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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You’re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he��s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and—pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting��familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x you #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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orimuraa · 16 days ago

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• That L-O-V-E - 심재윤 ↳ ┊: so cynical (badum) - le sserafim

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆a date with your hot, nerdy boyfriend who’s just so down bad for you ⨾

۶ৎ nerd!jake x fem!reader┆fluff, slight smau? (insta stories at the end)┆petnames, kissing┆wc 694

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: part three!!! sorry for taking forever TT but i’m back now!! thank you to 🍰 nonnie who has requested all three parts to this !

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

part 1 part 2

it was finally your summer break right after all your exams and hard work. jake had said he would take you out to the amusement park once you were both free from school, so here you are, standing in a short dress while jake can't help but rake his eyes up and down your gorgeous figure.

the two of you were sitting down for a calm little ride before all the extreme ones. your thighs were being way too exposed for jake's liking (because he should be the only one to be able to see that). so to fix that, he quickly took off his jacket, placing it onto your thighs to cover the exposed parts.

"what a gentleman," you giggle, before quickly choking at the sight of him now in his white tank top that showed so much muscle you wondered how you were still breathing.

"jakey~ you look so good in tank tops! how come you don't where them more often?" you tease, kissing right under his jaw. jake—feeling flustered, couldn't form a proper word as he was too shy and embarrassed to be able to function.

“well- i just thought it might get hot…and i…” jake nervously rambled, his ears burning and he suddenly felt hot under all the attention. you just laughed at how cute he was before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, telling him to just enjoy the view and that you were only teasing.

the next stop for you both was the haunted house. you were not at all a fan of scary things but you felt much safer having your boyfriend right by your side. however, once you were inside, you regretted ever walking in.

the scares were insane and instinctively, you threw your arms around jake’s waist, shoving your face into the crook of his neck to shield you from the jump scares. jake felt the blush rise up his neck but he ignored it to make sure he protected his girl and led you safely out.

after a few more intense rides, you both agreed to go on the ferris wheel to watch the sunset. yes, it was a bit cheesy, but it was still special because of your wonderful boyfriend. following tradition, you both kissed at the top, the kiss sweet yet gentle. it was perfect. the sunset illuminated your features, making you both radiate golden light.

“i love you princess,” jake whispered, leaning his forehead against yours and closing his eyes.

“i love you too jakey.”

he softly pulled you onto his lap, kissing you on your lips, forehead, temple, and nose. moments like these always made him so grateful that he was able to be yours. to be the one loving you—cherishing you.

he loved the way you let him yap about random things, the way you always listened and never told him to shut up. he always got carried away talking about things he liked, yet you always let him. you found him adorable the way his eyes would light up and sparkle, and how his hands were just as expressive as his eyes. you had no idea what he was talking about, but his voice was so soothing to hear. his prominent aussie accent, the way his korean is a but slurred, and his passion in his tone, he was perfect.

at the end of the day, you both decided to take some photos to commemorate this day. there were photos of just jake looking handsome as always, or just you looking breathtaking, and there were some with the both of you, taking couple pictures that made everyone who would see it feel single.

you had brought your polaroid camera as well, so you were able to get many cute polaroids together. there were countless polaroids that scattered your bag, but a few were more special.

you had kissed jake’s cheeks, collarbones, and his jaw in some of the photos, leaving his skin stained with your gloss. it was very faint, but it was still there if you looked hard enough.

you ended the perfect date with so many memories, and the cutest polaroids in your phone cases.

insta stories:

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa

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pizzaapeteer · 3 months ago

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coming from a sleepy girl rn, i just really wanted to write something tiny, about sleepy Mattheo who I wanna wrap up in my clothes

“Mattheo!” Another attempt at calling after the rugged boy falls short on his ears and you huff with exhaustion. Having followed behind the disappearing shadow, and snow covered footsteps for the past few corners struggling with little efforts to catch up. He trudged with his hands shoved in his pockets to battle the cold, walking along the aisles down the courtyard.

He wasn’t even walking that fast, a lethargic dawdle much like that of tortoise - yet it still made for a much quicker pace than your shorter legs. They moved with haste finally breaking into a run, being careful not to slip on the snowy cobblestones. Now within distance, you reach, taking ahold of his arm to grab his attention. “Matty!”

His head jerks with sluggish movements at the sound of your exasperated voice, a soft huh exhaling out as he halts his steps barely having time to grip onto your wrist before you can skid straight past him. His voice is low and filled with heavy sleep, his eyes lifting with recognition and he smiles tiredly. “Oh hey baby...what’s up?”

His body radiates with low energy like a car barely keeping its engine alive, unlike his usual comical suave self. His eyes are weary, while his neck struggles to hold the heavy head nearing a dramatic droop. He doesn't want you to fuss over his lack of sleep, knowing these are the consequences of his overachieving cocky attitude, resulting in another essay left last minute and an all-nighter cram.

So he just continues to give you a smile but doesn't say anything deciding with the little part of his brain still functioning, that keeping his mouth shut is best.

You raise an amused brow at his exhausted tone, and grin at his adorable lazy smile, “Good morning! Are you trying to freeze yourself to death!?” You examine his lack of extra layers with a disapproval gaze, dressed in only sweatpants and a hoodie which you assumed he slept in.

He watches the small scoff you let out, the way those pretty eyes of yours roll playfully at his ridiculous lack of care for warmth. Before the heat and softness of your own beanie is squashed down over his curls with a tight pull snuggly. “You look cold.” You comment with concern. "And tired."

He doesn’t protest too tired to even utter a mere grumble as his head jerks sideways in your assault of motherly warmth. He likes when you do things for him, makes him feel special and needed. “Mm’fine baby, I’m not” he pauses, extending his sentence to mid yawn, “-cold at all.” His soft brown eyes continue to blink back the battling sleep threatening to consume him as he denies your words.

“Uh huh, yeah well I say differently.” Your lips brim into a sweet adoring smile, studying his features closely. The tip of his nose beginning to scarlet from the cold, his eyelashes fluttering again as he looks down at you with a droopy lidded gaze trying to stop another ambush of yawns, the warmth of your clothes making him extra sleepy.

He offers a small smile, finally humming a tired acknowledgement at your comment, he knows better than to argue with you. Especially in his weak and weary state. His fingers tighten their grip around the fabric of your coat bringing you further into his embrace, wishing he was more awake to touch you properly. They drum, flexing in an impatient fidget, while happy to see you he knows he's going to be useless towards you until he continues his original goal of obtaining a fuckload of caffeine.

"Did you sleep at all mattheo?"

"mm, maybe..." He comments, rubbing the palm of his hand into his eyes with another deep yawn. "or am I'm asleep right now?.. I do already dream of you." His body jerks forwards at the sudden tug of your scarf now hung around his neck, his feet shuffling between your legs. "woah hey."

You laugh pushing aside your interest in his bad habits, flattered by his ability to charm you on the brink of exhaustion. "does this happen in your dreams?" Leaning up, your hands caress his cold cheeks and grant him a sweet good morning kiss. A burst of warmth and goodness floods him and he groans, brushing his hand into your hair.

It’s quick and soft and when you part you stay close to him, resting your warm lips brushed up against his. “how are you so cute even when your half dead, and looking adorable in my clothes.”

His laugh is soft and breathless, and he offers a slightly brighter grin, "It's called talent baby, and we do far more than just kissing in my dreams." He sighs, "but fuck if I don't get coffee in me soon I will be a deadless zombie all day.

“What my kisses aren’t enough to zing you awake?”

“Nope.”

You laugh rolling your eyes at his blunt answer, knowing whenever he’s this needy for coffee there’s no schmoozing him over. “Alright sleepy boy I’ll lead the way.” The warmth of your hand slides into his, and with an easy tug you lead your poor sleepy boyfriend towards the only thing with a stronger hold over you; a hot cup of jo.

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen. ©️pizzaapeteer 2025. ty for reading!!

#Mattheo riddle #mattheoriddle #Mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle Drabble #mattheo riddle #slytherin boys #slytherin boys fandom #sleepy matty has my heart I just wanna give him all the warmth #i didn't proof read this so lets pray its okie gn!

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bunny-jpeg · 4 months ago

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peach gummies

john "soap" mactavish

tags: smut/pwp, recreational drug use, aphrodisiacs, high sex, needy!johnny, missionary position/mating press, body worship, praise & dirty talk, breeding kink

"there are going to be fun, right?" you asked as you watched johnny pull out the bag of gummies. you felt a little anxious taking something like this.

you knew they were just a fun little upper to have a good evening together, but still, the most you ever had was half a joint and that made you stomach upset for the rest of the evening. to try something as intense as gummies was a little anxiety inducing. but you had johnny there and you trusted him with your life.

"of course, hen." he said as he playfully pinched your cheek, "only the best for you." he licked his lips at the sight of you looking at him. he would always take care of you, through everything. he promised, "not cut with anything bad. just a little stimulant gummy for a nice night in." he held one of the up to you, "see they're peach flavour, your favourite!"

you trusted johnny with your whole heart. until the heat took over.

there was something in those gummies, something a lot more than a good time. because within the hour of taking them, johnny was next to humping you against the kitchen counter.

you had only gotten up to grab some water. but he had every intention of keeping you within arms reach. it didn't help that the painful erection in his grey sweatpants was more appitizing than anything you had in your cupboard. you tried to reach for the glass of water but he had to properly pinned to the counter with him rubbing up against you behind. it felt good, it left you soaked in your panties. it was the drugs, there had to be something else in them.

"johnny... johnny.. mactavish! relax!" you whined but before you could state your point,he he turned your head enough to give you a sloppy kiss. it was like two animals trying to kiss rather than two people. he continued to rub against you.

"not now. not now." he said, "quiet yer whinin'. can't take it." he groaned, his breathing was getting heavier with the more he became needy for you. there was a wet patch at the front of his sweatpants from all the pre-cum his heavy cock was drooling, "come to bed. get you water later." he managed to have enough brain function to keep from railing you against the counter.

but it didn't last long. he had you shirt off and was working at your bra with his nose in your neck as he steered you towards the bedroom. once he got the grey sports bra off and tossed onto the floor, he pushed you onto the bed and got on top of you. "always so hot, bonnie. look at ya, all of ya." he groped your breasts as he caged your thighs between his strong legs.

he was panting like a dog and you couldn't help but be aroused. he was desperate for you as you were of him. there was heat in his cheeks and his erection strained in his pants.

you laid out under him. he wrestled to get you out of your clothes between heated kisses. the two of you moved together perfectly, you felt the leap in your chest as he got you completely nude before his tight t-shirt was off of him. the gummies made your blood burn with sexual desire as you eyed your lover.

johnny was built. all that training refined his body into muscle and a bit of fat to keep warm on a cold night. he loved his pub nachoes and his large pints. he was covered in a hair bit of thick dark hair too. from across his broad chest to a nice happy trail down to his cock that was leaking through his white briefs. it left a stain across the front of the thick pre-cum that dribbled out.

you were in a similiar boat, he had to peel the panties off of your pussy because they were so slick with your sexual desire. you felt the heat radiate through you, you shakily exhaled when you wet pussy hit the cool air. it made you feel a tad stimulated, in all fairness everything made you aroused.

from the soft bedding to johnny's rough hands on your skin. you shuddered and made a soft whimpering noise which only made your boyfriend more aroused. it felt hot between you two, like molten lava flowing between you two.

"look at ya, angel. my slice of heaven. all mine." he purred as he got between your legs and hiked up your hips to be leveled with his cock. but then he got greedy, he pushed your knees towards your chest to expose more of that glistening pussy of yours to the low light of the bedroom. he licked his lips, "that's ma girl, all mine. right? how ya feelin'? feelin' hot like me?"

his voice was a rumble of thunder that you could feel in your soul. you held onto your knees and allowed him to sink into you quickly. and with how wet you were, there was little resistance for him. he was soon able to plant his hands on either side of you. he squished you under his strong, hairy body and rocked against you.

