she stepped back, putting space between them again as she lit her own cigarette with the same soft detachment, as though she hadn’t just handed him a memory he’d crave for the rest of his life. The flame briefly illuminates the gentle curve of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, that seemed darker these days. She inhaled, slow and long, and exhaled just as steady, smoke curling from her lips like fog rolling through forgotten hills.

Her absence was immediate. Like being snapped out of a dream too soon. The distance felt wrong, like something sacred had been broken.

Pietro took a drag, the nicotine burning hot and sharp in his chest, and for a second, they were just two people in a forgotten train yard, caught somewhere between what they were and what they could’ve been.

He savored the moment. He wanted to memorize it. To stretch it out so it could last forever. The ease. The quiet affection of an enemy who still remembered what he used to look like when he was seventeen and angry at the world.

He supposed not much had changed. He was still angry at the world. Angry at all of it.

He took another drag, this time, without looking at her, letting the menthol numb his tongue and sting the back of his throat. His jaw worked as he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke unfurl into the cold night air, curling like ghosts between them.

She leaned against the train again, one leg bent, boot still planted on the metal behind her, cigarette now resting between her fingers like an old friend. Her eyes were on the stars.

“You ever think,” she said, voice quiet now, like the moment between them had shifted into something not quite safe to name, “that if we’d met under different circumstances... things might’ve been different?”

Pietro’s gaze drifted toward her.

The wind carried her curls across her cheek. The cherry of her cigarette glowed faintly red. Her lips were parted just slightly, flushed a deeper color from the cold. She looked something straight out of a painting. A masterpiece. 

He didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t want to lie.

So he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I think about that a lot.”

She turned to look at him then. Just once.

And in the silence that followed, they both said everything they couldn't say out loud.

The smoke curled from her lips, delicate and transient, vanishing into the cold night like the moment they were standing in—fragile, stolen, doomed. They stood in that half-silence, the kind that only exists when two people are trying not to admit there’s nothing left to say. The train yard stretched around them, rusted and quiet, a graveyard of motion and memory. A place suspended in time, where the past dragged its heels and refused to die.

For a breath—a single breath—it felt like peace.

But peace was never meant to linger.

Not for people like them.

The leaves rustled in a way that wasn’t wind. In the way that whispered company. Her spine straightened before she even processed why, cigarette frozen halfway to her lips. Years of training kicking in subconsciously like reflex. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows between the train cars. She heard them before she saw them—footsteps too coordinated to be casual. Too numerous.

Pietro noticed it too. She caught the flick of his eyes, the way his jaw locked tight. Not fear. Not surprise. Just cold understanding.

​​Then they stepped out of the shadow and into the moonlight. 

Three men. 

Monsters, some would say. Freaks. 

She knew them all.

The first wore a grin that stretched too wide over his sharp face, flame-red hair catching the dim light as if already half-ignited. His eyes sparked with glee, like he loved the idea of having an audience for whatever carnage he planned. As unstable as the fire he worshipped.

The second was all smooth swagger and subtle menace, red-on-black eyes glowing faintly under the brim of his hood. With those cards of his and a mouth that dripped charm like venom. She remembered him kissing her hand once, years ago, as a distraction to swipe something from her pocket.

And the last… 

The sight of him made her stomach turn.

His footsteps were heavy and slow and sure. A beast in human skin. A hunter stepping into the world. Taller than the other already tall men, Older. Broader. Wild blond hair tangled like a lion’s mane, falling around his face like a curtain. His eyes were yellow—sharp, detachteched, cold, predatory. She didn’t even need to see the claws to feel them at her throat.

She remembered that feeling all too well. It still haunts her nightmares sometimes.

Her fingers tensed around the cigarette. Her lips parted in a breath that didn’t come. Her heart plummeted.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Her eyes moved to look at Pietro then, with a slow turn of the head, as if she could somehow will him into explaining this away.

But he didn’t.

He stood still, expression unreadable, back straight and spine rigid like a soldier at attention. His face was blank, so carefully composed it almost hurt to look at. He wasn’t surprised.

He’d known.

The realization hit her like a blow to the gut.

She’d been set up.

The look she gave him wasn’t betrayal. Not quite. No, it was something softer, something older. The weight of inevitability. The quiet ache of knowing they’d always end up here, drawing lines in the dirt only to find themselves standing on opposite sides again and again.

Her heart dropped through her chest, nonetheless. She didn’t need to say it. The betrayal wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. It bloomed quietly in her eyes, like the first crack in a stained-glass window. Barely visible.

But once it started—it never stopped.

She looked at him like someone who had almost let herself believe in something, only to be reminded why she never could.

He would say it if she gave him the chance.

I don’t owe you anything.

And he’d be right.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t say anything.

Because what could he say?

They always ended up here.

Different sides. Same battlefield. The same war they never asked for. Both fighting for mutantkind in their own way, but walking paths that would run parallel for all of existence, never crossing. Not when one was lit in fire and fury and the other was a tightrope balanced over a chasm of compromise and restraint.

Maybe it was fate.

Or maybe it was another cruel trick of the universe. 

Or maybe it was just survival.

She took a final drag of her cigarette, the burn of menthol sharp and grounding. She exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately, as the three men came into clear proximity. They didn’t run. They didn’t need to. The way Pyro’s grin widened, the way Gambit rested his hands in his pockets lazily, the way Sabertooth sniffed the air like he was already tasting the hunt—it was clear.

Magneto had sent his Acolytes.

They were here to collect her.

And it was clear they didn’t think they’d have to try very hard.

"You never were very subtle, mate," Pyro called out, an Australian accent thick, “Bit dramatic for a snatch-and-grab, don’tcha think? Having a smoke under the moonlight?”

Her eyes turn back to Quicksilver’s face. "How long?"

His jaw clenched. Just a flicker.

"Since the start."

She nodded once. Not big. Not dramatic. Just an acknowledgment of something already known in her bones.

"Well, well, well," Pyro purred, voice coated in gasoline. As the three had made their way over to them. “Didn’t think we’d find you out here alone, Nightingale. Guess the songbird strayed too far from the nest, eh?”

(Y/n) didn’t answer. unblinking, unreadable.

Sabertooth chuckled low, like gravel sliding down a mountain. It was a sound that was familiar in all of the worst ways. “This her, Maximoff?”

Pietro’s voice came steady. Empty. “Yeah.”

That was all he said.

Not a warning. Not a protest. Just confirmation.

Her blood ran colder.

“You’re not walking away tonight, chère,” Gambit said smoothly,  his voice sliding around her like smoke, Cajun accent as heavy as she remembered. “We’ve got business. You, me, and the boss.”

She straightened, finally, letting the cigarette fall from her fingers to the dirt below. She ground it out beneath the heel of her boot, slow and silent. When she lifted her head, there was no fear in her expression. Only resolve. Contained. Contoured.

Like a fuse lit but not yet burning.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. 

“Come on, now,” Pyro crooned. “Don’t be like that, love. Magneto’s got plans. Big ones. And you’re on the guest list, baby bird.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He just flashed his teeth at her with a knowing wink that went completely unacknowledged. 

