#vibes from the birds nest

[pagenby]

i can feel the ‘attempt to learn to write music’ hyperfixation creeping up on me again- i feel like it’ll manifest this time in trying to write hymns!! (again. it didn’t work out the first time lmao). if anyone has any good resources for learning to write music it’d be very appreciated!

also if anyone has any poems/prayers/etc that they think would be good to sing, the inspiration would be lovely :) no promises that i’ll manage to do this though lol

[asurrogateblog]

is there an actual term for that one pink floyd Noise that's like... high pitched whining feedback that sounds like a lonely sea bird calling from a distant shore. you know the one

[unproduciblesmackdown]

spinning off of "winston being fantastically (literally fantastical (literally related to fantasy)) clairvoyant (he is also figuratively clear-sighted / figuratively preternaturally perceptive just like, in the show. which is where this all comes from. plus him calling himself cassandra, always seeing the future. he really has always / continued to be thusly) and taylor literally has a broadsword" type fun and games that are very loosey goosey b/c billions aus go spinning off into their own separate dimensions super easily when billions canon is so rooted in its specific Stage Settings of modern day US law n finance battles in the office, sidewalks, and eateries:

the thought of winston & tuk and winston gets to be a fairy. jokes, please. changelings are right there with the common theory of "was this to explain disabilities & go 'something could go Wrong and the baby's not a Person and get rid of that,' unlike nowadays where people do that but go 'b/c that baby's disabled'" and also one goes Thinking Emoji about how apparently New Mothers and New Brides were susceptible along with New Borns to become swapped out with a fairy and now something's wrong with them and get rid of that. had to be about Something given that people apparently did act on changeling lore and martin luther is taking a stance like yeah another thesis, it's important to kill them And okay to kill them b/c they don't even have a soul anyways. okay thanks martin luther....meanwhile also witchcraft and getting after anybody for that too. and fairies generally as Problems, the etymology going back to [fate], the range like "ooh hehe causing funny little inconveniences just because" to more so "yeah they could cause life-threatening illness for that" and "yeah they'll just kill you"....and i think fairy/fey as respective noun/adj re: being gay is of Unknown Origin, like "gay" also is. and you never know, if being fey is like, well something's not right and it's dangerous, whether this is the inspiration....though by the time this slang starts turning up, and even in the time of prior possible origins / the roots in other usages / potential inspirations, theoretical actual fairies are surely becoming more Fanciful, this being around like, the 18th century, rather than "here's martin luther telling you to immolate! that! baby!"

but that like, you can have it all ways out here. the Always Small fairies i think being a later kind of victorian deal, rather than "fairies are shapeshifters & can become animals e.g. & May have a 'tiny little inches or millimeters high mode' but that's just a mode & the fact that generally though they just look like people, maybe with some stylistic variations and tells, means watch out" and i think wings came up ever, across yknow the various centuries and regions of folklore out here lmao and possible origins / influences yet further across time & regions & cultures, but again "always small and always winged" being a very relatively modern victorian deal. but we can draw on that to be sure when, additionally, a Potential mutual [would prefer to avoid] between fairies and humans (as opposed to "if your house or some shit is on a fairy path bestie just build them another door to walk straight through cuz they're Gonna") becomes "no, fairies mostly avoid humans more than the other way around" type of imbalance of any threat means like, well hey sure, the Real Self could then become a tiny little magical guy having fun with wing designs who is shy and elusive but maybe another fun little guy can accidentally become aware but then have a secret little hidden friendship hmm....

but then also just thinking of the version where you just look exactly like everyone else and live amongst them, changeling style. and potentially don't Know you're different, or at least not Why, b/c this is a "from birth" thing like hmmm ya don't say. and the whole thread where in some folklore fairies Aren't nonhuman, the difference is only about the separate fairy Realm you live in, which is different, with like "yeah sometimes fairies come from people who died." and alongside / overlapping with everything like "yeah you could disappear for a few days to that realm and then be like 'don't wanna / can't talk about it'" and whatever all various like "watch out for the liminal and unknowingly wandering or being taken into the fairy world and Then watch out for communing with them b/c then you could be Permanently affected, or permanently continually affected or vulnerable, or just stuck there. and we wouldn't want that" like well don't let them know your name but maybe try to find out their names b/c you can get at them in turn that way, don't get in on any food, don't get in on any parties. though variations, sometimes people getting whisked away for particular tasks that apparently Only humans can do. or forever potential for helpful / sympathetic fairy interventions in life. like fairies raising humans b/c their human parents were awful

also, that some classic Tests for "is your baby a changeling?" were very like, "well i guess if we drowned or burned that person and they just died about it....our bad," in the way that like apparently the way to go could be "put them in the fire. where they'll either burn or fly out the chimney." or "start going tf beating them with objects. so that they go away" like and they never stop beating winston with hammers out here!! or the classic "idk abandon them in the forest so fairies can take them back" like well they do also like [i prefer to pretend winston doesn't exist / forget that he does] lmao. this isn't really related. just the ol "ballpeen hammers kind of goated when it comes to putting someone in a sack and beating them to death" factor out here for your local changelings

also sure thinking of like ohh watch out for winston and his gayass Realm he exists in which is wrong and not of our own and potentially will forever change you with its gayass ways. uh oh don't get corrupted into a whole other powerful magical mode of existence if you commune with him in some deep fundamental nourishing ways. oh nooo watch ouuuut....one of the "you might be a changeling if" moments being "when they think they're alone do they act up?? dance??" like yeah i'm stimming and bursting into motion and making noises and existing wrong when i think i'm alone. Old Souls (theory as well that newborn changelings were secretly elderly fairies)....existence in the Fey Realm just making you different and out of place huh. and it would just be a guy though like either [undetectable except by already trying to kill them] and/or [actually just a human, fairies are just humans, fairies b/c they're in/from the fairy realm] but uh oh don't let him corrupt you. don't go hanging out with him and talking with him and partaking in his activities and embracing his ways. you'll be changed. you'll never fit in around here and be able to do things right ever again. we'll have to start beating you with hammers. and all for what. your weird gayass little guy and a whole possible other dimension of existence? vs all This? smh

[lecl1ercswif7ie]

I Care Buck

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ! The New Avengers x Reader

Summary: After your first mission you tell Bucky to blowout his hair with your Dyson - The rest of The Avengers are shocked he doesn't oppose.

Author's Note: This is my first fic, i'm sorry if it's a bit weird, english is not my first languange and i'm kind of nervous of writing here 🙈 Enjoy the fic!!

-

Mission complete.

If you could call “barely surviving a shootout, a crumbling building, and Walker setting off the wrong grenade” a mission success. Still, somehow, no one was dead. That was a win for the New Avengers.

Back at HQ, the vibe was what you’d expect from a barely-functional team of chaos gremlins.

Ava and John were already at it again, arguing over tactical choices like they hadn’t just spent the last six hours screaming into comms.

“I’m telling you,” John said, arms waving, “you rushed the flank too early!”

Ava raised her eyebrows and bit out, “I rushed the flank because you set off the charge early, you toddler in a bulletproof vest!”

“Idiots,” Yelena muttered, flopping on the worn-out couch and covering her eyes with her arm, “please shut up. Some of us are trying to disassociate in peace.”

Bob sat nearby, legs crossed, calmly reading a thick novel. He was somehow the calmest man in the building — maybe in the world. “Let them bicker,” he murmured, not looking up. “It’s almost rhythmic now. Like jazz.”

You snorted from your corner. Bucky was standing silently nearby, arms crossed, leaning against the far wall like he didn’t want to admit he was tired. His dark hair was tousled, sticking out from where it had been flattened by his mask and ruffled by wind and debris. He looked… adorable.

But he also looked like he’d walked through a wind tunnel.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling and walked over, Dyson Supersonic in hand.

“Okay, soldier,” you said, pointing to the stool near the table. “Sit.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your hair,” you said. “It looks like a bird tried to nest in it. I’m fixing it.”

“You’re gonna use… that thing?” he said warily, eyeing the Dyson like it might explode.

You grinned. “Relax. You’ve fought alien warlords. You can survive a blow dryer.”

A snort escaped him. And then — miraculously — he sat. You plugged the Dyson in, brushed your fingers through his damp hair, and got to work.

—

About five minutes in, Bob looked up from his book and said, “He’s letting her do his hair. It’s happening.”

Yelena didn’t even open her eyes. “What’s happening?”

“The slow-burn,” Bob replied, turning the page. “They’re finally getting there.”

Alexei popped his head in from the kitchen. “What are we betting? I say they kiss before next mission.”

“No way,” Ava said, arms crossed. “Barnes is emotionally repressed and Y/N’s too polite.”

John laughed. “$10 says it happens by the end of the week.”

“$20,” Bob added, “if they don’t even notice they’re basically dating already.”

You ignored them all. Mostly. Your fingers were threading through Bucky’s hair, drying and smoothing it as you guided the Dyson gently. He looked… relaxed. Kind of. Except when his metal hand kept twitching every time you got a little too close to his ear.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He grunted, “Yeah. Just… not used to people touching me like this.”

“Like how?”

“Like they care.”

You looked at him, your hand still in his hair. “I care, Buck.”

His eyes met yours then — and you swore your heart skipped.

From the couch, Yelena groaned loudly. “Oh my god, would you two just kiss already?!”

You flushed. Bucky cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “I feel like a stray puppy right now.”

“Yeah, well,” you smirked, “you’re a cute one.”

—

Later that night, the HQ was quieter. Ava and John had gone off somewhere to probably yell at each other in private. Yelena was asleep on the couch, Bob was still reading, and Alexei was snoring in the recliner.

You were in the bathroom with Bucky, showing him how to use the Dyson properly. He watched you with that same intense stare he always had — like he was memorizing everything.

“Okay, see the cool shot button?” you explained. “Locks the style in place.”

He pressed it. A little too hard. The blast of cold air surprised him and he jumped slightly.

You giggled. “Scary, huh?”

“Not scared,” he grumbled. “Just… surprised.”

“Mmhm.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Thanks for doing this.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Anytime.”

His hand caught yours as you went to pull away — metal fingers warm from the dryer, his grip gentle but steady.

“You know,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “I don’t let just anyone near my hair.”

Your breath hitched. “Good thing I’m not just anyone, then.”

There was a beat.

You both leaned in slightly—

And from the hallway: “If you’re not kissing, then at least make popcorn!” Alexei yelled. “Some of us are invested in the subplot!”

You and Bucky broke apart, laughing quietly.

“Stray puppy, huh?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile on his lips.

“Only if you’re the one taking me home.”

-

kinda nervous to post this haha, i tried my best okay? but i think i made justice to the whole new team with unstable people trying to live togethere

[moondustbaby]

Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’ (and a BJ)

bsf!Rafe x bsf!Reader

cw: smut, oral (m rec), bsf tomfoolery

mdni 18+

summary: Post-Bonnaroo boredom turns into something a lot filthier when you offer to suck off your best friend mid-drive and Rafe’s ability to focus behind the wheel doesn’t stand a chance.

⸻

The road hadn’t changed in over an hour.

Still the same cracked asphalt, the same trees, the same awful indie playlist Rafe had insisted on playing because “it fits the post-festival vibes.” I was slouched in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, sunglasses sliding down my nose, hair in an absolute bird’s nest from four days of dirt, sweat, and overpriced beer.

“You good over there?” Rafe asked, glancing at me with that cocky grin that said he already knew I wasn’t.

“No,” I muttered. “I’m bored. And I smell like someone’s armpit.”