"my sweet, sweet bonnie."

you often joked that johnny was like a puppy, but as he fucked up into you without any sense of rhythm, he just needed to feel you cunt around him. he needed to devour you sexually as he rutted against you feverishly. he fucked up into you, it felt like his cock was slammed against the beginning of your womb. it felt like he was deeper than anyone else had ever been and that made him even more excited.

"fuck, johnny." you shakily exhaled as the pleasure raced through him. it excited you, wound you up sexually. you panted and moaned, your noises got strained in the best way possible as he fucked you. the buzz of the drugs only made your brain feel overwhelmed with the pleasure in your core.

"maybe i should knock ya up. get ya nice and pregnant with my bairn. you'd look nice and pretty with my little guy at your hip. cookin' me meals, keepin' your man fed and warmed. comin' home to ya. settlin' down. maybe that's what we need. a nice place to raise 'em." his thrusts grew quicker as he placed more weight on top of you. he kept you pinned under him in a mating press as he rutted against you like a dog in heat.

you reached for him and held onto his shoulders. he moved against you quickly and placed messy, wet kisses on your face. he felt you shudder under him and he only worked himself further into you. he fuck with intention even if the pace was messy and his thoughts were drowned in sexual need. he wanted to fuck you, he wanted that pleasure in his body. he wanted you badly.

"you feel good under me, baby. you feel good with this wet fuckin' cunt. type of pussy to come home to and make sure you don't forget who it belongs to." the drugs only spurred him on further. it drove him to fuck you harder and faster.

"johnny. fuck, that feels good." you whined, your voice got a little higher that the feeling of his cock nudging against all the right spots. he rubbed against your sweet spot and it made your mind unable to process a lot of higher thinking. but that didn't matter, the high felt amazing paired with the sexual gratification you were getting.

you reached and held onto his short hair. his mohawk was in your grasp as you tried to meet his pace but he only pinned your hands to the bed to let him work your body on his own terms. the pleasure was like heavy bass in a loud song, the type of thing to excite your blood as the two of you fucked roughly. you knew that your insides would be a bit bruised but you didn't care. you just needed johnny.

you two shared another heated kiss. and you laid your head back on the pillow and let him move against you. he held onto your hands tighter and worked himself up against you. he panted heavily and had this look in his blue eyes that only aroused you more.

"fuck, need you. fuckin' need you. look good with my kid, little mactavish runnin' around, causin' problems for ma. don't worry, come home every night to put 'em to bed. but then i'll put the wife to bed too, just a little differently." he licked his lips, "maybe i'll get some 'er milk too." he licked his lips, "promise i'll be gentle. fuckin'..." he groaned as he felt close to climax.

it didn't take much longer before he came inside of you with a heavy groan and his cock buried all the way inside of you. but even though the stretch in his legs told him to stop, he couldn't. the burn of the drugs in his brain only pushed him to continue to fuck you. he continued to fuck you. his thrusts became even more unfocused but the stimulation pushed you over your sexual edge too.

you clutched onto his hands and arched your back a little bit as your hole fluttered around his cock. you came around him and felt the heightened sense of pleasure as it muddled your brain further. you couldn't help it, it was hot. it was erotic as the two of you continued to fuck even through your orgasms.

but as the night wound down, you felt that you two would be at it well into the next morning. because despite the heat and sweat of your fucking. nothing seemed to quell the intense lust that you had for him.

johnny didn't think much of the gummies till a week later when he was seated in a meeting for an upcoming assignment. his eyes went wide when he reached the bottom of the page with the photos of the drugs that they were looking for.

"these look like candies, but contain enough of an aphrodisiac to take someone out for at least eleven hours." price explained, "turns out our enemies found a different way to push their drugs. don't make them overdose but aroused enough to keep them coming back for more."

the tips of johnny's ears went red. he looked to price and raised his hand, "do they have a specific flavour, captain? to watch out for, of course!" he swore he heard kyle snicker to himself.

price replied, "peach." <3

#bunny writes #call of duty smut #call of duty x reader #john soap mactavish smut #john soap mctavish smut #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap x reader #john soap mctavish x you #soap call of duty #call of duty #soap smut #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader

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ericshoney · 2 days ago

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Forgotten Birthday ~ Avengers

Summary: Being the youngest Avenger usually means you get looked over for missions, but you never thought they'd forget your birthday.

Warnings: Possible swearing, angst, tears, fluff at end.

Reader's age: 17

Being the youngest Avenger had its perks. I could outrun a speeding car, manipulate energy fields, and occasionally, snag the last slice of pizza before Tony could. But it also meant being underestimated, sidelined on the ‘easier’ missions, and treated with a gentle, almost patronising, kind of care. I knew they meant well. They were protective, especially Steve, who saw me as the kid sister he never had. But sometimes, I just wanted to be seen as an equal. A capable, contributing member of the team.

And today, on my birthday, I just wanted them to remember that I wasn't just a little kid anymore.

The day had started like any other. I woke up, expecting at least a mumbled "Happy Birthday" from whoever was awake. Nothing. I figured they were busy, caught up in some impending doom I hadn't been briefed on. I made my own breakfast, a sad, solitary affair with a bowl of cereal and a heavy dose of disappointment.

The day dragged on. Peter came over, rambling on about something that happened in school - the one place I think I was happy I never attended, Tony deciding I could learn at the tower - listened patiently as Sam complained about the lack of decent bird-watching spots in New York, and somehow sat through a lecture from Bruce talking about gamma radiation.

I paced the common room, trying to look busy, hoping someone would notice the date on their phone, the faint decorations I'd secretly put up last night (easily dismissed as late Halloween ornaments, I supposed). The clock ticked with maddening precision, each second a hammer blow to my already fragile hopes.

Finally, around late afternoon, Natasha walked in, her face etched with a familiar weariness. “Rough day,” she sighed, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.

“You could say that,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice neutral.

She glanced at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Something up?”

This was my chance. “Just… a little forgotten,” I said, carefully avoiding eye contact.

She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she stood up. “Wait here.”

Hope flickered within me, a tiny, fragile flame. Maybe she remembered. Maybe she was going to orchestrate a surprise party, a cake with seventeen candles, a chorus of off-key "Happy Birthdays."

But no, she returned empty handed, “Tony needs help re-calibrating the repulsors. He’s about to blow up the lab. You're closest. Go.”

My heart sank. The flicker of hope extinguished. I forced a smile. “Sure thing, Nat.”

The lab was, indeed, a controlled chaos. Tony was covered in grease, his usually impeccable hair a mess. He barked orders at a bewildered-looking Peter, who was struggling to hold a wrench twice his size.

“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing,” Tony exclaimed, without even looking at me. “Hold this. Tight. And don't breathe on it.”

I spent the next hour balancing carefully on a stool, holding a delicate piece of Stark tech, trying not to sneeze, and feeling utterly invisible.

Finally, Tony declared the repulsors “minimally functional,” and Peter, bless his heart, after being dismissed as a “potential explosion hazard,” whispered a quick, “Happy birthday, Y/n!” before scurrying off.

It was enough to make me want to cry.

I mumbled a thank you and slumped back into the common room, defeated. I couldn't even muster the energy to be angry. Just… sad.

The others slowly trickled back in, one by one. Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Bruce, all looking exhausted and preoccupied. Each of them passed me with a cursory nod, completely oblivious.

I decided to retreat to my room, to wallow in self-pity and watch bad reality TV. As I reached the door, Steve’s voice stopped me.

“Y/n, could you…” he trailed off, looking slightly sheepish. "You look a little down. Everything okay?"

"Fine," I lied, my voice barely a whisper.

He frowned. "You sure? You know you can talk to me."

I wanted to scream, to tell him that no, everything was not fine, that it was my birthday, and they had all completely forgotten. But the words caught in my throat, choked by disappointment.

"Yeah, Steve. I'm fine. Just tired." I turned and walked into my room, closing the door softly behind me. I leaned against it, tears welling in my eyes.

A moment later, there was a knock. I ignored it.

The door opened.

It wasn’t Steve. It was Bucky, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “Heard you weren’t having such a great day.”

I glared at him, tears threatening to spill over. “What do you want, Bucky?”

He shuffled his feet. “Just… figured you might want this.” He held out a small, rectangular box.

I took it, my fingers trembling. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a silver bracelet. It was simple, elegant, and perfectly me.

"Natasha picked it out," Bucky said, avoiding my gaze. "Said it was…appropriate."

My breath hitched. “But… they forgot.”

Bucky shook his head. “We didn’t forget, kid. We just… we wanted it to be a surprise.”

He stepped aside, and I saw them. Standing in the hallway, all of them, looking sheepish and slightly apologetic. Tony held a half-eaten cake (chocolate, my favourite). Natasha had a stack of presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Steve was grinning, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. Sam was holding a boombox, which he promptly turned on, blasting a slightly off-key version of "Happy Birthday."

“Surprise!” they all yelled, their voices blending together in a cacophony of sound.

Tears streamed down my face, but this time, they were tears of relief and joy. I laughed, a shaky, emotional sound.

"You guys…" I choked out, unable to find the right words.

"We may not always show it, Y/n," Steve said, stepping forward and giving me a hug, "but you're an important part of this team. And you're important to us."

Tony clapped me on the shoulder. “Alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Cake time! And presents! And then, maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you drive one of my cars.”

The rest of the evening was a blur of laughter, cake, terrible presents (thanks, Tony), and surprisingly heartfelt speeches. I learned that Natasha had been planning the surprise for weeks and that Bucky had spent hours agonising over the perfect gift.

As I sat there, surrounded by my dysfunctional, chaotic, but ultimately loving family, I realised that being the youngest Avenger wasn’t so bad after all. They might forget things sometimes, they might underestimate me, but they would always, eventually, come through. And sometimes, that's all that really matters. Especially on a birthday.

Tags:

@riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl @parkjihoonsnudes @rajah-oliver

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

#avengers #avengers fanfic #avengers oneshot #avengers x reader #avengers x teen!reader #mcu #mcu fanfic #mcu x reader #mcu oneshot #teen!reader #steve rogers x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #bucky barnes x reader #tony stark x reader #clint barton x reader #thor x reader #angst #forgotten #fluff ending

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meazalykov · 2 months ago

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yearning

sydney lohmann x f!australian!reader

warnings: no smut but it is very suggestive.

you’re tearing down the wing with ball seeming to be glued to your pink covered foot as bayern’s red and white streaks past along with lyon’s all white. after passing the ball up to lea from the right wing, you look over at sydney in the midfield.

something inside of you wants to call her name, not for the play, but because it’s been festering in your chest for months, a weight you can’t spit out.

you won’t.

you never do.

all of your bayern teammates notice the yearning clawing inside you, shredding your calm as your eyes give your feelings away. sometimes it is worse since you’re not one of the germans at bayern which means that national breaks are a cruel exile to australia.

you’ll fly back alone, no shared hotel rooms, no stolen glances on planes with her. every touch, syd’s fingers grazing yours passing a bottle, her shoulder bumping you in a huddle…sears you raw.

you see it in her too in the way her eyes linger when you tie your pink colored boots, her jaw clenches when you joke with klara or literally any other one of your teammates. everyone is done with it. georgia groans when you stare too long. klara mutters “just ‘do it’ already” when sydney lingers too close, adjusting your sleeves of your kit jersey for no reason.

the air between you chokes them, but neither of you breaks.

this game right now is against lyon. it is the champions league quarterfinal. you’re in sync with the girl in midfield. yes, you and syd with passes clicking like you share a brain, but it doesn’t quiet the ache.

after the 70th minute a lyon player tackles you, too close, her hand brushing your arm as she rises. she murmurs something, eyes glinting, playful.