The weight of the situation came pressing on her chest. Hot and heavy, and cold and unfeeling all at once. She looked around uselessly already knowing there wasn’t an out for her. She wouldn't be able to escape or flee. Not with Quicksilver and not with Sabretooth. And fighting seemed laughable. She was outnumbered, outclassed and outranked. She couldn't take on one of the assholes, much less all four.  It was a losing situation for her no matter the hand dealt.

She sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that night. 

Besides, she didn’t want to fight.

Not tonight. Not now.

The adrenaline was starting to mix too heavily with the nicotine in her blood, and she knew if she let her panic take the wheel, she’d regret what followed. So she reached back into her jacket instead—hands steady, slow, deliberate—and pulled out the battered pack of Camels. Her fingers dipped inside and came out with one last cigarette, slightly bent, a little weathered, but still perfectly smokable.

“Quite the party,” she murmured, voice soft but steady, refusing to look away from the approaching threat. “Didn’t realize I was so popular.”

It perched delicately between her lips, the curve of her mouth pulling around it like it belonged there.

A girl playing dress-up in her father’s jacket. A delicate, pretty thing made of soft curves and sharper edges. The cigarette looked out of place in her hand. On her mouth. She didn’t look like a smoker. But the ease with which she moved—the practiced, habitual precision of it—betrayed the truth. 

It looked out of place until it didn’t. Not when it had clearly lived a few lives with her already.

Because nothing about her was simple.

She let her eyes drag lazily over the men in front of her, as though they weren’t here to drag her  to some gilded prison of Magneto’s making. As though they were just three guys she might see in a dive bar or waiting outside a concert venue.

They were dressed like civilians, the same way Pietro was. Their attempt at blending in, at pretending this was anything less than an ambush. Gambit, of course, wore that damn trench coat—dramatic as ever, even without the armor or gear. Pyro looked like he’d stepped out of an indie band lineup, something almost artistic in the haphazard way his clothes clung to him, flannels and baggy jeans and some obscure band’s t-shirt she couldn’t tell you the first thing about .

And Sabertooth?

Sabertooth looked like a monster in borrowed clothes.

Nothing on earth could domesticate that man.

She studied them with the same gaze one might give a gallery painting from across the room. An art critic trying to decide if they were charmed or offended.

Gambit caught her eye first.

He’d changed. Gambit looked older now—matured. The boy she remembered was long gone, replaced by a man who hadn’t lost a drop of that swamp-born charm.  Heavily shadowed stubble now lined the sharp angles of his face, making him look older, rougher, better, honestly. His charm had deepened—ripened with time like some expensive wine. The smirk on his face was criminal, lethal, and she knew if the smile didn’t get a woman, the voice would. Honey-dipped and sin-slick, he’d always known how to draw hearts like blood from a wound. The kind of thing that would make a girl trip over herself and thank him for it.

But his eyes—those unforgettable eyes were the same as she remembered them. Oddly beautiful; red irises and black sclera like spilled ink and blood. They seemed amused. Like he could hear every thought in her head. Roguish charm was an understatement. 

He caught her looking.

Of course he did.

He offered her a lazy grin, slow and smooth, like molasses poured from a silver spoon. “Ma chérie,” he said with a wink that probably made hearts flutter from miles away. “If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might start thinkin’ you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response, just raised one unimpressed brow and moved on.

Pyro—he hadn’t changed as much. His frame had filled out some, arms defined beneath the thin long-sleeved tee he wore under an open flannel. Shoulders broader than she remembers, and he might’ve been an inch or two taller than he used to be. His vibrant hair had grown a little longer, hanging in his face, which was sharper now, in artful chaos. Tonight, he’d swapped his flamethrowers for something subtler. He stood with one hand in his pocket and the other fidgeting with a matchbook—flicking it open and closed, the snap-snap-snap a rhythmic tic she remembered from years ago. There was still that unhinged brightness behind his eyes. That barely-contained chaos that looked like a spark always about to ignite.

Her eyes lingered on him a little longer.

Old crushes were a strange thing.

She remembered liking him once. Maybe it was the accent. Or the danger. Or that brand of reckless energy. Or maybe just the way his eyes used to light up when he talked about fire like it was a living thing. Like he was in love with it. That kind of devotion was rare. It was foolish, in retrospect. But she had been seventeen, and he had laughed at her jokes. Sometimes that was all it took. 

And then there was Sabertooth.

She swallowed.

He hadn’t aged a damn day.

He still looked older than any of them but was aging like some slow-turning curse. Healing factor made him almost eternal.

Out of everyone, he had changed the least. He was still enormous. Still terrifying. Still too quiet and too aware for someone so feral. Still exuding the kind of hunger that wasn’t about food or sex, but something deeper, more primal—an instinct to devour whatever he couldn’t control. His golden eyes didn’t blink as he watched her. They never had. He was the same the day she met him, and he’d be the same long after she was dead. Time didn’t touch men like him and Logan. Not the way it did everyone else. 

She looked at him, and in the quiet between her thoughts, wondered—not for the first time—how long he and Logan had been circling each other, roaming the earth. How many times had they torn chunks from each other’s flesh, only to heal and meet again? 

And how many more times were left? It seemed they’d be here till the end of the universe itself.

Star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare had written.

She supposed Logan and Creed were something else entirely.

Star-crossed enemies.

The term didn’t exist, but maybe it should’ve.

Destined to destroy, and somehow, destined not to die.

Her voice broke the stillness like glass underfoot. She turns her attention back to Pyro, her head cocked to the side, a dry smile on her lips. 

“Got a light?”she asked, utterly casually. As if she wasn’t surrounded. As if they weren’t here to kidnap her. She thought she was funny. She brought the cigarette up in front of her and waved it nonchalantly, as though that explained everything. 

Pyro blinked.

A heartbeat passed.

Then a shit-eating grin spread on his face, like a fire catching wind. God help her, he looked like the type who’d light a match just to watch it burn down to his fingers and laugh about the scars.

Oh, he liked that. Not just the question, but the whole performance. The cigarette dangling from her lips like punctuation. The way her curls framed her face in disheveled poetry. The tilt of her head like she was unbothered, like this was just another Tuesday and not a setup spiraling into something dark.

Gambit let out a low whistle under his breath. “Mon dieu chérie… bold of you.”

“Oh, Darlin’,” Pyro drawled, pulling his lighter from the inside of his coat like it was a holy relic, flicking the silver Zippo open with a practiced snap. A distinct cling sound filling the hollow air. A tiny flame danced to life, flickering gold in the shadows. “You know I always have a light.”

He took a step forward, hand outstretched. Even though he didn’t need to. They both knew that. He could’ve lit her up from ten feet away with a thought and a twitch of his fingers.

She raises a brow at him in question, and he just flashes her a brilliant smile. 

“Don’t mind sharin’. Any excuse to get close to you, songbird.”

(Y/n) didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh either. But her lips twitched, like she was amused. Maybe she was. In a twisted sort of way.

Pietro let out a slow breath through his nose, muttering something under it that sounded suspiciously like you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

She stepped forward as well with casual ease, cigarette held delicately between her lips. She didn’t rush. The men around her, the fear clawing up her ribs, the betrayal still scalding behind her breastbone—all of it could wait.

“Let me guess. You want me to say something cheesy. ‘Light your fire, birdie?’”

“I’d actually prefer it if you’d shut up, but I never get what I want.”