He laughed, that lazy, raspy one I secretly loved. “You look hot though.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Maybe. Still true.”

I turned to face him fully, resting my chin on the back of the seat. His hand was on the wheel, veins flexing every time he shifted lanes. He was in a white tank top, tanned skin and road trip stubble, and I hated how good he looked for someone who hadn’t showered in three days.

I watched him for a moment.

Then I said it. Blunt. No filter. Just the usual chaos that lived between us.

“Wanna blow job?”

He blinked.

His head turned just enough to see if I was serious which only made me laugh. “What?” I said. “I’m bored. You’re hot. It’s like… mutually beneficial enrichment. Like zoo animals. Enrichment time.”

“You’re so fucked in the head.”

“And yet here you are. Getting road head.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

I grinned, already popping off my seatbelt. “You didn’t say no.”

He shook his head with a smile that was all teeth. “This is how we die.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

“Tell my dad I died doing what I loved.”

“Getting sucked off by your best friend in a rental car?”

“Exactly.”

I leaned over the console, hand sliding into his lap, palming him over his shorts. “Fuck,” I whispered. “You’re already hard?”

He exhaled through his nose, one hand tightening on the wheel. “You offered to suck my dick outta nowhere, what did you expect?”

I grinned, teasing him through the fabric. “You drive. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered as I tugged his shorts down just enough to free his cock.

Thick. Already leaking. I wrapped my hand around him and gave one slow stroke, loving the way his jaw clenched immediately.

“You’re actually gonna do this,” he said, voice rough now. “Jesus Christ.”

“You want me to stop?” I teased, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

He groaned, almost swerved. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

“Eyes on the road, Cameron.”

His hand flailed to the volume dial, turning the music down to a murmur, like he needed silence to survive this. I laughed, then ducked my head, lips wrapping around him, slow and steady.

“Fuck—” he hissed. “That’s not fair. That’s not fuckin’ fair—”

I hollowed my cheeks, going deeper, letting spit drip down onto my fist where I stroked what I couldn’t fit.

He twitched in my mouth.

“Holy shit, baby—”

God, the baby. He only called me that when he was too gone to think straight. I moaned around him, dragging my tongue along a vein just to hear him curse again.

My hand slipped under his shirt, nails dragging across his abs, and he groaned like he was dying.

“Don’t make me pull over,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I will. I swear to God, I’ll fuck you on the hood.”

I pulled off just long enough to breathe, resting my cheek on his thigh. “You said we had to make it back by six.”

“Screw six.”

I laughed, pumping him slow. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m getting head from you for the first time while doing 75 on the freeway—this is cinematic, actually.”

I licked the tip, then took him back down, deeper this time, relaxing my throat and letting him hit the back before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Fuck—you tryna kill me?”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “I do.”

He was gripping the wheel like it owed him money, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, making sure no one could see even though we were in the middle of nowhere.

I flattened my tongue against the underside and bobbed my head faster now, spit pooling in my mouth, his cock slick and heavy on my tongue. His hips bucked up and I held him down with one hand on his thigh, nails digging in.

“Shitshitshit, I’m close,” he warned.

But I didn’t stop. If anything, I went harder, jerking him in time with each swirl of my tongue. I moaned around him again — loud and deliberate — and he whimpered.

“Gonna come,” he gasped. “Gonna fucking come, baby—”

He did.

Hard.

With a strangled groan that sounded ripped from his chest, cock twitching as he spilled into my mouth. I swallowed, slow and messy, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before licking the rest off my fingers.

Rafe didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.

Just kept driving, jaw slack, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“Are you good?” I asked, smirking as I climbed back into my seat.

He shook his head like he was rebooting. “I blacked out for a second.”

“You’re welcome.”

He looked over at me, that slow, stunned smile spreading across his face. “That was insane.”

“Better than the festival?”

“Better than any festival.”

I laughed, propping my feet back on the dash. “We should stop for food.”

“You just sucked my soul out through my dick and now you want Arby’s?”

I shrugged. “Road head works up an appetite.”

He stared at me for a beat, then reached over and took my hand.

“You know this changes shit, right?”

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“Not going back after this.”

“Didn’t plan on it.”

He kissed the back of my hand, still wrecked, still smiling.

Then he glanced back at the road and muttered, “You’re gonna suck me off every road trip now.”

I grinned. “Only if you stop playing this damn playlist.”

He groaned. “You liked Phoebe Bridgers!”

“You cried during ‘Motion Sickness.’”

“You gave me head to it.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: listen. i don’t know what demon possessed me to write a road head fic at 10am, but here we are. rafe’s hands are on the wheel but his soul has left the chat. this is what happens when you take two feral best friends, 17 hours of driving, and Phoebe Bridgers and trap them in a vehicle. thanks for riding along on this highway to horny hell. wear your seatbelt. tip your best friend. give him head. 🤩

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@psychicnatural @superlegend216 @rafesbabygirlx

[syoddeye]

heart rot. ghost x f!reader.

heart rot, a fungal disease, decays the inner heartwood of trees, creating weaknesses, while also providing homes for birds. short thing. all vibes, little plot/sense.

he finds her when he isn’t looking. 

or rather, she finds him. 

takes one long look as he drags the man who followed her into the toilet, and shoves him hard enough into the doorframe to rattle the walls. snaps his wrist like it’s nothing.

she decides.

she needs a place to hide. why not behind the biggest, meanest monster in the room? if the thing with teeth and blood on its knuckles likes her?

she’s seen worse.

she sees the ruin of him, too, the wet , festering rot. the hollowed-out hole in his chest, a place no decent thing should want to linger. and she decides that’ll do just fine for a home.

can’t be worse than where she’s come from.

his name is simon. he’s involved in the military. beyond that, it’s not her concern. it suits her fine, though, because he doesn’t ask about what’s behind her. what’s past is past, and he leaves it there.

he’s surprisingly accommodating. well, not accommodating. no flowers, no card. just a key, and no chain to hang it from. clean sheets, at least.

she brings with her all things soft, all things warm. a cup of tea waiting when he returns from whatever he won’t talk about. a comforting hand at the base of his skull when he wakes up tight with sweat, gripping his own throat tight. silence when he needs it. words, when he can bear them. she drags scraps of kindness into the hollow of him, weaves herself a bird’s nest within his ribs.

he warns her. more than once. 

tells her what kind of man he is, what kind of things he’s done. shows her. he’s not gentle. not safe. his moods shift like bad weather, and his hands—well. she ought to be afraid of them.

she isn’t.

she stays.

she continues to surprise simon.

there are nights he comes close, so fucking close, to gutting himself open, prying her out, and casting her off for good. shoving her away before he makes a mess of things, before he ruins this too, like he ruins everything. he’s good at destroying things. lethal. better at it than keeping them. before she learns and sees the full measure of what he is.

but every time, she only burrows deeper. tucks herself in like she’s not afraid of the dark and doesn’t mind the splintering, sharp edges. like she’s already decided, without his permission, that she’s staying.

and at some point, though he can’t say exactly when, he stops fighting it. 

realizes he’s sleeping through the night. that the cupboards are full. that he’s eating without thinking about it, without forcing himself to. there’s a steadying in his hands, a loosening in his chest, an easing in the places clenched tight for too long.

still himself. rough and weathered, but less teeth, more tongue. a longer, slower fuse. patience. letting himself stretch things out and savor instead of devouring it all in a single, starving bite.

and in the small hours, when his hands have left their mark on her skin and she’s pressed against him, breathing hitching but steady—he doesn’t let her go. just holds her, locks her to his side. luxuriates in the weight of her, the absurd, impossible fact of her.

he hopes she likes the cage of him.

because she’s not getting out.

[amyzworldds]

Title: Fitness Quest

Masterlist

Woozi, a fitness enthusiast, drags his lazy, homebody girlfriend out of bed for an early morning jog, tired of her frequent colds and low energy. Pairing: Woozi x reader Genre: Fluff

The sun hadn’t even thought about rising yet, and the world outside was still cloaked in that pre-dawn hush—perfect for sleeping, in yn's opinion. Curled up under a mountain of blankets, she was blissfully lost in dreamland, probably imagining a world where calories didn’t exist and couches came with built-in snack dispensers. Meanwhile, Woozi—her gym-obsessed boyfriend—was already up, lacing his running shoes with the kind of enthusiasm that made yn wonder if he was secretly a robot powered by protein shakes.

Woozi wasn’t just a “go to the gym sometimes” guy. No, he was a gym rat. The kind who had a favorite treadmill and a handshake with the guy at the supplement store. He thrived on early mornings, green smoothies, and the satisfying clank of weights hitting the floor. Yn, on the other hand, thrived on netflix marathons, instant ramen, and the art of doing absolutely nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be healthy—she just figured her body was already doing its best by keeping her alive, so why push it?

The problem was, yn’s 'best' came with a side of frequent colds, low energy, and a general vibe of “I’ll get up in five minutes” that stretched into hours. Woozi, bless his heart, adored her anyway. He’d bring her soup when she was sick, tuck her in with extra blankets, and even let her whine about how “unfair” it was that her immune system betrayed her again. But lately, it was getting out of hand. Last week, she’d caught a cold again, and Woozi had spent three days playing nurse while she dramatically declared she was “one sneeze away from the grave.” Enough was enough. He loved her too much to watch her wilt like an unwatered houseplant.

So, today was the day. Operation “Get Yn Moving” was officially in motion. Woozi had planned it like a military strategist—step by step, easing her into exercise so her body wouldn’t go into full rebellion. Step one: a simple morning jog. Nothing crazy, just a light loop around the neighborhood. He’d even checked the weather (chilly but manageable) and laid out her comfiest sportswear the night before—a soft oversized hoodie, stretchy leggings, and sneakers she’d probably only worn twice.

At 5:30 a.m., Woozi crept into their shared bedroom, his gym-honed resolve unshaken by the sight of yn cocooned in the blankets like a human burrito. “Baby,” he whispered, nudging her gently. “Time to get up. We’re going jogging.”

A muffled groan emerged from the blanket pile. “Noooo… tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Or I’ll drink vitamins. Promise. All the vitamins. Just… five more minutes.”

“Yn, you said that last week. And the week before. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Woozi’s tone was patient but firm, like a parent coaxing a toddler out of a tantrum.

She peeked one eye out, glaring at him like he’d suggested they climb Mount Everest barefoot. “Fun? It’s not even light outside! This is torture, Babe. Torture! I’m calling the police.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “You’re not calling anyone. You’re jogging. Let’s go.” Before she could protest further, he yanked the blanket off her in one swift motion, earning a dramatic yelp as the cold air hit her.

“Nooo! I’m fragile! You’re gonna shock my system!” she wailed, flopping back onto the pillow like a stranded fish.

“Your system’s been shocked plenty by all that instant ramen. Up you go.” Ignoring her theatrics, he scooped her out of bed, setting her on her feet. She swayed there, pouting, her hair a bird’s nest of chaos. He handed her a water—“Drink this, it’ll help”—and started tugging the sportswear onto her like she was a grumpy mannequin. She whined the whole time, muttering about how “leggings are oppression” and “sneakers are a conspiracy,” but Woozi was relentless. By the time he tied her shoelaces, she looked halfway decent—if you ignored the scowl.

“Perfect. Let’s move,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door.

“Babe, it’s freezing! I’ll die out there! You’re dating a popsicle!” she protested, dragging her feet as he hauled her outside. The sky was still a dusky gray, the air crisp and biting, and yn immediately hugged herself, shivering exaggeratedly. “This is how horror movies start. Early morning, creepy silence—next thing you know, I’m running from a monster.”

