#Owning and operation of a fighting pit

[nineblindingstars]

Frostpunk...

...I mean... it's technically legal as long as the people tolerate me and my laws but...

[muntitled]

Work In Progress

Pairing: Gwi-nam x fem!reader

Summary: Gwinam learns you never know how much you love something until lose it…

Warnings: God Complex!Gwinam, Dark!fic, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Shy!reader, Bullying, Unrequited Love, Toxic Relationship, Jealousy, Madonna whore complex, Narcissism, Weaponizing!Cheongsan (sorry boo), Public sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Underage Sex (technically), Masturbation Fem!rec, Dom/Sub, God Kink?, DUB/CON, humming, Spitting, Extreme Degradation, Mentions of Rape, Dacryphillia, Humping,Choking, Gagging, Subspace, Slapping, Sadism, Masochism, Breeding Kink,

A/n: You might recognize this fic if you've read my other stuff but it's because I rewrote it for another character cus no one was really checking for Gwinam like that. Kdrama fics are quite niche.

I'm not responsible for the media you consume

You have made peace with the incomparable fact, long ago, that if God existed then he was far too busy to attend to you. There is just too much going on all at once: Smartphones are threatening devolution. The planet is on the edge of a burning match. There are bigger things than this.

Still, swirling in the depths of your stomach is the incriminating need to cry, and pray, and perhaps maybe even touch yourself, too.

Your moral compass is a work in progress.

It had a knack for getting nefariously cloudy, especially when he entered the mix…

Gwinam's eyes are blown into saucers as he looks down at you. He is utterly restless, not knowing what to do with himself, when you took so much of him, so well. His satisfaction has you fighting the urge to hum and moan around the head of his cock.

Despite all this, you are clearly aware of the fact that you should not be enjoying this at all. Not one bit.

For starters, your knees are cutting into gravel, your shirt is unbuttoned because Gwinam was like a moth to a fucking flame when it came to your ample breasts and his hand was locked tightly in your kinky curls, forcing his cock even further down his throat.

You clench your toes, trying not to gag.

"Fuck, you're taking me so well," Gwinam got exceedingly verbal during most of your secret trysts. With his slurred speech, the boy could murmur every curse, praise and degradation under the sun.

"Such a good fucking slut," but the invisible word always hung heavy between you two. A word you always wanted to hear him say…

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He had always, and would always fail to claim you, in any capacity, even under the spell of sexual intoxication.

"What they don't understand… Is that I'm actually a really nice guy." Gwinam begins that weird quirk where he speaks to himself while he uses your body for his own pleasure. You were made to question whether you were his therapist or his whore. You love it though.

Every habit or quirk of his was indiscriminately locked away in a safe and buried in the depths of your consciousness.

"I'm really-" You slide your tongue along his shaft, ripping a hoarse groan from his chest and momentarily stumping his verbal momentum.

"What no one seems to understand, is that… I'm a… fair fucking guy, too." Feeling himself get too close, Gwinam eases his cock fully out of your mouth, languidly stroking himself but still assuming a firm grip on your hair. He is operating on that very specific plain of narcissism that

was special to Gwinam. He is aware of your presence, physically, but his words are spoken into the open air, like you are an inanimate object. A glorified fleshlight.

"And that fucking Jinsu," He punctuates his sentence with an incredulous laugh- it blossoms across his usually stoic visage, raising his buttercup cheekbones towards his smiling eyes. All you can do is sit back on your haunches, lift the sleeve of your fitted school jersey to wipe away the excess saliva. You remain kneeled in front of him, knowing he has yet to finish.

As he talks, a slow feeling of admiration seeps into the pit of your stomach which is utterly pathetic, given that your feelings will not ever be reciprocated.

"They wanna make me seem like a murderer-" he exclaims, "Me?! It's not my fault he tried to kill himself,” He laughs incredulously. His smile is utterly dazzling in the unambiguous morning glow, with his rugged hair messy just how you like it. You recognize his black undershirt as the same shirt he might've worn yesterday, and the day before that, and perhaps even the day before that. His school shirt was wrinkled and unkempt and his shoes had seen far better days - even better years.

Brewing inside you is the need to take care of him. You knew the rest of the student body viewed Gwinam as an earth-dwelling parasite. Something that is only capable of thinking within the capacity of its own survival. Something that takes, and takes, and takes. But how could he know anything different? You suspected that his home life was built on the foundation of survival, on needing to be the loudest, and proudest, and baddest of them all.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The sharpness of his words slice through your thoughts, bringing you back to the lot behind the science block. The sound of students trickling in for their morning classes filled your ears but Gwinam's gaze was placed firmly on something below his exposed cock. Throughout this mindless tirade, your hand had taken to rubbing soft, comforting circles against his leg, quite literally on its own accord. Gwinam is bent over, head tilted as he watches you questioningly. You rip your hand away, embarrassed by the weird show of affection. Seconds stretch to a minute, and your stomach sinks as time passes.

Gwinam, eventually dismisses you, as he always does. He shakes his head and resumes his stroking. "Whatever," He says, tilting your own head back and lining your mouth with the head of his cock once more. His visage darkens into a cruel sadistic grin. "Tell me you want me to come in your mouth."

Almost insitinvely, you did as he ordered, and like clockwork, he groaned and cursed and emptied himself inside your mouth. You swallowed his cum, wondering if he knew how deeply and truly your admiration actually was. There is a moment, perhaps imagined, after he's finished, when the aftershocks are still running rampant through his body, in which his fingers gripping your hair, rub along the side of your soft, supple cheek. It stays there for longer than necessary, leaving bits and pieces of your composure scattered in its wake.

Gwinam straightens his posture, stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants before making himself as presentable as the student body knows him to be (which admittedly is not a lot).

Before he turns to walk away, he leaves you stranded on a glacier with his ice cold words cutting deep into your beating heart.

"Tell anyone about this-"

"And I'm dead," You interject, "I know."

And with that, you pull your ruffled collar over your lint-free school jersey and check your reflection on your phone to assess the damage Gwinam and his iron grip might have left. You needn't wait for an extension on the conversation because your job here was done, (pun so malevolently intended). As far as Gwinam is concerned, you are an easy conduit to release his frustrations because your unpopularity makes you so incredibly inconspicuous. You blend into any given crowd at any given moment, your name seldom reaching the heights of ridicule among his group because you are so forgettable… There had been no reason to point out your flaws, not because you did not have any, but because you were simply invisible.

It is particularly strange to have any social interaction beyond the bounds of forced proximity through group projects and class discussions… so Cheongsan gifting you even a sliver of attention had been violently unorthodox. So unorthodox in fact, you failed to look up from the weathered pages of your novel when his gentle voice wafted in your direction. It was second period, English, your teacher was running late and while the class descended into mayhem you decided to read.

"I don't know if you're aware of this but…" Cheongsan leans over your desk, a deep shadow over the pages alerting you to his presence, "They both die at the end."

It was incredibly rare that Cheongsan, who sat at the desk directly in front of you, ever felt the need to strike up conversation that was not purely academic. So naturally, you peer up at him with shocked, questioning eyes.

"Sorry?"

"Y-Your book," He stutters, suddenly overcome by a wave of embarrassment even though there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about… he turns his chair slightly in your direction, his eyes darting to the door and the empty teacher's seat before meeting yours once more.

"'They Both Die At The End. The title of the book you're reading."

"Oh…" You affirm, rocking your head back and forth, "You were making a joke?"

"Nah," Cheongsan waves a large hand in dismissal, "The only thing I made was a fool of myself." You're not sure when it happens but you feel the lower half of your face melting into what you suspect is a smile. You can feel your shoulders relaxing and your novel lowering imperceptibly, to see more of him.

"Work on your delivery next time and maybe we'll be getting somewhere."

"You know- I swear I had a pair of balls before the start of this conversation," He purses his lips and clasps his hands on his lap in a dramatic display, "Now I'm not quite sure where they went."

Gwinam's feet pass over the threshold as soon as the sound of your laughter rushes past him. It is almost charming in its familiarity but incredibly curious in its rarity. He can't recall ever seeing you with your head thrown back while the instinctive sound of amusement races through your throat. He does not know he's staring until someone in his friend group shoves past him, to get to their own seats.

His eyes remain on you as he makes his way to his desk, hoping, perhaps, that you would turn your head infinitesimally, in acknowledgement of his presence in the row of desks to your right. You do nothing of the sort and it not only fills him with a weird sort of dissatisfaction but it bubbles into full blown vexation when he realises who is capturing your attention so viscerally.

Gwinam has never prided himself on his patience or tolerance. Overthinking being something he lived without. Most of his actions were spurred from things he felt in the now, and he was really fucking uncomfortable with what was happening now.

Perhaps if he…

"You didn't let me know we were having a picnic," The sound of a chair scraping against the tiles had both you and Cheongsan rallying into silence. Gwinam appears at your side, pushing the chair against yours so he, too, sits facing Cheongsan. Cheongsan who suddenly appears incredibly uneasy. Gone is the comfortable atmosphere cooked by easy and amicable conversation. Gwinam injecting himself into your little bubble created a suddenly charged and suffocating atmosphere. You cannot keep your hardened eyes off Cheongsan as Gwinam lowers himself to his chair, legs spread as he slouches down, like he always does.

"Don't stop now," He exclaims, completely oblivious to the fact that your Science teacher might walk in at any minute. "What were we talking about?" Your heart wrestles in your chest as you see him turn to address you in your periphery. His slouching puts him a level lower than you but it does nothing to lessen his intimidation. "Maybe I should ask, Cheongsan? What were you guys talking about?" There is not a trace of friendliness present in Gwinam's tone, in fact it's the very opposite. Your nerves, swelling with anxiety, only escalates into full on panic when you feel him place a large hand on your skirt under the table.

Cheongsan's voice is low and his eyes are trained on the floor, "Books-" Gwinam cuts him off with fervour.

"Books! How interesting!" The hyperbolic wonder in his tone is utterly rude and unbecoming, but still you refuse to look at him. "And tell me, Cheongsan… how many books have you read so far?"

It is then that Gwinam's once stationary hand begins the faintest trace of movement. He begins slow and tame, his callouses barely registering on the soft fabric of your chequered school skirt until his fingers prod the lining of your skirt…

your breath hitches in your throat.

Never had Gwinam ever felt the desire to touch you. Not in the way he made you touch him. It was made explicitly clear that only he would benefit from your secret rendezvous' and so you were left to deal with your aching cunt alone, with the image of the face he made when he came, still burned into your mind. It had never been about you.

"A couple," Says Cheongsan, fighting to show this bully that he was affected by his intimidation. If only he knew that with every advance Gwinam's palm made, you simply were not there.

"A couple books?" Asks Gwinam for clarity. He remains lax and languid on the inside, but the nature of his wandering hand underneath the desk tells a new story. He finally slips under your skirt. His palm connects with the softness of your thighs and he seems utterly pleased by it

His hand is immediately restless to explore how far you would let him go. Which isn't very far.

Not at all.

If he thought he could suddenly touch you after myriad occasions of using you like a discarded toy… he had another thing coming.

The tips of Gwinam's fingers make gradually increasing strokes along your thigh until his fingers prod the stretch marks on your inner thigh. It is there when you stop him, clenching your legs together, blocking his hand from any further movement.

Gwinam's voice is strained as he says, "And you like reading, Cheongsan?"

Sensing something brewing between the two of you - your withdrawn, hazy gaze, staring directly through him and Gwinam's overabundance in questions, has Cheongsan reeling backwards.

"I asked you a question, Cheongsan."

"I like reading."

"Good! That's really good!" Quite suddenly, Gwinam tilts the ends of his half-moon nails into your thigh, forcing them to weaken and unclamp. Before you're even able to think, his palm is cupping your cunt through your panties- forcing an indecent yelp from your throat which you quickly (and very badly) disguise as a cough.

Gwinam is utterly pleased while he continues mindlessly stroking your cunt. Not for the purpose of any glorious stimulation it seems. His hand is just there to show you (and perhaps maybe himself) that he has access to the most private part of you. That thought alone has an unforeseen and sudden wave of lust coursing through his veins and surging straight to his hardened cock. He thinks of all the things he could have done to you but failed to do. He thinks about how, up until this point, he had ever been satisfied with using your mouth alone, not when he was denying himself the softness of your pussy all along. He felt angry with himself, for being so fucking stupid, he is angry at Cheongsan for seeing whatever it is he saw in you, way before he did and, possibly most harrowing of all is the fact that he is angry with you. And he can't help but be angry at you. How easily you whore yourself out to any and every man. If this thing with Cheongsan had gone far enough, would you venture as far as to suck his cock in deserted sectors of the schoolyard? Had you even fucked Cheongsan before?

You bite down on your lower lip as your head bows to your book once more. The words blend into one another, and all you can feel is a rise in temperature and Gwinam's suddenly restless fingers, pressing rudely against your clit - or the sole purpose of ripping an orgasm out of you right then and there, at the very back of an unsupervised classroom, with Cheongsan still very much a part of the conversation.

"You've got so many books to read in your lifetime," Says Gwinam. He sits up slowly, likely spurred on by the dampness seeping through your panties.

"Don't cut your life short by trying to entertain other people's girlfriends, okay?"

Your skin feels like you are bathing in magma and you hope Cheongsan could not see the slight tremor on your hand as you gripped the sides of your book with more force than necessary. His words, however - they have you shifting forward and widening your legs minutely. You crave for nothing more than to roll your hips in tandem with the circles he's pressing against your clit.

"Understood?"

Your orgasm is dangerously close, with the promise of sheer, disgusting shame and embarrassment if he continues. You feel Cheongsan give you one final look, perhaps pleading for an interjection of denial at some point but you've taken to bouncing your knee under the table, hoping the vibrations might create enough friction to aide Gwinam's hands. He is keeping you trapped in a space of wanting. So much so, that this almost feels like a punishment.

Once Cheongsan is turned back around and facing the front of the class, Gwinam lowers his lips to your ears. You're so completely stimulated, even the warmth of his breath as you fight the urge to hump into his hand like a naughty little thing until you make a mess all over his hand.

"You're such a fucking slut, you know that?" Your book drops to your desk - muffled by the sounds of the classroom cacophony.

"Fuck," You whisper to yourself, blinking your eyes shut, fighting to ward off the need but to no avail. His fingers are long and limber, and they have you nearly cumming right there, in front of your entire fucking class. Had it not been for Mr Lee's haphazard arrival into the class, and the swift removal of Gwinam's fingers from between your legs… you might truly have become the slut he so often labeled you as.

Instead of moving to his designated seat, Gwinam lifts the same hand that has previously been in between your legs, right into the air.

"What?" Asks Mr Lee, his voice as lacklustre as his appearance.

"Can we go? We were excused by the Principal to assist Mrs-"

"Fine, fine," Says Mr Lee with a wave of dismissal before turning his attention to the rest of the class. "The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 56."

Gwinam's hand is clamped around your forearm, already leading you swiftly out the door in a long and wide stride. Had it been any other teacher at all, they might have recognized this for what it so clearly was.

"Here," you have barely made it fully into the girl's bathroom before Gwinam is stuffing his fingers down your throat, making you gag and yelp at the sudden intrusion. "Tell me how good you taste." He doesn't even bother to make sure you're truly left alone in the bathroom before pushing your front against the bathroom counter.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you," He forces his fingers deeper down your throat, causing you to cough and gag around them. You're supposed to be afraid because you've never seen him like this. Gwinam is always a ball of energy between trysts, but it's usually an energy he can somewhat contain.

You don't know what to do with him, not when he's watching you choke on his fingers through the mirror, while his other hand fondles at your breasts and rips your bra down until your nipples are poking through your school shirt.

The figure in the mirror distorts as your eyes begin to water. Thick beads of water grow pregnant at the ends of your eyes before rolling down the side of your face.

"My girl," Gwinam presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, pressing his front against your back. His hard cock in unmistakable through his pants, "My messy little girl,"

You finally moan candidly around his fingers, your fingers gripping the countertops while your hips buck into nothingness. Your eyes plead with him in the mirror, hoping they relay how utterly useless with lust you have become. It would not take hard work to cum, you're sure one more flick against your material-clad nipples might send you over the edge.

"Fuck, why didn't I think of this sooner," This is all new, even for the two of you.

"Spread your legs." He commands, even though his feet are already kicking them apart. "Come here," you break eye contact in the mirror to face the boy behind you.

Gwinam removes his fingers sitting in your mouth, leaving a trail of unbreakable saliva in its wake before replacing it with a long and messy kiss- one that has his tongue forcing itself inside.

Gwinam weaponizes your distraction to slide your panties to the side with one hand and rub your clit with his other, spit-coated hand.

You break away from the kiss, neck craning back and mouth hanging open while your eyebrows dissolve into crescents. You cannot look away from him, as you hump his hand.

"You wanna cum?" You nod enthusiastically. "And what if I told you, you can't cum until I've cum? Hm? What then?" His words have you mewling from the sheer pleasure they bring and your orgasm threatens to snap once more.

"Fuck," He hisses, feeling unable to remove his hand from your wet cunt but needing to, in order to undo his belt and pull his aching cock out. "Don't you dare fucking touch yourself," He says in a deadly quiet voice before bringing his hand up to your mouth. "Spit." You don't ever think of disobeying him, not when you're swimming so deeply in your subspace, not when he's the one to bring you here.

Gwinam collects every bit of saliva you offer him before coating his cock in the stuff.

Deciding not to waste anymore time, Gwinam does what his body is screaming for him to do: he bends you over the bathroom counter and pushes cock right through your slippery folds. It's tense and painful and your voice is hoarse from doing all that screaming but the sudden contact strokes a deeply sated part inside yourself. His curved and pretty cock ram your insides with reckless abandon, all while he delivers harsh and sharp slaps against your cheek. Gwinam keeps a firm grip on your throat. His mouth is inches away from you while his hips rut into yours. His words are being delivered through clenched teeth.

"You think you're so fucking cute, huh? You think you can walk around fucking any guy who even looks at you, huh!?" It doesn't even register that Gwinam wrongfully suspects that there had been something between Cheongsan and you, but you keep your mouth shut. For all his indifference in the past, this is how you would make him pay.

"Oh~ Fuck." His cock bruises your cervix, leaving Gwinam balls deep and feral inside you. "Fucking Cheongsan?! You wanna give what's mine, to fucking Cheongsan?!" It's utterly depraved and animalistic and it has your orgasm cresting. "What would Cheongsan think? If he saw me raping you in the bathroom like this? What would he think? Would he still want your slutty pussy knowing I've been inside it? Knowing that I've cum inside you and completely ruined you for anyone else,"

"You…" The tears threaten to spill, "it's only ever been you, Gwinam- oh my God! I'm so fucking close!" You fight down tears as the lava begins to bubble at the pit of your stomach.

"S-Say it again. Tell me you want me!" He exclaims, "Tell me you fucking need me."

"I fucking need you, Oh my God" You push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

His voice wavers after your confession. His strokes becoming sloppy, "F-Fuck! I am your God, baby. You need me so fucking badly…" He nods to himself while his heavy cock finds purchase in a specific clump of sensitive tissue inside your cunt. It has you clamping your own mouth shut, your elbows falling to the counter with your ass sticks out towards him, only allowing him better excess.

"I need you," You agree, swallowing a ball of saliva as you nod towards him through the mirror, "I need your cum inside me."

"Yeah-," Gwinam says, "M'gonna fucking breed your pussy right here, in the school bathrooms- fuck!" His grip on your throat grows tighter until you're wholeheartedly cut off from your air supply. You hump his cock until you feel it twitch inside you.

"Fuck! You're fucking making me cum you stupid slut!" You feel his hot cum spurting inside your walls, triggering your own orgasm that has you gripping his cock like a vice. "Oh fuck- you're fucking milking my cock, baby. Fucking take it." His hips stutter against yours until you've completely drained him of his cum. A sharp tremor settles over your bones and you gasp in vague increments, waiting for the overwhelming state of euphoria to subside… but it never does.

The weight of what you had done comes crashing back down but you are unable to feel anything besides an immense wave of satisfaction at having your deepest need satiated.

"I think I nearly killed Cheongsan today." His voice is a hoarse echo within the school bathrooms.

"There is no Cheongsan," You say, watching him through the mirror, "In my whole world, there is only ever you."

And a part of him believes you but he refuses to affirm something as emotionally stifling as that. Instead, Gwinam's eyes flutter shut as his nose finds your hair once more. His cock is still buried inside you, and you hiss as he moves his hips slowly, almost insitinvely. He loves being so wholly enveloped by you. He loves feeling you everywhere.

[messenger-of-babel]

Make it Better

Summary: You wanted to be better for him, but maybe better wasn't what he wanted.

Word Count: 1.6K

Notes: Argghhh I had a chance to cook, and chat, I fear I fumbled. Through two rounds of drafting too,. Ah well, I solemnly swear to do more Dick content regardless. 😤

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You smoothed down your clothes, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your forehead was creased lightly in worry, fingers playing with your hair as you tried to get it to sit right. No matter what you did, nothing seemed to look the way you wanted. You didn't like the jewellery you wore, or the way you had done your hair. Your clothes seem wrinkled in the light no matter how many times you undressed to steam them, and the vibrant blue you wore seemed to be wearing you instead. You sigh, head coming to thump against the mirror.

You swear you had tried to do better than this.

It was always the same pit of nervousness that came off of going to one of the Wayne Family Gala's, so deep and endless in your stomach it felt like the rest of you would just fall through. Not only that, but you were also on the arm of one of the heirs of Gotham, one of the princes whose face was on every magazine cover and every second teenager’s bedroom wall.

Dealing with cameras that flashed nonstop, light so blinding you thought it had been daylight the first time you experienced it. A red carpet walk that felt like a vulture's strip, your name being screamed at by faceless reporters, microphones and cameras waving over the red rope stanchions to try and pry your comment from you. It was all so overwhelming, the sounds and lights. You surely would have collapsed the first time, if it hadn't been the comforting weight that slipped around your waist, and the dazzling smile that took the heat off you.

Dick's hand always knew how to keep you grounded during those events, tracing small shapes into your waist and turning you so he could take the brunt of the cameras. Waving to every news reporter and journalist frothing at the mouth for his statement, always offering some upbeat support for whatever the cause was, while they wrote it like the word of God. The same hand that would guide you through the doors of the venue and out of reach of the squabble outside, looking down at you with the boyish blue eyes you adored and white grin stretched across his face.

"You okay?" he'd ask softly, and you always nodded. The tension in your body melted away when his eyes searched yours so earnestly, trying to pick apart if you were lying. His own worry always seemed to dwarf your own, making you smile as you reassured him that you were fine.

You wanted to get better this time.

So, when you arrived for the Christmas Ball held by the Mayor in the Park, you had already prepped yourself. Dick had come to collect you in his car, smile bright and dazzling when he saw you. It was like he saw past all the flaws you could highlight in your outfit, not caring that the shade of blue you were wearing didn't match his tie exactly, and that despite all your efforts your hair refused to co-operate. He made no comment on your jewellery despite how you felt that the silver you picked didn't match with the rest of what you were wearing, or that it clashed with the gold on your shoes. He just opened the car door for you, kissing your cheek as his hand came to the middle of your back where it belonged.

"You look amazing." he hummed; eyes bright as he shut your door for you. You smiled weakly back in response, tension easing slightly. he could tell your anxiety hadn't gone down, evident in the way his thumb drew circles on your thigh, one hand resting there while the other gripped the wheel. Your hands felt cold despite the car's heater going full blast, and your cheeks were numb. The pit in your stomach threatened to swallow you whole again, adrenaline running through your body like you were fighting for your life. It made your throat close up, worsening as the car rolled to a stop.

"You going to be okay?" he asks softly, hand coming to gently cup your face. You nod, although your smile was tense.

You could do better. This night was going to be fine.

"Yeah. I'm ready." you reply back, the clamouring of reporters and the frantic clicking of shutters were dulled while you were in the car, but you knew it would turn into a roar the second the seal of the door cracked. "We'll make the entry quick; I promise." he smiles, hurrying out from the driver’s seat to come to your door, the paparazzi outside growing ten times louder now that a prince of Gotham has shown his face.

Like the true gentleman he is, he offered his hand to help you climb out from the passenger’s side, broad shoulders blocking most of the flashes aimed your way. You tilt your head up, and your breath is stolen for a moment.

"Good?" he mouths to you, and you wordlessly nod. Illuminated by the flashes of the cameras behind him he looked heaven sent, a bright halo ghosting over the contours of his face and the dip of his cupid's bow. You nod, and he brings you out in front of the crowd. The flashes blind you as usual, but you do your best to send a few smiles their way, waving at a couple of reporters that make you pose together for photos. A perfect couple, that's what you tried to be. Tried to be someone worth standing next to the human turned angel next to you.

You hold yourself together, feeling more and more confident as you walk your way down the carpet, until you’re out of sight. You turn to him now hidden behind the privacy of the event doors, beaming up at him. He reciprocates his smile, hands settling onto your hips as he pulls you close for only a moment. "Getting the hang of it I see," he teases, "I told you; you were made for the spotlight."

He chuckles at the light flush that envelops your features, arm looped with yours as he guides you into the ballroom.

That one comment makes you feel on top of the world, inspiring you to come out of your shell and mingle with everyone, glass in your hand. You felt seen, branching off for conversations and even getting along well with some of his brothers as they arrive. The anxiety smooths out from your forehead, shoulders relaxing and smiles coming more easily.

That was until you saw her.  More accurately, until you saw him looking at her.

Barbara entered the ballroom, clad in a beautiful, deep purple dress and her gorgeous orange hair falling down her back. Your shoulders raised again, fingers tightening on the glass flute uncomfortably.

She was gorgeous, of course. You told her any time you saw her around, since she was still invited to the family dinners every couple of months. Tense smiles swapped between you both, with conversation just polite enough to cover any awkwardness. Were you apprehensive when you started dating Dick and he told you that they were still friends? of course you were. Was it a worry when they had “work” discussions you weren’t allowed to be in? You had cried over some of those nights.  But his smile was charming, and he treated you like you were his earth.

Well, if you were his earth, he was looking at her like she was his sun.

You swear you could see galaxies in the deep blue of his eyes, stars in the smile that fell across his face when she waved at him. Even when she disappeared into the sea of rich Gothamites, his eyes sought her out like an asteroid in orbit. Everything felt like it was collapsing around you, spotlight of confidence cut off and leaving a cool chill across your skin.

Your clothes felt itchy and off colour again, jewellery felt cheap. Your shoes didn't fit right, and your hair looked unflattering in the window reflections. Like Cinderella your clock had struck midnight, except you hadn't even gotten to dance yet. Your stomach rolled, butterflies from before attaching to your sides and cocooning again, going still. Your heart felt heavy, sitting low in your throat and preventing you from calling his name. He looked so spellbound, so full of longing in the way that his lip’s part softly in a sigh.

When he blinks it's like he comes out of a trance and he takes a moment to collect himself again, hand coming to rest once more on your waist. He looks down at you, and you take in his features again. The starlight in his eyes has dulled, his smile still soft but nowhere near as radiant. You had no idea if he realised what he had done, if he was aware of the way he radiated sunlight simply from looking at her. "Let's go get something to eat, dinner will be served soon." he grins, leading you along after your tight-lipped smile and nod. He grinned at the high class he passed, politely navigating them with you at his side completely unknowing that they'd all witnessed his visible adoration. Oblivious himself to the fact that his heart was still in love with the commissioner’s daughter, despite having you by his side.

You wanted to it to all get better, and for a moment it had.

However, as he pulled out your chair for you and you made eye contact with the gorgeous, green eyed woman across from you, the reality sank in that no matter how much you wanted to do better, you would never be able to do better than the memory of her.

[studioeisa]

im here to harrow you.

thinking about f1 minghao crashing out on radio…. idk why… its burned in my mind…

crash and burn 📟 minghao x reader.

★ mercedes driver!minghao x reader ┆ word count: 1.8k ┆ includes: profanity, slight Trivia 承: Love reference. ┆ footnotes: oh, you are CRUEL for preying on my hyperfixation like this. how i ended up writing this much is anybody's guess.

For a moment, the entirety of Mercedes falls quiet.

You could hear a pin drop. The pit wall, the operations room, the garage. Deathly silent. 

Xu Minghao never swore on the radio. 

He could have. He’s certainly had his fair share of instances where a cuss or two would have been acceptable. The time he crashed into Williams’ Vernon on the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix, for example. Or the Singapore race where he ended up in the barriers after battling his teammate, Wonwoo, for podium position. 

Minghao hadn’t cussed then. Everybody liked to joke that his face often did the talking for him— his expressions post-race landing him on the front page of every sports media outlet. 

The Chinese racer was calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Critical without being cruel. Demanding without being demeaning. 

And yet, today, in Monaco— 

“Why do I have the penalty?” Minghao screeches, his voice crackling over the radio. “Hello?”

“Track limits, turn nine,” his race engineer says, voice carefully measured.

“You’re kidding!” Minghao downshifts aggressively as he rounds the next corner. The tires wail, the car jolts, and the telemetry lights up with data that makes the pit wall wince. “I stayed within the white line! You saw it, everyone saw it!” 

The pit wall scrambles. Engineers replay the footage frame by frame, dissecting every pixel of the contentious corner. The commentators speculate wildly, cameras cutting to Minghao’s onboard view. Sky Sports plays the radio message on repeat, the words for fuck’s sake! echoing through living rooms worldwide.

But Minghao doesn't care about the broadcast. Doesn't care about the headlines already being written. His pulse hammers, hands locked around the steering wheel like a vice.

“Box this lap, Hao. Serve the penalty,” the team calls. “Then push. We can still fight for points.”

Minghao murmurs something incoherent, though it doesn’t take a genius to guess that it’s probably another curse. He lifts off the throttle, coasts through the last sector, and dives into the pit lane. The Mercedes crew swarms the car, stoic and efficient, every second ticking down with excruciating slowness. 

The lollipop stays down.

Ten seconds feel like an eternity.

Minghao slams the throttle as soon as he’s released, launching back onto the track with a cloud of tire smoke.

“Gap to P10?” he demands, his tone unusually biting. 

“7.3 seconds to Boo. But DRS is enabled—” 

“I can catch him,” Minghao decides on his engineer’s behalf. 

Nobody doubts it, really. 

Minghao takes the next lap like a man possessed. Nailing apexes, brushing curbs, deploying battery in the perfect spots. Purple sector times flash on the screen; the crowd roars as he slices through the field like a scalpel.

Clean. Precise. Ruthless. 

Minghao pushes right past Alpine’s Seungkwan, who screeches into his own radio about this reckless man, trying to kill him with the way he faked to the outside. It doesn’t matter to Minghao. Not when he’s through. 

“P10, Hao,” his engineer says, relief bleeding into his voice. “Keep it up.” 

“Don’t—” Minghao cuts himself off. Everybody can more or less guess what he was about to say. Don’t tell me what to do, he had planned to snap, and it only drives the team into a deeper state of confusion. 

It’s even worse in the press room. 

Minghao sits in the middle, flanked by Aston Martin’s Seokmin and Red Bull’s Jihoon. Minghao’s Mercedes suit is still speckled with sweat, and his jaw is tight, hands clasped in front of him on the table.

The moderator introduces them. “We’ll start with questions for the drivers. First, to Mercedes’ Xu Minghao. P9 after serving a 10-second penalty. Can you walk us through your race?” 

A muscle in Minghao’s jaw ticks. Not a good sign.

Minghao leans into the microphone and very simply states, “It was bullshit.” 

Again, that stunned silence. Seokmin balks like he had been physically struck. Jihoon fights back a grin. 

The moderator blinks. “Uh,” she stammers. “Could you elaborate on that?” 

“The penalty,” Minghao says plainly. “It was bullshit. I’ve seen the footage. I stayed within track limits. And even if I hadn’t, we both know there were other drivers exceeding limits all race who didn’t get penalized.” 

A reporter from BBC Radio pipes up. “You’ve been known for keeping a cool head in difficult situations, but we heard your radio messages. Do you regret your reaction?” 

The question draws a humorless laugh from Minghao. Today, his wit is razor-like in its sharpness. The claws are out, so to speak, as Minghao answers the query. 

“Regret? No. I regret not pushing harder after the penalty. I lost ten seconds and still clawed my way back to points.” He pauses, letting the fact sink in. “What does that tell you?”

Somebody from Fox Sports pushes the envelope. “Are you implying bias in the stewarding?” the journalist calls out. 

Minghao’s eyes flash, making even the most fearless of the media personnel shrink back a bit. 

“I’m saying there needs to be consistency,” he hisses. “That’s all.” 

Mercedes’ PR manager shifts uncomfortably in the background; one can assume they’re already drafting damage control statements in their head. The list of people to apologize to only grows when a ballsy ESPN journo dares to ask, “Do you think this will affect your relationship with the FIA?” 

There’s no reason for the FIA— the Formula One’s governing body— to be dragged into this. Or maybe there is, with the way Minghao is crashing out in public. 

The racer smiles coldly. “Maybe,” he answers, “but I’m not here to make friends.” 

“Okay,” the moderator interjects. “I think it’s time for us to move on—” 

Minghao concedes, leaning back into his chair and pushing the microphone over to Jihoon. There’s the slightest of miscalculations, though, when Minghao grumbles something to the Red Bull driver.

The microphone catches Minghao’s snide side comment, supposedly meant solely for Jihoon’s ears. “You should ask the FIA why they’re so scared of drivers who fight back,” the Chinese driver huffs. 

The room explodes. Minghao doesn’t flinch. 

Mercedes’ PR manager accepts that it’s going to be a long, long night. 

Even Wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for his co-driver’s uncharacteristic behavior. The driver frowns when the team principal brings it up. 

Wonwoo runs a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, as if reviewing what he witnessed pre- and post-race. “Hao was already a bit… off when he came in this morning,” Wonwoo admits. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.” 

“Drivers like Minghao don’t just wake up one morning and decide they’re going to be the devil reincarnated,” the team principal says tentatively. 

Wonwoo takes a moment to contemplate. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?” 

“Drivers like Minghao—” 

“Don’t let their personal lives affect their racing,” Wonwoo finishes before waving his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t know, then.” 

Except— for once— Wonwoo is right. 

The team doesn't press Minghao to celebrate, not when he’s a walking PR disaster in a foul mood. He heads straight back to his apartment, shedding all his rage on the way home. 

It’s the only reason he manages to gently open the front door. He toes off his shoes at the doorway and shrugs off his hoodie, each action deliberate in its intent and slowness.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re seated at one of the bar stools, forearms leaning against the island. Minghao doesn’t come close. Not at first. He lingers a couple of steps away, stock still as the two of you lock gazes. 

You open your mouth. Minghao beats you to the punch line. 

“I know,” he says, his voice the most gentle it’s been the entire day. “Trust me, I know.” 

“I wasn’t going to tell you off.” 

Minghao lets out a derisive snort of laughter, though he’s quick to look chastised when he catches the shift in your expression. “Alright,” he says tiredly. “What were you going to say, then?” 

You hop off the stool. Minghao holds his breath. 

He still feels like he isn’t breathing by the time you’re standing right in front of him. Where others might hesitate, you don’t. 

Your hand reaches up to cup Minghao’s face. Your palm is warm against his cheek, but your words are much warmer. 

“I was going to apologize,” you say slowly, enunciating each word, “for breaking rule number three.” 

Rule number three. To have it brought up now is comedic. Minghao thinks of the restaurant tissue framed in the living room, the one bearing the silly list the two of you had jotted down when you first started dating. 

The very rule you’re referring to right now had been in Minghao’s loopy handwriting, underlined twice to emphasize its importance. 

#3: No fights on race weekends. 

It had come with an asterisk, a couple of caveats. Still, it was one of those ‘rules’ the two of you tried to see through the most. For not only Minghao’s sanity, but Mercedes’ as well. 

Minghao sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing with the heavy exhale. He can’t help it; his cheek nuzzles into your palm, seeking the familiarity of your touch after being without it last night. 

(That was his choice, admittedly, after he opted to sleep in the guest room instead of your shared bedroom. He left in the morning without all of his usual routines— his 30-minute guided meditation, his good luck kiss from you.) 

The fight— God, what was the fight even about? Minghao is embarrassed to admit he can barely remember. 

By the way you’re looking at him, though, it looks like you’re also ready to put it past the two of you. 

“Did you watch?” he asks. 

The corners of your lips twitch upward. “What’s the right answer?” you shoot back, half-teasing as Minghao’s arms gingerly wrap around your waist. 

“I think I’d prefer that you say ‘no’,” he says wryly. “I was a monster out there. I’ve got so many people to apologize to.” 

You give a low hum of approval. Minghao tugs you into his space until he can bury his face in the top of your head.

For a moment, the two of you bask in the aftermath. The bittersweet race, the shaky reconciliation. Minghao breaks the silence. 

“I said fuck,” he mumbles, horrified, “on the radio.” 

“You did,” you confirm. “Twice, actually.” 

Minghao groans. “And at the press conference—” 

“You told the FIA they could take it up their a—” 

“I did not,” your boyfriend says shrilly, “say that!” 

You break out into giggles. Minghao can’t help it; his arms tighten around you, and he holds you like he’s trying to erase the past 24 hours through touch alone. 

Tomorrow, Minghao will be back to his usual self. He’ll play the PR game— waxing poetics about mental pressure, apologizing to the FIA for his conduct. He’ll pay the fines and promise to do better, be better. 

Tonight, Minghao softens all his edges and loves you. 

[sparrows4bats]

Dragon Head AU

This came to me through music and vaguely inspired by one fic on ao3 I cannot find. I thought I had it bookmarked. Thanks to @peterchubs for listening while this au took shape.

What if, like in Batman Beyond, Damian returns to League to lead it one day?

I think for this AU Damian meets his father briefly, but after seeing that he isn't the perfect heir, he goes back to Talia to reform the League.

Bruce tries to stop him but finds there's not a lot he can do.

Since the year of Blood and Goliath coming into his life, Damian had started to doubt the wisdom of his grandfather. The killing of the Dragon Bats and Damian owns distaste for killing innocents have planted a seed of rebellion. One that meeting his father and seeing how he operated allowed to grow.

Damian believes that the world needs to be protected, that someone must fight for the earth, and it's innocents. He begins to recognise that killing is a hard choice and should not be the first course of action but sometimes can not be avoided.

After he gets back from Gotham, he discusses these ideas with his mother, not sure what to expect. Instead of a lecture Talia kisses his head and tells him that he is growing into the man she hoped he would become. A leader, a true mix of two great bloodlines and ideologies.

Talia Al Ghul looks at her son and pledges to aid his reforms. Talia embraces him as she promises to protect him. Damian learns love from her.

Next, Damian approached Mara, his cousin. It was a tough conversation. Mara is understandablely distrustful of him. The last time they met Grandfather has made them battle, Damian had scarred her and won Grandfather's approval. Something he now gas mixed feelings about.

Mara doubts him at first, and it takes a while, but even her loyalty is tested by Ras orders. Damian is the heir, and if he reforms the League ge speaks off, Mara promises that The Demons Hand will support him.

Over time, Damian gathers more allies inside and outside the League. A girl named Maya tries to kill him in revenge for her father but reluctantly befriends him.

Damian learns more about compassion and redemption from her. They become almost siblings in their closeness. Maya becomes his advisor and spymaster.

The turning point where Damian decides that he cannot wait to inherit the League but must overthrow his grandfather comes when Damian meets his brother.

Damian had heard rumours of his grandfather's labs. A place his mother ensured he never entered.

Damian isn't naive enough to think he was ever exempt from his grandfather's cruelty. But the way the lab in particular was avoided fills him with dread.

He finds it after Maya infiltrates a restricted wing of Nanda Parat. She says he needs to see this now and drags Damian to it.

Inside are pods growing versions of...him? He thinks? And on a medical table strapped down and unconscious is his mirror image.

He boy is taller than him, seemingly older, and instead of his mother's brown waves, the boy has striking white hair that is straight and fine.

His body is covered in scars. Damian looks around and finds files and notes of torture parading as science.

It is in that moment that he decides Ras Al Ghul must die.

Maya gets the boy out and hides him in Damians' rooms where only his most loyal enter, just in case Maya guards him and Damian destroys the lab.

He calls Mara and his mother and tells them that Damian will be the Demons' head sooner than expected.

They launch the attack at Dusk.

It is not an easy battle, but in the end, Damian drives his sword into his grandfather's chest and sets his body on fire, so not even the Lazarus Pit can restore him.

It is not an easy transition. For months, Damian and his family struggle to gain control of their forces and dismantle Ras more insidious operations.

But they manage it.

Respawn or Alexander as he chooses to call himself helps. Damians brother is learning how to exist outside of training and the lab and becomes his Brothers head guard. The two grow close, and Damian learns to be gentle with a boy that was hurt similarly to himself but so much worse.

Damians League is very different from its predecessor.

All jobs that they do are vetted to ensure they don't cause unnecessary damage, targets family, networks, and history is considered.

Life is to be respected whenever possible. For all being. Death is never a first course of action, but Damian will kill to protect innocents and the earth.

They no longer train children. It's not allowed until the person can consent. Any found abusing or hurting their children are punished severely.

There are no more inhuman experiments. Instead, Damian puts the Al Ghul billions into health and climate research. He goes so far as to hire Poison Ivy to regrow rainforests and other suffering botanical areas.

He also covertly funnels money into the green energy sector and lobbying groups for better regulations on environmental issues, health, and care.

Damian invests in communities that safeguard habitats and endangered species. Freeing some from human trafficking and exploitative corporations.

Everyone working in the League or with it observes a strict code of ethics. Their life is forfeit if they are found to have harmed innocents or betrayed their ethos.

The reforms had been thought to be too idealistic. A childish dream. But they work.

The League of Assassins becomes what it was always meant to be, a force for good that operates in the shadows.

Damian is still ruthless. All of his people are deadly, and no one who breaks his rules survives.

Damian wonders if his father would accept him like this? If his improvements are enough?

One day, Maya suggests he will never be a Demon, and Damian is a Dragon. The name sticks.

Not many outside of the Assassin's notice the changes in League at first. Not even Batman.

Damian is 21 by the time he has enough time to consider trying to approach his father again. His mother has not forgiven her Beloved for not embracing Damian all those years ago, and Damian can't bring himself to reach out to the imposing man he remembers.

Jonathan Kent is the first to discover the new Dragons Head.

He only finds out what the League is doing when he interrupts the forceful dismantling of an animal smuggling ring. It is one of the rare times Damian is performing a mission himself but when he heard how many endangered species were being held he left before Maya and Mara could scold him.

Respawn joined him with a laugh and asked if they could stop for takeout. Damian reluctantly agreed.

They are finished dealing with the leader of the traffickers when Superman 2.0 busts in.

He is very confused about finding a masked man comforting an injured baby orangutan while his companion teases him.

It's adorable that the man glares while still babytalking the scared primate.

Jon almost doesn't notice the body on the floor.

"What is happening here?"

The two turn to him and their guard rises immediately.

The one holding the animals clears his throat. "We are freeing these animals, you can either help or be removed Son of Kal El."

"How do you know who I am?"

"It's my job. So are you helping or no?"

Jon glares. "I don't know who you are."

"You can call me the Dragons Head and that," he points behind him "is my guard Respawn."

"Never heard of you."

"I am the head of the League of Assassin's."

Jon is suddenly much more on guard. The man looked too young to be Ras al Ghul.

"Did you kill that man?"

"He was wanted in three countries for trafficking and animal abuse. We offered him a choice, and he decided to attack us." The Dragons Head says reasonably.

Jon sighs, but in the end, the well-being of the animals takes priority right now. He can just try and arrest them later.

A part of him as he looks at the cages, the misery doesn't feel particularly bad for the man.

The Super secures the animals, and when he turns to interrogate the duo more, he finds them missing. With the orangutan.

After he reports the incident to the Watchtower, there is concern all round.

The bats are called in for an investigation. What they find shocks them all. Ras has been dead for five years, and the new head has even more connections worldwide.

They still kill, but they also do so much good. It causes a divide in the Justice League.

Those without a no kill rule suggest an alliance.

Those with one refuse to entertain the possibility.

So, a compromise is reached after days of debate, a fact-finding mission, and a diplomatic envoy to discuss their options with the Dragons Head.

Batman offers to lead it because of his contacts only for said contact to refuse to entertain them if Batman is there.

The League doesn't know the reason Talia Al Ghul glares at the vigilante, but the Batman is forced to stay put. Nightwing takes his place.

Jon is chosen to be part of an envoy to meet the new head, given he met him before.

They are greeted at Nanda Parat by an army. A show of power and strength to the heroes now in their midst.

Jon and Nightwing approach cautiously only for the crowd to part as they approach, revealing Talia Al ghul and a group of young people.

"Richard, good to see you again." She begins.

"I'm sure." The man in question quips.

Before the tension gets even worse, Jon interrupts. "When will we be meeting the head?"

Talia smirks and moves aside. The people behind her do the same. "My son, Damian Al Ghul the Dragons Head."

The man that steps forward is beautiful. Very clearly his mother's son with sun-kissed skin and green eyes. Jons breathe catches.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquitance, officially." The Dragons Head greets them.

They two heroes are invited inside and assign guest rooms. It's not until dinner that any actual negotiations take place.

The League of Assassin's is not opposed to the alliance with the Justice League, but only if their ethics remain intact.

They debate terms for days.

"The League respects life but understands that sometimes you have to kill what destroys the natural order." Damians argues.

Jon fights the urge to raise his voice. They have been going in circles of hours. "Because you never know for sure! You can't be certain that killing won't make things worse or that the person wasn't framed or can't change for the better."

Damian smirks. "That is true for every decision, that if I don't kill than that person kills others because I didn't stop him when I had the chance."

Jon groans. He can find fault in the logic, but some part of him agrees with it. It does not help that Damian is unfairly attractive.

"I'm getting tired of this. Would you like to walk with me to the garden?" Damian asks, gracefully standing and dragging Jon with him by the arm.

Jon finds himself distracted from escaping the Assassin's grasp by the sudden closeness.

They walk together in silence in a courtyard filled with jasmine flowers.

"I admire what you are trying to do. I get frustrated myself at never seeing progress, but ideals can be corrupted. Just look at the previous head." Jon says quietly.

"That is why I am open to trusting heroes. I'm terrified of becoming like my grandfather. If I allow the Justice League to know some of my activities, then there is a check and balance. If I go too far, they will be able to stop me."

"Stop you how?"

"Kill me if necessary."

"What!" Jon is incredulous. Damian looks so at peace discussing his own death.

"If I become what I swore to destroy. Death would be mercy."

Jon doesn't know what to say to that. His eyes fall to how Damian holds him arm still and lays his hand over his.

Jon stays at Nanda Parat for weeks, even when Nightwing leaves.

He and Damian spend every day together always ending sitting side by side amongst the jasmine. Their conversations starts drifting away from either League.

Jon learns that Damian has a small zoo of pets. That his innermost circle consists entirely of his family. That when he smiles, he has dimples.

Jon opens up about his doubts, about his temper and the weight of his fathers legacy.

Jon tells Damian about how he agrees that killing might be necessary but how he fears what he'll become if he allows himself to take a life.

Damian holds his hand and promises that he would never ask that of him.

They strike up a friendship, then something more.

Damian kisses him one day, and Jon sighs in relief.

Jon decides to go back to Watchtower after he receives a call from his father. He promises Damian he will return.

The Justice League makes him report on his findings and then almost immediately sends him to space.

He is away for two months.

When he flies to Nanda Parat Damian welcomes him home.

The two Leagues sign the alliance. Jon is named the diplomat between the two.

Batman meets his son again once the paperwork is signed. It's awkward, but the two are working towards a proper relationship.

Some object, especially after they get married.

People like to think Damian corrupted Jon. But his rage and need to affect change for all has always been a part of him.

Damian is his anchor, his safe haven.

Jon is Damians guiding light.

[pathologicalreid]

angst masterlist

main masterlist

note: italicized titles denote requests; asterisks (*) mark all retired!reader fics; plus signs (+) mark hurt/comfort.

buried alive (2), (3): in which the BAU races against the clock to rescue you from a killer team

the archer: in which a trip to your hometown leads an exposed past and a wrongful arrest, you can't help but wonder who could stay

brilliance: in which reader goes into labor after a fight and spencer is nowhere to be found

a father's daughter: in which your father doesn't approve of your relationship, but who knows how he'll react when reid jumps into action after a threat against your life

*stuck between a rock and a hard place: you, an undercover agent, uncover a hidden secret of the country's largest operation, putting your life in danger and under the protection of the BAU.

*the space between us: the adjustment between never being home and always being home starts to take a toll on you

*this is the job: you and Spencer (almost) get into a fight about the demands of your job.

sense memory: after eight months, you and Spencer reunite after he was in prison and you were in WITSEC.

no sign of danger: when SWAT makes a mistake that puts you in danger, your boyfriend is... displeased

next of kin (2):disaster strikes and you and Spencer try to take custody of your younger sister

perennial: unrequited love brings spencer to his death bed, unless you can rescue him

work song: no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her

can you come get me? when you manage to escape your captor, and your first call is to spencer

epiphany: a story in four parts, before, during, after, and epiphany

+resilient: in which your boyfriend lends you and hand when your own are working against you

+dazed days: your job at the FBI is hard, but life with spencer is easy

+your needs, my needs: washing spencer's hair after his attempts to save a life go awry

+don't lose your head: a stalker uses your work as a tudor history professor to follow your every move, so you go to the only place you can think of for help - the BAU

+the ninth step: spencer starts to make amends after mexico - and he's starting with you

+don't look in the mirror: in which spencer helps you when you're using sex as a poor coping mechanism

leave a message after the beep: when you go missing on a business trip in texas, the bau travels to investigate, but the situation might be more than they anticipated.

for the fear of falling apart: following her gunpoint confession, your sister pressure you into airing your grievances at Rossi's wedding

+and now i have to act like i can't read your mind: your sobriety is broken by an old 'friend', and spencer's there to help you navigate a new reality

extraordinary measures: in which your life hangs in the balance after a brutal attack, and Spencer has to hold himself together for the sake of you and your baby

blowing smoke: in which Spencer asks you out on a date, but you know better than to say yes

too heavy to hold: in which you and Spencer grieve the loss of the most important person in your life, your son

all the debts i owe: in which Spencer takes your kids into account when deciding whether or not he should take a plea deal, and it doesn't go the way you expect

merry christmas, please don't call: in which Spencer pens an email to you, since you've already blocked his phone number

losing you: in which you being in danger in the field elicits a response from Spencer that you're not used to - anger

the angel of the bottomless pit: in which you cope with Spencer's mortality after he's shot in the neck

the anniversary effect: in which the anniversary of reader's assault nears and Spencer would move heaven and earth to make sure she's okay

come home with me: in which you are chosen as the member of the BAU who gets to retrieve Spencer from prison

that gold mine changed you: in which Spencer won't open up to you following his release from prison and you've reached your breaking point

a long way to go: in which your family breaks no contact and Spencer reminds you that you're doing the right thing

the lost daughter: in which JJ goes missing in the middle of the night, and Spencer's attempts to comfort you completely fall through

central nervous system: in which you are drugged on what should've been a routine case

black hole: in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

called you again: in which you make a late night phone call to your ex-boyfriend because you're convinced he's the only thing that can lull you to sleep

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔄 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡

Grant Ward x male reader

Summary: a request that I received from a person on tumblr: ”Hey! Could I request a smut fic with Grant Ward after his Hydra reveal? Maybe something intense, with a lot of tension between him and the male reader? Would love to see how things escalate from there. Thanks! You are the best and it’s okay if you won’t do this <3”

Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. He/him pronouns used towards the reader. Fight scene. Some descriptions of blood and minor injuries. Possessiveness. Jealousy. Smut. Dom Grant. Heavy make out sessions. Bottom reader. Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 4000

The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the echo of distant gunfire swallowed by the deafening roar of blood pounding through your ears. Coulson's team was locked in battle with Hydra operatives, but none of that mattered. Not when Grant Ward stood before you, the man who, with a single reveal, shattered the illusion everyone had of him.

Your fists met his with bone-rattling force, each strike carrying enough force to break him if it landed clean. But Ward wasn't just any opponent. He was trained in the same deadly efficiency that you were, maybe even more so. And he knew your movements, your tactics, the rhythm of your attacks like a song he had memorized.

So when your punch came for his jaw, he dodged just in time, twisting away as if he had seen it coming before you had even thrown it.

But you had expected that. Using the momentum, you pivoted sharply, aiming a brutal kick toward his ribs. He caught it. His fingers clamped down around your ankle with bruising force, using your own power to twist you mid-air, body snapping sideways, feet skidding against the concrete.

And he was already on you. Ward's grip shot out like a viper, his fingers closing around your wrist in a bruising hold. You yanked free just in time to dodge his counter, twisting away as his first cut through the air, narrowly missing your ribs. But he was faster than most gave him credit for. The second your footing faltered, he capitalized, arm hooking around your back before slamming you into the cold concrete floor with brutal precision.

The impact drove the breath from your lungs, pain detonating across your spine. His knee pinned your chest, arm drawn back for a strike that could break bone. You caught his wrist mid-swing, twisting sharply, using his own weight against him. The two of you tumbled apart, scrambling to your feet at the same time, bodies coiled like predators waiting to strike.

His expression was unreadable at first, dark eyes shadowed beneath the flickering emergency lights. Then, something shifted. A slow, deliberate tilt of his head, a calculating glint in his gaze. His lips parted just enough to release a slow breath, the faintest ghost of a smirk curling at the edges.

Your fist shot out, a feint with your left before you drove a brutal kick into his side. He grunted, staggering for the briefest moment. Satisfaction barely had time to register before his hand clamped around your leg and possibly ready to snap it.

Your fist connected with his jaw in a savage arc. The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot, sending his head snapping to the side and your leg was free from his tight grip.

Slow and deliberate, he turned his head back toward you. The movement was predatory, spine-chilling in its calculated grace. His dark eyes locked onto you with an unsettling intensity, heavy with something dark and undeniably dangerous.

His lips parted enough to let out a slow, shallow breath, the barest ghost of a smirk playing at the edges, if it could even be called that. A wrathful stare, something far more chilling that sat in the pit of your stomach like a coiled snake.

A fresh trail of crimson trickled from the corner of his mouth, thick and glistening under the dim emergency lights. It dripped in slow, lazy streams, curling against the edge of his lips before spilling down his chin in a slick, broken line. He barely seemed to notice, his jaw flexed ever so slightly, the muscle ticking beneath bruised skin and his tongue darted out to catch the coppery taste before retreating, tasting it as if confirming its presence.

A bruise was already blooming along the side of his jaw, the pain only seemed to sharpen him. He didn’t wipe the blood away. He let it linger and stain his skin, a silent testament to the weight of everything between you, eyes flickering with something dark and possessive.

Before you could react, Ward moved too fast yet again. His hand shot out, shoving you back with a brutal force that sent you stumbling.

His fingers curled around your throat the second you landed, your pulse roaring against the vise of his fingers. He slammed you against the concrete with a force that rattled your skull, his weight pressing down completely, unyielding while cutting off just enough air to leave you gasping. Your hand's clawed at his arms, nails raking against his skin in a feigned struggle, your body twisting beneath him.

But his grip only tightened, fingers digging into your skin with force, breathing rough and uneven. His expression was nothing short of fury, but beneath the sharp edge of his rage, there was something dangerously close to hunger. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted just enough for his breath to fan against your skin, warm and unsteady. Even as he loomed over you like a predator savoring his prey, he didn’t move to end it. No, he held you there, drawing it out, relishing the way you squirmed beneath him.

May intervened in time. Her boot connected with his ribs in a devastating blow, sending him rolling off of you with a grunt. The moment his grip tore away, you sucked in a ragged breath, the sting of forming bruises already settling deep.

Ward barely had time to recover before SHIELD agents were on him, forcing him down, pinning his arms back. Blood smeared his face, his chest rising and falling with every breath, but his gaze never left you. Even as they dragged him away, even as May hauled you to your feet, his eyes stayed locked on yours.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Hours passed after that event, the guard was now lowered and the base was silent now extremely late at night.

The reinforced steel of the walls, security cameras carefully hidden, countless layers of encrypted surveillance. S.H.I.E.L.D. had built its prisons well. You had slipped through them like a shadow.

Your footsteps were soundless against the cold floor as you moved through the dimly lit corridors, each step deliberate, controlled. The weight of everything still lingered in your muscles, the bruises from the fight throbbing in the background like a dull ache.

It was easy to ignore since you weren't here for remorse.

The reinforced door looming in front of you, its small observation window casting a faint rectangle of light into the otherwise darkened space beyond.

Inside, he was waiting sitting on the simple cot of his cell, the dim, almost sterile lighting casting deep shadows across the padded walls behind him. His posture is deceptively relaxed, hands loosely clasped together, forearms resting on his thighs.

He’s clad in a plain gray prison jumpsuit, the fabric slightly loose but doing nothing to hide the definition of his arms. His biceps are prominent, the muscle taut beneath his skin and the short sleeves leave his strong forearms exposed. The muted color of the clothing adds to the bleakness of his surroundings, but it does little to dull the quiet intensity he carries.

His face is rugged, the slight scruff along his jawline making him look both worn and dangerous, as if the hours of isolation have only sharpened him rather than subdued him. His dark eyes, shadowed from the overhead lighting, flicker with something unreadable. There’s a weight to his gaze, a quiet assessment as he looks up, unreadable and yet knowing all at once. His brows are slightly furrowed, adding to the exhaustion and quiet menace in his expression.

Even trapped, he does not look broken. If anything, he looks like he’s waiting.

Watching everything.

The corner of his mouth curled, not quite a smirk, not quite anything. Just the barest ghost of something that flickered and disappeared just as quickly. He simply sat there, head tilted ever so slightly as he took you in. The bruises you'd given each other, the cut on his lip, the faint discoloration around his jaw where your fist had landed.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. running out of interrogators already? Must be getting desperate." He muttered, tilting his head slightly, voice dripping with mockery.

His words were designed to get under your skin. He thrived on pressure. He pushed and prodded, searching for weakness, for tells. He knew how to read people better than anyone, how to twist their expectations until they didn't even realize they were playing right into his hands.

"Or maybe, this is just personal for you." he mused.

You kept your expression impassive. Cold. Unreadable.

He was digging. Pushing past the surface, past the professional veneer, testing just how much of this was real and how much was performance.

And God, was he enjoying it.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes burning into yours now.

"Come on," he said, his voice a little quieter, a little lower. “I know you. I know exactly how you operate. And let me guess—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You still think there's something left to save here, don't you?"

You clenched your jaw.

"You think that you're different from the others, don’t you?" His smirk deepened, and God, he was enjoying this too much for your liking.

You tilted your head slightly, letting a slow exhale slip past your lips. Keeping your stance controlled.

"You talk too much, Ward."

He laughed. Soft and quiet. A huff of breath through his nose as he leaned back against the wall.

"So what is it this time?" he mused. "Are you here to convince me of something? That I made the wrong choice? That I can still be redeemed?"

His eyes flickered down your body before snapping back up to meet yours.

"Or is it something else?"

Your pulse jumped. He had seen and felt something.

And it was infuriating how easily he could read your mind.

You tapped the security panel beside the door, fingers moving with precision. A soft, barely audible click followed as the locks disengaged.

The door swung open and the shift in the air was palpable.

You stepped inside, slow, deliberate, closing it behind you with a quiet finality.

Ward didn't move.

Didn't have to. Like a predator waiting to see if the threat in front of him was real.

You took another step closer.

"You really think I don't know their security systems by now?" Your voice was quiet, edged with something unreadable. "Cameras are looping."

The mask cracks. Your pulse thrums in your ears and not from fear but because of something far more intoxicating.

For the first time in hours, you breathe without restraint. The weight of the act slips from your shoulders, shedding like dead skin, revealing something raw and unfiltered beneath. The role they forced you to play as the loyal agent is gone, discarded like a useless disguise.

And it feels good.

To stand here, unfettered and look at him and see the way he knows. Everything that you did this far was a performance meant for an audience too blind to question it.

His expression barely flickered, but you saw it. A fraction of a second where his breathing shifted and his pulse jumped at his throat.

He was smart enough to know what that meant.

"Skye taught me that trick," you added. "Months ago."

Understanding dawned in his eyes before smiling. A slow, knowing smile that you knew too well, the barest twitch of his lips.

Satisfaction.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, he moves.

No hesitation or warning, just the sheer force of him crashing into you, hands finding your waist and fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he slams you against the cold metal wall. The impact sends a sharp jolt up your spine, but the way he devours you in the next breath makes it a distant sensation, swallowed whole by something far more consuming.

His mouth claims yours with a brutal kind of hunger, nothing like the deception you played at before when you used to in front of everyone else of the team. There’s no performance here, no restraint. Just teeth and heat and the unfiltered aftermath of hours spent locked away, forced to endure interrogation after interrogation, his body coiled with frustration and mind forced into stillness when all he wanted was this.

His hands roam and he finds those bruises he left on you earlier, the ones he painted onto your skin in the midst of your choreographed battle. His fingers press down, slow and deliberate, grip tightening when you react, satisfaction evident in the sharp edge of his breath. He’s reinforcing every mark, to remind you who they belong to.

His teeth graze your lips, sharp and demanding, then lower, tracing the sharp cut of your jaw, biting hard enough to leave his mark, tongue and teeth working over the same spots his fingers had claimed minutes before, like an apology he has no intention of meaning.

“You have no idea how hard it was to hold back.” His fingers tighten around your hips, keeping you pinned against him with no room to escape, not that you would. Body presses flush to yours, radiating heat, the thin barrier of clothing between you both a laughable pretense.

“Watching you like that,” he continues, voice dark and ragged, the weight of his restraint barely hanging by a thread. “Fuck. I wanted to fuck you right there. Throw you down and pay you back for every little thing you did to me, make you feel just how much you were pushing me.’

His hands skim lower, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your waist before digging in. “You wanted it just as bad, didn’t you?” He growls against your lips, voice wrecked and tinted with something close to obsession. “I could barely hold back.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tilting your head back against the bars, baring your throat to him in blatant invitation.

“Who said you have to?”

A deep, guttural sound rumbles in his chest at that and then he’s on you, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, his hands gripping your ass again, hard, pulling you flush against him.

The fabric gives way under his grip, not carefully, not with any patience. Ripped, torn, peeled from your body like an obstacle he refuses to tolerate. The cold air of the cell rushes against your exposed skin for only a second before he’s on you again, all heat and force, shoving you back against the cold iron bars, gripping your ass with no restraint, fingertips digging into muscle with a force that leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

The groan he lets out against your throat is deep, wrecked. His mouth finds your neck again, lips brushing over the bruises he left earlier, the ones that were meant to look like battle wounds but were anything but.

“You better not screw any of this up,” he mutters, breath warm against your lips. “Everything’s riding on you now.”

Your lips curl into something just shy of a smirk, amusement bleeding through the haze of heat clouding your thoughts. Even now like this, he can’t not remind you of the stakes. He’s always been composed, methodical, always one step ahead. Except here, in this cell, in this moment, you can feel the cracks in his control, the ragged edge of his breathing as his lips drag over your jaw, down the column of your throat, pressing against the marks that only he gets to put on you.

“Relax, Ward,” you murmur, your voice low, velvety, teasing. “The team hasn’t so much as looked me in the eye since you got exposed. They think I’m mourning you. Poor, broken, betrayed agent, left to pick up the pieces.”

Your voice drips with mockery, the idea of it so laughable it nearly makes you chuckle. And, honestly? You’re impressed. They bought it so easily, swallowing the lie whole without question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly as you let your fingers graze down his forearm, deliberate and slow. Testing and pushing.

“Maybe I should get closer to one of them,” you murmur, your voice casual, but you make sure to watch him closely, searching for the telltale signs. The shift in his stance, the tension in his jaw. “Sleeping with one of them worked well enough for you, after all.”

You see how his eyes flicker, something simmering beneath that carefully controlled exterior. It’s not immediate nor obvious. Grant Ward is too well-trained, too deeply embedded in his own control to make it obvious.

It was impossible to see it coming. His grip tightens suddenly, fingers curling around your bicep, yanking you forward before getting turned around and slammed chest-first into the bars again. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, a sharp hiss slipping past your teeth. Pain flashes through every nerve of your body but it warps instantly into something hot that coils low in your gut and burns.

Thick and hard, his cock strains against the denim of his gray pants, pressing firm and unrelenting against your bare, already red ass. The heat of him is overwhelming, even through the fabric, the solid weight of him sending a fresh pulse of arousal straight through you. A shudder wracks through your body, involuntary, traitorous, the shame of it mixing with the unbearable need clawing at your insides.

Your breath is ragged, your fingers curling around the bars, gripping tight as you will yourself to stay still, to not push back, to not give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much this is already getting to you.

But he knows.

A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, deep and unrestrained, reverberating straight into your spine. The vibration sends heat rushing through your veins, leaving you momentarily breathless.

And then he leans in.

His sturdy chest presses tight against your back, his breath ghosts over your ear, slow and deliberate, before he finally speaks.

“You think I give a fuck what you do next?”

His voice is low, husky, like gravel and smoke. His fingers slip lower, dragging down your side, slow, teasing, before gripping your hips tight.

“You think I care?” He’s toying with you. Daring you to believe him.

Your lips curl into a smirk, despite the way your pulse is hammering or how your own dick is aching, straining, desperate for more.

“No?” you murmur, voice just the slightest bit breathless, teasing enough to push at the cracks in his control.

His grip yanks you back, pulling you flush against him.

“No.” His voice is a growl now, his breath hot against the back of your neck. His cock pressing even harder against your ass, making sure you feel him.

“So go ahead.” His tone is mocking now, cruel in the way that makes your blood run hotter, your thighs clench harder. “Go and fuck whoever you prefer.”

His teeth sink hard into your throat, making you gasp, your grip on the bars tightening.

“But don’t forget that you’re still mine.”

His hips roll again, rougher this time, dragging a desperate sound from your lips that you barely manage to muffle.

Ward's fingers dig in like iron, driving the breath from your lungs as he pushes into you harder into the cold metal bars as his thick cock stretches you wide, claiming you all over again with every brutal thrust.

You bite back a moan, too loud and desperate, but he hears it anyway. His hips snap forward in a sharp, punishing thrust, dragging a ragged gasp from you, a broken, helpless sound that betrays just how much you want this.

Ward fucking thrives on that sound. On the way you shudder beneath him, helpless to the overwhelming heat coiling in your gut, to the brutal and relentless rhythm he's set.

Fuck. He was so big, the thick girth of him splitting you open, making you feel every inch of him as your walls clung to him, squeezing down, swallowing him deeper, taking him all.

Every thrust is a a punishment, a brand seared into your very bones. Ward takes you like he's got something to prove, something to remind you.

His cock drives into you without mercy, thick and unrelenting, stretching you open with every forceful stroke, hitting that devastating spot inside you over and over until the pleasure is unbearable, until your body is caught in the violent push and pull of pain and ecstasy.

He doesn't let up nor slow down. Not when you whimper, nor when you shudder or even when your knees threaten to give out.

Instead, he laughs, breathless and dark against your ear, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other snakes up your chest, fingers wrapping tight around your throat.

His teeth sink into your shoulder, lips dragging down the damp skin of your neck and leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses between the bruises his hands are already painting onto your body.

"Fuck," he groans, forehead pressing against the nape of your neck as his pace turns erratic, desperate. His breath is hot and ragged against your sweat-slick skin, grip punishing as he holds you still, refusing to let you pull away.

His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, buried so deep you swear you'll feel him for days.

With a sharp, guttural grunt, Ward buries himself to the hilt, his body going taut, his breath catching as he comes deep inside of you, his release flooding you in thick, hot pulses. The moment stretches, endless, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex.

Ward's fingers drag over your skin, slow and deliberate, tracing the bruises he's left like they're some masterpiece of his own design. There's a glint of satisfaction in his dark eyes as he drinks in the sight of you trembling in his hold and full of him.

He pulls out. The stretch of his cock slipping free sends a sharp wave of overstimulation through you, your body clenching involuntarily at the loss. You barely manage to bite back a whimper, your muscles weak, sore, trembling from the sheer force of what he's just done to you. The sudden emptiness is almost unbearable, leaving behind nothing but a slick mess between your thighs.

And God, does it ache.

Yeah, he wasn't just a monster on the inside, the one you loved to death, he also had a damn monster at his disposal and it knew exactly how to break you apart.

Ward smirks as he watches you struggle to steady yourself, his amusement evident as he tucks himself back into his pants, the sound of his zipper slicing through the silence was like a goddamn victory bell.

You force yourself to keep it together as you retrieve your clothes and pretend like your legs aren't still shaking, like you aren't still leaking down behind your thighs.

By the time you step outside the cell and turn to seal the door, he's already standing in front of you millimeters away.

The bars are the only thing keeping him from reaching you, but even that feels fragile, temporary, something he could snap if he truly wanted to. His eyes bore into yours, dark and unreadable.

"Go." It's a simple command, voice rough but steady, a sharp contrast to the wrecked, desperate way he'd been groaning your name just minutes ago.

You straighten up, forcing your legs to hold steady despite the dull ache still pulsing between them, determined to not let him have the last word.

So you smirk. Let your eyes flicker down to where his hands are still gripping the bars, where his knuckles are white with restraint.

"You always act so detached afterward, but you're already waiting at the bars like a dog for his master."

His arms shoot through the bars in a blur of motion, his hands grabbing you, yanking you forward until your body slams against the cold iron. A sharp gasp escapes you at the impact, muffled by his lips devouring you.

A feral kiss, all teeth and tongue, his tongue pushes past your lips, licking into your mouth with a desperation that contradicts the cold, unaffected tone he had just seconds before.

His teeth catch your lower lip, biting down hard enough to sting before he soothes over the mark with his tongue.

You moan into his mouth, unable to hold back the noise, unable to do anything but get consumed by him.

He shoves you away seconds later. Hard enough that you stumble, your breath heaving, lips swollen.

He licks his lips, tasting you there, his expression unreadable as he lets the silence stretch between you.

"You know where to find me." He spoke like nothing has ever happened.

Like he doesn't already know that no matter where you go or what you do—

You'll always come back.

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

♡ OVERLORD HCs A.01

scenario A: decepticon reader CO, you command your own ship and you have to baby sit your least favorite ex-gladiator (cybertronian equivalent of having to supervise your least favorite athlete)

setting: Pre-Overlord Defection. G-9 has not happened yet!

cross posted on ao3. i mainly post on ao3!

— He’s actually noticed you for a long while now. Overlord has had a small dislike towards you for your sheering fucking audacious behavior back during the Pre-War era. He remembers seeing you in the gladiatorial pits in the audience. Overlord remembers well how you cheered on and on for Megatron instead of him and how you shout out insults at Overlord from the sidelines to his fragging face when Megatron was giving him the defeat of a lifetime. At the time, it enraged him beyond everything he's ever felt. He honestly wanted to hunt you down after that fight and terminate you himself. But he couldn’t do much about it in those times and to be honest, he’s grown out of it now (mostly). He doesn’t care about the opinion of some random miner who spectated his fights millions of years ago, why should he be some random bot's favorite gladiator in the first place? Even if said miner had the ball bearings to say it to his face that he wasn’t as good as Megatron all those millennia ago.

— He didn’t like your blind hero worship towards both of your now-boss-and-commander back then so it amuses him to no end to know that you obviously came out to be a Decepticon once the war started but he hadn’t found that out till he was assigned to your ship, unfortunately. You’re the in-charge and the star system within which your unit operates in has planets ready for cyberforming so that means Phase Six is to be initiated on said planets. Cue Overlord waltzing onto your ship one day to commit mass genocide.

— Overlord is solely annoying you for his own amusement as well as to get back at you for his Pre-War humiliation. This is an opportunity he’s not going to miss. Usually, he doesn't really engage in conversation with Commanders or Officers or any of the crew on any of the ships he’s been on in general, unless its to mess with them. He doesn’t like authority figures.

— Now Overlord is used to being feared by the mechs of his own faction and he enjoys their fear tremendously but none of them really ever stares daggers at him like you do as you pass by him in the hallways. Overlord can tell you don’t really like having him around with that glare you give him, he thinks it's cute. He can tell you’re weary of him causing chaos on-board and being the CO (Commanding Officer) of this ship, Overlord is well aware that you’d be held responsible. So he purposefully stirs up shit to piss you off and hear that signature sigh he’d gotten used to for the past four solar cycles.

— He’ll probably try approaching you with some mundane small talk to further annoy you only for you to shut him down immediately but by being annoyed with him, you’re only spurring him on to continue. Overlord likes being a pain in the aft. Eventually, it becomes a running gag between you two and he will get more bolder. Your teammates are kind of stunned that you’d speak to a fucking Phaser Sixer that way or the fact that you even knew Overlord to a level. But you did run this ship so none of your subordinates dared to question you.

— He has no respect for personal space. Overlord will stand uncomfortably close to you because he can and he knows you’re not going to even try, you’re well aware of how stubborn he is. He likes making you uncomfortable.

— Since you’re the CO of the ship, Overlord unfortunately has to report to you by Decepticon Code and it's something the both of you hate because you want nothing with the mech and Overlord hates knowing that he has to address you of all bots with respect. He only calls you ‘Commander’ in a mock sarcastic way which just, honestly, it just makes you sigh. You’re already tired of dealing with the crew you have and now you have to look after Overlord of all mechs.

— Your no-nonsense attitude and coldness honestly amuses him. It's a stark contrast to the spitfire of a cheerful fanbot he despised. He does find you a little boring though. How you're so strict on protocol, how you insist on roll call every morning, how you pester him for his report… Honestly, he thinks you'd get along somewhat well with Tarn at this point. He hates being bossed around and that just further fuels his need to be the biggest helmache you've ever had.

— He’s not going to say it yet but he finds this new you sort of… attractive in a way. Stern and commanding, as if you could control him. As much as he found it annoying, he liked a bot that challenged him.

— He also liked how you seemed to be more… tired with him annoying you than really angry. Overlord find the face you make when he approaches you absolutely golden. It's enough for him to smile with glee.

— One time, the two of you were on a mission together and you weren’t too happy to be with him. In fact, it was a mission assigned to you but he insists on just following, as he said in his words: “to make sure his Commanding Officer is safe” knowing damn well that you're the last bot that needs any sort of ‘safety’ from anyone. He can tell it pisses you off and it amuses him to no end just how much you don’t like him. In reality, he’s just tagging along with you to not feel bored after he’s decimated entire civilizations.

Overlord stands by you as you kneel down to the Autobot you just knocked out. Overlord has his signature scrap-eating grin and you let out an aggravated sigh, you really didn’t like being around him… and he was intent on following you around to bother you, even during your missions.

“I thought we needed the Autobot alive for interrogation, Commander. Seems you’re a step away from terminating him.” Overlord sighs in a rather impish fashion as venom drips from his tone at the word ‘Commander’, he’s mocking you and you know it but you just can’t find the energy to care.

“No. My plan is not to offline him, Overlord.” You reply as you rise up after taking note of the bot’s spark signature, Overlord is slightly intrigued by that but his face never betrays what he feels. Sure the Autobot’s color was still present on his frame but his optics shone the bright blue he loathes ever so dimly, as if the poor thing were on the last fumes of his spark while he clings on desperately to his miserable existence. He would meet the Allspark soon, or so Overlord muses. Especially with how immobile he was, not even able to flinch as your digits accidentally brush past open circuit ends. That would usually draw out a pretty sweet screeching scream from Overlord’s experience.

“What do you mean? He’s limp on the floor.” Overlord folds his servos against his chassis, raising an optical ridge at you. A quizzical look on his features which was a rare sight, the brutal ex-gladiator usually caught on to what a bot does without having to ask given how terrifying his intellect was.

“I hit the Autobot on an exposed part of his backstruts when he left it open in our fight that you so graciously showed up to spectate.” He can hear the teeth through your words despite your calm and soft tone, it makes him chuckle. Overlord watched you struggle as you fought instead of helping you. It certainly had you annoyed that Overlord wouldn’t help but his reasoning, unbeknownst to you, is that he’s too busy watching how your frame moves. You looked good after a fight, in his unvoiced opinion.

“The gauntlets allow me to control the force I am using and it was enough to snap the spinal motor cording.” You sigh and graciously explain to your irksome Phase Sixer ‘companion’, showing off the upgrade on your servos as you do so by extending your them out towards him as he examines closely, taking a step closer to your energon-stained servos. He seems somewhat impressed as the realization of what you’ve done dawns on him; his servos remain folded but he’s got that smirk you wish you could wipe off his face on. Overlord may have been more about the… displays and brute force but he was intelligent.

After all, it’s what made Overlord so deadly.

“So… you paralyzed this sorry sod?” He has a wicked grin now as he studies the Autobot that lay before you two on the ground, his frame is wreck— a few open ended cabling from your slashes and breaches in his armor from your blaster shots as he leaks out energon, not enough for him to go into stasis though as he lay immobile. He's impressed to say the least, with how far you’ve come from what he remembers you as.

“I prefer immobilized.” You look down, cold and uncaring as you kneel toward the unmoving frame in front of you. He can see the indifference in your own crimson gaze, as if you stay aware of this bot’s suffering but simply can’t seem to care and a part of him wants you to look at him like that, not like he’d say it outright how attractive he finds it.

“The Autobot is caged in his own frame. He can’t move, he can’t escape, he can’t scream and he can’t even cry. So we don’t have to worry about escape plans and the immobility makes it easier to use a cortical psychic patch to get the information we need. The lack of noise from his frame also means it’ll be a lot easier to move through deep enemy territory.”

Overlord is slightly startled by the words that leave your vocalizer as you explain your reasoning, his wicked grin faltering. His face for once, betrays how he feels with how his crimson optics slightly widen but thankfully, you don’t seem to notice as you’re rummaging through the Autobot’s subspace, probably trying to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything that could give out his location. Now, he didn’t dislike your words. But such… he doesn’t even have the word for it… Ruthlessness? Brutality? Intelligence? Practicality? Sadism?... Whatever it was. All of… this was coming from the same bot he remembers resenting in the gladiatorial pits all those millennia ago for being an annoying little suck up and it clearly startled him, how radically different you were now. He clearly had the wrong idea about you. Not to mention, how you didn’t seem to think of Autobots as… individuals, referring to the third person that can hear their conversation perfectly fine from your shoulders as a mere obstacle.

But… he has to take a moment to just admire your creativity. Overlord was expect another typical Decepticon-style torture treatment for whatever information it was that you needed. Not like he was against it though but the old torture routine had lost its charm over time to the Phase Sixer. He was starting to get bored with it. Invading some random Autobot’s memories as they helplessly watch, unable to do absolutely anything about it sounds a lot more… fresh and tempting.

His optics quickly return to its regular smug look, watching you ever so intently as you kneel back down to carry the unfortunate bot over your shoulders. It's apparent that you've gotten bigger and stronger with how effortlessly you carry up a bot nearly your height. He can't help but take a moment to take his crimson optics over your frame for a moment— whatever upgrade you've gotten was certainly impressive. He can tell you’re built for speed, strength and agility.

But what intrigued him the most was your thinking. He's been around cruel mechs (and been a cruel mech) long enough to know how a sadist looks down at their work and… You didn’t seem sadistic, you weren’t really admiring your handiwork nor did you seem to take much joy in it, but you were willing to be brutal if it meant it was the more efficient route. He can’t help but admire that. A secretive, intelligent and cold cruelty; drastically different to the loud and brash explosive flames of blind hatred most Decepticons had.

You were absolutely diabolical.

And he was loving every moment of it.

Overlord could tell he was going to absolutely adore this new you. No one’s managed to get him this impressed and startled in a long, long time.

— He's surprised to find out that you’re actually sort of insane as well? Not really but somewhat? Clearly, he has misjudged you for being boring and plain. Evident with your methodologies— you prioritize efficiency over anything else and he sort of gets why Megatron has somewhat of a high opinion on you. You’re loyal and you know how to get the job done. In Overlord’s experience, Decepticons usually have one of two.

—However, it’s not unwelcome. He doesn’t mind it but your apathy is sort of unexpected? To him, he still thinks of you as that tiny little annoying fan that doesn’t know how to shut up about their leader (even if you’ve certainly gotten bigger). But now... you’re more silent, a lot more mature and a lot more devious. The war has taken its toll on you... and Overlord, in his own twisted way, can’t help but start to find the result of it somewhat attractive. He likes a bot that could match his freak. Needless to say, he’s grown intrigued by who you’ve now become.

— Remember that whole not having any respect for your personal space thing? Yeah… that gets a whole lot worse now that he's intrigued by you, to a point where he's constantly getting glares from you as he pushes his luck. He dared to wrap his servo around your shoulder which earned him a quick, stern “Keep your distance.” from you. He listens at the moment you say it, only to do it again moments later. But his touches don’t really escalate from your shoulders.

— He’s like your tail at this point, following you around whenever he’s bored has become a routine habit. You find it slightly annoying but you can’t do anything about it other than sigh. Despite your tenacity, there was no way by the Pits you could discipline a Phase Sixer, Warrior Elite… that was far above anything you could do and you seemed to acknowledge that. Overlord has come to enjoy your tired sighs directed at him. Ironically enough, the rest of your crew assumes you’ve managed to keep him close to keep an optic on him… but that one small advantage does not make up for it in comparison to the insufferable personality of this mech.

— Sometimes you scold him and he just pouts playfully, pretending to be hurt because he really does not care at all. He's a cocky bastard. Overlord thinks its cute you're even trying to in the first place.

— The more he follows you around on your various missions, the more he finds himself admiring your way of doing things. He can’t help but get more and more intrigued by your cold, silent ruthlessness, so distant from the grandeur displays of the same he exhibits with his dramatic flare.

There you were. Another successful mission and Overlord watches keenly, watching you work has become somewhat of a hobby for him now. He admires the way your processor works. You’d manage to eliminate an entire unit of seven single-handedly by picking them off one by one from the shadows and terminating them in silence. You were scarily stealthy, he could see that. You were light on your pedes, not even he could pick up on the sounds of your pede-steps.

“I must say, you’re certainly creative.” Overlord speaks with a surprising amount of sincerity in his tone that is actually not sarcasm for once which visibly startles you and he can tell that with how your crimson optics slight widen, you truly didn’t expect it from him. It makes him amused.

“When you pick them off one by one, the rest get panicked and they do something brash.” You explain your approach, Overlord has found the way you explain why you did what you did quite charming by now even if its slightly off putting.

“Hm. Weaponizing their anxiety and fears? How dastardly.” Overlord was more of a ‘making his presence known’ kind of mech however, he’s grown to silently admire your way of getting things done. You were absolutely cunning and dangerous and he loves it; he’s honestly surprised you haven’t tried to worm your way up to a higher rank. He also finds the small smile you give him when he figures out the basis of your approaches somewhat endearing. As if you're glad someone finally gets it.

“Exactly. Not just that but Autobots value comradery so if one of them goes missing, the others are sure to come follow.” Overlord was honestly finding himself liking you more and more as time goes by. You might be the only bot who’s surprised him with continuous streaks at this points because his smirk widens after hearing your words.

“Using their unity, their biggest strength to your advantage?” Overlord chuckles at the sheer wickedness you’re capable of. He has not met another Decepticon half as strategic or intelligent as you. Had every ‘Con been like you, he figures they would’ve won millennia ago. Even if you reminded him of a serial killer at times. Not like he is any better.

“You truly are something else. Full of surprises.”

— One of his favorite things to do ever is just invade your workstation to annoy you. Overlord won’t knock but you can tell by his heavy pede-steps that he’s outside your door and you have to mentally prepare yourself as the mech proceeds to make his grand entrance by waltzing in like he owns the place. You’ve tried your very best to get him to go away but its to no avail. Overlord just hovers by you as you type out reports, speaking of his musings and engaging in conversation with you.

— Overlord is actually not really bad to talk to in casual conversation. A lot less intense than he usually is, though his snarky demeanor remains. In fact, he finds you very interesting now and he’s slightly genuinely curious to know what you feel and think. He finds himself wanting to understand you but he’s not going to say that out loud yet.

— He didn’t like your blind hero worship then. He does not like it now given Overlord’s strained relationship with your leader. The one thing he does not like you talking about is Megatron, you seem to have an innate ability to ramble on about Megatron for hours on end and it really really pisses him off but he doesn’t show that yet. Overlord finds himself slightly… jealous in way? He’s always envied their leader but your words make it worse.

— Now, would Overlord realize he might have some sort of feelings for you? Yes. He definitely would. Overlord would assess himself thoroughly when he realizes he genuinely finds himself enjoying your company. But the biggest give-away to him that he likes you is the fact that he starts to find himself genuinely caring about your opinion which is a huge deal because he does not care about what any bot has to say. Overlord has never been one for romance, he isn’t sure on what to do with this realization. If he likes something, he’ll take it for himself. But he wouldn’t really do anything about it, for now. Solely because you’ve earned his respect to an extent. Overlord is the type to start off as very vague and slowly build it up. He’s got the patience.

— He wouldn’t really say anything about it but he finds himself quite pleased that you’ve gotten used to him and his looming presence. Overlord can also see that you’ve begun to slowly lose your cold icy exterior around him, he suspects that you’ve come to enjoy his presence slightly as well and he’s got quite a smug grin about it.

— Your crew is kind of terrified to approach you now because of his hulking figure looming above and it entertains him to be honest. Overlord can also tell you seem to care quite a lot about your crew which he finds quite… ironic in a way? It was as if your cold apathy was purely reserved for your duties. Overlord can see that you’re generally just introverted; you care about your crew, sure but you aren’t too keen on going out of your way to strike up conversations with… anyone really. A part of him envies your crew gets to see a slightly softer side of you.

— He can see that you truly do care about them with the way you’re harsh with them in general when it comes to reprimanding but you get a lot more…soft when in private. Overlord knows this because he’s seen you scold a few soldiers with genuine concern privately in your workstation, away from prying optics. He refused to leave your workspace when you asked him to during that moment so he ended up seeing this. Overlord isn’t sure on what to feel about knowing you can be soft. On one hand, its a weakness but by Primus, what he’d give to be scolded like that.

— Its the only reason he doesn’t terrorize your crew and, the nicest thing Overlord is capable of is abstaining from committing heinous acts. Something like the bare minimum of not committing murder without reason is kindness in his twisted optics. He's got stalker tendencies as well, he's gone from following you whenever you're in the vicinity to trying to find you for the sole purpose of following you. Sometimes though, he's just content with watching you from a distance and he's quite good at making sure his presence stays hidden. Overlord has become determined to know absolutely everything he can about you because of just how much you've piqued his interests.

— Overlord is definitely the type to check you out when you’re not looking. Only reason he doesn’t when you’re aware of his gaze and presence is because he wants his intentions to remain ominous. He also kind of cares about your opinion on him now so he doesn’t want to give off a bad impression, he’s aware you already sort of don’t like him.

— Unfortunately, his time with you on your ship comes to an end after a few years. He’s got other planets to go off to and destroy for the Decepticon Cause. His farewell isn’t very heartfelt, but he is dramatic about it.

“I suppose this is the end, Commander.” Overlord sighs in dramatic fashion. He’s gotten used to his name for you, ‘Commander’ and honestly, you’ve gotten used to it as well. He can’t help but have a smug grin at your slightly amused smile.

“Farewell, Overlord.” You just wave a little, rather awkward but mostly indifferent. He can sense that a small part of you might actually miss his pestering and he can certainly tell that you’re not used to goodbyes either. You continue to hold that signature blank face as your smile slowly dies down as he walks out, towards the rampway of a space bridge. Overlord turns around for a moment as he watches you walk away. His crimson optics slightly gleaming.

He was definitely coming back for you at some point. You’ve intrigued him quite a bit and he’s proud to say that you’ve managed to live in his helm almost just as much as Megatron has.

— After that whole thing, the only places he’s seen you at is in certain formal functions or meetings. His unpredictable mood improves drastically upon seeing you, a smug smile or often times, even a genuine smile creeps up on his face. You usually don’t engage with anyone at such events given your introverted nature, keeping to yourself in a corner while chaos ensues around you and who’s Overlord to deny you company? He’ll sit by you and catch up. But these little run-ins happen like once in a few megacycles. Despite this, you’ve managed to stay in his helm. He won’t say it but he misses you and he can tell a small part of you, just a tiny part of you might have fallen for his charm.

— However, this does not last. You’re foolish if you think anything could stay even remotely somewhat wholesome with a mech like Overlord even if he did act like your temporary guard dog for the relativelt short while he was on your ship. But that will be realized in time.

[blueraith]

People get way too caught up in "this character is a fighter" trope.

Okay. But why is the character fighting? What cause, person, or thing are they putting their body and life on the line for? It's gonna be something if the character is well written.

Which Vi is.

What happens if they lose that something they've been fighting for over and over and over again? When no matter what they seem to do, their efforts to fight back always end in failure?

Particularly in a story with a theme about the cycle of violence and how it only creates more? When her literal father/narrative mentor figure physically grasps her fist, shakes it and tells her they're only going to cause her more problems?

What do you think the story is trying to say here and throughout the work? It happens early enough to not only be foreshadowing, but a thesis statement for Vi's character.

A thesis statement isn't always just confined to a work overall, they can be applied to characters too. That entire talk with Vander right after the heist is Vi's.

"If people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish."

"This?" Grasps Vi's fist and gently shakes it* "They’re not gonna solve your problems. Just make more of them."

Those two quotes set Vi up as a character for the entire series. Vi is set on a path in which she must learn how to live for herself and she must learn how to live outside of fighting and violence.

Those are the only two directions Vi's character can possibly grow narratively. If there were other options, Vander's talk with her would have been about whatever the fuck her haters wanted. I don't know, maybe, "Well, Vi, you blew up a building, but those Piltie oppressors deserved it. Keep fighting and free Zaun from tyranny."

Obviously Vander didn't say any of that bullshit. My point is that the narrative never, ever sets Vi up as a freedom fighter doomed to always give her life and body for a revolutionary cause. In fact, it does the exact opposite as seen by the conversation above and the later talk Vander has with her about war on the bridge.

If you did not see a rock bottom moment for Vi followed by a drastic change to her character for S2 coming, I question your ability for literally analysis severely. Because Vi surely does not learn the lessons Vander tried to teach her in S1. She actually only ever fights harder and harder and her situation continously deteriorates. Make more problems.

Vi attacks Sevika > Sevika warns Silco she's back

Vi threatens Silco when he finds her > Silco worsens Jinx's mental state with his own trauma with Vander

Vi challenges Silco's relationship with Jinx to Jinx > Jinx feels she has to choose between them in the most violent way possible due to her own trauma

Vi convinces Jayce to attack Silco's operation directly > Furthers tensions between PnZ that culminate into the memorial attack in S2

This is not to say that Vi is solely responsible for the way these events spiraled out of control, but those are her contributions to the cycle of violence. At no point in this story have her confrontational, aggressive, or violent decisions have made anything better.

It gets worse in S2.

Vi joins Cait's taskforce to kill or capture Jinx > Finds out she can't truly harm her sister but not before Jinx turns their strategy with the Grey into yet another terrorist attack on Piltover. (She also loses Caitlyn to Cait's own zeal for violence during her grief.)

Vi succumbs to pit fighting to try and punch away her pain > Hits her lowest point of all, her fighting is now aimless and entirely self-destructive

It's not until she lowers her fists while fighting Warwick that her outlook changes. She finally learns that to make peace, one has to be willing to finally stop fighting.

She does this again at the commune when she takes the gauntlets off without much fight when requested.

This is the story Arcane was always going to tell with Vi. Her's is an introspective and internalized conflict. It was never with Piltover, never as a revolutionary, but always regarding her place as someone grappling with how to escape the cycle of violence and create a life of peace on her own terms.

She wasn’t forgotten, didn't become spineless, and didn't have "nothing" to do in S2.

I think people simply missed this setup with her character. They wrote their own fanwork in their heads in the three year gap between seasons, and have become upset that the version of Vi in their heads was never the Vi Arcane was actually portraying.

I thought Vi's story was poignant, and it's a shame some viewers out there not only completely missed the mark, they're too set in their ways to actually see Vi from this perspective.

[velvetures]

Vulnerable pt.1?

A/N: A not-so-little thing I've had for a few weeks, and wanted to see if a part two was something anyone would be interested in reading. If so, please let me know. Summary: You try and get Ghost to relax after a harsh mission and find a bit of a quiet moment. T/W: not proofread :)

Bad intel led to you and your Lieutenant being nearly hunted down and killed by a not-so-small group of arms dealers who caught on quickly to the pair of foreigners lingering just a little bit too close to their sheltered storage garage right in the middle of a market district in the South East. The task force assumed sending in an entire squad would be overkill just for some simple recon information and decided that you and Ghost would be the perfect pair for the job. ‘In and Out…’ Price had said quite offhandedly, sliding the prepared information in two files across the table to you. Only Price’s sources hadn’t double-checked if the area was secure enough for them to enter without full backup on standby. Not necessarily a lethal kind of mistake when bringing you and the Lieutenant into the equation, but there were too many close calls and stray bullets that were clearly heard for either of you to feel super confident in getting away unscathed.

Your only savior was a small farmhouse that had been recently abandoned due to the illegal and dangerous activity that had been surrounding the small city. Modest in size with two bedrooms and running water. Perfect for a makeshift safe house to keep the trackers off your asses until an extraction could be arranged and put into motion. Contrary to belief, the 141 didn’t have the bottomless pit of resources everyone believed they had at their disposal. Which included access to evac and trained air-support teams. This wasn’t a big mission that had a lot of working parts and multiple organizations involved that had enough liquidated funds to through out for a helo and heavy gunners to rescue two operators from the middle of who-the-fuck-knows-where.

That means with busted equipment, inoperable comms, hardly enough ammunition to fight out of a wet paper bag, and zero way of knowing when and if you’d be rescued, there was nothing left to do but try and relax in one of the most difficult predicaments. It left you searching through cabinets for maybe some kind of food to keep the both of you while Ghost did one of his favorite things. Pacing the house from window to window looking for the slightest bit of movement. The trouble being, there wasn’t anything for at least two miles in any direction. The people who owned this place were farmers of some sort, and had placed their home right in the middle of crop fields that gave a very advantageous sightline. While that information gave you quite a bit of comfort, it was not effecting Ghost positively in the slightest.

Your relationship with the Lieutenant was complex, to say the least. When you were first introduced it was for a succession of short co-op missions that were nothing if not brief and very impersonal leaving you with more questions than answers about the man who stayed hidden under the mask. Through some talks that you hadn’t been privy to being in the room for, John Price decided that your skills would be more useful to Task Force 141 than for the U.S. Division of Clandestine Service and offered you a position that you couldn’t possibly decline.

By day-in and day-out contact with Ghost, you got a lot more comfortable with him and learned much of his little idiosyncratic behaviors. Maybe a little too well…. He didn’t particularly act much differently towards you in the grand scheme of things, but something in you felt like trust had been developed to where he could depend on you when the situation called for it.

“Go hit the rack, I’ll take first watch.” He called gruffly from the living room where he had moved a chair from the kitchen to sit facing the front door head on with his MP5 resting lazily on his chest.

You couldn’t help but notice just how damn tired he looked under all that gear and through the black smeared around his eyes. He couldn’t be carrying less than one hundred pounds on him right now; even sitting in that chair with it wasn’t a good enough solution. Let you take a moment or two for yourself, stripping out of your tac vest and heavily weighted gear to drop it on top of the kitchen counter with a little grunt. Two days ago you both got the luxury of sleeping, and since then it’s been nothing but being on the run.

This would be the safest place for you that wasn’t in the belly of an evac bird, and the thought of Ghost not taking the time to sleep sat in your mind like a lead sinker. Leaning against the doorway and watching him for a long moment, you start having thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Ones that normally wouldn’t surface if you’d been able to separate working with Ghost from the more personal aspect of literally sharing almost every part of your life with him. Thoughts about how you could make him feel better… even if just for the night. That no one was around for miles and whatever happened could safely stay between the pair of you.

By utter carelessness of your position with the team or lack of fear about how the Lieutenant might respond, you walk into the living room and kneel down right in front of him with your fingers reaching out to unlace his dusty boots. Off instinct alone, you expected and watched as his foot flinched away from you. His whole body jumps and stiffens at the contact and sight of you kneeling on the floor. He quickly pauses and collects himself, taking several moments before his gravelly voice breaks the silence.

“What’re you doin’ Sergeant?” His eyes grew heavy and showed more expression than the rest of his massive body as they flashed with confusion and a little swell of anger. That aloofness didn’t hide that slight guardedness of something that made him uncomfortable in one way or another.

“I’m perfectly capable of takin’ care of my fuckin’ self.” He adds with zero discernible sign of either offense or gratitude. You can’t help but smile tiredly, feeling like you’re attempting to soothe a feral wolf into letting you pull it’s paw out of trap.

“I never said you couldn’t L.T.,” You reply gently, reaching back to start unhooking the laces from their claws on his left foot. “Just thought you couldn’t use some affection.” Smirking to yourself, you can’t help but think something this small being considered ‘affection’ didn’t fit anyone save for Ghost. He was just too hard to approach. Walls so thick and tall that it would take someone with patience beyond that of a human to break through and see what rested behind all of that brash posturing and icy disposition.

“You know affection is something I’m averse to,” he utters, watching yet making no effort to stop you. “What you’re doin’ is unnecessary.” A small sound close to a growl escapes from behind the mask when my hand reaches to the back of his leg to help aid my effort of pulling his boot off.

Chuckling softly and sitting the boot down at your side you respond, “I know you don’t like affection,” You’re already working on the other one, purposefully moving slowly as not to overwhelm or spook him. “That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it, L.T..” You can’t help but look up at him almost exhaustedly yet still trying to be reassuring.

“M’fine without it.” He spits out quickly, looking away from your face back down to your progress on the laces, his masked face otherwise unreadable. “Didn’t ask you for this shit, Sergeant.” Tinged with an undercurrent of irritation his deep voice sounds near the bridge of turning to anger.

“Mothering me isn’t in your best interest.” He growls low and threateningly in your face as he bends down to grab the boot sitting next to you and giving it a quick look of observation before sitting it back down closer to him. You just finish taking off his other boot and sit it down next to the other without much more of a verbal fight and put a hand on his thigh to steady your sore legs as you get back up to your feet.

“I’m younger than you Ghost, I can’t mother you.” You reply, holding out your hand for him.

He doesn’t make note or stop you from using him to help yourself up, however, Ghost follows your movements carefully… closely. He’s doing everything in his power to hide his emotions, but there’s still a faint twitch of his lips when he looks down at his boots sitting at his side. You’d done something very unusual, and he knew berating you was what he should’ve done. Yet a flinch of a smile was what really moved Ghost’s mouth. It’s gone before it even surfaces, pushed down by the sight. of you holding out your little hand in front of him. The sounds of his deep breathing fill the quiet house as you both sit there unflinching of each other. The Lieutenant shifts in his chair, readjusting his rifle on his chest.

“Go to bed. It’s late.” His repeated command felt softer now. Wavering a bit with you hand still held out and your fingers wiggling a little.

“Come on,” You hold steady and patient.

Reward comes in the form of feeling Ghost’s heavy and large hand falling into yours and gripping just hard enough to allow you the phantom sensation that you’re actually helping him up from the chair, hearing a short grunt as his back straightens up. Without explanation, you lead the Lieutenant through the small house back towards the only bedroom in the house with an actual bed left behind by the owners, pulling him to the center of the room and turning around to face him.

“Put your arms up for me.”

“Excuse me?” Ghost’s frown can be heard from behind the mask. Despite his apparent bewilderment, he hesitantly obeys, extending his arms above his head with an exhale of a tense breath, looking down at you with dark and questioning eyes. “What are you doing now?”

You just smile and hum to yourself softly, reaching out to begin unclipping and unzipping the sections of his tac vest holding it on his upper body and the multiple ammo belts. Carefully draping them over you shoulder as you release his body from them one by one. Seeing the way Ghost’s body sinks into itself with the weight being pulled off after days without rest. You feel his eyes scan over you, over your hands finding ways to take off his gear for the first time in your life, feeling your way through sunch an unusual yet careful act.

“Bein’ fuckin’ ridiculous…” He growls, covering up the feelings of not being so concealed by barking at you a little.

“Shhh.” Your hush does enough to stop his quiet and brooding complaints.

Long enough for you to kneel back down at his feet and work at the thigh straps over his pants and even remove the ankle holster you’d left alone while taking off his boots. He doesn’t resist this part, just watching you undress him bit by bit with half a mind questioning just what had happened for you to start acting so strangely. You’d always been sweet. Much nicer than your job allowed for. Yet even this was quite off the edge of the character Ghost had built for you over the years. This felt downright intimate for just two operators to be doing.

Then again your shared situation wasn’t exactly one of professionalism at this point. You’d been improvising for nearly a full day just trying to stay alive. Once back on your feet, you take hold of his hand again, this time with a little less caution since you’d already touched him there, and begin pulling at the fingertips to slide his sand and dirt-cakes gloves off. Even seeing his bare skin under his gloves be seen in the dim lamplight of the house, Ghost doesn’t do more than flex his fingers once you’ve rid him of the stiff material.

Purposefully avoiding his mask, you get Ghost down to nothing more than boxers and a t-shirt, even with his help at certain parts without him growling more or acting like you were irritating him. While he still gave off a feeling of all-around grumpiness and more than a little confused as hell, you paid it no mind as you led him towards the edge of the bed and pointed to it with a short yet polite command for him to ’sit’. Right away you noticed his hesitation and the way that his shoulders and arms tensed, his attention solely on you, flashing between your eyes and mouth like he was trying to reassure himself that he’d heard you correctly. But with one small tug on his hand, he turns around and sits on the bed with his feet resting on the floor and his arms braced on both sides of him a little stiffly.

“Now what?” His voice held a bit of rasp to it as he tracked your movement from his side, seeing you climb up into the bed and position yourself on your knees behind him. The close proximity didn’t go unnoticed by the Lieutenant as he cleared his throat, once again interrupting the calm silence in the house. His tension filled the small space between you, heating the gap of air, almost electrifying it.

“Just relax Ghost.” Easily touching his shoulders, you begin working your palms flat against the slopes of his muscled neck.

Purposefully but gently rubbing at the stiff cords of muscle and introducing the sensation to him as easily as possible in the case that it was a bit too overwhelming for him all at once. You knew you’d pushed the boundaries with him much further past anything you’d expected to achieve in one night. But now that he was sitting here in front of you, it was hard not to smile brightly that he was trusting you so much. Allowing your hands to be on him. Accepting that you had positioned the both of you in a very vulnerable position that could lead to a lot more violent options than affectionate ones. Torture and nightmares had given more than a fair share to Ghost, yet he was patiently staving off his own clear hesitation so that you could play out whatever this was turning out to be.

Your command went unacknowledged just like all of Ghost’s from earlier had; His breathing steadily slowing down into a deep and rich, relaxed sort of rhythm. Power of your hands and calming attitude worked faster than you anticipated, leaving the massive man sitting between your thighs begin to release. Tension falling out of his body not only under your hands but by sight of his jaw loosening. You’re even lucky enough to spot him trying to take glances at you from the corner of his eye, only to look back ahead since you were in quite the blindspot. Taking your thumbs in a sweeping motion from the edges of his shoulders inward, you apply pressure on the back of his neck and experimentally reach higher up under the hem of his mask. A dangerous game to play. Rumbling sounds of appreciation filling your ears are better than any sort of medal you could earn or bet you’d ever cash in. His head rolls back slightly with each small circle of your thumbs and fingers, pushing against you. Silently asking for more pressure.

“Feel good?” You ask at just a whisper, not wanting to disturb the warm sort of feeling the room has right now by speaking too loud.

Under the safety of his mask, Ghost’s mouth curves into a smile hearing you. He rolls his head back again, arching slightly to accommodate your small hands struggling to find good purchase to keep working at the intensity he’d been hinting at. A much less controllable sound escapes his mouth when you begin working at a very sore spot he didn’t even know was present right at the base of his skull.

“Keep going,” His sleepy-sounding mutter makes your chest ache.

Grinning at the feeling of his harsh accent and sudden domestication you work away diligently down his back carefully and methodically so as to not miss a single thing. And while it’s not necessarily going to help him much, you go ahead and use your fingernails to gently scratch up and down. It’s then a groan interrupts your focus and you see Ghost shift on the edge of the bed. Believing you’d found the end of your time, you leaned back on your heels and expected him to get up and leave you in the bedroom alone. Watching him tug at his t-shirt and pull it over his head to toss it somewhere across the room was how you were told that Ghost did indeed want more. Only his shirt was getting in the way of something he wasn’t getting.

Hearing him give a deep sigh when your fingertips returned to his now bared skin gave you a rush of adrenaline and nearly caused you to wiggle happily that you’d been able to share this with Ghost. He leans back into you a little more, letting your hands and arms take more of the weight as he groans out;

“You’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, but not for a long time.” You answer, eyes smoothing over the muscles rippling as your hands work at them.

“You’re good,” He grunts, closing his eyes and zeroing in on how to focus his attention between your small hands working so efficiently and the conversation he’d begun. “How’d you get so good at it?” His head turns a little, trying to get at least one good look at you. He keeps shifting now, allowing him to keep you just in the edge of his periphery.

“Had a good teacher for a few years,” You answer, working in tight circles over a large ball of muscle fibers all collected just at the edge of his shoulder blade, earning another growling sound from the Lieutenant.

“Teacher? When?” He asks, giving a slow release of a deep breath giving a short indication that the muscle you’d been working to release was getting a bit uncomfortable. Pulling back for a moment just to give him and your hands a break, you hear him make a noise then lean back a little further, pressing his back against you almost like a dog wanting to be pet more.

“Don’t stop.” He requests in a husky tone. You chuckle aloud, returning your hands and taking a less aggressive approach by smoothing your palms over him in less-than-planned patterns, just enjoying feeling his tattooed and scarred skin under your hands as you think about how to answer him.

“A woman in London taught me,” you start, using your nails again on his skin softly. “In the year or so between my U.S. military discharge and acceptance into the task force with you.” You see the effect of your touch on Ghost as it takes him longer to respond and the way he keeps leaning more and more weight back into you, unable to keep himself from subconsciously trying to get closer. Wanting more whether he’d ever admit it or not. There’s no mistaking it between either of you, he’s enjoying this.

“I assume she was special to you.”

It was your neighbor just across the hallway from you. An older woman named Sarah. Eccentric in modern times, you’d always believed she must’ve been a force to be reckoned with when she wasn’t hindered by an aging body and an even more ailing mind. A massage therapist by trade, and a pianist by heart there wasn’t much that Sarah could accomplish without someone helping her once she became limited in movement living on the eighth floor of the apartment building you shared. Back then you didn’t have much in the way of contacts after leaving the country, and it led to a friendship with the old woman living across from you. Sharing stories, eating dinner together, grocery shopping together when she felt like going out, and trading some skills between each other. After telling Ghost this much with your fingers tracing out letters and shapes over his back, you can sense he’s listening carefully. And Ghost is feeling a slight fuzzy sensation building in the back of his brain, spreading out in a warm wave down to his fingertips and toes.

“She taught me massage since at the time I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my life.” Your head falls to the side, examining how the lamplight shines on ghost and deepens the already significant definition in his physique.

Ghost falls against you even more, and this time he lets his head fall back against you. Trying to counterbalance his weight and keep both of you from falling backwards with just him limp he’s becoming, you wrap on arm around his neck and hold his head in the bend of your arm. He gives another sigh, and settles against you heavily. He. looks at you in silence out of the corner of his eye listening to your explanation.

“Why was she your only friend?” You can’t help but chuckle at his question, resting your chin on his opposite shoulder and bringing your other arm under his to begin scratching and rubbing at his chest, feeling deep and puckered scars littering nearly every inch of him.

“I didn’t know anyone else. And you know me well enough to know that I’m not exactly extroverted.” You smile, tracing lightly up and down his well-defined arm. Ghost couldn’t be more comfortable laid against you.

“Sorry to hear that.” His voice low and husky with his mouth so close to your ear. “She must call or ask about you…”

You shake your head. “No. She died just before I joined you all. Her mind was… failing her. And there was some kind of accident in the middle of the night The police told me she was likely trying to get to the bathroom and fell. She apparently died on impact… they didn’t say what, but I think her head hit something.” You explain quietly. “And you and I both know that means lights out. So she didn’t suffer.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he answers as softly as he can manage after hearing the darker part of your happy memories. “How did it become… intimate, like this?” He asks, nodding to the way you were leaned up against his back with your hand tracing over every inch of him that you could reach. The longer you’ve both let this go, the more boundaries get pushed further out of reach, making it hard for either of you to really know where it could end.

You smile with a blush creeping up your neck onto your cheeks, thankful you’re somewhat hidden out of sight. “This isn’t really what she taught me,” You mutter a bit quiet. “When i was massaging you… yes. That I got taught. But this, it’s… just me.”

Out of your sight Ghost’s face flushes slightly as well, his cheeks a warm rose-color. You’re touching him in a way that he’d never expected. But hearing that you’re not just doing it for… relaxation, it’s a heavy but welcome thought. And Ghost can’t help that his body reacts to it with chills raising all over his skin despite the house being perfectly warm. He lets out a deep breath focusing on your words, repeating him over just to ensure that you’re not saying it one way and him interpreting it differently due to your hands being all over him, making him feel so good. Mind racing, heart pounding, he truly realizes just how vulnerable he is under you at this moment.

“I can stop if you’d like?” You offer, preparing to move away from him.

“No,” His hoarse voice gives away his sudden dry mouth. No matter how much your touch is affecting his body, he’s not willing to stop you right now. You’ve crossed into a level of trust that he can’t think to make you abide by anymore. It’s a foreign feeling for him, but he wants to push through it. Hoping he can feel more of you if he just holds on a little longer to this.

“Don’t stop."

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[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part five | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. this chapter contains explicit sexual content. this chapter also has a content warning for descriptions of torture and dehumanization, plus the aftermath of trauma, themes of identity loss and healing. the previously established story dynamics are prevalent. chapter word count: 10,200 words.

enjoy <3

-

B E FO R E

Felix returns to the base and he is scrutinized, as expected.  They all want to know why he was taken, what the enemy wanted, how he escaped.   Felix has never played so many sides all while obfuscating his real objective.  Alone, he guides himself through the venomous viper’s pit that is this war: Miroh and his enemy, Miroh and the world. 

Where it concerns the enemy, Miroh will always intervene.  He sees the enemy as the antithesis to the house of Miroh.   A rich, spoiled fool, holed up in his golden cave, oblivious to what he has and the work it takes to acquire it.  Miroh is jealous. Miroh is hateful. 

Those are emotions that Felix can manipulate.  He learned it from the best. 

“It was an ambush,” Felix tells him.  “They knew I was going to be there.  They were waiting for me.”  He uses his reputation, formed by Miroh, against Miroh.   

Felix would never lose a fight.  Felix would never fail a mission.  Felix would never surrender.    Felix is a reflection of Miroh so he presents the most flattering image. 

“What information did they want?”  Miroh asks. 

Felix can see the gears spinning in his head.  What could the enemy be seeking so determinedly to lay a trap for Miroh’s asset?  Oh, Miroh has a suspicion.  Felix can see it, because he knows exactly what it is.   

“They asked about Project Twenty-Three,” Felix says.  “I told them I had never heard of it.  Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell them anything.” 

Project Twenty-Three.  Chris has vented about it to Felix.  It is a cyber mission, striking against the enemy’s tightly guarded servers.  It intends to blackout the grid and lay virtual traps while they re-calibrate, compromising not only the enemy but everyone else on that grid: civilians, their homes, their hospitals, their shelters. 

It is a significant job for its scope and because it is the first time a mission will be helmed by Miroh’s daughter. 

Miroh’s daughter, Chris says, intends to sabotage the operation. 

It is Felix’s worst fears coming true.  Miroh’s daughter rebelling against Miroh is doomed to be a catastrophe.  She will inevitably go down and when that blaze tears through the sky, Chris will crash and burn in a similar inferno.  He is too blinded by proximity, too idealistic to see how it is impossible to truly destroy a man like Miroh. 

No one but classified personnel are supposed to know about Project Twenty-Three.  Miroh’s daughter let it slip to Chan, who let it slip to Felix.   As far as Miroh is concerned, Felix should not know about it.  As far as Miroh is concerned, Felix is telling the truth. 

As far as Miroh is concerned, someone is leaking highly sensitive data to the enemy. 

“I’m smarter than that, though,” Felix says.  He appeals to all that haughty vanity and says, “I was trained by the best.  Of course I got away.”

“Of course,” Miroh says.  Where before, he was wary, his guard comes down. 

Felix can sneak in.  Felix can lay his attack. 

“What else did they say?” Miroh asks. 

“I overheard them,” Felix says.  “They’re going to try and kill you.  And it’s going to happen inside your house.” 

The trap is laid.

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

Miroh only put one soldier through a reconfiguration program.  And it wasn’t me.  It was you.   

Chan looks at you as if you shot him even though he was the one who fired at you.  

The words land with more violence than a bullet. 

It can’t be true.  That is your first reaction: denial. He is lying or he is confused or something, something, something. Anything but whatever he just said. 

He tries to step towards you.  You look at him and think of the First Guard: him in that corridor, a hand around your neck.  He fought just enough to make it real, the way you and Changbin sometimes fight, but it never went too far, did it?  You think back to that first fight in the ring.  You commended yourself for lasting so long, but that should have been a hint.  You would not have lasted a round with the First Guard on a good day, never mind after fighting several others.   He never came at you with the full brunt of his fatal capacity like you would expect, like you should have considered at the time. 

His eyes in the van, the tilt of his head.  

Trusting as your car stopped an inch from his body. 

His hands out like you were a wild, unpredictable animal, a weapon, something lethal he had to contain.   It’s me, he said.  It’s just me.  As if you knew who that was.

He does the same thing now.  You wrench away from him.   

“No,” you say.

He says your name but it doesn’t sound like a name; it sounds like begging, it sounds like please, it sounds like desperation, painfully barbed on his tongue.  You half expect him to start bleeding from the mouth. 

“No,” you say again.  You jerk away even though he has stopped reaching for you.  You feel a phantom hand on your chest and on your head, a cold fire in your veins. 

You slam shoulders as you dart past.  He says your name again, this time like an alarm, only barely short of a scream as he chases after you.  You get as far as the door before he catches you, his hand wrapped around your bicep and your name a weapon on his lips.

“Stop it,” you say.  It isn’t loud but it is brutal all the same. 

He lets go as if you electrocuted him. 

You look at him.  He stares back, all that begging in his dark eyes. 

“You can’t – you can’t leave,” he says.  His panic bubbles into frustration and he says, “You just told me off for doing that, didn’t you?”

You think of him on that rooftop, not even blinking at Miroh’s dead body, like he couldn’t care less, his eyes rivetted to you alone.   

“Do you trust me?” you ask. 

You think he would rather get hit.  A moment of pain, a scar to join the others. Instead, he has to endure the intensity of your eyes, suffer whatever fucked up expression is haunting your body, and then he has to let you go. 

You do not look at his face when leaving.  You don’t want to see this side of him.  There are already too many versions of him in your head, just as there are too many versions of yourself. 

The denial does not last long.  You walk through the brisk night, destination nowhere.  The sky feels too big.

It’s preposterous, isn’t it?  You are in your body right this moment, looking at the world with your own eyes.  How can anything be wrong inside?   But even while attempting to convince yourself otherwise, you know the truth.  It has been long unfurling in the back of your mind.   You have not felt like yourself for days, maybe weeks, maybe the entire three months since this downfall began. 

You don’t even remember what it means to feel like yourself. 

All the nightmares, the visions, the flashes of dreams that feel more like memories – maybe memories is exactly what they are.  So suppressed it feels like watching a movie rather than your own life, but your story regardless.   Sifting through those fragments feels like searching through rubble in a collapse. How are you ever expected to find a person under that much annihilation? 

When it happens, Changbin said, what feels like a lifetime ago.  When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be…  When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…”

A sob rips out of you.  You have cried more in days than you have in years.  You cover your face and fall into the dark of your closed eyes.  You see your friend, not a fragment or broken memory, but a whole person.  The scar on your palm twinges, reminding you that you are real and here. 

Remember me, he said. 

That was the very first thing you did.   You saw him on that rooftop and you remembered something.  Him, younger, bleeding, emerging from a fog of smoke.  He lifted a weight off your chest.  He made you a promise. 

You try to chase the memory of that dream, try to hold the image of him in your mind, but it moves like water through a sieve.  It’s like he’s standing right there, just in the corner of your eye if you could only turn your head to look.  But you are trapped in place.  Pinned down, a weight on your chest. 

You lose track of time under the stars.  You are too numb to feel the cold.  Only when the sky purples with the very earliest streak of dawn do you move.  You look at your feet as you walk and it feels like someone else is moving you.  You know it’s just exhaustion, a trick of the weary eye, but a shudder moves through you.   

You don’t want to think about it.  Whenever your mind starts to go there – to that room, to that hole, to the cell – it backs away screaming.  It is probably why you can’t hold any picture for longer than a second. 

A small part of you still rebels, insisting it isn’t true because it’s can’t be true, but you know intrinsically that it is. 

This confirmation solidifies when you get back to the room and find Chan still awake, sitting in a chair with his head in his hands. 

He lifts his head.   You can’t hold his gaze for long, swallowed up by the dark depth that sees something in you, far beyond the surface, buried so deep you can’t find it. 

You turn away.   You climb into bed. 

It isn’t an escape.  You know that, even as you close your eyes and shut out the world.   It’s all waiting for you there, your subconscious caught in a perpetually crashing tidal wave.  

You fall asleep, ready to face the nightmares. 

-

It feels like swimming against an acidic current.  You push through but it bears down; you struggle but it burns your skin, sloughs down to the clean marrow.  Pieces of you are lost to the tide.  You try to catch each flaking sliver of personhood but then your arms are full and you can no longer swim.

You are going to drown. 

“Let go,” says a voice, colder than the water.  “This will all stop.  Just let go.” 

Just let go.  Just let your skin unravel.  Just let the tide take it away.  You will never get it back.  You will be a living corpse, a half-consciousness puppeting your bones. 

You decide to drown.  You slip further and further into the blackness behind your lids.

“Hey, it’s me!  I’m coming!” 

Changbin.

You can hear his footsteps as he thunders towards you, but you can’t see him.  Your eyelids are so heavy, as if being held shut by a hand in the water.

Another hand reaches straight through the corrosive cold and seizes your face in a desperate grip. 

“Wake up,” Changbin says.  He taps your cheek repeatedly, a little harder each time, a little more frantic.  “Hey, wake up.  Please.  Please wake up.”

It feels like he is prying your eyes open.  One moment there is nothing but darkness, then Changbin is there.  He looks like he did when you last saw him, grown, fight-ready, a little scar on his face.  It bleeds more than such a tiny mark should.  A droplet hits your cheek, burning hot compared to the water. 

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on.  Keep your eyes open.  Don’t go.  I promise I’ll get you out.” 

Don’t go.  Don’t go.  An echoing reverberation that circles the wooden beams high above your head.  You look there, staring at the ceiling as your lungs slowly fill with oxygen. 

The ceiling shatters in a spray of splinters, the world vanishing in a cloud of grey smoke.  Changbin is gone and your father stands over you, keeping that weight on your chest with a press of his fist. 

“You’ll thank me one day,” he says, and plunges you back under water.  Ice cold currents and electric hot fire twine in and around you in an unfathomable vice.  Your vision flickers as you twitch and flail, avoiding one sensation to succumb to the other. 

“Don’t go,” Changbin says.  “I promise I’ll get you out.” 

Another bolt of lightning slices through you. 

“Just let go.”  A cold and clinical voice.

There is a war between those voices.  Time passes slowly as you volley in the current, slamming into one or the other. 

In the bubbling frenzy, you hear a whisper.  

“Let her go.”  That is not Changbin.  That is not your father.  It’s too soft – soft, until it’s not, until it sounds like speaking through an open chest cavity, heaving up its heart with every cry.  “Please,” the voice begs.  “Let her go.” 

“Thank me,” your father says.  He stands with his back to you, angled just enough you can see the gun in his hands.   You can’t see the person on the receiving end.  You just know it’s a soldier.  You just know it’s a boy. 

You have to stop it.  The thought overwhelms you and you reach for the gun, but your hand never makes contact, splashing through cold water. 

“Subject recognizes control,” says that clinical voice.

There is a hand on your chest.  It pushes you back under water. 

You are alone in the current and the corrosion and the cold.  The hand pushes you deeper and deeper into the endless darkness under you.  

You are going to drown.  You are going to let yourself drown. 

“You don’t want to do that,” you say. 

Your father still has a gun in his hand.  It is pointed at that boy. 

“Subject— Control—”

You need to get that gun.  You need to swim.  You need to see him.  You need to save him. 

You finally let go. 

-

You open your eyes. 

Unlike in your dreams, it’s fast.  You jolt awake in a cold sweat.  The ceiling is unmoving, the air cool and dry from the motel’s cheap, noisy air conditioner.  The blinds are closed but the neon light outside the window creates a fuzzy square halo.  It brightens the room just enough to see  the outline of everything clearly.  

That includes Chan.

He is still awake.  If this was just one night ago, you would tell him to get into bed and sleep because you can’t have him tired for the mission.  But now, you find yourself staring back at him, at his bare and open face, his tired eyes and the uncomfortable tension in his shoulders.   

When you went to sleep, he was sitting on that same chair in the corner, and it looks like he hasn’t moved once.  He’s been waiting for you. 

He’s been waiting a lot longer than one night.   If she ever came back to me, he said, revealing years of hope, of watching, waiting for you to break through your conditioning and show him a sign.  He was never brainwashed, just trapped in a precarious situation, bound to a bargain with no way out that didn’t compromise you.  He could have saved himself at any time but it wouldn’t have mattered.   

“You were never reconfigured,” you say. 

“No.” 

The question and answer breaks a dam.  A flood of questions pour to the front of your mind, overwhelming you, taking you back to your dreams where you almost drown – again and again.  You remember the report, stating too much recollection could trigger some kind of breakdown.  Yes, you could ask Chan to tell you everything, to string together all those gaps in your nightmares, but you already know that would not help.  It would either feel like a story about a girl you do not know, or it would just throw you deeper into the whirlpool.

You let those questions turn over themselves like a crashing wave.  When it settles, you ask the one question that remains.

“Were we friends?” 

He doesn’t answer right away.   He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands under his chin.  He is impossibly strong but right now he looks too weak to support himself.

“No,” he finally says.  His eyes dart to the floor.  “No, we weren’t friends.” 

He looks at you and you fall into the unspoken story within his eyes.  You have been conversing without words since you met.  He has been looking at you with that wanting tilt and desperate stare since he stepped into the ring. 

You remember a fragment from a dream.   Him, younger, his face ravaged with tears and his mouth open on a muted shout.   It would be easy to mistake that as him being tortured, his pain that palpable.  But your memory is not of his suffering, just his watching, just his waiting.   

All this time, he has been waiting.  

“Did you love me?” you ask. 

This answer comes faster, but rougher as if guarding against vulnerability.  His voice is low.

“Yes.”

A phantom spark fires up your arm, straight into your heart. 

“Did I love you?” you ask.

He holds your gaze, though it feels like he is looking just a little past you, seeing something you can’t see.  Then again, maybe he doesn’t see it, maybe he is just searching, and maybe he comes up empty.  Because when he answers, his voice is airy, and the word is like a hiss of pain, like getting hit in the chest and all the air leaving the body at once.

“Yes,” he says.

You feel the weight of that hit too.  Wavering under the force of it, you blurt, “I don’t remember.” 

“I know,” he says.  He drops his head into his hands and rubs his palms over his face, scrunches his eyes shut tight and shakes his head.  “I know.”    

You want to go to him.  You are not sure where the urge comes from because, despite what he said, you have never loved like that.  Is it something buried inside you, something that remembers?  Maybe it’s just you, who you are now, the person who has spent the last few days with this man at her side.  His proximity has been a confusing comfort from the start.  Maybe it’s a memory or maybe it’s just him. 

You stand before thinking it through.  He doesn’t even notice, a sign this competent soldier is very far gone, his face still buried in his hands.  When you touch his shoulder, it catches him off guard, both arms jolting as if stung. 

He looks up at you, his hand instinctively flying to the one you rest on his shoulder.  He clasps it, holds it there, presses it down like he needs convincing it is real. 

He meets your eyes.   You do not know what you look like; you just know it hurts him, that it makes everything so much worse. 

A child-like sob punches out of him.  His eyes close tight, his face going red as he fights to hold it in.   He cried earlier and it looked like the typical outpouring of stress and hurt, but it did not look like this. 

After that first sob, reminiscent of the little boy he never really was, years of torment come tearing violently out of his chest.  Flashes of memories melt with the sight, his young face twisted as he wails, that muted shout filled in with his voice now. 

He holds his forehead, doubles over.  When you see the top of his head, those other images fade away.  It is just him, here, now.  Whoever he is, he has been good to you.  Your hand is still on his shoulder and he is still clinging to it. 

“Chan,” you whisper.  You’re not sure if he hears it, but his breath catches when you nudge him upright.  You are certain he can’t see very well through his tears, but he looks up anyway. 

When you climb into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, he does not hesitate to throw his arms around you.  His hands find your back and he presses you so close, it feels like he is trying to push you right into his heart.  He puts his face in your neck where he fights to steady his breathing. 

You touch the nape of his neck.  You shiver at his long exhale. 

You feel miserable and choked for a myriad of reasons.  For him, everything he as endured and lost.  For you, who doesn’t even know what she lost at all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  His breathing is less laboured, though his voice sounds sore.  He exhales again, some tension leaving his shoulders where you rest your hands. 

You squeeze those shoulders and lean back to look at him.  His expression is more than a little abashed, gaze uncertain.  You are not good at smiling but you try, even though you think your brows are furrowed and his sorrow is reflecting back through your eyes. 

“Thought we agreed to stop apologizing,” you say. 

His laugh is as weak as your smile, but certainly there.   You touch his face with your scarred palm, feel the curve of his jaw where that wound runs sharpest.    You think you can only touch him because of that scar.  You used to balk at the sight of someone else’s tears, even deride them.  You don’t remember being a lover.  You didn’t even realize you had a friend until it was too late.

You might not know who you are, and you might not know how to describe how you feel, but you certainly understand it feels different, and you certainly know what kind of person you do not want to be anymore. 

So you do not rip your hand away.  You curl a tuft of hair behind his ear. 

“I just—”  You trip over your own words, wishing you were a better speaker, more personable and warm than your stiff recitation.  “I can’t be that person,” you say.  “I don’t know what person I will be, but I’m not – I can’t—”

“I know,” he says, sincere.  He is holding your waist and he gives it a small squeeze, a reassuring touch that moves through you with a burst of warmth.  It simmers in your bloodstream when he smiles – his eyes still sorrowful despite the dimple in his cheek.   “I don’t wish you were someone else,” he says.  With a wince, he says, “I wish I was.” 

Your stomach twists in an awful knot.  You think of all that blood on his hands.  Despite his efforts to keep it away from you, you feel it on yourself.  You have to close your eyes to push away the flood of images, unsure which are imaginative fabrications and which are potential memories.  You just know he looks too young to have that kind of red on him. 

You open your eyes and look at him.  His eyes are open but his gaze is faraway, lost in thought.  You touch a tendril of curly hair, feel it under your fingers like you have the past couple nights.  He looks at you with eyes that have already shared multiple conversations. 

“I wish you hadn’t suffered,” you say.  “I don’t think anyone should suffer that way.  I don’t think the ends justify the means anymore.  But also I—” 

Even while your heart is changing inside, getting those words outside is a different struggle entirely. 

Chan looks at you with that tilt to his head, that questioning brow, his eyes a lot softer with his curiosity.  Your breath is jagged, a messy gasp as you gather yourself.  You look away, wholly incapable of maintaining eye contact.

“I got in the car with the First Guard,” you say.   “Not with some other version of you.  This soldier.  This Chan.”   You look down at your hands, absent-minded in the way you move them, from his shoulders down to his chest.  “This is the man I trusted,” you say.  “The one I still do.”

Your eyes lift.  They meet his.  His expression is a mix of confusion and amazement. 

His lips part with a question, but it gets caught.  He stares a little longer, then he asks, “Why?”

An unexpected laugh bubbles and bursts right out of you. 

“I have no idea,” you say, giving in to that bubbly feeling, letting it fill your chest and lift you up like a safety raft.  “I don’t know anything at all.” 

You realize there is something freeing in that thought.  No, you don’t know who you are.  No, you don’t know what is going to happen past right now.  You have to save your friend.  You have to end your father’s business.  Everything else, the becoming of you and the world and your place in it, is unanswerable.  You can’t find blueprints or scour maps or form battle strategies.  You don’t know where the water leads.  You just have to swim. 

“Maybe it doesn’t even matter,” you say with a shrug.  “I don’t know.  Nothing about yesterday, nothing tomorrow—”

“Just right now,” he says.

His voice is a little lower.  Just right now.  That was the pact you made the other night. 

Your whole body comes alight, waking from the ice cold state it has been frozen in.  It warms under his palms on your hips and where his dark eyes roam. 

“Just right now,” you repeat as softly.  You look at your hands again, realize more consciously how intimately they rest on his chest.  Rather than retract, you swipe your thumb across the exposed strip of skin where his flannel is buttoned askew.   “Maybe that’s all I need to know.” 

This right now feels different than before.  You don’t blame his emotional reaction to your earlier intimacy if it was an affect of all his memories, all he had lost, and all he was.  You think your straightforward trust in him – not in spite of his identity, but because of it – has shifted things again.  Your hands on his chest and your words in the open seem to have changed the shape of this whole room. 

“I’m the First Guard,” he says.  His eyes drop to your mouth then back up.  “You’re Miroh’s daughter.” 

“Yes, you are,” you say.  “And no, I’m not.”  You see the shiver that moves through him when you run your hands up his chest and curl your hand around the back of his neck.   You feel his thighs get tense under yours, his whole body reacting.  “Say my name,” you say.

When he does, it is not like a weapon or alarm, but spoken in a way that makes you feel like you have never heard your name spoken properly before that moment. 

You kiss him first and this time it lands deliberately, catching him mid-breath and stealing the rest of it.  When you start to lean away, to see if it’s all right, he puts his hand on the back of your head, curls his fingers in your hair, and draws you right into him, stealing back that breath with a desperate kiss. 

In a way, this is familiar to you.  You always liked and used sex as a grounding exercise.  You feel present in your body, regardless of how floaty and detached you felt before.  From the tingling top of your head to the curling of your toes, you feel every inch of yourself, alive and hot. 

But it feels different too.  You were always eager to chase the high, to reach the final destination with little care for the journey.  You realize, maybe, it is about the becoming, itself.

“Chan,” you say, squeezing his hips between your legs when he runs his hands under your shirt.  You climbed into bed still wearing your pants and shirt, wishing differently now as you rock your body against his. 

You buck a little eagerly, sensations going to your head quicker than intoxication.  Chan brings you back down, shushing you gently, guiding your open mouth back to his.  He kisses you slowly, touches you like he is memorizing every contour.   You make a sweet sound into his mouth, cupping his face as you kiss him back. 

“Can we—” you start.

“Yes,” he says.  “Yes, yes.” 

You stand on shaky legs and strip your bottom layers away.  The few seconds apart are dizzying, the whole world around him fuzzy as that neon yellow light leaking into the room.   Because he is staring at you, looking dazed and dishevelled, it takes him longer to unbutton his jeans than it did for you to remove your pants altogether.  You climb back onto his lap and do not help at all, distracting him with another kiss. 

A kiss always felt like a waste of time, but you think you could content yourself with just kissing him forever.   Slow or fast, gentle or needy.  

You are kissing when he gets inside you, gripping your bare thighs with a possessive hold that will feel tender tomorrow.   You luxuriate in the pleasure and the pain, your body yours, shared with him, reciprocated in turn.  

Whatever else existed – or could exist – ceases to matter for a time.  You come together and come apart in each other’s arms, chests pressed together, hearts racing against each other.  You tug his hair and pull his face into your neck, moaning under the press of his teeth and the heat of his lips. 

“Mm, fuck,” he groans into your skin, clutching your hips even tighter, rocking up into you while you roll down against him.  His gentle curse has you whimpering, his mouth on your throat making you shake.  “Mm, get all tight when I bite you, you know,” he murmurs, and leaves no time for argument or embarrassment because he nips at your neck again.  You do exactly what he said, clenching around him with an involuntary shudder. 

“Fuck,” is all you say.  He breathes a laugh against your skin. 

You clutch his shoulders when he gathers you and stands, moving the couple small steps towards the bed where he lays you out.  You are apart for only seconds, but you feel so cold and empty that it is almost terrifying.  When he shucks his jeans and gets back on top of you, you unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers, body in convulsions from the angle he is fucking you.   

You have never been fully alive in your body until right now. 

You come while he fucks you and you come again, when he puts his hands on you, like he really does need to feel every inch of you with his searching fingers.  When he keeps touching you, you are so stimulated you slap his chest, making him smile at your loss of words. 

 You lay in a tangled heap, your legs twined together.  Your shirt is gone and his is unbuttoned, your cheek on his chest as he lays on his back.  You let yourself be a little lulled by the cadence of his breathing.

Your eyes eventually wander.  You realize the sun has joined that neon light, the fuzzy halo around the window now a clearer glow.  The day is beckoning.  It brings you back to reality, to the world outside this re-shaped room. 

“I know I need to face it eventually,” you say.  “I don’t know what will happen. But right now – I can’t be distracted from the mission.  I need to rescue Changbin.  I need to stop my father.”

Miroh is dead but everything he did haunts you, like a ghost around every corner.  You can’t afford to confront the other ghosts, including your own. 

“Whatever happens after right now,” you say.  “I guess I’ll see.” 

“I understand,” Chan says.  He is caressing your spine, fingertips stroking up and down the slope of your back.   He scratches a little at the nape of your neck, making you hum in contentment.  “Really,” he says.  “I know things got crazy earlier but… I think right now… I can do right now.”

You look up at him.  He smiles down at you, dimples digging into his cheeks.  You have to look away, because you just promised yourself no distractions, but that smile causes a flush of warmth that goes beyond the physical. 

“Well,” you say with a sigh, patting his chest.  “Maybe by then you and me will be friends for real.” 

You feel his body stiffen, shoulders dropping, the hand on your nape freezing.   You look up to see his face, a questioning brow quirked.  He is returning the expression, though his countenance is a little more drole. 

“What?” you say. 

He answers with a firmer grip on the back of your neck.  He rolls you over, onto your back, keeping your head lifted in his hand.  The length of his open flannel drapes over your warm skin, a soft tickle as he leans down and kisses you.  It starts gentle but doesn’t last, his tongue parting your lips and the hot, needy press of his mouth pinning you to the bed and his arms.   You kiss back but hardly keep up, dizzy with breathlessness as he licks into your mouth, as he chases down the breath of you, as he keeps your lips on his for as long as he possibly can. 

Then he leans to one side.  His breath tickles your neck before he kisses just below your ear.  He whispers, “I don’t want to be friends.” 

He looks at you with a far too innocent dimpled smile.  You think Chan might be a bigger threat to your well-being than the First Guard. 

“Okay,” you say, breathless.  “Noted.” 

-

You open the blinds.  Once the room is full of sunlight, you revert to soldiership and work on your next strategy. 

There is no doubt the Miroh corporation is floundering in a state of panic.   They are not only dealing with the loss of its boss and heir, but also destabilizing insider attacks on various sectors while vulnerable.  On top of everything else, stocks have plummeted and investors are running for their lives and their wallets. 

You and Chan have watched the company as well as the social reaction.  With different leaks and financial fallouts, especially given Miroh’s connections to governmental and military divisions, it is no surprise that different stories have been cycling through the news.  You have kept an ear on the radio and an eye on tv stations. 

As you scour blueprints and map your next manoeuvre, you have the news playing at a low volume in the background.  They are currently reporting the combustion of a Miroh facility.  Their research and sources have led them to deduce it is an inside job.  

That much is fairly obvious as no one else could do what you and Chan are doing, though you are not suspects.  The media believes you are dead, that both you and your father were assassinated at the same time.  You are not sure if the company honestly believes you died, that the First Guard killed you then disappeared without Miroh to corral him, or if they reported that so they could kill you without a fuss in the future. 

There are no reports on Chan, of course.  No one outside of Miroh’s world even knows he exists. 

The major suspects are disgruntled investors and former employers, so far mostly scientists and research assistants given the targeted facilities.  With some of the government leaks, there are also theories that some deals with legislators went sour and resulted in a target being painted over the name Miroh. 

This seems to the angle the current report is taking.  At first, you are only half-listening, as the news reporter does not mention anything you have not heard before. 

Then you catch the latter half of a sentence you are not expecting.

“—of greater potential concern as this latest attack was on a military base.”

Both you and Chan whip your heads up at the same time. 

You have not attacked any military bases. 

“Turn that up,” you say.

Chan is already on his feet and moving towards the bed where the remote was discarded.  He turns up the volume on the television and you both watch the report. 

It is not impossible that a domino effect could ripple from one facility to the next.  The more attacks you make – targeting all the little chinks in Miroh’s armour – the more likely it is that certain institutions will collapse entirely on their own.  Either people will chase the money, like a lot of former investors, or they will abandon course altogether.  Eventually, Miroh’s world will eat itself alive, with or without your help. 

But you have so far only targeted a couple smaller research facilities.  Yes, there have already been consequences, but not enough that a totally unrelated military base on the other side of the country would spontaneously combust. 

You stare at the screen.  That base is big.  It isn’t going down without a fight.  No one outside of the house of Miroh would have dared target it.  No one else would have known how. 

“Changbin,” you say. 

Chan puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.  You look at him then at the television, at the story unfolding rapidly in front of you. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” you ask.  “It has to be.”

There might be just enough chaos in the ranks that if a solder of Changbin’s calibre was being held, something might fall wayside and he would have an opportunity to escape.  

You are just not sure he would try.   Changbin has obviously undergone changes of his own, all seeming to stem from that final confrontation with Lee Felix before the enemy went down and took his world with him.   Changbin clearly decided once and for all what was really important to him.  Changbin has always played the game carefully, but in the last few months he repeatedly put himself between you and your father.   He intercepted multiple interactions with Miroh’s men, altercations you dismissed as nuisances at the time but shudder to realize the weight now. 

Changbin threw himself in the middle, again and again, painting a bigger and bigger target on his back.  He seemed resigned to his demise.  For that reason, you are not sure how much he would fight even if given the opportunity.  He seemed whole-heartedly certain he would be left behind, no matter what happened. 

You curl your hand into a fist, digging your nails into your scar.  There was so much you should have told him.  If he knew that you were willing to fight this hard.  If he knew you would find out the truth.  If, if, if—

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Chan says. 

You look at him just as he kneels down beside your chair.  He takes your hand, the one with the scar, and unfolds it carefully. 

“Kicking yourself won’t save him, yeah?”  Chan says. 

“Yeah,” you say with a huff. 

The report continues.  It details this attack as being an inside job as well.  Supposedly, according to rumours breaching the walls, multiple people have gone missing, but their identities have not been given to the press.  Hearing that, you become marginally more hopeful that Changbin is among them.  The company would not report their supposed missing persons because they are most likely prisoners being held in less-than-legal circumstances.  Changbin would be that type of prisoner.  

The fight is ongoing.  He could still be there. 

“It’s a lead, at least,” Chan says, echoing your thoughts. 

“Maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place this whole time,” you say.  You have been targeting the science sector when maybe your father kept it all in the military house after all.  Maybe after the initial pass through that research facility, he was moved onto a more secure base, given his background as a former child soldier of the special-ops program. 

Well, if that is the case, their extra security did not work.  Of course it didn’t work.  It’s Seo Changbin.   You could laugh at their idiocy. 

“We need to find out either way,” you say. 

You manage your expectations for now, but as you sit at the table and change course to plan an entirely new strategy, it is with a hope as clear and bright as the sunlight.

-

It is a lot of driving to the military base.  You will get there at nightfall the next day if you stop only sparsely. 

You and Chan are swift in packing and climbing back into that car.  You take turns sleeping and driving, though the last leg of the journey is spent on edge.  You are braced and ready for a fight, all that determination exacerbated by the very real possibility that you are about to see Changbin again. 

What will you say to him?  What will he say to you?  You wonder how much he knew about the reconfiguration.  Clearly, he knew something, if not the specifics, as he went to great lengths to keep you away from your father. 

You thought Changbin had saved you on an emotional level, but you realize now how it crossed into every sphere of life.    

You close your eyes while Chan drives.  You see Changbin on that rooftop, saying he will not leave you behind.  It was the first hit that shattered the glass around you.  Miroh had so carefully built that clear coffin around your consciousness, and Changbin smashed right through with the sheer brute force of his friendship. 

You glance at Chan.  Miroh did everything in his power to make sure you forgot about him.  Bang Christopher Chan, the First Guard.  Someone you loved and who loved you.  Your father would have focussed on that.  He would not have seen anything. 

Why would he care about a friendship?  What does that word even mean to a man like him?  He would have looked right past Changbin.  He spent all that time wiping Chan from your mind, that he never thought to look for anything else. 

Your body gets cold as you remember – something.  You close your eyes.  You are standing in front of Changbin.  He’s young, in his late teens, about the age you would have been when they reconfigured you.  He is looking at you with uncertainty.  You feel an uneasiness looking back at him. 

Don’t you know me? he asks.  He pulls a face, makes some dumb noises, waves his hands.  Then he frowns.  Changbin can be funny, but he turns it off in a second, as deadly as the rest of them.   So much anger floods his eyes, they look black with the focussed intensity of his fury.  You know me, he says.  Think.  Remember me. 

You see a slant of moonlight, a windowpane, a streak of blood.  Remember me. 

You feel a weight as it is lifted off your chest.  You hear him shouting your name.  You hear him running. 

You know me, he says. 

You flinch – in your memory? – right now? – and a piercing wail floods your mind.  You don’t want to go towards that scream.  You can’t go there. 

It’s me, he says.  Hold on.  Keep your eyes open.  Don’t go.  I promise I’ll get you out.

“Changbin,” you say. 

“Hey, hey, baby, hey—”  That is Chan.  He is shaking your arm.

Your eyes pop open. 

You have never had flashes of recollection while awake.  It feels like a bigger adrenaline rush than waking from a nightmare, very little to divide your mind from reality. 

You take a few steadying breaths while Chan rubs your shoulder.  He was driving but the car is now stopped on the side of the road.  You did not even feel him braking. 

“What happened?” he asks when you are settled enough to speak.

“I don’t know,” you say.  “I just—I was thinking.  Remembering.  Not like that.  It’s complicated.  I just—”

You close your eyes.  A teenage Changbin is still standing there, looking at you warily. 

You know me. 

I know you.

“Changbin,” you say, choked up.  You blink your eyes open and take another breath.  “I’ll be okay,” you say.  “We can’t stop for long.  Let’s get back on the road.”

Chan does not look convinced, frowning as he stares into your face.  You blink at him, then narrow your eyes into a squint.

“Did you call me baby?” you ask. 

He clears his throat and turns back to the steering wheel.  Looking out over the dashboard, definitely not at you, and with the tips of his ears more than a little red, he says, “You’re right.  Let’s get back on the road.”

In spite of everything, you find yourself smiling. 

-

It is only natural that you are waylaid at the very last minute, right on the cusp of sunset as you approach the vicinity of the military base.  Not only is your path to finally rescuing Changbin obstructed, but it is halted by the most asinine, mundane nonsense in the world. 

Soldiers, agents, entire convoluted military operations – those you can easily take.  Minimum wage workers, on the other hand, are impossible combatants.  More grizzled than the worst of ancient servicemen, they blink at your pleading with a harsher chill than a mob boss.   You are certain this gas station attendant has seen some shit because he is not remotely inclined to assuage anyone’s anxiety. 

“The till is down,” he says with an icy tone, face pinched unpleasantly.  “It’ll be back up in a minute.” 

He goes back to talking to his manager on the phone, smacking his computer till at random intervals.  It does not exactly inspire confidence. 

While you and Chan have been getting by with theft and subterfuge, you do everything in your power to not draw attention.  That means you pay for gas as many stations have security cameras that log and report drive-offs and defaults. 

That means you are stuck in this line with several other customers while the hapless cashier whacks his computer.

The little bell above the door rings as Chan steps inside the shop. 

“What’s taking so long?” he asks. 

“I want to hit him,” you say, pointing to the disinterested cashier.  “He’s never gonna get that thing fixed.  We have somewhere to be, we can’t just stand here all day—” 

“Ah, ah, ah, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Chan says soothingly.  He interrupts your rant as you were raising your voice.   Not that it matters because the incompetent cashier is not paying any attention. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Chan says.  “You just have to know how to talk to people, yeah?” 

The cashier paid you absolutely no mind when you tried to complain.  He gave you a nasty look and ordered you to get to the back of the line.  Chan, on the other, receives a quick onceover and a blink of seeming approval. 

Chan leans on the counter and smiles a devastatingly charming smile, those dimples blinding.  The cashier puts the phone on his shoulder and looks at him expectantly.    

“Hey there,” Chan says. 

“Hello,” the cashier replies, coolly but not as rudely.  “The till is broken, sir.  We’re going to have to wait for a repair.”

“You know, I’m pretty good with my hands,” Chan says.  “I bet if you let me under there, I could figure something out.” 

The cashier blinks at him.  One blink, two blinks, three.  Then he hangs up the phone and opens the gate to let Chan behind the counter. 

You cross your arms and roll your eyes. 

Chan, perhaps unsurprisingly given his necessary breadth of skills, helps the useless cashier get his dumb register running again.  You all but throw the money at his stupid pretty head before marching away. 

“Thanks, Wolfgang,” the cashier says, using the made-up name Chan gave him.

“No problem.”  Chan winks back at him.   “Have a good day, uh—”  He squints at the name tag, gives it only a sparing glance as he steps out the door.  “Hyunjin,” he says.

The door swings closed and you continue on your way. 

-

Fortunately, you have no more preposterous interludes.   You approach the base differently than the facilities, especially because you have not been able to do a proper sweep.  However, that should be fine given the entire operation here has already been massively destabilized.  All the main assets have moved along, either because of imminent danger or because the media now has its eyes on its actions. 

Either way, you get inside without much fuss.  You stick together for longer, not trusting the dark corridors and labyrinthine tunnels. 

It is a lot emptier than anticipated.  The fight seems to have ended some time in the last couple hours.  There is an eerie, unsettled feeling, like a house abandoned in the middle of a meal.  Unlike the dusty underground hovels at the research facility, this place is still breathing.   You are not sure what it will cough up. 

“Still think he’s here?”  Chan asks, likely coming to the same conclusion as you: that even if Changbin was here, he has probably moved on.  He has either escaped and gone of his own volition or he was caught and reprimanded and has been relocated. 

“Maybe,” you say with a sigh.  “Maybe not.  But it’s still a lead.  Treat it like one.” 

You finally split up to cover more ground, agreeing to reconvene at the central warehouse in half-an-hour. 

Maybe Changbin is no longer in these walls – maybe he was never here at all – but there might still be answers.  You suspect there are questions too, because you cannot imagine who outside of the special-ops program would have both the calibre of skill and necessary intel to pull of an operation like this.  Someone reached right into the heart of this base and yanked at its ventricles like it was nothing.  And if not to escape, then why?

It has to be Changbin, you tell yourself, even while a sense of wrongness creeps under your skin.  It is the same odd, unsettled feeling you get when you think about the night the enemy died – specifically when you think about that security system somehow being wiped after the house burned down with everyone inside it.  It is that strange discombobulation, where the answer is probably simple and right in front of your face, so blatant that its absence haunts and distracts you.

You are distracted with thought.  Maybe that is why you make your first mistake.

You turn a corner and crash right into someone.  You are shocked because you did not hear their approach.  Even distracted, you should have heard footsteps in an empty corridor, especially in heavy combat boots.  You are quiet but you have unique bodily control that even well-trained soldiers cannot replicate.  No one else can walk that quietly.

It is clear the same startled reaction ripples through their body. 

You draw guns at the same time, firing with equal speed and precision.  You also both duck at the same time.  Smooth as a dance, you whirl around each other, firing and re-loading until they do a spin-kick and knock the gun aside.  

As you fight with your hands, you only catch glimpses of your opponent.  They are dressed all in black but not in Miroh’s uniform, a balaclava pulled over their face and head.  They are very slender, but they land a hit like someone twice their size. 

Your second mistake is your own fault.  You underestimate them based on their build and it earns you a good right cross. In the ensuing dizziness, they make a break down the corridor at an alarming speed.  It leaves you reeling more than the hit. 

“What the fuck,” you say, staggering after them. 

This person does not work for Miroh, that much is obvious.  It also definitely isn’t Changbin.  This person has the completely wrong build, opposite of Changbin in almost every way.   No, it isn’t your friend, but it might very well be another prisoner.  They might have an idea of what happened.  They might know if Changbin was here and where he went. 

The thought propels you into a determined sprint.  You cannot follow sound as the person is good enough to keep their footsteps low, but you are just as skilled so they likewise do not see you coming. 

They coincidentally head straight for the central warehouse.   The warehouse previously functioned as a pseudo-armory, but it has already been completely cleared.  It is two levels, the top floor a balcony walkway overlooking the main warehouse floor. 

The warehouse is empty except for the intruder. The person seems to be deliberating.   They remove their head covering for a second, long enough to catch their breath.  You see a flash of black hair and a hint of a masculine profile before you are spotted.   The man tugs the fabric back over his head. 

He leaps right off the balcony. 

It is too high for a normal person to jump without breaking a leg.  Naturally, you run to the railing to look over.

Your adversary is a step ahead of you.   He is dangling there, waiting for you to approach so he can swing back over and knock you down.  You skid across the balcony level, the metal walkway rattling under your weight. 

You don’t stay down for long.  Another fight begins, a back and forth tussle that makes you think you need more training.  The past day has been more than a little hectic, but you should be able to take down even a well-trained soldier. 

He does another spin-kick, a solid roundhouse that knocks your mask right off.   You stumble sideways while the mask clatters across the balcony before spilling right over the ledge.  It is a long descent before it smacks the ground. 

You ground your footing, assuming a defensive stance with a swift upward swing.

“Who are you?” you ask.

At the exact same time, the man says, “You.” 

That prompts another question, a bigger question, why on earth this stranger would recognize you in this context.   You cannot even think about your question, however, because the man abruptly flies at you with twice the verve as before.  Caught off guard, at first you struggle to defend yourself.   When he finally swings too wide, giving you an opening, you do not waste the opportunity. 

You tackle him, fully and bodily, arms around him as you charge the balcony.   You shove him right over the railing.  It is not so high that he’ll die, but you don’t want to kill him anyway.  You need to ask him questions – like did he do all this and how and why?  Are there others?  Is Changbin among them? 

You grasp the railing.  You are prepared to swing and jump over but you stop short at what you find.  The man, who should be nursing a fractured leg right about now, is instead getting to his feet.  He looks a bit dizzy, shaking his head and rubbing his temple, but he is otherwise unscathed. 

You just stand there for a second, gawping at him like an animal. 

That shielded face finally lifts, eyes finding yours across the space.   His head cocks, seemingly a dry and irritated, Really?

You launch yourself off the balcony, landing heavily but safely.  You absorb the shock and straighten, not taking your eyes off this man for a second. 

“I’m not interested in hurting you,” you say. 

He scoffs, pointedly looking down at your uniform. 

“I don’t work for Miroh anymore,” you say.  “I’m just trying to blend in.” 

“You?” he says.  It is so far the only thing he is willing to say.  His voice has a darker, deeper tone, scratching at the back of your head, but his monosyllabic replies do nothing to help place him. 

You want to say more but he doesn’t let you, jumping back into action.  You huff in aggravation, wanting to shout, we’re on the same side!   But he is fast.  You expend your energy just keeping him at bay.

Your stamina is fairly well-matched, just like everything else.  You move around the warehouse, kicking and punching and flipping around each other, losing track of minutes. 

A sheen of sweat breaks under your uniform.  He is slowing down too.  There is just one difference: he still has his gun. 

He gets you behind the knee and puts you on your back.  Before you can retaliate, he draws his gun and points it at your face. 

You freeze, staring down the barrel.  You slowly lift your eyes to him, just in case any sudden movement convinces him to fire.  So far, he is holding, though you are not sure why.  If he truly wanted to avoid detection, it would have been in his best interest to kill you and move on. 

He hesitates.  His hand is steady but his eyes are darting around inside the masked fabric. 

Your eyes continue to wander up, up.  Your heart leaps when you see Chan approaching on the balcony, silent and serious, gun in hand.  He has a longer-range weapon, not a little pistol like you and the adversary.   He takes aim from his perch but you shake your head.

You know Chan can make the shot, that he could get the man through the head and not so much as graze you under him.  But if this man dies, his answers go with him. 

“No!” you shout at the same time the gun goes off. 

You wrap your legs around the man’s midsection and yank him to the side.  You roll, one over the other until you are pinned once more.  You are both unharmed.  With the head covering, it is hard to tell if he is frazzled.  He certainly whips his head around quickly, trying to see where he dropped his gun. 

You spot it at the same time.  You glance at each other then bolt, stumbling over one another as you charge the discarded pistol. 

Chan jumps down off the balcony.  He takes more of a running leap, jumping forward rather than just down.  It gives him far more momentum so he hits the ground and tucks into a roll, riding the wave of that momentum until he is in the middle of the room. 

Chan reaches the gun first.  He kicks it out of the way and comes at the adversary with his bare hands.  He may not understand why you wanted to save an enemy who had you pinned under a gun, but Chan must trust there is a reason because he fights to incapacitate rather than kill. 

It is a good fight, but the man is already tired from fighting you. 

And you are good, but Chan is better.  If he could not beat you, only tie, then he cannot beat Chan. 

Sure enough, it takes a few more moves before the man is on his back.  Chan, still wearing his half-mask, straddles the man’s chest, pinning his arms at his sides and his body to the floor.  He draws a knife out of a thigh holster for good measure.   

“Got him,” Chan says.  “Who is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” you say, jogging over to them.  “That’s what I want to find out.”

“Let me go,” the man says, wriggling uselessly under Chan’s weight.   “I have nothing to say to her.”

“I told you already, I’m on your side,” you say.  “Or at least I’m not on Miroh’s side.”

“Whose side are you on?”  Chan asks with a jerk of his head. 

“Mine,” the man answers.  “Now let me go.  I have a job.”

“We have a job,” you say.  “We’re the ones who have been taking out the facilities so far.”

That gets the man to stop squirming.  He looks at you through the narrow eye slits in his balaclava, eyes darting to where you stand behind Chan. 

“You?” the man asks, seemingly his favourite word. 

“Yes, me,” you snap.  “And who are you exactly?” 

“One way to find out,” Chan says.  He does not wait for any further acknowledgement, ripping the man’s mask right off his head.  It is not a cruel or violent action, more a casual shrug of his arm than anything.  You are not expecting to find anything more than the scowling face of a stranger.   

You and Chan freeze.   

Staring back at you, with his hair returned to its natural pitch, his dark eyes narrowed in an intense glare, and a face full of unmistakable freckles, is a former agent of Miroh’s special-ops program.  One of the last and a traitor, not to mention supposedly dead. 

“You,” is what you say.

You do not know what else to say to Lee Felix. 

[write-or-run]

Danny Phantom in YJ but its ALL of team phantom

so this idea assumes DP is set in the DC verse and Danny's identity is revealed to the town during Reign Storm. His parents accept him like in the series finale, and the town, grateful for being saved from Pariah Dark, has an unspoken rule not to sell out Danny's secret identity to outsiders (mainly the GIW).

All the Amity Park vigilantes are working together at this point, but the public dosent really know it. Now that they're no longer hunting their son's alter ego the Fenton parents continue doing their thing, but now they make gear specifically for their ghost son to use without it backfiring on him (mostly). Jazz gets some of the ghosts to do interviews and eventually branches out into ghost psychology, something that her parents had neglected to study before now.

Danny, Sam, and Tucker continue ghost wrangling, but the supervision of the Fentons proves to be surprisingly helpful and the trio finds that they have more time to pursue other things (space, eco-witchcraft, and tech respectively). Tucker and Sam's parents are on the fence about their friendship with Danny. Angela and Maurice Foley are talked down from their worries after Tucker points out that the dangerous ghost stuff will happen regardless, so he might as well have the local vigilante on speed dial. Jeremy and Pamela Manson are harder to convince. They're used to having to pick their battles when it comes to Sam's goth, ultra recyclo vegetarian lifestyle, but on this they're not budging. They try to restrict Sam's contact with her friends and even go so far as to get a restraining order. Sam is increasingly fed up with their controlling behavior and, inspired by the Infi-Map, Sam breaks into the ghost zone in search of an artifact that would give her power so that she would never be trapped. Obviously Danny goes in after her, but then Sam's parents storm the Fenton house to take back their daughter and accidentally fall into the ghost portal, so Tucker takes the Specter Speeder and goes in after them. By the time the Fenton Parents return home everyone is back and the Manson's have given in to Sam's determination.

Valerie Gray initially continues to operate on her own. She maintains a frenemy status with Team Phantom due to her mixed feelings on Danny's civilian and ghostly personas, between that and the revelation of Vlad's villainous career Valerie's worldview is really shaken. She throws herself into vigilantism and hers dad gets really concerned when Valerie starts running herself ragged. In a last ditch effort to make her stop Damon Grey goes to the towns ghost hunting experts and begs them for an intervention. The Fenton parents agree and the three of them sit down with her for a talk about safe ghost hunting practices. This fails to stop her, but the Fentons refuse to give up on the 'Junior Ghost Hunter' and start inviting themselves on her patrols .Things come to a head when Dark Danny travels back in time to ensure his creation. Seeing how desperate Danny is to avoid becoming evil, and fighting alongside the Fentons convinces Valerie that its okay to count on others and slow down and take care of herself. (and also the Fentons are low-key inescapable)

Pariah Dark's incursion through Amity Park was the last straw needed for the Infinity Realms to start really breaking into reality. There was already some leakage (see lazarus pits) but this was the last straw for a problem that has been brewing for thousands of years now. Life in Amity Park continues normally, because to them ghost stuff is normal, but for the rest of the world its a different matter.

The Justice League is going around dealing with the sudden influx of supernatural nonsense. The ghost attacks range from minor nuisance to city-wide threat. The magic leaugers are trying to find the source, but it's Batman who identifies Amity Park as 'Ground Zero' for ghostly nonsense.

also something something Amanda Waller and the GIW either team up or become rivals.

I'm literally writing this while waiting to board my flight so I'll try and flesh out this AU later

[bwat5-blog]

Quick Response To Some Nonsense

**Spoilers For All Of Arcane**

Hello all, no fancy lead in today just a response to some recent stances taken on Cait/Vi, in particular their breakup. Of course this is simply my interpretation, but I felt strongly enough seeing it that it was worthy of a refutation. As I am keeping this centered on the stances themselves and my responses I won't be doing my usual laying the groundwork, so if you have any questions feel free to ask or check out my other stuff! Let's dive in!

The primary reason Caitlyn shuts down and does what she does is because Vi took the choice away from her after they had agreed on it. And that Caitlyn had lived a life always struggling to be able to make her own choices because of her parents: Okay, on the surface, totally fair. Yes, they had agreed on a plan as to how this had to go down and Vi stopped Caitlyn from carrying it out. However, there is SO MUCH MORE going on here.

First and foremost, Vi's reasons for stopping Caitlyn at this point are irrelevant. Because of Isha. Listen folks, If you have watched these characters all the way to this point, and you honestly feel that either of them would intentionally do something that risks the life of a child, I just cannot agree with you. Caitlyn has only shown herself to be a kind and caring person ever since we meet her. These folks wanted to use two factors to show that Vi would not have cared about Isha being hurt to prove that it was all about Jinx.

A- Vi doesn't have a particular adverse reaction to Renni's son dying

B- Vi doesn't seem to care about hitting Isha and doesn't stop when she does

A: Renni's Son-

This is the boy killed who is working in the Shimmer lab that Jayce and Vi attack. Jayce accidentally kills him with a blast from his hammer. So regarding the allegation that Vi doesn't seem to particularly care. Context, as always, is our friend folks. Jayce is backing out because of the death when they were quite literally starting their attack on Siloc's entire operation. So what does Vi actually say-

"You've always been a part of this, you just never had to look it in the eye. One dead kid? There's hundreds more where he came from, thanks to Silco. And thanks yo people like you, who stuck their heads in the dirt. "

Jayce leaves, Vi very clearly stands over the body and sighs, her eyes wet with tears. And yes she gets back to business. Because as she said. This is about so much more than one dead kid.

B: Hitting Isha-

Okay, I love Isha to. But this is not the first time she jumps in the middle of an adult situation and gets hurt. But anyway, the allegation here is that Vi really had no issue hitting her and didn't stop because of it. Isha quite literally bites Vi on her wraps. You know, the part of her that is probably in constant pain from months of pit fighting and no self care. Also, Jinx and Vi literally stop at the same time when they realize what happened.