“you need to watch yourself, sexy”

what the fuck? anyways, you ignore whatever the lyon player is saying and jog back to position. however, nearly half of the pitch witnessed that interaction and the way that lyon’s defensive player checks you out.

sydney’s stare burns your skin. you glance over and her face is confused, lips pressed thin, eyes dark with something feral.

the whistle ends it, 2-1 lyon, and you’re drained from the loss.in the locker room, teammates scatter to showers and physios or just chatter.

sydney’s silent, packing her bag with sharp, angry jerks. you wait, heart pounding, until it’s just you two inside of the locker room when everyone leaves.

“syd,” you say, voice scraped raw.

she doesn’t look up so you say, “what’s going on?”

you get silence with just the rustle of her bag.

your chest tightens, yearning curdling into something sharp.

you step closer to her sitting figure

“talk to me. i can’t do this if you shut me out.”

syd’s hands freeze. when she looks at you, her eyes are a storm.

“why don’t you go entertain your lyon friend?” her voice is low, biting, laced with something that stings.

you blink, thrown.

“what? i didn’t even…”

“don’t,” she cuts you off, standing, close enough you smell her sweat, her shampoo, feel the heat radiating off her.

“i saw it. we all did.”

anger surges, hot and reckless, “you think i give a single shit about some random player? i didn’t even hear what she said mate. i was more concerned about the team, especially you.”

syd’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t fold.

“then why does it feel like you’re open to everyone else except for me?” her voice cracks, raw, exposing the hurt beneath, “i’m going insane wanting you, and you’re just there like it doesn’t affect you.”

you snap.

“doesn’t affect me?” you’re yelling now, voice bouncing off the lockers.

“i can’t fucking function around you, syd. every time you’re close, it’s like i cannot even function properly since i get so awkward. i go home, i lie there, thinking of you, hating myself because i can’t just say it. i need you, and it’s breaking me.”

silence slams down, heavy, charged. syd’s eyes search yours, wide, unguarded, and you’re so close now, noses brushing, breaths tangling.

“what do you mean, you need me?” she whispers, not soft, but urgent, a demand carved from desperation.

you swallow, throat tight.

“i see you every day in training or at klara’s place and it’s like a knife in my chest because i can’t touch you or love you the way i want to syd. i mean i’m in love with you, and it’s fucking destroying me.”

she makes a sound which is some half-gasp, half-sob and then her hands are on your face, rough, trembling.

“you absolute idiot,” she says, voice shattering, “i’ve been in love with you since you came here.”

time stops as you crash into her, or she pulls you… whatever it was it’s a blur, but your lips meet, fierce, all teeth and starvation, months of want spilling over. syd’s mouth is warm, tasting of mint, and you groan, low and ragged, as she presses herself closer.

you back her into the lockers, metal clanging, her hands sliding under your shirt, nails biting your skin. you hiss, wanting the sting, wanting everything she could give you. you tug her ponytail free, her hair spilling wild, and she moans which is a a wrecked, desperate sound when you pull it, just enough.

“god,” she gasps, lips grazing your jaw, and you kiss her harder, swallowing her words. your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of her waist, the curve of her hips, and she arches, all heat, all need.

it’s not enough. you could drown in her and still want more. syd’s fingers dig into your back, and when you nip her lip, she growls, pulling you tighter, smirking when you shudder.

“so needy,” she murmurs, but her eyes are soft, like you’re something sacred.

you break away, panting, forehead pressed to hers, eyes locked.

“i hated seeing her near you and the way that her eyes trailed down your body,” she admits, voice raw, “i wanted to break something.”

you laugh, breathless, and kiss her neck, slow, deliberate, feeling her pulse jump.

“i didn’t see her, syd. just you.”

she shudders, hands gripping your hips, and you’re kissing again, slower, deeper, like you’re unraveling each other. the german’s tongue brushes yours, and you feel it everywhere, heat pooling low, your skin buzzing.

you want to climb inside her, lose yourself in every inch. syd’s hands slide lower, teasing, and you whimper, helpless, as she chuckles against your mouth, dark and knowing.

unfortunately… reality creeps in. your teammates could walk in, staff could interrupt. you pull back, gasping.

“we can’t… not here,” you say, but your hands stay on her, refusing to let go.

she nods, but her thumb traces your lip, and you nearly cave.

“tonight,” she says, voice like iron. “come to my place.”

your heart lurches.

“tonight,” you echo, a vow.

at least the yearning now it has a place to land after being in the air for so long, ever since you joined the team only a year prior.

masterlist

#sydney lohmann #sydney lohmann x reader #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #gerwnt #fc bayern women #fc bayern munich #bayern munich frauen #bayern frauen #klara bühl #lea schuller

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glitchyrobo · 6 months ago

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Ceres-class Missile Battleship

spaceship =>

(description & fiction under the break!)

Video Description

Several views of a large, long, and slightly bulky Terran warship in space. The ship has repeating triangle motifs in with various paneled textures throughout. Near the pointed front the nameplate of the ship is visible, reading 'CNS Temeraire'. The long front hull has a flat section on the top, covered in massive missile launch bays. Amidships, several armor plates, painted bright red with the Jovian Eagle in gold, protect the armored hab rings and a series of tubes. Aft, the radiators glow brightly as the engine burns hot. Embedded heat pipes run from the tip of the engine to the radiators

The first view is of the ship from above and in front, showing a dramatic angle. Several 'running lights' blink down the length as navigation lights flash

The second view is located to the side, looking forward, again showing the various lights

The third view is focused on the engine, showing it powering on to 100% thrust, then beyond. As it powers on the heat pipes glow in sequence

The fourth and final view repeats the engine power on sequence but from further, allowing the viewer to also see the coolant vents venting coolant

Excerpt from History of Pre-Domestication Terran Warships (3rd Revision), §685.8: Late Terran Accord & Pacification Program Era Battleships (Guided Projectile), Eltrin Yne, Forty-Seventh Bloom, xe/xem, Elly Yne, Twenty-Sixth Floret, et al.

Designed in 2521 CE (33 BT) by a consortium of Jovian shipbuilding corporations and first commissioned in 2526, the Ceres-class missile battleship was envisioned as a platform to launch massed missile strikes against enemy fleets while providing enhanced point defense and electronic warfare. At 750 meters in length and nearly 100 meters at its widest extent, this class represented one of the largest mass-produced spaceframes fielded by the Cosmic Navy.

Over the course of its service history, the class had numerous revisions. Most notably, the type-3 revision in 2539 (2521-CERES-III) which added coolant vents ahead of the hab rings, reducing their size in the process. The vents were positioned forward of the hab rings to expel hot coolant from over-driven point defense domes and electronic warfare equipment rather than the main engines, though they had a limited ability to expel engine coolant in extreme emergencies. These coolant vents essentially functioned as expendable liquid droplet radiators, which may have led to the development of more practical liquid radiators, had domestication been delayed. (See also §359, Speculation on Terran Shipcraft Development)

While there were no major engagements which featured a Ceres functioning in this intended role, classified TCN documents obtained after the fall of Terra stated that one of the primary goals of the class was to counter contemporary corporate navies, which largely consisted of small anti-piracy vessels, should a coalition of corporations ever come into direct conflict with the Accord.

However, the most significant hostile force that the Accord encountered prior to pacification were various pirate flotillas, which would generally consist of smaller, older, and less militarized vessels. While in a direct engagement a Ceres-class or other contemporary Accord capital ships would easily destroy such vessels, smaller ships were quite capable of outmaneuvering and escaping their would-be-predators.

At the start of the Terran Pacification program, there were 157 Ceres-class vessels active. After the signing of the treaty, only a handful of these ships refused armistice, as the amount of logistical support that the Ceres required to function effectively and the implausibility of that support without the Terran core sectors dissuaded overt feralism. Several dozen of the surviving vessels now serve as museum ships across Terran Protectorate space.

#hdg #human domestication guide #glitchy's hdg art #glitchy's art

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farfromstrange · 6 months ago

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Pink Eye | Matt Murdock x Reader

Matt Murdock Masterlist

Summary: You start the new year with a bad case of conjunctivitis and a cold. As annoyed as you are about it, fortunately for you, you have a very doting boyfriend to take care of you.

Warnings: Cursing, sickness, fluff.

WC: 1.2k

A/n: This is totally self-indulgent, and my first fic after a month (or so)! Don't worry, you're still getting those other Fictober prompts, this is just something that came to my mind yesterday and I had to write it. I wish I had a Matt Murdock to take care of me, so I wrote this. I hope I'm not too rusty.

Read Me On AO3!

The cold compress seeps into the swollen skin of your eyelids, though it offers only a small reprieve from the ache and itchiness that make you want to claw your eyes out like a feral cat under attack.

Tissues lay strewn around the coffee table, each one soaked in tears and whatever else came out when you wiped them dry. The apartment reminds you more of the set of a bad chick-flick rather than a home. Most of the time it resembles a crime scene or a poorly supplied hospital when your risk-friendly boyfriend decides he just has to get himself into another fight for the greater good, but this New Year’s, the only casualty that came out of the holidays is you—defeated by your own immune system.

You haven’t been properly sick in a year. For 366 days, you’ve been free of any viral or bacterial infections, and the one time you decide to have dinner with your family you end up with a nasty infection: conjunctivitis. Yes, you started the new year with fucking pink eye and a cold, and now you’re stuck at home for your last few days off work, feeling miserably sorry for yourself.

“Here,” Matt appears in your one functioning line of sight with a bowl of soup in hand, “You need to eat something.”

“Thank you,” you say through a congested nose, and he can’t help but smile at how adorable that sounds.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I want to put a finger into my eye and scratch it out.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So, not good?”

You shake your head. “I’m annoyed. And in pain. And I can’t fucking breathe!” As if to underline your frustration, your lungs constrict and you cough up a not-so-delicious ball of phlegm.

Matt’s hand instantly moves to your back, rubbing gentle circles until the oxygen returns to where it needs to be. Your breathing becomes rapid before it slows down again, and you swallow.

“Fuck me,” you mumble.

“When you’re feeling better,” he retorts almost cheekily, but the joke doesn’t get much of a response. He knows how miserable you are. He can hear it in the way you breathe, your elevated heartbeat, and the pulsing of the skin around the infected eye. You wear your discomfort on your very sleeves. He doesn’t want to imagine what it feels like for you.

Instead of joking any more, Matt gently removes the compress from your eye. “Let me get you a new one,” he offers. Your first instinct is to cover up. It baffles him; you haven’t hidden from him in a very long time.

Matt takes your hand and places it back down in your lap, a worried frown creasing his forehead. “Don’t do that.”

“I look like I got into a fight,” you say.

At that, he reaches out, fingers gently brushing just above your brow, down your temple, and over the apple of your cheek. He can feel the heat radiating from your skin, the inflammation that’s causing your eye to swell, but the picture his fingertips paint is a stark contrast to your own description.

“No, you don’t,” he says. And Matt knows better than anyone what one might look like after a fight.

His touch is so gentle, far away from where you’re hurting but close enough to feel his need to fix you. To heal you. To take your pain away and make it his own just so you wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. Your heart flutters like a newborn butterfly. You look into his hazel eyes, how soft they are, and it makes you melt. If you could only see yourself the way he sees you... The way he loves you seems like a gift from God himself.

His touch disappears, and you bite back a pathetic whimper. “Be right back,” he says.

You watch as he rises to his feet and heads back to the kitchen, grabbing another cool compress from the fridge before returning to your side.

“There you go.” He places it against your eye and holds it there. “So you can eat.”

You want to say, ‘You’re doing too much’, but then you realize that you’re with the kind of man who would shoulder the world for you even when he’s already drowning to make sure life is just a little easier for you. And while that feels like entirely too much, more than you deserve, you can’t find it in yourself to tell him to stop. Not that he would do so, anyway.