“You’re running with me, not from me,” Woozi teased, starting a light jog down the sidewalk. “Come on, keep up.”

Yn shuffled behind him, her “jog” more of a zombie stumble. “This isn’t keeping up! This is survival!” she huffed, already winded after ten seconds. Woozi, naturally, was in his element—breathing steady, pace smooth, looking like he could jog to the moon and back. Meanwhile, yn’s lungs were staging a full-on protest. “You’re too fast! Slow down! My legs are shorter!”

“They’re not that short,” he called back, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Just breathe, you’ll get the hang of it.”

“Breathe? I’m trying not to die!” She stopped dead in her tracks, hands on her knees, panting like she’d just run a marathon. Woozi didn’t notice at first, too focused on his rhythm, but when the constant stream of whining went silent, he turned around. There she was, a good twenty meters back, sprawled across a bench like a victorian lady who’d fainted from exhaustion. Her arms dangled over the sides, and her eyes were closed—either asleep or pretending to be.

“Yn,” he said, jogging back to her. “Are you serious right now?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a pitiful look. “I’m resting. My body said ‘nope,’ and I respect its decisions.”

“You’ve been jogging for three minutes.”

“Three minutes too long,” she groaned, letting her head loll back. “Look at me. I’m adorable like this. Don’t ruin it with exercise.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. She was adorable, all flushed cheeks and pouty lips, but he wasn’t falling for it. “Nope. Up you go.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet despite her protests. “We’re finishing this jog together.”

“Together? You’re basically usain bolt, and I’m a sloth with asthma!” she whined, but he kept her hand in his, tugging her along at a slower pace this time. She stumbled beside him, grumbling under her breath about “gym tyranny” and “protein shake propaganda,” but she didn’t stop. Not completely, anyway.

Every few minutes, she’d dig her heels in, forcing him to pause so she could “catch her breath”—which mostly meant bending over dramatically and declaring things like, “My lungs are quitting. Tell them I love them.” Woozi just stood there, hands on his hips, smirking at her theatrics.

“You’re doing great,” he said after her third break, squeezing her hand. “See? You’re not dead yet.”

“Yet,” she wheezed, glaring at him. “You’re lucky I love you, or I’d have faked a heart attack by now.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss her sweaty forehead. “I love you too. That’s why I’m doing this. I want you around for a long time, whining and all.”

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

The jog—or, in yn’s case, the “near-death shuffle”—had finally come to an end. The sun was just beginning to spill its golden rays over the quiet neighborhood, casting long shadows on the pavement. Woozi slowed to a stop near a weathered wooden bench, his breathing steady and calm, while yn looked like she’d just survived an alien invasion. Her legs wobbled as she collapsed onto the bench, sprawling out like a starfish that had washed ashore.

“Sit here for a bit,” Woozi said, his voice gentle but still tinged with that no-nonsense tone he’d used to drag her out of bed. “You need to let your skin soak up the morning sun. It’s good for you—vitamin D and all that.”

Yn groaned, flopping her head back against the bench. “Vitamin D? My body doesn’t even know what that is anymore. It’s too busy screaming at me for this betrayal.” She rubbed her legs dramatically, as if they might fall off from the sheer audacity of exercise.

Woozi stood in front of her, arms crossed, looking every bit the picture of health with his flushed cheeks and steady posture. He didn’t sit—he never did after a jog; something about “cooling down properly”—but he softened when he saw her pitiful state. Yn, sensing his presence, scooted forward and pressed her forehead against his stomach, wrapping her arms around his waist in a half-hug, half-collapse.

“Babeee,” she whined, her voice muffled against his hoodie. “I’m so tired. And sleepy. And my legs hate me. And I hate jogging. And the sun’s too bright now. Can we go back to bed? Please? I’ll be good, I swear.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her cheek, and brought a hand up to stroke her messy hair. His fingers were gentle, untangling the knots she’d accumulated from flailing around during their run. “You did great, you know,” he said, his tone softening into something warm and fond. “I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?” she mumbled, tilting her head up just enough to squint at him. “I stopped, like, ten times. And I’m pretty sure I’m legally a sloth now.”

“Still counts,” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You made it through. That’s more than yesterday.”

She huffed, burying her face back into his stomach. “Yesterday, I was happy and cozy and not dying on a sidewalk. Take me home, Woozi. I need to recover from this trauma.”

He laughed again, letting her cling to him for a moment longer. The morning air was still crisp, but the sunlight was starting to warm things up, casting a soft glow over them. Yn’s breathing was still a little ragged, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she recovered from her “ordeal.” Woozi kept stroking her hair, patient as ever, waiting until she didn’t sound like she’d just run from a bear.

After a few minutes, her dramatic gasps settled into normal breaths, though her pout remained firmly in place. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. “Okay, I’m alive. Barely. Now what? Don’t say more jogging, or I’m breaking up with you.”

Woozi grinned, crouching down so they were eye level. “No more jogging. Promise.” He paused for effect, watching her pout twitch into something hopeful. “How about this: I’ll carry you home, make your favorite pancakes, and let you sleep as long as you want. And I’ll stay with you all day. Deal?”

Her eyes lit up like he’d just offered her the moon. “All day? Like, no sneaking off to the gym or fiddling with your music stuff?”

“Nope. Just you, me, pancakes, and the couch,” he confirmed, standing up and offering his hands to pull her to her feet.

Yn hesitated, then sighed dramatically as if it were a huge effort to stand. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Gym Rat. But if those pancakes don’t have extra syrup, I’m rioting.”

“Noted,” he said with a smirk, turning around and crouching slightly. “Hop on.”

She blinked at him. “Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually carrying me?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” He glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. “Unless you want to walk—”

“No, no, no!” she interrupted, scrambling onto his back before he could change his mind. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on top of his head as he hoisted her up with ease. For a guy who spent half his life lifting weights, she was light as a feather—or at least, he made it look that way.

“Comfy?” he asked, starting the trek back home with her clinging to him like a koala.

“Very,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his hair. “You’re warm. And you smell nice. Way better than jogging.”

He snorted. “Glad I rank higher than exercise.”

“Barely,” she teased, though her voice was already growing drowsy. The steady rhythm of his steps, the warmth of his back, and the exhaustion from their morning adventure were lulling her into a sleepy haze. “Don’t drop me, okay? I’m too cute to fall.”

“I won’t,” he promised, adjusting his grip on her legs. “Just don’t fall asleep up there, or I’ll have to eat all the pancakes myself.”

Her head popped up instantly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he shot back, grinning as he felt her tighten her hold on him.

The walk home was quiet after that, save for yn’s occasional sleepy mumbles about pancake toppings and how she was “never jogging again.” Woozi just smiled to himself, the weight of her on his back a comforting reminder of why he’d dragged her out in the first place. She might’ve whined the whole way, but she was his—lazy, dramatic, and all. And as long as he had pancakes and patience, he’d keep her around for a long, long time.

When they finally reached their apartment, he set her down gently on the couch, where she promptly sprawled out like a cat claiming its territory. “Pancakes now,” she demanded, though her eyes were already half-closed.

“Coming right up,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead before heading to the kitchen. True to his word, he stayed by her side all day—pancakes, cuddles, and a nap-filled afternoon included. And if yn noticed the extra syrup he drizzled on her stack, well, she was too blissed out to complain.

[wisteria-lodge]

youve probably been asked this before but im pretty stumped on it. if draco were to have a patronus what would it be? doesnt have to be a well thought out answer. im leaning more towards something birdlike.

This is absolute headcanon stuff, but I think it's fun if your patronus and your Animagus form don't match. Your Animagus form reflects who you are as a person in some way, and your Patronus reflects what (or who) protects you. Like the wolf *does* protect Remus (even though he's conflicted about this.) The memory of Lily does protect Severus, in the sense that it's the cornerstone of his morality system and the reason Dumbledore trusts him. I think this could help explain why the patronuses of couples shift to match, you feel protected by the other person, etc.

(this means that Harry's Patronus form is courtesy of a time travel/paradox/feedback loop: He thought his dad was across the river protecting him, and so his Patronus takes the form of his dad.)

So if I'm thinking about Draco's Patronus, I'm thinking - what protects Draco? If it's early-books "Wait Till My Father Hears About This" Draco, I think it's just his father. If he had cast a Patronus in Book 3 like Harry, it would have evoked Lucius in some way. (So, a peacock. It would have been a white peacock.)

Sixth year though, he's no longer protected by his father. What protects Draco during the last two books is his ability to fade into the background, run from danger, and be underestimated by the people around him. He can survive very harsh and unforgiving environments by carving out just enough to keep himself and his people alive.

Which is why (because I also get Bird vibes from Draco.) I think his Patronus should be a pigeon.

Like, a fancy pigeon. He is also protected by his ~look~ and his ~aesthetics~. But a pigeon.

They can survive anything. They can adapt. They're something that was bred for this very specialized, posh purpose and then kinda just abandoned... but they make it work, and live in the most inhospitable cities by running away from danger, staying under the radar, faking injuries to get stuff (sounds like someone we know...) and even building their nests on anti-pigeon spikes.

I've always thought that the core of Draco was actually something down-to-earth and practical, and a pigeon would reflect that.

also Draco would hate having a pigeon as a Patronus and it would be very very funny

[koomatee]

My Jumalanpelko fan ocs <3

Some info about them under the cut

Cw: cult stuff, body horror, animal death, you know, the typical jumalanpelko stuff

Guard

- Someone in the earlier days of the cult thought it might be a good idea to have TWO guards for one suncat. Two guards, twice the protection. It did not work out. The guards got very possessive of the suncat and eventually fought to death.

- She has guarded two suncats.

- Very dutiful and feels honoured to be a guard

- Appears very serious, cold and scary to others, but has so much love and emotions inside her.

- After the first suncat died, she started doubting whether the whole thing is right, but stepped up to fill the guard position for a second time. Mostly to have something in her life. And maybe just a little bit of "I failed my first suncat, I deserve the punishment of going through this again"

(Honse) suncat (that's what @jumalanpelko calls her)

- Was almost too old to become a suncat

- Dreamed of being a suncat because she craved the attention and power. She was very pleased when she became the next house for 🟡

- Very graceful and proper

- Just a little bit arrogant

- As Honse suncat and guard were fairly close in age, they were friends

- Slowly she started to realise that no one really cared about her, but the god nesting in her body

- Once Honse started getting weaker, she snapped and tried to

Well

Dig HER out of her body

Guard tried stopping her multiple times, but eventually Honse died of the injuries she caused herself.

- The other cats in the cult were mad at Honse for sabotaging god's house, and blamed her for the illness that spread through the colony (it probably was like bird influenza or something)

(Scrimblo) suncat

- because of the small epidemic the kitten situation was not very good and this little fuck was somehow the best option.

- Her guard died of the illness so the BIG guard who hasn't emotionally recovered from the first time had to take the role.

- Little scrimblo suncat is very naive and doesn't seem to understand what is happening to her

- Everyone is kinda side-eyeing her because she isn't very great at her job

- She is just a baby!!! And Guard has some maternal feelings about her and gets absolutely emotionally wrecked when Scrimblo dies. Which happened quite fast because 🟡 didn't vibe with her.

- SHE IS JUST A BABYYYY

[bluewritinghood]

Dean repeatedly nags Sam about how long his hair is because of his personal experience. Sam thinks it’s just his brother being his brother because he was away when at Stanford when it happened. Whether it was a monster or John I don’t know but something happened to Dean to make him so against having long hair.