“Aw don’t be like that, love.”

Pietro’s voice cut in then. Cold and sharp.

“She has her own lighter.”

(Y/n) didn’t even look at him. “It’s out of fluid.”

That was a lie. Her plastic Bic was full. She just didn’t feel like using it.

She could practically hear him grit his teeth from somewhere behind her. She didn’t really care.

She leaned in, letting the thin cylinder of her cigarette rest against the edge of Pyro’s flame. It caught with a soft flick and a brief flare, the scent of menthol curling up in the air between them. For a second—just a second—they stood close enough that she could see the ash flecks in his eyes, the faint scar near his temple she didn’t remember from before, the way his grin faltered as if surprised by the calm in her gaze. Like maybe she wasn’t scared of him. Like maybe she never had been.

She stepped back once her cigarette was lit, giving a little flick of her fingers in a mock salute.  Smoke twisted in lazy ribbons around her face. 

“Thanks, Johnny. Glad to see you’re good for something still” Her voice was breezy, offhanded, cut from the same cloth as the smoke curling from her lips—soft and biting at once.

He chuckled low, licking the inside of his cheek. “You know how much I like watching things burn. I take any chance I can get to light one up for pretty girls. 

A beat.

“Especially the mean ones”

She rolled her eyes, but the sharp edge of her mouth softened just a touch, betraying the ghost of reluctant amusement.

Behind her, somewhere closer to the rusted freight train, Quicksilver grunted.

Not loud. But sharp. Meant to be heard.

(Y/n) didn’t turn.

Pietro hadn’t moved since the moment the others arrived, but the tension had twisted his spine into something steel-cable tight. He looked like he wanted to punch something—preferably Allerdyce’s stupid face.

And Pyro, the bastard, caught his eye over her shoulder.

Met his stare.

And gave him a slow, lazy grin, mouth quirked like a match head begging for a strike. His expression said What? Jealous? as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud. 

Go on, do something

Pietro’s finger’s twitch, every bit of self restraint he had going into not choking the redhead right here, right now.

He could. God, he could do it before anyone blinked. Pyro wouldn’t even see it coming.

But he didn’t.

“Mm. Therapy might help with that.” Nightingale replies, unaware of the silent threats the two men shared in a split second.

 The flame snapped closed with a flick, and Pyro watched her with something unreadable in his gaze as she took a drag. Something one could mistake as veneration.

Not lust. Not infatuation. Something deeper.

The kind of quiet awe a boy might carry for the storm that ruined his hometown—beautiful, destructive, unforgettable.

Behind her, the moon hung low, swollen and bruised against the indigo sky like it had seen too much and said too little. A witness draped in borrowed light. She turned her head and exhaled smoke up toward the stars. Ironic, how peaceful it looked. How quiet. Like the world wasn't holding its breath around them.

Like nothing was about to break.

“You’ve changed,” he said eventually, almost admiring.

She exhaled again, eyes on him like steel under velvet. “So have you. Still an asshole, though.”

His lips pulled into a smirk. Crooked. Honest. “Fair.”

A low growl cut through the air then like a scalpel through skin—feral, throaty, primal. The kind of sound that made your bones remember what fear was even if your brain insisted you were fine.

“You’re stalling,” Sabretooth rumbled. His voice was gravel soaked in blood, low and sharp, the warning in it unmistakable.

(Y/n)’s head snapped toward him on instinct, her pulse hitching despite her best efforts. For just a flicker—just a breath—panic danced behind her eyes, a sliver of raw instinct. The kind that came when someone called your bluff before you could salvage the illusion. Her expression didn’t falter long, but it was enough to make the corners of Sabretooth’s mouth twitch.

She covered it with a lazy draw from her cigarette, but the damage was done.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just wanted a smoke before your people started throwing punches.”

“You always this mouthy before a beating?” Sabretooth asked. He was watching her the way a lion watches a cornered gazelle—curious, patient. Hungry. A confidence that comes with knowing you’ve already won.

Something in his gaze said: Run. It’ll be more fun for me.

(Y/n) inhaled, and let the smoke sit in her lungs for a heartbeat. Then exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes trained on the older mutant like he didn’t terrify her down to the marrow.

So she opened her mouth and said something she knew was beyond stupid. 

“You always this eager to play attack dog for someone who keeps you on a leash? Or is this your way of proving you still got it after that thrashing Logan gave you?”

The silence that followed was deep and sharp, like the breath before a scream. 

Sabretooth’s snarl was instant—teeth bared, hackles raised, the line between man and beast erased in one second.

He lunged a half-step forward, claws twitching into view—

And Pietro moved.

In a blink, he was between them, arm outstretched, fingers splayed—not touching her, but blocking the space between her and the coming storm. His voice came low

“Enough.”

“You got a real goddamn mouth on you, girl,” he hissed. “Let’s see if you still got any jokes when I tear out your fucking throat—”

“Whoa, whoa—easy, mon frère,” Gambit cut in, stepping slightly in front of him, one hand raised.“Ain’t no need for that just yet. She's just talkin’, homme,” Gambit said lazily, though his tone was a notch more serious than before. “You know how birds get when they’re backed in a cage. She don’ mean nothin’ by it.”

(Y/n) turned her gaze sharply to Gambit. “Don’t speak for me.”

The look Gambit gave her was pleading—bordering on annoyed. Like a man trying to keep a bar fight from turning into a body count.

Quicksilver turned toward her at that, eyes burning. His jaw clenched hard enough to tremble at the edges.

“Stop talking,” he bit out. “Just—stop. You’re not helping yourself.”

His face was unreadable, but his eyes flickered—furious.

And beneath it all—he looked scared.

For her?

She nearly scoffed. Yeah, right. 

He’s the one who got her into this fucking mess.

From off to the side, Pyro chuckled lowly, breaking the tension just enough to turn all eyes.

“Bloody hell, love. Ain’t you just a little spitfire.” His voice was darkly amused, tinged with something she couldn’t quite place. “Careful now, Creed,” he added, eyes flicking toward Sabretooth. “Looks like the little birdie’s got claws too.”

Sabretooth growled again, a low, guttural threat vibrating up from his chest. But Pyro wasn’t finished.

“She’s not wrong though,” he mused, head cocked, genuinely entertained. “Wolverine did mop the floor with you last time. What was it—three minutes? Two?” He grinned, wicked. “Not that anyone’s counting.”

Sabretooth snarled—really snarled this time, shoulders bunching, claws arching forward like he meant to carve someone in half right then and there—

“Say that again, you little—!”

“Don’t,” Pietro snapped, venom sharp and sudden, his voice cracking like thunder across dry air. “We’re not doing this now.”

Gambit threw up a hand in warning, cool and casual but firm.

“Let it go, Victor.”

(Y/n) glanced at him, a ghost of a smirk tugging the corner of her mouth despite the pulse thudding behind her ribs.

“Thanks for the assist,” she murmured.

Pyro winked. “Anytime, birdie.”

Quicksilver made a strangled sound like he might actually implode. “Somebody shut him up” he hisses. 

Gambit’s eyes slid to (Y/n) again, sharp and steady now. The flirtation had bled out of his expression, replaced by a sort of grim calm.

“You come now, chérie. Quiet-like. We walk, we talk. No one gets hurt.”

