#Explosion Proof Work Light

[sharpeagle-tech]

Explosion proof portable work light - ATEX approved

Explosion-Proof Work Lights are attached with movable wheels below the gadget and may be moved from one location to another. They are very practical and simple to move. Due to the outside aluminum die-casting, polished surface, and epoxy coating of these lights, they are also quite durable. These 360-degree adjustable lights are perfect for Zones 1&2 and 21&22 and offer improved illumination. The device incorporates an easily adjustable manual valve that controls the lift for simpler operation. Work lights that are portable, strong, and explosion-proof are perfect for explosive conditions.

Key Features

Zones 1 & 2, Zones 21 & 22

Housing made of die-cast aluminum with an epoxy coating for a lovely appearance; lighting angle is adjustable by 120 degrees. Wheels that are simple to move are attached to the bottom of the light box.

Upward and downward adjustment, 360-degree rotation, and complete lighting

Control the lift by using a manual valve or an air pump.

The generator set's bottom has universal wheels that can be used on the pit's train lines and paved surface. Small and lightweight, making it simple to carry.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP fanfic Idea: Gotham Gossip

Meta-human rights are a touchy topic in Gotham. While the city is known for Batman's view on them, it's also known for Bruce Wayne's viewpoint.

The Dark Knight did not welcome Metas, while the Light Knight worked tirelessly to employ charities and programs to support Metas. Both men- if Batman was a man- influenced Gotham so intensely that their viewpoints became the face of the public.

Even people outside of Gothman learned what "Are you a Dark pawn or a Light pawn?" meant when it was spoken about during national debates.

Really, it was no surprise that Batman and Wayne got caught up in a rather explosive public argument over the subject. Or rather, Wayne yelled at Batman during a hostage situation when his party boat got taken by a group of masked men.

Thankfully, Batman was able to save everyone on board, and although he didn't stick around to argue with Wayne, it was noted that Batman seemed intrigued by a few of Wayne's passionate rants. A few reporters were excited to point out there may be a chance of growth within the vigilante, but it was overshadowed by gossip rags that used this incident to make up a wild rumor of Wayne being a bitter ex with Batman.

This rumor runs for months, with various people posting online proof of a relationship. It sparks debate and anger, with other people responding by fact-checking and countering the "proof." Eventually, the argument moves away from Meta-human rights and falls into celebrity gossip, which has Wayne steaming.

People ignore his passionate activism to better the lives of Metas, only watching his speeches, marches, protests, and donations to various charities to gain new proof of his nonexistent romance that may or may have been in his early twenties when he mysteriously vanished to see the world.

That's when the video comes out.

A young teenager wrote a song parody of what was happening. A soft acoustic guitar accompanied his short words, accusing the masses of caring more about a wealthy man's pants being on or not than the lives of his people.

This young teenager is Danny Fenton, a known meta from a small town in Illinois. This quickly turned into people attacking the boy, who released another song using the hateful comments as new lyrics.

Wayne reposts one of his sons, claiming it a masterpiece, which is when one fan notices the similarities between the two. She makes a post talking about how Wayne and Fenton could be father and son as a joke, expecting people to take it seriously.

Overnight, the internet finds out that Fenton was, in fact, adopted into his current family after being surrendered at a fire station anonymously. More and more people started to notice the similar features between the rich man and the small-town singer until a video of Fenton using his powers was leaked.

Fenton's power is invisibility. This resembles another well-known Gotham dweller who can appear and disappear through the city's shadows. It's not long before Fenton is being called the love child of Batman and Wayne.

It leads to so much media attention and harassment aimed towards Fenton that Wayne steps in. He offers to take a paternity test to finally put the rumors to rest and let the young boy vanish from the limelight (should he stop writing songs).

The only problem?

The test is positive. Wayne is Fenton's biological son. The whole nation loses their minds when it's leaked by a very regrettable intern at the clinic where the test was done. (To be fair, the intern's email was hacked, so when she scanned the papers for herself, they were able to steal them)

Worse, Joker thinks it would be hilarious to kidnap Wayne's newly discovered son and, on live TV, give him another paternity test against Batman. The clown is laughing hysterically while his men prepare the results, only to become more gleeful when it's a match again.

Fenton is the son of both the Dark Knight and the Light Knight. It matters little that Batman's DNA is slightly messed up, as various people already suspected him of not being human.

This just proves Fenton is not a meta-human but rather half-human and whatever the hell Batman is. Joker is having a ball reading out the results, proclaiming he would help Fenton meet his biological grandparents with his one guarantee.

His words are cut off when Fetnon- unknown to the viewing public- escapes his bonds and swings an axe from the emergency fire station inside the aged wearhouse at Joker's neck. The clown collapses to the ground dead, the boy bathed in his blood, and the half-finished joke is cut off by the sound of choking blood etching across every screen in Gotham.

The remaining goons and Fenton stare at each other in stun silence while one is brave enough to rasp. "But Batman doesn't kill."

"Do I look like my absent father to you? Besides, Joker venom is a war crime. I'm within my rights, and if I'm not, I would have killed him again anyway."

Fenton quickly outshines his fathers in the public's eye because no matter where one stood on the Meta Rights, everyone stood on the "Kill the Joker" debate.

[honeydippedfiction]

Gag Gift LSU!Joe x Angel

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Synopsis: When Angel receives a hilarious yet thoughtful birthday gift from Joe—a custom mold of his dick—it sets off a night of teasing texts, explosive tension, and an unforgettable reunion. What starts as a playful joke quickly turns into a deeply intimate moment, proving once again that no toy compares to the real thing.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (Highly descriptive and graphic sexual scenes, including masturbation, oral sex, and penetrative sex), Use of Sex Toys, Language, Light Dom/Sub Undertones. MDNI🔞

WC: 3.9k

A/N: lmaooo this was fun

Join my Taglists here or message me

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It started with a gold box.

Not wrapped. Not hidden away. Just sitting there—right in the middle of Angel’s bed like it had claimed the space, like it belonged there and had been waiting for her. The tissue paper inside was already a little rumpled, the corners bent like someone had tried to fold it neatly and gave up halfway through. Typical Joe.

The door creaked open with the familiar sound of home—worn hinges, quiet air, and the scent of her favorite candle still lingering faintly in the apartment. Angel stepped inside, suitcase wheels thudding softly across the floor as she nudged the door shut behind her.

Back.

Finally.

Two flights, one delayed layover, and four full days of being the most doted-on daughter in her family—home had been sweet. But it wasn’t him. And now that she was back in Baton Rouge, the only thing on her mind was seeing Joe.

She dropped her bag just inside her bedroom, already reaching for her phone to text him that she was about to show up unannounced at his place like the clingy girlfriend she unapologetically was.

Except… she froze.

Because the moment she looked up, she saw it.

A soft “What the hell…” slipped from her lips, brows lifting in surprise.

The center of her bed was no longer just tangled blankets and the hoodie she forgot to pack. It was a little birthday display: gold and white balloons gathered near the headboard, a cluster of them hovering lazily against the ceiling like they’d floated up on their own. And right in the middle of the mattress—nestled in pale gold tissue paper—sat a single box.

Not wrapped.

Not overly fancy.

Just… sitting there, waiting.

Angel blinked.

Then blinked again.

Did he really—

What caught her attention most was the note on top, taped at a slight angle. It was Joe’s handwriting—she’d know it anywhere. Slanted, sharp, a little too proud of itself, like even his pen had swagger.

“For when I’m away and you need your favorite stress reliever. — Love, Your MVP.”

Angel squinted at it, one brow arched, heart already flipping in her chest, already suspicious. The man was insane. She knew it. Had proof. But she still tugged the tissue paper aside, cautiously like it was a Pandora’s box.

And then she froze.

Then screamed.

Not a high-pitched, terrified scream—but the kind that exploded out of you when your brain just refused to compute what your eyes were seeing. Her hands flew up to cover her face as her laughter burst out in startled, wheezing waves.

It was him. Or more specifically… a part of him.

A shockingly accurate, skin-toned silicone replica of Joe’s dick lay nestled in the tissue like some absurdly intimate trophy.

“Oh my God, Joe,” she hissed between gasps, one hand still over her mouth as her other poked at the thing like it might come to life. “You did not—”

Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a FaceTime call.

Speak of the devil.

She swiped to answer, and there he was—shirtless, glowing under warm lighting, looking way too pleased with himself. His grin stretched slow and smug across his face.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he said, voice low and lazy like he’d been waiting all damn day to talk to her.

“You’re sick,” Angel accused, immediately holding the phone up so he could see exactly what she was looking at. “Is this what I think it is?”

“You tell me,” Joe drawled, smirking. “You’ve seen the original more than anyone.”

She let out another breathless laugh and flopped back on the bed, burying her face in the comforter for a moment. “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, stretching slightly like he knew he looked good. “I’m thoughtful.”

Angel sat up and lifted the mold with both hands, holding it like a museum artifact, spinning it slowly like she was trying to judge its historical significance. “You really made this?”

“Two hours,” Joe said, proud. “Of awkward-ass instructions and way too much lube. But hey… now I’m always with you.”

Angel shook her head, biting her lip to hold back the smile that was starting to stretch across her face. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

She hesitated—just long enough for it to matter—then whispered, “You’re not.”

And just like that, something in the air shifted. The laughter faded, but the warmth remained, settling in that soft space between affection and longing. Even through the screen, she could feel it: the connection that never wavered, no matter how far apart they were. It lived in the pause between their words. In the way Joe was looking at her now, like he could reach through the phone and touch her.

“I missed you today,” she said quietly, fingers brushing over the note again.

Joe’s smile softened, losing some of that cocky edge. “I miss you every day.”

Angel curled into her pillow, phone now cradled against her cheek. The mold still sat next to her, ridiculous and yet somehow… sweet. A ridiculous, intimate love letter only Joe Burrow would have the guts to send.

“I’m still not over this,” she murmured.

“You’ll get over it the second you use it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Angel snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love it,” he shot back without missing a beat.

She paused—because she did. She really, truly did. No one else could drive her this crazy and still make her laugh, make her feel cherished and teased and understood, all in one go.

“I do,” she whispered, glancing at the mold once more with a shake of her head. “God help me… I really do.”

And Joe just smiled, like he knew. Because he did.

“You’re holding it like it’s fragile glass.”

“It feels fragile! I’m not trying to break your dick clone!”

Joe barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Took two hours and way more patience than I thought. If it breaks, I’m suing.”

Her fingers then brushing the note still taped to the lid. “I… kind of love that you did this.”

He didn’t gloat. Not this time. He just smiled. That real smile. The one he didn’t give to cameras or fans—just her.

“I just wanted you to have something,” he said. “When I can’t be there.”

Angel curled against her pillow, mold still beside her like some kind of x-rated emotional support statue.

“Well, you win. This is the most insane and sweet gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Joe’s voice dropped, lower now, his tone quiet and flirtatious all at once. “You gonna use it?”

“Joe.”

“I’m serious.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not when you’re watching me on FaceTime, pervert.”

He chuckled. “Fine. I’ll let you go.”

“Good. Because I’m about to shower and head over.”

Joe leaned back, stretching. “Or you could test it out first. Let me know how accurate I was.”

“BYE, JOE.”

She hung up before she could blush harder, flinging her phone onto the bed beside the mold like she hadn’t already mentally rated the accuracy.

Still…

Angel stared at it for a long beat, biting her lip, fingers ghosting over the note again.

She was going to kill him.

But not before thanking him in every way she knew how.

Σ>―💜→

Last Friday

Joe hadn’t planned on walking into an adult store that day.

He was supposed to be grabbing protein powder. Maybe some new socks. Something completely mundane. But the novelty shop was right next door to the supplement place, and after a second glance at the display window—neon lights, gag toys, lingerie, and shelves stacked with things he’d definitely never seen in any locker room prank—it sparked a ridiculous idea that rooted fast.

It started as a joke.

Angel’s birthday was coming up, and she’d be gone visiting her family. He hated the thought of not being with her, especially on a day he knew meant more to her than she let on. And during their last late-night FaceTime, she’d teased him—half-joking, half-wistful—about how it wasn’t fair he could be in her dreams but not in her bed.

He’d laughed. She’d said something about “needing a souvenir.”

And just like that, the idea struck: What if he gave her the next best thing?

So he went inside, hoodie up, hoping no one would recognize him. He kept his head down like he was buying state secrets instead of a DIY kit labeled Clone-A-Willy: Make an Exact Replica of Your Manhood! with a cartoonishly grinning cucumber on the front. He paid in cash. Didn’t say a word to the cashier. Left the shop with the kind of shame-swagger walk that said Don’t ask me anything.

Once he got home, though, the confidence died fast.

The instructions were eight pages long. Eight. There were thermometers. Molding powder. Mixing bowls. A vibrating bullet he immediately threw out because no way Angel needs that when it’s already a 1:1 replica, thank you very much.

Joe stood in his bathroom for twenty minutes just trying to read everything. Another ten hyping himself up. “Alright,” he muttered to his reflection. “You play in front of a hundred thousand people. You can do this.”

Spoiler: It was way harder than it looked.

The mold mixture had to be exactly the right temperature or it would harden too soon. The timing was critical. The angle was everything. The instructions kept saying things like “maintain erection during the process,” and Joe—who had never once been nervous about getting hard—was suddenly very aware of every second passing.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” he grumbled, standing buck-naked in his bathroom with one hand holding the mold and the other trying desperately to keep himself at full attention while staring at a photo of Angel on his phone.

By the time the mold finally set and he pulled it free, Joe was sweaty, red in the face, and absolutely never telling a soul what he went through. Not Ja’Marr. Not his teammates. No one.

But when he poured the silicone into the mold and saw the final result—a shockingly accurate, firm replica of himself—he couldn’t help but laugh.

It was insane. Wildly inappropriate. A complete mess of a gift.

And yet… it felt perfect.

Angel had been there for every part of his grind—long practices, recovery days, those early mornings when he couldn’t lift his arms but she still kissed his forehead and told him he was brilliant. She missed him when they were apart. She wanted him, and wasn’t shy about saying it.

He wanted to give her something only he could give.

Something stupid. Something thoughtful. Something that said: I’m yours, even when I’m not there.

So he packed it in a gold box—because if he was going to give her a sex toy in the shape of his dick, he might as well make it fancy. Wrote a note in that slanted, proud handwriting she always teased him about. Taped it to the top like a signature.

“For when I’m away and you need your favorite stress reliever.— Love, Your MVP.”

And when he set it on her bed for her to find, he didn’t worry about her reaction. Not really. Because Angel? She’d get it. She’d laugh. Maybe blush. Maybe call him insane.

But he knew, deep down, she’d love it.

Because love sometimes looked like flowers and chocolates.

And sometimes?

It looked like a silicone mold of your boyfriend’s dick in a gold box.

Σ>―💜→

She didn’t use it right away.

For the first few days, the clone just sat in its little black pouch in her nightstand drawer, silently mocking her with its very existence. Every time she opened the drawer for something else—chapstick, her journal, her satin bonnet—there it was. Waiting. Just like Joe said.

By day five, the longing had turned into something heavier.

Joe had been busy—offseason workouts, media shoots, film study. They still texted, still FaceTimed, but the conversations had been shorter. Tired voices. Fewer teasing words. She understood, of course. She always did. But that didn’t stop her body from missing him.

She wanted his voice. His hands. The way he looked at her like she was something holy and sinful at the same time.

And that’s when she remembered the box.

Night had settled in. Her sheets were freshly washed. The apartment was quiet, humming with the low buzz of her diffuser and the sound of the ceiling fan above. Joe had sent her a sleepy selfie before he passed out early. Hair messy, face half-buried in his pillow, no caption. He didn’t need one.

Her thumb hovered over the photo for a second too long before she finally moved.

Drawer open. Pouch retrieved.

She held it in her hands like it was a memory—strange, familiar, hilarious in theory but suddenly not so funny now. Not when her thighs pressed together and her stomach flipped with nervous heat. She bit her lip, shook her head, and whispered, “You’re ridiculous,” to no one in particular.

But she wasn’t thinking that ten minutes later.

Not when her back arched off the bed, a breathy “Joe…” falling from her lips like a secret she couldn’t hold.

She’d closed her eyes and imagined him—his weight, his voice, the way he always knew when to slow down or press deeper. Her free hand curled in the sheets, her body aching in the way only he could pull out of her. It wasn’t quite the same—nothing ever was—but it was enough to quiet the craving. Enough to make her feel close to him, if only in the space between her ribs.

Afterward, she lay there in the stillness, skin warm, heart full.

She reached for her phone. Opened the camera. Snapped a picture—not of anything too revealing, just the sheets tangled between her thighs and the way her fingers pressed against her lips like she’d just thought of something delicious.

“You’re the worst gift-giver I’ve ever loved.”

Delivered. Read. Seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.

“Did you use it?”

She stared at the screen for a beat, pulse kicking up again.

“Maybe.”

Another bubble.

“I’m waking up hard as hell now. Thanks.”

She laughed out loud, biting her knuckle as the warmth spread across her chest. It was ridiculous. And intimate. And weirdly romantic, in the way only Joe Burrow could make something like that feel like love.

Angel sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress.

It wasn’t him.

But it was close enough—for now.

Σ>―💜→

Joe woke up groggy, one arm flung across the empty side of the bed. The sheets were twisted, his boxers clinging low on his hips, and sunlight was spilling in through his half-closed blinds, far too bold for how early it felt. His hand reached for his phone on instinct, eyes still half-shut as he unlocked it.