He had his own long haired era pre Spn but nags Sam about it for basically the entire show he keeps it light hearted calling it a bird's nest or a Disney Princess hairstyle because we all know he he is about opening up about trauma.

this whole scene basically confirms it and gives me worried older brother vibes, it was never about the looks for Dean it was about protecting Sam from whatever happened to him.

[pagenby]

Intro Post i guess??

had this blog for how long and just now having an intro post??? forgetting i had this blog for a year?? more likely than you think.

🪽 I’ve got a few names, honestly call me whatever. I go by Robin, Wren, Nettle/Nettie, you can call me worm if you want lmao i don’t care. I will also respond to Bastard due to many joking usages haha.

🪽 I’m in my mid-20’s (gods, realizing i probably can’t say early 20s anymore is giving me an existential crisis), and am very queer. nb/genderfluid clusterfuck, lesbian, and ace.

🪽 My pronouns are primarily They/them, but you are welcome to use he/him, xe/xir, or i am dipping my toes into how it/its feels so feel free with that too unless this bit disappears from this post.

🪽 I’ve been polytheist for going on four/five years now, but I still definitely consider myself a baby. I suck at tarot lol. I worship Artemis and Apollo closely, but regularly include others in my practice and my life (most often Hestia, Hermes, Aphrodite, Persephone, and Zeus&Hera. Would love to include Dionysus more but I haven’t interacted much with him). I have a recent connection with Loki, as well, and I also worship Oghma although don’t expect me to talk much about that as it’s very personal to me.

🪽 I believe some deities are part of my soul family, although i likely won’t say who specifically unless i get to know you, as again that’s pretty personal.

🪽 a few little bits about me: I’m a writer, a singer, and I play the piano (any wonder I love Apollo, lol). all music genres are great and i’ll always love music recommendations. I have a bow, but nowhere to really practice with it so I cannot actually do archery yet. I crochet! And I love to bake, and do so often for Hestia. send me good recipes and i’ll love you forever.

🪽 I veil in my practice, to honor Hestia and to keep myself spiritually clean throughout the day. I likely won’t post pictures, and don’t know how much insight i can actually give, but i’m happy to talk about it if you’re curious.

🪽 Feel free to reach out, especially if you’re also around my age, I’d love some pagan friends as currently I have none! I am very awkward around new people, so if I am please know it’s me and not you lol. in case this post wasn’t clear enough, i use many words when little words would suffice just fine.

🪽no terfs. i am very trans. i also love and support trans women, you lovely ladies are so welcome here. also no aspec discourse will be tolerated here, im here and ace and queer and that’s the end of it. Thanks.

not sure what/how often i’ll post here considering i literally never post Anything on my main blog, but we’ll see!! I’d love to talk more about my worship and practice, and maybe that’ll help me get more regular about it lol.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Do you have anymore soft ideas for Hobo and Hoodie/Brian?

I hope you enjoy <3

Hobo:

Likes making you a nest. He's a bird, so he has nesting tendencies anyway, but once he starts dating you he tries his absolute hardest to make the nicest nest for you he can because you're his partner so you deserve a perfect nest. Normally when he makes his own nests he makes them pretty high up in his high hammocks in his room, but because you don't have wings he makes yours in his bed. It's a jumble of pillows, blankets, plushies, and anything that smells strongly of him (even though as a human you don't have the heightened sense of smell he has), and he spends a ridiculous amount of time making sure every item is in the perfect spot. Whenever you lay in it and get really comfortable (especially if you fall asleep) his heart literally explodes. He feels so, so incredibly happy because that means he's being a good mate and you appreciate his efforts, and it just makes him cling to you and refuse to let you go.

Likes watching people from above. He perches on the mansion roof all the time, and while he normally goes up there for peace and quiet, he also likes watching everyone go about their day around the mansion. It's kind of a bird predator thing like he's watching prey, but he just likes looking out and watching things, it's very enriching to him. You do have to be careful though, because if he sees someone he's very excited to see, he will swoop down from wherever he's perched really fast, and there is a chance of collision if you don't see him coming. He just likes popping down and saying hi, even if it gives people a heart attack most of the time because he flies completely silent and he lands quietly too. If he sees you wandering around whether you're his partner or best friend he always feels warm inside and is just like, "Look at them go :))) They're doing great :)))".

Brian:

Obsessed with puzzles lately. He has a table set up in one of the lounge areas, and he always has a puzzle on it that he'll randomly work on throughout the day. He also invites everyone else to partake in it too if they'd like to, and even with the help it takes a while because it's always like the 10,000-piece puzzles. It just scratches his brain in such a good way and is very stimulating for him, so if he gets stressed out in the middle of the day he'll go work on his current puzzle for a bit to relax and calm down. Once a puzzle is completed he'll glue the puzzle together and then hang it up on the wall so everyone can see it. He also just likes chatting and socializing with everyone while they're all gathered around the table, and a lot of bonding time in the mansion has occurred over Brian's puzzles. If you ever get him a new puzzle as a gift he gets so excited, and he always makes it the next puzzle he's going to do, and he honestly gets a little impatient about having to finish the one he's currently on, so it motivates him to work faster.

When Brian is in his summer mood, as it's now that season, he just wants to spend his days relaxing with his friends and partner. If you're his partner, he likes doing things like setting up a hammock in the shade and napping with you in it, or going for walks either by yourselves or with the others too, and he makes fresh squeezed lemonade all the time that everyone loves. You'll often find him outside on the back porch with a glass of lemonade or iced tea and a book in hand. I think he also really enjoys swimming, and if you do too he'd love to go swimming with you as much as he can during the summer months. It's good exercise and he loves being in the water, especially if he gets to spend that time with you. He stays out late watching fireflies and looking at the stars and just enjoying the warmth of the season and all the good vibes that it brings.

[loganjameshowlett]

SWALLOWTAIL

03: IF YOU SHOW ME YOUR CARDS

pairing: joaquín torres/ex-widow!reader summary: you and joaquín go undercover. things don't go as planned word count: 7.4k+ series masterlist | previous installment | next installment

“I think it’ll be fun!” Joaquín’s voice is far too chipper for the current situation. 

Sam had spent some time trying to convince the rest of you that the bridge ambush wasn’t a total wash once he and Bucky had realized that the briefcase did not, in fact, contain the Aetos Device. It hadn’t stuck. Sure, you’d liberated some other stolen something from a criminal arms dealer, but it was some kind of small time ray gun that could temporarily shift an object slightly out of phase with other physical matter. You don’t totally understand it, but Sam had called Dr. Banner about it, and he’d recognized it as an outdated piece of Pym tech. The gist: it was a stupid piece of nothing, and the device that has apocalyptic connotations you’ve been trying to chase down is still in the hands of a criminal outfit. 

So yes, in your book, still a total wash. 

“We’re not here for fun,” you remind him. The last thing on earth that you want to do right now is go to the Golden Diadem auction. For one, what a fucking hassle. The auction is a secretive, invitation-only event hidden inside the larger nest egg of an alleged charity gala that happens at the Black Opal hotel annually. The party is lavish, gatsbyian, and a total distraction from the real thing. A thing which you all absolutely would not have been able to infiltrate, especially at such short notice, if it hadn’t been for Mali. Her position as observer and occasional information broker who does little, if anything  to interfere in the affairs of Madripoor’s criminal underbelly affords her a certain level of respect among all of Madripoor’s players. They want her on their good side, and many of them end up owing her favors. 

She used one of said favors to procure two invitations to the auction for Matías Avila, a nouveau riche Colombian tech mogul and his inconsequential piece of eye candy fiancée, Patrice. The false identities were some that you and Joaquín already had proper paperwork for, and Mali made quick work of forging a little more of a paper trail that painted Avila as a prodigious genius with more money than he knows what to do with and a suspiciously obfuscated resume. Patrice Pascolat is an identity you had used back in your SHIELD days, a bratty heiress who had helped you infiltrate the Scandinavian socialite scene. You’d kept her papers the way you keep all of your identities, just in case they come in handy again. 

You resisted the idea of you and Joaquín going in alone, but the truth of it is that Sam and Bucky are too public of figures to do any kind of undercover work. Their presence would only sabotage the op and put you all at a greater risk of being killed. So just you and Joaquín then, posing as the most insufferable couple to ever grace the surface of the earth.  Going into the lion’s den alone. 

“Fun is allowed to happen on the job. Do you know that?” Joaquín asks, brows raised teasingly. 

You roll your eyes. “Fun leads to mistakes, bird boy. Do you know that? We’re walking into a very large, highly-guarded building filled with people who will be happy to summarily execute us if they get so much as an off-kilter vibe. We need to stay focused.”

“Hey, come on. Haven’t I proven to you that you can trust me in the field?” 

A smartass comment comes to your lips first, and you have to work to tamp it down when you get a look at the sincerity laid bare on Joaquín’s face. He’s right. You know he is. He has more than proven that he is a capable and worthy field partner over the last few days; hell, he’s probably the best field partner you’ve ever had, if only because he gives a damn about what happens to you out of more than professional duty. It’s more than you can say for most of the other field partners you’ve ever had. 

“Yes, Torres,” you say, voice a half weary sigh. “I do trust you in the field. I do, alright?” 

Joaquín studies you for a moment, and you work to hold his gaze under the scrutiny. You feel it again, that same feeling you had back in Prague, like he’s uncannily able to analyze the whole gory mess of you with that look alone. 

“I thought you didn’t get nervous anymore?” he asks finally. His voice is too soft to be fully teasing, undercut with a certain fragile hesitance. An invitation for you to be vulnerable. 

“I don’t. Now go and get ready before we’re late.” You turn and stalk off toward your room before he can respond. A muscle in your jaw ticks, and you take a second to just stand, eyes closed, once you shut yourself behind the door. You’re half heartedly pissed at Joaquín, which you know isn’t fair. He’s not responsible for the moth wing flutter of nerves beating beneath your ribcage. At least not directly, anyway. 

–

The dress you choose from the closet is actually one that you bought yourself, back when you were living in this apartment. The spider web includes a few pooled bank accounts that any liberated widows are allowed to use for any reason. Having just been freed from your conditioning, fragile as a bird’s egg and teetering precariously on the razor’s edge between sanity and something rather worse, your reason for spending two thousand American dollars on an evening gown had been simply because you wanted to look and feel good at some ostentatious party Mali was bringing you to as a plus one. You justified the purchase by telling yourself that the rest of your web could certainly get some good use out of the dress for a variety of reasons, and you’re feeling just a little vindicated in getting to use it for a real, serious op now. Also, a little bit grumpy about having to figure out how to conceal weapons in this thing. 

The gown spills down your body and to the floor in ripples of luxuriously thick gold fabric. The back is cut so low that making sure your underwear wasn’t on display had taken some finagling, and the halter top is secured around your neck with elegantly braided golden ropes that drop down the length of your spine. With a pair of strappy heels and a full face of makeup on for the first time in weeks, you feel… good. Sexy, even. Patrice’s languid, rich girl lilt gathers in the back of your throat, and you surprise yourself by feeling a little excited to inhabit her skin for the evening. 

In the end, you settle for strapping a tiny handgun and your vibranium knife to your thigh. They’ll be kind of a bitch to get to in a fight, but it’s the only feasible option, given how much of you is on display in this dress. You waste a few seconds wishing your undercover op included a disguise with at least one pocket, before stooping in front of the ancient wooden vanity pushed up against one wall and checking your makeup in the rust speckled mirror. You look expensive, and like you’re showing off. Exactly right for Miss Patrice Pascolat. 