“And if I don’t?”

No one answered.

They didn’t have to.

Sabretooth’s claws flexed in the still air with a slow, deliberate snikt.

And the night held its breath once again.

A pin drop could’ve echoed like a gunshot in the stillness that followed.

It was that quiet.

like the world itself had gone silent, teetering on the knife’s edge of violence. (Y/n)’s heart thundered in her chest, a frantic drumbeat behind her ribs. Fear had its hands on her—tight around her lungs, threading through her limbs, trembling just beneath the surface. It was there in the way her shoulders stiffened, in the twitch of her fingers at her sides, in the shallowness of each breath that left her.

She knew it.

They knew it.

She would have gotten mauled in five seconds flat had Quicksilver and Gambit not stepped in.

And still, she was stubborn.

Stupid, reckless, gut-deep stubborn. The kind that burns out stars before it ever yields.

She moved before she thought.

Shoved Quicksilver back with both hands—palms pressed to the cold leather over his chest. The contact was brief, but unexpected, and he stumbled—not from force, but from shock. His silver brows lifted a fraction, mouth parting in disbelief.

“Get away from me!,” Her voice cracked like glass, and still she stood her ground “All of you.”

Son of a bitch. The whole damn lot of them. 

She smashed the cigarette under her boot’s heel, twisting her toe into the gravel until the last ember died with deliberate finality, grinding it into the rocks like it was something she could control.

Then she straightened slowly, lifting her chin like a blade drawn from a sheath. Her voice rang out like something final—low and serious.

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Tell Magneto he can rot in whatever hole he crawled out of.” 

Her gaze swept over them, unflinching now despite the way her pulse screamed behind her ears.

“And if you're all so eager to follow him to hell.” her eyes landed on each of them, one by one. “be my guest, but I'm not gonna roll over so easily.”

There it was.

The line.

For one raw moment, no one breathed.

Then—

“Oh, come on,” Pietro snapped, throwing his hands up. “Are you trying to die tonight?”

Gambit winced and muttered something in French under his breath, something that sounded a lot like a prayer—or a curse.

“Merde,” he muttered under his breath. “Girl really don’ know when to shut up.”

Pyro’s expression was hard to read now. The flame in his grin had gone out, replaced by something pensive, almost cold.  There was a flicker of something in his eyes—not admiration, but maybe... regret. Maybe just the echo of it.

“You’re makin’ this harder than it needs to be, love,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t teasing. No lilt, no smirk hiding behind his words. Just truth. And something that could have almost been pity.

And Sabretooth?

Sabretooth laughed.

A low, guttural sound that crawled up his throat and slithered across the night air.

“Well, that settles it,” he growled, flexing his claws with audible delight. “We do this the fun way.”

 A wind stirred through the train yard then, sharp and cold as an icicle pick in winter. It slid past (Y/n)’s cheeks like a warning. 

The sound of Sabretooth’s laughter rooted her in place, that deep, lupine rumble clinging to the insides of her ears like cobwebs. He stepped forward again, slow and heavy—each movement a flex of coiled muscle and malevolent intent. The moonlight caught on his claws as they extended fully, glinting silver like the teeth of some ancient trap.

He stepped again—deliberate, savoring the moment, the way monsters do when they’re certain the end has already been written. His bulk loomed larger with each stride, shoulders rolling like tectonic plates, hands relaxed but twitching with promise.

And still—she didn’t move.

Didn’t dare to.

Every instinct screamed at her to run. But where would she go? There were four of them. Trained. Ruthless. Men who had bathed in battle since their bones were half-grown. She’d be tackled in seconds, ripped apart before she could so much as scream.

Still, she couldn’t stop her legs from tensing, couldn’t stop her fingers from curling, couldn’t stop her power from flaring just a little too bright behind her ribs.

She took one breath. Another. And then—

The air around her began to shimmer.

Faint, at first— like a flickering lightbulb.. Then stronger. A ripple of something soft and silver-blue, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks, the stars above catching in her eyes like pin-lights reflected in water.

Pietro saw it first.

“No—no, don’t,” he snapped, his voice slicing the air like a whip as he turned to her. His hand lifted, palm open, like he might physically push the power back into her chest. “(Y/n) stop!. Don’t make this worse—”

Sabretooth lunged.

Fast.

Too fast for anything but panic.

But Pietro was faster.

In a blur of black and silver and wind, he caught Sabertooth mid-leap—shoulder crashing into the older mutant’s side with the full force of a sonic boom. The impact sent both of them tumbling across the gravel in a burst of motion and fury, a cloud of dust exploding where they fell.

“Get her!” Pietro shouted mid-scuffle, his voice a gruff and a whip-crack of command as he fought to keep Sabretooth’s claws from his throat.

But (Y/n) was already turning—already moving—legs pushing off the earth like a raven. Her power bloomed behind her eyes now, lighting her skin in soft purple pulses. She moved with desperation, hands splayed, eyes scanning for the narrowest exit between rusted freight cars and stacked debris, and wooden carts.

And then Gambit stepped into her path.

He didn’t raise a hand. Had no cards visible. Didn’t reach for the bo staff strapped to his back. He just looked at her, red eyes almost glowing under the yellow streetlight

“Don’ do this, chère.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t even hesitate.

She ducked low and lunged past him—

—only to feel his arm loop around her waist mid-sprint, catching her momentum and spinning her hard into the wall of a derailed car. He was holding back, just wanting to use enough force to stop her. But it still hurt like a motherfucker.

She gasped, the air knocked clean out of her chest, her shoulder slamming into rusted metal with a sick clang.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he said softly, arm tightening around her middle like a steel band. “Please.”

‘Too fucking late for that.’ She thinks bitterly in her head as her body continued to thrash, desperate and fierce.

A burst of shimmering energy flickered from her palms, reading herself to break free from his grip—only for Gambit to seize her wrists in his gloved hands and pin them to the wall beside her head.

‘Son of a bitch.’

“Enough, Nightingale,” Pietro barked from across the yard, his voice ragged with effort. Sabretooth had him pinned now, but not for long—the black blur of his limbs still jerking, struggling under the larger man’s weight. “Goddammit, get off Creed—”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, still writhing, her voice gone hoarse from panic and fury as she fought tooth and nail to break Gambit’s hold. 

“LeBeau, I will kill you, I swear to god-!”

He pulls her restrained wrists away from the wall of the car, the movement forceful enough to peel her entire back from the surface just for him to slam it back in with a force that makes a grunt leave her lips, and she bites her lip to restrain the whimper that want to follow. 

“Chère you need to calm the hell down-”

“Fuck you-!”

That’s  when she sees him from her peripheral vision. Pyro approached slowly now, arms outstretched—not threatening, not mocking, almost placating, like trying to sooth a frightened animal. His brows were drawn tight, mouth a grim line.

“You’re not gonna win this fight, love,” he said, gently now. “Not here. Not tonight.”

Her lips parted, breath catching on a sob she didn’t let out. Her wrists ached in Gambit’s grip. Her heart ached worse.

Pietro finally shoved Sabretooth off with a surge of speed and landed, panting, one arm cradling his ribs.

“Let her go,” he said, voice gravel-rough. “I’ve got her.”

Gambit hesitated.