3 new texts from Angel 💋

2:17 AM

angel: happy birthday to me 😏 angel: your twin is getting put to work tonight angel: bet you wish you were here to see it 👅

Joe blinked. Then he blinked again, fully awake now.

“What the—” he muttered, sitting up straighter in bed.

He scrolled down. The next image took all the air out of his lungs.

There she was—Angel, flushed and glowing, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other gripping that ridiculous (and terrifyingly accurate) mold of his dick he’d given her as a joke. Her top was pushed to the side, her thighs spread just enough to drive him absolutely insane. The caption read:

look familiar?

Joe groaned, dragging a hand over his face as heat flooded his body. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

He had given her that mold as a joke. A birthday gag. Something to make her laugh, not… not this. Not something she’d actually use. Not something she’d send proof of.

But God, he couldn’t stop looking.

His hand dropped low without thought, brushing the edge of his waistband as he swiped through the next few photos: blurry, intimate, breathless shots—her mid-arch, her fingers gripping tight, the glisten of sweat on her skin. She wasn’t even trying to be perfect. She was just real, and she looked wrecked. For him.

He exhaled sharply. “This woman is gonna be the death of me.”

He texted back.

joey b 🧃

You’re playing with fire, Angel.

Using my clone like that while I’m not around?

Bet it wasn’t even close to the real thing.

Be naked when I call. I want to hear exactly what you sounded like when you came on my copy.

Three dots appeared immediately, and then disappeared.

He chuckled lowly, shaking his head as his phone buzzed with her reply.

angel 💋

You say that like I didn’t cum twice.

And maybe I’ll let you hear it... if you beg nice.

Joe was already pressing FaceTime.

She didn’t even say hello when she picked up—just lifted the phone to show her bare chest, her grin smug and sleepy and satisfied.

And Joe? Joe fell harder.

Because somehow, she’d managed to ruin his morning and make it the best one of his life.

All before breakfast.

Σ>―💜→

She was still curled up in bed, the sheets tangled around her legs and her skin warm with the aftermath, when the FaceTime rang.

Joe calling…

She didn’t even hesitate—just pressed accept, shifting slightly so only her face and shoulders were in frame. Her voice was sweet, a little breathy. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

He was shirtless, hair still wild from sleep, one arm bent behind his head. His voice was low, still scratchy. “Couldn’t. Your texts woke me up.” A pause. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face. “You used it.”

Angel blinked, feigning innocence. “Used what?”

Joe scoffed, sitting up a little. “You know what. Don’t play dumb.”

She bit her lip, cheeks warm, the memory still pulsing between her legs like an echo. “I plead the fifth.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You used it. You’re all flushed and smug. That post-nut glow is loud as hell, baby.”

Angel laughed, burying her face in the pillow for a second before peeking back up at the camera. “Okay. Maybe. But in my defense—” She drew out the words like a melody, “—you gave it to me. What did you think was gonna happen?”

Joe smirked, slow and dirty. “I thought you’d miss me.”

“I did.”

His jaw flexed, the teasing fading into something deeper. “You thought about me when you used it?”

Angel swallowed. “Of course I did.”

Joe’s voice dropped an octave. “Tell me.”

She hesitated, but only for a beat—because the truth had always been easy with him. “I was lonely. And I was thinking about the last time you were inside me—when you had me folded up, like you were trying to imprint yourself in my spine.”

Joe cursed under his breath, running a hand down his face. “You’re really tryna ruin me, huh?”

“I might’ve said your name.” Her voice was softer now, her thumb dragging along the edge of her lip. “More than once.”

He was breathing heavier now. She saw it in the way his chest moved. In the tension threading through his shoulders. “You got it nearby?”

Angel raised a brow. “You want me to show you your clone, Joey?”

“I wanna see what you did to it,” he murmured. “Wanna watch you fall apart all over again.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer right away, just slowly shifted the phone, angling it toward the nightstand drawer. The camera trembled slightly in her hand as she reached in, her fingers curling around it again.

“Yeah,” Joe rasped. “Just like that, baby.”

And when she set the phone down just right, tilted so he could see her body stretch and writhe, her voice already shaking as she let her head fall back—Joe reached for himself. His voice was low and urgent, filthy and full of praise, guiding her through it like his soul was tethered to hers.

“Think about my hands on you. Think about my mouth, my voice in your ear,” he whispered, his voice rough with want. “You feel me, Angel? That’s me inside you.”

And she did. With her thighs shaking and the heat burning through her, she let go all over again, her voice calling his name like it was the only one that had ever mattered.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was them—miles apart but still right there, clinging to each other in a shared need that no plastic mold could ever truly satisfy.

But damn if it didn’t come close.

Σ>―💜→

The party had come and gone.

Angel was still glowing from all the attention—the cake, the drinks, the teasing chants of “birthday girl” every time she passed—but now the only lights were soft and golden, filtering through Joe’s apartment. The city outside LSU’s campus had gone quiet. Midnight had long passed.

Joe had waited.

Not impatiently. Not with irritation. But with something deeper in his bones. Hunger.

Because tonight wasn’t about jokes or party favors.

Tonight was about her.

She stepped out of his bathroom wearing nothing but one of his old, gray Ohio shirts, the hem barely brushing her thighs. Her skin still smelled like vanilla and coconut lotion, her lashes dark with the last remains of mascara. And Joe, already sitting on the edge of his bed, watched her like a man starved.

“You keep wearing my shit like that,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, “and I’m gonna ruin this whole night before it starts.”

Angel smirked as she walked toward him, slow and deliberate. “Isn’t that the point, lover boy?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just reached for her, pulled her in by the waist until she stood between his thighs. His hands traveled up the backs of her thighs, under the shirt, fingers gripping the plush curve of her ass.

“No clone this time,” he said, eyes dark. “You don’t get the copy. You get me.”

Her smirk faltered. Just a little. “Then give me my gift, Joey.”

That’s all it took.

The switch flipped—his mouth on hers, all tongue and teeth, hands already tugging the shirt over her head. She gasped when he pulled her down onto the bed with him, his body covering hers fully. All that strength, all that quiet control now bearing down on her like a promise.

“I thought about you using it,” he said between kisses, sliding down her body. “That fake dick. My copy.” His mouth hovered just above her navel. “But you know what I kept thinking about more?”

Angel arched into him. “What?”

Joe slid a hand between her legs, groaning at the slick he found waiting for him. “How bad you must’ve wanted the real thing.”

She was already gasping as his fingers slipped inside, slow and deep.

“And now?” he asked, curling them just right. “You get all of me. Every inch.”

Σ>―💜→

The real birthday gift was never the mold. It was the way Joe worshipped her that night.

Slow at first, like he needed to memorize the taste of her again. Then rougher—hard, possessive strokes when she wrapped her legs around him and begged for more.

He had her folded up in a way only Joe could—one leg over his shoulder, the other spread wide, his hips driving down into her with every thrust.

“You miss me?” he growled, sweat dripping down his neck.

“Yes, yes, yes—” she cried, her nails digging into his biceps.

“You want me to make it up to you?”

“Joe—fuck—please—”

He bent down, kissed her breathless, and gave her the real gift:

One mind-numbing orgasm. Then another.

And then one so intense, so shattering, it left her sobbing beneath him, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

He whispered in her ear afterward, voice hoarse and reverent, “Happy birthday, baby. No one’s ever gonna love you like this.”

And she knew—nothing he could’ve bought would ever touch that.

JB9 Taglist: @lilfreakjez, @dasia21, @superanastasia1981, @gg-trini, @wickedfun9, @irishmanwhore, @danielle143, @kayyybay, @destinyg237

[antiquarianfics]

Marry me? Nah. Marry me? Yeah.

4 times Bucky Barnes asks you to marry him and you refuse. 1 time Bucky Barnes asks you to marry him and you accept.

A/N: I have been working on this for the last day, so enjoy. HOWEVER, I wrote it on my phone and refuse to proof it. Warning(s): Some canon level violence, swearing. Note: I do not own Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to steal or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

—

Proposal 1

The first time Bucky Barnes proposes to you, you aren’t even dating. The two of you are paired on a mission to dismantle a HYDRA base hidden deep in the Appalachian Mountains in Kentucky. You had met before but never shared more than polite conversation. Steve had assured Bucky you weren’t scared of him, but that you wouldn’t push him to speak with you. Bucky never quite believed him, so he never attempted to converse with you either.

However, when you’re paired on this mission, you take that as the go-ahead to finally speak to him.

“So, Barnes,” you say, nudging his shoulder with your own, “guess we’ve got to come up with more conversation topics than the weather.”

“Guess so,” he replies.

It is during the mission he proposes. There are more HYDRA agents active than expected, and they come at the two of you guns blazing while you’re distracted setting up an explosive at a structural point of the complex.

“Y/L/N,” Bucky says to grab your attention, “we’ve got company.”

You bite your lip, finishing your task before standing and pulling your rifle from your back, preparing yourself for a fight.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got this one,” you tease, shooting him a wink before unleashing precise kill shots before Bucky even thinks to pull his own trigger. After taking out a dozen soldiers, a few manage to get close to you, and you hit one in the head with the butt of your gun and then quickly pull a knife from a thigh holster while pivoting on your foot to slit another’s throat. You shoot the unconscious soldier in the head for good measure before wiping your knife on your pants.

With your knife returned to its home on your thigh, you look up at Bucky who is staring at you with a dumbfounded, albeit impressed, look on his face. You had taken out 14 men on your own. He was in love.

The words “marry me” slipped past his lips before he could stop them, and you laugh.

“Maybe buy me dinner first, Sarge.”

Proposal 2

The second time Bucky Barnes proposes to you, you’re comforting him after a nightmare. It is late at night, at the point it was really morning, and you happen to hear his screams through his bedroom door.

You stop at his door, letting a frown set on your face before reaching out for his doorknob. You hesitate before opening it, wondering if he’ll appreciate you barging in on him in such a vulnerable state. Then, he screams again—louder—and you turn the doorknob, letting yourself in.

The sight you’re met with is heartbreaking. Bucky is tossing and turning, his sheets bunched at his feet, comforter on the ground. He’s sweating buckets and whimpering what sounds like, “Please, no. Not the chair. Please!” over and over again. You choke back a sob before crossing over to him, gently lying a comforting hand on his shoulder and calling out his name.

“Bucky, honey, wake up. It’s just a dream, hun.”

The touch and sudden sound wake him up from what is truly a light sleep. Bucky shoots up into a sitting position, right hand shooting out to grab the hand touching him, and eyes darting around the room until they land on you.

“Shh,” you coo, “you’re okay, Bucky. It’s me, Y/N. It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

Bucky’s heart rate slows to a normal pace, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Y/N?” He asks hesitantly. “W-what are you doing here?” His voice is small, like a terrified child’s, and you can’t help but frown at the thought.

You let your hand move to cup his face, noting that he relaxes at the gentle touch, leaning his face ever so slightly into your touch.

“I was headed to the kitchen and I heard you scream. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

He nods, eyes searching yours for some sort of anger or resentment for bothering you. He doesn’t find any.

“Can I do anything to make you feel better?” You ask kindly.

“Um,” Bucky says, voice shaky. “Would you mind—you don’t have to—but would you mind staying with me? Only if you want.”

You smile kindly, pressing a comforting kiss to his cheek before climbing into his bed with him, pulling his head close to your chest.

“When I was little, I lived in a house in the woods for a while,” you say randomly, catching Bucky’s attention. His eyebrows scrunch together in some sort of confusion, but he says nothing. “At dinner one night, I look out the glass door onto the porch. Wanna know what I saw?”

Bucky hums his agreement as your hand works it’s way into his hair and your fingers begin to massage his scalp.

“4 raccoons!” You exclaim. “3 babies and a mama. We had a toddler slide on the porch at the time,” you continue, “and the baby raccoons kept climbing the little ladder and sliding down. The mama just sat a little bit away and watched and stole cat food occasionally.”

Bucky chuckles, finding your story cute but also recognizing your attempt to distract and soothe him after his nightmare. He appreciates it more than he himself understands; he is comforted by your voice more than he feels he should be. He lets the proposal slip a second time: “Marry me?”

You grin and press a kiss to his head.

“Not yet, hun.”

Proposal 3

The third proposal comes after the two of you begin dating.

Bucky takes you out on a date to a little coffee shop in Brooklyn you both had become fond of. You’re standing to the side of the café, out of the way, waiting on your order. Bucky has his right arm around your shoulders while you lean into him; his left hand stuck in his jacket pocket.

“So Natasha’s screaming at Clint to show himself so that she can kill him, right? Like, she was so fucking pissed at him. And Clint is in the fucking air vents—like those big ones people crawl through in action movies—hiding from her. Over a remote, Bucky!” You excitedly recount one of the most ridiculous encounters you’ve ever had with the Avengers to your boyfriend who is quietly listening with a fond smile.

“Like, ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ my ass,” you scoff. You’re about to add another thought to the discussion when you hear someone else’s conversation from a few feet away.

Bucky tenses. You tense.

“Personally, I think they should’ve carted him off to the South, or somethin’, and put him in the chair,” a younger man—college age—says. “The death penalty, y’know? An eye for an eye, and all that. I mean, the guy killed a lot of people.”

“Fuck, man,” his companion, another college aged man, says. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh? I mean, he’s also like a war hero and a prisoner of war.”

“He killed innocent people, man. Like, people’s kids and shit.”

“I guess.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, and he also tightens his grip on your waist when he feels you start to move away from him.

“It’s fine, doll,” he assures you, but he doesn’t seem fine to you.

The barista calls out “Barnes” and Bucky kisses the top of your head before moving to grab your drinks. You, however, take the opportunity to address the disrespectful boys while your boyfriend isn’t holding you back.

“Excuse me,” you say, walking up to them.

“Fuck!” One says, jumping a little. “You’re an Avenger.”

“Mhmm,” you agree. “So is Sergeant Barnes who you so innocently suggested deserves the chair.” You jam a finger into his chest.

“You have absolutely no fucking right to talk about him that way. He gave his life for this fucking country; fought alongside your grandparents. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Shit. It’s not like my opinion is gonna change anything.”

Before you can say anything else, you feel Bucky’s hand wrap around your bicep, pulling you away from the college kids and into his side. He leans close to your ear to whisper, “Doll, it’s fine. Come on.”

He pulls you out of the coffee shop before you have time to protest.

Walking down the street, you’re ranting, letting your arms flail around angrily.

“What the actual fuck is their problem?! You can have your obviously wrong opinions, but why would you express them so loudly in front of the person you’re talking about? You’re a fucking Avenger. You’re a good man. Why would they pardon you if you weren’t? Why would the Avengers adopt you as one of our own if you weren’t? Pieces of shit! Hateful, fascist, brain dead, ungrateful, military-hating, assholes!”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your insults, and he can’t help but feel flattered that you care enough to defend him.

“Sweetheart, it’s really fine. I’m used to it,” he assures you, finally handing you your coffee he’d been balancing in his hand.

You take it, but shoot him an incredulous look.

“Like hell it’s okay! You deserve better than that bullshit, Bucky. You deserve to go out on a date with your girlfriend without being fucking harassed.”

Bucky pulls you into his side, kissing your head like he had earlier, and murmurs into your hair his third proposal.

“Marry me.”

You smile softly.

“Nah,” you say, leaning into his hold. He laughs.

Proposal 4

The fourth time Bucky proposes to you, it’s less direct.

In fact, you’re in the field, lying on your back in Bucky’s arms while he frantically puts pressure on a bullet wound in your gut.

“Steve,” he says into the coms, “Y/N’s down. She got shot. I’ve got to get her back to the jet.”

“Go,” Steve responds quickly, “I’ll cover you.”

Bucky’s attention falls to you, grimacing at the blood covering his hands.

“Hold on, baby. I’ve got you,” he says, lifting you into his arms as gently as you can.

“I’m fiiinnneee,” you slur, unsteadily and awkwardly reaching to pat his face. Your action, meant to be comforting, only adds to your boyfriend’s anxiety.

“Doll, you’ve been shot, and it isn’t a clean wound.”

“That’s nothin’!”

Bucky grunts indignantly in response.

Finally, he gets you back to the jet, moving through the aircraft quickly to get you to a stretcher to triage you best he can. When there is nothing more he can do, he holds your hand, doing his best not to cry or show how scared he is.

“Y/N, stay awake for me, alright?” He pleads, squeezing your hand.

Your eyes flutter open and you smile goofily.

“No worries, Doll,” you giggle as you call him by the pet name he reserves for you. “I’m A-Okay.”

Bucky scoffs.

“You’re bleeding out.”

“You fixed me.”

“Not fully; I put a bandaid on you really.”

“Silly. Bandaids fix you!” You try to comfort, but you fall into a laughing fit.

“Doll, I need you to take this seriously so you make it. You’ve gotta marry me.”

“You didn’t ask me to!” You say, narrowing your eyes and pointing accusingly.

Bucky smiles at your antics.

“Marry me, Doll?”

You smile fondly as you stare up at Bucky.

“Ask me again when I’m not bleeding out.”

Proposal 5

The fifth time Bucky Barnes proposes to you is the last time.

You convince the super soldier to go hiking with you; you argue he deserves to sit and watch a waterfall with his girlfriend. He gives in easily because you’re not easy for him to say no to.