Once again, Bucky is the only one present in the living area when you emerge from your room. You can hear Joaquín and Sam bickering about something behind the closed door of the other bedroom, and decide that he was probably right to remove himself from whatever the hell is going on in there. 

“I can’t believe he’s taking longer than I did to get ready,” you grouse, gesturing toward the aforementioned closed door. 

“They only just got back from buying his damn suit twenty minutes ago,” Bucky informs you, glancing up from the ancient looking paperback creased open in his hand. You arch an eyebrow at him, and he gives a look back, like, believe me, I know. “It’s what we get for sending the two of them alone to get it.” 

“Well, it’s probably best if we show up fashionably late, anyway. It’s what Avila and Patrice would do,” you sigh, dropping down into the wooden chair across the table from Bucky. Christ, but your feet are already hurting from these heels. You eye Bucky’s paperback, trying to read the title, but half the front cover is missing. “This what you’re doing with your night off?”

“What?” he asks, eyes flicking up to you, back down to his book, and then up again. “I’m not having a night off. Sam and I are still gonna be outside the building as backup.”

“Like I said, old man. Night off,” you say, snickering at the mix of annoyance and humor that flits across his face. 

“Don’t get cocky, kid.”

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can, the bedroom door bursts open and Sam empties out into the living area. 

“That boy is getting on my last damn nerve,” he says, throwing a scowl over his shoulder towards the bedroom. Bucky’s expression morphs more fondly amused as he looks up at him. 

“Don’t forget that it was your idea to bring him along,” Bucky tells him. 

“Yeah, well I’m regretting that a little right now!” Sam responds, raising his voice pointedly so Joaquín will hear. You stand from the table, rolling your shoulders and drifting your way toward the front door– with Sam busting out of the room, you assume Joaquín will follow suit and finally be reading to fucking leave. 

You tune out Sam’s annoyed, quiet venting to Bucky, allowing yourself a moment to totally zone out. It’s a neat trick you have, one of the better skills you honed in the Red Room. The ability to separate your mind from your body. There were long stretches of time where it was the only thing that ever granted you a little peace. 

And it’s not that you’re feeling particularly overwhelmed at the moment, not even with the evening you have planned looming over you. It’s not that this has been a particularly long or grueling mission, either– you’d had it much worse dozens of times before. Maybe it’s something about being plucked out of your home base without warning– even by people you trust– or the flying by the seat of your pants nature that this mission has taken on. You’re feeling out of control, and rusty too, and that’s the kind of thing that leads to fuck ups. So, you leave your body behind for a few precious seconds and imagine, briefly, all of your corporeal matter dispersing like mist into the humid night air. 

And then Joaquín’s voice cuts through the air, and you come crashing back into yourself. 

He comes out of the room with his head bent over his wrist, still adjusting a golden cufflink and arguing with Sam without looking up at him. His dark hair is pomaded back into a clean, vintage wave style, and even though he and Sam were clearly going for a somewhat ridiculous, new money look with the maroon suit, he still somehow makes it look kind of tasteful. 

“... so you can claim them as a work expense on your taxes, man,” Joaquín is saying. Whatever he’s going on about has made Sam roll his eyes twice in thirty seconds. “And you picked them out, anyway!” 

“Because golden fish shaped cufflinks are exactly the kind of thing your dumbass would buy, but that was before I realized they were eight hundred dollars!” Sam shoots back. 

“You mean they’d be perfect for my forged identity, right?”

“That’s what we were shopping for, wasn’t it?” 

“Can you guys argue about tax write offs later? If we don’t get a move on soon we won’t even be fashionably late anymore,” you cut in, anxious let’s get this over with energy making you springy on the balls of your feet. 

Only at the sound of your voice does Joaquín finally look up from his cufflink. His hand freezes halfway through the motion of dropping back down to his side, and his whole body is so still that you’re momentarily worried he has stopped breathing altogether, too. It takes a few seconds for a deeper flush of red to spread across the full expanse of his cheeks than you even knew he was capable of. You had thought it was funny when he flushed red at the sight of you before you went to the floating market, but this time– well, this time you don’t feel like laughing. 

“I called a limo service for you two. He’s been waiting down there,” Sam says, trying and mostly failing to hide the stupid smirk on his face as he claps Joaquín on the shoulder. 

“Waiting for us…” Joaquín repeats, a little dazed. Sam claps him on the back again, a little harder this time, and Joaquín seems to undergo some kind of factory reset. “Got it. Be hearing from you on the comms?” 

“We’ll be right behind you,” Bucky answers, hefting himself up out of his chair and reluctantly dropping his paperback on the table. 

“See you on the other side,” you say to the pair, offering them a two finger salute. 

Joaquín jerks forward in a few quick steps, grabbing the handle and pulling open the door before you can grab it. He stands to the side, half tucked behind the open door. “Uh– after you.” 

You nod your thanks to him and exit the flat. You’re impressing yourself with how well you’re managing the heels– highly impractical shoes do not have a place in your life, typically, so you’re out of practice– but you’re still a little wobbly. Wordlessly, Joaquín joins you on the landing and offers his arm. You take it gratefully and allow yourself to lean on him a little bit to get down the rickety wooden stairs. 

As promised, there is a limo waiting at the curb, looking highly out of place in the Lowtown neighborhood. You trust Sam to get you a driver you can also trust, even on notice as short as this, so you return the man’s polite greetings without much scrutiny. He moves to open the door for you, but Joaquín is ever faster and gets there first, pulling it open and ushering you inside. 

–

The mission should be simple tonight, for the first time since you agreed to work with these three. 

You’re not looking to take anything with you from the Black Opal– just reconnaissance this time. The Aetos Device will surely be sold at the auction before the night is up, and all you and Joaquín need to do is observe who buys it. Sam and Bucky spoke at length earlier in the day about bringing in backup, and who they might trust to do that. By the time you and Joaquín had left the flat, they still had seemingly not decided on anyone concrete, but no matter what, you expect this operation to grow after tonight. It would be too dangerous– and, you hate to admit it, pretty damn close to impossible– for you and Joaquín to try to locate and obtain the device and make it out of the building in one piece. Beyond that, you’ve come to expect no part of this mission to go as planned ever, seeing as nothing has so far, so you’re happy to hold off for some help. 

So. Getting information– all well and good. Actually, it hardly will take any effort from you and Joaquín at all: the comms that Sam had distributed to all of you back in Prague are some real science fiction level shit, essentially visually undetectable and with transcription capabilities. They’re all hooked up to Joaquín’s tech set up, so by the time you get back to the flat there should be an incredibly accurate transcription of everything said at the party within a ten meter radius of you. 

You’re not worried about that part. It’s the other part, though, that has you feeling… apprehensive. 

Joaquín can hardly seem to look at you. Throughout the entirety of the ride, you’ve kept to idle chatter, just in case the driver does end up being someone who will cause you problems later on down the line. Every once in a while he forgets himself and looks at you head on; it lasts for all of ten seconds before he quickly and unsubtly diverts his attention elsewhere. 

You’re really starting to wonder if the two of you are going to be able to pull off playing lovers for a few hours. 

You can tell when the limo pulls up to the Black Pearl because the entire plaza in front of it is washed in muted purple light. The hotel is forty stories and features a huge hologram of elegant purple fish swimming in languid loops over the full glass front of the building, as if you are looking at the surface of a koi pond from above. 

The limo has barely stopped moving before the driver is pulling open the door. You watch as, over the course of a few seconds, Joaquín’s entire body language changes. Gone is the nervous ball of poorly pent-up energy that you have become familiar with. His shoulders drop, entire body melting into devil may care repose. By the time the door is fully open, Matías Avila fully inhabits Joaquín’s body. He steps out onto the plaza and bends, offering a hand through the door to you. For the first time since you left the flat, he offers you a charmingly crooked smile and holds your eye contact without breaking. 

“Ready, mi amor?” 

–

Your invitations allow you to bypass the general party immediately, a nondescript man in a plain but clearly expensive suit chaperoning the two of you to the private auction. You cling to Joaquín’s arm tightly, heading bending in towards his as you ooh and ahh and comment on the beauty of the building and the city and the impressiveness of the hosts at appropriate intervals. For his part, Joaquín keeps a hand affectionately over your own that is resting on his arm, indulging your awe as only a smitten lover would, telling you that he will recreate anything you want in the home he is building for you, should only you ask. 

Truly, you’re impressed by how well he’s doing. He had not struck you as someone who would do so well with a secret identity, but you’re starting to think that maybe he had missed his calling in theatre. You keep up easily, of course– a huge bulk of your training and missions for the Red Room included some kind of new identity and fully believable acting– though it’s not your best work; you’re feeling distracted by Joaquín’s unexpected talent and the fact that the building is even more heavily guarded than you had originally expected.

Suit Guy shows you to a large pair of ornately carved wooden doors, completely at odds with the sleek, modern Hightown look of the rest of the place. Two workers in porcelain masks in feline face shapes step forwards and pull the doors open, revealing the auction room: a space with three storey tall ceilings and ringed with balconies like tiers of opulently decorated cake. The ceiling is completely blocked by yards and yards of wisteria dripping toward the floor in vibrant shades of purple, pink, and blue. At the far end of the room, a small stage and some overstuffed armchairs sit empty, presumably for the auction later in the night. The items that will be sold– some of them, at least, because a quick scan of the place reveals the Aetos Device to be nowhere in sight– sit beneath glass cases set atop grecian pedestals. A miniature orchestra plays rich music from the corner, and a raucous group plays poker at a green-topped poker table. Servants whisk around carrying trays laden heavily with several dozen different kinds of food and beverage. 

“Damn,” you mutter appreciatively. “They sure know how to throw a party.” 

“I’ve seen better,” Joaquín sighs, loud enough to draw the attention of a trio of women in hand beaded gowns standing near a tower of fragile champagne flutes. 

“Of course, baby,” you coo, stepping in front of him to smooth the lapels of his suit jacket. “Your twenty-fifth makes this seem… quaint.” 

“Just wait ‘til you see what I have planned for yours, cariño,” he answers, both hands coming to rest on your hips. The warm weight of them through your dress somehow grounds you and sends you even more off-kilter than before. Joaquín is remarkably good at balancing boasting and affection in the tone of his voice all at once. 

“Don’t spoil anything,” you warn him teasingly, before pulling an overly exaggerated pout. “I need a drink, baby.” 

“On it,” he promises, tugging you closer by your hips and planting a kiss on your forehead before departing in search of something for you. 

In his absence, you play the shy, solitary fiancée, backing up toward the fall just slightly. You pretend to be scanning the crowd for Joaquín, instead doing your best to take in as many faces as you can in as short a time as possible, attempting to determine who you recognize. There are a few obvious players here, well known names in the arms dealing underworld. Guys you went after with SHIELD, even. Several of them are very financially well-endowed, and are certainly here with enough money to purchase the device in the auction. There’s no single person who stands out as an obvious top contender, but you mark a few to watch more closely through the evening than others. It takes a few minutes for you to realize that comms are blocked in this room; you were so preoccupied with getting your bearings among all the players that you didn’t notice Sam and Bucky’s chattering falling silent for a while. But sure enough, it’s gone, and you know that they haven’t just fallen silent. Sam wouldn’t be able to stop talking even to save his life. 

Joaquín returns to your side a few minutes later, pressing a flute of something fizzing and purple into your hand. Judging by the minute frown on his face, you’re he’s noticed the lack of working comms as well. 

