#Scuttle Chest update

[artwithteggy]

The Scuttle Chest is printed and oh lord she's a bit fun to play with 😀👍🏼 I think I might print a blue one 💙🦀 next. Blue, silver, and sandy colour scheme. What do you think?

[st4rbe0m]

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ KISS THE GIRL - PSH

🫧 now playing - kiss the girl from disney’s The Little Mermaid 🫧 contents - the little mermaid au, no gendered implications but the word 'maiden' is used, implied kissing 🫧 wc - 0.9K 🫧 a/n - i hope this compensates for the lack of body search updates recently :( i need to structure that story out a bit more, so it'll be a while. might make a mini series out of this however teehee >.<

masterlist

Sha-la-la-la-la-la, My oh my Look like the boy too shy Ain't gonna kiss the girl

The blue luminescence of the algae around them, surrounding the boat in a surreal bubble, made the breath in Sunghoon’s throat hitch in awe. You were right in front of him, hands on the pair of paddles opposite to his own, making no move of their own, as your eyes blown wide in awe of scenery peered around. The way the drooping willow branches of the cove swayed in an almost rhythm like manner, creating a music of its own. The fish seemed almost animated as they playfully swam along the quivering currents of the water, the boat stalled and rocking almost like a crib, gently. The reeds whistled, adding the percussion to the music of the ocean, while the crabs and the seagulls perched along the rocks of the shallow alcove seemed to scuttle along, adding a tapping beat to the environment. Almost like this endeavor was planned. Almost. 

Sunghoon doesn’t really register how quickly this stranger, whom he’d found on the beach with no voice of your own, and almost seemingly no knowledge of his importance or his duties, had easily slid into his life, like the puzzle piece he’d been missing ever since he went aboard his ship on his birthday. The day he was knocked off the very vessel, and only had an angelic voice and a fleeting memory saving him from being pulled under by the unforgiving waves of the sea. 

The boat was swaying gently in the water as you both rocked along with it, eyes swallowing in all the beauty of the escape Sunghoon had found during his lonesome adventures to escape from princely duties. A hidden cave, with a shallow pool of water and a welcoming alcove hiding the both of you away from prying eyes. After all, the rumors and gossip about town would multiply with a frenzy, if any citizen were to come across the adoration on the face of their beloved prince, as he gazed upon this strange maiden. The mood around them was so tender, so fragile and so, so beautiful. Yet to Sunghoon, the only beauty he could focus on was the one right in front of him, only on the way your head was tilted up and looking around, like you were seeing everything that existed above the land for the first time ever in your life. The way your lips parted softly and exhaled a soft sigh of satisfaction, like a thirst to see everything was being quenched slowly. And how soft your lips looked, glowing under the moonlight that entered through the cracks above. The plump curve of your cupid’s bow, and the dip of white where your teeth bit into your lower lip in fascination.

If the ambience wasn’t already perfect, the buzzing of the fireflies, that illuminated the air around you both with their bright, yellow glow just made your heart leap in joy, and the smile that grew on your face made Sunghoon’s heart flip in his own chest, like the marine creatures surrounding you both, almost like they’d choreographed their own dance to celebrate the union of you both. The frogs that sat with their little webbed legs stuck on to the paddles of your boat, and the wonderful, colorful fish, creating a haze of flurried colors under the dark water. It was all absolutely delightful, as you both chuckled at the behavior of all the animals around you. One of the frogs on the paddle decided to leap in a move of its own, elegantly diving into the water with a plop. But as graceful as the move was, it ended up with a small splash of water ungracefully landing on Sunghoon’s cheek, which made you giggle in amusement. Bringing the fabric of your sleeve to your palm and shifting close to wipe the cold water off his face, your eyes met the warmth in his brown ones, making you fall harder for the enigmatic and handsome prince. The human you’d found yourself to be so captivated by. Prince Park Sunghoon, royal heir to the throne of the island country, Telmarina. 

Sunghoon’s heartbeat was thundering in his ears due to the proximity between the two of you, and if he didn’t already feel that magnetic pull that was urging him to push his lips onto yours, the urge just got stronger as he looked at all your features with such intensity, as to almost memorize them. You could feel his shortening breath on your face now, which just created a chain reaction to your own flusteredness. His eyes, which were settled on yours, hesitatingly shifted, and then dipped to your lips. And it seemed that you did too, as the pink tinge of his lips seemed to call you like a siren. Leaning in slowly, almost gravely, both of you inhaled as your lips almost touched to fulfill what you both had been yearning for this entire time.

That was until the solid wooden flooring of the boat under both of you seemed to disappear, leaving you both plunging into the cold water of the lagoon, icing the blood in your veins and leaving you both in a shocked state, floating in the water. Laughing at the state of both of you, the kiss that almost happened seemed to slowly leave both of your minds, and Sunghoon swore that if you listened close enough, you could hear some sort of disappointed groan coming from the rock where the crab and seagull sat. And holding out his hand for you to take as you both swam up to land, you both almost ignored the dark slithering eels that swam away silently from the scene, ready to report to their masters of the success of their devious plans.

[noforkingclue]

Can Iake a request for homelander? I was thinking about how he sees humans as below him yet was created by humans. Maybe something fluffy (as fluffy as it can be with homelander lmao) where gets a crush on a human Vought employee because their funny and honest but also really blunt whenever he talks to her. Or if you think this one is better maybe homelander meeting a supe who's powers are like sirens from Greek mythology,(hypnotic voice, attractive aura, etc. ) Basically they can draw in people in a similar way that tomie from junji ito can, but isn't interested in entertaining men

Homelander: I want you to be part of the 7

Reader: how would that even work, am I just supposed to sex appeal them to death?🙄

So I chose the first one. I find the dynamic of Homelander and a human so fucking interesting.

Hope you like the fic :)

Title: Filth

Warnings: Homelander

Your voice was irritating.

Everywhere he went in Vought Tower, Homelander could hear it. Whether it was you providing update reports to fucking Ashley or laughing about something with those cunts you call friends. He thought that he could even hear your voice long after you had left the building.

He stormed through the building. Useless humans darted out of the way, not wanting to be trampled down while he was on his warpath. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? You were just another useless human. Weak, pathetic, just another weak fucking insect. Something to crush under the sole of his boot.

But he didn’t want to.

You made some meaningless comment to your equally meaningless colleagues which somehow earnt you a round of laughter. Homelander’s eye twitched at the grating noise. It's all so human. One of those colleagues touched your arm and you leant into the touch. That did it.

Homelander turned around and marched towards you. Humans scuttled out of the way but not you. You didn’t shrink away. Instead you smiled brightly at him and Homelander glared at the colleagues around you. If he had his way, he would’ve burned holes into their head and fuck you over their mutilated bodies. Watch as the blood would soak into your clothes, as pieces of flesh and bone get tangled in your hair, watch as-

“Hello,” your bright voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

Yes. He wanted you down on your knees. Looking up at him with those beautiful eyes. Covered in the blood of those humans who dared touch what was his. Instead he just beckoned you to follow him. He marched away, not bothering to see if you were following him. He could hear your footsteps and the steady beat of your heart. That was refreshing. You, unlike so much of the filth that surrounded you, weren’t afraid of him.

When the two of you were finally alone in a random office you were roughly shoved up against the wall. Homelander leant down, brushing his nose against yours, as he pressed his fingers roughly against your neck. He felt your heartbeat skip slightly as you swallowed thickly.

“I don’t frighten you.” he said

“Do you want me to be frightened?” you asked

His grip around your neck tightened and you winced slightly. Still, your heartbeat remained steady.

“I could kill you,” Homelander continued, “snap that pathetic neck of yours. Burn your eyes out. Rip your heart out of your chest.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You’re still not frightened.”

“I’m not afraid of dying,” you said, with a soft smile, “it is one thing that must happen to us all.”

Homelander’s grip tightened and this time you did wince. He smiled at the action although there was no warmth behind it. He leant in close, brushing his nose against yours.

“You smell like them.” he practically snarled

You frowned but Homelander’s grip on you prevented you from speaking.

“Like filth,” he continued, “and I’m going to fucking change that. I don’t want to hear another fucking word out of your mouth.”

[politemenacephd]

Arachnophilia: (Part Twenty-Six)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

Content: Mostly fluffy and plot updates + character building with Miguel. References to oral sex and PinV sex.

One month later

---

You woke to the sound of rustling. You were almost passed out in the comforting silk sheets of yours and Mig’s bed, your hair tangled and rough and your eyelids heavy. God, what a night.

You weren’t even in heat right now, what compelled you to act like that? Well, you knew what. It was him, obviously. That beautiful, irresistible monster you now called your partner.

You thought back to last night, when you’d lit the fire outside and danced together as you often did now. Whenever you got a day free off of work you got to enjoy Miguel’s old habits; hunting, preening, singing, doing his little mating dance to entice you.

And entice it did. You’d danced until the grass was flattened, moving in and out of his arms. He’d grab you, sway you, kiss you, then throw you free to lead him on again. He liked to follow you around the fire, creating a rhythmic beat with the tapping of his paws for you to follow.

You weren’t the best dancer, but he didn’t notice that. He wasn’t looking for grace or poise or actual moves, he just wanted to see the joy in your face as the fire lapped around your skin.

You’d started out innocently enough, but you’d gotten a little too playful. You must have done something to arouse Miguel’s gaze because you remember his tapping becoming faster, insistent, almost like a chase, as he followed you around the glowing fire.

You remembered those beautiful eyes burning, that deep red reflecting the flames back at you like an inferno. You remember the sound of his breathing getting heavier. The flash of a fang, of a wet, lurid tongue, the sight of his chest heaving. The drumming growing louder, louder, as your body grew lewder with its movements. The soft bounce of your body, the giggling and smile, the subtle gyrating, it was too much.

You tempted him to you, and he took the bait.

You remember how he’d bound you up like a fly, like prey, and how he’d taken you right there in the dirt. God, the size of him still made you tremble. The memories of hot breath on your neck as he fulfilled some carnal need, a mixture of deep primal hunting instinct mixed with his human desire for you, the desire to eat and be eaten.

He’d ended up thankfully just eating you out instead, gushing over you with another saliva to quell the fire still burning at your sides, illuminating your conjoined bodies.

You could still feel him inside you now, or at least, what he’d left there. The ghost of that man’s shaft was imprinted on you like a finger. You smiled to yourself. You hoped it stayed there forever.

You almost immediately drifted off again until you heard that same rustling. You forced yourself awake then, purely because you assumed it was Mig rustling beside you and you wanted to cuddle with him again, but as you opened your eyes you realized it wasn’t him.

A rabbit had scuttled into your giant nest. It snuffled at your sheets, clearly curious, but as you reared your head it bolted. You sat in the silence and darted your head from side to side.

Mig wasn’t here. You could still feel his warmth on the bed, and you could see the little indent his body had made on the mattress overnight, but he himself was gone. You frowned and called out.

“MIG?”

No response. Odd. You called again, louder. “MIG?” you cried, your voice echoing through the dirt corridors, but again there was nothing. You awkwardly glanced around the room instead, looking for any sign of where he might have gone.

On the earthen floor beside you was a plate, and on it was your favourite breakfast. You noticed a note tucked beneath the mug, and sleepily yanked it up to your face.

'Mi tesoro! I know you are off work today, but I wanted to run some tests. It broke my heart to think of waking you when you looked so comfortable, so I have left you this note! So you know where I am, and also to say you are my heart. I hope to see you later! p.s I made you breakast!'

You found yourself giggled at his note as you went through it. God, what a sweet, soppy idiot Mig was. You turned the note only to find a scribbled extra note on the back.

‘p.p.s I just wish to reiterate again that you are my heart.’

You felt your chest grow warm and fuzzy as you watched it. ‘Oh Miggy’ you whispered. With no one looking you gave the note a kiss before tucking it away. If only the sweet fool had realized food got cold if left out all morning. Oh well, cold breakfast was still breakfast.

You pondered over the note as you ate, re-reading the sweet little P.P.S on the back. At this point your inability to admit that you loved each other had become a running joke, a kind of admittance by itself.

You held no animosity to him over it. Despite some wavering concerns you’d had at the start, you understood how scary relationships were to him, and this was the longest he’d ever been with someone before. There was a trauma induced fear in him that stepping too close to the sun would cause everything to collapse in on him again. He was so happy, he was terrified of losing it. He was terrified of change.

The desire for stability, for safety, it meant a lot to him, and he meant a lot to you, so you accepted the status quo.

You just had to put up with all the little ways he said he loved you that weren’t specifically saying love. You were his heart, his treasure, his life, his partner. You were precious. You were handsome. You were beautiful. You were home.

He’d spill these words every chance he got, and you ate them up. It was almost more romantic in a way. He had to find creative new ways to express his feelings that didn’t contain the ‘L’ word.

As you thought of Miguel, you were reminded that you probably ought to check the time. You always spent lunch with him and Miguel now as you knew without your input they’d never eat. With a soft yawn you pulled up your watch.

11:50:am.

You had exactly 10 minutes before the HQ lunch rush absolutely crushed any chance of getting the boys their favourite meal.

When you moved it was in a blind panic, scrambling and stumbling out of bed to find your suit. You didn’t even bother showering; you could use Miguel’s laser dirt remover if you had to. He’d complain but he always gave in to your requests now, as he wanted to seem cooperative.

You scarfed the last of the breakfast Mig had left until you felt sick, before unwisely leaping headfirst into a portal back to Nueva York.

When you tumbled out the other side you were free falling, your body somersaulting down through the honeycomb centre of the HQ at rapid speed. Fool, you must have put the coordinates in wrong. Oh well. No loss. Your adrenaline allowed you to web your way out of a sudden death before storming up the beams to the cafeteria like a rabid dog.

When you finally slammed your card down on the counter you were sweating like mad, eyes wide like they were about to explode from your head, lips parted to pant. The poor girl behind the counter went utterly rigid.

“Please… Give me the empanadas” you wheezed. The girl just nodded and hurried off to fulfil your request; they knew what you meant.

She came back with three boxes of to-go orders, all of which had the usuals in them; yours, Migs and Miguel’s lunches. Miguel was trying to watch his diet after being Peter complained about him doing nothing but drinking coffee all day, but you knew he liked the empanadas here so you snuck him one every so often.