The two of you find a local hiking trail that leads to a decent sized waterfall, and you’re pleased to find the trail is mostly deserted. You only run into a few stray hikers along the trail.

Bucky smiles as you hike, watching as you excitedly stop to watch centipedes cross the path, or point out woodpeckers, or smell flowers. Finally, the two of you reach the waterfall and you squeal in excitement, running a few paces ahead of Bucky and jumping to let out some excited energy.

“Buck, look! It’s gorgeous!”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, slowing to a stop behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin in the crook of your neck.

The two of you stand like that, in each other’s embrace, for a few minutes, watching the waterfall, listening to nature around you.

“Thank you for coming up here with with me,” you say, turning around to place a grateful kiss on Bucky’s lips. He gently returns the kiss before pulling away.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

You peck his lips again before turning back to the waterfall.

“Look!” You say upon turning around. “Bucky, a rainbow!” The spray of the water and the beams of sunlight meet to display a rainbow in front of you.

When Bucky doesn’t respond, you curiously turn around.

“Bucky? Oh!”

Bucky is on one knee, a ring box open in his hands, held out to you.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

There is no speech, there is no absurd gesture. There is just Bucky, and there is just a question.

It’s perfect.

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

[writeriguess]

i assume this is how we make requests but if not then oops.

can i request a katsuki bakugou x masc reader where they’re not dating but basically act like they are and one morning class A discover them cuddled up asleep on the couch?

like katsuki is asleep on top of reader and cuddling him. and reader gets embarrassed when he wakes up to see class A teasing them but also doesn’t wanna wake katsuki up so he plays with his hair or something!

if u don’t wanna do it that’s okay too i love ur work :)

Not Dating, My Ass

The dorms were quiet in the early morning, the usual chaos of Class 1-A still an hour or two away. Sunlight peeked through the curtains of the common room, casting soft golden light over the couch. On it, Katsuki Bakugou was sprawled across another body—specifically, you.

Your back was against the couch, one arm thrown over the blonde’s waist while his arms were locked tightly around you, his face buried in your chest. His weight pinned you down, and his body was pleasantly warm, his even breaths tickling your collarbone.

You didn’t even remember how you ended up like this. The last thing you recalled was watching a late-night movie with Bakugou—just the two of you, as usual. Somewhere between his grumbles about the "shitty romance plot" and your teasing jabs about how he was actually invested, exhaustion must have hit.

Now, you were stuck.

Your face burned when you finally became aware of how intimate this position was. Bakugou’s fingers were curled into the fabric of your hoodie, his legs tangled with yours. His breathing was slow and steady, completely at peace, which was a rare sight for someone as explosive as him.

But your moment of internal panic was short-lived.

“Oh my god.”

The voice cut through the silence like a gunshot.

Your stomach dropped.

You turned your head—big mistake. The entire Class 1-A was there, staring at the two of you, looking way too entertained for your liking.

Mina had her hands clasped together like she was witnessing the most adorable thing in existence, while Kaminari and Sero exchanged knowing grins. Kirishima looked like he was about to combust from excitement.

“Bro,” Kaminari whispered dramatically, “you guys are literally cuddling.”

“Not dating, huh?” Sero added, smirking.

You opened your mouth, scrambling for some sort of excuse, but no words came out. What were you supposed to say? No, we’re just really, really close friends who sleep on top of each other? That wasn’t going to fly.

Mina practically squealed. “I knew it! You guys act like a couple all the time, but this—this is solid proof! Cuddling in your sleep? Katsuki’s clinging to you, dude!”

You felt your whole body stiffen. You wanted to yell back, to deny it, but Bakugou was still asleep on top of you, completely unaware of the situation unfolding. And waking him up meant he’d see the audience currently enjoying this way too much.

So instead, you slowly, carefully, raised your hand and ran your fingers through his hair.

It was the only thing you could think of to keep yourself busy. His hair was surprisingly soft despite its spiky appearance, and when you scratched lightly at his scalp, he let out the softest, most content sigh you had ever heard from him.

Dead. You were dead.

Kirishima gasped like he was watching a romance movie climax. “Dude, you’re playing with his hair?”

You groaned, tilting your head back against the couch. “Can you guys not?”

“No, no, this is gold,” Kaminari whispered excitedly. “This is, like, life-changing information. I mean, look at him! He looks so peaceful! That’s, like, a rare Bakugou sighting!”

“Seriously,” Sero added, “this is some National Geographic level shit.”

You shot them a glare. “Shut up.”

Bakugou shifted slightly, nuzzling closer to your chest, and your breath hitched. Your heart pounded against your ribs.

If he woke up now and saw this… oh god.

Mina clasped her hands together. “You don’t want to wake him up, do you?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously.

“I—” You clenched your jaw, ears burning.

“Oh my god, you don’t!” She gasped, looking at the others. “Guys, he doesn’t wanna wake him up! That’s so cute!”

You gritted your teeth. “I hate all of you.”

“Bro, just admit it,” Kaminari grinned. “You like him.”

That made you flinch. Your fingers paused in his hair.

And that moment of hesitation was all they needed.

“AHA!” Mina pointed at you. “That reaction? That’s a crush reaction!”

Kirishima beamed. “It’s okay, man! We’re happy for you guys!”

“We’re not dating!” you hissed, though it was completely useless at this point.

“Not yet,” Sero muttered under his breath.

But the universe must have really hated you, because at that exact moment, Bakugou shifted again—this time letting out a low, sleepy grumble.

The entire room froze.

You felt the exact second his body tensed, his breathing changing as he began to wake up.

His fingers curled slightly into your hoodie before he suddenly went still. A long, painful silence stretched between you.

You didn’t dare move.

Then, with the slow inevitability of a natural disaster, Bakugou’s head lifted slightly, ruby-red eyes cracking open, still hazy with sleep. His face was barely inches from yours.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His brows furrowed.

Then he turned his head and finally noticed your very invested audience.

The whole room braced for impact.

Bakugou’s body went rigid. His arms were still locked around you, his legs still tangled with yours, his face still too damn close to yours.

You watched as realization dawned. His eyes slowly widened.

Nobody dared to breathe.

Then, all at once—

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Bakugou shot up so fast he nearly threw himself off the couch. You barely caught him, hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders before he could trip.

The class erupted into laughter.

“You guys looked so cute!” Mina teased, wiping a fake tear from her eye.

Kaminari was practically wheezing. “Bro, your face—holy shit, I wish I had my phone!”

Bakugou’s entire face exploded in red. He turned on you, eyes still wild from sleep. “What the hell were we doing?!”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Uh… sleeping?”

His eye twitched.

Mina smirked. “More like cuddling.”

“Shut the hell up!” Bakugou snarled, voice cracking slightly.

You were about to jump in, to try and save whatever was left of your dignity, but then Bakugou whirled back to you, eyes narrowed.

“You!” He jabbed a finger at you. “Why the hell were you playing with my hair?!”

You felt your soul leave your body.

“Wha—I—I was panicking!”

“Oh, you were panicking?” Mina snickered.

“Yes!” you snapped. “Because I woke up and all of you were watching us like some weird reality TV show!”

Bakugou groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna kill all of you.”

“Doubt it,” Sero grinned. “We’ve got too much blackmail now.”

Bakugou looked like he was about to lunge, but you quickly grabbed his arm, pulling him back before he started an all-out brawl.

“Come on, man,” you sighed, patting his shoulder. “Let’s just go before they make this worse.”

Bakugou grumbled under his breath but didn’t resist when you guided him toward the dorms. The class watched you go, still grinning like they just witnessed the greatest romance arc of the century.

As you reached the hallway, Bakugou huffed. “They’re never gonna let this go, are they?”

“Absolutely not,” you muttered.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Whatever.” He shot you a side glance. “…You better not make it weird.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled slightly. “No promises.”

Bakugou scoffed. But as he walked beside you, his hand brushed against yours—just for a second.

And you weren’t sure, but you thought he looked a little less annoyed.

[soobnny]

the alchemy — athlete!chan x reader ; established relationship (0.9k words)

where’s the trophy, he just comes running over to me

olympic inspired fic

Chan told stories.

His hands, rough with hard work, held strength and sacrifices. Years of training manifested in his calloused palms, in the occasional cuts and bruises.

They were proof of his passion, his dreams, his ambitions.

It’s almost funny how that entire world he had crafted with tears and sweat and sacrifices all boils down to a single moment, to right now, under the watchful eyes of thousands. Maybe even millions.

On the other side stood a realm, a place he can reap the efforts he’d planted step-by-step. He can faintly see victory from where he’s standing.

The crowd is a blur of color and noise. There are hands with flags waving, faces of anticipation, voices that brewed with support. Chan can feel the weight of the entire stadium pressing against his chest.

There is drumming, and beating, and shouting, and cheers.

And then static.

He breathes in, the space falling away in consequence. There is only the wall of focus he’s just built for himself—only the track, the runway, the pole, the leap.

The bar was set higher than it had been on his first attempt. A podium finish was in his reach with the pole in his hands and the runway in front of him if he would just make this jump.

A sharp breath.

The faintest rustle of the uniform he’s wearing.

And then the low hum of static.

There is nothing but the vault.

His pulse is thudding in his ears, heartbeat echoing a steady beat of anticipation. The sound of his shoes hitting the ground seemed louder than it was earlier.

There was only one thing to do now.

Chan’s gaze falls straight to the landing zone. He zeroes in on the marks, the mat awaiting his landing, the exact moment the pole would bend, how his body should fly above the vault.

That entire world, the callouses in his hands, the roughness of hard work, the countless hours of repetition were all about to be reduced to that one line on the horizon.

His grip tightens on the pole, familiar yet too rigid for comfort. And then he’s at the starting line.

At a last effort of any fragment of comfort, he searches for you where you stand. You were there, always have been, with eyes holding softness, and hope, and comfort. Something no one else could ever replicate.

A flicker of a smile curves at his lips, and then, as if his body has always known the exact timing, his legs start to move. One step, two steps. One after the other. His speed picks up, his hands instinctively tighten around the pole as it digs into the ground beneath him, and then he flies.

Chan flies, and the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

His entire world spins in such a short amount of time, even stills as his body—taught with the thrill of possibility—twists. There is muscle memory in the way he soars in the air, the same air heavy with the taste of victory that wasn’t his yet.

Gravity takes over.

Everything else falls behind him. Flashbacks of late night practices, and crying, and thinking he’s not good enough. Moments when he’d almost given up. Days when he’d felt like his efforts were going nowhere.

You’d always been there to help him back up.

You. You. You.

Thud.

His body hits the mats, and the sound echoes for half a second.

Just like that, it was done. He had done it.

His breath comes back in quick bursts, heart hammering in his chest.

When the mat propels his body back up, he lands on his feet. And before he can really process the victory he’d been working upon, he’s already turning. Sprinting.

The only direction to go now was the stands, the only direction left was to you.

You. You. You.

His legs carried him faster, and faster, and the world moved in a similar slow motion as he was when he was flying. The cheering, the flashing lights of cameras, the explosiveness of the stadium, everything was abandoned in the background.

Chan barrels into you, arms pulling you into the tightest embrace he could muster. For a moment, nothing else mattered—the gold medal, the record, nothing. Except for the fact that he had made it, and you were there with him to see it happen.

“Channie” is the only word you can muster, voice thick as you loop your arms around his neck.

Apparently, it’s also the only word he needs to pull himself back, hands resting on your shoulders as if needing to anchor himself to the moment. His eyes look into yours for a split second.

His eyes told stories too. It was always his most honest and obvious tell. And right now, they were looking at you with so much love.

Yours, with pride.

“Baby—“

Without warning, his lips find yours.

You feel everything in one kiss. The adrenaline, the years of work, his entire world. Chan leans into you, breathing you in, feeling the surge of everything he had accomplished into someone that felt like home.

Fuck, you make him happier than any Olympic gold medal ever could.

Somewhere in the distance, the announcer’s voice rings out his name as champion, but all he can ever see and hear right now is you. It was done. He’d made the vault, now all he needed to do was hold onto you.

There’s plenty of time for the rest later, plenty of time for celebrations, for the podium, for the journalists.

Right now, it was only ever you and the bright smile on your face, and the same smile he’s mirroring on his own.

And right now, in this moment, Chan doesn’t have to jump to know what it feels like to fly.

[shonen-brainrot]

Together - Bakugo x Reader (comfort)

masterlist

The soft light of early morning spills through the window, painting the bedroom in hues of gold and rose. You wake to the familiar weight of his arm draped across your waist, his breathing steady and deep, his face relaxed in a rare, peaceful expression. Katsuki Bakugo doesn’t look this calm often, not anymore. Not since the war.

You move carefully, not wanting to disturb him. But as you try to shift, his grip tightens ever so slightly. Even in sleep, his instincts are sharp. You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his jaw clenches, his brows furrowing in that familiar scowl even now.

You wonder if he’s dreaming of the battlefield again.

It’s been nearly 10 years since the dust of the final battle settled. The world has changed so much. The heroes are rebuilding, trying to restore what was lost. Bakugo’s name is whispered with reverence across the nation — Dynamight, the one who helped bring peace. But to you, he’s Katsuki. Your Katsuki, the boy who used to snarl at you for getting too close, and now, the man who can’t sleep without his hand resting on your skin, as if anchoring himself to something that isn’t the chaos.

You can tell when he’s having a bad day. He doesn’t talk about it — he never does — but the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes cloud over, those signs are enough. You’ve learned to read him in ways no one else can. But you wish, sometimes, that he would share the weight he carries, that he’d let you into the storm raging in his mind.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, gently shifting to face him. The sound of his name from your lips, soft and tender, works like a tether. His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, they’re unfocused, still lost in the remnants of some distant war.

He blinks, and the sharpness returns. He’s here. With you.

“Morning,” he grumbles, his voice rough with sleep. His hand moves to your cheek, calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. It’s a small gesture, one that he doesn’t even seem to think about, but it sends warmth blooming in your chest. The touch is gentle — so unlike the explosive power in his hands when he’s out there saving the world. 

You lean into his touch, your eyes locking with his. The scars on his face are more prominent in the morning light, reminders of the battles you both fought to get here. But to you, they’re not marks of violence. They’re proof of his resilience, his strength, his will to survive and protect.

“You okay?” you ask softly, knowing the answer but asking anyway. 

He huffs, his typical response, but his thumb brushes against your cheek with a tenderness he doesn’t often let others see. “Tch. 'Course I am.”

You smile, but it’s tinged with concern. You know him better than that. You reach up, taking his hand in yours and pressing a kiss to his knuckles, feeling the small tremor that runs through him at the intimate gesture. His walls are strong, but they crumble for you, in moments like these, when the world feels far away and it's just the two of you, suspended in the quiet aftermath of everything.

“You don’t have to pretend, you know,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not with me.”

His eyes darken for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. He shifts, sitting up in bed, running a hand through his messy blonde hair, which falls rebelliously across his face. He doesn’t respond right away. Bakugo’s never been good with words, not when it comes to things that matter most. But then, after a long pause, he sighs.

“It’s just…” He stops, jaw tightening. “It’s not over. Not for me.”

You reach out, gently brushing the hair out of his eyes, the same way he always does for you. The small act feels like an unspoken promise — that you’re here, that you always will be by his side.

“I know,” you say softly. “But you don’t have to go through it alone. I’m here, Katsuki. Always.”

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability there takes your breath away. He reaches for you, pulling you close, his face buried in the crook of your neck. It’s not an apology, not an admission of weakness. But in his silence, you find his answer.

You hold him, running your fingers through his hair, feeling his heartbeat slowly calm against yours. The world may never fully heal from the wounds left behind, but in this moment, here with him, you believe that you both will find a way to keep moving forward. Together.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

You will not headcanon Charlie as wearing tap dancing shoes by default- yes I will

Fine. you are not imagining Vaggie the dancer being light on her feet and almost soundless when she prowls around in her flats- yes I am

The hotel guests are NOT being simultaneously tormented by the constant clicking of Charlie being heard clear across the hotel, and on the flips side, the constant jump scares of suddenly finding a glowering woman with a spear coming up noiselessly behind them-Yeasss the are~

Ok. so what does a hotel menaced by tap step charlie and soundless step vaggie LOOK like???

Alastor's the best at hiding how freaked out or annoyed he is, but not enough to keep HIMSELF from noticing how he clutches his microphone in a death grip whenever Vaggie suddenly slips silently past him spear first- Charlie's tapping is worse tho, hours later he'll be up in his BLESSEDLY sound proof radio tower and somehow STILL hear that INFERNAL tapping again anyway, and then he looks down, and it's own hand tapping on his sound board, and for the one millionth time he wonders if this is all really worth slowly losing his sanity over

Niffty times her kills to the sound of Charlie's distant tapping and when she gleefully tells Charlie about this at some point Charlie almost starts crying over the dead bugs. A few times Niffty's caught sight of completely noiseless Vaggie out of the corner of her eye (heh) and the two ended up crossing spear / needle point on reflex. It becomes a kind of friendly greeting for them after a while. Sometimes they even fence each other for a bit while parkouring / scuttling over the furniture. Charlie caught them doing this once and was Not Pleased (but it's for FRIENDSHIP so...)