“What is this?” you ask, genuine amused curiosity peeking through the Patrice of it all. 

“Well, I don’t speak much Tagalog, but I think he said something about coconut,” Joaquín answers. He lifts his own flute of the same drink, and tacks on, “I figured I would try it with you.” 

“Cheers, Señor Avila,” you say, lifting your glass. 

“To our very successful and lore-filled relationship,” Joaquín says, clinking his glass to yours. 

“Lore-filled,” you snort, taking a sip. It’s really not bad, if a little sunscreen forward. 

“What?”

“Who calls a relationship lore-filled?” you ask, arching an eyebrow. “Nerd.” 

“Whatever, I’m not wrong. Any relationship is filled with lore,” Joaquín defends, waving a dismissive hand at you. 

“I believe people typically refer to those as memories,” you say, and Joaquín rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever you say, my beautiful perfect fiancée,” he says, and you’re sure the cheeky grin on his face is more Joaquín than it is Matías. 

“Exactly, I’m always right,” you affirm with a laugh that bubbles like your drink. 

“Of course,” Joaquín nods mock-sagely. 

It isn’t long before the orchestra is quieted and finely-suited men are herding all of you towards the seats by the stage. Joaquín takes your hand and leads you to a plush settee with ornate scrollwork. He sits beside you with that same Señor Avila air of ease he donned in the limo, one arm thrown over the back of the seat behind your shoulders, the other holding the small gold placard that he will presumably be using to bid on behalf of both of you. 

“Keep an eye on the hat over there,” Joaquín mutters in your ear. Your eyes drag over to your right, catching sight of an older, dark-haired woman with an incredibly large and busy hat sitting in one of the armchairs. You have to give it to the rich in Madripoor, always– they do not bend to any kind of old money aesthetics, regardless of their pedigree. Madripoor is much more of a go brash or go home kind of place. 

You give him a look, conveying your question without any words. 

“Overheard her saying something about the Bobcat when I went to get us drinks. Could be something.” 

You hum your agreement, turning your face back toward the stage as a man in an elegant damask suit climbs gracefully up to the center. He stops in front of a vintage silver microphone already adjusted perfectly to his height. He calls out a greeting in Tagalog first, and then addresses the modest crowd in English. 

“For sixty-three years, the Golden Diadem has brought both cutting edge and classic, storied technology and arms to the new and notable in our circles,” he says, his voice rich and smooth. “Objects such as Captain America’s original prototype shield and authentic Asgardian armor have passed through this room. Tonight, it is my pleasure to welcome you to this auspicious event. May your minds and placards be swift.” 

His last line is clearly an in-joke, and several people make a point of laughing overly loudly at it, as if to demonstrate that they are important enough to have attended in years prior. While you all had been herded to this spot and the man had been speaking, other workers had gathered up the various pieces on display around the room and brought them backstage. Damask Suit introduces the first piece, starting small with a set of Wakandan daggers. Joaquín manages to snag those for less than a thousand dollars, and a little bit of the tension loosens in your chest– you had only been able to scrape together about a thousand dollars between the four of you to use at the auction, and you know that it would look highly suspicious if the two of you didn’t buy anything at all. 

Throughout the rest of the auction, Joaquín makes game attempts at getting other pieces, but always allows someone more zealous to beat him out in the end. You whine about not getting the cool or pretty something or other to him, and he assures you that he’ll get you something twice as good after you leave this place with unearned bravado. 

The Aetos Device is saved for last. 

Damask Suit moves to the side of the stage with his microphone, voice a whisper that is almost reverent, as he tells your small gathering what, exactly, it does. 

“Don’t believe me, ladies and gentlemen?” The question seems like a dare. “Just watch.” 

A screen behind the stage comes to life with a bright flash, making more than one person in your cohort jump in surprise. In front of you is a warehouse, poorly lit and cold. Behind the camera, men laugh and speak lowly in a mix of different languages. You can hear Czech and Polish and an inconsequential amount of English. Nothing happens on screen for so long that you’re starting to get antsy. Or maybe you’re antsy because you already know what this is. You may have never seen it, but Sam and Bucky had told you about it back in Prague. 

Next to you, Joaquín’s entire body stiffens, and the arm slung lazily behind you curls tighter around your shoulders, as if he needs grounding. 

A young boy is thrown into the frame. His knees hit the dirty floor hard, dragging a rush of air out of his lungs. His hands are bound behind his back, his ankles held in shackles that give him a cruelly tantalizing amount of freedom of movement, but not enough to get anywhere. It takes you a second to realize that his entire map of veins is faintly glowing orange. 

“Proszę–czekać!” His voice is already hoarse from overuse. When he opens his mouth, you can see a sort of magma glow in the back of his throat. 

A man to the left of the camera laughs, and says something in grand, rapid-fire Finnish. You curse yourself for being able to recognize the language but not knowing it enough to know what he says. The Aetos Device slides up into view from the same side the voice is coming, held confidently and aimed directly at the Polish boy’s still begging face. 

You have the ridiculous urge to get up and do something, but what is there to do? You know what comes next, and that it has already been done. The most you can do for the boy now is bear witness to his final moments. 

The Finnish man pulls the trigger, and everything next happens so fast you almost miss it. 

Some sort of energy bursts out of the device, rather than any kind of projectile. It hits the Polish boy in the chest, and you glimpse a blinding blue glow spreading exceedingly fast from the point of contact before it fades from view. The boy tries to bring a hand up to clutch his chest, but the result is a jerky movement that sends him falling onto his side due to his hands being bound. He stares, dazed, at the group behind the camera, mouth slack, brows drawn together. 

Then he takes a ragged, choking gasp in and starts writhing on the floor. He seems desperate to escape his own body, so much so that he bloodies both ankles scraping the skin off as he tries to pull his feet up through the shackles. When he opens his mouth to scream, you see that the magma glow is gone. His veins have gone dark like a snuffed candle. He jerks around like a stringed marionette for a few seconds before falling to a limp heap on the ground. 

A man in a lab coat scurries forward and bends down in front of the body. His pink scalp shines under the swinging bulb that is providing the only overhead light. He grabs the boy’s wrist and checks his pulse, before decisively announcing that the boy is dead. 

Behind the camera, the group erupts into applause. You feel dizzy from all the blood rushing to your head. 

Damask Suit pauses the video at this point, the screen going dark and fading back into the wall. He takes his place just slightly stage right, next to the podium in the center that is displaying the device for all to see. 

“As you have seen, the Aetos Device allows one to wield power like nothing else. Well, like nothing else besides money, that is,” he says, throwing a wink out to the audience. “This is a one of a kind piece of technology. You will not find anything outside of this room that can do what it does. We’re starting the bidding at sixty million USD.” 

So, sixty million dollars is the starting price of genocide. Pain, power, fear and helplessness striking the hearts of millions worldwide. The thought would make you feel sick if it didn’t first make you so fucking infuriated. You sit through the device’s auction with a detached sort of numbness, struggling to reign in your focus and pay attention to the players vying to get their hands on it. 

Hat Lady is one of them, which doesn’t surprise you. A man with salt and pepper hair in the front whose entire being exudes old money is working his placard over time. A younger blond man built like a farmer is volleying both of their offers back at them, his demeanor disturbingly relaxed. 

At the end of the melee, it’s the blond that comes out on top. 

“Sold! For ninety-five million, to Mr. Carter Eklund,” Damask Suit announces with fervor. “Congratulations, young gentleman.”

As Eklund stands and makes for the stage, bowing graciously to Damask Suit before being presented with his acquisition, you rack your brain for any familiarity with his name or his face. Ultimately, you come up with nothing. Who can this man be, with nearly a hundred million dollars to throw around at an auction, and without any notable name at all? You study his face as much as you can without drawing his attention to you, filing every detail away for later. 

As Eklund accepts the device– now safely stored away in a sleek chrome case– the rest of the group applauds politely. You can feel the resentment roiling off of several of them, but no one more than the other two who had stuck out the final stretch of the race, and still found themselves not crossing the finish line first. Now that even the amount of people in this room know what the device can do in intimate detail, you’re sure no one will be able to rest easy in owning it. Someone will always be hunting Eklund. And when it’s inevitably not him, his successor will be hunted, too. 

Unless you can succeed in completely taking it out of the game. 

As soon as Eklund is off the stage, the miniature orchestra starts up again; something warm and lively, conjuring images of victory and encouraging everyone to dance. When you look over at Joaquín, he struggles to cover the haunted look on his face for a few long seconds. And then the Avila grin is widening his mouth. He stands, making a big show of opening the chrome case that holds the Wakandan daggers the two of you bought in the auction. 

“A gift for you, mi reina,” he says, chest puffed up with all the ego of a man showing the world that he can provide for his woman. He lifts out the daggers to reveal a leather sheath, designed to have one dagger hanging off of each of the wearer’s hips. You watch, mouth curved in a shy, pleased little smile as Joaquín fastens the sheath around your waist with a gentleness that you are sure is all him, not Matías. 

He proffers the daggers to you faux ceremonially and you lean into the playacting, accepting them as if accepting a serious responsibility. The craftsmanship on the weapons is finer than most you’ve ever handled, weighty and well-balanced, ornate enough to be beautiful to look at without becoming unwieldy. You slot them into their sheaths, and do a little twirl, as if showing off for him. 

“I look dangerous now, don’t I, darling?” you ask, preening. 

“You always look dangerous to me,” he says, pulling you close. The sheaths hang low enough that Joaquín can still easily rest his hands on your hips. He runs his fingers over the handle of one of the blades, eyebrows raising appreciatively at the quality. “Now, will you join me for a dance, mi amor?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask all night,” you respond, inflating your own voice with Patrice’s half whining tone. You accept his hand, and allow him to tug you toward the dancefloor in the middle of the room. You settle easily into the posture of two people who are not particularly knowledgeable in dance. You sling your arms around Joaquín’s neck, pulling him closer as his hands find your hips. You sway back and forth like a pair of teenagers at prom, or else the perfect vision of a couple of new money drunken lovers who didn’t grow up taking mandatory ballroom lessons. Just a couple celebrating a tiny win at the auction. 

Joaquín leans his forehead against yours and you close your eyes, leaning into the touch the way you imagine Patrice would. 

“Is he familiar to you at all?” you ask, voice barely audible. 

“Not at all,” Joaquín answers with a sigh. You tamp down one of your own. 

“That’s… troubling.” 

“It raises a lot of questions,” Joaquín says, nodding against your forehead. “We stick around here a little while longer and then we’ll be good to go. Sam’s been listening, so I’m sure he’s already done a cursory search of the name. He’ll have something to tell us right away.” 

You hope he’s right. It doesn’t happen all that often, but every once in a while you come across a real ghost in your line of work. Someone with more money than god and a name that yields even less search results than your average high schooler’s. If this Eklund turns out to be one of those guys, then you’re all in trouble. There would be no skirting around calling in some bigger guns at that point. 

“Well, let’s enjoy the rest of our time at this party then, hm?” you respond after a moment, lifting your head to give Joaquín what you hope is a reassuring look. 

“Who knows when we’re gonna get to be fancy as all this shit again?” Joaquín asks in agreement. His dark eyes brighten with mischief, and before you can register what’s going on, he spins you out under his arm in a surprisingly elegant, fluid movement. You laugh– embarrassingly, you’d probably classify it more as an honest fucking giggle– half out of surprise and half out of sheer, unexpected delight, as he brings you back to face him, hands resettling on your hips. 

Joaquín’s face falls from one moment to the next, sending your giggle to a screeching halt. You keep your eyes on him, studying him as he studies something else over your shoulder. You almost don’t want to know what has caught his attention– you don’t want this little carefree moment to be ruined. But that was your first mistake, wasn’t it? You had told Joaquín just hours ago that you weren’t here for fun. 

Joaquín speeds up your dancing a little bit, swaying the two of you around until he is facing the opposite direction. Only then does he speak. 

“Someone recognizes us. At the poker table,” he informs you. You struggle to keep the carefree look on your face. Casually, you sweep your eyes around the room, as if you’re just trying to take in the revelry around you. As Joaquín said, there’s a man sitting at the poker table who is staring at the pair of you with the kind of intensity usually reserved for trying to set someone on fire with your mind. You slide your eyes over him without recognition, looking back at Joaquín. But you know that guy– or, rather, you know those eyes. It’s the escalade driver from the night before. His fury-stoked eyes through the rearview mirror. His hand reaching for his gun. 

God fucking damn it. 

“We need to get out of here. Now,” you say, unable to completely keep the urgency from your voice. If that man raises alarm bells now, the two of you will be in deep, deep shit. 

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Joaquín says, nodding. “Plan C is probably our fastest route?” 

“Yeah, alright. Let’s do this then.” You let your dancing go on for a minute more before you slow your feet, a something is really wrong look coming across your face.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” Joaquín asks, and you bring a hand to your stomach in response. “Patrice?” 

“I really… I don’t feel well,” you tell him, looking up at him with eyes wide in panic. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Several people near you on the dancefloor cast their own panicked looks at you and move farther away. Good, people are hearing and buying your story. 

“Okay, let’s go find you a bathroom, yeah?” Joaquín asks, rubbing a hand comfortingly up and down your arm. 

“No,” you put on your best drunken petulance. “I jus’ wanna go home. Please?”

Joaquín frowns. “Okay, if you’re sure. Let’s get you down to the car.”  He wraps a protective arm around your shoulders and starts leading you toward the large double doors that you came in through. You press yourself into his side, taking unsteady steps, both of your arms wrapped around your middle. 

“And where do you think you’re going?”

You pause at the voice, authoritative and condescending. You don’t even have to look at the speaker to know that your cover is already blown. 

“The Falcon and Agent Swallowtail. You know, you needed only ask for an invitation. None of this cloak and dagger, secret identity nonsense was necessary.” 

You and Joaquín turn to find Carter Eklund standing on the other side of the dance floor, looking at you like he just successfully caught his dinner. 

“Is that so?” You ask at the same time that Joaquín shrugs next to you and says, “Well, now we know for next time!” 

“We have a little matter to discuss before you scurry off,” Eklund carries on without acknowledging either of your comments. The orchestra has fallen silent, and the patrons of the auction have cleared a wide, curious circle around the two of you. “You rather rudely threatened to kill one of my scientists last night.”

“One of your scientists?”you frown, the words coming out before you can stop them. The scientist that you had threatened in the escalade last night was part of the Golden Diadem’s convoy, and unless Eklund just purchased the Aetos Device from himself, you’re afraid you’re not entirely following. 

Eklund laughs as though he knows exactly what thoughts are running through your mind. “Things are always a little bit more complicated than they first appear, aren’t they?” 

Your eyes narrow. “What do you want from us, Eklund?”

“Oh, well that’s simple. You’ve seen our faces– and with last night’s disrespect on top of that– we can’t let you leave.” 

“Try to stop us,” you dare him, reaching for the Wakandan daggers sheathed at your hips. 

“What fun! I do love when they put up a fight,” Eklund says with genuine delight. He turns to look over his shoulder and calls out, “I want them alive.”

And suddenly every bodyguard and server alike has a gun drawn on the pair of you. Instinctively, you and Joaquín move back to back, your new daggers in hand and your eyes scanning the room. The doors aren’t that far, but even after that, you still have to make it out to the street. It only takes a second to realize that your best bet is not getting out of here at all– but if you can hold them off long enough to get out of the room and get back on the comms to Sam and Bucky, you have a chance. 

At Eklund’s request of taking you in alive, his goons seem reluctant to use their guns. A first wave comes at you and your mind goes blank, years of muscle memory taking over. The first guy comes in low, trying to tackle you at the waist, but your knee is in his sternum before he can make it. You drive the hilt of the dagger into the side of his head, dropping him at your feet. Behind you, Joaquín is only working with his fists, but he’s holding his own. 

The auction’s patrons are clearly not in on it, judging by the screams and the race to get out of the room. They bottleneck at the door, blocking each other from getting out, but more importantly blocking Joaquín and yourself from getting back out somewhere the comms work. A pair of Eklund’s goons come at you next and you lean on Joaquín’s half-bent over back, using him as a springboard for a high kick to the first one’s head. He goes toppling into the second and you land near them, sure-footed and ready to take them out with your daggers.

And then you’re not breathing.

You slap a hand to your chest, brows knitted in confusion. You manually tell your lungs to take a breath, but it’s as though your chest is paralyzed. 

“It’s interesting, isn’t it? All I had to do was tell your lungs to stop working, and they… did. I guess, at the end of the day, I hold the power over your body, not you.” 

The last thing you hear before everything goes dark is Joaquín screaming your name over the woman’s calm, measured words. 

[green-square-anon]

@lemon-russ @ms--lobotomy

---

Probably the first thing I've posted on here that actually qualifies as a "headcanon" in the "I belive this would be canon" sense isntead of "This is a fun idea and alligns with my understanding of the characters personality (because I haven't read all their books) but:

Contrary to all the gremlin memes Konrad Curze actually does know how to cook/clean. He canonically had a thirst for knowlegde so whether he learned it from the reader or from that. (but he likely wouldn't know the sort of things that aren't written down in cookbooks, like old household remedies for colds). And canonically "There had been a time near the beginning of the war when he adopted higher standards of personal hygiene, as befitted a lord of men. Lately he had returned to his old ways." which to me seems more like severe depression or not caring, or both than someone who dosen't have the SKILLS to groom themselves. But he would abseloutly be the type to try abseloutly digusting food combinations if left in a kitchen.

Moving on to what is more headcannon (because primarch romance). He eats civilized when around reader but eats disgusting shit when left to his own devices. Konrad in a straight relationship would actually be rather traditional gender role wise because he's much more of a provider (Curze has big "predatory bird bringing prey to the nest" vibes) than a homemaker because he didn't grow up in a civilised home so reader would almost certainly be more skilled at domestic things than him. I don't like the "wife is essentially selfish husbands babysitter" trope, at all. So you can bet your ass if his waifu ever gets sick he's taking over making soup for her and doing her chores until she gets better.

So imagine after he's taken care of you while you're sick you come downstairs, still vaugely nausous, to tell him you're doing better and he's eating the 40k equlivant of moldy pizza (he's a primarch, he can take it) he found in the trash on the couch. The sight of which, in your already sick state, causes you to imedeally vomit all over the floor. When he gets up to help you, you imeadally scream at him not to touch you before washing his hands.

Imagine taking care of Curze in the start of your relationship and teaching him basic comforts like a hot bath or a well made bed because "oh it's what you would have wanted" and one day you come home after an abseloutely shit day for whatever reason and he's arranged those same comforts for you. He's learning from what you did to him and returning the same kindness <3.

[muletia]

manifests into existence when I hear Harpy Starscream) this idea already rocks, especially since everyone in the fandom refers to Starscream as a birdie cuz of his design 

Harpies were originally wind spirits, the destructive kind, and were called things like “swift robbers” or “snatchers”, said to steal food from their victims or carry away evildoers. Agents of punishment who abducted people and tortured them on their way to Tartarus. They were depicted as cruel, vicious and violent. Harboured were also typically depicted with the heads of maidens, so what if in this au harpies are also on the brink of extinction?

The harpries used to reside in one big clan but due to the threat of extinction they’ve scattered into smaller groups, and the majority of females have either been driven out by hunters, killed or simply passed on. Their numbers have dwindled so badly half the human population believe them to either be all extinct, or didn’t exist to begin with 

Que you, a simple human who is a non believer in harpies, going on an expedition despite the warnings you got from “crazed” locals about “winged devils in the mountains”, nonsense you say. Then as you’re walking along bam, harpy deception of choice wounded and stuck in netting (for this we’ll just stick with Starscream cuz hes pathetic and deserves some lime light) 

You are rightfully terrified of this giant bird man who at once shrieks into your petrified startled face- but you feel a pang of sympathy when that shrieked is followed up by a pained whine, noticing how the rope of the net is painfully tangled around one of Starscream wings. Through grit or stupidity, you somehow manage to dodge being bitten and swiped at before you manage to cut the ropes and free him. Starscream flies off the second he’s freed, but you later find him again unable to fly due to his wing and you two settle on a mutual, temporary friendship until you help get Starscream back up to his nest 

Of course Starscream warms up to you because imagine harpies, being depicted as evil doers by humans, have never truly experienced gentle affection. Starscream is all snappy because that’s what he’s needed to be to survive, now a tiny human is throwing themselves infront of him like some pathetic shield going “Stay behind me, I won’t let them hurt you!” when some mountain wolves growl in their direction 

It gives me a big HTTYD vibe, so it's automatically peak (one of my favorite movies fr fr).

Imagine that, just like in HTTYD, Starscream is stuck in a deep ravine and can’t get out, so he’s forced to interact with you. For the first few weeks, he regrets not killing you when he had the chance.

You’re annoying, you don’t leave him alone when that’s the only thing he wants, and you keep trying to touch his feathers. Starscream can handle things on his own. He doesn’t need anyone else, and he’ll make that very clear from the start. You’re unnecessary, useless. You’re a human, and he tasted human pain before.

But you bring him food. And your presence... isn’t as unpleasant as it was in the beginning. Before he even realizes it, he starts looking forward to your arrival through the only entrance and exit of the ravine. He looks forward to you changing his bandages and applying ointment to his wounds. To the point where now he gets grumpy if you’re even a second late.

And as it turns out, your touch doesn’t bring pain. It can actually be... pleasant. Especially when you help him clean his feathers. Or when you stroke his helm and comment on how beautiful he is. He can’t stop himself from fluffing up contentedly and smiling with that handsome faceplate of his.

But Starscream, being Starscream, will still self-sabotage. When his wing finally heals, he’ll leave without a single word of goodbye, convinced he doesn’t need you anymore. He’s always managed on his own. That hasn’t changed. So why does he miss you? Why does he crave your company?

He gives himself a few days to chew it all over in his processor, and once he comes to the conclusion that he does, in fact, need you to live, nothing will stop him from grabbing you in his claws, no matter what you’re doing or where you are, and carrying you off to his nest. Congratulations, you’ve earned the honor of becoming his mate <3

[hyunjinsjeans]

Baby Brain (Seungmin x Reader)

Masterlist

Summary: Seungmin has to suffer with his pabo members… and now also his pabo wife.

Type: Fluff 🧸, SFW 

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, proofreading to a minimum (it’s my thing, I’m sorry)

Word count: 2569

AN: This fic is a part 2 to Seungmin’s version of the He Knows Series. It can also be read as a stand alone. I took my precious time with this one because I guess my period played games with me and the first versions were angsty af… And that was not the vibe I wanted for my man Kim Seungmin. I think I finally got it, and also huge spoiler for Hyunjin’s part 2 (which is posted too!)

Seungmin sighed as he let Choon-Hee paint his toenails pink and yellow. 

He was really working on his patience lately. You sat across from him on the carpet in the living room while Nari “did” your hair. 