Then slowly, he stepped back.

(Y/n) staggered forward—but not far. Pietro caught her by the elbow, not unkindly, just firm. Like a leash. Like gravity. An unstoppable force. 

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t look at any of them.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the tracks ahead—long, endless steel rails stretching toward darkness.

And the night felt colder than before.

She felt a ringing in her ear.

Sharp, high, incessant.

She didn’t know if it was from the panic attack crawling up her throat like a hand around her windpipe, or if it was from Gambit bashing her damn head—twice—into cold, unyielding steel. Probably both. Either way, it wouldn't stop.

There was an unabating throbbing at the back of her head as well. One she was desperately trying to ignore. 

Her knees threatened to give out, breath rattling, but she didn’t fall. Wouldn’t give them that.

She hated this.

Hated the stifling heat of her own skin, hated the pounding of her blood in her ears, hated the hands that had touched her, gripped her, held her down.

She hated the freight yard, the scent of rust and ash, the cold press of gravel under her boots. She hated them—every last one of them. Why couldn’t they have just left her alone? 

She hated the way Pietro’s hand still gripped her elbow like he was the only thing keeping her from shattering.

But most of all—

She hated herself.

For letting it happen. For not being faster. For not being stronger.

She was supposed to be better than this. She had promised herself she would never be this helpless again.

She was an X-Man, dammit.

And yet—here she was.

Surrounded. Dragged from the only sense of control she’d managed to carve out for herself in this brutal, unforgiving world. Caged like a bird with clipped wings and too much pride.

(Y/n) sucked in a breath that caught in her chest like broken glass, blinking against the pressure behind her eyes.

She was not going to cry. She doesn’t think she’d be able to survive the humiliation that would come with her breaking down into tears right now. 

“Get off,” she muttered. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady—knife-steady. “Don’t touch me.”

Pietro didn’t move for a beat too long.

Then—slowly—he released her.

She stepped away from him like his touch burned. Like she could scrub it from her skin if she just moved fast enough.

Pyro watched her with a strange stillness now, all the fire in him dimmed to embers.

Gambit’s mouth was tight, eyes unreadable beneath the glint of shadowed red.

And Sabretooth… Sabretooth looked pleased.

Pietro’s voice came again, quiet, but with a thread of command under the weariness.

“We're leaving.”

(Y/n) didn’t answer.

Just stood there, staring at the ground. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“You can walk,” Pietro said, voice a bit softer, “or someone’s going to carry you. But we’re going.”

Her fingers curled at her sides.

And after a long breath, she moved.

[p0ssywhippedcream]

I'm back again! So for me, all the one-shots where Percy is being a shit to y/n are like a series of  a toxic relationship, and I WANT HIM TO SUFFER SO BAD. It could be because I despise assholes or because he reminds me too much of my shitty ex (Percy, I adore you, but this is personal now).

Yes, my ex wasn't over his ex while being with me and told me that he preferred to still have the 140 pictures (yes, I remember this detail) of her than be with me.

Like I said before, I would love fluff, but I need vengeance! I NEED IT!

So please, I beg you! Write something that will fulfill my soul; I know you can. I only want him to pay, nothing else.

Love, THE Anon 🧚

I've tried to figure out how to say "fuck your ex" in a creative way but low-key im too tired he's just a douche n im so happy you know you deserve better n you're not with him!!! Also I wrote this sleep deprived on a 8 hour flight n actually kinda hate it but I promised so I deliver.

48 times. 48 times Percy’s called you and 48 times you haven’t picked up. It’s been about two weeks since you left and he hasn’t heard a lick of you, complete silence on your end.

For a while he respected the wall you’d put up, only because he didn’t miss what was behind it. He had Annabeth, his best friend and he didn’t need you.

Then earlier, he was doing the dishes with his mom. She was drying and he was washing and maybe he would’ve noticed her silence sooner if he wasn’t zeroed in on scrubbing off a chunk of fried egg.

When he finally looked up, Percy noticed her staring out the window with the look she only got when she was thinking of his dad and nudged her gently.

“Mom?”

Sally turned and met his questioning gaze. Her eyes were less sad, more reminiscent.

“Sometimes I just wonder, what it would have been like if he stayed.”

Percy nods, thinking of the man in the next room who stepped in the empty role his father left behind.

“I love Paul, my life now, but I just know that... maybe if he tried a little harder, you could have had it a little easier… I won’t ever forget the love I had for him because it gave me you, but I don’t think I’ll ever forgive it either.”

And now he’s sitting on his bed, slumped over his phone with so many wonders. Could you ever forgive him? Why was it so easy to let you go if it hurts so bad now? 

He calls you again, gets your up-beat ringtone and can’t help the surge of anger. It’s misdirected, you don’t deserve it and it immediately returns full force his way with a guilt tenfold.

So he calls you again and you tell him to leave a message at the beep. He hangs up before he can hear it.

His thumb hovers over the little phone on his screen, 50 times is pushing it.

He gives you a break, and waits, and waits, and waits.

And an hour later, his phone rings and he practically pounces on the device. It’s your smiling face shining up at him and your concerned voice echoing when he picks up.

“Percy? You okay? What’s going on?”

“I-I’m okay, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Percy,” You sigh, “I was seriously freaked out, I thought you might be dying or something.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

He heard you take a breath, holding one of his own.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I’m- I’m sorry. I’m really sorry and really stupid and I should’ve apologized so much sooner.”

“Yeah, I know.” He winces, “Anything else?” 

“Annabeth doesn’t mean anything to me that way, it’s you. It’s always been you and I’ve been too blind to see the obvious. I thought I needed her still because I knew I could never ask you to be what she was.”

You don’t say anything, he’s compelled to go on but a little scared he’s already messed up.

“Percy, there’s so much wrong with everything you just said but I don’t have the energy to correct you. I’m tired, it’s been a long day and I really just can’t do this, okay?”

“Wait, p-please,” His voice cracks and he makes no attempt to cover it. “Can you just listen to me?”

“No, I can’t. When I said I was done, I meant it. Don’t call me again.”

And with that, the phone call is over. The dial tone is a harsh contrast to your soft voice, it breaks his heart a little more. He misses you a little more when he pulls the phone away from his ear and sees what he could have had in your profile picture. He hates himself a little more when the next number he’s calling is Annabeth’s and she’s picking up with a care in her tone he only wants to hear from you.

[javert]

i've been following @nonevahed's journey using dictation software to write, and it seems like a deeply frustrating experience (certainly last time i played around with dictation, i found it unusable) and i was wondering if, with advances in recent technology, you could make dictation "work" without some of the inherent clunk of having to list out paragraph breaks and punctuation marks. and i think the answer is 'yes question mark'

my thought was to try the following process

record some audio of a live "writing a story aloud" session. (i am notably extremely bad at this so you'll have to forgive what you're about to read). this gave me an 8 minute audio

put it through a audio -> text transcriber. i used whishper, which runs locally even on my kinda garbo computer. this took less than 10 mins and gave me a decently clean transcript, filled with rambling and garbage

take that transcript and tell chatGPT to put in proper dialogue/punctuation/paragraph breaks/etc so that it's formatted as a story. i did have to do this twice because the first time i failed to say "use ONLY my own words" b/c it started to put some chatGPTisms in there lol, but after that it behaved

this worked, i would say, surprisingly well. original transcript and chatGPT results under the cut. you really will have to forgive the shitty writing lol. I am not designed to think aloud

original transcript

Hello ChatGPT. I'm about to provide you a transcript of me dictating a small science fiction story that I have written. What I would like you to do is format it as a story. So strip out all of my instructions, the timestamps that are in the transcript file and add proper punctuation and paragraph breaks. You'll have to intuit or interpret some of this because I am not going to say every punctuation mark in my transcription. If I correct myself at any point in the transcript, so if I say wait stop I need to go back and fix something a little bit earlier, please make that replacement automatically. This is a science fiction story so some of the character names are spelled strangely. If you see something that is spelled not not correctly in the transcript, please fix it for me. The character names in question are Hale, H-A-I-L, and Carillon Station, that's C-A-R-R-E-L-O-N, then Station, Barvaya, that's B-A-R-V-A-Y-A, one word, and Masha, M-A-S-H-A. So here is the story I'm going to begin now.

Barvaya allowed Hale to stay in his house that night. It was more generous than Hale had expected or more generous than he even wanted. He stayed in the guest bedroom or one of them. The house was two floors above Barvaya's offices and it was arranged around a long courtyard area at Green Garden growing in the middle with the family's rooms off on either side. All of the rooms were had doors that were unmarked and nondescript but were made aside. Chat, let me go back and fix that. All of the doors that lined the courtyard were made of the same expensive carved wood as the one as the wood that had been outside of the house. Let me fix that again. All of the doors that lined the courtyard were made of the same expensive carved wood as the entry to the house. Hale's guest bedroom was dark and the furniture was also expensive. Although what he wanted most to do was to leave and go to a what he wanted most to do was leave and go to one of the restaurants on Carolyn station and gorge himself until he could no longer eat. The doctor that Barvaya had summoned for him explicitly forbid him from doing this and he was given instead just a small pouch of protein just a small pouch of a protein shake to reintroduce food to his system after being starved for so long. It had not sat well with him and he had been in severe pain through the night. But now it was morning and he was feeling more alive than he had in many days. Something about something about the food and something about the guest bedroom of the house where he could feel Barvaya's family all around him in their in their rooms talking amongst each other. If he wanted he could use the power to peer through the walls and see them or listen to their conversations but he declined. It was comforting but a simulacrum of comfort to have the family all around him. If he didn't look at them he could pretend for a moment like they were his own. And so he did this in the morning after he woke up before he got out of bed with the silk sheets pulled up all around him. He closed his eyes and spread his awareness thinly just through the bounds of Barvaya's house. But he was awake quite early not having been able to sleep very well with the food that he had been given. And so no wait hold on go back. He woke up quite late not having been able to sleep in the beginning. All right let me let me try that again sorry chat let's go back. Hale woke up late in the day having gone to bed late in the morning and so the house emptied out around him as Barvaya's household went through their daily motions and left to go to their business left to deal with their business around the station. This left just a few people in the house and Hale was surprised when one of them crept forward towards and Hale let me go back a little bit and Hale took notice when one of these people crept up towards his door alone. It seems likely that the boy and it was a boy he looked out through no hold on go back. Uh Hale took notice when one of the people in the house crept up to his door and stood outside of it doing nothing and saying nothing for long minutes. He could feel the presence there but he declined to investigate until the presence grew too suspicious so Hale used the power to look at who was standing outside his door. It was the boy Masha whom he had met the night before whose father had ushered him out of the room so that he could deal with Hale. It seemed unlikely that Masha was going to come in but he felt angry no hold on go back. It seemed unlikely that Masha was going to enter the room on his own but Hale could sense how angry he was and how much he wanted to. So Hale go back a little bit. So Hale opened the door and he said hello Masha. This caused the boy who was waiting just outside the door to leap at him with a knife in his hand. Hale stopped him without any difficulty. What are you doing? Hale asked. You were going to kill my father. Okay that's the end of the recording thank you chat please do your best to transcribe this mess. you

Output scene

Barvaya allowed Hale to stay in his house that night. It was more generous than Hale had expected, or more generous than he even wanted. He stayed in the guest bedroom, or one of them. The house was two floors above Barvaya's offices, and it was arranged around a long courtyard area—a green garden growing in the middle, with the family's rooms off on either side. All of the doors that lined the courtyard were made of the same expensive carved wood as the entry to the house. Hale’s guest bedroom was dark, and the furniture was also expensive. Although what he wanted most to do was leave and go to one of the restaurants on Carrelon Station and gorge himself until he could no longer eat. The doctor that Barvaya had summoned for him explicitly forbade him from doing this, and he was given instead just a small pouch of a protein shake to reintroduce food to his system after being starved for so long. It had not sat well with him, and he had been in severe pain through the night. But now it was morning, and he was feeling more alive than he had in many days. Something about the food, and something about the guest bedroom of the house, where he could feel Barvaya’s family all around him in their rooms, talking amongst each other. If he wanted, he could use the power to peer through the walls and see them or listen to their conversations, but he declined. It was comforting—but a simulacrum of comfort—to have the family all around him. If he didn’t look at them, he could pretend for a moment like they were his own. And so he did this in the morning, after he woke up, before he got out of bed, with the silk sheets pulled up all around him. He closed his eyes and spread his awareness thinly just through the bounds of Barvaya’s house. Hale woke up late in the day, having gone to bed late in the morning. And so the house emptied out around him as Barvaya’s household went through their daily motions and left to deal with their business around the station. This left just a few people in the house, and Hale took notice when one of these people crept up towards his door alone. Hale took notice when one of the people in the house crept up to his door and stood outside of it, doing nothing and saying nothing, for long minutes. He could feel the presence there, but he declined to investigate until the presence grew too suspicious. So Hale used the power to look at who was standing outside his door. It was the boy Masha, whom he had met the night before, whose father had ushered him out of the room so that he could deal with Hale. It seemed unlikely that Masha was going to enter the room on his own, but Hale could sense how angry he was and how much he wanted to. So Hale opened the door, and he said, “Hello, Masha.” This caused the boy, who was waiting just outside the door, to leap at him with a knife in his hand. Hale stopped him without any difficulty. “What are you doing?” Hale asked. “You were going to kill my father.”

[biblicallyaccuratecrow]

it’s 3am I woke up from a nightmare time to post abt my isat fanfic

really this is just notes abt chapter 1 of ouroboros (a not-quite postmortem if you will)

[spoilers for isat and twohats below the cut]

So if you couldn’t tell/didn’t know this fic actually takes place in the version of twohats where you lose the battle against loop! I’ve always kind of liked this version better? I think the emotional impact of loop deciding, even after having siffrin’s life literally within their grasp, that they don’t want to kill them hits so much harder for me. Also, feels a bit more realistic in the context of this fic as a sick/recovery fic. Siffrin definitely did NOT have enough energy to take on a fully-charged and pissed off Loop in their condition.

I’ll probably make a larger post about siffrins physical condition in this fic later, but in the case of chapter 1 there’s a few fun things to note. One is that siffrin’s handle on pain is kinda fucked! “Not as bad as it could have been” is pretty literal in this case. I think they’re simultaneously very desensitized to recognizing and acknowledging their pain but also prone to being acutely aware of it when it’s in tandem with their shitty mental state. When they’re Being Normal it kind of fades into the background buzz, but when they’re spiraling and can feel how close they are to falling apart I imagine it’s a lot more overwhelming and obvious.

the stars and ocean connection to the forgotten island has been pointed out before but I’m being a little more heavy handed with this fic bc. In my mind the reverence for the stars goes hand in hand with the idea of an island where the ocean has a major impact on the daily life??? The idea of stars being used to guide sailors comes to mind, but also the idea of vastness, reflections, and a “void” feeling also feel right. A lot of naval navigation tools have a lot to do with physics, astronomy, and atmospheric stuff, and given the island’s technological and scientific method of displaying the universe I don’t think it’s too far fetched to extend that to the ocean as well!

CARRYING SIFFRIN. BRIDAL STYLE. Isabeau is so fun to write????? I don’t think I expected to enjoy his chapter as much as I did. Reaaaaly leaning into Freaksabeau energy but also. I think a lot about how Isa feels has such a strong protective and comforting personality? Throughout the game it’s expressed a lot, but the fact that it comes out of his deep childhood insecurities makes it feel all the more painful… not to mention that siffrin targeted these insecurities pretty harshly! Even if Isa forgives him, I imagine that it’s very hard for him not to internalize it. He’s a coward, and he knows it, but having someone acknowledge that and show how it can hurt others and himself is an entirely different beast. Hence why Isa ruminates a lot over it during his section.

Odile is THE #1 isafrin shipper. She’s also homophobic/j

Bonnie. Boniface. Bon Bon. My heart and soul. Writing them is so fun. I know a lot of people (me included) have trouble with them, bc writing kids can be hard. Still, I have such a deep respect for their characterization that I really spent a lot of time making sure they felt right. In this case, it was acknowledging that they are!!! NOSY!!! Like many kids are!!! But not maliciously, just out of worry and curiosity! They’re not dumb either! They know that siffrin’s whole situation is fucked- maybe not the fullest extent of understanding, yes, but they seem to grasp the seriousness, even if it is through the forever school metaphor. It was also kinda important for me to show that they take their role in the party as Tonic Carryer and Chef Cooker VERY SERIOUSLY. Odile complimenting them on their foresight is feels all the more genuine that way.

I think by now we all kinda realize that. The idea of camping out in the clock tower. Where siffrin spent countless sleepless nights mulling over their sins. While maybe marginally better than being forced to stay in the house, is…. An oversight, to say the least. See chapter 5 for more context on that. It’s better, yeah but only by proxy of not having hundreds of deaths associated with it.

I’m also gonna be focusing a lot on the inter-party dynamics outside of siffrin in this fic! Because!!! The friendships of the others mean a lot to me!!! Odile and Isabeau’s friendship comes up the most in this chapter; I think Odile has a bit of an inkling about Isabeau being a bit smarter than he lets on, and even if she spends a larger portion of their interactions in game teasing him for his crush, I also think that they have a pretty close bond for Odile to feel comfortable being the one that isabeau goes to about his feelings. So I thinks he has a better read on him as a whole, and does her best to keep him from spiraling.

Bonnie and Isa also come to mind- they aren’t talked about nearly as much as I think they should be???? Like, Bonnie sees Isa as a younger sibling (which. Stares in Middle-Child Isa Enjoyer), and Isa is the other person who uses Bon Bon, which is a pretty important nickname in the context of Bonnie’s character??? They have less interactions than the rest of the party but I like to think that Isa humors Bonnie a lot and also sees them like a younger sibling which makes their whole teasing and nagging dynamic all the more realistic to me!

ah, the Favor Tree Void Space. My sweet beloved. My magnum opus of imagery in this fic. In my mind, this represents Siffrin’s subconscious connection to The Universe and wishcraft, even after the loops. Favor Trees are obviously something culturally important for The Universe (given that the wishes it grants are so powerful and that the book detailing all wishcraft rituals has a favor tree on the cover), so I thought that it would be fitting to place it here. It’s simultaneously part of siffrin’s trauma from the loops, but also a safe space, a haven offered by Loop where they can simply just. Be. At least for a little while, anyways. Also drew back to the ocean/sky imagery with the ground having some kind of water qualities.

writing about the stars, I emphasize the idea of their??? Aliveness very often. As facets of the universe, thousands of granted and ungranted wishes, an audience and plot device in one. I can’t say much on them in this chapter, mainly bc I go a little more into it chapter 3 and onwards, but keep in mind the idea of music and the chorus of a theatre production, as well as a captive audience. That’s kinda the vibes.

anyhoo- I’m tired again. Gonna try and sleep a bit more before work! toodles!

[rearranged-fanfic]

Omg spill the tea who got mad at you what happened 😭🤣

Months later, here is the tea that I have to spill. Lol. I made a reader, very, very mad at me. And they left this gem:

I'm... I'm not even sure how to feel about this. On one hand, I'm flattered that I could piss somebody off to this extent with my writing. On the other, I'm sad because they didn't leave this as a comment so that we could have an amicable back and forth. Like, I KNOW my story is divisive, homie. I don't mind criticism because it helps people grow as writers. If I feel like it's good feedback, I'll take it. But if it's silly or mean, I'll call people out and be like "hey, maybe you missed the point of the story" or "I get where you're coming from, but that was a rude way of talking to me about something provided to you for free".

This is definitely a "hey, you missed the point of the story" AND a "I get where you're coming from, but that was a rude way of talking to me about something provided to you for free" bookmark.

I'm gonna guess that this was meant to stay an inside thought, but the person forgot to check the box to private the bookmark. Boo. I have these bookmarks, too, so I can keep track of things I've read. I have some bookmarks that are like, "Don't reread: Unhappy ending" or "Bad touch. Avoid." But I always keep any bookmarks that are even slightly critical private so the author doesn't see them. I don't want to hurt their feelings or crap on their work just because something wasn't to my taste; that's such a shitty thing to do to people who write for fun.

I get that the bookmarks are a reader's space, but it kinda sucks that it's public for potential new readers to see. It feels like a stain on my work. I know that more people have a good experience with this story, and that's wonderful. But a million and one positive bookmarks/comments can't completely erase the hurt of a single negative one. But that's showbiz, ain't it?

That said, it's public, so I can respond to it and clarify some things. Not that they're ever going to see it. But venting feels nice sometimes, no?

Let's just jump into it. Ignore my upset tone; I was feeling zesty.

My "prose is fine". Eh. I'll take it. I know I make grammatical boo-boos all the time.

Reader-chan is whiny. That's... that's the point. She's been plunged into a world that isn't her own after losing basically the last family she kept in contact with, and has been bullied relentlessly and even physically assaulted by the people of this new universe. WHICH the bookmarker acknowledges is "not necessarily unreasonable for a nineteen-year-old in her circumstances". Babes, then WHY are you upset about it?!

Apparently, the idea that we shouldn't physically assault people we just met, imprison them in our apartments without evidence, torment them psychologically, and KILL PEOPLE is "culturally Christian moralizing". Fascinating. We learn something new every day.

Reader-chan's belaboring the point that "Gojo isn't the *right* kind of penitent" because he DISLOCATED HER ARM AND HIP and FALSELY IMPRISONED HER. Y'know... minor, totally forgivable transgressions. I wonder why she isn't over it yet? It's a mystery.

"Literally everything she accuses him of she's already explained away herself as a reasonable response to the situation..." I'm... I'm at a loss for words, here. Because, yeah, Reader-chan does explain his behavior away. But it's not meant to be a good thing. She's making excuses for her BULLY/ABUSER. She's trying to justify it by giving it a reason for happening. Which is, y'know, something that real life abuse and bullying victims do. The bottom line is that Reader-chan NEVER should've been put in this position. There should've been an investigation, an analysis of evidence, observation in a safe environment, and a fair trial. What Gojo did to her was abuse. Full stop. There is no excusing it. Reader-chan attempting to rationalize it away does NOT make it okay. And getting mad because she doesn't forgive her abuser is not a good look.

"Literally everything she accuses him of... she herself is guilty of. Except for, like, vibes." I'm sorry, what? What things has she done that are even remotely as bad as what he's done? I'm curious. He physically assaulted her when they first met. I mean, I guess she threw a shampoo bottle at him once and tried to shove him away by his face? But a) she was responding to his harassment, and b) it's explained that she only did so because she knew she couldn't actually hurt him because of Infinity. When presented with an actual chance to slap him in the face and HURT him as punishment (after his breakdown), she refused to stoop to his level. She's not a violent person. She's too meek. Did she say a few mean things to hurt his feelings? Yes. Did she occasionally push back? Again, yes. But none of her actions even came close to being as terrible as his troglodyte behavior.

"I haven't been this angry at a fictional character in a long time." Lol.

"I think I might be insulted?" Babes, me too. Join the club.

"Read halfway through chapter 13." "I'll probably come back to this later in hopes of character development." They stopped reading RIGHT before the character development!!! Like, literally in the next chapter after that, she grows a spine and starts laying down the law and coming to terms with how she has to change to survive in her new world. She even starts to explore her altered dynamic with Gojo and soften up to him a bit. But, on that note, please don't continue reading. If something makes a person THIS mad, it's best that they forget about it. Seriously. I don't want my writing to make people angry. And this story has clearly made them angry enough to word vomit several paragraphs.

"I really want to trust this author, but I'm not sure that I do." What a cunty thing to say about somebody that they don't know. Not mindful or demure, really. I'm glad that they want to trust me. Maybe I can hold out hope that our parasocial relationship can continue to evolve? Thanks, bookmarker, that means the world to me.

Okay. Analysis complete. Target eliminated. I'm less mad now.

With all of this in mind, the bookmarker made a valid point. Reader-chan is a deeply flawed character. She's an unreliable narrator. She thinks she's morally superior. She's weak-willed and pathetic. She's a hypocrite.

But that's what a character arc is for. Like, I get that she's not everybody's cup of tea. But I wanted to give her plenty of room to grow and improve as a person. She has nowhere to go but upward.

If this had been criticism written in a comment, I'd have loved to have a conversation. Because I do think a lot of this bookmarker's frustration is just that they didn't get it. Not that they are dumb or dense, by any means. But I think there was a clear disconnect between what I was writing and what they were reading. And that sucks, because I want people to be able to be on the same page as I am. If this bookmarker was confused or annoyed by these things, how many other silent readers are as well? When I see this kind of stuff, it makes me wonder if there's an idea that I could've gotten across better or fleshed out in a way that was more digestible. I'm always looking to improve how I write this story. And I can't do that if I just sit in an echo chamber and think that everything is fine all the time. That's why feedback is so important, even criticism. As long as it's done in a respectful way. If this had been concrit, I could've been able to clarify things that they weren't sure about and alleviate some of their annoyance with Reader-chan. Or I could've gone back and edited a sentence here or there to reinforce my intentions. As it stands now, there is no conversation. And there is no resolution. Which, again, sucks.

My final thought: Stinky.

I'm going to start posting comments and bookmarks that made me happy, though. Because there are so much more of you guys out there that are so fucking awesome! Like, I cannot express enough how much this kind of negativity is an outlier in the response to REARRANGED.

I try not to focus on the bad. But it's hard when the bad takes all the wind out of your sails. So, I've started a new project to combat the negativity and keep my motivation up. Every nice comment that I get, I'll put in a Word document and print out for my scrapbook.

Because I'm a freaking nerd like that.

Much love, as always 🥰🥰🥰

[toastywatchesstevenuniverse]

S1 E43

Maximum Capacity

Okay so this entire episode just made me feel like....uncomfortable? Like the entire time I just kept feeling so off. Like my brain was going "okay this is way too weird, why do I feel like there's gonna be some horrifying plot twist?"

Then it fucking happened & I felt like a psychic. Like holy shit it wasn't just me, this episode was purposely uncomfortable on purpose & idk how the fuck they did that but WOW the entire episode made me feel so uneasy & it was legit for a reason.

Also ngl Amethyst....kinda just super fucked up to do that- Like I haven't LOVED Greg as a character so far (he's there but I mean him lying about his leg, good intentions or not, was a pretty shitty move & also he's just kinda not that great of a dad but I also understand that's literally the point so I'm not gonna just toss aside his character because I'm assuming he's supposed to get better as the show goes on. For now: I just kinda feel nothing strong towards him character wise), but oh my God this episode just made me feel so bad for the guy. Holy shit like this dude just misses his wife. Fuck. I'm surprised how much he kept his cool here. Like he didn't blow up at Amethyst or anything he was like super quick to forgive her despite the fact that he kinda would have been super justified in being upset for this. But I like that this was how it was done. No scene of them fighting or yelling, Amethyst just chooses to do something to make up for it without Greg having to lecture her. In that regard: it actually made her seem way more sincere. Like she had to make that choice via her own genuine remorse. I'm wording this badly I think but like I think that it made her seem like she really was trying to attone for it & that she really did regret what she did.

And honeslty after On The Run? With the knowledge that, knowing how severely fucked up Amethyst is mental health wise, yeah her lashing out at people like this? And saying/doing extremely shitty things because she's upset & she doesn't have the capacity to hold herself back & only realizes how badly she fucked up until its too late? Yeah as someone who has that kinda mental health shit as I said in my post about that episode?....yeah, that's pretty accurate tbh. In my experience that's something I can confirm does happen. So yeah it actually makes sense why she did something so extreme out of fucking nowhere.

I have said a lot of really regrettable shit to people that I'm friends with (Sometimes idk how I'm still friends with them after bc I still feel bad about it yet they seem to insist I'm forgiven) during times where I was really fucking upset. And it's only until RIGHT after it happens that I fully go "oh shit that was a really bad thing to say & I made the situation significantly worse" Yet just like irl, they forgive. *cries*

Really well done character focused episode. They did fucking stellar character writing here.

OH WHAT YOU THOUGHT I WASNT GONNA GO INSANE GOBLIN MODE ABOUT PEARL????? TOO BAD PEARL TIME

OH MY GOD SHES IN A SWEATER AND SHES DOING HER BEST YES PEARL YOUR VOLUME IS PERFECT YOURE DOING AMAZING AAAAAAAA SHES SO CUTE AND HUGGABLE LOOK AT HER SHES THE CHARACTER OF ALL TIME !!!!!!