Pentious likes Charlie's tapping and clickedy clicking. He hums and bobs his head along to it while working on his next totally not a destructive weapon machine, sometimes while the egg boiz do a little dancing the background between handing him things. Vaggie's silent patrols left him literally scared stiff at first but then they started to feel reassuring and by the end he's reaction to getting jump scared by her is to snap into a crisp salute and stay like that until she moves on

Angel Dust pretends to like Charlie's tapping just to annoy Husk. Husk knows it's bullshit but is usually too run down from his current hangover to really argue effectively, and for all that yelling at his dumbass crush hurts his head it at least downs out the damned tapping- which is what Angel was aiming for anyway. Neither of them EVER get used to Vaggie haunting the hotel like a silent spear carrying ghost. Swearing or shrieking are how they handle Vaggie encounters when alone- mutual clinging and terrified hugging is what happens if she spooks them when they're in glomping distance of each other. Vaggie will never let them see how she smirks as she slips away afterwards. Vaggie might be hunting them specifically, on purpose, just to trigger more vaguely romantic haunted house huskerdust moments. it's solidarity. probably. partly, anyway

Charlie does get jump scared by Vaggie sometimes (re: ep 1) but the switch from "heart pounding due to shock" and "heart pounding bc she looking at her gf <3" is very smooth and Charlie kinda loves the happy adrenaline rush of sudden girlfriend appearances, which is why Vaggie never tied noise makers or bells to herself, which she offered to do once after spooking Charlie but no, Charlie thinks being gf haunted is cool and FUN

Vaggie loves that Charlie's shoes make the tapping sounds. She loves being able to stop whenever she wants and listen and either know exactly where Charlie is in the hotel and her current mood (stiff anxious pacing / happy skipping / thoughtful foot tapping / actual excited dancing / literal giddy tap dancing), or, if things are too quiet, that's Vaggie cue to pause what she's doing and go check on her suspiciously silent gf (just in case charlie is Sad)

Cherri Bomb's reaction to all this is explosive. as in, she mistakes charlie's tapping for the ticking of one of her bombs and runs around trying to find it while it seemingly also runs around the hotel just head of her, usually ending in Cherri throwing a bomb in frustration (she was just trying to make a short cut she SWEARS), or Vaggie surprises her at just the wrong time while she's working on a bomb in the hotel lobby (it's a communal area ok she should be allowed to do her hobbies there as long as she cleans up afterwards- plus there's more room in case of a blast radius) and yes, if Vaggie startles her, there usually IS. A blast. Radius. along with quite a bit less lobby left over afterwards

[alisscared]

Something Wretched, Something Beautiful (and everything in between) - Chapter One

Familiar Faces | ao3

Chapter tags: Silco/Reader, Silco, Alternate universe Silco, Reader-insert, reader works for Silco in original universe, Vander, Jinx, Powder, Mylo, Claggor, slowburn, friends to lover, but also don’t really like each other to lovers, depends on the universe, eventual romance, alternate universe (s02e07), reader is transported to the alternate universe and is really confused, flashbacks, dubious hexcore usage, writer has a poor grasp on the science and magic system, just go along with it, no use of y/n, implied older man/younger reader, gender-neutral pronouns Cw: canon-typical violence, eventual smut (maybe??) bugs (kind of, reader uses the descriptor of something feeling like maggots in their skin)

Rating: Mature, possibly explicit in the future, 18+ minors dni

Chapter word count: 5.6k

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You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up here. One minute you were walking into Jinx’s workshop while she was working on a weapon with the Hex crystal she procured, and then next, you were here. You’re not quite sure what went wrong, maybe you scared her and she connected a wrong wire or she dropped something, but whatever happened caused a loud, blinding flash and you landed here. Wherever here was. You thought at first, you had passed out from the explosion. Your head tucked into your arms that rested on a cool, sturdy surface.

“You know,” a gruff voice spoke your name. “If I was really boring you that much you could’ve just told me.” You felt the vibration of a deep, hearty chuckle.

You slowly and cautiously lifted your head. It took a moment for your eyes to focus in on the large figure in front of you, your brain throbbing in your skull, but then as if a cold bucket of ice water was dumped upon you, your spine straightened and your eyes widened. A shock ran through you, leaving your mouth to go dry.

“Vander?” you managed out a quiet rasp that almost came out entirely cracked.

You watched the man in front of you chuckle once again as he finished cleaning a glass before whipping a towel over his shoulder. “The one and only.”

‘Alright,’ you thought as you looked at the man, completely dumbfounded ‘this is the most real feeling dream I’ve ever had.’ Promptly, you brought a hand up to painfully connect it to your cheek in a loud smack.

This earned another chuckle from Vander, though it was paired with a concerned look this time. “Doing alright there?”

You moved your head around slowly to take in your surroundings. Illuminated by the warm lighting you found yourself sitting on a stool at a bar. Around you was cheerful hustle and bustle. In one corner, there was a group of friends drinking merrily as they all participated in a card game, in another, there’s a couple on what looks to be a date. Your bleary eyes then roamed to the next table and you felt a shudder like no other crawl up your spine. Jinx and three other boys sat at a table, happily conversing with each other. You couldn’t place the feeling that crept through you like maggots in your skin when you realized that the two boys strongly resembled the handmade dolls Jinx had kept in her workshop. The ones she had never explained to you who they were but left you assuming the worst.

The Jinx you observed in front of you was vastly different from the one you knew, yet still very clearly her. She looked younger, softer. Her two long, wild braids were traded for choppy short hair that was put into two buns on the top of her head. Her face wasn’t long and hallowed, cheeks filled out, proof of eating fulfilling meals. Yet, the most striking difference you noticed was her eyes. Her eyes were still a dusty blue, but what caught you off guard was the joy you saw behind them, the contentment. It was a look you had only truly seen a handful of times from her but even then, it was never this pure. ‘That isn’t Jinx’ you thought, at least not the one you knew. You overheard one of the boys call her ‘Powder’. You furrowed your eyebrows as you thought back to the few times you’d witnessed Jinx talk to herself. There were 4 names you often heard: ‘Violet’, ‘Mylo’, ‘Claggor’ and ‘Powder’. That must’ve been who she was before Jinx. The revelation hit you like a brick to the face, your mind scrambling for any explanation as the original thought that this was just a dream started to become more distant because this just felt too real.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, you heard yet another voice, it was deep and silken, one you would recognize anywhere as it called your name in an attempt to pull you out of whatever trance you were in. “What’s going on with her?” the voice spoke again.

Your blood turned to ice, fighting to push through your very veins as you slowly turned your head back to look at the person who had joined Vander behind the bar. You couldn’t hide the look of horror etched onto your face.

Silco.

He called your name out once again, waving a hand in front of your face causing you to squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, shedding off your trance-like state. “Are you feeling alright? Do you need anything?” His tone was concerned, caring. His eyebrows were furrowed as he examined your face with worry.

Your eyes darted all over his face, taking in every detail. The differences weren’t as overt as Jinx’s but they were there. The scar was still there, creased into his face but his eye wasn’t widened and red. Unpoked and un-prodded by Shimmer-filled syringes. Instead, there was a hazy grey that covered over his iris like a thin veil. His usual slicked-back hair was traded for a more casual, loose look that let it fall naturally.

“Yeah,” you took in a deep breath before stumbling out of your seat, using the bar to support your arms as you stood up. “I just-“ your eyes moved from Silco to Vander, then to Jinx, and finally landed on the door “I just need to get some air.” You stagger over to the door, your head dizzying from the bizarre environment. As your hand pressed the cool surface of the door to push it open, you hoped to find some odd solace and normality in the smoky, neon light filled undercity.

Solace and normality were not what you felt as you took in the outside surroundings. Instead of neon lights, the night was illuminated by soft, colorful lanterns. Instead of the smoky air, there was the smell of freshly made food coming from multiple vendor stands. It was beautiful, but it was not what you knew, not even close. For a minute, you just stood there, taking in the beauty of this unfamiliar Zaun. The sun had set, yet children were running around, innocently playing. People strolled about in Piltover-like garb. The sounds of children’s laughter and adults joyously chatting filled your ears. You stumbled over to the nearest bench to plop yourself onto before you toppled over from the sheer shock and confusion. As a gentle breeze washed over you, you heard the faint rustling of some papers. You turned your attention to the space next to you, occupied by a newspaper. You reached out to grab it, your eyes immediately landing on the date. It was 2 years in the future. Your eyes frantically looked up to survey the area around you once again. No, no, it was just too different. There’s no way you were only transported to the future, this had to be an alternate timeline as well.

You were so focused on the city in front of you that you didn’t notice a figure coming to sit next to you. You’re snapped out of it when you hear the sound of ice clinking as a cup is held out in front of you. Your eyes land on the drink and trail the arm handing it out to you up to meet the face of Silco.

He let out a small chuckle “It’s only water. I figured you’re not much in the drinking mood.”

Your eyes moved back to the cup being held in front of you as you slowly reached for it, your fingertips lightly brushing his as you took the water. You brought the cool, refreshing liquid to your lips before speaking again. “Do you ever feel like you woke up in the wrong universe?” You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t meet them as you continued to look over the city around you.

It’s silent for a moment as his eyes finally leave the profile of your face to look in the same direction as you. “All the time.” he spoke deeply, quietly. “Every time I wake up I wonder how I was so blessed to be in a universe where everything worked out.” he let out a breath. “I think of all the ways this all could’ve turned out and I can’t help but shudder at the thought of what could’ve been, what I could’ve been.”

You responded only with a nod. The way he spoke sent shivers down your spine. He said he shuddered at the thought of what could’ve been, without knowing you’ve shuddered at the thought of what has been, what he has been.

You were there at the fall of Vander. Well, you weren’t actually there where it happened, but you witnessed the aftermath all around you. You weren’t close with him, sure you knew him, everyone in the lanes did, but he was more of an acquaintance. You visited The Last Drop a few times, had some fun nights, exchanged a few drunken words, but that was the extent of your relationship with him. Compared to now, you were such a kid back then. Sure, you were technically an adult but you were still so green, so hopeful for the future. Everything fell apart when he died. It wasn’t until Silco had risen from the shadows when everything was pieced back together again. Sort of. He took control of the lanes. Took control of The Last Drop. Maintained some kind of order amidst the chaos. Downtrodden, dying Zaunites clawed their way for just a drop of Shimmer. It was disgusting. What he did was disgusting. Sure, he was fighting for the independence of Zaun, but in doing so he had used and discarded the very people he was fighting for.

That’s why you didn’t necessarily want to work for him. You didn’t respect him. But you did, however, respect the cause. The end goal. And as far as you were concerned, no one was as close to achieving it as he was.

You never approached him at first, though, and neither was it vice versa. It was Jinx who discovered you.

You see, living in Zaun wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. You had to fight and occasionally… okay very regularly steal. You didn’t enjoy it per se, but you were very good at it and it was very satisfying at times, especially when you had nicked something off from some good-for-nothing bozo. You never took from anyone in a less fortunate position than you, it just wasn’t in your morals. But pricks, specifically drunken ones that hung around The Last Drop, that was more your style.

One night, during a particularly bountiful harvest, as you slunk around the club pickpocketing from every poor soul around you as you blended in with the dancing and flashing neon lights, little did you know that a certain blue-haired teenager was watching you with excited curiosity from the bar. It happened all at once, this little blur of blue forced herself into your life and convinced you to work for The Eye of Zaun himself. Of course, he didn’t agree to it immediately.

“Look at them!” Jinx presented you in front of Silco, gesturing her arms out over you. “They probably stole everything those poor suckers down there are worth without them even noticing!”

You remember as you stood there in his office for the first time as he sat at his desk, his cold eyes, one a pale blue and the other a dark red surrounded by a void of black, looked over you with scrutiny. It seemed his face had a permanent grimace etched into it. He wasn’t a very physically imposing man, he didn’t appear to have the musculature of the usual Zaunite man, though it was hard to tell because of the elegant, collared coat he wore that appeared as if it were to swallow him whole. He dressed almost as if he were from Piltover but his face clearly indicated he was a Zaunite, through and through. It wasn’t just the scar that made it apparent. It was the crookedness of his front teeth, the weary lines creased upon his face, and the sharpness of his features. No, he was a child born from Zaun and no amount of fancy clothing or slicked-back hair could hide it.

��So,” his silken, indifferent voice began as his eyes continued to relentlessly scan over you. “You stole from my patrons? Most of whom work for me?”

“Well,” you drew out guiltily as you felt the pace of your heartbeat pick up. Unable to think of an excuse you press your lips into a thin line before opening them with a small click of your tongue. “Yes, pretty much.”

His face remained indifferent. He could’ve killed you right then and there, and most likely, was going to. But, maybe, you thought, he was refreshed with your blatant honesty.

After much convincing from Jinx he eventually relented into what you could’ve only described as an interview. You sat there in his dimly lit office, the only light in the room emanating off the small warm-toned lamp on his desk, and the neon lights of the night from outside the large circular window behind him. He had dismissed Jinx so it was just the two of you. You sat in a plain, hard wooden chair, your head having to tilt slightly up to meet his face as he sat cross-legged in his plush, maroon, button-tufted one. He sat high, his eyes narrowing down to look at you. Like a king on his throne looking down at a subject. You try not to be obvious about the indignant scrunch of your nose.

It felt like eons of silent scrutiny, his eyes hovering over you before he finally spoke, swirling a short glass of whisky in his hand. “Family?”

“Dead” you answered, your face and tone dispassionate. It wasn’t the most uncommon answer for a Zaunite, in fact, it was probably more common to have your whole family dead than alive. You were just lucky you were old enough to take care of yourself by the time your parents died. You didn’t have any siblings to worry about. It was just you. Of course, you were sorrowful over the loss of your parent, they will forever be a scar scorched upon your weary heart. But Zaunites didn’t have time to grieve. It had been years since you lost them during the failed uprising. You didn’t allow yourself to get choked up about it anymore. Only allowing it to pass through your thoughts during late hours when you couldn’t sleep.

“Lover?”

The blunt questioning caught you off guard for a split second before you let out a breathy, sardonic chuckle, amused at the idea “No,” you answer “It’s just me if that’s where this line of questioning is going.” You looked down in thought “I imagine whatever I am will die with me.” The words came out more candidly than you intended, more despondent than humorous.

He regarded you coldly, his eyes slowly scanning over your face. He remained emotionless but you could see the cogs in his head turning, looking over you as if you were a puzzle to solve “No” he spoke, his voice low and honeyed “I believe, in joining me, you would die with having much more purpose” His eyes met yours in a cool gaze, the eyebrow on his good side raising a little while the other, drawn on one, stayed frozen “Or, if you’re lucky, perhaps live with that purpose”

You let out a short chuckle through your nose “Well, at least you’re honest about my prospects,” Feeling a little bold, you raised a subtle, inquisitive brow “And what about you? Do you plan to live or die for the cause?”

You swear you saw the smallest, amused smirk on his face before he took a sip of his whiskey, placing the glass down on the wooden desk with a soft thud. “I do not have plans on sacrificing myself anytime soon if that is what you’re asking. I plan to see the great Nation of Zaun come to fruition,” his finger played around the rim of his glass “I would however, still die for the cause if need be.” he trained his eyes back on you “Would you?”

There was a palpable tension in the air as you sat with the question, but it didn’t take you long to produce your answer “No.” Sure you could’ve lied, cried out with bleeding heart passion ‘Yes, of course, I would give my life for Zaun!’ But what would the point be? Whether he hired you or not was relatively inconsequential to you. “I would do a lot to help make Zaun a better place for people, but I am no saint and I don’t want to be mistaken for one. If you’re looking for a martyr, that’s not me”

He offered you no emotion as he considered your response. It was frustrating. The only expressions he’s shown you being a quirk of his brow or a tilt of the corner of his lips. If you had half a mind you would grasp the man by his shoulders and shake him until he made a different expression. “No,” he finally spoke “I wouldn’t say ‘martyr’ is exactly what I’m looking for.” he took in a breath through his nose, leaning back into his chair “You can start tomorrow. Your honesty has a… refreshing quality to it” he admitted “Do try not to get too comfortable, though. Honesty is a fickle thing. In this line of work, it can often get you killed.” His cold voice came out as a warning. You knew this wasn’t just advice in regards to interacting with other people in this work but for him. He was telling you he would value honesty but only to an extent, and you’d be wise to heed his warning.

You felt a shiver run down your spine before giving a firm nod of understanding.

“Good,” he spoke lowly before looking down at the paperwork on his desk, picking up his pencil, indicating that the discussion was over. “You may leave.”

It wasn’t long before you had learned what his relationship with Jinx was. He trusted her and she was something of a daughter to him. She didn’t talk about it much to you, the whole story seemingly too traumatic to retell, clearly not having fully processed whatever had happened. But, what you were able to piece together from vague, sometimes crazed comments and context clues, you understood that she was abandoned by her sister at a young age and Silco took her in. You knew it wasn’t the full story, maybe not even the true one, but you didn’t have a death wish so you weren’t going to ask either one of them.

Despite Silco’s reluctance to hire you at first, you proved yourself to be useful. Part of it was out of spite towards him. You wanted to prove his lack of faith in you wrong. Some may have viewed your hard work as seeking his approval, but no, you and he both understood the true purpose behind your industriousness and grit. He saw it in your eyes every time you would go up to report a completed task to him, your eyes didn’t search his face like a puppy waiting to be called a ‘good boy’ like most of his other workers. You stood there reserved and indifferent, your eyes never moving from the same spot on his face. Of course, he would never say it, but you could tell he formed some sort of begrudging respect for you, or at least for the way you carried yourself.

Now, there you sat on a bench in what you can only assume was an alternate universe, side by side with your boss or apparently in this universe, your friend.