The Hwang twins, or “dumpling girls” (as the boys called them), were happy to spend the afternoon with you and your husband. A little break for their parents to be able to go on a date alone, and a good practice for what was about to come for you.

“Ready!” 

Nari walked around you with a bright smile on her face as she saw the long braid she managed to make with your silky hair. 

“Already? Wow!” You smiled and reached for the hand mirror to see her work. “You did so good, Nari! Look, Minnie!”

He looked up at you, for a second his sight leaving Choon-Hee to find you. Initially, he did not like the idea of babysitting a set of three year old twins, but these two girls were pretty easy to manage and to please. 

“Woah!” He pretended to be stunned. 

In a way he was… Your hair, although maintaining its pregnancy glow and thickness, looked a lot like a bird’s nest. A true 3-year-old masterpiece. 

You giggled, you knew it was a horrible mess with tangles and odd twists… but you enjoyed indulging the little ones. 

Seungmin was able to see it; your motherly instincts were beginning to take over slowly. As the months began passing and your pregnancy became more evident, so did the signs of your body and mind getting ready become more evident as well. 

From the baby bump that grew in a slow but steady manner, to the way you began fixing and arranging things at home, making sure the nursery was ready, preparing spaces for the baby and worrying more and more about Seungmin too. 

Your husband only agreed to babysit for Hyunjin because you had already agreed to babysit for Hyunjin!Reader.

The afternoon went by in a blur as you sat with the girls to play and watch cartoons, Seungmin had to be the most responsible adult at home, seeing as your baby bump had begun to keep you from being too active. 

He prepared snacks and handed each of the girls (you included) a small bowl with crackers and baby carrots. 

“Thank you!” You and the twins said in unison, much to Seungmin’s amusement. 

At that point your husband realized he was now watching three girls. Poor Seungmin spent the rest of the afternoon watching you too. Keeping you safe while you decide to do little little somersaults with the girls on the living room carpet. 

The truth was that you had a lot of time on your hands lately. Since you found out for sure that you were pregnant thanks to the lab test, you have been a cause of concern for your husband… With all the pregnancy symptoms and the planning for the nursery, you decided to give in to Seungmin’s request of taking things slow. You reduced your hours at the hospital; working only part time. It was supposed to be like that until you went on leave but as things rarely ever go as planned you ended up developing some complications during the second trimester. Doctor’s best advice? Rest. And so you rested; you talked to your boss and you took time off from work. Now you are at home full time, spending most of your time reading medical journals or parenting books. Shopping online for what might be necessary for your little boy once he was born. 

Most of all, what you did during your free time was visit Seungmin and the boys during their dance practice and rehearsals. They would be dancing and you would sit with Han!Reader and both would marvel at everything and anything her small Haerin would do. Sometimes Hyunjin!Reader would be there too, her girls already went to kindergarten so she would have the morning’s to herself either to work or run errands. 

For your husband’s delight, anytime you and Hyunjin!Reader got together, it meant he would have to keep an eye on you. Even without her, the second you began joking with Lee Know and Hyunjin it was bad news for him.

You did not know it, or maybe you had heard it at some point… but you were considered by the boys as an honorary member of paboracha. You would dance with the boys, attempting to follow their dance moves but most of the time you would get tangled up and trip. Now you were pregnant and almost at the end of your second trimester, your brain was just not in it with you. 

Seungmin found you looking for your glasses while you were already wearing them, or looking for your phone while you were on a phonecall. He would see you trying so hard to understand the instructions on a youtube video while trying to knit something for your baby… and he would find a tangle of yarn on the sofa most nights, a clear sign that you gave up that day. He loved to see you cook, but nowadays it is also a struggle that gives him a heart attack every time. You do not seem to think much about what you are doing lately, and it shows in how you burned the toaster when you wanted to turn it on one day, for some reason you put it on the stove and turned on the stove instead… So for the last few weeks the stove and the dangerous appliances are off limits for you. 

Seungmin enjoys the quiet tranquility that putting the girls to sleep brings to your home. Finally, after several hours of chasing the toddlers around and keeping his eye on you, the girls got tired and accepted a glass of warm chocolate milk. You held Choon-Hee and he held Nari, each one held onto their favorite blanket and finished the milk from their sippy cups before falling asleep. 

“It’s like they’re drunk on milk,” Seungmin whispered, not wanting to disturb the sensitive girls. 

“Mhm…” You smiled, holding Choon-Hee close to your chest, effectively creating a perfect warmth cocoon for the little girl. 

If there was any difference Seungmin could notice from you in the last few months, besides the obvious physical changes that came with the whole “creating new life” aspect of things; it was that you were more tender. You kissed him goodnight and you touched his cheek in such a way that he could not help but feel his heart swell up with tenderness. You were also more drawn to children in a way you were not before. To Seungmin you were a sweet person, someone kind with no fear of showing their emotions. Now it seemed you were ten times that sensitive, he had to be more careful about his choice of words and the way he behaved - a single eye roll from him during your second trimester brought you to tears one afternoon and if he had to be honest, he was deeply ashamed of it.

He watched you holding Choon-Hee and he fixed his hold on Nari. He was guilty of not having the same change as you, he could not yet feel that tenderness for a little human made of half you and half himself. He was unable to wrap his head around the concept of loving the growing human in your womb. He was assured by his older members that what he saw you already feeling for your baby would come to him naturally as well. That it would happen when the time was right.

“Let me get these two to sleep…” 

He got up from the couch and fixed Nari in his arms, the girl already used to Uncle Seeungmin’s firm grasp, turned and held onto his neck while resting her cheek on his shoulder. Nari was the sweetest of the two, the quiet one. She enjoyed attention a lot less than her sister, but she was also the one who needed the most assurance. Seungmin brought her to their room, placing her on their bed with a blanket turned into a roll at the edge of it, helping her stay safely on the mattress without rolling off of it. 

When he came back to get Choon-Hee, he found you also sleeping. Your hold on the girl was weak and gentle- The youngest of the twins was the most trouble maker; but sleepy as she was, Seungmin managed to pull her from your arms and take her to sleep next to her sister. 

You felt Seungmin pull your legs up as he helped you find a comfortable position on the couch, getting you to rest with a soft blanket over your. He got to read for a little bit while you slept and the night set in. Hyunjin and his wife showed up almost thirty minutes later to get their twins. They looked happy and disheveled, but neither you nor Seungmin commented on it. You barely noticed, and Seungmin was making a mental note to tease his group member during rehearsals the following week… 

“They must have tired themselves out…” You told Hyunjin!Reader while Hyunjin and Seungmin carefully put the twins in their double stroller. 

“Oh, they didn’t give you trouble, did they?” Hyunjin!Reader offered you an apologetic smile, “We just needed some time for ourselves… and when you offered… I didn’t even think of warning you!” 

You laughed softly, aware that you needed to keep your voice down. 

“Don’t worry!” You squeezed your friend’s arm, “they were perfect… they’re such good girls! Right, Minnie? We had so much fun!”

Seungmin looked up at Hyunjin as he helped him cover the stroller with a blanket, Hyunjin looked amused as he saw the look on his friend’s face. 

“Did you?” Hyunjin asked him quietly, his doubt evident.

While Seungmin was not bad with children at all, he rarely ever offered to babysit for his friends. Most of the time it was you who offered. 

“As the only responsible adult in the house? Yeah, I guess it wasn’t that bad…” Seungmin sighed.

Hyunjin smiled up at you, assuming you had not heard him. “Did you really have fun?”

You nodded, smiling widely. “Yes! And it was great practice for us, Seungmin just needs to brush up on his playtime, but I would say he is ready!” You winked at your husband, obviously trying to tease him.

Seungmin grinned, mentally forcing himself to not roll his eyes, “yeah, maybe…but I’ve got nap time down!”

You blushed and looked back at Hyunjin!Reader, “I fell asleep too… I think I got carried away playing with them earlier” 

“Please come visit and get carried away playing anytime…” Hyunjin commented, “they don’t ever seem to run out of energy at home, even if one does, there is still the other…” 

Hyunjin!Reader nodded. “We’re signing up for dance lessons, they need to get that energy out somehow…”

You smiled “Oh, they’re gonna be so cute! What are you thinking, baby ballet?” 

Both parents nodded, “it’s that or taekwondo… but I don’t want them fighting so they’ll get tutus.” 

Seungmin chuckled, “yeah… that’s gonna keep them from fighting…” 

Hyunjin gave him a look before speaking: “Anyway, thanks for babysitting, we really needed the time off.” 

You nodded too and smiled at your friend, “oh, don’t mention it! We are happy to help, you’re basically family…” 

Seungmin agreed with that and said goodbye to Hyunjin before going to the door with them. 

You were alone at last, after spending most of the day running around preparing for the twins and then watching them and keeping them entertained the only thing you wanted to do was to get changed and go to bed. 

“Minnie, did you really not have fun?” You asked him as you grabbed his arm and leaned onto his side.

He sighed, “I did… it’s just… you’re so hard to keep up with. You need to take care of yourself, you know? I can’t be the only one taking care of you and the baby…”

“Oh…” You pursed your lips, letting out a small laugh, “I just… feel so restless, you know?” 

Seungmin nodded as you walked through the house and into your bedroom. 

“What do you mean?”

You sighed and explained, “well, I… I think I have a baaad case of this thing… uhm ‘baby brain’.” 

Seungmin looked a little defeated. You always managed to be the last person to get the memo it seemed. He felt somewhat amused and incredulous but he allowed you to elaborate. 

“I feel like I forget things and I do things that don’t really make sense, Minnie…” You frowned, “And I just can’t figure out how to make a stupid blanket!” 

He chuckled at your comment about the knitting project, he was already aware you were struggling with that but he knew better than to say anything, not wanting to hurt your extra-sensitive feelings. 

“It’s okay, Y/N…” He reassured you, rubbing small circles on your back. “Your body is working really hard to make a baby. I guess it’s normal that your mind is busy…”

You looked up at him and smiled, “you’re so good to me…” You wrapped your arms around his waist and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, a small smile appearing on his face. “I know you must be so frustrated with me… and you still cope so well.” 

Your husband kissed the top of your head, “I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, Y/N. Only my wife gets my patience.”

“Only me? How about Eun-Jae?” You looked up at him, testing out the name you picked for your baby a few days ago. 

Seungmin smiled and looked down at you nodding. Watching the way you stare at him so lovingly he could not help but feel like there is a weight to the name you chose. He put his hand on your belly, rubbing it slowly. He felt some movement under his hand and his eyes widened in surprise, turning to you quickly. 

“Hm, he’s moving a lot today. Did you feel that?” 

You stared at him with curiosity, Seungmin had yet to experience the feeling of your baby moving in your belly. 

He nodded, dumbfounded. “He… moved?” 

With a gleeful smile you nodded and pulled his hand over your stomach so he could feel it again, where your baby seemed to be kicking. 

“I like to think he’s happy when he kicks like this, he is so strong already…” 

“Eun-Jae?” Seungmin asked quietly. 

It was true what his members said. That love for his son would come one day and hit him suddenly. And it happened right then, after a busy day while preparing to go to sleep. He watched your stomach with renewed wonder and love, and you touched his cheek softly before kissing it. 

“Oh, our baby boy is so lucky to have such a loving, patient dad…” 

You went to push your glasses up on the bridge of your nose and almost stuck a finger into your eye. Seungmin sighed and chuckled as he turned his attention back to your face, he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Pabo, you’re not wearing your glasses today… you put on your contacts this morning…” 

“Right…” 

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