Also, lets not forget this handy-dandy little moment where Vi quite literally throws herself in front of Isha to save her from Vander:

Additionally, to allege that the reason Caitlyn reacts to such an extreme agree is simply that Vi robbed her of her choice is to deny the absolutely crushing trauma Caitlyn has been/is dealing with. She is literally face to face with the monster of her nightmares, and is being denied her revenge. Every fight-or-flight, primal, lizard brain part of her is screaming that Jinx is the most dangerous thing in the world, and the woman Caitlyn loves is standing in front of her. I go more into the signs of Caitlyn's traumatic episode in another document but to suffice it to say, it doesn't seem like Caitlyn was really aware of exactly what all was going on in that chamber. Vi called her repeatedly and all Caitlyn could say was "move! she's not getting away again!" never responding to anything else Vi was saying. Caitlyn fired her rifle twice striking Vi's gauntlet once even and was not deterred. She is NOT doing okay

***FYI- I had a lovely conversation with the person who made this first point. I misunderstood them. Their point was through Caitlyn’s perception of the event while factoring her mental state. So I stand by analysis of the scene but calling out this first point was my error***

2. "I thought you were different.. but your not. It's her blood in your veins"- whoo boy. Okay, The users are more or less defending Caitlyn's anger and her saying this as her realizing that ultimately Vi's loyalty is with Jinx because they believe Vi stopped her because of Jinx, and by extension someone who has done A-Z of fucked up things to Caitlyn. Again I am just about the furthest thing from a Jinx apologist but I don't have time for the list at the moment.

I will repeat, did Vi stop it because she saw Powder in Jinx's face, and because her sister told her she was glad it was her killing her? Entirely possible. But ultimately what it comes down it Caitlyn is enraged because Jinx got away, and Caitlyn's solution to that was to take the shot with a hex tech rifle that had been glitching, and could have killed a child.

No as to what Caitlyn actually said, because one of their points was about Vi's comeback. A few points:

A- Caitlyn knows all of Vi and Jinx history by now including Vi's crushing guilt over what happened

B- Caitlyn knows Vi carries the guilt for her mother's death because Vi asked Caitlyn not to shoot

C- Caitlyn knows what it meant for Vi to put on the uniform and come here with her, and still doubts her

D- Caitlyn literally alleges that Vi is no different than Jinx, who has caused all of this pain and suffering, because her blood is the same, tainted in the same way

3. "Than why are you the one acting like her?"- Essentially here they are just saying that Vi was looking to wound, looking for the low blow, and that not enough attention was given to how fucked up this was to say, especially because Caitlyn had tried to do all of this the right way.

Can I do the right thing for the wrong reason? Is it bad that I'm making friends with my demons, and Living by a couple deadly sins Just to make sure I finish what you began And I ain't afraid to lose a life or ten If it means that I get to win in the end (woo) So I'ma do this on my own, step into the danger zone Pull the pin and watch it blow! (Arcane Hellfire)

I am not saying it wasn't a fucked up thing to say. I am saying Yall are missing the point. Vi was afraid of Caitlyn changing because she saw the violence and darkness in her. Because while yes they are doing everything the right way in the lanes technically, for Caitlyn its all for the wrong reasons. She isn't there to help the undercity, she is on a quest for revenge. And as such is surrendering her morals and values alittle at a time.

4. Caitlyn hit Vi impulsively after Vi realized she overstepped/Cait never learned her strength or how to hold back-

As Caitlyn is walking away and Vi says "why are you the one acting like her?!" she grabs Cait's arm firmly at first then relaxes her grip to a more gentle one. Caitlyn sits and breathes for a solid ten seconds before hitting Vi. That's not exactly a reflexive action. Also, Caitlyn has demonstrated a tremendous proficiency with her rifle and with increasing hand-to-hand combat over the course of the show. She knew what she was doing, and she knew where she hit her. Now was Caitlyn also drowning in the middle of a total emotional overload. Yes indeed. But this was not a shock response strike. She chose to.

Now for a few points outside of the breakup that were mentioned:

Vi was wrong to suggest that Caitlyn did not understand during their conversation about Vi putting on the badge-

Well we can do this simply. Lets compare the two.

A- Vi was standing there in sight of her parents bodies as the people responsible were still there stalking around the smoke. The people responsible all dress the same way and their look is a symbol of their institution. Now she is being asked to dress like them.

B- Caitlyn was however far away and only saw the rocket launched and smash into the building. This of course would still be very traumatic. But for better or worse there is only one Jinx and her look is her look. Unless Vi was asking Cait to put on a half-eaten circus tent, I don't think we are in the same area here.

2. Vi has a tendency to dismiss Caitlyn's trauma when something more viscerally related to her own loss is going on-

The example they provided was the conversation I listed above. Vi has literally stayed there to be there and support Caitlyn even after being yelled at by Tobias. She is supportive of catching jinx and wants to help right up until Cait offers the badge. And even after that blow up, in the wake of the memorial attack Vi shelves her own issues and agrees to be an enforcer anyways.

3. Fandom keeps giving Vi a pass like anyone from Piltover can do no wrong-

The idea of this fandom giving Vi a pass is completely and totally laughable. I'm sorry but it is. There is still a whole legion of us who blame a fifteen year old girl kneeling over her father's body, who just saw her brothers die, who just held off a legion of armed Silco goons and barely survived, for ruining Powder during one bad moment and turning her into jinx. Aside from Caitlyn's commander Arc Vi is probably the least understood character in the entire fandom.

PSSSSSST.. If it helps, they don't do redemption arcs for characters who were never in the wrong in the first place. Have a great day!

[gl1tt3r-gutz-and-r0b0tz-sl]

'Why can't I be happy now....? I'm who I was always supposed to be..'

FTM starscream!

Here's my first entry into the Starscream week day 1! origin/ past. @starscreamweek

Here’s a bit of an info dump about Starscream’s origins in my AU, Transformers Oblivion:

Starchaser, now known as Starscream, was originally female. She was abandoned by her mother, like many others, and sent away to the slums of Cybertron. Abandoned sparklings usually end up being trafficked, used for target practice for the many gangs that have formed, or were forced into the Arena. The Arena is the largest, most brutal gladiator pit in the entire planet, and the sparklings lucky enough to survive just to be sent there, are trained to fight and kill. While the Arena is a place of fighting, many gambles are placed per match, to see who will live to fight again and climb the ranks. Starchaser and Arcee were both lucky enough to make it. Arcee excelled, being the youngest, and most violent fighter there, exhibiting cannibalistic qualities and actions. Starchaser is highly intelligent, using the environment around her to her advantage. Starchaser always felt off, it could've been the prejudice she received due to her optic color and sex when forged, or it could be that she was never satisfied when looking in her reflection.

Starchaser always wanted to protect Arcee, since that’s what Arcee does for her all the time. Even though Starchaser is bigger than her, she’d never be able to match her strength. One day, while both of them just turned 18 cycles old and both had won their matches, the duo meet an older Cybertronian male going by the name Megatron. He is one of the top patrons of the Arena and a reigning champion of the pit, in addition, he is one of Arcee’s biggest idols since she saw him fight. He offers them both a deal that neither can reject. He offers Arcee to train by him, to become one of his apprentices alongside a male a little older than the girls named Tarn. Megatron offers Starchaser with two opportunities. The first is that Starchaser is able to get an education if she accepts being enlisted in the future army Megatron is forming. The second is that he’s able to give her a body she finally will feel comfortable in, the body her spark was meant to reside in. Both accept, and in this comic, the last frame is the girl’s celebration for Starchaser once finding out about the University accepting her application. 

Starchaser studies to become a scientist, Arcee trains alongside Megatron. Both still keep in touch frequently, hanging out and goofing off whenever they get the chance. This goes on for at least seven cycles until the war finally broke out and everything went to ruin. Starchaser and Arcee were both brought into the base of the newly formed and strengthened Decepticon faction. Work was done to both of their bodies. Arcee got a more feminine frame, looking cuter to throw off opponents and Starchaser finally got the body she desired, a male, strong frame While operating on the two, Shockwave wiped both their memory banks. Arcee was wiped completely, her body only remembering her training and maneuvers, while Starchaser’s memory had gaps in it, where he couldn’t remember what his beloved, childhood ally looked like, but he knew he loved her dearly. The gaps in his memory, and the knowledge that Megatron had something to do with it, led Starscream to form an intense hatred against him. The reason Starscream wishes to become leader is to spare his fellow soldiers from their fates as he knows they were most likely wiped as well, and to regain his own memories when accessing all the files Shockwave and Soundwave have saved, hoping to find his own. 

In the comic above, Starscream breaks down not just by the reminder of not being himself when with who he loves, but by the fact that they both try to kill each other daily.

[runningfrom2am]

requiem // part five

summary: according to coriolanus snow, his best friend had the most beautiful voice in all of panem. she had been training her whole life constantly to get where she was; being up for a residency at the most elite opera house in all of panem. singing was her passion. her true love; and when that got stripped from her in a second, his world became a whole lot quieter. he loathed every minute of it.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 2.1k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: opera singer!mentor!reader (blink and you'll miss it), she's kind of a prodigy!! p cool imo, mute!reader, bestfriend!coryo, friends to lovers trope ooo, mentions of graphic violence early on (particularly the prologue) but after that it's pretty safe, depictions of ptsd/trauma, mental illness and minor suicidal ideation but at least she's not entirely alone, descriptions of minor medical treatments and use of medication.

a/n: fighting for my LIFE trying to sort out my student loans rn. also i'm sick. butttt i did just finally get my hands on hogwarts legacy so that's eating up all my time. anyway that's a small update on my life.

also, reminder to follow @runningfrom2am-library and turn on my notifications there to join my taglist for this series!!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist // pinterest board

Walking into the citadel and down some spiral stairs towards Dr. Gaul's infamous lab, you already have your notepad in hand prepared with the proposal you have made for her.

She likes those, right? Coryo wrote her several for the games and she put them to use. This should be no different.

You have a pencil clutched in one hand unless she has questions, which you are sure she will.

Your shoes click down the large hall as you make your way to the reception desk on the left side, manned by security rather than actual receptionists. Dr. Gaul was not your average doctor, after all.

You stop in front of the counter and slide a piece of paper across it to the man sitting there, a determined but kind expression on your face.

He doesn't even look up.

You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes before knocking on the counter and waving a hand at him.

He looks up then, studying you for a moment with eyes lingering on the scar across your throat before recognition flashes in his eyes. "Can we help you with something?" He asks anyway, as if he was expecting an answer even though you both knew you wouldn't be able to give him a verbal one.

You tap the paper you placed on the counter, sliding it forward more toward him and he picks it up.

'I would like to see Dr. Gaul. I have a written proposal for her.'

He reads it, nodding a little to himself before looking up at you again. "She should have a few minutes, she has a meeting at 2, though." He says, and you nod to him in a silent thank you as he buzzes the doors open for you to enter.

Stepping into the lab that hosted incredibly high ceilings, tanks lining the shelves and walls as well as a pit in the floor straight ahead, you swallow as you look around. You had never been in here before, and you weren't sure if you were more creeped out or more in awe of the whole thing.

"If it isn't my favourite songbird." You look up when you hear the familiar voice of the doctor, resisting to roll your eyes at the nickname, despite her claiming that you had been her favourite of the two of you who had earned the name. These days, it never fails to form a pit in your stomach.

You give her a smile and a polite nod as she walks toward you from between some of the tanks, dusting off her red gloves on the somehow pristine white of her lab coat.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, chickadee?"

In response, you hold out the carefully prepared file folder to her, including your proposal and copies of your own medical records from the operations performed after your attack.

She raises her eyebrows in intrigue as she plucks it eagerly from your hands, opening it up.

Dr. Gaul's eyes widen slightly in surprise as she looks over the "title page" of your neatly formatted proposal, looking up at you again.

"Experiment in Language Efficiency on the Human Body: A Proposal." She reads, letting out a slight laugh.

You watch her nervously, hands clutched around your notebook against your chest. You nod in confirmation, wanting her to know you are entirely serious.

She quickly flips through the pages and your medical records, occasionally glancing up at you.

"Well, this seems to be a compelling proposal." She comments, closing the folder. "But no. I will not be turning you into any kind of experiment."

Your brow furrows in slight disappointment, and you flip open your notebook to quickly write something down for her.

'I volunteer.'

She reads the sheet as you turn it around and she shakes her head, a small smile forming on her lips. "I figured as much, but still, it is too dangerous. I do not experiment on humans. Especially Capitol citizens, and especially those as well-loved as you."

The irony of that is palpable, and your jaw tightens as you scribble your thoughts down on the next page. You thought she had done something to Clemensia, but you did not wish to fuel the rumour mill, so you kept that quiet.

'I believe that if anyone is capable it is you, Dr. Gaul.'

"I'm flattered, and I do not doubt that." She chuckles, holding the folder out to you again. "But that does not make it possible, I am afraid."

In response you just point over to the bird cages against the left wall, tilting your head at her.

Jabberjays: Birds of her own creation designed to mimic the human voice.

"You've done your research." Dr. Gaul comments, clearly impressed and pleased that you would bring them up. "You make a valid point, my jabberjays, they... They were certainly a successful experiment of mine. Undeniably relevant to your cause."

She gazes over at the caged birds thoughtfully. "But look at them now. As you point at them." She nods toward them before looking back at you again. "They were only free for so long before they ended up caged again. Useful, for a while, during the war, but their time of pertinence has passed. You know how that feels, don't you?"

The question was cruel, as she was known to be, but that knowledge didn't make it hurt any less. You take a deep breath in and out through your nose, feeling frustrated and defeated all at once as you turn to walk away.

"Ah, wait a moment, chickadee. I'm not finished." She calls after you, voice echoing in the large lab. You pause, turning around to face her again.

"I am having all my precious jabberjays rounded up from the districts and shipped back to me because, despite their redundancy, I am yet to give up on them. I wish to somehow give them a second purpose, maybe make some tweaks to their genetics." She explains, but you are still mostly uninterested and busy drowning in your disappointment. "What I mean, is that I will consider your proposal, depending on how that goes with them in the coming weeks."

Your heart stops and flutters for a moment at the exciting news. You can't help the hopeful smile that grows on your face as you nod eagerly at her.

'Thank you.'

You write quickly before showing her the sheet, pressing your hand to your chest to signal further your gratefulness.

"That is not a yes, mind you. It is very risky, but I will take it into account. I'll do some tests on defective birds and see if there is a way I can help." She warns you, tucking the folder under your arm. "Now, I have a meeting, if you wouldn't mind. I will be in touch with you, little bird."

You nod again, giving her a small wave before turning and walking back the way you came with a giddy smile on your face.

Walking into the now familiar lab, Coriolanus is slightly nervous. As he always is, in the presence of Dr. Gaul. The coldness of the room in both temperature and design makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he's used to the chill he gets when he walks in.

Especially now that he didn't know what she had summoned him for.

His worries are quickly dashed and then tripled walking down the spiral staircase, stopping in his step when he sees you coming up.

"What are you doing here?"

Your best friend's voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you look up, having just finished tucking your notebook into your bag. You had little to no interest in pulling it out again, hoping that your long-lasting friendship would allow you to instead just communicate telepathically and spare you the effort.

You just stare at him, just as surprised to see him, opening your mouth like you're going to say something and you try but you still can't. Shocking.

Instead of coming up with any meaningful response, you do the best you can do, pointing at him and then turning up your palm as if to ask him the same thing.

"Me? Dr. Gaul called for me." Coryo answers, thankfully understanding your wordless question. He was better at that than most. "You too?"

You're about to shake your head and try to explain why you were here, but then you think better of it.

He hates her. Hates her experiments, despite what he did to help her with the games. He'd probably flip if he knew the truth.

You nod instead, glancing back down the stairs.

Coryo sighs a breath of relief. At least he wasn't the only one. At least you might be able to give him some peace of mind. "Is it bad? Is it about the mentorship program? Is it-"

You hold a hand up to stop him from his mini spiral, lifting one finger.

'One question at a time.'

Right.

He had the sound of mind to only ask yes or no questions to get to the bottom of what he wanted to know, but he didn't quite get as far as realizing that all of them at once may not be helpful.

"Sorry, is it bad?" He asks again, and normally he would laugh, but he was too anxious to even see the comedy in it like the two of you normally would.

Unsure what else to do, you shake your head and shrug vaguely. As an extra measure, you hold up your hand and twist your palm.

'So so.' The gesture is meant to signal, considering it was a safe enough answer. Nothing Dr. Gaul could have called him here for could be all good news, after all. You don't think, anyway.

"Okay, okay..." Coryo breaths out, nodding to himself.

Feeling a little guilty you step up to the step he's on, gently patting his shoulder and giving him a small smile.

'You'll be fine.'

He seems to interpret this correctly, giving you a small smile in return and gently resting his hand over your smaller one on his shoulder.

You were meant to be reassuring him, but his touch works miracles to comfort you when you weren't even sure you needed it all that much.

These days though, you would cling to any sense of it you could get. Even the tiniest bits. Sometimes, for a flicker of a second, you didn't feel so alone. Coryo could still hear you.

"Thanks. I'll see you soon? Can I come by later?" He asks and you nod in confirmation, giving his shoulder another gentle squeeze as you take another step up so you're about at eye level with him, leaning back to kiss the side of his head in a small bit of encouragement before waving him on.

Coryo can't help the flush that forms on his cheeks as he nods at you, hesitating for a moment before continuing down the steps and you continue back up.

"Oh, Dr. Gaul?" Coryo says, catching himself before he leaves, and she looks up again from her corner desk stacked with papers, your deep red folder sitting right on top.

She looks up, anticipating his question.

"Did you offer an apprenticeship to Y/N as well? I saw her leaving on my way down." He asks, assuming that she must have extended it to you as well. That was why you were here, right? Both called for the same thing? Though, he didn't understand how that could have been a bad thing as you indicated it kind of was when he stopped you on the stairs.

But he knows you well. Having to settle for an internship under Dr. Gaul was far from what you wanted in life, so he can easily see how you could have seen it that way.

"No." Dr. Gaul answers after a moment, head tilted at him. "She just had a question for me."

Well, so much for your honesty.

You never lied to him. At least, Coryo didn't think you did, but here he was, being confronted with the fact that you had. It doesn't settle well.

He can't resist asking. "What about?"

"That is between the songbird and I, I'm afraid." Dr. Gaul responds with a shrug and a sly, knowing smile- taunting him for something she knew about you that he did not. "If she wished for you to know, she would tell you." She pauses, a feigned guilty smile forming on her red-painted lips at the irony of her words. "Well, you know what I mean."

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

[mxtantrights]

Can you write a Jason Todd x reader where they knew each other before he dies but then they reunite. Maybe they were robins at the same time. Y/n has element powers and their eyes change colors based on element currently using. They are afraid of having too much power. Established relationship please!!! I cannot handle slowburns

Broken Bird comes home

the night Jason died was the worst night of your life. The worst. No other night compares to it. Not the night after you spend in the fetal position and crying. Or the night after the funeral where there was no body. Or the night on the first anniversary of his death.

Night time is the worst for you. You just remember getting the calls from Bruce and your whole world shattering. Jason was more than your friend. He was your first crush, your first kiss, first relationship.

He used to do this thing when you two would hold hands on patrol. Your gloves covered your wrists so he would sneak his thumb inside of the leather and rub the inside of your wrist. Something about wanting to feel your pulse.

You had stopped being Robin about three months before you found out Jason died. You never really felt like you could be as good as Dick. And Jason was the only reason you stayed on as long as you did. But even that had it's caveats.

Bruce relied on you and your patience and understanding way more and tried to get Jason to model himself after you. Even though you tried to be more like him, less rule following and more march to your own beat and ask for forgiveness later.

But sometimes the two of them would put you in the middle of their endless tiffs. It drove you up the wall. And one night you just decided right then and there to stop being a Robin.

It's not until after the first year past Jason's death that you decide to go back on the streets to fight crime again. This time it's very different. You don't have anyone to answer to but yourself. And you have no one to look up to anymore.

You don't pull your punches. You don't think in black and white anymore. Everything is gray. And you operate in the areas that used to scare you.

It isn't long before Bruce reaches out, because he's been keeping tabs on you. He asks if you're sure about what you're doing. And he tells you that you're always welcome to come back, as yourself not as a Robin.

You respectfully decline his offer. You hated him the first eight or nine months after Jason's death. You hated how he wasn't there. You hated how that clown just walked free and continued terrorizing the citizens of Gotham.

You actually got to run into him once. Tracked him down, got him all by himself. And delivered a beating that brought him so close to the pits of hell that even you got scared. Bruce showed up then, told you it wasn't right. That you couldn't take justice into your own hands like that.

His words had no affect on you. You hated him for letting the clown go free like that. And you hated that he had a new Robin already.

It's probably not until the third year that you find your footing. You know how to operate as a vigilante. You don't get too mad when you see the new Robin anymore. And you talk to Bruce to check in and still decline his off to join his team.

In those two years you get better at controlling your powers. Yo hardly used them when you were Robin. And after Jason's death you over used them, packing a few punches that moved tectonic plates underneath your feet. This was a balanced way of using your powers. You were coming to understand them.

And then your world shatters again.

One night while on patrol, you notice your being followed. So you take a few turns to lose them. But they're pretty good. So you decide to corner them into an alley way. One where you can confront them.

In the dark you corner your tail. He stands a foot taller than you. All that you can really make out is that red helmet of his. Nothing else tells you about him. He's even using a voice modulator.

You ask him why he's following you. He doesn't answer. You tell him to back off. He doesn't answer. You, at your wits end, run ups o him and are about to deck him when he grabs a hold of your wrist.

You try to pull back but he holds you. It's not that tight. He's not hurting you, you realize. He's just holding you. When you look down at your wrist, you realize that he's touching you right where Jason did.

You wrench your wrist away from him and take a step back. You're about to haul off a bunch of curses at him when he starts speaking to you.

"You're pulse." he says.

Your spine goes straight at that. Jason used to say that, why is this guy saying that to you? You moves to take another step back but you don't. You look right at him.

"Jason?" you ask.

The man starts moving at light speed. All at once the helmet it coming off. You see a tuft of white hair amongst the black. And then he takes off his domino mask. You see it in his eyes. It's Jason, it's your Jason, but it's not.

"How is this possible?" you ask yourself, taking a few steps forward.

When the tip of your shoes meet his boots, and he doesn't move, you take it as a sign that he's okay with you being this close. You hesitantly reach up towards his face but you take your hand back. You don't notice the storm clouds you're forming. Not until the rain starts coming down.

"It's me." he says.

You can't help the tears that come out of your eyes. Or how you start sobbing uncontrollably. Jason wraps you up in his arms. You feel your whole body start to go slack in disbelief. He's real. He's alive, he's here.

"I'm sorry I made you wait." he says.

You wrap your arms around him tightly now, "You're back. You're really back."

You pull back from him a bit, he looks down at you. You can read the worry in his eyes. You reach up and cup his face. He lets out a strangled breath.

"I missed you so much."

a/n: I had to stop myself before it came a behemoth and I dragged you on for a slow burn. this was really fun to write. Especially the elemental part! thanks for sending this in !! <3333