You took another sip of your water as you gave him an acknowledging hum. You brought the cup down holding it with both hands to rest it atop your thighs. You didn’t dare to look at him, to meet the hauntingly familiar face of this Silco. You’re not sure what you’d find there. You’re not sure what you’d feel. Your body felt tense, your muscles so stiff you feared if you moved they might creak.

You chose to train your eyes on the drink in your lap even as you felt him turning his head to look at you. “Remind me,” you start as the question creeps into your head, making its way to your tongue “How long have we been friends again?”

He let out a small, breathy chuckle as he turned his head back out to look at Zaun “Almost 6 months,” he answered with no hesitation. Your eyes dared to flicker up to look at his side profile and you noticed the small, content smile on his face. “Almost 6 months since Powder brought you in, insisting Vander hire you”

It was your turn to smile now, you couldn’t help it as it crept onto your face. Of course, even in this universe, it was her who got you a job. Your mind wandered as you thought about your life here. How did you meet Powder in this universe? Did she find you like she did in your universe? What were you doing before? And most importantly, were you a bartender now?

You let out a soft chuckle “She’s a force to be reckoned with.” Which earned a small laugh from him as well. Your ears perked up. You’d never heard him laugh or chuckle, or make any joyous noise before. It was breathy, deep, and reserved. You found yourself enjoying the unfamiliar sound.

After a beat of silence, he let out a sigh and put a hand on top of your thigh. You suppressed the surprised breath that wanted to leave your lips. You expected the touch to make your blood run cold but instead, you were greeted with a strange warmth. His touch was hesitant and gentle. He didn’t squeeze or let the weight of his hand press down on you. He was trying to comfort you. “Truly though, are you well?” He turned his head once more and this time instead of seeing your head turned down to look at your glass, he met you face to face. His eyes searched yours. “I don’t recall ever seeing you so.. distant”

For a few seconds, you could only look into his eyes as well.

You recalled the handful of times you had looked into his eyes. It was a rare occurrence. Sure, he had no problem looking at you, either scrutinizing you with his gaze or showing a silent, almost pleased regard to a job well done. Though, every time you strained your eyes up to look back at him he would only allow the contact for a fleeting moment before directing his eyes elsewhere and dismissing you. The last time he had ever looked you in the eyes was the last time you saw him before being transported to this strange, blissful universe. His eyes had been full of rage, a streak of purple dribbling out of his scarred eye exhibiting that he had just gotten his shot. You had just gotten back from a particularly dangerous assignment, one that did not go according to plan in the slightest.

You were tasked with sneaking into a rival chem barons warehouse and extracting some valuable equipment. In a move that was entirely unlike you, you had accidentally kicked a glass vial as you crept, immediately alerting warehouse guards of your presence. It was a nasty scuffle, as you booked it for the nearest exit, bullets whizzing past you, one grazing your shoulder. You let out a yelp of pain as a large warehouse guard pinned you against the wall, your torn shoulder hitting the cold metal behind you. You wriggled under his grasp, one hand pressing your shoulder back and the other reaching up to grasp your neck. Your fingertips wiggled as they grazed against the knife in your holster. Your hands finally tightened around the blade and you brought it up to stab the man in the neck. He collapsed before you, your vision was blurry as you looked down at your bloodied hands. Before you were able to process anything, you heard the sound of gunshots once again. Clumsily you found your footing and started running again. You’re not sure how you escaped, your vision hazy and your ears ringing, but you found yourself leaning on a wall in an alleyway, clutching your shoulder as you took in a ragged breath.

By the time you had gotten back, he had already heard what had happened. His worker had started a scene at a warehouse, and now his name was plastered all over the event.

The moment you walked in he had flung out of his seat, loudly hissing “How could you be so brainless?”

You had stood there as still as a soldier, your back straightened and you kept your eyes trained in front of you, not moving, not following his figure as he walked around his desk. “I made a mistake.” You felt the blood from your wound trickle down your arm, pooling at your fingertips, mixing with the blood of the man you killed, and dripping on the floor. “It won’t happen again.”

He let out a singular breathy, irate laugh “You’re certainly right it won’t happen again.” He crept toward you, as a predator would to its prey “I should have you killed for this.”

Your neck tensed at the words, the tendons slightly stretching out, still, you stood there stoically, your eyes refusing to look at him. “Are you not?” You inquired through a breath. “Or am I to be fired? Banished from the lanes perhaps?” Against your better judgment, the words came out as a slight scoff.

You failed to keep in a small gasp as he reached his hand up to you, his fingertips lightly pressing into the sides of your cheeks as he guided your head up to look at him. His gaze was wild and intense. You couldn’t decipher what it was if it was intense anger, judgment, or maybe even concern. You didn’t know and you didn’t want to know. You imagine you probably looked like a scared, wide-eyed creature, caught under blinding lights.

“Banish you from the lanes?” He let out a low, sardonic chuckle as his face inched ever so closer, stopping just before your noses could touch. You swear, that for a split second his eyes flickered down to your lips before his low, velvety voice spoke. “No, I don’t imagine there is any dark corner of Zaun you could flee to that would relieve me of the knowledge of your existence” He released your face to slowly trail his hand down to your shoulder, letting his thumb graze over the wound. It wasn’t a hard touch, but it was enough to make you wince and hiss slightly in pain. “This should be lesson enough”

There you were now, sitting on a bench looking into those very same eyes, but this time they were attached to someone who was almost completely different. Your mouth slightly parted as you analyzed the Silco in front of you. There was such tenderness and care in the eyes you had grown to know as cold and callous. You let out a breath and softly shook your head as you collected your thoughts. “I think I just need to get some sleep.” You paused as you looked up to the sky “It’s been a.. weird day for me.”

“Right,” his hand abruptly left your thigh, as if he just then realized what he had been doing. “Of course.” He stood up and gave you a faint, sweet smile, offering his hand to help you up.

You didn’t fail to notice the light blush dusting over his cheeks. You found it embarrassing how you internally reveled at the sight. When working for him, the thought had passed by you sometimes, that he was a beautiful, wretched thing. The thought was always fleeting but left destruction in its wake. When reporting back to him, you would sometimes find your eyes trailing the lines of his scars, your fingers tingling at the thought of what it would be like to feel them, rough and rigid in all of their wicked glory. You wondered how he would respond to the touch. Would he flinch? Would his eyes flutter shut as he leaned into your touch? Would he too revel in your soft flesh meeting his timeworn face? You knew the story of how the river toxins ate through his face and corroded his nerves. You wondered if he couldn’t feel anything there at all now, or if perhaps instead, he was extra sensitive there, the nerves not completely wasted away, just there under a thin layer of skin waiting to be touched. You always had to shake the thought from your head. Snuff it out before the flame grew. You knew it would only leave you as nothing but a charred pile of bones in the end. He was not a man to be loved. He was not a man that wanted it. You were so sure of it. But as you looked up at the man in front of you, offering his hand in support as a light pink painted over his pale cheeks, you wondered if you were perhaps wrong. You knew you were staring at that point. Taking in the details of his face. He was entirely different yet somehow, wholly the same. The Silco before you seemed to be entirely made for love and you were afraid you were starting to believe that the Silco you knew had a part of him that was made for it too.

You see him start to shrink under your prolonged gaze, his hand faltering. But before you let him drop it to his side you offered him a soft smile before placing your hand on top of his palm. You wondered if he too felt the subtle spark emanating off of the touch. You wondered how often he touched you like this in this universe. Was it a common occurrence? Simple, genial touches exchanged between two friends? Were they ever perhaps something more? You were only left to wonder as he helped you to your feet, his hand releasing yours as soon as you found your footing.

He pulled open the doors of the bar, holding them open and allowing you to go in before following. The kind gesture almost seemed to be second nature for him. He looked a little confused when you sputtered out a “Thanks,” as you walked past him as if he didn’t know why he was being thanked.

“Ah, there she is.” You hear Vander’s hearty voice exclaim as he propped his elbows on the counter. “How are you feelin’, lass?”

You gave a weak smile as you approached. Your eyes darting to Powder who was now at the bar as well, two elbows leaning on to it to prop herself up as she stood cool and casually. “I’m uh… I’m doing alright.” you sputter out “I think I just need to go home, get some rest.” you then immediately realized that you were not quite sure where ‘home’ here was. Was it the same place as your original universe or somewhere entirely different? “Home…” you muttered the word to yourself “Speaking of, can somebody walk me home? I just don’t think I’m in any state to get there by myself.” you let out a weak and breathy chuckle, hoping that excuse was believable enough.

You noticed a small, mischievous smirk play on Powder's lips as she looked between you and Silco, her face quickly dropping to appear casual as she pushed herself off the bar “Well, I have to meet up with Ekko to discuss what we’re doing for the innovator's competition” she then leaned slightly over the bar to put a hand on Vander’s shoulder “And Dad here has to close up the bar, so that leaves…” her eyes trailed to the man standing next to you as she donned a cheerful face “Uncle Silco! Be a gentleman and walk the girl home, would ya?”

All eyes fell onto him. His own eyes propped open a bit in a silent surprise before he cleared his throat and answered “Oh uh yes, of course.”

“You gonna be good to come in tomorrow?” Vander chimed in with the question.

You nodded, your eyebrows and the corners of your mouth downturned in a determined expression “Yes,” the answer came out weakly so you cleared your throat before speaking again “Yes, I’ll be fine. What time am I coming in?” your eyebrow raised slightly as you asked.

Vander let out a deep chuckle as he ran a rag over the surface of the bar “Jeez, you must be really out of it. 4 o’clock as always”

You awkwardly chuckled “Ah right, of course,” you spoke as if you were suddenly remembering, tapping the side of your head to indicate being a ditz “Silly me.” They all looked at you silently, one of Powder’s eyebrows raised in amusement and confusion. You just blinked and cleared your throat again before turning around “Right then, let’s go.”

Silco walked slightly ahead of you, pushing the door open for you yet again. As you walked out of the bar you heard the faint voice of Vander as he talked to Powder, the low rumble of a chuckle coming out of him “You’re gonna give that poor man a heart attack one day.”

a/n: Hiiiiii, this is my first time really writing a fanfiction and posting it anywhere. I originally intended this to be a one-shot but 6000 words in and I'm not even close to being done. Thanks to everyone who gave me advice on if I should just post it as a multi-chapter fic! I'm not sure how long I'm planning for this to be so just bear with me. Anyways, any feedback is appreciated! Is the shift between flashback and present clear? Lmk! Also, let me know if there are any warnings or tags that I missed! I'm also not familiar with how to format fanfics on here but i tried my best, anyways, kiss mwuah

[sharpeagle-tech]

The Productivity Benefits Of Explosion-proof Light

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Industrial Grade Lighting: Powering the Production Line

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[ceescedasticity]

Unforsaken, 15d

(short but lemme see if i can give you all whiplash real quick)

(All sections on tumblr)

(AO3, lagging behind but more polished)

Burn doesn't linger long — long enough for Risyind to assure him he was right about the importance of good knives, and Khitwê to say that swords were all right but he liked polearms better, and Risyind to say Khitwê had used a polearm to stab a dragon. Burn says he's proud of them, and not to worry about him if he takes a while to rest, and lets Sharlinnu pick a Goose.

Celegorm meanwhile walks another slow spiral through the crater. The swarm of fëar is far from depleted, but it's thinned enough that he feels like he ought to be able to see Curufin in the crowd. He doesn't.

He eyes the breach in the Crucible.

He really doesn't want to go in.

Wait, better idea.

He lopes over to the half-empty clay-crate Celeborn didn't grab while they were all leaving the crater.

Glorfindel is watching Turgon and the Varm reunion and trying to follow what's going on there. He doesn't notice what Celegorm is doing.

Celeborn is watching Eluréd and Elurín, Nimloth, and Caraxitári and trying to follow what's going on there. He doesn't notice what Celegorm is doing, either.

Maglor notices and calls, "Are you sure that's the best idea?"

Celegorm ignores him, lights a stick of Wizard's Clay, and drops it into the fissure.

(Estimated sticks of Wizard's Clay left behind to threaten the peace of Middle-earth (counting the 25 left in Emyn Arnen): 554)

He's lit and dropped two more before the first one goes off.

(Estimated sticks of Wizard's Clay left behind to threaten the peace of Middle-earth (counting the 25 left in Emyn Arnen): 552)

The explosions aren't quiet by any stretch of the imagination, but the acoustics of the Crucible are apparently not conducive to noise escaping — the sound isn't painfully loud.

That notwithstanding—

"Tyelko what are you doing?" Maglor hollers.

Celegorm throws in a fourth stick. "Curvo's still in there! I'm gonna smoke him out."

(Estimated sticks of Wizard's Clay left behind to threaten the peace of Middle-earth (counting the 25 left in Emyn Arnen): 551)

"You had better not cave the crater in with that," Whiterot calls.

"No, it's fine! The ground feels stable."

(Estimated sticks of Wizard's Clay left behind to threaten the peace of Middle-earth (counting the 25 left in Emyn Arnen): 550)

Some additional fëar do dart out of the breach and hasten away from Celegorm. No sign of Curufin, though.

(Estimated sticks of Wizard's Clay left behind to threaten the peace of Middle-earth (counting the 25 left in Emyn Arnen): 547)

"He's not even—" Maglor says to no one in particular, then sighs, and jumps down into the crater himself.

He has to brace himself, to endure the sea of ghosts. It's a uniquely terrible feeling. But not that unique.

When he reaches Celegorm, he snatches away the latest stick of Wizard's Clay, tosses it into the breach unlit, and tries to kick the crate away.

(That doesn't work as well as throwing the clay. The crates are heavy.)

(Estimated sticks of Wizard's Clay left behind to threaten the peace of Middle-earth (counting the 25 left in Emyn Arnen): 542)

"Explain to me how this isn't just going to make him hide more," Maglor says.

"Proof that it's over," Celegorm says. "All clear. Come out come out wherever you are."

All right, that… possibly makes sense. But…

Maglor takes a deep breath, despite the choke of fëar around them.

He doesn't imitate Maedhros's voice. He could, on a purely auditory level, but that's not how you deal with an unhoused spirit.

But there's a certain — way of speaking, a cadence, an intonation, that Maedhros adopted from Nerdanel and Nerdanel adopted from Mahtan and Fëanor adopted from at least one of them. A way that means I am not angry but you need to stop what you are doing and listen to me right now. Maglor puts that feeling in his head and that cadence in his throat and calls into the fissure, "Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion, come out from there right now."

(Glorfindel and Turgon both reflexively look over to see what that tone of voice is worried about.)

(When you have children, and you have a craft which involves things which are very hot or very heavy or very sharp, then sometimes you will suddenly find you need the children to stop what they are doing and listen to you right now. Ideally not often. But sometimes.)

It takes a few minutes, with Celegorm looking dubious and Maglor not looking at all dubious despite his doubts. But—

Curufin is a shadow of himself, even compared to the other former-orc souls — there is a reason most orcs jump at any chance to leave the Crucible for a little while. But they know him.

Nelyo? the shade whispers.

"Nelyo left me in charge while he's gone," Maglor says, voice steady. "You need to go home now. Come on, this way."

Maglor and Celegorm have shepherded Curufin about halfway to the Geese when the spirit becomes a little more focused. Tyelpe? Where's Tyelpe?

"He's well," Maglor says. "Safe at—"

"Amil's house," Celegorm interrupts, before Maglor can say Celebrimbor is 'at home'. He's not sure Curufin would refuse to go near Celebrimbor for fear of endangering him, but best not to risk it.

"Safe at Amil's house," Maglor confirms. "You need to go home. Nelyo — Nelyo will meet you there."

Bossy, Curufin says.

"But me and Kano are agreeing, so you definitely have to do it," Celegorm says.

Fine.

"Don't be sulky, you sound like Moryo." Celegorm has something in his eyes. Damn rock dust everywhere.

They coax Curufin all the way up to a Goose before he hesitates again. Tyelpe.

"He's fine. Curvo, I swear he's fine. He's not here and he's fine."

"You have to go home now," Maglor repeats, gently but firmly. "Just reach out, and he'll take you home."

Curufin reaches out.

His fëa settles into place, one glowing feather among others.

[bread0nhead]

The Beauty and the Blast | Chapter Six

Summary: In the spotlight, the world calls her Pulchra. A rising celebrity model who's known for her quick, Infinite Beauty. A quirk that alters a persons perception of beauty, causing anyone who sees her to subconsciously view her as the embodiment of their ideal vison- making her universally captivating. Everyone either wants to be her, or to be with her. From obsessive fans to controlling agencies, everyone wants to own her. While the world sees her as perfect, behind closed doors she's deeply lonely yet craves the silence. He's loud, intense, blunt and more emotionally repressed than an angsty teen alone on Valentines. Everyone sees him for his explosions and strength, but its that short fuse that landed him battling the hardest war yet- public image and the PR team that comes with it.

Notes: Cross posted on ao3 I've been writing this for weeks in a Google doc and in the doc it feels so long. Like I actually wrote a lot and I feel so proud. The time its taken, the number of pages. Amazing. Then I paste my work in here and realize I barely wrote shit. Rating: 18+

You were standing on a riser under bright lighting wearing a sleek tailored suit that had a deep plunge highlighting your sternum. The stylist fussed over you, correcting any loose thread or wrinkled edge. When everything was perfect she took a step back and took in the full picturesque doll before her. Your hair is long and slightly curled. Makeup light but with a bold lip. The stylist smiled like she was admiring her own art. 