Every bone in your body aches, but the pain blurs in comparison to what he makes you feel.

You take the bowl of soup he prepared and dig in. It’s your favorite, yet scarcely seasoned to not irritate your throat any further. When your stomach is finally full and he’s satisfied, he reaches for the bottle of eyedrops standing tall amongst the graveyard of tissues. He knows to think about everything when you can’t.

“Lean back,” he instructs softly.

“I don’t want you to get sick,” you protest.

“I won’t. I know you hate doing this yourself. Now lean back.”

He’s even more stubborn when you’re sick, but only because you’re stubborn, too. You don’t protest further, simply leaning your head back to give him better access.

Matt gently searches for your lower lid with his fingers, pulling it back ever so gently before squeezing the first drop in. Then, he moves on to the second eye. Your eyes instinctively squeeze shut at the sudden intrusion. It burns. Will it ever stop, you wonder?

“I’m sorry,” he wipes away any excess tears threatening to escape, “it’ll get better in a second.”

You huff a breath of disapproval, but not at his words. “I’m never visiting my family again unless they give me a detailed list of who’s sick,” you say.

Matt stutters for a moment, then bursts out laughing.

“I’m serious! Small children are little Petri dishes, carrying viruses and bacteria that continue to mutate into God knows what. Petri dishes, Matthew!”

You sound so beside yourself, he can’t help himself. He adds the used tissue to the coffee table pile and pulls you into his arms, his laugh rumbling against the top of your head as he presses his lips against your heated scalp. “This is New York, sweetheart,” he says, “the entire city is a Petri dish.”

“And I will avoid it like the plague if I have to.”

He chuckles. “Okay.” A pause, and then, “You’re so much moodier when you’re sick.”

If you had the strength you would smack his pretty face for that statement alone, but you really, really don’t. You can barely sit up on your own. So, you nudge him with your elbow and grumble, “Shut up.”

With a bright smile on his face, he gives you another squeeze. “I love you too,” he says.

You squeeze his bicep three times to assure him that yes, you do love him, and you can’t help but think that perhaps being coddled in Matt Murdock’s arms while recovering from a little infection isn’t so bad, after all. It certainly could be worse.

fluff tag list: @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @ravenclaw617 @lucienofthelakes @steve-chandler @mochie-is-a-librarian

#matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x gender neutral reader #daredevil x reader #sick fic #charlie cox

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dragonshoardofworks · 4 months ago

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Reincarnation Everlasting Trio Part 1 (DPxDC)

(I started this when my idle brain was disassociating on a job that I don't dislike but my boss is an ass, so go me, yey!)

And look at that! I managed to finish Part 1 just in time for Valentine's day!

Part 1 (you're here!) | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Prompt: TUE happened (the timeline is a bit messed up, tho, so not everything followed the number of the episodes), but Clockwork didn't reverse the second explosion.

Danny, not wanting history to repeat itself, fakes his death along with his family and friends in the Nasty Burger and after ransacking the lab plus destroying the Portal (& FentonWorks since he's making it look like it was a full Ecto-filter's fault), he gtfo.

Danny's pretty done with life, but since he's a halfa, he's functionally immortal, so the only way to get "eternal sleep" is something similar to Pariah's sarcophagus.

But contrary to what the Ancients did back then, Danny would hide his coffin himself where no one would find him.

In a place rich of ambient ectoplasm (to power up the tech that would keep him “safe”), but inaccessible to anyone who doesn't have intangibility and even then he would put up an Ecto-shield to prevent anyone to bypass the solid bedrock that he would use as natural barricade.

Amity is not a safe Ecto-rich place anymore because of Vlad, so the next best city seems to be Gotham, what with the ley lines and several ghost curses layered on there.

So Danny digs a chamber hundreds meters under Gotham and builds from scratch his prison, going out only three or four times to get some missing scraps and just enough food and water to let him finish the job (completely ignoring the new vigilantes starting to go out at night).

(He meets Robin!Dick once and most likely a still-stray Jason, but he quickly forgets about them, since he's too depressed to care.)

Once finished the project, Danny goes stargazing as Phantom at the highest point of the city one last time, where (a still not overly paranoid) Batman converges to assess him as a threat.

The two talk and have a heart-to-heart (mostly because Bruce sees another grieving kid like Dick and tries somehow to help), but nothing B says is enough to make Phantom desist from what Bruce thinks is commiting suicide.

However, Danny still thanks him for trying and for treating him like a person (Anti-Ecto-Acts are mentioned during their talk and you can bet that later B is gonna check on them) and that Batman is going to be a good dad for his kids.

(This comment leads later to a kinder timeline than the mess that is canon. ꒰(@｀꒳´)꒱ )

Danny manages to snatch one hug from the man, then he flees to the secret chamber, where he “goes to sleep” after engaging every lock and shield.

Even if Batman managed to tag Danny with a bug, he misses his signal once he goes underground and that makes him regret not being able to save him.

Maybe if he had been more open and emotionally reachable, he would have succeeded?

(...and that's how Bruce starts to go to therapy, but shhhhh!)

Years pass and Danny stays as a Sleeping Beauty, however, despite being good at science, he doesn't know everything, so he couldn't have imagined that water would filter through the rock and start pooling inside the chamber (the equipment is luckily waterproof).

However, the passive Ecto-radiation and the small amount of pure ectoplasm that leaks from the top of the filter, makes the water slowly turn into its Lazarus variant.

Though, contrary to LoA’s Water, this Lazarus Pit is pure and uncorrupted due to the filtering machines.

Over the years (~15… 😏) the water digs through the chamber and shapes it into a cave that eventually connects to the Batcave.

Maybe the cave-in of a wall, makes some of the Robins go and check if the stability of the ground is still sound and find the Lazarus Pit that covers (almost) completely both the shield and sight of what's under the surface.

When the kids report, B asks for a complete scan of the Pit and it results in discovering that there's something at the bottom.

So they send an aquatic probe to look into it directly and come up to the coffin that has something written on the top in case some ghost did manage to find Danny's spot but not enter the barrier.

(The probe, being “normal”, is able to pass without problem through the shield, though.)

The text is written in multiple languages (just in case) and reads:

“Here lies Danny Phantom. Please do not disturb me while I'm resting, as I want to half-live the saying ‘I’ll sleep when I'm dead.’”

For the first time ever, Damian snorts in genuine amusement aloud and doesn't notice (the other Bats do and start freaking out), but then the camera zooms to the face of the boy inside the coffin and Bruce does a double take as he recognizes the kid he wasn't able to save.

That moment of shock is enough to make the man freeze and not be able to react in time to Damian lunging to the Pit and diving directly inside of it.

The BatFam starts to freak out even more and try to direct the probe to go and save Damian, but at the end they just manage to see live what he's doing.

Like it's just a normal salvage, Robin!Damian just ignites the instant floating buoys and that makes all the equipment emerge, with Damian sitting on the top of the coffin, completely ignoring the calls of the Bats.

Immediately, Damian starts hacking the controls of the coffin, but it's not needed since as soon as he starts typing, the computer lights up and seemingly recognizes him, giving him immediate full access.

Still ignoring the calls (no one can reach him since he's too far from the shore), Damian disengages the lock and “defrosts” Danny.

It takes a bit for him to wake up, but as soon as Danny starts to blink blearily, Damian is into his face, shouting.

“‘I'll sleep when I'm dead’? Really, Danny? You absolute moron!”

It takes a couple of seconds to register anything, but as soon as he does, Danny gasps and leaps at Robin, snake-bear hugging him, as he climbs and clings all over the other boy.

(If either of them is crying while laughing, no they aren't: it's just the lingering Lazarus Water on their faces.)

Too scared to accidentally trigger the unknown “being” into constricting Damian to death, the BatFam waits, analyzing the interaction.

(Cass silently reassures them that they aren't a threat.)

“How?!” It's the first thing that ‘Phantom’ says, leaning a bit back to cup their hands on Damian's face, trying to look into his eyes, but the mask is in the way.

Casually, Robin unmasks himself (!!) and smirks smugly, holding the meta(?) by the waist.

“You do remember that incident at the Egyptian Exhibit, don't you?” A nod, accompanied by a desolate puppy-like expression. “Did you really think that I would have waited that long to come back and find you?”

This time the tears are undeniable and, to hide them, the being buries their head in the crook of Damian's shoulder, clinging harder, but not enough to harm him.

“Where's Sam?” The being asks, muffled, after a while.

“No clue, I just started remembering from reading the pun and seeing your face.”

“Humph, that checks out. ...We'll have to go and look for her, since she's twice as stubborn as you and so she would have come back too.” Damian snorts in amusement, but nods. There's a pause, then Danny jolts, leaning back from him to look at the other better with a frown.

“Wait, why are you drenched in ectoplasm?!” He looks around and sees the Pit. “Wtf dude, this is so not healthy for you, com’on, I have to decontaminate you, you moron!”

(At this, Danny gets so many points in B’s books.)

“Nah, don’t bother.” Damian shrugs, putting a hand on his own chest. “I know my body and with the memory of past me coming back, I think I’m already on the way of becoming a halfa? At least, the humming beside my heart feels much like your Core.”

Danny startles and puts his own hand on the other’s to assess himself.

“Before taking a dip in this Pit to salvage your ass, it wasn’t noticeable, but the ectoplasm must have fed it enough to become active.” Damian guesses as Danny examines the evidence.

“Not ‘on the way’, try ‘already are’. How’s that even possible?” Danny gapes.

“Sweet! Now we can go flying together!” Damian beams.

“Forget that for a second and answer me! This feels like a complete baby-Core, much like mine right after the Accident, but at the same time it’s older?” Danny frowns. “Like 15 or so years old.” Looks up at Damian in confusion.

“That checks out. My current grandfather is a cultist revenant ass (*BatFam gasps in shock*) who’s obsessed with using Pits of corrupted ectoplasm to stay alive. I got tossed inside one a couple of times to be revived as well and I don’t doubt for a second that some of it was used to develop me in the artificial womb.”

“Duuuude, how does your new life sound more crazy than ours back then?”

“The merit of choosing to be reincarnated as the heir of a vigilante Father,” Damian points at the Bats with a thumb, making Danny notice them for the first time, “the ‘curse’ of an interesting life and the chance to meet you again, I guess.”

After a glance that promises ‘we’ll talk about that later’ to Damian, Danny turns properly to the BatFam and startles at seeing Batman. “Oh, it’s the Bat-dude!” Quick glance at the rest of the people, “I knew you would be a good dad! Tucker wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise!”

There are various splutters from every BatFam member and Damian grumbles in embarrassment.

“Wait, you know him B?” Red Robin side-turns towards Batman, frowning. “There’s no report of him in any file of the Batcomputer. And I’ve read all of them.”

“...Because I never wanted a record of my failure glaring back at me. I already gave myself a hard time as it was, it would have made things worse and Black Canary agreed with that assessment.” B admits.

“What failure?” Jason (who has another vigilante name, since, you know, the Red Hood moniker was to spite B and in this timeline there’s no need for that) gapes.

“Probably me coming down here to get some ‘Eternal Sleep’.” Danny shuts off the barrier, picks up Damian and flies with him on the shore, phasing the residual ecto from their forms. “You thought it was an euphemism for suicide, not literal, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, you did give that impression. Are you alright, son?” B looks at Damian, still not outing his civilian name to be on the safe side.

“Of course, Father. This Ectoplasm Pit has none of the junk Grandfather’s has. Danny knows his stuff and his Ecto-filters are the top notch. (Danny blushes in the bg at the praise) Heck, it could even be used to cure Pit Madness or to revive people without it in the first place.”

“Let’s not try it, please!” Danny hastily intervenes, “No dying for anyone in my family allowed now that I’m back!”

“Dude, we aren't immortal and you know that.” Damian shoulders Danny in scolding.

“They aren't immortal, you mean. You're a halfa now. Death won't stick on us in any way that matters, so I don't want anyone getting KiA at least. If they get to the point of being old and happy, then I'm fine with them going to rest. But don't think that I will leave your side any time soon.” Danny says pointedly at Damian, who bristles.

“That's completely insane, you can't be everywhere and above all you can't stalk me everywhere! I'm Robin, Batman's right hand, I won't be babysat when I have more experience than you no-” Damian's rant gets silenced by Danny kissing him.

Even after he lets go, Damian's brain is still blue screening while the BatFam is either gaping or catcalling.

“Tucker, or whatever you new name is, why do you think I went to sleep there after you all died in your past life?” Points at the coffin. “You remember that ‘Other Me’?”

“Vaguely, details are still a bit fuzzy, but he didn’t say much anyway after he tied us to the boiler…” Damian blinks, still a bit dazed by the kiss, but then grimaces at Danny’s flinch.

“Yeah, well, he actually went insane after losing you since that gave him an Obsession Failure. He broke down so deeply and irreversibly that it twisted him enough that accepting Vlad’s help led him to being the Scourge of Humanity. I-I… promised you to never become like him, so… this was the only way I could do that. I didn’t know what else to do, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save you after all!” Danny breaks down, crying and sobbing and collapsing against Damian, as he cradles him in his arms.

Damian tries to console him with both physical affection (hugs and caresses) and murmuring reassurances (things like ‘it’s okay, it’s alright, it’s not your fault’) until the outburst slows down and his latest proposition catches Danny’s attention.

“Do you want to meet Batcow? She’s a true sweetheart, her therapist abilities are without equals among the living.”

“...You have a pet cow?” Danny’s voice is still rough with tears, but his disbelief is unmistakable.

“Of course I can have a pet cow! I saved her from an inhumane slaughterhouse, what I’ve seen there even made me swear off meat!” Damian!Tucker says righteously, but then realization sinks in as he stares with growing horror into Danny’s wide eyes.

“Oh Ancients, I’ve become like Sam! And I can’t even go back on the belief of my new life because both she and my current self have a point!”

That seems another breaking point, because Danny starts laughing so hard that he’s crying again.

“It’s not funny Danny, I’m having a crisis here!” Damian!Tucker cries in despair (to hide the relief that his best friend/crush/future boyfriend? isn’t as hopeless and depressed as before) as he lightly shakes the other, making him laugh even harder.

(He won’t let him go either. As Damian, now Tucker has all the skills he lacked in his past life and can protect his People. He won’t fail again.)

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goquokka00 · 4 months ago

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SKZ vs Shark Week (Jisung ver.)

How would each member of Stray Kids handle you while you're on your period?

WARNING: This is a female reader going through their period. If the topic of a period/anything that has to do with a period makes you uncomfortable, then don't read it. Just remember that there's nothing wrong with a woman's period. It's a perfectly healthy body function :)

THE MOODS To put it simply, you had anxiety. A lot of it. So much of it, it was pretty common for you to actually get panic attacks before your period. The second you got too stressed out, or too overwhelmed, or there was too many people around you, boom. You'd be too much in your own head, and panic attacks would occur.

Thankfully, Jisung related a lot. And because you always helped him when he had panic attacks, he wasn't scared to help you out, either. He'd take you somewhere secluded and cuddle with you, holding you close and not letting you go. A lot of times, he'd put on a Disney movie or Howl's Moving Castle, and gently sing along with the songs or hum to the music to give you something else to focus on.

His biggest focus was making sure you knew that you were safe, and that it was okay to feel the way you were feeling. He never pressures you into talking about what has you so anxious, always letting you speak on your terms. Though, a lot of times, you'd ask him to keep singing or speaking. And he'd always be happy to do so.

THE BLOOD Your flow was...well, it wasn't heavy. But it definitely wasn't light. It was in the middle, leaning towards heavy. And so a lot of times, you'd just feel uncomfortable. Who wouldn't? You were sitting in your own pile of blood a lot of the day, not even Jisung disagreed. And while there wasn't much he could do, he'd make sure that you were at least somewhat comfortable.

He'd wrap you up in blankets, give you PLENTY of kisses, get Minho to cook whatever it was you were hungry for (because we all know Jisung can't cook well), and while he knew you wouldn't want to cuddle, he would still keep an arm around your shoulder and have you tucked into his side.

THE PAIN While your pain wasn't as bad as Changbin's girl, you still got crazy cramps, pelvic pain, and lower back pain. Walking hurt, sitting hurt...there were times you'd just have to squat and deal with the feeling of being punched in the gut. It sucked. But you also had a Jisung.

When you were feeling like this, he'd always do a few things to make sure you were relaxed and weren't in pain. Firstly, he'd make you take pain killers. Then, he'd lay you down on top of him so your stomachs were both touching before covering you with a heated blanket. Why? Because Jisung was a human radiator. He was a warm, warm human. And so, his body would act like a heat pad for your cramps while your lower back got heat from the blanket.

All the while, he'd carefully massage the pain from your back and hips away. Half the time, you'd end up falling asleep while he did this because it was so relaxing. And Jisung would be beaming. And again, he'd give you plenty of kisses to ease you even further. Anything for his baby.

THE PRODUCT Jisung refused to go to the store for you. Even if you begged on your hands and knees, promising to spoil him for the rest of eternity, it would be a no. Too much anxiety came with that, were you kidding? What if he got the wrong size? What if he got the wrong product? What if he couldn't remember and had to talk to an employee? What if fans spotted him? What if he got made fun of, or laughed at, or made a fool of himself?

Even with your reassurances, he just couldn't do it. But he would order them for you through a delivery service. Sure, why not? He's not going into the public; nobody would know it was him! That was an easy task.

Now when it came to used products, Jisung didn't mind. He'd actually count the bloody tampons and pads (not by touching them, just by what he could see) to make sure you were changing them regularly. And if you weren't, well...he'd come and harass you about it. Duh. If you weren't taking care of yourself, then he'd take care of you himself for you. And if that meant harassing you about changing your pad or tampon or cup, then so be it.

Hey! Firstly, thank you so much for reading this post, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, please like, reblog, or comment so I can see how I'm doing with writing and getting feedback! I hope you have a lovely day! Sleep well, stay in good health, and eat something if you haven't! ❤️❤️❤️

Taglist: @miss-daisy04 @kayleefriedchicken @wolfs-archive @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @wolfs-howling @rose-w-00-d

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sspookayy · 4 months ago

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"𝚄𝚗𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗" || Cecil Stedman x Reader

Description:

Where extraordinary beings wield incredible powers, the GDA embarks on a groundbreaking project to synthesize DNA in pursuit of creating the ultimate weapon. But when things don't go as planned the project everyone was worked so hard for is put on hold, suspended in time.

"I don't understand.. If you loved me then why did you do this?!"

"Love makes us make tough decisions sometimes."

I LOVE THIS MAN.

I haven't really seen anyone write much fanfic about Cecil, and well hes my favorite character so i have to do the Cecil simps justice. Updates may be slow because i have an actual irl job and bills to pay but I'm gonna try my best and et chapters out in a timely manner.

*crossposted on Tumblr, Wattpad, and Ao3*

________________________

Introduction-

The wall clock ticked relentlessly on, each second whispering in counterpoint to the clang of metal and grunts. You paused briefly in your exercise, beads of sweat trickling down your forehead as you gazed about at the stark, unyielding walls of the government compound that was home. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, their cold light casting an unforgiving glare on the rows of weights and machines that were now familiar companions in your endless pursuit of power.

Today, like every day preceding it, you were in the training room, pushing against the limits of your flesh. The weight of expectation had borne down on you since the day that they concluded you were an "experiment"—a component of a program to mold human potential into something greater, yet an offspring of circumstance gone awry.

You were different—not another test subject, but a pioneer of hybrid experimentation. Your creators had attempted to create a weapon, but you had become something more: a being imbued with unbelievable strength, agility, flight and reflexes, approaching the scale that was the Immortal in ability. You were a creation of their ambition, and while the world around you buzzed with the murmurs of heroism and glory, you had been kept under the veil of uncertainty.

You took a deep breath and seized the heavy dumbbells to begin another set of reps, muscles contorting and flexing as you pushed yourself to your limits. Your prison—your estranged home within these walls that held your secrets and torturers alike. You were coming to the end of your set when the door creaked open, the intrusion jolting you out of your focus.

"Impressive as always."

The voice was deep and resonant, heavy like the weights you were using, and it sent a thrill of recognition down your spine. You dropped the dumbbells and turned and faced Director Radcliffe—a tall, older man with sharp features, dark brown eyes, and an intelligence that radiated even in this austere environment. He was the Director of the Global Defense Agency, one of whose main functions was running the experiments.

"Sir," you breathed, attempting to conceal your surprise at his abrupt arrival. "What brings you here?"

He strode towards you with a swagger that belied the seriousness of the facility and delivered a smirk that played at the corners of his mouth. "Just stopping by to visit our most promising subject. I've been hearing whispers about your advancements, and I can tell that they're not merely rumors."

Radcliffe nodded towards the equipment, his gaze remaining on you—a combination of curiosity and admiration. You were naked, exposed; a combination of admiration and caution simmering between you as he gazed at you.

"Getting stronger every day," you replied, keeping your tone deliberately casual. "But I'm still waiting for the day I'm not a set of experiments." deliberately keeping your tone light."They seem to not be too keen on unleashing me on the world yet." You sat down on the bench that sat alongside the huge mirror that stretched along the whole wall and took the towel that was lying across it to wipe your face in an attempt to get rid of the thin layer of sweat that was covering your face.

Director Radcliffe leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a curious smile spreading across his face. "You see, with the right mindset, even experiments can become pioneers. They just need the right environment to thrive." There was seriousness in his voice that suggested he knew more than he said, as if the very fabric of your life was woven with both potential and restriction.

You glanced up at him in the mirror, the overhead fluorescent lights casting a glare that was so harsh your reflection was almost ghostly. "I suppose so. But what if all they care about is how mindlessly I can follow orders?" You let the towel drop into your lap, the damp cloth a reminder of just how hard you were driving yourself—not just physically, but mentally.

He straightened, his demeanor shifting by degrees, as if he intercepted the undertone of your annoyance. "We understand what you're capable of. Your progress is... " He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Impressive. But I am not at liberty to ignore the risks of releasing you prematurely. You are not just a collection of skills—you're a person with a life ahead of you."

"Why do I feel like I'm in a cage, then?" you shot back, startling yourself with the venom in your tone. You could feel the tension building in the air, strained and charged.

Radcliffe's eyes softened as he took in a step closer. "Change is hard. I do know that. Yet every experiment started with a spark—your spark. We're preparing you for something more than you can presently see. You're not a tool. You can be a leader.".

You let his words hang, considering the weight they carried. Progress. Leadership. What would that even look like for someone like you? "I hope you're not just saying that to soften the blow," you said tentatively, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you both.

"Trust me, I'm not," he replied, his tone level and sincere. "But I need you to commit to the process. Training isn't about physical strength alone—it's about building the foundations of what you're capable of becoming."

You took the towel again, this time using it to wipe the sweat from your forearms. Maybe he was right. There could be more to this quest than you realized. "And if I fail?" you asked, your heart racing at the thought.

Radcliffe smiled, a hint of warmth breaching his normally stoic demeanor. "Then we learn. That's the beauty of experimentation—you can always adjust and try again."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. The path ahead of you was still uncertain, yet maybe, just maybe, the light at the end of your metaphorical tunnel was closer than you thought.

—

The day had drained you, each test and trial bearing down on your shoulders like a pile of bricks, a reminder of the burden you bore as you struggled to discover what you could do. Thankfully, the only thing left was to take your end-of-day vitals. Perched atop the unforgiving surface of the chilly, sterile examination table, you were able to sense a chill send a shiver up your exposed thighs, the fabric of your shorts far too brief to shield you from the cold metal below. Wires from a nest of machines coiled around you like sinister vines, and electrode pads affixed to your skin, squirming leads to monitors that displayed your EKG and a maelstrom of bewildering readings—esoteric glyphs that appeared to be a code you were desperately attempting to interpret.

The soft, soothing beeping of the machines almost lulled you into a restful sleep, but the cold, hard lights overhead were pitiless in their glare. Surrounded by an army of physicians and researchers prodding and poking at your body, you knew the largest threat was not in their intrusive methods but what followed: the return to your chambers, the place you disliked most, except for the frigid, unyielding halls of this tyrannical institute. As your gaze shifted to the left, you noticed a couple of operators and managers observing the professionals at work, their glances flicking with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

Far away, beyond the big window, ordinary people went about their everyday lives, becoming part of the rhythm of normalcy. Longing arose within you to be among them; to experience the comfort of a humdrum existence—a good job, a quiet day, a loving family. Such longings lay in the realm of dreams, an illusion which you knew would forever be out of your grasp. Amidst this sea of onlookers, your attention was suddenly drawn to Director Radcliffe, conversing with a passerby.

Squinting your eyes in an attempt to slice through the distance, your super-vision eventually caught up with the young man who had caught your attention. His smooth-slicked hair and authoritative height were equaled only by his sharply chiseled features, which spoke to authority. The gravity of the meeting was sensed, the tension so powerful it sliced through the sterile air. Then, suddenly, the young man shifted slightly, his intense eyes fastening onto yours like a shot of electricity. His eyes, an electric blue, pierced into your very being with an intensity that produced a shiver racing along your spine.

It was as if he could look right through the glass wall of your room, cutting through the layers of your being, stripping away the facade to reveal the vulnerable core within. For a moment, all else in the world outside of you melted away, and you were left with the weight of his scrutiny—a refined blend of curiosity mixed with something darker and more profound. You ached to look away, to recede into the sanitary folds of your hospital robe, but some inexplicable pull kept you riveted. Pity or judgment? Or something worse?

The beeping of equipment faded into the background, drowned out by the mesmerizing hold of his unseeing stare, stirring within you emotions long suppressed in the shadows. It was as though, in the bottom of that stare, he saw your unspoken wishes, your dreams of flight from this antiseptic jail. While the heaviness of his glance nearly strangled you, he tilted his brow infinitesimally, ever so small yet incredibly powerful an action, so it conveyed something unstated in between the two of you that was at once exciting and scary, which passed between the freezing emptiness of the lab and united the two of you into something akin to communion.

And since the moment was trapped halfway between suspended and reality, time itself stumbled, confusing the manner in which it must divide your closed-in reality from his certain truth. The sterile white walls of the room melted away, and for an instant, you were no longer merely a specimen of study, but a contributing participant in an unspoken debate—a bond of trust that poured from mutual helplessness and individual comprehension.

With each gasp of air, you felt the desire well up within you; the urge to flee the shackles of your existence. The world beyond your horizons, with all its mundane indulgences and small victories, beckoned you like a distant siren, promising freedom and a place of belonging. But as the electric blue of his eyes remained unmoved, a glimmer of hope was kindled in your chest. Perhaps, in that fleeting moment of comprehension, you could find the courage to dream once more—not just of a life beyond these bars, but of a world where your own desires were not on the fringes of fantasy.

With that in mind, you understood the weight of his eyes, allowing it to be a silent vow: to battle for freedom, resist the emptiness that wished to engulf you completely, and reclaim the vibrant life you had always imagined, no matter what.

Word Count:1869

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zorrasucia · 9 months ago

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❛ i’m not wearing any underwear. thought you’d like to know. ❜ carmy berzatto pls

Hi Anon! ✨

Of course! This is some established relationship naughtiness at The Bear. I hope you enjoy it! 💜

It was one of the first days of fall, and probably one of the last warm days of the year. And so, you were enjoying the weather: wearing your favorite dress and cleaning your apartment with the window open to let the soft breeze in. Your phone rang, the name on the screen read Sydney 🐻.

"Hi, Syd," you greeted her with a smile.

"Hey, uh," she hesitated, the sound of a hectic kitchen in the background. "Remember you told me I could call you when Carmy was being a pain in the ass? I know it was a joke and, you know, I'm not his babysitter and you're not either. Like, I know that. But, uh-" she had a nervous tone in her voice.

"Syd, it's okay," you reassured her. "It's Saturday, I bet things are insane in the kitchen."

"You have no idea," she let out a nervous chuckle. "I seriously wouldn't even be calling if I-"

Syd was right, that you weren't Carmy's babysitter but you could probably talk some sense into him. Besides, you didn't have work today - and they'd probably give you leftovers for your troubles.

"Hey. I'm on my way," you said. "Don't worry."

"Okay, okay," Syd sighed. "I'll, uh, I'll try to chill in the meantime."

You grabbed your keys and bag... You suddenly had a sinful idea and grinned.

You walked through the back door, avoiding servers and chefs, mumbling 'behind' every so often like you'd seen the rest of them do. You could make out Carmy's hoarse voice between all the noise.

"This steak is fucking dead! Refire. Chefs, wake the fuck up!"

"Hey, Carm," you called him.

He turned to look at you, eyes wide and fiery. "What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Do you have a sec?" you said with a polite smile.

"Not really. I-" he looked disoriented and frantic.

Syd stepped in, looking determined. "I'll handle it. Go."

Carmy led you inside his office, exasperation radiating from him.

"Why are you-?" he started.

"Uh, Syd called," you replied, giving him a knowing look as he closed the door behind you.

"Fuck."

"Yeah. She said you were being a pain in the ass," you leaned on his desk.

"I- uh-" he hesitated, then covered his face, red from the heat of the kitchen but also from anger and shame. "She- she was being nice. I'm being an asshole."

You sat on his desk and sighed. "Thought so."

"Huh?" he tilted his head. You had caught him by surprise.

You gestured for him to come closer, so you could talk softer and look him in the eye.

"Listen, I know it gets super loud in your head, and you get overwhelmed and you lash out," you had seen it happen once or twice. "You need to step down when that happens."

"Syd-" he avoided your gaze. "Yeah, Syd has suggested it."

"So?" you cupped his face and tilted it towards you. "Can you do that? Can you let go for ten minutes and calm the fuck down?"

He blinked hard, stressed.

"I don't know," he confessed after a moment of consideration.

"I think you can, Carm," you encouraged him. Then, you put the second, more inappropriate part of your plan in motion. You grabbed his chef whites, and brought him closer, opening your legs to accommodate him. Then you whispered: "I'm not wearing any underwear. Thought you'd like to know."

Carmy stared at you, mouth agape.

"We're in the middle of service-"

"Listen," you gestured at the door. There were no loud bangs or screams, just the normal bustle of a kitchen; if anything it was quieter than when you first entered. "Syd is handling it. The rest of the kitchen is functioning. The sky isn't falling," you grabbed his face with both hands. "Now, will you just fuck me?"

"Shit."

He leaned down to kiss you hard, all tongue and teeth, biting a little. You ran your fingers through his hair, bringing him closer, crossing your ankles behind his waist.

"I need this to be fucking fast," he rasped against your lips.

"I know," you smiled while untying his apron and unbuckling his belt.

The mere indecency of showing up to Carmy's place of work planning to fuck him had made you wet enough to take him that very moment.

"Condoms?" he asked.

You took one out of your bag and handed it to him, palming his cock impatiently through his trousers.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He lowered his trousers and boxers just enough to pull out his cock. He grabbed the back of your knees to pull you closer to the edge of his desk, something feral about him. You bunched up your dress all the way up to your hips, confirming that you were indeed bare under it. Carmy's eyes widened.

"Shit..." his fingers touched your drenched pussy. "You planned this, the whole thing."

You nodded proudly, biting on your lip when he entered you.

"Can't believe you showed up, in the middle of service-" he murmured. "Jesus... To fuck me."

"Desperate times," you touched your forehead to his, his gaze intense. He bottomed out and you covered his mouth to muffle a whine. "See? I think you need it."

That was the tiny push he craved.

He fucked you mercilessly, forceful thrusts while he grabbed your thighs hard, keeping you on the edge of the desk, right where he wanted you. His rhythm was frantic, half out of urgency and half out of anger. You kept your hand on his mouth, silencing the tirade of curses and primal groans he was blurting. Your eyes were on him, breathy pleas leaving your lips.

"Give it to me. It's okay. Please. I need you. Please," you weren't sure if he could actually hear it all but you couldn't stop, not when you were so close to your release. Your pussy tightened around his cock, pulsing.

His grip on you faltered, eyebrows raising as he looked at you for confirmation.

You nodded, eyes half lidded in ecstasy. "Let go, baby. Let go."

He gave you a few desperate thrusts, your palm vibrating with the sound of his moans as he came.

Suddenly, the room felt eerily quiet, the only sounds that mattered were Carmy's panting and your heart's beating. You lowered your hand from his mouth to his chest.

"Shit," he closed his eyes, collecting himself.

"Mhmm," you swayed in your seat, moving his softening cock as you did so. "Better?"

He nodded, a little sheepish. "Thank you."

"Hey. Can't do this every time," you said honestly. The likelihood of you coming to fuck some sense into him on weekdays was low to none. "But why don't you think about this next time you're about to lose it?" you suggested.

"You want me to get hard while running the expo?" he chuckled. His heartbeat was slowing down.

"I mean, if that's what it takes to get you to step down and chill, sure," you teased.

While the idea of Carmy fucking his hand while thinking of you was appealing, it seemed a little impractical to do at the restaurant.

"Might just take a smoke break," he offered. "Save the fucking for when I get home."

"Deal," you kissed him and tapped his cheek gently. "Now, come on, get out there."

He got dressed and ready at a dizzying speed, taking time to rearrange your dress and kiss you one last time before returning to the kitchen. He left the door ajar, and you peeked just in time to see him give an apologetic nod to Syd and ask her to continue running the expo. It was a start. You were satisfied.

#this is the last of the 300 followers celebration requests - thank you SO much everyone that sent an ask! 💜💜💜#i'm going to start working on promptober; i've got the vampire one locked and loaded which is quite exciting!#carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmy berzatto x you #carmy x you #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto fanfiction #zorrasuciasweet300

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chocodile · 7 months ago

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Amaranthine Magic System PART I: Remedial Magic For Beginners

This is Part III of a three-part worldbuilding set.

Part I (you are here) - Part II - Part III

Okay so… weird starting point, but do you remember these jerks from middle school math class? Function graphs! (I hated these things so much) The simplest possible function is a basic straight line, but by modifying the function, the graphed line can distort and take on all sorts of new shapes.

Magic is a lot like that.

The best way to describe spellcasting would be “filtering waves of energy”. Imagine a sine wave, oscillating up and down in a simple, predictable pattern. That is magical energy in its default state. It exists as background radiation throughout the whole world and permeates all living things… though some things conduct magic better or worse than others. (Magic has a lot in common with the electromagnetic spectrum in the real world)

What wizards do when they cast magic is that they amplify and tweak this ambient background energy in just the right way to contort it into a new form (lightning, a shockwave, fire, etc). The core nature of the energy doesn’t really change, but by exaggerating, filtering, and suppressing that oscillating wave in just the right amounts, in just the right places, in just the right order, it can be transformed into something very different than its base form. You could also think of it a bit like a musician playing a wind instrument, modulating the tone by covering and uncovering holes, or a puppetmaster pulling strings of a marionette—you need to deeply understand the physics at play and give each string just the right amount of slack and pull to make it do what you want.

The most common type of magical energy is magic in a neutral, passive state, just sort of existing passively as background radiation. Like the electromagnetic spectrum and gravity, it is deeply intertwined with how life evolved in this world, but also is so innate as to be largely unnoticeable. It is energy without a physical form. However, it can be harnessed and stored, given the right conduit. Under these circumstances it behaves similar to electricity.

Certain types of physical material are better at holding and manipulating magic than others. Substances that hold or amplify magic work because something about their physical molecular structure bends and filters the magic “waves” in a way that “traps” that energy inside of them, or amplifies the frequency of the waves. Nearly all crystalline structures and precious gems have some sort of magic-amplifying capability, with the best ones being highly prized and fetching crazy prices for large, pure specimens. Skilled Old Kingdom wizards could engineer such gemstones into Catalyst Stones, a special type of battery/amplifier that wizards could use to cast spells beyond their normal limits. Gemstones and crystals have been traditionally associated with wizards for this reason. However, they are far from the only material with a magical affinity—just one of the most easily recognizable.

…Additionally, other materials might have the opposite effect. Iron is well-known for its wizard-subduing properties. Simply being in a room with a large piece of iron makes a wizard feel ill and weakens their powers. Iron manacles and chains are commonly used to imprison criminal wizards. Not only do they aggressively drain magic from the air, matter, and flesh around them, they prevent the hand gestures that might allow a weakened mage to do any magical manipulation at all.

Magical energy is distributed throughout the world unevenly. Occasionally, the concentration of magic in an area is so high that the environment itself becomes effectively enchanted. A certain range of mountains might be rich in magical ores that have a subtle effect on how water in the region behaves, causing strangely shaped caves and ridges to form in the region. A woodland might be home to a large number of mushrooms that have adapted to make use of magic as a defense mechanism, causing the glen to disorient travelers who walk through it. Magic is infamous for distorting compass readings, too, forcing travelers to carry protective charms to keep their tools usable.

There are all sorts of weird subtle little things like that that can be caused by high concentrations of magic, and magically concentrated areas often have very unique biodiversity that evolved to make use of that specific environment. Discovering, exploring, studying, and documenting these regions is of great interest to many magical scholars (as well as the state interests sometimes backing them, of course).

Magic can do a lot of weird stuff in Amaranthine, but it isn’t as open-ended as most other types of fantasy magic. Things like turning oneself into a dragon are no more possible than they are in real life (unfortunately for some who may wish otherwise). You can get pretty creative with it, and there are surely techniques yet undiscovered that even Hyden doesn’t know about, but no matter how fancy your spellcasting gets, it’ll always just be “manipulating waves of energy”.

#worldbuilding #fantasy worldbuilding #furry #anthro #furry art #verse: amaranthine #my ocs #hyden #others' ocs #ambroys #theo #other parts have already been written but I must draw for them... and this weekend must be dedicated to Wishbone... so it'll be a few days

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eatmyheartoutjpg · 15 days ago

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DOG FIGHT;; Homelander can't lay his hands off of you, even when you're on the job or when you're pissed to hell. And you lose all the patience you had and everything boils over. This ends up creating more tension.

06.09.25 Masterlist

You were a supe.

Not the kind Vought paraded on morning talk shows. Not the shining beacon on billboards or the friendly face shaking hands in war zones for photo ops. You didn’t smile for cameras. You didn’t talk to civilians. Your job was simple: slip in, destabilize, disappear.

You were the one they called when things needed to go wrong. Quietly. Convincingly. Permanently.

Just like Black Noir—except you didn’t hide behind silence or were ever on camera. You hid behind blood and shadows. You were the cause of explosions. The shadow casting over international borders just before the sky caught on fire. You were Vought’s most reliable, used where visibility was the last thing they wanted.

You didn’t mind. Not really.

The job paid obscenely well. The perks were unbelievable. The ethics? Nonexistent. But that was fine. You’d trained yourself to be numb. No names. No attachments. Every target was a checkmark. Every mission was a paycheck.

This one, though… This one was heat and dust and something far more irritating.

You were in Iraq, dropped in under the radar during one of the more “delicate” skirmishes Vought wanted to ignite behind the scenes. Your job was to make things worse. Push the narrative. Stoke the fire. Feed the war machines just enough to justify letting supes loose on foreign soil like gods of death.

It wasn’t noble work. It was necessary. Supposedly.

But right now, all you could think about was how goddamn hot you were.

Your suit clung to your body like a vice, layered and armored to hell and back. You were drenched in sweat. Your chest plate burned against your skin, cooking you from the inside out. Every movement felt like dragging lead through sand. You were overheating, short-tempered, and entirely out of patience.

And then there was him.

You were pressed against the crumbling stone wall of an abandoned townhouse, long gutted by violence. Sand-covered furniture was scattered around the hollowness of the home, blackened and broken. Glassless windows let in sharp, radiating light that turned everything to glare and haze. There wasn’t a soul for miles—just silence, dust, and ruin.

Except for the man wrapped around you like a human furnace.

“Get… off,” you snarled, shoving at his shoulders with one hand while the other gripped a jagged window ledge for balance. You could feel the familiar texture of his suit beneath your gloves—sleek, lightly padded, more form than function. Classic Homelander.

He didn’t move.

His grip only tightened, his arms locked around your waist like he was anchoring himself to something solid. You could feel your own armor biting into your ribs, your holstered weapons jabbing into the meat of your thighs. It wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was unbearable.

“Too hot,” you snapped, louder this time, trying again to push him off. “I'm burning! What the hell is wrong with you?”

But he didn’t let go.

His breath brushed your neck, damp and suffocating. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Too quiet for someone usually drunk on the sound of himself.

“Can we stay like this a little longer?”

The words hit you harder than expected.

There was something raw in his tone. Not seductive. Not mocking. Just… empty. Hollowed out. Like he was asking you not for comfort—but to keep him from unraveling.

And suddenly you weren’t sure what this was anymore.

You didn’t relax. Not fully. You were still pressed between crumbling concrete and a walking nuclear ego. But you stopped resisting. Just for a beat.

You’d seen Homelander cleave people in half with a glance. Heard what he did when he got bored or when someone disappointed him. He was a living weapon wearing a man’s face. Untouchable.

But right now, he wasn’t radiating power. He wasn’t smirking or threatening or performing.

He was clinging.

You let out a slow breath and tilted your head back slightly, feeling the grit of sweat and dirt under your collar.

“What happened?” Your voice was strained, flat. Not because you cared—but because you were trying. Trying to stay patient. Trying not to lose it completely. Sweat rolled down your spine in a slow, burning trail, soaking the back of your suit. It didn’t cool you. It made you itch.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pressed his face deeper into the side of your neck, the sharp tip of his nose dragging across your collarbone like he was trying to vanish into you. Like if he just held tight enough, maybe he wouldn’t fly apart.

You grit your teeth, jaw tightening. "Okay." Your tone dropped, colder now, mechanical. Your arm shifted down from the crumbling ledge and went to your thigh. Your fingers curled around the grip of your holstered pistol—your non-lethal standard for missions where brute force was too messy. A formality, really. You didn’t need it. But it came in handy for moments like this.

You raised it slowly, brought it close to the side of his head. You didn’t give a warning.

You pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the air like a firework in a minefield. A deafening blast right beside his ear—his sensitive ear. The sound must’ve shattered in his skull like a bomb going off. You saw it then: a flinch. Just a twitch, a sharp wince that barely registered—but it was there.

Good.

His grip slackened. Not enough to let go. Not enough to give you space. But it was something.

Still, he wouldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t even acknowledge you.

Your patience fractured.

You brought the pistol down hard—metal smashing against the side of his head with a dull, satisfying crack. Not enough to hurt him, not really. But enough to jar him. Enough to snap him out of… whatever this was.

Finally, his head lifted.

His eyes met yours—and you weren’t prepared for what you saw there. Not rage. Not pride. Just something raw and cracked open. A look that belonged on a child who’d just realized no one was coming to save him.

It didn’t make you feel sorry for him. You just didn’t care.

He blinked, dazed, like he didn’t even realize how tightly he’d been clinging to you until you shoved him—hard—away from your body.

This time, he let you.

You stood alone. Cool air—hot by normal standards, but blissful compared to his suffocating presence—finally washed over your body. You inhaled sharply, jaw clenched, armor pulling at your joints with every movement.

“I have a job to do.” That was all you said.

No anger. No sentiment. Just hard facts.

Because you did have a job. And whatever the hell Homelander was going through? It wasn’t your problem. You weren’t here to fix fucked up, grown men.

You were still in Iraq. Still in that same scorched, gutted town, surrounded by sun-bleached bones of buildings and air so dry it scraped your throat when you breathed.

It was still hot as hell. Still cooking you alive inside your armor like you’d been shoved into an oven and left to bake. Sand stuck to every crease and seam, working its way into your boots, your gloves, your teeth.

You hated the heat. But your job wasn’t done. Vought had ordered a few more days on-site—observe, report, stir the pot. You didn’t argue. You rarely did. Orders were orders, and this mission was simple enough.

All you had to do was give a little taste—just a drop—of Compound V to a handful of deranged gunmen with too much firepower and too little sense. Mercenaries. Warlords. Lunatics with twitchy trigger fingers and nothing to lose. The kind of people Vought liked to weaponize.

You made the drop quietly. No fanfare. Just a suitcase, a handshake, and some carefully worded encouragement.

Now you were waiting.

Waiting for signs of escalation. Waiting for one of those bastards to get itchy and blow a hole through a village with newfound strength. Waiting for satellites to pick up the movement. For whispers to turn into screams. For the government to take the bait. For Vought to step in like a knight in shining armor—with cameras rolling.

It was a chain reaction. Engineered chaos. You were the spark.

You sat on the dusty floor in the corner of a random home (something you did as much as you could to avoid the heat), relishing the shade like it was a blessing. Through a nearby shattered window you could see the desert stretch endlessly, rippling with heat. You squinted, watching the dust spiral over the distant hills, searching for any hint of movement.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. Patience. You just had to wait it out. Let the situation breathe. Let the chaos unfold at its own pace. That’s what they told you. Let it simmer.

Then came the shockwave—a sonic boom that split the sky wide open, followed by a rumbling quake that shook dust loose from the crumbling buildings around you.

You sighed aloud, long and loud, like you were trying to exhale your entire soul.

Your gloved hand dragged up the back of your neck, rough fabric scraping raw skin. It didn’t help. The heat was still unbearable, your suit still stuck to you like a wet body bag. Your fingers dug harder, almost punishing. Trying to control yourself.

You were furious. Not just from the heat or the waiting. But from the interruption.

The sound of boots crunching against scorched sand reached your ears a moment later. Slow. Steady. Not even trying to be subtle. Whoever it was, they wanted you to hear them coming.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t have to. You already knew.

“Motherfucker…” The word slipped out low and venomous as you let your head drop near your spread knees. Your hands stayed behind your neck, jaw clenched tight.

Then came the voice—smooth, amused, like it enjoyed peeling at your last nerve.

“Am I interrupting?”

Of course it was him.

You lifted your head just enough to see his reflection in a fractured shard of glass near your boot—red, white, and blue all smeared with dust and sand. He stood at the doorway of the house like he owned it, like he belonged in the middle of the warzone with not a single speck of sweat on him.

Of course he didn’t. He was Homelander.

And uninvited.

And yet here he was.

You didn’t respond right away. Just kept your hands where they were, letting the silence drag between you like barbed wire.

"It’s hot as hell." You warned him with a sharp glance, voice low, flat—a callback to last time. A boundary. A threat.

You were not doing this again. Not the clinging, not the body heat, not the suffocating grip of a goddamn supe with attachment issues. You were in the shade now, out of the direct sun, for once not actively boiling alive in your own sweat. And you intended to stay that way.

He didn’t seem fazed. Of course he didn’t.

“Oh, come on.”

He stepped closer, hands gesturing as he moved, fingers twitching like he was conducting an orchestra. It was a habit—one of his tells. You’d seen it a hundred times: when he was agitated, calculating, or just trying to convince himself he wasn’t losing control.

It was a sign you had known him too long.

He stopped about a foot away. Just far enough to give you space. Just close enough to test it.

Sunlight still blasted in through the jagged windows, outlining his frame in white-hot glare. It made him look like some biblical figure in a propaganda poster—burning with holiness that wasn’t real.

You didn’t look at him directly.

Then he spoke again, softer, quieter.

“And would you quit rubbing your neck like that? It’s gonna sting like a bitch later.”

You let out a short breath. Not a laugh. Not even a scoff. Just air. The smallest release of tension.

You leaned back against the ruined wall behind you, exasperated, letting your elbows rest on your knees. You stared at him with a 'done' look on your face.

But for once, you listened.

Not because he was right. Not because you cared what he thought. But because you were actually tired. The heat had baked your nerves raw. And you knew picking a fight right now wouldn’t go anywhere.

"Okay." You kept it curt, clearly not in the mood to talk.

The silence stretched thin between you, brittle and sharp like the broken glass beside you. You watched him a moment longer, watched the way he stood there like a kicked dog pretending to be a wolf. You hated that look.

You shifted, being made more aware of your sweat as you pushed off the wall and stood. You could feel a slight ache in your knees, your back, your neck—constant reminders of how long you’d been crouched in this godforsaken heat. You stretched once, cracking your neck side to side before brushing grit from your armor.

Homelander's eyes followed you, like a magnet locked onto metal.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact this time.

“You need to go,” Your voice came out low, cool. Firm. “I’m not in the mood to entertain whatever you're here for.”

He tilted his head slightly, something flickering behind his eyes—offense, confusion, maybe just ego taking a hit. You weren't sure, and you didn't want to find out. “You being here is stalling me.” You moved to step past him, your shoulder barely brushing his as you moved toward the broken archway. “And I nearly ran late last time.”

That was bullshit. You were just sitting, waiting. But you needed something to haul his ass out.

"Hold on."

A hand caught your wrist, not hard, not hurting, but firm. Enough to stop your momentum mid-step. Enough to make your body tense on instinct.

You turned.

The heat hit your face again from the sunlight, but it was nothing compared to the way your blood started to simmer under your skin. One more second. One more second of him trying to hold onto something that wasn’t his—

“Let go,” you snapped, low and dangerous.

He didn’t.

His fingers stayed curled around your wrist, head tilted like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t melting for him, why this wasn’t going the way it normally did.

Something sharp cracked inside you.

Remember when you thought a fight wouldn't do anything? You take that back.

You grabbed the front of his suit with both hands—tight, just below the collar—and shoved. Hard.

The room twisted around you both in a blur of dust and heat and old stone. His back slammed into the far wall, against what used to be a sofa now blackened from fire, springs poking out like ribs, cushions long turned to ash. You harshly forcing him down onto the long side of it like you were staking a flag in foreign ground. You were right above him like a predator stalking prey.

The charred fabric cracked beneath him as you leaned in close above him, face a breath away from his. His cape was half-draped behind the couch like a broken curtain, dirt and ash clinging to its edges. His eyes were wide, blinking up at you, surprised—genuinely surprised—that you’d manhandled him.

He wasn’t used to that.

“You don’t get to do this,” you started, voice trembling from growing rage—not fear.

Homelander could have swore he saw your veins pulsating out of your neck.

“But we have to stop doing this shit." Your breath was hot. Your pulse was louder than the desert wind outside. It was beating in his enhanced ears.

“I have a job. A schedule. A mission. And if I’m late again—if I damn near fuck up again—because of you?” You leaned in closer, your forehead nearly touching his. “I will smash your fucking head in.”

He stared at you, unmoving, unreadable.

For the first time in a long while, he looked genuinely stunned. You could see the twitch in his jaw—small, involuntary. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to defend himself or just let you burn the whole moment down.

You released his collar suddenly, like you couldn’t stand to touch him a second longer, and got ready to get up and off of him.

His hand snapped to your wrist again, preventing you from fully getting off of him.

It was faster this time. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just fast. Reflexive.

You looked down, lips curling slightly in disbelief. His fingers curled around your wrist like a tether—like he needed to keep you close or something in him would shatter. You could feel the tension in his grip. Not the kind that threatened violence. The kind that represented desperation.

He seemed to have formed a habit of grabbing you.

He opened his mouth to speak, maybe to plead, maybe to utter apology.

But the gall. The sheer nerve of him grabbing you—in this heat, again—only worsened your anger.

You jerked your wrist free with a sharp twist of your arm, the movement so practiced it might as well have been muscle memory. And without missing a beat, you reached back down to your thigh holster, fingers curling around familiar cold steel once again.

You didn’t raise it this time.

You just pressed the muzzle of your sidearm against the underside of his jaw. Close. Personal. The pressure firm enough to tilt his head back slightly, exposing the vulnerable hollow of his throat—if there even was such a thing in him.

“Hands off.” Your voice was steel now, you contained yourself. Just clean, surgical control.

He didn’t smile. He just looked up at you like you’d spoken both scripture and blasphemy in the same breath—like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or hate you for it.

“Hey—”

Nope.

You flipped your pistol in your grip—upside-down, backwards, practiced—and drove it straight into the side of his head. Painfully pistol whipping him. A sharp crack echoed off the burned walls as his skull whipped sideways, a perfect 90 degrees, nose near pressing into the ruined couch.

His eyes lit up for half a second, just a flicker—reflex, threat, confusion. Shock.

He turned back toward you, lips parting, “Can you let me get a w—”

Nope.

Crack.

Same spot. Same force. His head snapped the other way like déjà vu with a concussion. You didn’t even blink.

He blinked, though. Twice. Looked disoriented now. Like his processor was glitching. Like the idea of someone interrupting him—hurting him like this—was scrambling his whole damn worldview.

Good.

Crack.

Maybe that put some sense into him.

“Alright! Fuck…!” He finally barked, voice rough and fraying at the edges. His hands came up fast, palms flat against your chest plate, shoving—not hard, just enough to keep your reach short, to put distance between your weapon and his skull.

You were both breathing hard, chests heaving with heat and frustration. Eyes locked. Again. Always that—too much of that.

“Fuck!” He forced out once more, this time like it was all he had left. Not rage. Not bravado. Just pure, exhausted exasperation.

“Okay, okay—” he muttered, trying to gather himself. His words stumbled out half-formed, like his brain was still buffering. “Just—give me a second. Let me think.”

You let your arms fall limp at your sides, the weight of the pistol dragging your hand down like an anchor. Your head tipped back, eyes tracing the jagged cracks webbing across the scorched ceiling.

You were catching your breath too.

Every inhale scraped your throat like sandpaper. Every exhale felt heavier than it should’ve.

You didn’t register the position at first. Too overwhelmed by the heat, the rage, the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Homelander was flat on his back, sunk into the charred remains of a couch that looked like it had survived a bombing—barely. His ankles hung off the couch, it was far too small for anyone to comfortably lay on. You knew it made his skin crawl. The disgusting smell of charcoal and the exposed springs that were undoubtedly pressing into him. The disgust was all over his face. But he didn’t move. He stayed beneath you.

You were straddling him, your knees planted on either side of his waist, digging into the burnt cushions. You could feel the grind of your right kneepad scraping something metal beneath the fabric—probably an exposed spring—but you didn’t look down.

In any other situation, it would’ve looked compromising. Intimate, even. But there was nothing remotely sexual about it—not to you at least.

This was a control position. A tactical advantage. The mount for a beatdown.

Sex? Wasn’t on your radar. Not with him. Not ever. You didn’t have a drive for it. Not when blood and violence had become your only outlet. Your whole life.

Homelander spoke, quieter this time. Less bark, more breath.

“No more of that, alright?” he said, testing the waters—his voice lighter, almost cautious. But his arms stayed up, palms forward, he was still trying to keep a barrier between you.

You rolled your neck again, feeling the crack of tension before lowering your gaze. Then you tilted your head at him, mirroring the way he always did to you. Imitation as challenge.

“You gonna let me do my job?” you asked, voice flat and final. Like there was only one answer you’d accept.

Right. The job. That was always your anchor, your reason. Vought’s loyal dog. And for all his posturing, that loyalty always got under Homelander’s skin.

“You didn’t even hear me out yet,” he chuckled—a hollow sound he used when silence pressed too hard. Slowly, he lowered his arms, hands drifting down until they rested on your waist, tentative but deliberate.

You raised an eyebrow. It was still hot and you weren't keen on letting him rest his hands on you for now.

“Then talk,” you said. “What could you possibly want from me in the middle of a goddamn desert?”

“Can’t I just want your company?” he replied, giving your waist a slight squeeze on the word company—trying to make it mean more, add some sincerity, if you will.

“I’m thinking about smashing your head again,” you said, immediately, with perfect honesty.

He laughed—soft at first, then fuller, a breathy sound that vibrated through his chest. You felt it, that low rumble, just from how close you were.

“I like it when you bite,” he said, thumbs lazily tracing circles on your waist, like he was memorizing the shape of you through pressure alone. “Makes me feel alive, you know?”

“I’m not joking,” you warned, tone sharp enough to cut through bone.

“I’m not either,” he said, still smiling—wide now, flashing the edge of his canines like he thought it was charming. “I like you like this.”

Crack.

“FUCK!” he gasped, breath hitching as his hands clenched hard around your waist—tight enough to bruise, even by your standards. His expression twisted, stretching into something wild and unhinged, a little too wide, a little too pleased. “I really fucking like you.”

Crack.

“Okay—!” he groaned, voice strained, panting. “Starting to think you’ve got a thing for this.”

"Are you done?"

"Give me a kiss first?"

Crack.

He didn’t even get the flinch in before the sound hit.

"If I do, will you really leave me alone?" You were already bored of the game.

He was still panting, throat working around a thick swallow. You watched his Adam's apple bob. No signs of concussion—he was taking the hits well. Probably the only man who could, especially after this many shots.

"Maybe. But you know, if you give a mouse a cookie—"

You grabbed his jaw with your free hand, snapping his head forward and cutting the line short.

He went still. You knew he could feel everything—the grime of your glove, the unrelenting pressure of your fingers, the heat underneath it all.

You leveled your pistol against his shoulder, bracing with both hands.

Then, without a word, you leaned down and kissed him. Quick. Firm. Meaningless.

His grip froze.

You pulled back just as fast, wiped your mouth with the back of your glove, and let go of him entirely.

He was dazed—caught off guard by the sudden shift. The same person who shoved him away the last time he’d come looking for your company was now the one leaning in, lips pressed briefly against his own.

He thought you were bluffing, fully expecting that pistol to connect with his skull after his teasing line. Instead, you gave him something raw and unfiltered, if only for a moment.

Yeah, he really, really fucking likes you. He's enjoying everything about this. That look on your face, the proximity— the position, the really painful assaults, all of it. If he were honest, he could have climaxed just from this alone.

A/N ;; Sorry guys, I let my freak out a bit... This was SUPER long too (4.1k) WHOOPS EL OH ELLL.

AND TY ALL!! I keep getting the inbox messages, the comments, the reposts. Thank you all for reading and I'm so glad this was enjoyable for you all!! -06.11.25

#sevs.☆wndw #homelander #homelander x you #homelander x reader #the boys #the boys fanfic #john homelander #the boys amazon #fanfiction #fanfic #gn reader #the boys x reader #the boys series #the boys tv #the boys fanfiction #freaky #suggestive #almost #smut

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