Turns out that was something Mig and Miguel also shared, and so you eagerly bought up their entire stock nearly every other day so Mig could enjoy himself. He had a big body that needed a lot of fuel, and he was so used to nothing but deer meat and forest berries it was nice to see him get excited about eating more complex dishes.

You gleefully made your way up the HQ, swinging from beam to beam, only to nearly fall to your death for the second time as a violent explosion erupted out of the corridor above you. You were saved by a split seconds decision to web yourself to the wall, allowing you to catch your breath while everyone else screamed.

Your head shot up, your eyes scanning the plume of deep red smoke floating out of the darkened space above. You felt your heart sink.

“Oh, shit- shit, SHIT, shit” you stammered. That was Miguel’s office.

‘Mig?!’

In a panic you webbed up to the opening, shoving past other spiders as they ran through the smoke coughing and wheezing. You barely had the thought of mind to cover your nose and mouth as you pushed through the smoke towards their office, shoving old bits of equipment aside as you went.

‘MIG?!’ you screamed. No reply. Your heart was pounding so hard you felt sick. Oh god, was he okay? What had happened?

You stumbled up to the main door leading into Miguel’s lab. At this point the smoke had mostly cleared outside but was clearly lingering within, and you could see the flash of a red light inside indicating a failed experiment. You squinted, trying to see more clearly, only to jump as something moved in the dark.

‘M-Mig…?’ you stammered.

Through the pluming smoke an enormous, morphing shadow appeared, its features entirely obscured as it made its way towards you. Through the red mist it seemed to shift in deeply unnatural ways, causing the hair on your nape to stand on end.

You stumbled back in panic. ‘Miguel?! Mig, are you—’

On the cusp of alarm a voice finally reached you through the chaos, echoing over even the blaring fire alarm above.

‘ESTUPIDO—’

‘Chinga tu madre-!’

You watched, dumbfounded, as the horrifically deformed shadow slowly transformed before your eyes, shifting back into its true form; a giant spider and an enormous man, both wrestling and childishly shoving each other as they tumbled through the smoke.

The moment they got out Mig began hissing at his variant, shouting down at him with his legs raised.

‘¡No fui yo! Tu—’

Mig paused midsentence to cough, which Miguel used as an excuse to stand on his tip toes and yell right back.

‘¡Eres tonto-!’

‘HEY!’

The two men froze and turned their heads towards you. Mig remained fixed, his eyes lighting up at the sight of your horrified face, while Miguel just grunted and used his variants distraction to slap him on the belly. Mig immediately turned back and hissed.

‘Hey, HEY, hey! What happened?!’ you snapped.

You’d hoped that would calm them down, but it just made it worse. The two of them started yelling at each other even louder, so loudly in fact that you couldn’t make out a single thing they said.

‘The DNA splicer needed THREE WIRES—’

‘And I did that and it EXPLODED—’

‘BECAUSE YOU PUT THEM IN WRONG!’

‘The accelerator needs—’

‘Ay Dios Mio- I’m not in charge of the accelerator! I’m in change of the converter—’

‘SHUSH!’

The two men once again fell silent, their chests heaving as they stared each other down. You ran a hand down your face and sighed. ‘You- look. The longer you fail to work together, the longer this takes. Its counterproductive. Right?’

Mig immediately nodded in agreement, eager to please you, while Miguel whispered ‘suck up’ beneath his breath. You rolled your eyes. You knew what would fix it.

‘Okay. Instead of, talking about who did what, just… Explain to me, what were you attempting to do? Not what happened, just- what you were attempted to do.’

It worked. Like clockwork the two men fell back into their nerdy obsession, eagerly explaining one over the other how the machinery functioned and how the genetical splicing was so difficult when dealing with universal DNA code. You had no idea what it meant, but it was easy to make the two bond over their scientific interest. Soon, all that animosity was forgotten, and they were babbling about trying a new solution.

‘Oh my god. You dorks’ you snorted.

Miguel broke his concentration and scowled at you while Mig remained unphased, his wide eyes fixated on your face. ‘Dork? What—what does that mean?’ Mig asked, whispering the last part to Miguel.

‘They’re calling you smart but socially inept’ Miguel explained gently.

‘No! No, not him, both of you’ you added. Miguel scowled deeper, but you caught his lips twitching into a smile.

Despite Miguel’s dour explanation, Mig immediately perked up. He even padded his feet in that sweet little rhythmic dance he did when excited. ‘Oh! Ah, you are calling me smart? Thank you, Arañita. You’re so kind’ he purred.

‘It—it’s not a compliment!’ Miguel snapped back.

‘It is if he wants it to be’ you giggled. You pushed past Miguel to snuggle against Mig’s fluffy little underbelly, and he cheerily returned to affection. ‘My smart, smart boy’ you crowed, gently scratching his abdomen before leaning up to scratch behind his ears, noting the way his little feet began stamping like an eager rabbit.

‘Smartest boy’ you cooed. ‘Smartest boy.’

Miguel’s smile was so wide, so endearing, he looked flushed with pleasure. He wriggled a little and began to let out a soft clicking noise. ‘Mm… your smart boy’ he repeated.

‘You know we’re doing this 50/50, right?’ Miguel added from the side. You glanced at him from beneath the fluff and allowed a smile to fill your cheeks.

‘Mmhm.’ You leaned and grasped Miguel by the arm. ‘Is that you fishing for compliments, Mr?’

He curled his lip as Lyla appeared in the air beside his face, slyly fixing her glasses as she poked Miguel on the nose. ‘Oh, he is. He’s starved for them. He tried fixing my code so I’ll say nice things to him sometimes, without prompting—’

‘Lyla don’t—’

‘I managed to stop him in time though. So I can keep being as mean as I want’ she drawled, swishing her hair before vanishing again. Miguel tried to throttle the air around her but she was already gone.

You sighed and leaned back, gently waving your hand. ‘Okay. Yes, you are doing it 50/50. You are clearly very smart too, and we appreciate your help, Mr O’Hara.’

Miguel grunted, appearing annoyed, but you knew he was satisfied.

Things had definitely been weird with Miguel since his apology and everything that came after it. He was genuinely trying his best to help, and that had helped heal over your suspicions and deeper distaste for the man, but he was clearly still stubborn.

He didn’t like that he’d been wrong, and seeing you both every day was a reminder of how he’d messed up. You’d both agreed that’s why he remained so stiff in your presence.

You’d learned a few things, though. It was clear his temper came from a need for perfection, for peace, to see everything right in its natural and comfortable place. You and Mig had felt like a threat to that, at least for a while, but now he was seeing things different you were seeing a different side to him.

You saw how he was with Peter, how soft and polite he was until the man messed something up and he’d start dramatically monologuing at him. You saw how stoic but supportive he was in front of the younger spiders, or how he’d made sarcastic, dry quips to Jess when they were going over work.

Every lunch time you saw a slightly different version of him, and as time passed that version of him seemed easier to let out. It was certainly curious.

It was then that you remembered why you’d come here in the first place.

‘OH! Ah- right, if we’re done fighting- I brought lunch’ you said, quickly lifting up the boxes you’d brought. Mig began salivating the second he saw them, while Miguel just gave a grateful grunt.

‘I told you I don’t need lunch— OOF!’ Miguel was silenced by you shoving his box into his chest before swinging past him, hurrying back into the lab with Mig scurrying at your side.

‘ENJOY THE FOOD’ you called over your shoulder.

Miguel grunted, angrily shrugging his shoulders, but the moment you were gone he softened a little. He opened the box just an inch to see inside. Empanadas, his favourite kind again. He let himself smile a little bit before drifting in after you.

For just a short break all the animosity and science took a side-step to your new norm: your group lunch breaks.

You’d never have done this originally, but Mig had been so insistent on doing little of bits of work while he ate that you agreed to sat in there with Miguel, and over time that inevitably broke some boundaries. You got more used to being in there, being around him, and eventually it just became routine.

You all sat down in your usual spots to eat. Mig settled beside the giant floating desk with you clutched in his paws, allowing you to eat beside each other while using the takeout boxers as plates, and Miguel sat on his floating desk with his legs dangling over the side.

He used to keep it way, way up in the air when he did to get some space, but now he kept it just a little higher than Mig. You knew he just liked pretending he was taller than him for a bit.

While Mig remained busy with both hands on his empanada’s and his foreleg gently stroking your back, Mig scrolled through messages he had to catch up on. It was strangely peaceful in here.

‘Mm- how is it?’ you asked, breaking the silence to check in on Mig’s meal. He gave you a soft purr. ‘It is- lovely, mi Arañita, as always. Did you get a different kind this time?’

‘Oh, ah- I was getting beef, but, I figure you might like to try something new. Those are cheese.’

‘Mm… Ogh. I missed cheese’ Mig replied through a mouthful of the stuff as he struggled to contain it in his mouth. You giggled as he let crumbs hit your head.

‘Oye! Be polite or I’ll sit somewhere else’ you chided, and immediately he put the empanadas to the side. ‘No! No, no it’s gone, see? I’m sorry mi tesoro, forgive me please.’

‘Oh my god, just use their name!’ Miguel called from his perch on the desk. You noted how awful his posture was as his ate, with his spine curved in and his neck out like a watchful bird. He noticed you watched and quickly tried to fix it, though he only lasted about a minute before sinking down again.

‘What do you mean, use their name?’ Mig queried.

‘Mi tesoro this, Arañita that- we’re in public. Just use their name.’

‘But I don’t want to. Anyone can use their name, only I can say Arañita’ Mig rebutted gently. You felt his forelegs tighten a little. ‘It is our special, thing.’

‘Ay Dios mio- just, to a minimum then, please, before I throw up my meal. We’re a professional establishment. Speaking of which… Ah- god damn it.’

You heard Miguel’s griped turn into soft grunts of annoyance and turned your head. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ you called over. He waved his hand dismissively.

‘Ah- Jess keeps, demanding I help out with this, uh- society Halloween party.’

‘Oh, wait Halloween party?’ you said, nearly spitting the mouthful of food you were eating. You rush to politely swallow it behind your hand as Miguel grumbled.

‘Yes. I thought it was a fine idea’ Mig added on. You looked up to see him eagerly purring as he tore his empanada apart like deer meat, something you always found strangely adorable.

‘Oh yeah, I wonder why the giant spider would be a big fan of Halloween parties’ Miguel replied in a sarcastic drawl.

‘Oh! It is because I think it will be fun, for mi Arañita, and also because I will fit in more’ Mig replied, missing his counterpart’s sarcasm. Miguel bit down the urge to correct him and just rolled with it. ‘Oh, oh really. Wow. That makes a lot of sense. Thanks for letting me know’ he said in a fake cheery voice. Mig either didn’t catch on or willingly ignored him.

‘Alright, come on Miguel. So what’s the issue?’ you asked, trying to steer the subject back. He shrugged.

‘Just that its unnecessary. There’s too many important things going on right now. The fate of the multiverse is on my shoulders, and—’

‘I mean is it though?’

Miguel turned and glanced over his shoulder at you as you stared up at him with Mig at your side. ‘What… What are you talking about?’ he grunted back. You swallowed the last bit of your meal and shrugged.

‘Why do you have this ginormous group of multiverse heroes if the universes fate is just gonna be on your shoulders alone?’ you asked. ‘Right? Like, there’s other people here. Everything seems pretty stable right now. Right…?’

Miguel didn’t respond. For just a moment you saw a hint of something in his face; something dark, something deep, something cold. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge. He just shook his head and turned away.

‘Look, you should be in my corner on this. The longer I go doing other, pointless stuff, the less time I have to work on your very important project.’

‘Oh! Oh, right, how is that going?’ you asked, turning your head between Mig and Miguel. Mig hurried to swallow his fifteenth empanada so he could respond. ‘Ah! Well, mi Arañita, its—’

‘Going to take a long time’ Miguel interrupted coldly. Mig huffed a little, his abdomen rustling.

‘It is… Going to be difficult, yes, but we’re making progress. It will just need some time to figure out.’

‘What’s the going plan right now, though?’ you asked curiously as you nestled into Mig’s soft fur. ‘Like, what are you guys trying to do?’

‘Ah, well…’ Mig pulled you closer as he tried to think of a way to explain that wouldn’t be too convoluted. It’d taken him a while to learn that particular part of socializing, but he was getting it slowly. ‘We believe that, using the technology he used to create the watches, we may be able to develop a serum which allows someone to contain DNA receptors from two universes. Their original, obviously, and… another.’

You nodded along to show you were following so far, and Mig purred with delight. ‘So- its theoretical, but we could allow for one person or two to be perma-fused into one other specific universe, so they can exist their permanently without the watch. Their DNA wouldn’t fall apart. Then…’

‘Then, we could be together’ you said softly, wistfully, and Mig’s sweet smile confirmed it. ‘And, have a family, if we wanted’ he replied.

It was a beautiful idea. A comforting idea. You felt your heart beating a little faster as you reached up to touch his cheek. ‘Yeah… We could—’

The three of you startled suddenly as a small red light began blaring on Mig’s watch, following by Lyla slowly materializing in front of them while mimicking the beep in her most grating, high pitch voice.

‘ALERT! ALERT! ALER—’

‘YES, Lyla, we heard it!’ Miguel drawled, gently swiping his hand over her figure. She disappeared at his touch, but only for a second, as she immediately re-materialized on Mig’s shoulder.

‘Jeeze, you made me to do my job, I’m doing my job! I’m alerting!’ she drawled back, making a big fuss over Mig’s hair as she did so. Miguel ground his teeth in annoyance.

‘Just- ah, just, tell us what the alert was for’ he grunted.  

Lyla finally settled and agreed, slowly materializing in a flash of orange pixels in front of Miguel’s screens. She turned all the holograms into the same image: a live-feed camera pointed at the outside of yours and Mig’s home.

‘Wait- wait you have, cameras outside our house?’ you exclaimed. Miguel waved away your concerns with a soft flick of his wrist. ‘Yes, I have cameras everywhere, calm down’ he grunted.

You very much did not want to calm down, but something drew your eye away before you could complain again. You noticed that on the grainy footage, someone appeared to be moving around the outside of the nest. ‘W-Wait… wait, who is that?’ you asked.

You could feel Mig had his full attention on the screen now too. His eyes were wide, his body tensing and bristling into a defence position.

‘Mig? Uh- Miguel, is it—’ You turned and froze.

Miguel was also in a defensive position, his eyes fixed on the screens. All that sweet, quiet ambiance was gone, replaced with a growing, choking tension. You glanced between the two as Mig slowly approached the screens.

‘Mig? Miguel? Guys, what—’

‘It can’t be.’

Mig’s words caused you to stumble again. He sounded… scared? Shocked? Something was wrong, that was for sure.

‘Mig?’ you whispered.

‘He… He’s alive?’ Miguel stammered, his voice betraying a cocktail of emotions you couldn’t even begin to pick apart. The two men stared into the holographic video until the image was imprinted onto their eyes, both fixated on one thing: the figure moving across the screen, slowly roaming the woods in search of something.

‘In my universe…. Yes’ Mig said, his voice wavering and cracking. He put his claws up to the screen.

There, in tiny pixels so clear and yet so distant, was his brother. Their brother. Gabriel O’Hara.

‘Gabriel… What are you doing there?’

Link to next part

[tc-lp]

Comment Bingo: Old Fic Edition

Original Bingo Card by @feedthefandomfest

This card is to encourage commenting on older fics.

*

I realize this doesn't have to be all for the same fandom or pairing. But I'm gonna count only kylux fics.

I'm also aiming to comment on fics I've never read before. Some of them are in my ever growing reading queue, others I found while searching for a square's exact criteria.

List of fics under cut.

*

1. Posted First Year of its Fandom's Existence

Stopwatch Hearts, by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha) ⎢ 3k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 6 February 2016

The general is just doing his job. Kylo Ren isn't sure why that's so fascinating to him. (It's because he's naked. Isn't it.)

2. 6+ Years Old & Under 30 Kudos

For Those That Follow, by jediluke ⎢ 8k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 9 September 2018

No one understood what it was. They called it "the shimmer". The walls of the otherworldly substance had the appearance of oil on black pavement, of bubbles shimmering in the summer sunlight after being blown out of a yellow bubble wand by a small child. Except, this wasn't explainable. Hux, a botanist is sent into The Shimmer along with a group of ex-military memebers to conduct research and try to figure out the cause of the mystery.

3. Posted 10+ Years Ago Since the pairing is younger than 10 years I'm going for: Posted Within the 1st Month After TFA's Release

once I could see (now I am blind), by cracktheglasses (cormallen) ⎢ 4k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 16 January 2016

If Ren dies, they’ll all be joining him, Hux thinks, because he’s going to have to scuttle the ship. Pick a camp on D’Qar, or whatever other pathetic hell-hole in the Outer Rim the Resistance calls home, and smash all three kilometres of the Finalizer right into the gooey center. (Or, the map is lost, Starkiller is lost, and Kylo Ren is seriously injured. Hux doesn't deal with it very well)

4. Rec Fic (1+ Year Old) on Tumblr and/or Discord & Tell the Author So

sensory memory, by Lost_In_Mind_Palace ⎢ 4k ⎢ WIP, but can be read as a stand-alone ⎢ Rated M ⎢ posted 13 July 2023

Rec post can be found here!

And Ren's back here, by Hux's side, invading his personal space, probably with his personal interests which Hux can't quite figure out yet. 'Who are you?' Hux mumbles, pushing his face into the warm chest so he doesn't have to see this odd, foreign face anymore. Ren laughs madly, not paying much attention to the ravings of the madman Hux became. 'Someone who's gonna take you away from here.' As if that was enough of an answer. Before Hux blacks out again, he's sure of one thing--the only place where Ren is able to take him is hell. * After losing everything, the last thing Hux needs is his long-gone home. Ren disagrees. Alas, Ren is also the pilot here.

5. Posted in the Past 2-6 Months

Expedition Unsolved, by A_Poison_Tree ⎢ 8k ⎢ Rated M ⎢ completed 30 July 2024

When Armitage Hux is disowned, he's left scrambling for everything from rent money to purpose. A spur-of-the-moment application to an on-site research position ends up with him joining the cast of a schlocky documentary series as its host, Ben Solo, """"investigates"""" far-flung corners of the world. At least the horrors of camping take his mind off how attractive his boss looks while covered in mud. (An entry to #KyluxShortShorts that Evolved!)

6. Sort by Date Updated: Fic Listed in Final 10 Pages

lover of the devil, by selenedaydreams ⎢ 2k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 4 January 2016

“I worry about you.” His fingers tighten around the blanket until his knuckles turn bone white. “That’s not your job.” “Was it my job to find you almost dead with snow clinging to your wounds?”

7. 1-2 Years Old & Under 5 Comments

bittersweet wishes, by WhitRewritesCanon ⎢ 6k ⎢ Rated G ⎢ posted 31 July 2023

When Han Solo died suddenly, he left behind a fractured family. Armitage picks up the pieces of his husband.

8. Comment on an Author's Oldest Fic

Love, Your Crooked Neighbor, by imperialhuxness ⎢ 11k ⎢ Rated T ⎢ posted 17 February 2018

When Snoke assigned Hux to bring in his newest asset, Hux was expecting some everyday Coruscanti underworlder on a low-profile Core World. Predictable. Routine. What he gets is a burning compound on a nameless hunk of rock, a confused young pseudo-Sith, and oh, yeah. Feelings.

9. 3-5 Years Old & Under 20 Kudos

10. Sort by Dates Updated: Fic Listed on LAST PAGE

broken wishbones under your bed, by Anonymous ⎢ 2.5k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 27 November 2015

“Just,” and Kylo stops short, closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “Pretend.” He turns his head, and Hux knows that he's facing in the direction of Dameron's cell. His throat is long and pale, and Hux leans forward and brings his hand to it. Through his gloves, he can feel Kylo's pulse jump. This, this is what Hux likes. Control. Kylo is never more lovely than when he gives in to his desires, when he comes to Hux to get what he needs. He presses his thumb against Kylo's thudding heartbeat, and nods.

11. Posted 6-9 Years Ago

fever to tell, by IrisParry ⎢ 8k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 1 January 2017

Hux was waving the thought like an obscene placard, and when Kylo latched onto it he made a low sound, half surprise and half pleasure, grip tightening around Kylo's wrist. It was crude, but appealing nonetheless, and it rose up on a seething mass of images and emotions that Hux hadn't a hope of concealing now. Kylo took a deep breath, centring himself, resisting the temptation to just take and take. Hux thinks he understands what Kylo Ren wants from him. So does Kylo Ren.

12. WIP Last Updated 3-5 Years Ago

Days Under Different Suns, by GingersSailboat ⎢ 18k ⎢ WIP ⎢ Rated M ⎢ last updated 20 Feb. 2020

Armitage Hux wakes up on a shuttle he doesn't recognise, drifting through dead space with two open wounds and an air supply that's running out fast. He has no idea who put him there, and remembers nothing beyond being shot by General Pryde. Ben Solo is slowly integrating with the Resistance, who are now intent on restoring peace to the galaxy and ending the cycle of hatred and wars that has plagued them for so long. Although every effort is being made to accept him and put him to use, there is a part of him that can't stop thinking about Hux, who he believes to be dead and continues to mourn despite the conflict it brings to his new relationships among the Resistance. (A.K.A - a much-needed fix-it fic wherein Hux survives his execution, with the help of some loyal First Order officers, and sets about attempting to find Ben so they can continue the relationship that had been developing between them before the events of RoS. Please read notes for more information!)

13. Free

14. Sort by Date Updated: Fic Listed on Random Page

15. Comment on Every Chapter of Long-Running WIP

16. WIP Last Updated 1-2 Years Ago

To Take The Sun, by phylonoe ⎢ 30k ⎢ WIP ⎢ Rated M ⎢ last updated 7 Aug. 2023

As a professor, you really shouldn't fall in love with your students. That's gotta be the number one uh-oh. Unfortunately, he's beautiful, and Armitage can't do much but let it happen. or Ben Solo wakes up with a panic attack for the third time in as many days. He's tired. So is Hux. The term is just about over, and neither of them have anything they can do except finish finals and figure out how to avoid the other one. With two people trying, you'd really think that would be easier.

17. Posted Completed in Your Birthday Month at Least a Year Ago

strange days (no colors or shapes), by technorat ⎢ 28k ⎢ Rated M ⎢ completed on 25 April 2020

(Major TROS spoilers in chapter 1) Hux chose to leave with Finn and Poe, deserting to the enemy, with the knowledge that he would never have to see Kylo Ren again. He was wrong.

18. 6+ Years Old & Under 15 Comments

19. Posted 3-5 Years Ago

20. WIP Last Updated 6+ Years Ago

21. 3-5 Years Old & Under 10 Comments

Just This Once, by StarCrossedRebel ⎢ 4k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 20 December 2019

I know that this idea is kinda outdated, but I just really wanted to do a quick one chapter story of Ren and Hux's first and last time together intimately after the destruction of Starkiller.

22. Posted 1-2 Years Ago

My Bark, Your Bite, by JayneSilver ⎢ 16k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 31 May 2023

Kylo Ren hasn't left his room since Starkiller was destroyed, and General Hux will no longer tolerate his dereliction of duties. After he goes to Ren's room, and discovers that that Ren is an omega caught in an unexpected heat, Hux struggles to determine where his loyalties lie – as a General, to his Order, or as an alpha, to an omega in need?

23. Sort by Date Updated: Fic Listed in Middle Pages

That Which Survives, by trill_gutterbug ⎢ 6k ⎢ Rated T ⎢ posted 9 January 2018

Stranded in a broken-down shuttle with Kylo Ren after the destruction of Starkiller Base, Hux is forced to confront some unpleasant realities.

24. Comment, Kudos, & Bookmark Fic Completed 1+ Year Ago

Powerless, by Kyluxtrashpit (ApostateRevolutionary) ⎢ 6k ⎢ Rated E ⎢ posted 19 April 2017

Kylo has always found his sexual trysts disappointing, has always been left wanting more. An idea born partially of desperation leads him to Hux in the hopes of changing that.

25. 1-2 Years Old & Under 10 Kudos

Throw Away After Writing, by bunnybinnie ⎢ 1.5k ⎢ Rated T ⎢ posted 22 May 2023

The teenage years come with a lot of first times. Being in love is one of them, and Ben would be okay with it, if it wasn't also the first time he's in love with his best friend. He writes what he can't say.

[velvetwyrms]

Just an update about my GaaLee Alien!AU fanfic Falling Fast Through Fragmented Universes:

I’ve finished the second to last part of the chapter that was really important to the story! Only the last section is left to write and you all have a bunch of mini fics in one chapter to read through, nearing 9k words.

Thank you for your patience. It has taken a lot of planning to get to this point in the fic as it creates a lot of really fun setup for the main adventure! 🤩🥰

Here are some goodies you all, including story title reveals and a short snippet under the cut that I’m very happy with!

[Sidenote: Reblogging helps to share and support this project. This stops my hours of hard work from dying in your likes, let’s others enjoy it, and motivates me to draw and write more of this AU! <3]

3x story title reveals:

• Nightjar

• Pink Pumpkin Party

• Neji’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Snippet time: Nightjar

Holocene [Human] Era calendar year: 12,024. Beijing, China. 7:00PM.

Lee has an eyemask that when freshly washed and dried atop his boiler in the airing cupboard, is warm and soft and comfortable over Gaara’s eyes. The darkness underneath is all-encompassing, and the early evening hour means that the volume of the TV does not have to be turned down just yet. Lee had shown him how to use something called a YouTube on a whim before he left for work.

Currently Gaara was being swaddled by the music of a desert ambience video at dusk. Rushing wind and the harsh cries of birds settling down to sleep, shrieking owls, and the scuttling of animals over shifting sand, all greeted his ears like a gentle, familial kiss on the cheek.

Gaara could almost smell the sun-baked aridisol; herbal and dusty. Could feel the particles suspended within the air drying and coating his tongue, and the brisk, freezing temperature drop as the sun dipped below canyon walls. The electromagnetic pull within the softness of sand spilling between his fingertips like water.

It did not feel like an oasis when he was living on his home planet. Gaara was brought forth into his world through blood and through pain, and buried in his bones the old songs of his childhood were waking around him, as the desert came alive at night.

Homesickness floored him with longing so intense that it built as a deep ache in his chest. A raw, still-healing wound prying itself open and clutching at his throat with a sudden, choking despair that took his breath away.

It hurts.

It hurts in its nostalgia, in the knowledge that he will not be able to return to the chattering, trilling, howling environment of which he was born into. At least, not for now. Not for the foreseeable future, not unless he’s careful, but the risk is still too dire, too soon to act upon.

A familiar pressure awoke behind his eyes, shifted in his guts as Shukaku stirred within the embrace of his memories. Gaara could almost imagine it raising its head, sniffing at the air in confusion. His nerves fizzled with anticipation and he held bated breath, before it stretched out sharp, pawed feet and rolled over to settle back down into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Gaara was suddenly made aware of how lonely he felt. He half-expected the tears that welled, creating a film behind his eyelids, to dry out as he opened them, athough the material of the mask ruined the illusion just a little.

He misses his siblings, he misses the biome of his home, he misses his Sand with a soul-deep loss and desperation that he had only ever experienced as a grieving child, and then again in his late teenage years. Aside from the few essential items he possessed, his clothing and the book he carried in his small satchel, his Sand was the only truly meaningful thing that he had left from his homeworld.

He had carried it throughout his entire life.

And now it is gone.

In theory, he could create more. If he were to venture downstairs and cause some small amount of destruction, limited to whatever soil or stone was available from the reach of the main entrance of this block of flats. But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t smell of home; of clay and blood and iron, the minerals and dust of creatures long dead and eroded away, by the elements or by his own hand.

[berrypass-de-murdler]

3 - 65 Bundle Up or Die!

Eminence update

I have sewn 1/4 of one piece!!!!!!!

Lesbian movie night they're watching wicked dajnvkjfdvdf

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Irratino is forcefully tucked into a box and shipped to the frozen island off the coast of Hollywood. (Yes some places have Earthly place names but it’s not Earth and yes it’s confusing.)

He arrives on a bus tour going to investigate mysterious - and potentially esoterically significant - seismic readings. Among the visitors are the terrifying Governor Lead and Philosopher Bone, who don’t have to worry about freezing in the cold. And for the third episode in a row, Taupe has suddenly appeared here, as well. It’s still wearing its CryForever shirt, and has a fake mustache stuck to its chest, as a ‘disguise’. It doesn’t want Irratino knowing about yesterday’s concert murder! 

When Dean Glaucous sees Irratino, he panics.

GLAUCOUS: Oh no… where’s Logico, is he all right? IRRATINO: Nonono he’s fine! I promise. We were split up by some dumb agency to find out where they’re gonna build TekTopia. GLAUCOUS: …I trust you to take care of him. IRRATINO: [takes his hand] You have my word.

In the least original plot twist imaginable, they exit the bus to find their dead tour guide. It’s weird to think about what it would be like if this DIDN’T happen every day.

Most people dress for the inhabitable cold, but Taupe is once again wearing only a t-shirt, fake mustache, and gloves on its feet, like that will do anything. Irratino is not for a second fooled by his ‘disguise’.

IRRATINO: Hey, Taupe! You’re growing… chest… hair?

Taupe panics and falls over. It struggles to get up on the ice (armless, no less), when Bone turns its way. He completely falls for the disguise, in more ways than one - he mistakes Taupe for a handsome man with a remarkably torso-shaped giant head. 

BONE: Oh, my…

His skeletal face flushes pink, and he scuttles toward it. Taupe is so disturbed. 

TAUPE: --. ---/.- .-- .- -.--

Lead is still depressed after the revolution. He has no more job to fulfill. So he wanders to a colony of sleeping walruses, and decides to join them. They don’t mind.

Inside the cabin, a lonely Glaucous is playing ping-pong against the wall. There’s no way to win, but infinite ways to lose.

IRRATINO: Hey… I promise, Logico’s alright! GLAUCOUS: I know… I just miss him.

They sit on the floor. 

IRRATINO: Logico is really lucky to have a dad like you. GLAUCOUS: Oh, I didn’t do much… he’s probably doing better without me hovering over him anyway.

Irratino puts his arm around him. Suddenly, he hears small scratching at the door. He opens it… and Antoduardo is there!!! The penguin leaps into Irratino’s arms.

IRRATINO: ANTODUARDO! [bawling] OH, ANTODUARDO, MY BABY! I’m so happy to see you again!  GLAUCOUS: You’re friends… with a penguin? IRRATINO: Yes!! This is Antoduardo - Logico rescued him! GLAUCOUS: It’s embarrassing to admit but… I am very fond of penguins. Being the Deduction College mascot, and all.

He kneels down by Antoduardo. The penguin is pleased, and he gently scratches it under the chin. Perhaps one of the reasons both of them enjoy penguins so much is because they remind them of Logico.

Speaking of Logico, he finds some photos on the news of Governor Lead sleeping amongst the walruses, spawning new conspiracy theories on if he’s really a person. He thinks about telling Irratino, but then figures he probably already knows.

In the end, Irratino deduces the murderer as Bone. I wonder how he murdered the tour guide before they even arrived?

BONE: I was furious - I haven’t seen a single polar bear since we’ve been here. I’ve been lied to my whole life, polar bears don’t really exist!! IRRATINO: What?! Polar bears only live in northern Drakonia!  BONE: Not to me they don’t! IRRATINO: WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!

His brain is about to break, and he lies down in the snow and stares at the sky to try and recollect himself from the bullshit he’s hearing.

The end! 

So much taupe

I can't find my Antoduardo picture sob

Uhhh here

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

[lonestarbattleship]

September 10, 2023 Update from the Battleship Texas Foundation

"DRY DOCK TOURS

Dry Dock Tours are BACK! Discount available for those who return. For more information please visit: battleshiptexas.org/drydock

Dry Dock Tour time!

SHIP REPAIRS

Scaffolding used in the repairs to the ship's superstructure.

TORPEDO BLISTERS - The new torpedo blisters are a slightly different design and square off at the bottom below the waterline. This design change will make the new blisters easier to maintain increasing their longevity.

The stern (portside) of Battleship Texas.

The end of the ship's torpedo blisters. (Aft starboard)

New torpedo blister bottoms.

COATING - The inside of the blisters, and the ship's hull will be coated to protect against possible corrosion.

Left: Doubler plates installed where the torpedo blisters used to taper to the ship's hull.

Right: The bottom and end of the starboard side torpedo blisters.

The ship's original hull which was covered by a torpedo blister.

LEAK TESTING - All welds continue to be tested for leaks. They are done via vacuum box, dye penetrant or magnaflux depending on the area.

A cut was made between the main condenser induction sea chests. These pipes are 17" in diameter.

Doubler plates installed where the torpedo blisters used to taper to the ship's hull.

The ship's original hull which was covered by a torpedo blister. Doubler plates will cover the area to the left.

The main condenser induction sea chests. These pipes are 17" in diameter.

DECK REPAIRS - Gulf Copper's yard workers have concluded repairing the deck on the ship's Signal Bridge and have begun working on the deck above, the Navigation Bridge. A part of the deck repairs includes sand blasting the underside of the underside and painting on a coat of primer.

Repairs being made underneath the navigation bridge.

Original Carnegie steel used in the construction of the ship's navigation bridge.

Repairs to be made on the navigation bridge.

While these repairs continue, we have started preparing to back the ship out of the dock. To do this, we turn the helm around. (Joking)

Repairs being made to the ship's signal bridge.

Repairs being made to the ship's signal bridge. To the left is an original ammunition scuttle that was uncovered. The semi-circle is the original splinter shield that went around the 1.1 anti-aircraft guns. The rectangle is replacement steel.

AFT FIRE CONTROL TOWER - Work continues in the AFCT as the old grating that was installed in 1988 has been completely removed and replaced with a steel deck. Small repairs to the bulkhead are currently ongoing as the plan is to have it look as it did in 1945.

The ship's aft fire control.

Looking up inside aft fire control. This space was a vegetable locker.

New steel decking going in the aft fire control tower.

Looking af from the ship's aft fire control

Live, Laugh, And Flood your Torpedo Blisters

Visit our website at: battleshiptexas.org"

Posted by Hunter Miertschin on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page: link

[gripefroot]

Crooked Ways [20/22]

Hiya! It's been a busy few weeks so I haven't gotten around to updating. I'm very sad to be winding down this story. I started it exactly one year ago and the writing process was so fun but also healing to me. I've been surprised and incredibly grateful at how many people have been reading and enjoying it. Thank you for every note and message. I treasure every single one 🫶

Just one night. 

Vegeta scanned the crowds of dancers without much thought, occasionally letting his eyes drift over to tables or the buffet line. No one with a significant power level. None that took a second look at Bulma after coming face-to-face with Vegeta’s best scowl. In fact, a few people that found themselves in their way scuttled like crabs, leaving the space clear in front of them. If Bulma noticed, she didn’t say anything about it, each toss of her head sending more of that delicious scent straight to Vegeta’s nose, making him feel stupid. 

Her usual perfume? Yeah, right, and he was the bastard child of the Supreme Kai. 

“Food first?” Bulma asked, leaning closer to murmur into his ear. Vegeta breathed in deeply, eyelids fluttering madly as he tried to clear his throat and square his stance. 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he intoned, hoping she didn’t hear his voice crack on the final word. 

“I say let’s say hello to the people that’ll complain to Dad if I don’t,” she said with a sigh. He noticed her fingernails digging into his forearm, even through his suit coat. “Then our duty will be done and we can enjoy ourselves the rest of the night.”

“I thought you liked people.” Vegeta let her steer him towards a table, nonetheless. 

“Usually,” Bulma said. “I…don’t like people who treat me like I’m still a little girl. And I don’t like anybody when I just want to be home in bed.”

“In bed with me, I hope.”

She cast him a look, but he saw her lips quiver enough to know she was hiding a giggle. “I don’t think I know how to sleep alone anymore, honestly,” she told him, and he didn’t bother stopping his chest from puffing out. Any Saiyan would be proud to hear such a thing. 

Bulma may not know it, but her words (and smell) made Vegeta’s brain a fuzzy, pleased place to be despite being introduced to a mass of insignificant earthlings. He shook hands and nodded but never smiled. Not that it mattered. Bulma smiled enough for both of them. 

Vegeta wondered if anyone else thought her smile was as perfect as he did. 

If they did, he’d have to kill them.  

He sensed a higher power level and recognized it before the voice reached out to them, before Bulma pulled herself away from laughing with an elderly man to address the interruption behind them. Vegeta’s mind already on killing, he didn’t bother an attempt at polite overtures when they turned to see Yamcha’s stupid smile and wave. 

“Yamcha?” At least Bulma sounded more surprised than happy. 

“Bet you didn’t expect to see me here.” Yamcha wiggled his eyebrows. “How are you doing, Bulma?”

“I’m…fine. Why are you here? How did you get a ticket?”

Vegeta noted that Bulma’s hand on his arm had gone cold. If he weren’t perfectly still to assess this new threat, he might have covered her hand to warm it (better blood flow meant a better chance of surviving a battle. Not for any other reason.)

“Your mom offered me one a while back,” Yamcha said, awkwardly rubbing his neck. “I would’ve come as your date, but after last time…”

Finally the man’s eyes landed on Vegeta. Vegeta saw fear and apprehension, dashed with disgust. He grinned. The memory of decking Yamcha on the Capsule Corp compound lawn was still something he treasured, sometimes relieving the moments at nighttime before falling asleep with a smile on his face. 

“I think,” Yamcha said slowly, brows drawing together. “I think I don’t know what’s been going on at Capsule Corp since I left.” 

“Why should you?” Bulma asked. Her nails dug fibers of fabric into Vegeta’s skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him on edge. “You never call. Except to talk to my mom, apparently.” 

“She called me!” 

“What do you want, moron?” Vegeta barked. “We’re trying to enjoy ourselves.” 

“Sheesh! I only came to say hi.” 

“You said it. Now go.” 

The brisk dismissal seemed to incense Yamcha, whose stance squared against Vegeta as if he were actually a threat. Vegeta laughed. “You don’t get to order me around!” Yamcha said. Then, eyes flicking between the pair of them, he added on, “Aren’t you supposed to be training to beat the Androids, Vegeta? But you’re playing boyfriend?” 

“I’m strong enough to defeat the Androids ten times over,” Vegeta said softly, fists clenching in his pockets. “Naturally you wouldn’t know that level of power.” 

“Stop.” Bulma tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s go eat.” 

“I’m not hungry,” he said without looking in her direction. He only saw Yamcha, a face swimming in the crowd distorted with rage and hate. 

“Oh, are you that powerful, really?” Yamcha sneered. “Are you a Super Saiyan like Goku yet? Or could he still put you in the ground like he did the first time?” 

“Stop!” Bulma said again, this time louder. But now she said it to Yamcha, putting out an arm between them. “Yamcha, you jerk. Go away. If you won’t listen to Vegeta, who can break every bone in your body, listen to me.” 

Yamcha’s expression twitched, gaze dropping from Vegeta’s face to look at Bulma. The drooping, puppyish frown that appeared made Vegeta laugh again, the noise harsh and delighted. 

“Listen to the woman,” Vegeta ordered. “She doesn’t want you here.” 

“I can see that,” Yamcha said bitterly. “If she chooses the enemy over her friends.” 

“Now wait just a minute - ” Bulma’s exploding temper shut off when Vegeta clamped a hand over her mouth. It wasn’t worth it: Yamcha had turned tail the moment he finished his parting shot, disappearing into the crowd. Her fingernails dug into the back of his hand to pull it away from her mouth. “Let me at him, Vegeta! Let me make him pay for what he put me through!” 

She already took a step in the direction Yamcha had gone, and he was forced to pull her back. An unusual amount of aggression, even for Bulma, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. She was pretty when she was furious; all sparking anger and brilliant flashes in her eyes. Her scent riled up, too, and it was all Vegeta could do not to squash his nose against her neck and breathe her in until she was no more. 

Interestingly, he’d forgotten all about Yamcha. 

“Ugh!” Bulma stomped her foot, drawing a few curious stares from around them. The urge to shield her from prying eyes rose in him faster than a tidal wave, and he stomped it down just as quickly. He sufficed the situation by putting his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to face him. 

“Bulma,” Vegeta said. A thrill coursed through his chest when her eyes landed on him; darkened and dangerous and gorgeous. “Now is not the time for a fight. For one thing, these clothes aren’t appropriate for combat.”

“I don’t care!” 

“And what about your father? If you ruin his company’s gala by murdering a guest?” 

Her lips protruded in a pout he was deeply tempted to catch between his teeth and suck until she was swollen and bruised purple. Swallowing, he dragged his eyes up to hers to soak in the beauty of her rage. 

“Fine,” Bulma snapped. “No murder. You’re no fun.” 

“It’s more than he deserves. You’re better than him.” 

Her face began to clear of aggravation. Now she simply looked annoyed, not murderous. 

“When you kill someone,” Vegeta went on, “it should be someone worth more than you so as to prove your power.” 

Bulma blinked several times. He couldn’t think of how what he’d said might be confusing or unclear, so he didn’t clarify. Finally she sighed. “Good to know you haven’t changed that much, Vegeta.” 

“Of course I haven’t changed. Why would I?”

“Never mind.” 

The evening had crested early. Guests remained to be greeted, food to be eaten, and an obligatory dance where everyone could see them that Vegeta thought would make a brilliant torture tactic in the Frieza Force were Frieza still alive. Every second was hell: the music, the steps, the stares, the whispers. 

Worse than that was how much he liked having his hands all over Bulma and her arms wrapped around him. And how bearable her presence made this otherwise torture. 

“Human dances are simplistic,” Vegeta grumbled. Cheeks pressed together, he heard her tinkling laugh right in the shell of his ear. “I’ve seen more backwards planets produce more intricate dances than this!” 

“Oh, honey. This is a social dance, not a professional troupe. I promise there are better dancers out there than the Capsule Corp employees.” 

“Tch.” He squeezed her hand tighter. 

“Don’t tell me you’d rather learn a more complicated dance!” Bulma pulled enough to laugh in his face, which made his cheeks feel hot. 

“No, of course not! I’m only saying it’s not a very impressive set of steps.”

“But it’s easy.” 

Vegeta grunted in agreement. Swaying in circles didn’t require much experience or skill, just a willingness to keep moving and to hold a woman in his arms. His woman. 

“Oh!” Her arm lifted from his shoulder. ��My dad is coming to cut in.”

“Cut into what?” 

“The dance, silly. He’ll take your place to dance with me. You can go sit or stand somewhere, I’ll find you after.”

And just like that, Vegeta lost his woman to her father. Glad to leave the dance, loathe to release her. It wasn’t until Bulma flat-out tugged her hand out of his with a reproachful look that he managed, stepping aside for Dr. Briefs. 

“I won’t be long,” Dr. Briefs told him with a smile, already swinging his daughter into a more polished version of the dance. “You can have her back when I’m done.”

Saiyans had killed other Saiyans for less. 

Vegeta stuck his hands in his pockets, expertly missing the other couples dancing nearby to leave the floor uncontested. His stomach rumbled to remind him that that pathetic single plate of food he’d consumed between introductions wasn’t enough to satisfy him. But instead of walking towards the buffet line, which was significantly shorter as the party dragged on, he found a blank space on the wall, outside the dazzling light of the chandelier. Leaning his back against the wall in a semblance of perfect relaxation, he crossed his arms and let his eyes drift closed. 

Let the humans think him a miserable wretch. Rather that than talk to any of them. 

He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong in any places like this on any planet. In fact, when he really dug his mind in to think about it, he couldn’t recall any time that he’d felt true belonging. Even in the field, performing massacres at Frieza’s every order or spending nights with the other soldiers he’d been apart. Memories of his earliest childhood at his father’s palace proved spotty and only produced feelings that jolted between sour arrogance, suffocating loneliness, and the intense need to earn the king’s approval. 

Vegeta had shuttered around the universe too much to call any place his home. Nor had he wanted to, when having a home proved to be such a target for a madman’s destruction. And now that Frieza was gone and Planet Vegeta was gone and Vegeta no longer part of an army: where did that leave him? 

Here. He was here. 

I have no ties to Earth, either, he thought to himself. The lie was acrid, burning beneath his skin as if his very blood howled in protest. So what if it was a lie? No one knew but himself. No one knew the roots growing from the cracks in his feet, from the arteries to his heart. 

Perhaps because Vegeta was so in tune to her tenor of voice, perhaps because her laugh was just that loud - his head jerked up at the sound of Bulma laughing. The music had picked up to a faster pace, her dad twirling her expertly around. 

This was her world. Her place. Her home. She belonged here in a way Vegeta would never, could never belong anywhere, because this had been her home since she was born. If he meant to honor her claim on him, to honor his claim on her - to take her away from this would be a cruelty beyond imagining. And for what? He had nothing and no place. No planet, no home, no people. 

He’d only ever been a smudge, unwillingly allowed across the brightness of her life for an indeterminable and finite amount of time. Time that was running out, and he’d done the stupid thing and all but made her his mate in the Saiyan way. 

For once, pride and blood tore him in different directions. One towards her, one away. Both with equal strength in his body, neither to be ignored. 

When the song ended, Bulma disappeared from the dance floor. Vegeta barely had time to sense her direction before she appeared in front of him with flushed, vibrant cheeks and a smile brighter than any sun in any solar system. 

“Told you I’d find you,” she said breathlessly. “Mom and Dad are going home, they said we can ride with them if we’re ready to leave.” 

“I’m ready,” he said at once. 

“Let’s go, then.” Bulma’s fingers wrapped through his, unraveling his uncompromising stance until he sulked after her bounding steps to the exit. Her exhilarating scent wrapped around him like a shroud, driving away his unhappy thoughts until his blood sang for her, and only her, and when she turned to beam at him, Vegeta grinned back. 

Sharing a car with her parents had been a bad choice.

The backseat had two rows of seats facing each other, meant for socializing. Instead of sitting in the seat beside Bulma, Vegeta was pushed aside to make room for a massive bouquet of flowers someone had gifted Panchy at the party. His nose itched at the scent, cloying and too sweet. Meanwhile the others chatted about who they’d seen and who they hadn’t seen, laughing at dredged up memories and so-and-so or this-and-that. 

Next time, they weren’t sharing a car. 

There won’t be a next time, immediately followed that thought, and he stiffened in his seat. A fist resting on his knee, flaring conflict building in his chest until he was sure he’d choke aloud. 

When the car finally stopped at the front entrance of Capsule Corp, Vegeta was slowest to start moving. By the time he climbed out of the car, squinting in the bright lights that bathed the front steps, Bulma had dashed around the car, holding her skirt in her hand. 

“It’s a full moon,” she said. “Did you see?”

“No.” He started up the steps. Dr. Briefs and Panchy were already heading through the doors inside. 

“Oh.” 

Halfway to the top he realized she hadn’t followed. Turning, Vegeta scowled at her still by the car, hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you expect to be carried,” he said. “I know you didn’t have a single glass of champagne.” 

“You do get grumpy during full moons!” 

“I do not!” He stomped back down the stairs. Bulma’s teal curls were falling from the elegant hairstyle she’d had earlier, strands gracing the curve of her neck and cheeks so beautifully that Vegeta got even more frustrated. Without a word he bent to hoist her over his shoulder, jogging back up the steps a second time. 

“Why do you always do this?” she screeched. “I’m capable of walking, thank you very much!” 

“Because I’m sick of you taking your sweet time! You’re wasting mine, too, you know!” 

“I can waste whatever I want!” Bulma kicked out a few times, but Vegeta just jostled her until she stopped. Which was wise on her part, because otherwise he would have turned his head to bite her luscious backside. 

The further away from the front entrance, the fewer lights were on. Briefly he considered stopping by the kitchens or the pantry but he dismissed the idea in favor of a better one. They could always eat after they worked out their frustrations with each other behind closed doors. 

And that they did. It was her bedroom tonight, and after Vegeta tripped on two pairs of shoes and a tool belt he nearly howled, dropping Bulma onto her feet to start tugging at her dress with abandon. 

“I hate these clothes,” he panted a few minutes later. Buttons popped off his shirt to litter the ground, but from Bulma’s aggression, not his. He’d torn the straps of her dress from her shoulders until it hung at her waist, exposing her breasts. 

“You hate everything,” she said through gritted teeth. Having trouble taking off his suit coat when his head was buried in her chest. Vegeta didn’t bother correcting her, fondling a breast in one hand while he tried to kick off his shoes. Her scent was sharper and richer next to her skin. He hadn’t imbued any alcohol but he may as well have with how dizzy he felt. “Vegeta! Vegeta, just stop! It’ll be easier if we get undressed first.”

With a snarl he pulled away, wrenching open his trousers to add another button to the confetti on the floor. Bulma shimmied her dress down her hips. He stared, hopping on one foot to get out of his stupid trousers. Stupid clothes, stupid everything - he’d never wear this again. Only clothes that could be easily removed. 

“Ooh!” 

Her cry turned to a satisfied sort of moan after he grabbed her again, lifting her to straddle his hips while he made a clumsy path for the bed. Stepping on buttons and whatever else Bulma left lying around, all poking his feet. He didn’t care. He needed her like a dying man needed water; he needed to taste her and be inside her. Lips met in sloppy haste, Vegeta biting after her when she pulled away for breath, her fingers tight on his shoulders and her eyes opening and closing fast. 

“Why does it feel like this?” Bulma whispered. Cradled by the bed and pinned down by him, she still managed to rock against him, her neck craning. “Why is it different tonight?” 

“Maybe it’s the full moon.” Vegeta hadn’t thought himself capable of joking at a moment like this, but maybe it wasn’t a joke after all. A moment’s thought and he added, “It’s the way you smell. It’s making me…maybe it’s making you feel it, too.” 

“Then it’s going to be a good night.” A dazzling, kiss-swollen smile, and he felt her hand push his head down towards the junction between her legs. “I have a feeling I won't need to stop you tonight. Maybe I have Saiyan stamina now.” 

The words falling from his lips in response to hers weren’t in her language, but she didn’t comment on it. Vegeta’s teeth sank into her thigh, his hand tucked behind her knee to lift her leg so his mouth could reach more skin. He could taste nothing else for the remainder of his existence and it wouldn’t be enough. What was it that had turned her from enjoyable to intoxicating? Where did an addict slip over the line into insanity where he couldn’t control his muscles, couldn’t control his mind? 

Couldn’t control his blood, couldn’t control his pride. 

Here. He was here. 

“Bulma,” he murmured. Kissed the tendons that made her body, licked the skin, kneaded the muscles. She twitched and quivered with every touch, her head lolling on the pillows. Impatient for him to continue, no doubt. If she could hear him, she didn’t say so. Perhaps she was as senseless as him. Despite not having spoken the Saiyan language for years, it was easier to slip into phrases he thought he’d never say, feelings he’d never thought he’d feel, when he knew Bulma couldn’t understand. Couldn’t ask, couldn’t confront. It was just for him. Just for him and no one else. 

“Bulma,” he said again, his tongue swirling around her sex and she keened into the night, legs shaking around his head. “Bulma, you are my queen.” 

[sulkybender]

❤️ ✨️ 🎁 📗 📚 🤔 🤩 🎨

Oh no, MANY!!

❤️ what's your favorite line that you've written in a fic?

Gosh. I tend to remember favorite stories because I was proud of the overall writing in them, rather than individual lines.

Looking back on recent stories, here some lines I'm happy with:

"He sits in the garden and punishes insects, to make them feel like he feels.

He feels like pulled wings."

Here what I was really happy about is finding a way to suggest how a child might feel when they don't have words for it. And sort of explaining something that looks like senseless cruelty as something more comprehensible and sad.

"Sokka’s face came closer, like a comet skirting the earth, and Zuko scuttled back on his hands, so sure he would be destroyed."

The image here I thought was powerful, something you admire and dread coming towards you, and I'm really happy with the verbs. Skirting the earth...

✨️ out of the comments you've received on fics, what are two or three of your favorites?

Ahhhh I take screenshots of really special comments; they're close to my heart <3 Some are just hilarious. Some, especially on stories about mental illness, disability, and addiction, are about feeling seen and less alone, or understanding how someone they love feels. God that means the world to me.

🎁 have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

“Do you know what a waterbender is?”

Zuko sniffs.

“I'm not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” Iroh says, and waits.

“Yeah,” Zuko says. “They live at the North Pole.”

“They do,” he says. “But not just at the North Pole.”

Zuko has a bad feeling, cold and sharp in his chest.

“I don't want to be a waterbender,” he whispers.

📗 do you want to write something outside of fanfic? what is it about?

Yeah! I can't go into details or my smut will be linked to my professional life, but I'm working on a book <3

📚 is there a fanfic or fanfic writer you recommend?

There's so much! I mean, lovelyelbowleech and WitchofEndor updates get my heart racing—I basically stop whatever I'm doing and read. They have a real gift.

Okuz's "painted powder keg" isn't for everyone (omegaverse, about an abusive relationship) but it's really beautiful and moving, if you ever want to dive into something novel-length and just drown there.

🤔 would you ever want to write something canon if you got the opportunity?

Lord yes. We must Zukka the canon...

🤩 what led to your interest in the fandom?

I watched ATLA completely for the first time in 2020 and I was so desperate to know what happened next, especially with Zuko. And fortunately ao3 was absolutely full of post-canon stories.

🎨 if someone were to make fan art of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

In "black eyes always watch the clock," the scene where Sokka leans over in the car and cleans the makeup off Zuko's face. I think that could be so beautiful and tender.

There are actually a handful of images in the "broken lines" (middle-aged Zukka) series that I think about, but I would love to see the scene where Zuko reads his poetry to Sokka in the garden. There's so much going on but it's a very simple image.

[raspberry-kirberry]

Fate of the Stars Chapter 5 Update

To anyone interested, I have about 10k words written so far, but I’m considering splitting the chapter into two parts.

Honestly, I’m just not satisfied with the pacing and composition of this chapter, and I underestimated the amount of research required for this chapter 😅 So thats basically why I haven’t posted anything for a few months.

I do want you guys to know that I am determined to see this longfic through, no matter how long it takes!

Patience is a virtue after all, and I believe you guys deserve a sneak peek of what I have written 😼

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Grievous’s amber eyes narrowed slightly. He knew this sight all too well—the transformation from flesh to machine. Yet seeing it imposed upon another stirred an unfamiliar sensation in his chest, one he could not name and would not entertain.

A cyberneticist approached Count Dooku, offering a stream of information. Grievous did not bother to listen to the Geonosian speak. He had no interest in their technical jargon. His focus remained on the girl, the newest creation for the war.

“The integration is proceeding within expected parameters,” the cyberneticist concluded, bowing its head to Dooku.

Dooku’s hands were clasped behind his back, his face impassive as he regarded the girl. “Good,” he replied. “See to it that the neural calibrations remain stable. Any deviation will jeopardize her recovery.”

Grievous’s sensor panels twitched faintly as the Geonosian scuttled away to relay orders.

“She is adapting faster than expected,” Dooku mused, his gaze lingering on the tank. “I anticipated more resistance.”

Grievous’s voice cut through the air like a blade, low and cold. “This was her own choice,” he said, his tone flat.

Dooku turned to regard him, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “A choice, yes, but one made in desperation. Do not mistake her willingness for resolve, General. There is much to be done before she becomes… useful.”

“I have seen what desperation can create, Count. She may yet surprise you.”

Dooku’s expression did not shift, but there was a knowing glint in his eyes. “Perhaps. But unlike you, she possesses an advantage—a connection to the Force. Something that even the most finely tuned cybernetics cannot replicate.”

Grievous scoffed, “The Force is nothing but a crutch.”

Grievous remained devoid of any sensitivity to the Force. But he cared little for it. Let the Sith Lords and Jedi cling to their mystical energies, he thought. Grievous found solace in his near-indestructible droid components, his honed natural abilities, his burning hatred, and his insatiable thirst for destruction.

Dooku tilted his head slightly, studying the General with something akin to amusement. “The Jedi believe the Force should be wielded with restraint, shackled by ideals of balance and harmony. That is their folly. But the Force itself is limitless. It does not care for restraint. It thrives in those willing to grasp it fully.”

His words hung between them, heavy with implication.

“Lilian’s connection was below average when we tested her blood sample, yes,” Dooku continued, his voice as measured as ever. “Unremarkable by their standards. The Jedi would have let her stagnate, dismissed her as another soldier in their failing war. But power—true power—can be cultivated.”

From within the folds of his cloak, he withdrew a small vial. The liquid inside shimmered a deep maroon, thick and rich in color. He turned it slowly between his fingers, allowing the sterile glow of the bacta tank to catch against the glass.

Grievous’s eyes flicked toward the vial, then back to the Count. He straightened his posture, a rare flicker of apprehension crossing his rigid frame. “What is that?”

“A remnant of a vision long since abandoned,” Dooku mused. “A relic of one who saw the coming storm yet lacked the conviction to weather it.” He turned the vial between his fingers. “This is the blood of Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas.”

Grievous did not react immediately. The name meant little to him—just another dead Jedi, another example of the Order’s failures. But there was something else, something gnawing at the edges of his memory.

Sifo-Dyas.

He did not know the man, nor did he care to, but he knew the blade. The former Jedi’s weapon had been his first lightsaber, although gifted to him by Dooku, its silver hilt now long since lost among the trophies of his collection. It had been his first taste of wielding a Jedi’s strength against them, the beginning of a far greater transformation.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[casuallyimagining]

Home (15)

Hybrid Min Yoongi x Female Reader; Platonic OT7 x Female Reader; Namseok; Jinkook

Summary: After helping Yoongi get away from his abusive former owner, you’re left to focus on your relationship and how it progresses. That is, until you find six other hybrids who need your help, and their former owner decides he’s going to make your life hell. Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff Word Count: 1,788 Rating: M Warnings (updated per chapter): stalking, wild animal attack, major character injury, blood, implied homophobia, slight internalized homophobia, starvation, hospitalization, discussion of sexual assault, discussion of physical assault, discussion of controlling behavior

Major thanks to @eatjeanjin for beta-ing this and for listening to me complain almost constantly. You’ve been nothing but helpful and sweet, and I’m so grateful for your opinions and assistance.

banners by @mintkims

Sequel to Fix You. Read it first.

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You could hear Hobi giggling outside on the stoop, even with the door closed. Your phone rang 20 minutes ago, the person on the other line asking for the viper hybrid in a very professional voice. You had handed the phone over dutifully, and Hobi had gone outside for some privacy. It had been almost a month since he and Namjoon had applied to a few jobs in the neighborhood, and while they had both been on a few interviews, neither had heard anything definite.

Judging by the sheer amount of giggling he was doing, he had finally gotten an answer.

Yoongi shifted, his head lolling to the side in your lap. He put his book down spine-up on his chest to save his place. His ears twitched against your hand, flicking indignantly as you traced a finger through the soft fur of their backs. “He’s going to be embarrassed if he comes back in and we’re both just sitting here listening to him.”

You hummed, your hand moving from playing with his ears to running through his hair. “He’ll live.”

He laughed through his nose just as the door opened. Hobi walked in, his bare feet padding across the wooden floor the only sound in the room. It was quiet for a moment as the viper hybrid walked into the living room and handed you your cell phone. You raised an eyebrow as you took it from him, a silent ‘well?’ to prompt him into sharing.

“I uh…” Hobi cleared his throat, a small, nervous cough. “I got the job.”

You grinned at him, offering him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Yoongi shot up from his place in your lap, a wide, gummy smile on his lips.

“Hobi, that’s great!” you told him happily, accepting his outstretched hand when he reached for you and giving it a squeeze.

“Which place?” Yoongi questioned, catching Hobi as he fell into his chest in an attempted hug.

“The shelter on Longfellow Avenue.”

Longfellow Avenue was a 30-minute walk away if he cut through the park, and while you had never been to the shelter, Hobi had really enjoyed the atmosphere when he went in for his interview. It was more than just a homeless hybrid service. It provided resources for a variety of hybrid needs. They needed a cleaner and someone to help out with making meals every once in a while.

Hobi shifted his hug to you, and you held him briefly until you felt him pull away slightly. “When do you start?”

“Next Monday.”

“Hobi, seriously that’s great.” You reached over and fluffed his hair gently, your hand running over the tiny scaled horns on his head. He leaned into your touch. “I’m really proud of you.”

Suddenly, his golden eyes widened, and he jumped away. “I have to go tell Namjoon!” he exclaimed before scuttling down the hallway. You heard the door to their bedroom open and shut.

After a moment, Yoongi scooted closer to you on the couch, picking his book back up and reopening it to where he left off. He leaned into your side, your arm moving to wrap around his shoulders and hold him closer.

“When’s Taehyung’s meeting with Hwang?” he asked absently, turning the page in his book.

“Tuesday.”

“You going with him?”

You shook your head, reaching for the remote. “He wanted to go alone.”

Yoongi hummed. “Good for him.”

You scrolled through the channels, attempting to find something even remotely interesting to watch. Normally, you wouldn’t have hesitated to put on an episode of Yoongi’s favorite bar renovation show, but you were mostly caught up by now, having only a couple episodes left before you had to switch over to watching the new episodes live. And neither of you were capable of really following a tv schedule.

He readjusted, resting his head on your shoulder. The mid-afternoon sun streamed through the window, its beam falling on his torso. You knew that, between the warmth of the sun, the cuddles, and the quiet of the house with Jungkook and Taehyung out on a walk, Yoongi would be asleep soon. He loved an afternoon nap more than he loved most things. He snuggled in, his nose brushing against your neck. You felt him inhale slowly before letting it out, his body deflating and relaxing against you. You ran a hand through his hair, turning your head and pressing a kiss between his ears.

He was out before you even settled on something to watch.

A few days later, you helped Yoongi make dinner. He had seen a recipe for a cheesy pasta dish that he wanted to try, and you loved watching him work in the kitchen. Plus, you were sick of staring at your computer, and Jungkook’s boundless energy was a little too much for you to handle all the time. So hiding in the kitchen with your favorite kitty worked out perfectly for you.

Yoongi was a great chef on his own, but he never turned down your help. The two of you worked well together. You weren’t a bad cook yourself, but Yoongi tended to give you smaller tasks--chopping vegetables, making side dishes, those types of things. You didn’t mind. He liked cooking, liked the freedom it provided him, so you were happy to play his sous chef when he needed one.

When you had asked if he wanted help, Yoongi had handed you a knife and a pile of vegetables, setting you to task making a salad. He hated bagged lettuce, so you had taken the time to rip lettuce off the head and into manageable chunks. You were chopping onions when you saw Namjoon enter the kitchen, his ears on alert, but his tail hanging hesitantly behind him.

“Food will be done in 10 minutes,” Yoongi told him, the cat hybrid barely glancing up from the dish he was washing.

“Thanks, hyung.” Namjoon’s deep voice was soft. He sat down at one of the stools at your island. “Can I talk to you both?”

Yoongi’s head immediately shot up, his ears immediately snapping to focus on Namjoon. “What’s wrong?”

“I got a phone call today.” Namjoon sighed. You looked to Yoongi and he shrugged. You had no idea where the wolf was going with this, and quite frankly, you were a little worried. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long. “They offered me that job at the park.”

“Namjoon!” Yoongi exclaimed, putting the pan he was rinsing down in the drying rack.

“That’s great!” you told him, setting your knife down.

The wolf hybrid shrugged, his tail barely lifting from behind him. “I don’t know if I’m going to take it. I told them I’d call them back.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“It’s only part-time,” Namjoon said softly. “And it’s only minimum wage.”

“So?” You held back a laugh. “Namjoon, that’s great. Isn’t that the job you wanted?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t realize it would pay so little.”

“That doesn’t matter,” you told him, frowning.

“But I won’t be able to help out as much!”

You shrugged. “Yeah, but this is, like, everything you wanted, right? It’s outdoors. It’s close-by. It’s a good job, Namjoon. If you want it, go for it.”

“I just feel like I should pull my weight. Set a good example.”

You sighed. You wanted Namjoon to enjoy his job, even if it wasn’t the most well-paying. Anything was better than nothing.

“So pull your weight,” Yoongi said flatly, his attention returning to the dishes in the sink. “It doesn’t have to be monetary. Figure out how you can be most useful and do it.”

Namjoon’s mouth snapped shut, and for a moment, you could see him thinking. You’d never heard Yoongi talk like that to anyone before, although you supposed that he was older than Namjoon, and he could throw around that weight a bit when he needed to.

It was apparently effective.

Namjoon’s ears relaxed slightly, his tail giving a tentative wag behind him. After a moment, he nodded. “If you’re sure?”

“I don’t want you to be miserable at your job, Namjoon,” you told him honestly. “If you really want this, take it.”

His tail wagged again, more excited this time. “I’ll call them back tomorrow.”

Meal times were interesting with five additional hybrids in the house. You didn’t have a table--you didn’t even have room for a table--so you had to get creative. When it was just you, you ate wherever you wanted, whether that was standing over the kitchen sink, holed up in your office, or lounging on the couch. Then, as Yoongi started to cook more, you started using your island and the barstools.

But because you only had two barstools, things changed once again when Namjoon and Hobi, and then Taehyung and Jungkook, joined the pack. That was when you moved from the kitchen island to the living room, the six of you usually turning on some sort of movie or show to keep you occupied while you ate.

Yoongi always sat to your left, both of you claiming the couch as your designated spots. Jungkook sat on the floor directly in front of you, his back against your legs, his tail thumping happily against the hardwood floor as he ate. The other three didn’t have set spots, choosing instead to sit wherever their hearts desired in the moment.

Jungkook leaned his head against your knee, his ears coming dangerously close to flopping into your pasta. You moved them gently away from your plate, but he flicked them back and you gave up.

“Are you excited to start work, Hobi-hyung?” the pup asked, taking a sip of his puppy milk protein shake.

Hobi nodded vigorously, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Normally, he was disciplined in suppressing his snake-like behaviors, but you noticed that when he got excited, he became more lax. Suddenly, his eyes widened as if he had thought of the most amazing idea.

“I can walk you to work every day, Namjoon!” he said reverently, his hands covering his mouth. Namjoon laughed, hearty and full, and playfully cuffed Hobi on the ear.

Taehyung and Jungkook both giggled, the pup leaning into you for support as he did. You didn’t miss the panther hybrid’s eyes darting to you briefly, and you smiled at him gently. He returned it almost immediately, a wide, boxy grin spreading across his face like wildfire. Beside you, you heard a soft, stuttering purr start to rumble in Yoongi’s chest.

You hummed to yourself, taking a bite of your pasta. You never would have dreamed that you would find so much happiness just sitting in the middle of your own little pack of misfit hybrids, watching some random made-for-tv movie.

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[lilpunkrock]

where you go (i will go) — part xii preview

AN: Hello, everyone! It's been a very busy weekend so, unfortunately, part xii will get posted a little later than normal this week. In the meantime, enjoy this sneak peek of the update! Bonus points to those who theorize why these lovebirds are reading what they are.

. . .

The honey-gold sand of the beach is soft and fine between your toes. As a new wave of tide pulls toward you, you stretch your sun-kissed feet toward it, eager to dip them in the clear blue water. 

Though your thick copy of Le Morte d’Arthur lays open in your hands, your attention is elsewhere. Mere feet away, Fake Dream sits on the beach, one long leg extended in front of him, the other drawn close to his chest. It provides the perfect perch for his arm and the well-worn copy of Eugene Onegin he holds in one hand. His sharp chin is dipped in concentration, his pink lips pursed as if to read the words aloud. His ocean eyes devote each word rapt attention, lingering thoughtfully on some pages before pulling slowly to others. 

With each page his nimble fingers turn, a fuzzy warmth settles in your chest, swaddling your heart like cashmere. You suspect you could sit here like this forever. Given that none of this is real, you suppose you could. 

As your eyes pull from his studious face, you can’t help but smile at the way his black cloak spills around him, rippling over the sand. A tiny sand crab scuttles over it, stopping to tug at his hem with one minuscule claw. You laugh through your nose at the sight, trying to be quiet, but the sound does not escape Fake Dream. His eyes are upon you instantly, wide and alert. “You are judging me,” he says softly, brow quirked and voice underlaid with mirth. 

You shake your head at him, biting back your grin. “No, no, I’m not. It’s just nice to see you reading something other than a record of dreams, that’s all.” Your eyes settle on the slight curl at the corners of Eugene Onegin’s cover, the faded color of its well-worn paperback spine. “You know, if anyone had asked me before today, I definitely would have pegged you as an old Russian literature kind of guy. I know they say not to judge a book by its cover, but yours is pretty worn. I assume this isn’t your first time reading it?”

Dream cocks his head slightly, considering your words. “I appreciate literature from all cultures, though this piece is one I often come back to.” He pauses, blue eyes studying you thoughtfully. “Have you read it?” 

“I haven’t.” You look down at the hefty copy of Le Morte d’Arthur in your hands, the cover faded slightly from the ghost of your own past readings. “Have you read mine?” you ask.

“I have.”

You roll your eyes at him with a chuckle. Of course he has. He probably inspired it himself. “What makes you keep coming back to that one?” you inquire, curious.

Fake Dream pauses, lowering his pale gaze to the novel in his hands. His thumb traces the edge of one page slowly, almost caringly. Reverent. A shiver trails down your spine in spite of the warm sun above. “I suppose I have never fully grasped the theme at the heart of it, though I suspect I am starting to.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Regardless of how many times I read it, there  is always more to learn.”

Your fingertips press into the hardback in your hands a little tighter. “Yes, yes there is.”

[cazzyvintage]

Born to be wild - Chapter 5

Synopsis: Joining F1 as one of the first female drivers you knew was going to be a challenge but you weren’t prepared to deal with one particular asshole on the tracks. With the urge to win so strong within each racer, will romance pave the way? Or will it destroy everything?

Word count: 1.4k

Author update: I have a lot of important things starting to come up so updates might be a bit slow but I am determined to get one out at least once a week if not more.

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Previous chapter

Every time you thought about that day, you felt the anger towards Niki swarm over you again, like a fiery itch in your veins. You couldn’t believe the arrogance of the man who not only rudely gave you advice but said advice being for his own benefit so you wouldn’t crash into him. You had half a mind to swerve directly into him in the next race, but you knew he would just use that to argue how he was right and that you were an inferior driver.

That thought weighed heavy upon your mind throughout the next few races, though. Were you an inferior driver? Was Niki right? That first race where you came 4th was your best position so far. In all these other races, you were lucky to get into the top 10. You wouldn’t even see Niki and James on the track with them being too far ahead of you. Patrick told you not to sweat it, and you will find your speed again, but you couldn’t help but feel depressed about the whole ordeal.

Yet, it made you more determined. You were determined to fix your car to your needs no matter what Niki said about you wrecking the engine. You grew up fixing cars; you certainly knew more than a rich boy who paid his way into F1. You pulled the underside apart, rewired the engine, changed the fuel consumption, chose better tyres, different metal to use on the outer side and slowly, you started to see an improvement in the car.

It was certainly faster, but it still wasn’t enough. You were missing something, something important, which would improve your game massively. Deep down, however, you knew it wasn’t a problem with the car but instead your own driving, which was holding you back.

Things took a turn for the better, however. A silver lining approached you, a ray of sunshine through your gloomy clouds, which turned out it would be the match to start your fire of a legacy. And that came in the form of James Hunt.

You were on your break for the afternoon before the next race tomorrow. You were eating your sandwich when you heard footsteps as he jogged up to you. Seeing him approach your field of vision made you glance away nervously. The last time you had spoken to him was the night of his party. The night where you had become so drunk, you made the rash decision to make out with him. Since then, you hadn’t spoken to him, feeling embarrassed about the whole situation, and you were hoping he wasn’t approaching to bring it up.

Seemingly James understood you didn’t want to speak of it, or he had been so drunk he didn’t even remember as not once did he mention it as he started to talk to you. Instead, he said something else which grabbed your attention.

“Do you want to go out on a ride around the town?” he asks you as he leans on the wall by the side of your table, looking down at you with that classic smirk.

“You...want to take me out on a ride?” you reply, suspicious of his motives.

“It’s a nice place we are at, plus I could show you a few tricks I know about how to handle the cars. It might help you.”

Instantly you perked up, excited to think that you might be able to learn tricks from the F1 master. Quickly putting the rest of your food away, you followed James over to his car, which was over the top representing his personality. Still like the gentleman he apparently was, he opened the side door for you and let you into the car. Then he jumped over his door into the car without even bothering to open it.

Showing off, he made the car shoot down the empty roads as you left the garage, definitely going over the speed limit. Despite all of James’ recklessness, he was a good driver, and as you observed the way he steered the wheel or pushed the gearbox, you began noting down ways he managed to control the car in a way you hadn’t figured out.

James felt your eyes upon him, and he smiled when he noticed what you were doing.

“If you give two tugs to the gearboxes here, it can give you a little boost which is useful if you are neck in neck with someone and you need to get ahead,” he tells you, demonstrating it, and as he says the car shoots forward with a quicker speed for a few seconds.

“I had no idea about that!” you say, feeling gleeful in realising how much you were learning from James.

Continuing down the road, James proceeded to show you more little tricks he had with the car. He talked you through each one and told you how he had managed to figure them out, and eagerly you hung onto his every word. You two didn’t even notice how many hours went by as he drove you around the town, just getting lost in your conversation till the sun slowly started to sink beyond the horizon.

By the time you and James pulled back up at the garage, only a few lights were still on, and the silence was broken by the laughter of the two of you. James jumped out of the car and jogged over to your side to open the door before you could, and jokingly, you gave him a curtsy for thanks. James opened his mouth to say something, but he chose to turn and look behind himself, and instead of words about how he enjoyed this afternoon, a groan left his lips.

“Well, if it isn’t the rat, I had heard they were nocturnal. Truly living up to your name.”

“You are never usually around the garage at this time, James. Are you planning on sabotaging my car?” the familiar Austrian accent rang out.

“I was just showing y/n a few tricks I have picked up over the years.”

James now moved out of the way, and Niki was brought to the awareness of your presence. He was holding a suitcase in his hand, but after seeing you, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave a displeased look which in turn pulled a frown onto your lips.

“Now it all makes sense. Do you think it’s a smart choice to show the opposition, though I doubt your tricks are worth much”

“Yes, yes, go and be the condescending twat that you usually are. You can’t seem to comprehend the thought of being nice and helping someone,” you mutter, moving forward to stand by James, copying Niki’s movement by crossing your arms.

Niki just scoffed, however, and rolled his eyes, “I heard what happened at the party. This seems to be more than just being nice and helping someone.”

You felt a blush spring on your cheeks as the words left his mouth. Your mouth hung open in shock, your eyes wide. You knew people would likely talk about you and James drunkenly kissing, but the fact that someone like Niki even knew made embarrassment course through you. How would you ever prove yourself if people thought you were just trying to get with an F1 driver?

“Leave her alone, Niki,” James said, stepping forward, and Niki instantly took a step back, uncrossing his arms to raise his hands defensively.

“I was only saying what I had heard, what everyone is talking about.”

Niki, deciding it was best to leave before James forced him, started to walk away from the two of you. James muttered, “come on”, and started walking in the opposite direction, but you had to say one more thing to Niki.

“Why are you always being so rude to me? Simply for one mistake?” you yell at his disappearing figure. You weren’t sure if he would bother to turn around and dignify you with a reply; after all, to him, you were just an idiot, but he did.

“Do you think if you were a guy, James would have taken you out today? I treat you and everyone else here like an asshole. They all treat you like something special so they can get their dick wet. I would have thought you wanted people to treat you the same as everyone else, but it seems like you enjoy the special attention.”

Niki’s eyes flicker back to Jame, who had turned around and was glaring at him.

“Now run along; your toy for the evening is waiting.”

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[refurbishedgray]

Point of Contact

Reader x Tech. Maybe we get feisty and it’s reader x Crosshair, too. In this house, we like both.

Multi-part fic; probably NSFW; f!reader (she/her pronouns)

**Updates: I’ll tag you if you holler

Summary:

“No good ever comes to the Republic from Banking Clan business,” Hunter tells them, “Let’s get this done and get home, boys.”

Arriving on Scipio with the unhelpful directive of, “be discreet, but do whatever it takes,” the Bad Batch find themselves at the mercy of a stony representative whose allegiances lie with the best deal.

Or, the one where Tech and Crosshair think the reader is as intense as she is pretty.

**************************************

Part One

The office is too empty, too bright. The merciless glare of Scipio’s sun cuts across the room, gleaming unpleasantly from the gilded corners of all the fine furniture and glass. A corner office, inherited from an out-maneuvered relic of the past. 

All light and no warmth, you think, not for the first time. Never any warmth. In your early years with the Banking Clan, being stationed here had felt suspiciously like a punishment you hadn’t deserved, a proving ground when you had already proven so much. These days, however, you’ve come to understand that the frigid peaks standing vigil beyond your window are a reminder of how far you have climbed.

Now, as you shift in your chair, the expensive Corellian leather barely squeaking beneath you, you squint past the harsh light filtering in from the floor to ceiling window at your back. It’s all pristine snow on those peaks. Icy. Easy to slip if the cold didn’t kill you first.

Yes, you had climbed and clawed your way up these proverbial mountains. And like the man who last haunted this office, it has left you with so very far to fall.

The early days had been simpler. Smile. Look pretty. Never forget what can be saved for later. You hadn’t forgotten. Beyond the pale blue sky, twinkling out of sight, are worlds fraught with battles, littered with unsuccessful or unlucky tacticians from two sides of a conflict that won’t ever be ended, not truly. You have always preferred to keep your strategizing corporate. Clean. 

A frown drags at the corners of your mouth at the uncharacteristic foray into reminiscence of the…

The…

A phrase comes to mind and you allow yourself a small, private smile against the sunlight. The bad old days. 

Since then, things have always been kept tidy.

Until now. 

An unwanted spur of concern digs in behind your chest as your gaze turns from the window to sweep over the room. To your dismay, you realize why, and realize too clearly that the concern is not solely for yourself. 

He should be here.

Things were less empty when he was around, a relic in his own right and your pride and joy and confidant. How proud you had been when you had been informed that you would require a bodyguard. “A mark of success if there ever was one,” you had told the few family members you kept in contact with, of which there were very few, upon being informed of the recommendation after your previous promotion. “Aren’t you proud?” you had wanted to ask. But you had not asked. Better not to make the query when the answer was always so heavy and obvious. 

He had become your one and only friend. But he, too, is absent now, and upon permitting the observation, your office seems at once less empty and instead, guttingly, horribly hollow. Two rotations it’s been. Two rotations to give into the inconvenience of noticing.  

No, no, you think. You had noticed. Admitting it, that is the phrase that would be more accurate, but if it makes you feel less or more weak, you find you cannot decipher the bitterness creeping up your tongue.

Rising from your seat, you at once miss the meager warmth provided by the leather as the cool office air licks at you. Once upon a time, you had comforted yourself with the promise that one day, you would get used to the cold here. It was one of the few lies you allotted yourself over the years. Crossing the office, the marble floors as white and frosted as the mountain peaks outside resounding crisply beneath your heels, you make your way to the small bar trolley tucked away in one corner. Your last guest, a senator with strong -- unsubtly strong -- ties to the Clan, had complimented your selection of fine whiskeys and other alcohols. You had not admitted then that you did not keep the bar stocked for the guests who were few and far between, but rather for yourself, to chase away the damnable chill in this place. 

Your hand stills between decanters, your mind hesitating at the threatening burn that awaits your selection.

A bad habit.

You can imagine that peculiar modulated voice now. “Madam, the faces you make.”

Instead, you shun the alcohol and the ice that never thaws, yet still gets replaced each morning, now resting in a round chest, as gilded as everything else in this room, and reach for the Felucian pear juice. Duller, perhaps, but you don’t need anymore guilt on your conscience. 

A sip, then two, settles a gnawing in your stomach you only notice once it passes. 

Intolerable, you muse, downing what remains in the glass. The beverage is sweet, almost as sweet as the air outside is cold. Too quiet. Where are -

A rush of air and sliding metal breaks the silence. Glass in hand, your eyes narrow over the rim at the assistant who scuttles in. This one has been particularly insipid since her arrival. The daughter of someone marginally important, she is small and hunched shouldered -- she hasn’t learned, not like you did, and a part of you suspects she never will. 

She stops just short of where the tile begins and as she does, your eyes track down her uniform to a pair of shoes that have never been polished. Stars help her. 

In a quavering voice, she asks, “Madam?”

You raise a brow. 

“We’ve received word. The transport with the troopers has requested permission to land. They’re on their way.”

You set the glass aside, gingerly, its bottom barely clacking against the tray atop the cart. Republic troopers. A battering ram when a scalpel is needed. 

“Ah, the Senate’s grand favor,” you murmur. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

So many years spent with watchful eyes on you has made you good at hiding your frustrations. You swallow a sigh before it ever rises and allow yourself a brief moment to thumb the crystalline edge of the glass. The senator had warned you. 

Your voice is quiet as you instruct the girl, “Get out.”

She scurries gracelessly back through the door. It is an improvement; the last time she had squeaked pitifully before leaving. Perhaps you should have enjoyed the alcohol while you could. If this goes badly, all these nice things, all this luxury will be reassigned, a new name on the door. Such is the way of things -- you know the warnings well.  

Until forty-eight hours ago, they had been going so smoothly. An unfamiliar voice at the back of your mind whispers at you. Had you gotten complacent? You never get complacent. You had been warned for star’s sake. Senator Clovis had been all too clear that vaults here on Scipio were being targeted. You had taken that to mean the transports would be targeted as well. Credits were valuable, gold was valuable, as were artifacts and treasures. The Clan stored it all.  

But most valuable of all were and would always be secrets.

And secrets...you were very good at secrets. Finding them. Keeping them. Exposing them. 

The hand on the glass tightens and through touch or through sound, you sense that just a little more pressure will splinter it. Gently, you lift your fingers. 

You’ve got enough messes to clean up already.

.

…………….

.

Two of his brothers look unhappy. Hunter suspects he, too, looks unhappy. Only Crosshair remains unaffected, toothpick lolling from one corner of the man’s thin mouth to the other as he watches the sky shift from icy atmo to the very tips of craggy mountains. 

“Looks cold,” rumbles Wrecker from his seat, thick legs kicking out miserably. “Nobody said it was gonna be cold.”

From the pilot’s chair, Tech glances at Hunter, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Now that Hunter can see him full-on, rather than that goggle-obscured side-profile of his, he realizes that he’d been right. Even Tech is unhappy with the assigned locale. Still, the man sniffs and turns back to navigating the gunship.

“It is Scipio,” says Tech. 

“What’s that got to do with anything? Just sayin’, a little warning might’ve been nice.”

Crosshair shifts, the movement almost imperceptible, just enough that Hunter knows the sniper is asking for his attention. “I believe Hunter was preoccupied with warning us about the...what was it you called them, Hunter? Denizens?” 

“The word does have an apt connotation for the Banking Clan,” Tech mutters. He gives Hunter another look, this one says that he’s no more excited about the prospect than Hunter has been. 

Their mission brief had been a strange one. It wasn’t their usual brand of run-and-gun from the sound of things, but it was important to all the right people, and they needed guaranteed success. “Go to Scipio, meet the point of contact, establish the responsible party, recover the stolen data.” It was more or less all they had been told. 

Hunter knows his frown is getting deeper, sinking into the lines on his face -- he can feel it pulling at his bandana, and he raises a hand to scrub it away.

“Who is this contact anyway?” asks Crosshair. “You never said.”

“Because I wasn’t told a name. We’re to meet with the, and I quote, ‘Principal Trades Specialist for the InterGalactic Banking Clan.’”

“Trades specialist?” Crosshair plucks his toothpick from between his teeth and for a moment, it takes Hunter longer than he would like to decipher the look on the man’s face. He doesn’t look unhappy...he looks intrigued. Crosshair replaces the toothpick, then says, “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘corporate spy.’”

“Head corporate spy,” Tech says, “If he’s - “

“She, from what I’m told,” corrects Hunter. His frown has yet to go anywhere, so he lets it stay, his hand falling to his lap.

Tech nods. “If she is based here on Scipio, we’re dealing with someone who needs to be watched closely. Some important players are based on this planet.”

Crosshair folds his arms. “Did the spy part give it away, Tech?”

“The Banking Clan part, actually,” Tech replies dryly, “We’ve dealt with spies before. The IGBC is something different. It is...new territory.”

“We’ve also dealt with new territory before.” At this, Hunter hears them all shift, their quick heartbeats settling into a familiar, all’s-well rhythm. His, too, follows. Just in time, it would seem, for the comms to squawk at them as the Marauder banks left and begins its final descent to the landing pad. He stands from the co-pilots seat, the faint tilt of the floor beneath him a familiar calm before the inevitable storm. He looks to Wrecker, who shakes his head, and then offers a grin. 

“Might be fun. Never clobbered bad guys with snowballs before.”

There’s a snort from Tech and despite himself, Hunter smiles. 

.

**************************************

.

Ten minutes later, they are suited up and disembarking into a cloud of snow flurries and ice crystals. The Banking Clan’s guards are as heavily armored as some of the Separatist patrols Hunter’s encountered. He scowls beneath his helmet. This should be a job for Jedi -- if the Jedi weren’t all dispatched to the war front.   

Soldiers...they don’t deal with these sorts of people. Not well and not effectively. Too much bad blood between the Republic and profiteers like these.

He motions at his brothers to close ranks, their familiar presences a comforting reminder that this isn’t anything new, not really. It’s a mission like any other. 

As the frosted cloud clears ahead of them, the guards, in their gilt armor and insulated cloaks, make way, too much way, Hunter thinks, for the clearance to be for a group of Republic troopers.

Then he sees her.

Half camouflaged by the swirling winds and clad in half a dozen shades of gray and silver, her shoulders draped in white fur, she stands waiting for them, her hands clasped serenely in front of her. She could be a diplomat, a Jedi even, if not for the gleam in her eye. It’s a cold thing, sharper and as frostbitten as this frozen world itself. 

He’s not the only one to have noticed. Beside him, Hunter hears Crosshair draw in an appreciative breath so quiet no one without incredible senses would notice it. In his periphery, he catches an almost imperceptible twitch of Tech’s helmet as his brother spares him a questioning glance. 

When the woman speaks, her voice is crisp, professional. “Clone Force 99, welcome.” She does not smile, but her eyes track to each of them, lingering too long, as though somehow looking past the armor to the men beneath. She introduces herself with a name that sounds too soft for the title she wears. Then, she gives them a crystalline smile. “But you may call me Trader, if you please.”

“Trader?” It is Wrecker who asks the question, finally distracted from the snow and ice. “Sounds like…”

Another smile, this one not quite as cool as the first. Amused, Hunter thinks, though how benign that amusement is, he can’t tell, and it makes his skin itch beneath his blacks. “Like traitor?” she hums. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it?” 

She steps aside and gestures at them to follow. “With me, gentlemen. First, we’ve a meeting. Afterwards, we will take a tram to the vaults, then from there, speeders to the site of the incident.”

“‘Incident’ is an awful clean way to say ‘bloody heist,’” says Hunter as he moves to follow. Her gaze slides to him, her stride never slowing. Shoulder to shoulder with the woman, he has the uncomfortable instinct to slow his steps, to lag behind, as though if he isn’t careful, a blade might slide between his ribs on a blink. He pushes aside the urge, then asks, “How many people were lost?”

“Enough,” she replies. “One could even say too many.”

“But not you?”

“Must someone say something for you to believe they think it?”

Behind him, Crosshair snorts, but does not comment. Hunter lets the statement slide, though the itch he’d felt earlier is heating to a burn now. Together, she leads them through a set of gleaming durasteel doors into a foyer as stark as it is grand. 

“Proceed through those doors.” She crooks a finger to their left. “Senator Amidala has requested a meeting in...eighteen minutes. I will join you shortly.”

Wrecker whistles, the sound too sharp to come from beneath his helmet, and Hunter glances back to see that the man has removed it, his one good eye roving the pristine interior. With a sigh, Hunter follows suit. It’s not exactly warm here, but out from the planet’s whipping winds, it’s close enough that even he can fool his sensitive skin into enjoying it. Soon, they are all unmasked. The woman - Trader - lingers long enough to observe them.

Her expression is...unreadable. There is no twinkle of bemusement in her eyes, not the first twitch of surprise. Normally, when the helmets come off, it gets at least some sort of reaction, gives him some kind of measure. 

Now, the only read Hunter gets is the fact that he can’t get a read on her -- and that, he doesn’t like. There’s no trusting people who have become so numb. 

Her gaze slips between Crosshair and Tech, where it lingers on the latter for seconds longer than it had the rest of them. Something in her frigid eyes warms, the ice of her expression cracking just enough that she might be pleased by what she sees. And Tech...for all his usual detachment, has no datapad to bury his nose in now, and he notices. 

Hunter thinks the woman lets him notice. 

His brother stands a little straighter, eyes flicking nervously to Hunter behind his goggles. Stumped, for lack of a better word. For once, flat out puzzled. 

Then, without a word, Trader looks back to Hunter and inclines her head. “Stay warm, gentlemen. I will see you soon.”

She is gone behind a pair of adjacent doors without another word. 

No sooner do they watch the durasteel whisper shut, than does Wrecker drive his arm into Tech’s side with a chuckle. Tech winces with a hiss and waves the man away. 

“Heh, she likes you.”

“I hoped it was my imagination.” Crosshair’s lip curls, his eyes narrowing until he looks away, and Hunter wonders if they’ve been reflected back at him through the shine of Tech’s goggles.

Tech runs a hand over the back of his head. “What do you think, Hunter?”

“I think she’s Banking Clan, through and through. We’re not among friends here.”

“If we let her alone with Tech, things might get friendlier -”

“Wrecker.” 

Hunter scowls. Another voice has echoed his own and he looks to see Crosshair, arms folded, rocking back on a foot to glare at the wampa-sized man. 

Tech clears his throat. “Perhaps we should wait in the briefing room?”

His heart rate, harder to hear away from the tight confines of the Marauder, sounds schoolboy quick and Hunter wishes, not for the first time, that his brother was more inclined to find company in their off-duty hours than he was. Pretty faces were fine - Hunter himself was inclined to enjoy them - but something about the mask this one wore was dangerous.

Wrecker’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Did she say Senator Amidala was waiting?”

“She did. The commander warned us the Senate was at play here.”

“That’s not our usual playground though, is it?” Crosshair is still scowling, his arms folded more tightly now than they had been. All that characteristic suspicion exacerbated by annoyance that has set in and won’t leave him. It makes his eyes hard, his narrow features sharpened and cold beneath the glare of sunlight on durasteel. 

Hunter shakes his head. “It’s not, but I feel better knowing Amidala’s behind us on this.”

“That makes one of us,” says Crosshair.

“Two,” Tech interrupts, his voice crisp; back to himself, Hunter realizes, his relief warm down to his fingertips, until he isn’t sure why he’d been worried in the first place.

“Three! I like Amidala.” 

“We know, Wrecker.” Tech’s smile is gentle, even as he rolls his eyes. “The poster by your bed speaks for itself.” 

Hunter’s gaze slides to his remaining brother, the smile that had spread turning crooked, then fading. “Crosshair?” 

It’s always been an unsettling characteristic of Crosshair’s that his eyes, as brown as all of theirs, manage to be so very cold when the mood hits him. The look in them is not unlike what he had witnessed in the woman. 

The observation tightens Hunter’s throat and he swallows it, turning away, and hopes not to notice it again.

[dragon-kazansky]

Made with love | Helmut Zemo

Chef Zemo AU! 👨‍🍳

Gender neutral reader

Collage by @realremyd

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Part 9

Both Zemo and yourself enter the restaurant together, his arm wrapped snugly around you. You dispose of your personal items and stand behind the bar.

Helmut makes you each some coffee as you look around the room.

As it stands, Escorpión Morado had a homely feel to it which was perfect for you. That meant you didn't want to completely lose that touch, but to complete with Stark, the restaurant needed a new look.

Sam and James came in for work. They saw you both chatting and laughing, drinking coffee together. They shared a look before Sam coughed into his fist. You both turned around.

You looked extremely happy to see them.

"There you are! We need to have a word with you," you waved them over. Helmut made them each a cup of coffee too.

"What's going on?" James asked, looking between you and his boss.

"Escorpión Morado is going to have a makeover, and we need all the help we can get," you declare, proudly.

They look at each other before looking at Zemo.

"What's going on?" Sam asks him.

Helmut sighs softly and placed his hands on the bar, he uses them to support his weight as he leans forward. You're trying so hard not to stare at the muscles visible through his tight shirt.

He is dressing this way on purpose? No! Get your head back on to the restaurant, not the handsome chef.

"Stark has opened his restaurant. He is stealing our customers. We need to earn them back. The only way I can think to do that is to do a grand opening of our own. Escorpión Morado will receive a makeover, we will update our menu, we will update our service. I don't want to lose my business."

You wrap your arms around the one closest to you and rest your head against his shoulder.

"You won't. We can do this. It's going to take a lot of work, but we'll do it."

He smiles at you.

Sam and James nod. They had worked for Helmut for years, he was a good boss and they each had so much respect for him. They had seen the ups and downs of Escorpión Morado and have dealt with every scenario. This was just one more.

"What's the plan?"

You glance at Zemo before answering.

"Helmut and I spent some time picking out designs for the remodel. I'm going to make a few calls later and see who I can get to come over and when. Can you help us clean up the shop? We could leave the outside tables for now, let's start inside."

They nod. You all finish your coffee and Helnut takes the cups away to be washed. You explain to the boys what you want them to do and then you leave to go make a call.

Sam and Bucky pull all the chairs out from under the tables and begin to stack them by the window, pushing the tables out to either side, making as much room as possible.

When Helmut comes back out, he begins clearing the bar. Sam helps him box up the bottles and containers, they store them away for safe keeping.

It takes a couple of hours to shift everything out of the shop, keeping on a few things back incase of customers.

You didn't want Zemo to close up until it was absolutely necessary.

You had made several calls. You had organised someone to pull up the floors and lay a new one, someone would come to repaint the walls in a couple of days, and you had hired a van for the weekend so could collect the new furniture you had organised.

You explained everything to the boys, discussing when things would happen.

"So, what do we today?" Sam asked, looking at the new open space.

"Clean everything. I want this place cleaned from floor to ceiling. We have to get all the photos and decorations off the wall," Helmut said, casting a glance to the photo of his father.

You smile softly.

"You should take him back to the apartment until the restaurant is ready for him to come back," you say.

Helmut nods.

Bucky goes to fetch the mop and bucket. Sam goes to get some furniture polish for the tables.

You grab a box and walk over to where Helmut stood by his father.

"I'll let you pack him away safely," you say, leaving the box on one of the tables.

Helmut stops you from walking away from him, pulling you into his chest and hugging you. You're quick to wrap your arms around him and let him hold you.

"It's going to be amazing when it's done," you tell him.

"You're amazing."

You smile and look at him. Helmut kisses you softly.

"Sorry to interrupt."

You both pull away at the new, yet familiar voice that had entered the room. You both turn to see the man you despised at the door.

Stark takes off his shades and tucks them into his pocket.

"I heard something was happening here, thought I'd come see what's happening."

"None of your business," you snipe.

Stark grins, chuckling in amusement.

"Closing up already?" He asks, not giving you pleasure of a response.

"No," Zemo states.

"Oh? Looks like it."

Stark reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a cheque. That cheque. He waves it about between two fingers.

"My offer still stands."

"We're not selling you the restaurant," you say, standing in front of Zemo with your arms crossed.

"It's not your decision, pip squeak."

"Pip squeak?"

Helmut places a hand on your shoulder.

"What we are doing is none of your business. Please leave my property and take that with you," Helmut nods at his hand.

Stark continues to hold it up.

"Why are you doing this? Just give in and accept my help. I could make this place something spectacular."

You glare at him.

"It is something spectacular. It's special. We don't need you, Stark."

Stark looks at you. There's a smirk on his lips as he takes slow and certain steps toward you. He comes to a stop directly in front of you and looks at you with piercing eyes.

"Who are you?" He asks.

Your tell him your name.

He scoffs.

"This has nothing to do with you."

You don't back down. You hold your head higher and silently challenge him.

"It has everything to do with me."

Helmut places both hands on your shoulders and pulls you away from Tony.

"What do you want, Tony?" Zemo asks, looking at the other man.

"I'm having a celebration this Friday at my restaurant. You're invited. Bring your data too if you'd like," Stark glances at you.

"We don't want to come," you say.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Tony leaves an invitation on the end of the bar. You don't even look at it, just watching him.

Tony head back toward the doors.

"Nothing you do will change the outcome."

You wanted to punch him so badly.

He leaves.

You turn on your heel and face Helmut. His dark brown eyes focus on you.

"We can't let him walk all over us."

"No, we can't," he agrees.

"What's he even celebrating?" You ask, glancing at the invitation.

Helmut steps around you to pick it up. He holds it up to where you can both read it. The card was white with cold trimming. In neat black lettering, it read:

You are cordially invited to the engagement party of Pepper Potts and Tony Stark.

Formal dress

Friday 6pm

You look up from the card at Helmut. He looks back down at you.

You both smile.

"It would be rude not to."

"Yes, quite."

Sam and Bucky return. Bucky puts the mop bucket down and grabs a broom, getting straight to work. Sam walks over to the bar and begins to dust it.

You smile again.

"A few more surely wouldn't hurt, right?" You ask, looking up at him.

"Not at all. Us two, plus four, perhaps?"

You grin.

"We have until Friday, by which the new floors and paint should be done."

Helmut nods.

"Stark has no idea what's he just done," you bite your lip with a grin.

Chuckling, Zemo turns back to the photo of his father. There was much to be done before Friday.

I wonder if you're proud of me.

Helmut grabs the box you gave him and begins to pack away the plague and photo. You go over to help Bucky with the floors.

I am, always.

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