“It's perfect. You’re perfect”

You offered a soft faux smile “Thank you”

“And your skin is simply glowing!”

“It's just good lighting.”

“Must be more than that” she brushed a curl behind your ear “Maybe a new love interest?” 

The heel of your left shoe buckled under and you stumbled off the riser but caught yourself before completely embarrassing yourself. 

“I- I’m fine!” Thank god for the makeup, the artificial blush hides the heat on your cheeks. 

The stylist now frantic over the structural integrity of the perfectly pressed suit. 

***

Bakugou had his hands wrapped in elastic bandages as he furiously swung at the punching bag. 

Your touch lingered on his mind, like it burned into his skin. He stayed up too late last night trying anything to distract himself from the thought of you. And when he gave into the temptation, he pulled out his phone and looked through the proofs from the photoshoot. Zooming in on you in every picture. And worst of all, something that makes his stomach turn when he thinks back to last time. He did the unthinkable while staring at one of the photos of you. But the release was the only thing that actually put him to sleep. He swung at the bag even harder, putting some spark behind it. 

“Hey bro, we just repaired this gym!” Kirishima said as he walked in the gym with a big smile on his face. 

Bakugou just ignored him and kept swinging his fists. 

“How was your date last night with your super hot model girlfriend?” 

Bakugou missed the bag that time and it only sent him spiraling and just exploded the damn thing. 

“It wasn’t a date!” There was a long pause and the longer the pause the more Kirishima smiled. “And she’s not my damn girlfriend!” Bakugou was bright red now. 

“But you like her, right?” “Don’t be an idiot.”

“That's not a no.” 

Bakugou side eyed him and went for the free weights. He ignored Kirishima's comment and lifted the weights a few sizes heavier than he usually goes for. Kirishima started his workout routine and they stayed in silence except for the occasional grunting and cussing. “She….wouldn’t go for a guy like me.” Bakugou groans the second that came out of his mouth.

“Bro! Of course she would! Why wouldn’t she?!” Kirishima dropped his weight to listen intently. 

“Are you fucking dence? Look at her and then look at me.” Bakugou hated being vulnerable. But Kirishima is the only person who gets to see this side of him. 

Kirishima listened without commentary.

“Half my body is covered in scars and my arm still isn’t what it used to be. She’s perfect and I’m…” Bakugou didn’t let himself finish his sentence. Just picked up the weights again and pumped harder. 

“Aw common bro, girls love scars! They’re so manly!” Bakugou rolled his eyes and popped his earphones in to listen to whatever angry mental music was next in shuffle. 

Bakugou watched his form in the mirror, drawing most of his attention to his beat up arm. Scars created hills and valleys from his chest to his fingers. Even after years of physical therapy, surgeries, and training. His arm will never perform the way it used to. His hand is too scared over on that arm to produce the same amount of nitroglycerin, making the explosions weaker. That entire side of his body was almost completely covered in the history of the war. 

“Hey asshole!” Himari stormed into the gym, throwing the nearest towel she could get her hands on at Bakugou's head. “Did you forget?!”

He bared his teeth and seethed “What the hell do you want now?! What the hell are you talking about?!”

“The interview, you idiot! It's in two hours!” Himari groaned.

“I didn’t forget! I just…didn’t confirm.” 

Himari was stunned. She dragged her hand over her face. Mumbling how she knew she shouldn’t have trusted him to handle this on his own.

“Please, for the love of my blood pressure. Just go. Be charming- whatever your version of charming is. Brood a little. Say something vaguely tender. And then you can leave.” “I don’t do charming.”

“Fine. Whatever. Be yourself. Just show up and don’t insult anyone while on TV.”

Himari pinched her nose and walked out the door “I need a raise.”

***

Sitting in your dressing room, you scanned over the pre-approved interview questions Jun emailed over to you. It included phrases like: “You and Dynamite share explosive chemistry, how would you describe working with him?”

“Are you two the next power couple in both fashion and hero culture?” “Do you think beauty and violence can coexist?” 

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. 

“Bakugou is going to lose it.” 

You opened the folder of the proofs and swiped through each photo. You stopped at the one where you're both nose to nose. You remember the warmth of his touch and the way it made you feel.  Explosive chemistry? Power couple? If that's how other people see you, then how does he?

You closed the folder, chest feeling warm and tight. 

Pulchra will nail the interview. 

But you? You’re terrified. 

[byeuijoo]

you came 𐀔 kim leehan

genre : slightly fluff, slightly ansgt ⋆ warnings : stress because of school & job, reader is crying ⋆ word count : 932

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ୨ ✩ ୧

warm tears kept rolling down your moist cheeks, your cold body trembling under the sizzling light of the street lamp. raising your eyes to the sky, you saw that it was completely cloudy, with rain threatening to fall at any moment. today was a very bad day — a very, very bad day. and all you wanted was a hot shower, a warm blanket and a good movie to cry your eyes out.

looking at the time on your phone, you pursed your lips together, almost biting them bloody as you cursed yourself inwardly. what were you thinking, contacting him at such a late hour? you were pretty sure he wouldn't come — your messages indicating that he had seen but not replied. after all, why would he make the trip? you hadn't been very nice to him this morning, the stress of classes and work consuming you completely, until the people close to you suffer. first your mother, second your little brother, then your music teacher, and above all, your best friend. the one who's never said a mean word or behaved in a hostile way towards you, the one who's always supported you, no matter what dubious choices you've made in life (and yet, the time you asked myung jaehyun to go out with you in the eighth grade, while singing, was not a very glorious moment to behold.)

as far back as you can remember, your explosive temperament has always been your undoing, and today was proof of that once again. after that catastrophic day, you had just lost your job — it was the icing on the cake. you didn't hesitate to contact leehan after being kicked out, but the boy was probably already busy, which would explain why he didn't answer you. or perhaps.. he was ignoring you on purpose.

while you bit your nails in nervousness, tearing your skin until it bled slightly, you felt a sudden presence at your side. raising your gaze while sniffing loudly, your tired eyes landed on your best friend's questioning face. he came, you thought, and your tears redoubled in intensity. a soft smile settled on his lips — probably because of how ridiculous he thought you were, sitting on the sidewalk, knees to your chest, crying like a child. leehan took his hand out of his jacket pocket, leaving the warmth of his pocket to meet the coolness of the dawning night, before stretching it towards you so that you can grab it and help yourself up.

without hesitation, your fingers made contact with his in the second that followed. and, with ease, he pulled you towards him and lifted you to your feet. his gaze locked with yours, and you felt another sob in the back of your throat. before you could do anything, his free hand reached up to your head, deftly placing a cap on the top of your skull. « there, » he says, adjusting it so that it doesn't bother you, but can hide your tear-streaked face, « no one will be able to see your weaknesses this way. i know you hate it. »

your heart clenched in your chest, as your gaze juggled from one eye to the other. without realizing it, your hand hadn't let go of his at all — it was only when his fingers intertwined with yours that you came back to your senses. « you came.. » you whispered, your voice trembling, so weak, making him nod positively with a sincere smile painting his face. « you asked me to. » he replied, nonchalantly pulling on your hand to draw your body closer to his, now able to wrap his free arm around your waist. you didn't seem unsettled, far too preoccupied with finding a way to apologize for your awful behavior this morning to say anything.

you felt so bad — the guilt gnawing at you as you realized that you had been obnoxious to the only one person who will never let you down. pursing your lips (which had already suffered a great deal) a slight pout formed on them, « i'm sorry.. » you say in a small voice, shame firmly evident in the way you speak.

but leehan didn't seem to agree with your apology, so he shook his head negatively and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. taken aback by his action, you moved slightly away from him to observe his eyes. why was your heart beating strangely? why did you feel like there was a rollercoaster in your belly? why did the light from the street lamp make leehan even more beautiful than usual?

just as you were about to speak, you were cut off by raindrops suddenly falling from the sky. looking up at it, you watched the heavy clouds above you — the rainwater falling on your face, just like the tears that had previously flooded your cheeks. you didn't notice right away that your best friend's gaze was completely locked on you. you didn't pay attention until your pupils met his.

at that moment, something had changed in his eyes. something different was shown, but you didn't know what exactly. none of you were bothered by the rain, even though it was getting heavier and heavier, completely wetting your clothes. suddenly, you caught leehan's gaze, which shifted for a microsecond lower on your face, right where your lips are — before returning its focus to your eyes. and the sentence he dropped next, made your poor legs weak.

« what if i kiss you right now? »

reblogs & feedbacks are highly appreciated !

taglist ౨ৎ @leehanist @wtfhyuck @florainnie @dazzlingligth @yuma-is-mine @lilriswife4life @leehanascent @wantmatthew

[kazoolapow]

Azula's Gambit

pairing : Azula x Gender-Neutral Reader word count : 5k

warnings: angsty and feels. Summary : Princess Azula known for her cunning and control, finds herself inexplicably drawn to you, a figure who challenges her at every turn. You and Azula were bound by a complex game of emotion, mind games, power plays and manipulation. One day, you challenge Azula to break her facade; to see her vulnerable, with one question in mind: Are you just a game to her? Or are you something more? A/N : I really hope you enjoy this angsty, brainy, little fic of Azula. There will be part two of the ending (in which I still wrecked my head to write about 🥲)

---

In the center of the courtyard, Azula stood, a figure of fierce concentration. She took a deep breath before opening her eyes. She started off by twirling a flame on her fingertip, it zig-zag through her fingers effortlessly. With a flick of her wrist, that flame conjured a blazing inferno. The blue flame leaped, spiraled, and danced around her; each second is precise, each movement is organic, each turn with it’s whirl are calculated. 

So far, so good. A smug smile playing on her lips. Now, It’s time to dance with the lightning. 

As she extended her arm, her fingers splayed. She shifted her weight effortlessly, her feet gliding over the ground as if she were part of the wind itself. With a swift, circular motion of her hands, the lightning followed, spiraling around her in a mesmerizing display of control and power. She transitioned into a series of quick, explosive movements, a sharp turn of her body directed the lightning outward in an stunning arc. She finally point to a giant rock to blast all the lightning with, cracking it into two.

The courtyard erupted into spontaneous applause. Each clap full of admiration, awe and maybe a bit of fear: just how Azula liked it. As she stood amidst the blue flames, her chest swelling with pride, her head held a touch higher.

She scanned the crowd, searching for one face in particular, yours, hoping to catch a glimpse of your stupid amazed face. Her ‘fiery’ performance, as you repeatedly called it, was a spectacle to proof your dare. You had dare her to split the rock with only a finger, and she did just that.

As her eyes darted through the sea of mostly aged and ragged men faces, her heart sank slightly. You were nowhere to be seen. Instead, her eyes met her father’s. Their eyes locked, he stood, a stoic figure– his face betraying no emotion. He gave a subtle nod, it was terse, almost reluctant approval. But she knew almost it’s not good enough.

Finally, she had to maintained her composure, her face now a mask of indifference mirroring her father’s. With a graceful bow to the audience, she let the flames die down, taking her leave from there.

The performance had ended, and the courtyard was still buzzing with the leftovers of Azula’s fiery display. Azula had trained for this. Hours and hours that turned to days and days then it became to several weeks to months. But she felt nothing paid that hard work, those time were wasted. This performance was not a big deal, it was not a green light to be a Firelord either. Yet, she can’t help but failing.

Ty Lee rushed up to her, “Azula! There you are,”

Ty Lee already brimming her words of amazement with uncontainable energy, “The way you move the lightning and those dancing flames?! It was so amazing!” she exclaimed, her voice echoed the corridors.

Azula nodded in acknowledgment, “Naturally,” casually shrugging.

“You did well,” Mai soon approached with a small smile, “As always, you know how to leave an impression.”

“Leave an impression?” Ty Lee said, “She set the standard sky-high! Oh, Y/N should’ve seen this. Y/N would’ve been totally wowed!”

Azula almost jolt by the mention of your name. As if she had electrocute herself with her own lightning. Her eyes immediately glare at Ty Lee, usually fierce and controlled, but now it flickered with absolute disappointment. “Y/N or not, the performance would have been the same. I don’t perform for anyone’s approval.”

Azula felt weird. It was something bittersweet. It’s simple in words actually, she just long for your eyes to witness her element; her elegance and her perfection–all blended it in her ‘fiery’ performance, to share the countless training sessions into triumph–but now felt incomplete. Was that too much to ask?

“Maybe not,” Mai observed wryly, “but sometimes certain eyes matter more than other, don’t they?”

Azula’s gaze hardened to Mai, a silent glare that spoke volumes. But Mai was unfazed by the glare, somehow she was used to it.

“Y/N is busy with the date,” Ty Lee tried to defend, completely oblivious to the unspoken glares, “but anyway, we are going to celebrate! What about a dinner in your honor? Come on, it’ll be fun!” 

Azula momentarily lost in the fact that you are busy with something that you had to bail on her performance–wait, what is the date? She decided to ask that later on and quickly set that aside as she straightened her posture, the commanding edge returning to her voice, “A celebration in order, indeed. Lead the way.”

As they started to follow to wherever Ty Lee’s are leading them towards, Azula still let her eyes momentarily drifted back to the empty space where she had hoped to see you. It was a fleeting glance, one filled with a mix of hope and resignation, before she finally turned away.

———

You finally made it to the place, the place your date will be waiting. You stepped into the restaurant, and was immediately taken aback in an atmosphere of elegance. It was bustling with energy, each table almost occupied by well-dressed patrons engaged in lively conversation, the clinking of fine china and glassware creating a harmonious backdrop. Soft, golden lightning bathed the room, casting a warm glow over the sophisticatedly decorated interior, accentuating it’s luxury.

Though you were no stranger to luxury, having spent considerable time in Azula’s opulent surroundings, the ambiance here was a refreshing change—to say the least. This place was a modern version of luxury you’re used to—sleek, polished, and contemporary. It was less about showcasing heritage or history, it is simply about aestheticity.

Comparing this to the Fire Nation’s palace, specifically Azula’s bedroom or her study room—where every corner told a story, every tapestry and artifact held a piece of history. You had always been fascinated by that world, a world where elegance was defined by it’s connection to the past, it’s cultural significance to the Fire Nation. But, if you had to choose: you knew your heart leaned more on the timeless, old and dusty artifacts in no time since you are such a history nerd.

Your mind took you back to the palace. Your mind showed you her face—that damned face. Her stupid beautiful face with her arrogance, her high ego that seemed impenetrable, and her refusal to be vulnerable with you. Then you remembered that today was her ‘fiery’ performance, where she practically show off her skill and power that was undeniably impressive, yet tinged with haughtiness. 

You had deliberately missed it or rather bailed on it. It was a decision that is not easy but felt necessary. You believed Azula needed a lesson, a taste of what it felt like to have someone important to you not acknowledge your hard work, no matter how small or grand it is.

You remembered the countless moments when Azula had to let her ego overshadow their friendship. Azula always keeping a part of herself hidden, always maintaining that edge of superiority, always strive to perfection. You don’t need that perfect princess of Fire Nation; you had always been attracted by what makes Azula human. You love her intense passion, which made her arrogant but also made her deeply committed and earnest. You love her insecurities that she rarely voice out loud—but once she do, you savor her little doubts and asked your thoughts on it. You love her hidden softness in her usual confident and prideful exterior. You simply just love her, by her flaws.

Now, you are searching for a sign if you meant more to Azula than just another person in the friend group. You are reaching for cracks to Azula’s walls, to find a tender glimpse that you, more than anyone else, held a special place in her heart.

This date is more than just a dinner. It is a statement, a silent rebellion against Azula unyielding façade. Tonight, you wanted to feel that sting of absence, the pang of being ignored. You wanted Azula to realize what she was potentially losing. It was a gamble—provoking someone as strong-willed as Azula—but you felt it was necessary. 

You had only one question: Will this finally drop Azula’s barriers?

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You said to the receptionist, “I believe I’m expected by Chan?”

“Oh yes, Y/N! He’s been looking forward to your arrival. Just follow me, I’ll take you to him.” The receptionist glanced up at you, there was a brief flicker of recognition in her eyes—maybe too quick to be merely courteous acknowledgment from a staff member to a guest. In a place where the staff typically meets countless strangers daily, such a look is a bit odd, as if the receptionist had been expecting you, or perhaps knew of you in some way beyond the scope of a simple dinner reservation. 

The receptionist weaved her way between elegantly set tables and past animated diners as you followed her through the bustling restaurant. The receptionist moved with a practiced ease, guiding you through with a casual grace.

 “Our chef has some delightful specials tonight," she mentioned, gesturing subtly towards the kitchen, where the harmonious chaos of culinary creation was just visible. “Is there a particular type of cuisine you're fond of, or are you looking to be surprised?”

“I’m open to recommendations. Surprise is part of the experience, isn’t it?” you said. You wondered how, in a busy restaurant like this one, the staff could still afford to be so casual and engage in small talk. Perhaps she was just exceptionally good at her job. 

The receptionist nodded, her smile still in place. But you caught a quick, almost imperceptible tap on her pocket. It was a weird gesture, a brief one though—but it made you questioned more. Was there more to this receptionist than met the eye?

No, no, you said to yourself. I’m here on a date. You shook off the thought as a byproduct of your cautious instinct.

Reaching a well-appointed table, the receptionist present you to Chan, who is apparently the restaurant owner, "Y/N, welcome!" Chan exclaimed, rising from his chair with a warm smile. He leaned in to peck your cheeks in a friendly greeting, then smoothly slid aside, gesturing gracefully to the chair, inviting you to take a seat. 

You sat as the receptionist departed, you found your gaze subconsciously trailing the woman’s retreating figure. There was something about her you could not figure out, something like a hidden agenda beneath her polished exterior that catch your curiosity.

“I’m glad you could make it!” Chan interrupted your thoughts. You scolded yourself for possibly reading too much into a simple exchange, a habit you often fell back on— especially now with your thoughts deeply entangled in how Azula might respond to this evening.

“Well, thank you for inviting me, Chan. I heard so many great things about your restaurant.”

“How could I not invite someone as knowledgeable as you in culinary arts? I’ve been looking forward to our conversation all day.” His gaze lingered on you just a moment longer than necessary.

 “And might I add, you look absolutely stunning tonight. Guess it’s not just the food that’s going to be exceptional.” His smile broadening, tone alight. He leaned slightly towards you, trying to close the physical and metaphorical gap between you two. His gestures were smooth and a well-rehearsed play.

The dinner progressed with a steady flow of conversation and laughter. Chan, ever the entertaining host, amused you with tales of the restaurant’s origins and his personal journey in the culinary world. Each story was accompanied by a detail explanation, his knowledge in arts and history were evident— that made you intrigued, his enthusiasm were entirely contagious too.

“I'm definitely interested in those stories,” you confessed, “Did you know I stumbled upon a recipe from Princess Azula’s ancestral line? It’s amazing to see how food connects with history!" 

"No kidding? That’s the kind of stuff that makes my job cool, right? We should totally whip that up sometime. Might impress the Princess or even the Firelord, too. You know, they got quite the taste for the authentic."

You nodded eagerly, you stand up by what he said, your smile brightened, “It's all about the details, isn’t it? She values that in everything, food included.” Your gaze briefly flickered to the door, half-expecting, half-hoping for her to burst in—but the door remained closed.

“Absolutely,” he said, as you two were finishing dessert, “Speaking of details, how about after dinner, we take a closer look at some of the exclusive wines I’ve got? A private tasting, just for us. It said dated a while back to Avatar Roku’s age! Could be a nice way to wind down the evening, you know?”

His invitation was clear, his gaze intent on you, slightly dimming. The suggestion was tempting, it was wrapped in the complex of his stories that you really enjoyed and it was a possibility to continue your fun conversation. But it was also unmistakably laced with an intention that went beyond a simple wine tasting. 

Chan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper, his hand finding reasons to brush against yours under the impression of emphasizing a point. He was intruding  your personal space, his body language more assertive than courteous. 

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your mind’s racing. You were aware of Chan’s motives. And now he was trying his best to lure you into accepting his request. He sensed your hesitation; thus escalate his flirtations even more.

You look around for some form of silent support. You realized you might get none. The staff, loyal to Chan, were unlikely to intervene. The patrons were too absorbed in their own worlds, oblivious in your discomfort. Then, you locked eyes with the woman you noticed earlier— the receptionist. 

Her gaze was intense, not just observing the scene between you and Chan, but seemingly focused on you yourself. In that brief eye contact, you felt a strange sense of safety—a little bit. The receptionist, whatever her role or reason for being there, was a witness, an outsider to the unfolding scenario.

“You know,” Chan said, “I once threw a party back in the day, at my parent’s place.” 

He grew bolder; you could feel it. He was getting impatient with your hesitance, so he decided to shift tactics. 

“There was this girl, like you,” he began, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sophisticated, smart, but impulsive. We hit it off, and well, let’s just say, we shared a memorable kiss that night.”

He paused for effect, his smile grew. “But here’s the twist— suddenly, we found the house in ruins. Turn out, she had a bit of a wild side. Wrecked the place. My parents were furious and I was too. But she still live up here,” he pointed to his forehead. “I couldn’t help admiring her spirit, now.”

The story, seemingly harmless, but you knew there was something intended; what is he trying to say? You knew he was subtly warning you of your next move. It was a veiled attempt to gauge your response.  The clock ticked on, each minute stretching longer than the last. You found yourself at a crossroads. Part of you wanted to put an end to the evening, to assert your boundaries firmly. Yet another part, the strategist within you, contemplated the potential outcome.

Screw it.  You went this far.  Screw you, Azula.

“I’d be delighted to see your winery,” you said, voice steady. You made your decision.  Chan’s face lit up, he giggled boyishly.

You instantly pictured Azula’s reaction— would it be jealousy, anger, or indifference? The uncertainty was agonizing yet exhilarating. You doubt the effectiveness of this decision; Azula was a fortress of composure and arrogance. Could this be the key to crush her?

Your thoughts swirled as you left the restaurant, hand in hand with Chan. You decided the night was young, and the possibilities were endless. There was no turning back now.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a woman, disheveled and frantic, burst through the restaurant doors, clutching a young boy in her arms. The boy was pale, his condition visibly dire. The restaurant, a moment ago, a peaceful haven of lively diners, plunged into chaos.

“Help!” The woman cried loudly. “My son! He is sick because of your food!”

Chan, caught off guard, hurried back inside, with you following closely behind. Your heart pounded. The mother’s anguish was blatant, her voice breaking through the murmurs of the startled diners.

“Ma’am, please, calm down. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Tell me what happened.” Chan said, trying to maintain control.

“We eat your leftovers, and now he’s like this! You did this to him!” she cried out, almost hysterically. She clutched the poor boy close, her eyes were wild with panic and desperation.

“Everyone, please listen!” the mother continued, “This isn’t just about me and my son. It’s about you too, how can you eat here, not knowing if your food is safe? My son is dying because of this place!” Her voice cut through the room, her desperation resonating with every patron.

 Chan seemed irritated, he blocked her from reaching the diners, “Ma’am, I understand you’re upset, but making unfounded accusations won’t help. Let’s discuss this privately and find a solution, yes?”

The mother, ignoring Chan’s presence altogether, turned to other diners. “Would you all just sit there if it was your child? He was fine before eating the leftovers, but look at him now!” 

“I’ll assure you, our food is prepared to the highest standards. We’ll call for medical help right away, but please, let’s not cause a scene.” Chan tried again, though he was visibly flustered.

“A scene?” The mother shrieked, “My child is dying! How can you talk about scenes? You need to take responsibility!”

Chan struggling to maintain his professional demeanor, signaled his staff to intervene, hoping to move the mother and her son away from the public eye. 

You stood there, a bystander. You froze from the unfolding scene before you. Your plan to provoke Azula suddenly seeming insignificant in the face of such raw human vulnerability. It was heart-wrenching, a stark contrast to the calculated world you’re used to, a world you shared with Azula.

And you loved this. You would love to see it in Azula.

You heard Chan sighed. His earlier confidence had evaporated. This was not how he had envisioned the evening—what was supposed to be a simple date with a girl had spiraled into his career nightmare. He looked back to you, offering a small smile that he tried doing genuinely. He looked tired. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

As the tension of the restaurant simmered, the sudden arrival of men, dressed in crisp, light blue uniforms with the emblem of public health department prominently displayed. The health inspectors. What are they doing in here?

Accompanying the inspectors were a couple of royal palace guards, adding a layer of urgency to the situation. These officials grabbed the attention of all eyes in the place. 

What the Agni is this about?

“Good evening, Mr. Chan,” the health inspector said, “We’ve received an urgent complaint regarding a health hazard in this establishment. We need to conduct an immediate inspection.”

Chan with his face a mix of confusion and panic, quickly stepped forward to greet them. “This must be some misunderstanding. Our kitchen adheres to the highest of standards. Can we discuss this privately, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid this is a matter of public safety. We must proceed with the inspection now. In full view of your patrons.” He surveyed the restaurant with keen eyes.

“Please, let’s handle this discretely,” Chan practically begged and almost fell to his knees, “I promise, whatever the issue, we’ll cooperate fully. There’s no need for a public spectacle.”

“Our priority is the health and safety of the public, Mr. Chan,” said he firmly, “We need to inspect your kitchen and restrict all activities within. We are ensuring that there are no violations.”

The health inspectors, without warning, walked towards the kitchen, with a pleading Chan following closely behind them. As you stood by the door, left, deserted, you had no idea what to do now. The restaurant buzzed with whispers and speculation from the patrons. The air was thick with tension, drama after drama are unfolding way too fast.

The timing of the inspection was too precise, too perfectly aligned with the chaos the mother had caused. 

You grew suspicious to the inspectors. You observed them; they moved with an air of the outmost confidence and purpose that seemed beyond the usual protocol. Their approach was methodical, almost as if they were following a script.

Moreover, the presence of the guards, royal guards. What are their business with this?

These details, all in different kind that if were put together—it formed a picture. A scheme. An orchestration. You had aligned it all to form it’s real essence—which point to her involvement. 

You knew Azula’s penchant for dramatic flair; you knew this was controlled and design thoroughly, unyielding and impactful; you knew the guards were a show of force, a tactic that Azula often employed to assert dominance and control. And the mother? Was that her plan too?

This wasn’t just a simple health inspection; it was a revenge in a larger game she recently launched, in perfect motion. From this, you knew that this night was far from over, and that the aftermath of Azula’s actions would ripple far beyond the walls of the restaurant.

“Ms. Y/N,” a guard spoke, “Princess Azula request your presence at the palace immediately.”

You expected it, but you were also caught off guard. You were about to dismiss the guard when the receptionist from earlier appeared beside him. She gave you a subtle nod, her expression betraying nothing, yet is trying to tell something. In that instant, you realized the truth—the receptionist was more than she seemed, likely a spy placed by Azula, to monitor your movements.

You acknowledged Azula’s cunning and what a dick move she pulled. You can’t help but respect this carefully designed scheme but frustrated to the supervision that limits your own autonomy. The latter emotion got the best of you than the former. “Tell Princess Azula I’m not at her beck and call. I won’t be going to the palace.”

The guard’s expression remained impassive, but it was the receptionist who stepped forward, breaking her professional facade. In a swift, startling motion, she slapped you across the face, the sound echoed sharply.

“You don’t understand,” she said urgently, “You need to come with us now. It’s not a request.”

The slap left a burning sensation on your cheek. It was unexpected and forceful. The onlookers in the restaurant paused, the scene unfolding before them adding to the night’s surreal quality.

Realizing that resistance might escalate the situation further, you reluctantly nodded in agreement, “Fine, I’ll come. But this isn’t the end of it.” You shifted your eyes to the receptionist, she was somehow surprised herself. Her actions, It was a breach of protocol.

As they escorted you away from the restaurant, you felt a sense of being a pawn in a larger game, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar. ——— Azula sat calmly in her opulent study room, her posture relaxed, unpinning her hairpin and let her hair fall. She was waiting for you, expecting you to burst through the door at any moment, fueled by your anger and frustration.

 Azula had done the evening’s event with precision, pushing you to your limits. She anticipated that this act would be the peak to finally see your raw astonishment that she believed you harbored for her.

The door opened, but not with force or drama that Azula had expected. You entered quietly, your expression unreadable, your usual kindled spirit replaced by an unsettling calm. Azula’s lips curved into a sly smile, intrigued by this new side of you.

“Well, well, Y/N,” Azula started, “I must say, I’m terribly sorry. I was expecting a grand entrance. Did you lose your fire along the date?”

You remained silent, your eyes locking with Azula’s. There was a depth in your gaze, a tumult of emotions you harbored beneath.

“Come now, don’t hold back my account. I know my little game at the restaurant must have… stirred things up for you.”

“Your games are getting old, Princess,” you finally replied, “Do you always need to manipulate situations to feel in control?”

Azula leaned forward, breaking a genuine smile. You hadn’t change at all. And Azula is enjoying this.

“Oh, Y/N, manipulation is such a harsh word. I prefer,” she paused, “strategic planning.”

She saw your faint smile, she knew you would not backing down. “Strategic planning that involves putting a homeless family in distress? You’re losing your touch.”

“On the contrary, I’d say my touch is quite effective. It brought you here, didn’t it?”

You side eyed her, “Maybe I’m just here to tell you that your ‘strategic planning’ is backfiring. You’re not as in control as you think.”

Azula’s eyes narrowed, she was both admired and irritated by your resilience. She had long for your anguish to confront her, but your composed defiance was a curveball she hadn’t anticipated.

She sighed. “Or maybe you’re just afraid to admit that you enjoy my little game. Admit it, Y/N, you love the challenge as much as I do.”

You walked to her, leaning in close, lowering your voice. “There’s a fine line between a challenge and a reckless game, Princess. Be careful not to cross it.”

Azula waved her hand dismissively, “Always so serious. Where’s the fun in playing it safe?”

“This isn’t funny, Azula,” your voice impatient, “Your little game at the restaurant, using that woman and her son—it’s cruel. You manipulated their distress for your own amusement.”

“I’m being cruel to be kind. I gave the boy the best medical attention. Plus, the sister received a job now—but a shame it will be in ruins. Anyway, There’s no need for you to worry about that.”

Your face redden. Azula could sense you’re infuriated. “How dare you use someone’s vulnerability for your own selfish ends? These are people live. Our people!”

Azula, usually unfazed, was taken aback. She felt goosebumps in your intense voice, a seriousness that was rarely encountered.

“You think I don’t know that?” Azula raised from her seat, “Everything I do, I do for a reason. You of all people should understand that.”

“Understand? What is there to understand about exploiting a desperate mother and her dying child? I want to see you vulnerable for once, Azula. I want to see you hurt, to see you break.” You roared as you were shaking. There was a palpable silence in the room as your words hung in the air. It was a raw, emotional confession, one that revealed the depth of your desperate goal to that date.

Azula did not know how to respond, your emotion was too intense for her to handle. Azula felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Was it guilt? Regret? For a moment, her fortress of composure wavered.

“Is that what you really want, Y/N? To see me broken?” she asked, surprisingly soft and weak.

“I don’t know what I want anymore.” You choked, “But I can’t keep doing this. Not with you, not like this.” Tears, unbidden, spilled from your eyes, your resilience crumbling under the weight of your emotions.

Azula stood there, feeling a sudden urge to reach out, to offer comfort. It was an odd desire that clashed with her self-restraint, her need to always be in control.

You turned to leave. “Where do you think you’re going?” something within Azula compelled her to made you stay. It was a surge of emotion, random and messy, unlike anything she had ever allowed herself to feel. She rushed to you with a determined stride.

You suddenly paused at the door, looked back at Azula, watery eyes. “Every game has it risk, right, Azula?” your voice faltered, barely a whisper.

“What are you getting at, Y/N?”

Azula watched you looked down, thinking something. “In the next of your act, I promise you it would include real danger—a situation I’ll go that even you can’t control.”

Azula scoffed, “You wouldn’t dare, you’re not that reckless.”

That took so much to say for Azula. She half-expected to see your ego arise from the compliment. But as she looked into your eyes, she saw something that gave her a pause. There was no trace of the usual sarcasm or defiance. Instead, there was a deep, unsettling seriousness.

“Y/N, you’re joking, come on laugh it out,” Her heart pounded. “If you’re trying to provoke me, there are better ways.” 

You remained silent, your expression unwavering. You turned to leave for real now, your steps resolute.

Panicked, Azula lunged towards the door. Swift and forceful, she slammed the door shut, effectively blocking your path of escape. Her heart raced with adrenaline and unusually breathless.

“You’re playing with fire, Y/N. Literally and figuratively.” Azula searched your eyes, looking for a sign. But all she found was an empty resolve that send a chill down her spine.

You finally looked back at her, your voice cold and distant, “Sometimes, you have to get burned to see the light. You’ll understand when it’s too late, Azula. When you’ve finally lost.”

Azula felt your words like a physical blow, her face twitching in pain, her mask completely shattered. She knew this was a trap. But the threat brought something in the depth of her own feelings—the potential cost of losing you, forever.

You two just looked at each other, thick with absolute silence. 

“Don’t be stupid.” Azula gritted her teeth.

You pushed Azula away. Then your figure slipped from the door with a slam. The room felt colder. The air was suddenly thick that almost made Azula suffocate. The door closed, leaving Azula alone with her thoughts.

The game had change, and for the first time, Azula was uncertain of her next move.

[phantomamour]

𝐢𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

part 2 of star wars au - imperial officer!billy the kid x rebel!reader ~•*⁀➷ part one

cw// some star wars language but still very readable with no star wars knowledge, words/phrases in mando'a (see translation guide at end), mentions of and allusions to death/war/violence, angst, blood/injury - really so happy about this one!!! thank you my sweet @milliesfishes for proofing and dealing with my struggles of writing this yet again 🧡

The wind whipped through your hair as you ran far from your home, a childish glee in your bones after watching the second moon’s trajectory in the night sky above for hours. Billy had promised you stargazing when the second moon passed the first, and it was a joy like no other to spend the latest hours of the night with him, grass staining your nightdress as you lay where no one would see you two. You were halfway to your designated meeting spot when you were tackled to the ground, and if it weren’t for the familiar hands gripping your sides, you would have screamed. Instead, laughter bubbled up your chest and filled Billy’s ears as he tickled your sides. 

“I’m going to start leaving earlier to catch you instead,” you giggled as his torture let up, giving you a moment to breathe. 

“Now, where’s the fun in that? I like catching you off guard.” You could hear his smile in his voice without having to look at him, but when your eyes met his face, the night grew brighter and more vibrant at the sight of his joy. Your mother tried to convince you that the two of you loved each other, but as a young girl, you only grimaced at the thought of “loving” your best friend. Only in these quiet moments did you think her words might hold any weight, the silence growing heavier between you two. 

“C’mon. I heard there could be a shower tonight. I don’t want you to miss it.” Billy had always been so sweet about your desire to explore the galaxy. He had always listened intently to your ranting about what new star systems you had learned about in class while he stayed home to help his family with their land. It was one of his greatest pleasures to watch you light up not only under the stars but about them. 

He took your hand before helping you up, and to your delight, he didn’t let your hand drop back down to your side. His hands were calloused from his long work days, and you relished the feeling of them against your own, calloused lightly from the hours you spent poring over notes and research of the galaxy around you. He had loved to rub at the little bumps along the sides of your fingers where your pencil had rested the night before while you two lay in the tall grass. It was a small bit of bliss amongst the war threatening to knock at your doorstep from the neighboring planets. 

“How long of a shower? Did you hear?” you exclaimed, excited as he packed down the grass to create a cushion for you to land on. It didn’t occur to you just how much care went into the nights of stargazing that he offered you as he guided you down to the carefully maneuvered grass blades. 

“An hour or two is expected. Enough time to get you back home before it’s too close to dawn,” he spoke softly as he lay down next to you, lacing his fingers back with your own and waiting for the first constellation you’d point out to him. He had them all memorized by then, but never once tried to remind you of that fact, fearing you’d stop showing him every time. As the first meteor fell through the atmosphere, the world blew up in flames. Pure, unfiltered heat warmed your face as you and Billy shot up to see the bloom of smoke and fire as a bomb landed down on the ground. 

“Billy,” you breathed, shock filling your system as the land beneath you shook. His fingers tightened around your hand, frozen to his spot next to you. The explosion was in the direction of his home. His family was at home sleeping, and he had snuck out, leaving them all alone. He scrambled to his feet after a long, silent moment, the aftershocks of the explosion cutting out any sound around you two. 

“Billy, you can’t-” Your words were cut off at the heat of another explosion against your back, making you spin around to see another bloom in the direction of your house. The world was lighting up around you in a whole new way now. Billy spun you back to face him, hands on your shoulders as you trembled at the thought of what had finally reached your home. The Empire had ravaged the neighboring planets; now they came for your own. 

“I’ll find you when this is over. Go. Stay safe, ner cyar’ika.” At the time, you had blushed at the endearment, knowing he was trying to decipher an old book of what he could assume was poetry from the seemingly lost culture of Mandalore. He had called you his darling for the first time, and what you had thought would be the last. 

He hadn’t found you like he had promised all that time ago. You woke up alone in a cell on a Star Destroyer still. It hadn’t been a nightmare like you had spent so many mornings wishing it had been. You’d give anything to go back home with Billy and pretend it was all just a bad dream. It was foolish to think you couldn’t love him before; you loved him more than anyone you’d ever known, back then and still now. Your head throbbed as you sat up, your wrists tied together from the troopers moving you the night before. Sleeping on a metal slab hadn’t proved any more comfortable than before, but the dreams of your last moments with Billy a decade ago were as consistent as ever. 

Every creak of the walls around you made you question what parts of your Billy were left inside the man who had fought with you yesterday. He lost everything, but so had you. Your family had been killed while escaping your home, shot dead right in front of you. It had been another farmer you didn’t know that managed to grab you and help you get off the planet, despite your screaming and fighting to make sure they didn’t leave Billy behind. “Most people are already dead from the explosions. I’m sorry. We have to go now,” they had told you as they contemplated having to tie you down to the walls of the ship so you didn’t run out before the doors closed. For ten years, you were so sure you had lost Billy, and maybe you still had. 

Billy was pacing his quarters; he couldn’t sleep for a second, knowing you were locked up a few floors below him. You had been right in telling him off for what he’d done. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it for years, shutting a part of himself into a safe deep inside his chest. It had become a routine: interrogation, torture, raiding, death. It was a job that kept him alive even when he lost sight of a reason to live. You had found the long-lost key to that safe inside him, however. Ripping him right in two to show him the life he had given himself. It wasn’t a life he wanted anymore. He had a new job now, to keep his love safe after finally getting her back. 

He had all night to come up with a plan, but his worst fear was losing you in the process of saving you, and it ate at him as he moved down to the prisoner cells. He would initiate a prisoner transfer and ‘magically’ lose you amongst the halls toward the escape pods; you getting in a pod and leaving would just be a mistake he’d pay for amongst his supervisors. All that mattered to him was that he wouldn’t lose you to the Empire after already losing himself. The sound of the mechanical lock startled you out of your seat as you tried to find some way to defend yourself, coming up with nothing until the same familiar eyes greeted you.

“Billy?” you breathed out, unsure if it was relief or apprehension in your chest, still too sore to make the distinction from the pain of the trooper’s beatings the day before. He tried to smile in a comforting way, but it only broke your heart to see how strained that smile had become over the years. 

“I’m transferring you… to a different cell.” Even without him letting you in on the plan, it was as though something clicked back into place. A silent language spoken only by the two young lovers from your home planet. One that often got the two of you in trouble but was more comforting than anything you’d felt before. You knew what he was planning without having to say a word more, and you nodded in understanding. 

“I’ll have to switch out those ties for something more practical,” he said as he took a step closer to you, hesitant and waiting for you to stop him. But you let him get close, let him take your hands in his, and studied the grimace on his face as he saw the raw, bloody skin around the restraints. His jaw clenched, trying to hold back the emotion in his chest. You were hurt. He had known that the night before, when he saw the cut on your face– that if he had the time to clean up, he would right then and there– but this was different. He could have removed the makeshift cuffs and swapped them for something more comfortable. But his emotions drove him away from you before he could bring himself to do it. 

He had put you in pain. 

“Don’t,” you whispered, sensing the battle in his mind, “don’t blame yourself.” His eyes met your own as the ties fell apart, and you did your best not to wince at the pain in your wrists. Your hand moved up to trace the length of his jaw, and you saw how his throat bobbed at your touch. 

“Cyar’ika,” he uttered, his breath unsteady and eyes fluttering. That same declaration of his love that he had left you with ten years ago ripped your chest right open, making you struggle to breathe. He was halfway through leaning into your touch as your fingers danced along a scar by his hairline when you two heard the familiar thud of a trooper’s boots, and you nearly jumped away from him, remembering where you two were. 

“Give me your hands,” he tried to remain gentle, but you could hear the mask he wore in his role as a general force itself into place. He slipped a new pair of cuffs around your wrists loosely, and you knew why as his thumb rubbed the back of your hand soothingly, sorrow in his eyes before he had to pull you out of the cell. You joined him in making a show of it, fighting back as he grabbed your elbow to yank you closer with a low, “Stop fighting me, prisoner,” catching the trooper’s attention as you two passed. You swore you both held your breath with every imperial you passed, simultaneously feeling one step closer to freedom and death. Billy slowed down as you two slipped into an empty hallway, and he subtly checked for cameras before turning to you. 

“You’re going to take a left at the second hallway, and then the pods will be on your-”

“You’re not coming with me?” you immediately questioned, disappointment coursing through your veins as you looked at the exhaustion in his features. He was saying goodbye to you, sending you away after everything it had taken to get you reunited. He thought it was best, fearing his soul irredeemable after so long with the Empire, but you slipped your hands from the loose cuffs before cupping his cheeks and getting him to look at you.

“Don’t do this. Come with me. Escape with me. Please, Billy. After everything, come home with me.” The bombings decimated your home planet, but you both knew that wasn’t the home you were talking about. He took an unsteady breath, trying to compose himself, but his voice wavered with his words, “I can’t. After what I’ve done… You should hate me.” You thumbed at his cheeks softly as you furrowed your brows. 

“I spent ten years mourning you. There’s no room for hating you in my heart… Escape with me. If you decide you can’t stay, you’ll still be free from this.” You couldn’t imagine the heartbreak you would go through if he did leave you again, but you knew above all else he deserved freedom from this life he had been forced into. Every second you two took contemplating this decision was another risk you deliberately added to your escape, but you wouldn’t force his emancipation on him. He had to want it. He had to want you still after so many years. 

The two of you didn’t have a chance to come to a conclusion before a High General started down the hall, and Billy grabbed your wrists to hold behind your back, mimicking that you were cuffed as the man caught sight of you two.

“General, where are you taking this prisoner?” He spoke smoothly, bringing a chill down your spine as Billy’s hand squeezed your wrists a bit tighter. You didn’t know if he noticed how his thumb rubbed against the inside of your wrist, likely trying to soothe the anxiety you knew he shared with you in that moment. 

“She’s being transferred for another round of interrogation, sir. We believe more severe tactics may give us the desired information.” A second chill ran down your back at the thought of Billy having to complete those tactics with others before you. Though the fear wasn’t of Billy, it was for him instead. The High General simply nodded before continuing down the hall, seemingly pleased with the idea. But as you turned your head to watch him go, you saw when he spotted your unbound wrists, and it all happened so fast you weren’t sure what was truly unfolding in front of you two. 

“Billy, run,” you hissed before tugging him down to the second hall as he instructed you moments earlier. You heard the shouts for help, the declaration of a prisoner escaping, and the first gunshots echoing down the hall from you as you two turned the corner. Billy tried to fumble with the lock on the door until you had to pull him away to avoid a blaster shot to the chest. The stormtroopers may have been a bad shot, but they were quickly closing in on you two. 

“This way!” He guided you further down the hall before you two ran smack into a pair of troopers. Billy threw his fist before he could think, while you grabbed the blaster from the one in front of you as they raised it. The shots rang through your ears as you pulled the trigger, and Billy was grabbing your arm to pull you into the small corridor of escape pods. It took him a moment to unlock the door, trying to remember in the heat of the moment what the code was. His fingers stumbled over the numbers a few times before it finally opened, and he slipped inside, punching in any random coordinates that would get you two as far away as possible. 

At the same time, you tried your best to shoot anyone who entered the hall, but it seemed one slipped past. He finally forced the pod into action, engine roaring as he flipped a switch on the dashboard. He heard the shot that hit you, listened to your body slam back into the wall of the pod before you could close the door. He looked back at you for only a second, eyes growing wide at the blood trailing down your side. 

“Just get us out of here,” you shouted before his head swung back to the controls, finally disconnecting the pod from the destroyer. He tried his best to keep the pod as steady as possible before jumping to hyperspace, but your escape was clearly announced by the fleet of TIE fighters now trying to shoot the small vehicle down. You held onto your side as tightly as you clung to the pod's wall, knuckles white and fingers sore. You knew the bleeding was bad; you didn’t need a medic to tell you that. While you were reasonably confident that the shot had missed anything important, you weren’t sure if the drowsiness entering your system was from the quick blood loss or the absolute motion sickness you were getting from Billy’s flying.

He had to nearly force the pod into hyperspace, unsure if it was even built well enough to survive the jump. The second it was surrounded by the comforting stardust and blue hues of space, he jumped out of the seat to your side, taking in the sight before him with a heavy heart. Blood was pooling on the floor below you, staining his knees as he kneeled next to you, replacing your hands on his side. You hissed at the added pressure as his eyes darted around the pod, trying to find some solution to the growing problem underneath his hands.

“B-billy,” you tried to get his attention, but he ordered you to keep pressure on the wound as he started rummaging through the storage hatches in the walls.

“Ten fucking years and I never thought to check that we put med packs in these fucking pods” he mumbled to himself, sounding so much more desperate by the second, swinging open each hatch and throwing everything out in search of something to save you. Of course, it had been his luck that the final hatch he opened stored the small case of bacta patches and gauze padding he needed but he saw you slowly drifting away as he turned back to you. Your eyes were barely staying open as your chest heaved, trying to get enough oxygen in your lungs.

“Hey, hey no. Stars, stay with me.” You swore you could cry hearing his voice, the pain making you nearly delirious. He tried quickly prepping some patches before ripping your shirt open to shove some padding on the wound when he noticed your new lack of pressure. Your eyes closed for just a second before he shouted.

“Dank farrik! Don’t make me lose you again.” The bit of that old language passing his lips again made you smile weakly as your eyes fluttered open just enough to see him. He looked like the boy you had lost again, hair disheveled from the action, and uniform wrinkling and dirty. Your blood-stained hand shakily came up to cup his cheek, using every bit of strength you still had as he applied the first bacta patch before he froze at your touch.

“M-mesh’la,” you whispered, voice breaking with the pain before your eyes closed again and your hand fell to your side. He couldn’t stop his tears then as you slipped from him, with your last word being something so loving to him. He applied two more patches, praying the bacta would work fast enough, before he clung to your shirt, fingers nearly cramping with the force he used to try to keep you close. Sobs tore through his chest just as they had the night before, but this was different. This wasn’t the Imperial General crying. This was the little kid still in his heart, tied up and beaten to a pulp by the Empire. The kid who just wanted his best friend in the whole galaxy more than anything. The kid who had already mourned you for ten long years, screaming for you to wake up, begging you not to leave again. 

~•*⁀➷ translation guide

(ner) cyar'ika - (my) darling, sweetheart dank farrik - expletive of frustration (no exact translation) mesh'la - beautiful

[ghostlysoaps]

Nothing behind the eyes

Simon had thought himself equipped to handle it, the world crumbling down, but even Ghost can’t shield him from the sight of Johnny falling in a hail of crimson, blood pooling around his head like a jagged crown, nor the feeling of stillness as he presses his fingers to the side of his neck.

They leave him there, though he fights tooth and nail against the grip on his vest. They’re not even in the clear when the facility blows. His ears hadn’t stopped ringing since the gunshot and the explosion after helps none. Debris scatters with unbridled force, yet he doesn’t feel the gauges they carve through him until Price presses down on the weeping wounds.

He’d been the lucky one out of them, their captain. Ghost had needed stitches and Gaz a lengthy hospital stay on top of physical therapy before he was fit for fight again, albeit with new shadows haunting his eyes.

Ghost hands his resignation in soon after and does what he does best.

Disappear.

His new flat sees more life than his last one ever did. In the daylight hours he walks shambling trails on the already worn floor, tries to keep his mind and body busy, to acclimate to the sounds and scents of a smaller town where he’s not yet mapped the streets in their entirety. At night it hears him choking on gasps, sees his stirring limbs and the heaving of breaths as he jerks awake, again and again, from nightmares so vivid the taste of gravedirt lingers on his tongue and Johnny’s corpse, grinning from within a coffin his sergeant hadn’t seen, is still imprinted on the backs of his closed eyelids. 

The only torture worse than seeing Soap broken, being the one to further desecrate his corpse to free himself, is seeing him happy. When he’s hail and whole and reaching for Simon with laughter pouring like gold from his mouth. Because he’ll wake from those moments of false tranquillity, where all is right again, only to face a reality wherein it never came to fruition.

-

It’s a small thing. A creak of the floorboards. Something shifting close by. Simon is surprised to have heard it over the low whine in his ears, but instinct is a formidable thing even while on the cusp of sleep.

Ghost catches the steel-bearing arm when it careens for his neck and twists himself out of bed as he works to unsteady the assailant. They’re trained well. When he hooks one foot behind their leg to take them to the floor, they retaliate by grappling him in a move Ghost remembers teaching countless others. He’s at a disadvantage. The person going for his throat is strong and he’s dressed in tactical gear. Heavy where he struggles to pin Ghost down enough to wring his neck or slice the scar running down his chest back open again. 

But he’s not the only one armed, not when Ghost has knives stashed within reach and he manages to fumble one into his palm and drag it down his assailant’s thigh.

The distraction it brings allows him to flip their positions, to bash the man’s head against the floor until his eyes grow dazed.

He’s wearing a mask to shield his lower face, metal akin to a muzzle, and Ghost hesitates when those green irises catch his own – the shade of them unfamiliar though the shape of the eyes carrying them are not.

Cognisance is returning rapidly in that hollow gaze so Ghost does the only logical thing. 

He knocks him unconscious.

It gives him a momentary breather and Ghost uses that time to strip the assailant of his gear, of any hidden weaponry, and to tie him up with firm bands of rope made from hastily repurposed sheets. He doesn’t touch the mask until the overhead light is switched on. It feels sacrilegious to rid someone else of  the very thing Simon had used to protect himself for so long.

Soap stares back at him from beneath it. His mouth and jawline, his facial hair messier than he’d seen before. Ghost’s body had felt it the moment he had his thighs wrapped around the shadowed figure standing over his bed, had known, deep down, and had denied it until the proof was irrefutable. Dread creeps up his spine the longer he stares. Messy locks of brown hair covers his temple and Ghost very nearly rips it out of his scalp in his haste to bare it. A gnarled scar rests underneath, free of new growth, spanning nearly the length of his profiled head.

Pain blooms over his forearm and Ghost hisses, training kicking in to shove the appendage deeper into the teeth lodged there rather than tearing it (and a chunk of his flesh) away. His remaining hand digs fingers into the hinge of Soap’s jaw until it falls open, teeth bloodied and frothing with saliva. Yet the expression on his face barely changes. It remains terrifyingly placid. The way a rabies-stricken animal can go sweet and comfort seeking before the inevitable decline. They stare at one another for a beat, Ghost’s hand now gentled on his face – though a pale show of one considering how he’d been born for violence alone.

“Soap?”

No response.

He goes through every name he remembers them calling him and nothing sparks so much as a blink.

-

Prompts by @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps