#because you see your pain mirrored in them and you want to ease theirs the same way theyve eased yours

[bosspigeon]

Did not mean to craft Literally The Perfect Man for Astarion I just made a demisexual dude with a complex relationship with sex and intimacy due to trauma bc it is my God-Given Right to cram my own issues into an oc and then the vampire twink just happened to have issues to match and anyway what was i talking about

[fallenwhumpee]

Traitor

• Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Masterlist •

Warnings: Guilt.

Leader looked bad. They had gotten worse since Mentor dropped them to their quarters. The worn down expression was already so foreign on the face they were used to see like a statue. Mentor couldn't help but frown at the dark circles on Leader's eyes, pale skin dry and hair tied tightly, possibly to hide the dampness of it.

"You didn't have to come this quick." Mentor tried their luck. If it was before, they would be greeted with a shy smile on a childish face. Now, Leader's gaze only met theirs with hollow eyes.

"I just want to get over with it as soon as possible," Leader answered, not even looking at Mentor's eyes. Mentor hesitated. They knew Leader wasn't supposed to walk around like this. And Mentor knew this whole orderal was putting too much pressure on Leader.

With one last look at Leader, Mentor sighed and led the way to one of the interrogation rooms. Leader trailed off after them, and Mentor could hear the irregular step sounds, sometimes too soft and sometimes too hard as if Leader was stumbling. But every time Mentor looked back, they saw a composed figure. Only a small frown on Leader's face was not fitting the usual stone faced look, indicating that they weren't fully alright.

When they reached to the door, Mentor opened it and motioned Leader to get in. Mentor then took the door right beside it, knocking before entering. It was a room behind the interrogation toom, with recording equipment and a one wa mirror that allowed then to see inside. Some of the higher ups were already there, but Mentor's eyes caught Big Boss sitting in the darker side of the room, dressed in all black and barely visible.

Mentor gave a subtle nod, which was answered with a gesture for them to keep it silent, and Mentor sat down, giving their all attention to Leader.

Leader took their time sitting down, closing their eyes for a moment. Mentor was sure no one else noticed, but Leader was tense, shoulders rolled back forcefully to imitate their former look, spine straight only because they were leaning back with pressure, and Mentor guessed it was very uncomfortable with broken ribs. Everything was silent for a moment before the door of Leader's room opened, and an officer stepped inside.

The officer didn't spare a look to the mirror and directly sat to the opposite of Leader. They slowly opened their file, taking their time and playing with their pen. "Leader," the officer broke the silence after settling the pen down. "Do you know why you are here?"

"Yes," came Leader's short but solid answer.

"But I won't start with that. Tell me your last mission."

"My last misson was a part of coordinated attack on Whumper's bases. I was instructed to deal with one at the outskirts of the city." Leaded coughed when they stopped, their hand reaching to their chest to ease the pain, probably. Mentor was getting a bad feeling about that. Leader was supposed to be in a warm bed, not in that cold room, being questioned for something out of their control.

"By the intelligence I've been given, I expectedly security. But as my mission progressed, I was caught by two of the guards, brought to Whumper. The intelligence was not correct. The last thing I remember is exploding the base while I and Whumper were still in."

"And later?" The officer asked when Leader stopped for more than a moment. Mentor could see Leader gathering their breaths, but the officer wasn't really patient.

"I woke up one of the agency's temporary medical bases. Doctor and mentor were there." Leader coughed again. Mentor saw Leader's leg holding a rhythm on the floor for a moment before Leader restrained themselves.

"What was the nature of you and Doctor's relationship?" The officer asked, not looking at Leader.

"Doctor has been assigned as my, and later and my team's chief medical officer for years."

"And what about your team?" The officer asked after nodding to Leader's response.

"My team's medical officer is very capable. They hadn't met with Doctor unless it was a neccesariry. Our later visits were also under the same circumstances."

The officer continued probing, asking about various aspects of Leader's interactions with Doctor, the team, and their role within the agency. Despite Leader's efforts to provide concise answers, it was evident that the interrogation was taking a toll on them.

As the interrogation dragged on, Leader's responses grew more tense, and Mentor just couldn't not see the signs.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the officer concluded the interrogation. "Thank you, Leader. We may have further questions for you in the future."

With a nod, Leader rose from their seat, their movements stiff and laboured. Mentor followed suit, offering a brief glance as they exited the room.

Once outside, Mentor pulled Leader aside. They couldn't filter the concern in their tone. "Are you alright?" they asked, unsure. Leader made it clear that they didn't want anything from Mentor.

Leader managed a weak nod. "I'll manage," they replied, their voice strained.

Leader's response had been fixed to 'I'm fine' for too long that hearing this worried Mentor.

Mentor hesitated, wanting to offer more support but unsure of how to proceed. Instead, they simply placed a reassuring hand on Leader's shoulder.

Leader stepped back, making Mentor's hand fall.

"When is Doctor's trial?" Leader asked instead.

"In half an hour. Did you eat anything before coming here?"

"I'm not hungry."

They knew pushing Leader further wouldn't be productive. Instead, they just nodded.

As they made their way to the trial room, Leader remained mostly silent, lost in their own thoughts. Mentor didn't feel any nostalgia with the way Leader quietly trailed after them. It was right the opposite. Mentor felt disgusted that this scene was familiar. Leader was following them with head down, their figure still and expression empty. The only difference was Leader's height. While Mentor could - and regretfully did - tower them before, Leader was a head taller than Mentor now.

Mentor tried to ignore the feeling.

Upon arriving at the trial room, they were ushered inside by the guards. Leader took a seat, their expression unreadable as they waited for the proceedings to begin. Mentor sat beside them, unsure if they could do anything to help Leader.

The room was small, a chair in the middle, a desk at right for five people, and a few seats for viewers.

The waiting time was spent in silence. Mentor wondered what Leader was thinking. In the past few days, Mentor managed to come in terms with Doctor's betrayal. Doctor had been one of their numbered friends, but never more than that. On the other hand, Leader seemed pretty close, and Mentor faulted themselves for that. Mentor had pushed Leader too far that Leader got attached to the smallest gesture of kindness, and now that they were hurt by that, they were refusing any kind of affection.

The door opened, and Doctor was brought in by two armed guards. Mentor was surprised to see them in a good shape— while they had gained a few new bruises, they looked alright. Actually, if they were asked who was 'tortured' between Leader and Doctor, Mentor would be wrong.

Doctor only looked at Leader for a short moment, then just stayed there until the five seats were filled slowly by the higher-ups that watched Leader's interrogation. The one in the middle addressed Doctor, stating the crime and sitting down, giving Doctor one final chance to give an explanation that may soften the agency's look on the matter.

"I don't owe any of you an explanation," Doctor began with a strong voice. "I don't regret my actions towards any of you but one."

Mentor watched Doctor's gaze find Leader, who was only looking to their hands. Doctor sighed when they didn't get a reaction but continued.

"I believed my choices were right. I still believe most of my choices are right, with the exception of the latest ones. I've done the very thing I wanted to end."

Mentor frowned, thinking what was different lately, regarding the enemy's movements, but they couldn't find anything.

"We are not here to listen to any of your propaganda," the figure in the middle growled with a voice that made Mentor's blood run cold. "We have already decided your penalty. We only wish to hear information in exchange for reduction."

Doctor considered for a moment. A traitor was always a traitor. Their betrayal to Whumper wouldn't be a surprise to save their own.

"Would my way of gaining intelligence be any of your interest?" Doctor tried with a forced smile.

The figure leaned back, motioning Doctor to continue. Mentor looked at Leader for a moment, and saw them still looking down, but they were now swaying back and forth subtly. Mentor put a hand on top of Leader's, but drew back immediately when Leader winced. Mentor's palm got a little wet from Leader's clammy hands.

"When I was just considered experienced enough to run one of the medical stations by myself, I've gotten a patient. A perfectionist with an ideology. They were aware of the faults of the agency, but they were hopeful. Hopeful of the change that all of you refused so far."

Leader gasped quietly. Mentor was the o ky one who heard. They wanted to tell this was not Leader's fault, but they weren't sure Leader would listen them.

"No one in this world is pure." The figure answered. "Our goal is not being pure. You knew what you were getting into, Doctor. Don't twist what it is."

"I never claimed to have a pure intention either. And selfish of me, I had used the trust I've built over the many years. That's what I regret. I regret that I hurt the only person who had given me hope." Doctor answered back.

"While HQ's medbay was always a source of uncensored information, it was too risky to exploit it to my own means. I had to be careful. But with Leader, it was so easy. They were deprived of guidance and support for so long that they took my offer with little to no hesitation, possibly trusting my experience. With them, I was able to see everything they worked on. And the agency just kept giving work on them, along with overseeing the other team's reports— sometimes even mission plans. The amount of work Leader handled and the importance of it was what I needed. I also had other informants to confirm those and give me more details."

They stopped for a moment, turning to Leader.

"Through the years, Leader had no reason to suspect me with my invaluable help to lift the workload placed on them. And the cruelty of agency pushed them more and more to me, who could just treat them like a human—"

Leader stood absurdly, and by the time Mentor stood after them, the door sound echoed. Mentor rushed after Leader but the hall was empty.

[ladymoonstardust]

Little Les Amis de l’ABC rant for you

. Like we see this group of friends who were young and still would've had so much to live for and still they were the ones leading this whole revolution and everyone looked up at them. And the thing is that they were so fucking brave you know. They really did let the people decide like it wasn't even them to make a show of corpses when they realised they'll lose, but the people wanted that so they without question went with it. And there's this one scene in the movie they beg for the people to let them in and I think that's just so human because yes, | they were revolutionaries but they were still just young kids...

And they had this unbelievable moral and bravery and they were just such pure and kind souls. They would've deserved it so nuch more to live than the guards who shot them. And they weren't suicidal. They didn't want to die, and you can see that even under all that bravery they were terrified. But they powered through it, because they really wanted this for the people and the I people said they'll make a protest of dying for the cause, so they went with it and fuck the chapters of the battle in the book is just so heartbreaking to read what went through their heads and how they talked with the people. They literally spent their lives planning this revolution and believing it, just for them to lose hope at the very last minute. And even then, Enjolras keeps a whole ass speech about the importance and why they did it, and none of it mentions power or political influence. All he talks o equality and libety and fraternity and why we need it, and he says that even if it won't be them bringing this forward, it will happen, it has to happen because the world cannot go on without this, and I think with that he tries to calm himself that maybe ne was just too early, but he wants to believe that humanity will get better, he doesn't care anymore if he can't be the part of this world he so wished to bring on, he just wanted to believe that one day it could come

Further on, every death of theirs symbolises something else, like each of the Amis took something with them when they died and it's very heartbreaking and tragic to read but also, so very beautiful because with each of the Amis having these traits, they are basically together as 9 are humanity and what it should have. Enjolras is leadership and determination, Combferre is | intelligence and sensibility, Courfeyrac is the heart and spirit, Bahorel your anchor that keeps you grounded, Grantaire the trauma and pain in you that keeps on continuing to fight until he finds a light that can ease it, he's also devotion and loyalty, Bousset is bad luck which everyone has but like he himself we can never give up, no matter how unlucky we get, Joly is

cautiousness and our instine to care tor oners. reuv our moras we naveto ouro tor ourseves anoenan ne doer. wnien We can all find in ourselves, for everything we say is poetry as we say it with a soul, our words define us and mirror our souls. And the together is what we call a human. With all thise traits and hardshios and that's whv their deaths hurt so much. because with them these traits died, with them we feel pieves of us dying, because they are all parts of us

[marshmallowprotection]

the previous anons have lowkey hit hard. i also get the funny feelings of why any of the RFA would have feelings for me in the first place. In middle school I was asked out several times but was real cold towards others because I was going through trauma and stuff. So like I dont really know if any of the RFA would really accept or truly love me, im always self conscious

Guys, you're worth loving and fighting for no matter what you've gone through. I know it's hard to believe that on the worst days of your life when the memories come back to the surface or when the feeling of insecurity takes over every ounce of self-confidence you have fought for. You are loved. You will be loved. Have no doubt or fear in the RFA loving you because they would. I promise.

They've been through hardship, fear, and trauma just like many of us have been through. They understand, empathize, and want to be by your side just as much as you want to be by theirs. Take that to heart when you play a route. If there's one thing I love about Zen's Route in this game it's the fact that if you've ever felt self-doubt in your life for any reason, he's there to tell you you're worthy of love just as much as you tell him he is.

Would you let him beat himself up over his self-worth fears? I doubt that. Even if you don't like him romantically, you still wouldn't let him speak ill of himself like that. He can have all the fans in the world for his charm and grace, but it feels hollow when people don't look at the talent he's worked hard for. He fears so often that people love him for his looks. It's a key plot point of his route. Take his lesson to heart. It's important. Look under the surface, and search for the person you've got a chance to see on the pages instead of judging the cover at its value.

The people who matter will see you as you're meant to be seen. The others? They're not worth it. Keep fighting, keep working, and keep striving to see your value and worth. You'll find yourself will the right people someday... it just takes time. Your fears won't vanish or stop, but you will find a sense of peace one day and you won't see it until that "oh" moment finds you. Dear, you were a child. You were going through so much pain and grief. Your value is not created from the actions you've suffered at the hand of trauma and your reactions to them in youth.

You will be okay. It might take some time to believe it. But, you will be okay. Breathe, shift your thinking a little, and try to see the glass half-full if you can on the days when your heart feels a little less weary. I hope your pain eases soon and you one day love the person you see in the mirror. It's a beautiful person... because it's you.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

snake | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: Your parents have no qualms on doing whatever they can to climb the social ladder. That includes assigning you a betrothed you've never met, an offering to the crown prince. You, the one the gossipers whisper under their breath... the Snake Princess.

warnings: implied parental emotional and physical abuse; language; non-idol!AU - prince!Yoongi x aristocrat!reader, ft overprotective (but secretly soft), tattooed, little brother!JK; based on this

–

“I don’t care what our father said, you’re not marrying him!”

You scratched your ear, partly shielding it from the loud voice of your brother.

“He’s an asshole!”

“You don’t know him?” you offered, affixing your earring, somewhat annoyed. The yellow gold wasn’t quite your style. Your parents liked such gaudy, ugly things.

Both in fashion and tradition, unfortunately.

“Do you?” your brother shot back, throwing himself up from your bed where he was yelling at the ceiling about nothing he could change. It was a favorite past time of his, along with following you around like a talkative shadow.

“No, that’s why I’m meeting him today,” you replied dryly. You switched to the other ear, adding the dragon-shaped ear cuff above the gold earring. Your parents hated it when you added such aggressive accessories – they’re not womanly, they would say – but if you were going to be betrothed to some guy on the sole basis that they had ambitions and he was the man who so happened to be the next-in-line for the throne, you weren’t going to lie about what kind of woman you were.

“Aren’t you pissed?”

You shrugged. “Is it so bad?”

“Yes!”

You sighed and flickered your eyes to the mirror, seeing Jeon Jungkook’s furious expression, long black hair tied back with lingering strands framing his high cheekbones, his black and gold robes wild, poorly tied and revealing half of his tanned, toned chest. His dark brown eyes flashed, pressing his cherry-painted lips together, jawline sharp and defiant. That’s how Jungkook always looked, messy, undone, borderline furious.

Everyone called him the Reckless Prince.

You just called him little brother.

“Noona…”

“Hmm?”

You saw him frown and you looked away, running a hand through your hair, browsing your hair accessories. You used to have an aide to help you at one point, but you told your parents to get rid of them, preferring to get ready by yourself. And besides, Jungkook liked to burst in and interrupt you with his relentless tirades about how unfair your arranged marriage was. There was no point in having hired help when you could coerce your brother into doing things as you put up with him.

“Can I brush your hair?”

“You have arms and hands, so you’re physically capable, yes.”

You heard him click his tongue in annoyance and smirked, shifting your eyes to the mirror. He was behind you now, face no longer visible. It didn’t matter. You already knew his cross expression quite well. He snatched the ornate comb from your vanity, the black snake head clearly visible on the side of his right wrist, inked near his thumb. Your parents scolded and beat him for getting it, but Jungkook could care less, breaking the wooden paddle with ease, right out of your mother’s hand.

You hadn’t said anything.

The rumors called you the Snake Princess.

Quick-witted, sharp, vicious. Not to your face though, because that was just foolishness. It wouldn’t be only your wrath they would be evoking.

Jungkook ran the comb through your hair, gently separating the strands, careful not to pull too hard. He was better than any aide anyway. They merely yanked and pulled you into their standard of beauty, ignoring your opinions or input, always citing that it was important to not look like a peasant, important to always look above your status, using your beauty to save face.

Saving face.

You hated those words.

“What if he’s a horrible person?” your brother asked quietly, tucking the strands away from your eyes only for them to slip back stubbornly.

“Then he’s a horrible person,” you replied, applying your makeup. “And you’ll probably do something about it.”

Jungkook made a noise between an aggravated bear and an injured tiger.

“If he so much as puts one fingertip on you, I’ll kill him.”

You snorted. “I’d hate to tell you what marriage entails, Jungkook.”

The comb in your hair paused.

His anger subsided, just like that.

“You’re really going to do it?” he asked softly. “Really, really?”

You heard the pain in Jungkook’s voice.

You recalled when you received the news many years ago, silent fury as your parents gave you away, turning you into a transaction to raise their own reputation and status. Your reaction was nothing to your little brother’s, him running to your room and crying in your arms, distraught and upset that you were leaving him, declaring he hated your parents, everyone, and everything.

“You’re supposed to protect me,” Jungkook had sobbed, already too big for you to hold like this but you did anyway, patting his head and wiping his tears with your sleeve. “You’re supposed to be here, with me, forever and always.”

He had taken your hand, tucking his fingers in yours, pressing your pinkies together.

“You promised me.”

And you had, from the very beginning, the shy kid always following after you and making you speak for him, your parents yelling and scolding him to be a man, but you defending him, taking the slaps meant for him, sneaking him sweets when he was hiding his tears, telling him it was okay to cry and that noona would stay here and listen to his worries, no matter if it was as stupid as a butterfly flying away or the teacher once again reprimanding him for his poor scores.

The amount of pressure they put on him just because he was the son was immense.

“I wanna play,” he had cried softly. “I don’t have to study anymore.”

“You want to be stupid?” you had teased, patting his head. “What if I had my lessons with you? I can make that happen.”

“R-Really?”

So, you made it happen, telling your parents and tutors that it would be better for him to be exposed to more complex concepts earlier rather than later and watching someone learn would improve his own scores. You made yourself a better student for his benefit and he, in turn, followed obediently, doing what you did, always overjoyed to hear your praise.

You and your snake tongue could made anything happen for him.

“This servant is bothering me.”

You found some questionable information on that servant and they resigned rather quickly.

“I don’t like the girl our father introduced me to.”

Suddenly said girl was no longer interested in Jungkook. For… reasons.

“I wish I could go on vacation, even for a couple days.”

That one got you both beaten for your three-day adventure to the sea, mostly because you had to run away from your duties to do it. But it was worth it to see the smile on Jungkook’s face.

Then Jungkook became a teenager.

You might have taught him that rules were for old people, for the generation too uptight.

He wanted to do a whole lot of things and you made it happen. Getting him out of those sticky situations was a bit tough, but nothing unmanageable. And now Jungkook was a young adult who did not care about anyone’s opinion other than yours, getting tattooed and spending all of his time with his friends, lackadaisical and free, your parents giving up and calling him a disgrace, relying on your marriage to restore the reputation they valued so much, the face they themselves ruined with their own poor decisions, taking out their frustrations on you and Jungkook, sometimes without warning.

You stayed home, playing good daughter so Jungkook could be the bad son.

Ah, maybe it was your fault he was the Reckless Prince.

You turned, looking up at him now from the corner of your eye, up his loose robes and exposed collarbone, up the line of his jaw that was similar to yours, his lips not quite as full, his round brown orbs that were actually much more innocent and purer than he liked to admit, similar to your eye shape.

But not the same.

Because your eyes were sharper, cold-blooded, predatory.

Even with Jungkook, there was no mistaking the power behind your gaze.

“Do you think just because I’m married to some man that he can control my life?” you said with a sly smile, your lips painted lush red. “I’ll come visit you whenever I want. You can come whenever you want. You can live with me if you want.”

You turned back, sweeping your hair and twisting it in place, deftly and quickly pinning it back, leaving some strands loose and messy that your parents would highly disapprove of, but why did that matter? If this man was to be your husband, then he would see you completely undone at one point, so he should get used to it.

Your parents wouldn’t approve of the black and dark green combination you had chosen either, but that’s why you learned how to sew to dress yourself as you liked. You have to be a lady. You were a lady. Just your version of a lady and not theirs. They tried to gatekeep you by saying that the pink and yellow fabrics were all they could afford. They had a tendency to underestimate your craftiness.

No obstacle was too high for the Snake Princess to slither over.

“Really?” Jungkook asked as you stood up, smoothly adjusting the tie at your waist.

You chuckled at him as he began to follow you out of your bedroom.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll do it for you.”

-

“You brought your brother.”

“I don’t bring him anywhere. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

Jungkook was sitting behind you, arms crossed, glaring at the dark-haired man sitting in front of you. You had mildly fixed his appearance before entering only from him to push up his sleeves so he could reveal the entire snake tattoo wrapped around his arm, a black snake surrounded by thorned vines.

“Hmm.”

This man had requested to meet you first, alone, without the parents. Untraditional, but as long as his father agreed to the request, it was done. Your father had no say in the matter, although he did protest rather loudly and uncouthly.

You had poured the tea for your future husband and you.

Neither of you were drinking it.

The man before you had a piercing gaze, cloud-white skin, shapely lips. Somehow, he surprised you by being dressed in black and gold as well, although he was much neater than Jungkook, black hair tied back in a the usual, curated traditional style.

“I intend in marrying you, you know.”

He had a deep, rough voice, reminding you of dead leaves and winter.

“Is that not the point of this meeting?” was your dry response.

A dark eyebrow lifted.

Jungkook clicked his tongue dismissively.

Those shapely lips curved into a slow smirk.

“I thought I wouldn’t like you,” the dark-haired man mused, reaching over to the teacup and pulling it to him. “I was fully prepared to refuse this proposal and put your family more in the dirt than your brother has already put them into.”

“You bas–” Jungkook hissed, but you held up a hand, cutting him off.

You kept your eyes on those dark brown orbs, cat-like and predatory. He took a deep inhale of the aroma of the tea, letting out a satisfied, smokey sigh.

“I thought you would be like the others. Prim, proper, begging for me to take your hand.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do I need to beg for? You either will or you won’t. It has nothing to do with me.”

A dark chuckle. “Indeed.”

He took a long sip of the tea, savoring it. You watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, tongue flickering out to lick his lips. Slowly lowering his head, scrutinizing gaze on you. He made you wait for his words.

“And besides, snakes can’t kneel, can they, Snake Princess?” he purred.

“Don’t you dare call her that!”

“No, they cannot,” you replied calmly, ignoring Jungkook’s outburst, staring into the eyes of the man who was going to decide whether or not you were going to be his wife.

“They can’t pray either.”

The dark-haired man tilted his head, intrigued.

“I have no need for gods to be able to live the life I want, Min Yoongi,” you said quietly, venomous edge to your voice. “The ties you put on me cannot restrain me from living as frivolously or ambitiously as I like.”

Min Yoongi, the man who would decide whether you would live an honorable or disgraceful life, the man who was next-in-line, the crown prince. You were meant to be his, but, unlike you, he was free to refuse. Unlike you, he had nothing to lose. Unlike you, he could destroy your life in a heartbeat with a simple no.

“You believe that?” Yoongi questioned, daring you.

You didn’t back down, small serpentine smile on your lips.

“I do not need to believe when I know.”

Silence.

Then Yoongi’s shoulders shook, raspy laughing bubbling from his throat, smirk on his lips.

“You want me to refuse. You want to ruin your parents’ lives.”

You didn’t say anything, your smile fading.

“Ah, but the problem is, I really do like you, Snake Princess,” Yoongi hummed. “You sharp tongue and you even sharper mind. A simpler man would have been tricked by you.” He tapped his long fingers against the table, keeping his feline poise directed at you. “I did not want some placid, useless little thing but a real woman, someone who isn’t afraid to say what she thinks. Why have a trophy when you can have a weapon?”

He placed his chin on the back of his other hand, clicking his tongue thoughtfully.

“What shall we do then? You absolutely must be my wife.”

“You–” Jungkook hissed, rising up behind you, glaring at Yoongi over your shoulder. “You know she doesn’t want to marry you and yet you’re going to do it anyway?”

The dark-haired man raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t want to marry me because she wants her parents to pay for using her so carelessly to further their status. However,” he added with a sweep of his hand on the table, palm upward towards you. “Has she actually said she has no interest in me as a person? During this entire meeting, has she declared that I, the crown prince, am not to her liking?”

Yoongi gave Jungkook a sharp look.

“Do you think she would hide her disdain for me if she had some?”

Silence.

“N… Noona?”

“Yes, Jungkook?”

“You don’t like him at all… right?”

Silence.

You let out a deep breath, slow and controlled.

“Hmm, you are very intuitive.”

Yoongi grinned. “You know we would be a good match, you and I. Here,” he murmured, pointing to the table. “On the throne.” Pointing outside, indicating the land. His cat-like eyes locked with your snake-like gaze, lips forming his next words slowly and deliberately.

“In bed.”

Your eyes trailed from those glittering dark eyes to his pleased smirk. Not a malicious expression somehow. An exciting one. You fully expected to be walking into this room to tear down an arrogant, gaudy man with grandiose self-centeredness.

Instead, it was Min Yoongi.

He ticked his chin to Jungkook, now right next you instead of behind you, clutching your arm tightly.

“Do you want him to be with you? That could be arranged. I can make that happen.”

You really thought you would hate Min Yoongi and yet it seemed as if you were being drawn closer and closer to him. You pursed your lips, not ready to give up yet. He continued.

“And, of course, there’s no reason for your parents to enjoy luxuries that they didn’t earn, is there?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. Yoongi smiled, calm with an underlying slyness.

“That would reflect on you if you treated your in-laws poorly,” you responded coolly.

Yoongi shrugged. “And so? I still have you.” He tilted his head. “Why take a wife if you’re not prepared to do anything for her?” He nodded to himself, tapping his fingertips on the table once more. “Whatever you want, I can make it happen. Be it your brother tagging along, your parents’ lives in ruins…”

Yoongi’s eyes found yours and there was a kindness, already knowing your and him were meant to be.

You weren’t so sure.

And yet.

His next words made you fall in love.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll do it for you.”

--

masterpost

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker - Morgan’s best friend Peter

I’ve seen these incredible posts going around by @fearlesstarker : so I just had to write a little something. Fluff ahead, kids.

Morgan tries to take a moment to really think about it.

She sits back and straightens her spine; the way she does in class when she’s about to prove that everyone in the room- including her professor- is a moron. She cocks her head, examines Peter Parker opposite her, and thinks about it. Truly thinks about it.

“Yes,” she concludes after a moment, all the data filing away neatly, everything coming up a match.

Peter looks up at her, eyes rimmed-red with tears, hair a brown, scraggly mess atop his head. “What do you mean?” He sniffles, still in his pyjamas, still smelling like cologne too expensive to be his.

“You and my dad.” She says, nodding, “Yes.” She gets up and heads to the kitchen. She has a studio-apartment, of course. Her dad would settle for nothing less.

Peter follows at her heels: radiating anxiety. “Morgan, I-”

“It’s fine, Peter. Do you want some tea?” Never espresso’s for Peter, he has enough energy as it is. She pulls down two white ceramic mugs.

“Morgan.” He says again, voice firmer this time. Deeper. She still remembers hearing it break when they were both thirteen, curled up together in a tent on the school’s camping trip.

They’d been shit at building their tent. It had collapsed in the middle of the night and they’d lain there, under stars, sharing secrets. His voice had cracked for the very first time, and she was the first person to know, and she’d held his hand and-

“Morgan.”

The mugs are shaking in her hands.

“Morgan, look at me.”

His hands then, on her shoulders, turning her round, and she’s being hugged by her best friend. By her brother. By Peter B Parker.

He’s taller than her- but only in the physical sense, and she buries her face in his chest and tears come and he holds her so tight- like he doesn’t remember how strong he is. Like he thinks he’s still that scrawny thirteen year old who needed Morgan to protect him from bullies. But he isn’t. Not really.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into her hair, then thinks better of it. He pulls away and looks into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Morgan. I’m sorry I slept with your dad. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to. I’m sorry for keeping this a secret. I’m so, so sorry.”

She wants to tell him it’s okay, but she’s crying too hard.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” He vows, his voice breaking, “it was a one-time thing. I won’t- I won’t pursue it. Not if you’re not okay with it. I’m sure- I- I know your dad feels the same way.”

“It’s just so…”

“I know.” Peter cuts her off, pained, “I know how it looks. But I promise- it isn’t like that. We connected last summer, remember? When he helped me fix up my car? And-and it was like we were seeing each other for the first time. He’s a good man, your dad, I swear, Morgs, and-and-please, please don’t hate me-”

“God, Peter.” She laughs, watery and honest, “I’m not upset because of any of that! “ She smacks his shoulder. “How can you know me so well and be so blind? I’m scared I’ll lose you. You’re mine, Peter Parker, d’you hear me?”

His face breaks into the most glorious smile, and she knows she loves him the way she loved him when they were thirteen. When she understood family was so much more than blood. “All yours.” He promises. “That will never change.”

She believes him. She sighs, and wipes her cheeks, and nods, pulling herself together. “Well alright then,” she breathes, “but don’t think for one second I’m calling you dad.”

His laughter sounds like music.

***

Evidently, she’s not the only one who thinks so.

Because a month later, she’s sitting at the dining table, and her dad’s setting down something that looks dangerously like home-made spaghetti, and there are candles on the table, and it’s subtle- but she can see it.

Her dad’s sweating.

“Looks good.” She says, even though it doesn’t, trying to calm him down.

Tony gives her a knowing look. She grins at him.

“Don’t sass me, baby Stark. I spent all day on this and in spite of DUM-E’s best efforts, there weren’t even any fires.”

“Not any?” She arches her eyebrow.

Tony winces.

Peter...laughs.

Morgan watches how her dad lights up at the sound. How he brandishes his serving spoon at Peter warningly, and their eyes meet, and there’s a moment- something soft- and raw- just like the meatballs.

“I’ll get us take-out,” Morgan says gently, and she’s worried for a second, that they don’t hear her. That this is how it’ll be from now on- she used to be both of their number ones, and now she’s both of their number two’s.

She orders from the Chinese place across the road- the one that knows them, and the three of them sit in front of the TV and settle in for a movie.

Peter dishes out, and he serves Morgan first. All the spring-rolls and the crispiest noodles.

Something small- bright and lovely- burns within her as she takes her plate.

And when, during the film, she and Peter begin to doze off- it’s her who gets the blanket first. Draped lovingly over her by her dad. It’s her head he kisses before he tends to Peter and she knows- she hasn’t lost anything.

She has only gained.

*

The Press-

Don’t care. It’s weird. Morgan keeps waiting for the backlash. In fact, all of Tony’s team seem to be waiting, but it never comes. It seems that most people expect handsome billionaires to have boyfriends half their age.

“Huh,” Peter says, in a new, custom-made suit that compliments his skin-tone, “I guess that means you’re old news, Tony Stark,” and he kisses the edge of Tony’s mouth. Morgan pretends not to watch.

Her dad turns to Peter, grinning, mischievous, young in a way he hasn’t seemed in a while. “Don’t worry. I can do something about that.”

*

Proposing to Peter on the red carpet for GLAMOUR’s man of the year award does spark the headlines.

“Really, dad?” Morgan laughs, phone nestled into the crook of her neck because she can’t find her airpods.

“What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic.”

“More like a flair for the idiotic.” Comes another voice, a little muffled, and Morgan smiles.

“Is that Peter? Tell him I say hi.”

“Morgan says hi.”

“Oh! Say hey back.”

“Peter says hey.”

“Is he coming up for the LA workshop?”

“Are you coming up for the- hey, you know what, you talk to each other.”

“So grouchy in the morning.” Peter teases, and there’s the sound of kissing, and Morgan faux-retches.

*

When she thought about it, way at the start, she did the pros and the cons. Their obvious compatibility, mutual interests, and potential were some of the heaviest pros.

There were cons, too.

When she makes the drive up, through snow and sleet, back to Stark Tower. Back into New York. In the middle of her academic year even though her dad told her it was fine (and she knew it wasn’t fine) she sees him sitting in his lab, buried deep in work.

“Dad.” She says quietly, ruffling his hair.

“Sweetheart,” he says gruffly, voice rough from dis-use. “I told you, you didn’t have to come. Tell me you didn’t drive in this weather. I would have had Happy-”

“Dad.” She says again, because she’s learnt from watching Peter how to deal with people who are just a little too clever and a little too impatient. Who does he think she gets it from?

She rests her head on his shoulder and Tony sets down his instruments, but Morgan’s already seen the way his hands were shaking.

“You guys will be okay.” She promises, because she’s a genius but also because there are some things you just know for sure. Without a doubt.

*

She finds Peter at a bar outside of Cal-Tech.

He’s nursing an orange juice, but he smells like whiskey.

He cringes when he sees her. “Morgan, I know this must be so awkward-”

“A whiskey neat.” She tells the bar-tender, who squints at her like he’s trying to figure out her age, before recognizing her and stumbling in his haste to obey. “Nothing to be awkward about.” She says. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I love you both. Let’s just drink and maybe do some karaoke.”

Peter peers at her, as if trying to gauge her sincerity, and he slides back onto the barstool. “Okay,” he says eventually, “but only if it’s High School Musical. And only if I get to be Troy.”

“You can be Ryan.”

“If you’re Chad.”

They grin at each other.

Everything’s going to be okay.

*

Morgan’s the one in a white dress at the wedding and that feels...right, somehow. Weird. But right.

Her dad’s in some designer ocean-blue suit. It looks effortless on him. Peter’s in a deep burgundy, a bordeaux, and he cups Tony’s jaw in his hand and whispers something that makes Tony’s entire body ease. Tensionless. Free from burden.

Morgan hasn’t seen that very often.

There’s crying (theirs, Morgan will insist to the tabloids, and not hers at all) and there are doves, and the beach, and food, and dancing and golden rings on fingers.

A little after midnight, she’s about to head back to the hotel when she sees them. Two lone figures under the stars.

“How was that?” Tony whispers, arm around Peter’s waist, voice soft as waves.

“Pretty good for a first wedding.” Peter teases, kissing the underside of Tony’s jaw. “It was perfect, Tony. But everything’s perfect with you.”

“I’m not perfect,” he whispers.

“No.” Peter agrees, smiling, and he wraps his arms around Tony’s neck. “We are imperfectly perfect together. I love you.”

Tony kisses him like he can’t help himself, before he pulls back and traces Peter’s eyelashes. “I love you.”

Then, both of them, together: “We love you too, Morgan.”

She gasps, and darts back into the shadows- all fruitless, of course. They’ve seen her. They will always see her.

But then the taxi comes and she sees her own face in the rear-view mirror.

She’s smiling. Just as hard as they are.

[azucanela]

prologue

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption. cursing.

word count: 3k

summary: the internet is enamored with the idea of y/n l/n and bakugou katsuki, two renowned pro heroes, dating. the first issue? the pair rarely interacts. the second issue? apparently, they hate each other, not that anyone knows about that bit. of course, after one night of many mistakes, the whole world knows. 

series masterlist

THE NIGHT OF THE GALA, it quickly came to Y/N’s attention that she definitely should not have waited til the last minute to get ready. But, her own procrastination had bested her, especially since she didn’t want to go, at all. It isn’t that Y/N wasn’t excited to see all her peers, it’s just that...

Y/N wasn’t excited to see her peers. 

Or anyone for that matter, she was exhausted after having just recently returned from one of her longer missions, and though her publicist had insisted the timing was perfect Y/N had to disagree.

She was really hoping for a break, not to be forced into socializing with everyone. And though Y/N didn’t want to seem arrogant in any way, she was a woman who had amassed quite the influence in her years as a Pro Hero. Meaning people wanted to talk to her, they wanted her favor.

Y/N wasn’t in the mood to have conversations with people faking kindness at the moment, which was the primary reason she found herself grimacing as she slipped on her second heel. Nearly falling to the floor had she not caught herself on the edge of the doorway as she hopped out while adjusting her shoe. 

As though things couldn’t become more chaotic, Y/N’s phone rings, causing her to jump at the sudden noise in shock before cursing, hand reaching into her small purse and digging around for the item as she continues towards her door. Just before she can pick up the phone, the call promptly ends, and a knock sounds at the door— causing Y/N to groan in annoyance as she comes to a proper stand and begins to make her way towards the entrance of her home.

The knocks become more rapid, and Y/N suddenly realizes just who is at her door as she rolls her eyes, calling out, “I’m coming you impatient hag.” 

Y/N can practically hear the scoff of her publicist as she finally opens the door, revealing the woman who stands with her brow raised. “We’re going to be late.”

Before her stands Lorelai Flores, one of the most renowned publicists of their time. Y/N was lucky to have scored her seeing as she was one of few Pro Heroes who hadn’t had a scandal yet, miraculously. In fact, Y/N had been one of her first clients shortly after they’d met in a local café— the woman had come from America and Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if life there was more chaotic with how well she handled all her clients.

The woman in question stands before Y/N in a green dress as she removes her glasses, eyes scanning Y/Ns figure before saying, “you look nice.”

A smile finds its way onto Y/N’s face as she lightly shoves Lorelai, stepping out of her apartment and locking the door behind her before the pair begins to head down the hall, “you look great as well!” 

The click of their heels brings Y/N a satisfaction she cant describe as they exit the apartment complex, Y/N lived in a quiet area, an attempt to escape the unavoidable fame being a Pro Hero brought on. It was especially worse when you saw all the posts.

God, Twitter is insane, Y/N learnt that the hard way. Despite the fact that she and Bakugou Katsuki hadn’t been in the same room since graduation— for a reason— the internet had taken to shipping the pair. It was an idea that Y/N abhorred given her history with the boy. After all, they’d practically been butting heads since they met. 

But it was appealing to the masses, the idea of someone “soft” like Y/N, someone known for their charity work and kindness, their sweet smile and endless optimism. And someone... like Bakugou. Harsh, almost ill-mannered and rude— though there was no denying that he’d made progress since their UA days, not that Y/N could confirm this seeing as she hadn’t seen him in so long. That and the fact that last she checked, most of the major headlines involving Bakugou were... not very positive.

Y/N started to avoid social media once she discovered this ship. She and Bakugou didn’t have the best relationship during their time at UA, it was practically a rivalry in their last year especially. 

“All your friends are going to be there.” Lorelai hummed, scrolling through her phone as she side eyed Y/N, the pair slipping inside a limo with ease once they stepped out of building, met by one of many men that Lorelai had hired. She had insisted that now that Y/N was a Pro Hero, she’d be a target too. And of course, her publicist was right. 

Her brow raises, as she settles in the car, deciding to simply reply, “yes, I’m aware they’ll all be there.” It’s a curious comment, seeing as it was an obvious fact. They were all heroes, and given their history with UA, well... the world had been anticipating their debuts for a while. Meaning they all quickly rose to fame, some faster than others, and some remaining in the spotlight far longer. 

Surprisingly, Y/N was included in that bunch, unsurprisingly, Bakugou, Todoroki and Midoriya were as well. Tokoyami had also carved out a nice spot for himself at Hawks’ agency, and Yaoyorozu had managed to become a sidekick to a rather renowned upcoming hero. 

Y/N had also earned a spot at Hawks’ agency, the man demanding her presence because she had “reminded him of himself,” for some reason. And seeing as he was one of the top heroes, who was she to disagree? The man seemed to understand her desire for distance, allowing her to go on missions that tended to be further out from where she’d grown up. And she was more thankful for the space.

She’d taken to philanthropy as soon as the money started coming in. Y/N had never understood just how much money Pro Heroes made until she was earning it as well. Although, seeing as she wasn’t ranked all that high, it wasn’t until she started branching out and doing other work that it became ridiculous.

“All of your friends, Ms. L/N.” Lorelai looks up to her, brow raised as she crosses her legs, resting her clasped hands on top of them.

Y/N offers her a tight lipped smile before waving her off, “I told you to call me Y/N, we’ve known each other how long?” 

“Don’t change the subject.”

Sighing, Y/N shifts uncomfortably in her seat, eyes drifting towards the window to see there are already dozens of flashing lights lined up, surrounding the venue of the gala, hoping to catch one of the Pro Heroes before anyone else does.

With a sigh, Lorelai directs her eyes outside as well, hands clasped together as she straightens herself in her seat, “funny isn’t it? That such a vital job requires so much publicity?” A tight lipped smile forms on their face, “I suppose I should be grateful for it. After all, it’s the reason I have a job but...”

But, Y/N hated it, and so did Lorelai. 

“It’s horrid that my dress matters more than any life I save.” 

And with that, the car comes to a stop. Alerting them that they’ve arrived, coupled with a short and swift knock on the door to signal that it’s time to get out. 

Inhaling deeply, Y/N looks back to Lorelai, who takes out a pocket mirror and removes her glasses, Lorelai eyes herself in the mirror momentarily, blinking once, twice, before saying, “most people don’t bring their publicists to such events you know.”

A small laugh escapes Y/N, and she knows its Lorelai’s attempt at helping her wind down before going inside, though she replies, “you’re more than my publicist.” Offering her a smile, Y/N simply says, “and why suffer alone when I can bring my friend, and who else will make sure I don’t do anything dumb?” 

It was true, it was always nice to have a partner at such functions, someone to hang around or return to. Or more accurately, someone to use as an excuse to leave the more annoying conversations. Though Lorelai always enjoyed the free foods and gift bags— that had items worth more than her rent, Lorelai had once said— and agreed to join Y/N/

Rolling her eyes, Lorelai simply knocks at the door, letting their chauffeur know it’s time before momentarily turning back to Y/N as they say, “ladies first.”

And with that, the door opens, revealing the pair to the world and exposing them to all the flashing lights of the mob awaiting them. People shouting out her Pro Hero name, Empatha.

Named for her quirk, Empathic Mimicry. Granting her to use the ability of those she touches for as long as she wants. However, in that period of time, she can feel their emotions and pain, and the quirk she uses comes with the setbacks of the user. If the person she touches is quirkless, it is possible to get other skills of theirs, but once again there are setbacks. 

Todoroki spent much of his free time at UA theorizing that she and Monoma Neito were secretly related in some way. Monoma on the other hand, seemed bitter about the fact that Y/N was “a better version” of him. Despite this, the memory of Todoroki’s odd question brings a genuine smile to her face as she steps onto the red carpet, swiftly making her way past as she waves towards the cameras. 

It’s just as overwhelming as it was the first time. And the second time. And the time after that. Even if Y/N had taught herself to control her abilities, no longer feeling the emotions of those surrounding her. But she didn’t need her ability to feel the excitement, anxiety— and worst of all the ambition. Ambition tended to be dangerous in the hero world. The reason behind unnecessary deaths, and exposed scandals. In Y/N’s experience it was a dangerous emotion, but she wouldn’t deny it had produced some impressive people. 

The lights are blinding as Y/N maneuvers inside, colliding with someone, warm hands come to rest on her forearms as the person in question mutters out, “watch where you’re going.”

Y/N finds herself freezing, recognizing him almost instantly. By the time her eyes have readjusted to the light, she finds that Bakugou is staring right back at her, mouth gaped open.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Y/N scoffs, tearing her arm from his grasp as he quickly as she attempts to collect herself, inhaling deeply.

Y/N probably should’ve guessed it was him from the screams, pose for a picture! Why don’t you two get a little closer! Can you comment on your relationship? They’re yelling for Bakugou too, wondering why he finally decided to make an appearance. Y/N is curious as well, for different reasons of course.

Bakugou is rolling his eyes before she can continue, “please, it’s not like I wanted to see you either.” 

Y/N nods slowly, offering him a bitter smile as she inhaled deeply— taking a few steps back. “Great to see you Bakugou, truly.” Sarcasm dripping from her tone as she stands beside him begrudgingly, putting on a false smile, “I hate you just as much as I used to.” 

Pausing, Bakugou’s hand comes to hover over her waist, as he stares into the cameras, muttering, “why?” 

“We both have reputations to maintain, do we not?” Comes her response, looking to him, Y/N reminds herself not to scowl as she straightens herself beside him, waving to a group of people and inciting more screams as she beams from beside Bakugou.

His laugh is a bitter one as he replies, “right.” Y/N inhales shakily, removing herself from Bakugou as she offers him a sarcastic smile, “thanks for the show, Sweetheart, but you aren’t all that important. You aren’t doing me any favors right now.”

A laugh escapes her, and the number of flashes increases exponentially, only for her to turn to Bakugou and say, “really now? Well, I suppose you’re right I’m not important seeing as you’re the one on the front page every week for a different scandal.” Bakugou looks away, scoffing, and Y/N nearly flips him off before reminding herself where she is and saying, “And I don’t want your thanks. I don’t want anything from you.”

And then she’s off, offering tight lipped smiles to those around her as she moved further into the venue for the gala, grabbing a drink off the tray of a passing waiter, Y/N mumbled out words of thanks before downing the drink instantly. Making her way past each person when a hand grabs her wrist.

“Y/N?”

Izuku Midoriya, better known as Pro Hero Deku, had intercepted Y/N on her way to the sanctuary of every party. The bathroom. Though he was probably the best person to have caught her, and undoubtedly someone she actually wanted to speak with. Y/N had a feeling he could tell something was wrong from the way he looked at her, concern clear in his eyes, Izuku was always easy to read. But she had somewhere to be and—

And Bakugou would be entering anytime soon. And what infuriated Bakugou more than she did? Izuku Midoriya.

So, Y/N puts a smile on her face as she says, “hey Midoriya.” She clears her throat, moving to stand beside him as she asks, “how are you doing?” 

He beams back at her, his smile as genuine as ever as he responds, “I’m well! And so are you it seems, there are rumors that you’ll be entering the top 100 heroes this year, you know?” 

Y/N had heard such rumors as well, if they were true, she’d be the first of her class to become a part of the top 100. Seeing as they were still basically fresh out of UA, it would be quite the achievement for her to do so at such a young age. Rivaling the progression of even Pro Hero Hawks. 

Raising a brow Y/N shoves him lightly, “scouting out the competition are you, Midoriya?” 

Midoriya’s eyes widen and he immediately begins shaking his head as his cheeks flush a bright red, “absolutely not!” He exclaims, “I’m just so amazed by how far you’ve come and it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” 

A small laugh escapes her at his reaction, her eyes drifting towards her empty glass as she replies, “well I have no doubt that if I do miraculously enter the top 100, you’ll be close behind.” Inhaling deeply, she meets his eyes, “now if you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to the restroom when you caught me.” Once again, his cheeks flush a light pink as he begins to sputter apologies, and Y/N simply smiles as she says, “but we should definitely catch up sometime soon, maybe we can hang out sometime soon?”

A bashful smile finds its way onto his face as he nods slowly, “yeah. I would like that.”

And with that, Y/N waves goodbye to him continuing to the bathroom and managing to avoid any more conversations though few tried. Likely hoping for some good publicity themselves, she could see people beginning to swarm Deku in the distance now— and Y/N finds herself feeling bad that she left him so soon.

But as Y/N makes her way inside the restroom, it finally hits her.

Lorelai meant it when she said all her peers are coming, the woman had probably meant it as a warning. It was rare for Bakugou to attend social events, especially since they rarely ended well when it came to him. Most days, he ended up the headline of every single news sources when it came to his public events, rarely did Bakugou have a good run in with the press. Y/N was shocked he’d made it this far in the hero industry with his poor reputation only worsening at every event.

Oh she needed a drink. Y/N needed a lot of drinks. She couldn’t do this right now, not at all.

But more importantly, she needed fun, she needed lots of fun. So, taking one last look at the mirror, Y/N inhales deeply before exiting the restroom, spotting Izuku Midoriya almost instantly. She makes her way towards him, calling out for him, “Midoriya!” Her words distract him from his conversation, drawing the attention of those around then and the people who were initially speaking to him. 

The boy seems relieved that someone has come to save him from whatever conversation he was having, waving to Y/N as he says, “Y/N?”

A grin comes onto her face as she extends a hand to him, looking to those around him, “sorry to interrupt but—” She turns back to Izuku, “may I have this dance?

He offers her a nervous smile, only sparing those around him a glance as he replies, “definitely.” 

And with that, she drags him to the dance floor, and Y/N can feel the eyes on her as she does. It certainly is a curious sight. Two of the big up and coming heroes heading to the dance floor together after barely any public interactions. Y/N is sure that once the word gets out the internet will be going insane, and so will the press. Weaving together stories of insanity to boost their readership.

At this rate, Y/N didn’t care. 

This was Y/N L/N’s first mistake of the night, but it certainly wouldn’t be her last seeing as by the end of the night, Y/N L/N and Bakugou Katsuki would be on every front page and headline. 

note: lmk how this was pls i need validation <3

[echos-newlegs]

Number 22 off the prompt list with echo or fives with he/him pronouns 😳😳 pls and thank you 🙏🏽

Missing You

Ahh this would be so cute with Echo. May or may not be biased because— I love him with all my heart, but since you offered you get Echo. You are a medic in this because, uh yeah I am SO creative. But anyways, Echo calls you Doc because I dunno how to use cooler nicknames.

Echo x Male!Reader: “I remember practicing to ask you out in the mirror.”

Warnings: It is a little sad because I am kind of in my feels rn. It has its fair share of happy stuff though, don’t worry.

You were a medic, that often worked along side Kix in the Medbay. The first time you and Echo met he was in with a blaster shot to the leg. It wasn’t anything that you couldn’t help in healing, though. Taking over for Kix as he tended to one of his other brothers.

You were calm and collected. Starting conversation with the man to distract him from the pain as you disinfected and then patched up his wounds. Eyes flickering up to look to him when he would wince and tense up. Though he gave you a look that said, ‘I’m fine, keep going.’ So you did.

Echo always requested to have you helping him. Claiming that you were more gentle than his brother was. Which you were, in some ways, but honestly he just wanted an excuse to hear your voice. To be near you. After a few visits, he would start looking for you when he knew you weren’t working. Go out of his way to walk with you to your quarters, or to the mess. Or to wherever you were going. It made your day. You absolutely loved it. He was so kind, and thoughtful. He listened to you, let you talk, and even shared stories with you on the days that you weren’t really in the mood to hold a solid conversation.

But now? Now that was all gone. Now you wouldn’t be seeing him in the medbay, or the mess, or bump into him in the halls. You wouldn’t be able to sit in your quarters with him and eat some of the snacks you snuck in for him from the last mission that you were needed out on the field. He wasn’t able to bring you trinkets from the planets that he visited. None of that was able to happen again. All you had was your memories.

Your damned memories that seemed to be slowly fading after months went by without him. You were beginning to forget how he laughed. Sure his brothers shared the same laugh, but something about his was unique. You were beginning to forget little details, and it upset you more than anything. The others in the 501st could tell, too. They all knew you and Echo were close. Even Fives could see that the two of you wanted to be more than friends. It wasn’t rocket science. So, the moment Rex found out that Echo could be alive. He made it his mission to not only save him for Echo, but for you as well.

Echo wasn’t the only trooper that loved your smile and your kind heart. So he hoped if he got him back for you. Even the closure of his body, then it would finally put you at ease.

You weren’t told about any of this. Not until you heard troopers talking about how they found a POW. You were curious, to say the least. Finding one of the shines that was talking about it with his brothers. “Who was the prisoner?” You asked with a brow raised. You had lost so many men, so many friends after Echo, that you never believed it would be him. Though a piece of you, deep down. Screamed and shouted in hopes that they would say his name or number.

“An Arc Trooper, sir, went by the name of Echo. They’re bringing him back here with Clone Force 99.” The shiny informed you, and you felt your heart stop. Your eyes were darting around. Breathing picking up a bit, this was a joke, wasn’t it? It had to be. Rushing off past the men to find someone to fill you in on what in stars name was happening.

You sooner or later ended up getting a hold of General Skywalker. He could tell you were distressed. “What sort of sick joke is this?” You spat, starting in before Anakin could even get a word in. “The shinies are talking about how Echo is alive? That’s impossible. I was there when the explosion happened, he’s not, why are they saying this?” You were on the verge of tears as you paced your quarters. Running your hands through your hair. “Oh, he’s alive alright. Why don’t you come outside?” He spoke with a smirk. Anakin knew about your feelings for Echo, and you knew he didn’t mind. He was supportive, even. Anakin always treated you like the little brother he never had, and told you to go for it a number of times. Though you never did, and you greatly regret it.

“Y/n, just come outside and see for yourself.” You were brought back to the conversation. Biting your bottom lip and hanging up on the general. Rushing out the door and down the hall. Until you were exiting the hanger and finding a group of people gathered around.

Your stomach was turning. Heart pounding in your chest. Then the world felt like it froze when you saw him. He was talking with a group that you knew had to be Clone Force 99. You knew it had to be Echo, his armor didn’t match theirs. He looked like a clone, at least. If it was, he looked horrible. But not in a way that you still didn’t want him just as bad as you did nearly a year ago.

You were stuck in place, waiting for him to turn, and when he did. His eyes fell on you. His expression dropped, and he froze up as well. “Cyare..” You watched his lips mouth. Your eyes tearing up, it was him. It was Echo. Your Echo.

You started with a fast walk, and then a jog over to the other. Him moving towards you nearly just as fast. The two of you extending your arms and then engulfing one another in a hug. Something the two of you missed more than you could both remember. “Echo, I- Are you okay? oh my force I’ve missed you so much-“ You sobbed as you burried your face in his neck and he rested his forehead on your shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much, too, Doc, not a day went by I didn’t think about you.” He murmured, and that made the dam break. Tears falling from your eyes in streams.

You were at a loss for words, the two of you holding onto one another for what felt like forever, but honestly it wasn’t long enough. “You’ve changed your hair?” He muttered, reaching up to run his fingers through your hair with his good hand. It was longer than the last time the two of you saw each other. “You changed yours, too.” You murmured. Reaching up and running your fingers over the top of his head. Causing the two of you to snicker a bit.

You both parted slightly so Echo could rest his forehead on your own. His eyes, unlike his skin. Were still bright and had some life in them. Your hand falling to cup his face with a small smile. “Y/n?” You raised your brows a bit. His voice was soft, and stars you missed him saying your name. You missed his voice in general. “Yeah?” You spoke in a near whisper. Shuddering a bit as his hand ran to cup the back of your neck.

He looked nervous. Eyes darting to the side and then back to yours. Gulping, even. “Echo, what is it?” You asked again, and he sighed. “I know, I just got back, but I don’t wanna waste my chance, not now, not ever. Never again,” You stared at him, creasing your brows. What was he saying? “I want to take you on a date, just the two of us, I don’t know where, but.. Kriff, Y/n I like you, and I have since the first time I met you. I maybe even love you, you were what kept me going, you kept me fighting. Because I knew you would be there when I got back. Even if you got into a relationship with someone else, you would be there for me, like old times.”

You were tearing up again, and you could see the panic in his eyes when another tear drop rolled down your cheek. “You do-“ You couldn’t speak, for you knew you would just break down. Which would scare him more. So you reached up and cupped his face with both hands now. Pulling him in for a kiss. Interrupting whatever he was about to say.

The kiss was soft, Echos hand stiffening, then relaxing. Along with his lips. Both your guys’ eyes falling shut as he moved his arms down to wrap around your torso. This was when you felt the metal of his other arm. Making you even more angry and upset. They hurt him so bad, but that didn’t change how you felt about him.

The two of you parting after some time. Huffing out breaths as you both tried to steady your breathing and racing hearts. Even though you were both on cloud nine. “I remember practicing to ask you out in the mirror.” Echo blurted. You looking to him with a shocked expression. “You did?” You asked, and he smiled shyly. Looking down towards the ground. “Yeah.. I did, Fives was tired of hearing me talk about you all day, so he told me to take it like a real one and ask you on a date, so I would talk to myself in the mirror.” He spoke, catching your eyes again.

Your gaze softened on him, and the mention of Fives pained you. You were going to have to tell him about what happened, it was the right thing to do, but it wouldn’t be now. That was a conversation for another time. “Yeah? Well, it paid off in the end.” You hummed, and he tittered. Kissing your forehead with a sigh as you leant agains him. “Yeah, yeah it did.”

[peearrdee]

Tubbo’s Nightmare

Summary: As Tubbo’s horns have grown in they’ve start to look all too familiar. Ranboo eases his worried mind.

Characters: Tubbo, Ranboo. Mentions of Schlatt, Wilbur Soot, and Technoblade.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Blood, violence, nightmares/flashbacks/traumatic memories, the events of the Manberg-Pogtopia War, Tubbo’s execution, and Doomsday.

Word count: 917

Tubbo isn’t sure what’s shaking more, the ground or him. Maybe it’s both. The TNT begins to rain down, the flashing column of it like a deadly mirror of the hanging lanterns. In the distance, he can hear the bays and howls of Technoblade’s hunting dogs and the screams as they tear into his citizens. 

He stumbles over a body, and when he turns to look down at them he’s staring at the wooden floor of the van and a pair of dusty brown boots. The weight of the shield on his arm is gone. In fact, his whole arm is numb. His chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a giant fist.

He catches his reflection in the window. A stained, wrinkled suit. Heavy, curling ram’s horns. A sardonic smile and shitty facial hair.

Wilbur says something and Tubbo looks back at him. He can’t understand the words, Wilbur’s saying something but the blood outlining his teeth is too much, the sword in his chest that pours blood onto the floor like a spilled potion is too much. Wilbur points a crossbow at Tubbo, right over the crushing pain in his chest. The tip of the rocket digs in. A pair of hooves steadies the body of the crossbow.

“I’ll make it as painless as possible, Tubbo!” Technoblade says, his words seared into Tubbo’s memory like the scars on his skin. The rocket goes off, overloading his senses with pain and color. Everything is screaming, including him.

The scream jolts Ranboo from his sleep and he sits up quickly. Next to him in the dark, he can see Tubbo trembling under the covers. Another nightmare.

“Tubbo,” he warns before touching his husband’s arm. Tubbo’s head still whips around blindly in panic, before he sees Ranboo’s eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Ranboo. . ?” He’s still not sure if he’s really awake, his body feels far too insubstantial. He touches his chest, where his heart hammers. It’s still beating, not clutched in Quackity’s hand.

“Mhm. Right here.” He rests his hand on Tubbo’s back. Tubbo leans into it, moving the covers to get closer to Ranboo. The weight of his hand is solid and warm, but the nightmare was just as tangible. He imagined could taste whiskey in the back of his throat and smell tobacco on his clothes.

“Do you want the mirror?” Ranboo asks, already grabbing the hand mirror they kept at the bedside for this purpose.

Tubbo nods, touching the side of his face nervously. There was stubble there, confirming his fears. He swallows, not looking at the mirror in Ranboo’s hand. Ranboo takes his hand, wrapping it in his own and gently working his clenched fist open. He’ll worry over the deep red marks Tubbo’s nails left in his palms later. The nightmare is more important.

The first time this happened, Ranboo wasn’t there. But now that they share a home together, they’ve settled into a routine. Put out the light, say goodnight, and if Tubbo wakes up screaming, or Ranboo starts to walk, the other will wake up and soothe the memories that haunt them. Fears like theirs are a difficult thing to defeat, they’ve found.

For Tubbo, it’s a blanket, mirror, and Ranboo’s weight at his back. Tucked into Ranboo’s lap with a blanket wrapped around him, he feels safe. Ranboo holds the mirror for him and wipes away the tears with a corner of the blanket. It’s still him, after everything. Obviously. But there’s always the voice in the back of his head asking “what if”. The horns on his head are just beginning to curl and he can see the stubble on his face.

Ranboo taps his shoulder. “Hey. Tubbo. Look at me. You’re nothing like him.”

“L’Manberg blew up because of me. It was fine when he was president.”

“You were running it, weren’t you? Schlatt just did the speeches.”

Tubbo hugs his knees tighter. “I wasn’t a good president, Ranboo. I exiled Tommy.”

Ranboo hums in two tones, trying to find the right words. “. . . You did, but that doesn’t make you a bad person right now. You’ve changed. You’re better.”

Tubbo doesn’t reply. He feels the same as he did back then.

“Hold on, hold on. I have an idea.” Ranboo pulls his memory book from his inventory, flipping through it. He finds a page from a few weeks ago. Lore-wise, it was insignificant, but it meant the world to him. “Tubbo’s different than I thought he was. In L’Manberg, he was always so serious. Now that I’m spending more time with him, he’s more than that. He likes having fun, and he’s easy to talk to. He has plans to build a new home, away from all the bad memories.”

He flips to another page. “Tubbo’s different now that Dream’s in prison. He smiles way more than he used to and he looks more relaxed. I think he’s figured out that we need to choose people, not sides. He made me a flower crown today, after we brought Michael home. He said poppies remind him of me because they’re red and green like my eyes.”

Tubbo looks up at him, gobsmacked. “You wrote that in your memory book?”

Ranboo nods his head. “Well yeah, I wanted to remember it, that was a really fun day.”

Tubbo looks down at their clasped hands. Ranboo’s long, thin fingers are laced between his much smaller fingers. Both have scars and a wedding ring. He smiles and squeezes Ranboo’s hand. “Thank you.”

[mammons-tax-returns]

Hey! I saw that your ask box was open, so I was wondering if I could request how the brothers (if not all then just Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Leviathan) would react to the mc defending them! Like they get into a fight and their only response was "they were talking bad about you" or something! -🥀 (Also side note, do you right for GN! MC's, or just male?)

BROTHERS REACTING TO MC DEFENDING THEM

Hey anon! Thanks so much for requesting! As for your question, This is TECHNICALLY a male reader blog, however, if it isn’t necessary, I will use he/him pronouns loosely. In other words, if the prompt doesn’t specify/depend on it being a male mc, it will be gn!mc! Hope this clears up some confusion! I’ll start putting whether a post is for a gn or male mc at the very beginning of said post from now on.

✖️GENDER NEUTRAL MC✖️

fluff, some angst :).

Lucifer was more angry than anything to hear that MC had gotten in a fight. The one thing he made sure they did was to stay out of trouble. And yet, they seem to be a magnet for chaos.

He stumbled upon the fight before it got bad, and had the demon dealt with as he accompanied MC to an empty room at RAD.

Although he seemed to be sweating out of exasperation, it was easy to tell that he was simply worried about them.

Well. Kind of.

If you look past the hour-long lecture it is.

MC tries countless times to explain themself, and yet he never fails to reroute the conversation back to his lesson on running from a demon before things get bad.

It gets to a point when MC has to put a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

Only then do they explain what happened, and what caused the fight to begin with.

First, he is absolutely shocked. And he can’t really find the right thing to say.

Then, his eyes relax, and his frown seems to melt away. He truly wants to be mad still, to teach a proper lesson. But he just can’t do it.

“It is true that humans tend not to think things through, I suppose.”

He crosses his arms and continues, “Well, I appreciate it, but I don’t need the protection.”

After ruffling their hair, he smirks a little.

“I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you if you rush into situations like that. Maybe put you on a leash.”

After things are cleared up, he finds the situation a little comical. A human defending a demon.

Luckily, the wounds aren’t bad, or else Lucifer wouldn’t have hesitated giving some sort of consequence to the MC.

Mammon is, unfortunately, not around to witness or intervene into the fight.

So when the next time he sees MC there’s a dark magenta ring around their eye, he loses it.

He wastes no time taking them home from RAD. We know he never really cared for classes anyways.

Unlike Lucifer, he wants to hear them out on the way home.

Although he physically feels himself getting butterflies in his stomach from the idea of being cared for, he clears his throat and tries to push it aside.

He knows that they’re not going to be taken away from him anytime soon. At least, not with his unintentionally vice grip on their wrist they aren’t.

And yet he can’t help but constantly flick his gaze back to them and their wounds.

We were all waiting for this one: he feels horrible that they got hurt because of him, albeit indirectly.

He puts emphasis on steering clear of hotheaded demons— or, all demons that aren’t the brothers for that matter.

“I hear ya, The Great Mammon is a gem that all of devildom should be tryna’ protect! But... You’re better off ignoring that... I mean, look at ya! All beat up and stuff... N-Not that you look bad or anything. Well... Um.”

When MC laughs at him, he’s both relieved that they’re not upset enough to sulk, and embarrassed because of his wording.

So they have to reassure him that they simply find him worth protecting— for exactly this. He cares for them, and is probably willing to protect them too.

As he’s sloppily tending to their bruises, he offers to spend the day with them.

He says its his payment, and that he would defend them when Lucifer found out about today.

But it’s more so the fact that he wishes more than anything to spend every day for the rest of his demonic life with them.

Levi is another brother who is unfortunately not around at the time due to his home schooling.

That’s why he’s one of the last people to find out about it, and he feels guilt hit him like an 18-wheeler.

The injuries are a little more severe, but nothing that would keep someone from going about their daily life. Nonetheless, Levi is demanding to be the one to patch them up.

As soon as MC cuts him off before he can start rambling, they make sure to explain the situation, i.e. “I had to defend you! Or else they would have kept talking bad about you.”

He turns red and covers his mouth, undoubtedly mumbling something about how impossibly romantic the situation was.

But after that, he shakily asks that MC tries not to talk as he takes time to let everything sink in. He still can’t believe it.

So he finds himself shakily asking questions like, “So... You just heard him and decided to-... To defend me? No one asked you to?”

For every reassuring nod that he gets, he feels his head spin a little faster.

It takes him a while, but all the wounds are properly sterilized and taken care off beneath his cold fingers.

He leans back in his seat, and blows out a slow puff of air. “MC... You’re badass. Seriously. I don’t really know what I, a demon, have done to deserve you... But... Thank you.”

The conversation ends with tears, but they couldn’t have been anything but happy.

He just can’t believe someone could go as far as to fight for his sake over a simple ill-intended comment.

Satan witnesses the event. Which... May or may not be a good thing.

MC doesn’t notice him at first. They’re too busy with the demon that has her hands on their uniform collar.

But then they see the green flames licking at their peripherals, emitting from somewhere behind them.

The demon girl in front of them seems to lose all color in her face at the sight of those same flames. She instantly drops MC to their knees, and attempts to run.

As Satan steps forward to grab the female student, he spins MC around with ease so that they won’t have to witness whatever he’s about to do.

MC doesn’t know how much time has passed due to the shock of the moment. It could be seconds or minutes. But when Satan pulls them back up to their feet, he is stone faced.

MC walks stiffly to the House of Lamentation with Satan, careful not to set anything else off in him.

The entire walk to his room is silent. The first time he speaks is when he offers a seat on his bed, nudging books aside with his foot.

He takes a deep breath before he begins diligently tending to the injuries.

“Mind explaining what happened?” He doesn’t sound angry at them, but it’s hard to tell with him.

Satan notices the hesitation in answering, so he gives a small smile. “Are you scared? You shouldn’t be. I’m just a bit... Tense, is all.”

After a moment, MC tells him the reasoning for the fight.

Satan sighs once more and places a hand on theirs. Oh to be so selfless yet still be a fragile human.

“MC... Demons talk. And it’s not always nice. It’s best to just let it go, okay? Well... Give me their name first, but I can’t have you losing a limb for me. Who knows what i’d do then.”

MC can’t completely promise that they’ll simply forget about anyone that talks badly about him, but Satan only gives a helpless sigh.

“What ever will we do with you.” He is much more relaxed than before, and his tone is affectionate.

MC doesn’t know what happened to that girl, and you figure it’s best to never ask.

Asmodeus is preoccupied with a hand mirror, but a circle of gathering demons certainly catches his attention.

He hums, interested. He’s always been one for drama.

But as he peeks over the crowd, his heart sinks impossibly deep in his body.

MC isn’t bloody, but by the looks of it, they may be very soon.

While he’s ridden with shock, a punch lands on their face, and the crowd roars. The yells overtake his own, and he can’t get through the group of people pushing and shoving.

Diavolo and Barbatos were alerted of the congregation of students, and are only just now arriving. And at the sight of them, students scatter like bugs. Leaving MC on the ground and clutching their face in pain.

Diavolo and Barbatos leave MC in the care of Asmodeus while they turn to resolve the problem with the attacker.

Asmodeus is frantic, fanning his face as he helps MC to sit up. He doesn’t know what to do first, does he ask to see the wound? But what’s the point when he doesn’t really know how to treat it in any circumstance? No one has ever socked him in the face before.

So he opts to carry them off to the infirmary, bridal style. All along the way, he gives reassuring words that seem to slightly calm the injuried MC.

“Hey, beautiful! Ughh, the nerve of some demons! I can’t even begin to— Oh right... The ice pack, I’ll get that now, so sit tight, love!”

While he allows them to press the ice to their eye themself, he is massaging his frowning face. All while he seems to be worried about all the wrong things.

“Is this type of injury permanent on humans?? Your face is too good for that!” “That low-level demon... I wish I could ruin his face a hundred times worse than what he’s doing to innocent bystanders!”

MC patiently allows him to vent, because hearing him fret of the most “Asmo” things somehow brought light to the situation and distracted from the throbbing in their face.

An hour must have passed before Asmo actually takes in the situation. “Oh, but I haven’t even asked... What in devildom were you doing with such a grotesque demon? Do I have to replace Mammon in guarding you?”

Finally, MC explains.

He’s less than shocked. Instead, he holds his own arms with an almost sympathetic smile, “Oh, darling... It’s better to talk to Lucifer about things like that... If at all. As the Avatar of Lust, It’s kind of part of the program to get nasty birds twittering about you... Fan behavior.”

MC seems less than convinced, replying with a small, “But...”

Asmo grins and puts a gentle hand on their shoulder. “It’s adorable that you’d do that for me, MC, really. I wish I could just dress you up and show you to the world, show them how special you make me feel! But please. Don’t sacrifice your complexion for a-ny-thing!”

Even Asmo can feel himself get butterflies when MC does the smallest of things for him. But taking care of that face is no joke to him.

Beel is at the gym when it happens, and is the last one to hear about it. The brothers are all discreetly trying to decide whether or not to tell him. We all know how scary he can get.

MC listens to Mammon... For some reason. And that entails avoiding Beel until the scrapes and bruises on your body heal.

Bad idea. Beel now looks like a hurt puppy, and is desperately trying to figure out what he has done.

The fateful moment of realization for him comes on a Tuesday night, less than a week after the incident. MC walks into the kitchen, searching for a late night beverage to drink and also hold against their wounds.

Beel is already there, instantly looking ashamed when he sees them.

“Beel...” MC starts, forgetting that they were supposed to be avoiding him. They stop themselves before hastily pulling their sleeves down to cover the lingering bruises.

This catches Beel’s attention to detail when it comes to others.

His eyebrows furrow a bit, and MC gulps.  There was no getting out of this.

Before completely explaining everything, MC has to calm him.  Because if not, he’d be checking every inch of their body for serious injuries.  And even if there were none, he’d never let them leave bed for the next week.  At least.

They take a deep breath and start with the people poking fun at his soft personality in such an intimidating body.  And then finishing with the plan of steering clear of him to keep him from getting worried.  (you leave out mammon’s part last second)

At first, his eyes are serious as he listens intently, silently going over things more than once in his head to ensure that he was understanding the story properly.

Once MC has finished, his eyes change completely.  They’re soft, and concerned, but not overbearing.

MC felt a bit guilty seeing him like this.

Beel reaches out to hug them, but is hesitant, worried that they’d still be hurt.  So MC has to let him know that their wounds have healed for the most part.

“MC....  Firstly, thank you.” He pulls them into a soft hug.  “It makes me all happy on the inside when you do things like that.” His voice is quiet, but much too unstable.  MC knew that this was a telltale sign that he was near tears.

MC doesn’t hesitate to reach up and stroke the back of his hair, feeling him bury his head into their shoulder.

“Beel? Are you okay?”

“I should be the one asking you that.”

‘you should know better’ is what he wants to say. But maybe they don’t, he thinks. Afterall, when was the last time a human with such limited magical capability was surrounded by demons 24/7?

“I just need you to promise me.” He carefully pulls back and sucks in a breath, keeping himself from imagining MC scared and hurt without him— because of him.

“Promise me that you’ll tell me about things like that first. Before you get yourself hurt, or... Or worse.” There’s another word that he has to stop himself from saying. He doesn’t know how he could handle that thought.

There, he thinks. If they didn’t know before how serious it was, now they did. Hopefully.

The brothers notice that Beel is a bit more normal than the days before, so they assume that things have been cleared up for the two.

Although they have to pretend as if they had never heard about the incident when he mentions it.

Belphie was definitely not there when it happened.

But unlike with every other brother, MC was unable to be saved immediately after having found themselves in a brawl with a low class demon.

MC silently curses as they find themselves limping through the halls of the House of Lamentation.

They’re lucky to have only gotten out of that with an injured ankle, they remind themself. It didn’t seem... Broken. But it definitely needed more medical attention than it received now— A knee-high sock they pulled off of their foot wrapped tightly around a ruler they used as a makeshift splint.

They were sure that the majority of the brothers were at school, so they’d have at least a few hours to figure out what to do.

How would the brothers react if they saw them like this? Would they feel that this was a mere inconvenience? Afterall, this may just be a bad sprain, and now look at them. They can barely limp. Much less walk. But maybe after a bit of rest, it would magically heal.

They decide to head to the music room (?), where they knew that none of the brothers would immediately run into after school.

After finding a stool to sit on, MC hisses when they bump their ankle on the floor. The throbbing seemed to shake their whole body.

“Holy shi—“

“MC?”

A sleepy drawl from the couch behind them causes them to freeze. They wanted to slap themself. Of course Belphie would be sleeping here, why didn’t they think of that?

“What’re you doing h—....” He stops.

MC can already tell that he had noticed the poor job they had done with their ankle. “I fell down the stairs. But it’s okay, I just—“

“MC. I’m not stupid. Why are you home so early, alone? If you skipped or left early, Mammon would have sniffed you out like a dog and be here, too. Spill it.”

If Belphie was good at anything (besides sleeping), it was reading emotions. There was no lying anymore. And so MC simply explained the fight and its causes.

When they turn to look at him, he simply blinks. He doesn’t seem very concerned, but he sleepily walks over to inspect their leg.

He’s careful to support their foot as he lifts their entire leg, checking the swelling.

“... Geez. You’re stupid.” His eyebrows knit together with an unknown emotion. Worry? Irritation? A mix of both? “I don’t care about what such irrelevant demons think, and you shouldn’t either.”

MC is a little speechless, but only laughs. “Yeah. It was a little dumb looking back at it. But you should have heard them, Belphie... There was no way I’d go without a fight, okay?”

Belphie smiles back. “If you wanted to prove yourself to me... There were other ways, you know?”

“Should we get Beel to help us set up the pillow fort?”

“Well, how else are you gonna heal? You can’t get better if you don’t rest with me.”

[intangibly-here]

if I'm let go now (i’ll just fade to blue)

xiao x gn!reader

⁃ scenario; 1.7k words ⁃ forest child!reader ⁃ angst ⁃ hurt no comfort

————————————————————

he holds your heart (warm red, steadily beating) in his palms without even knowing.

title from chevy - floating.

————————————————————

your first memory is one of a forest.

the emerald green canopy of draping leaves, the mossy trails dotted with mushrooms. the singing of birds, small sparrows and rounded bluejays, filling the skies. the dry bark pressed against your back, but a small form nestled in the hollow of a tree stump.

you are a child of the forest.

and as a child of the forest, one without origin, one without mortal ties, one that only knows itself and it’s own longing - you know deep inside your soul there is only one thing you’re looking for.

what that thing is, you’re unsure of;

nonetheless,

you must look for it.

and so you pick yourself up and travel.

-

distantly, you know you’ve lived these lives over and over again.

the very first one was as a sand-built traveler of the desert, born encircled by a patch of cacti. in that life, you had searched for an oasis, a single child by your side.

the child spoke of a land where plumes of magic spiraled through the lands, where islands remained suspended in time, hovering over grounds unchanging.

you smiled and patted the child on the head.

upon arriving at the oasis and returning the child to their family, you felt a tug. the tug was not one of great strength and painful efforts, but one of a  gravitational force that exceeded physical abilities of all kinds.

you followed it, retracing your steps back to the ring of cacti.

where everything begins, everything similarly ends.

you crumble and dissolve into golden pools of sand.

-

of the endless trail of lives you’ve lived, most have become inescapably forgotten, merged into a blur that made them indistinguishable from one another.

the most memorable would be the one you’d lived last, as a wisp of a spirit clinging to the shoulder of an ethereal woman.

though in the midst of war, she remained a gentle, kind, innovative soul, always seeking to change for the better.

she was stunning.

and as you watched her live her life out, eventually (inevitably) returning once more to the field of glaze lilies, lain on the flowering plants to drift away, you wondered.

wondered how immortal beings could care so much about loss, when endings were only the relieving path of entering the cycle of reincarnation. the path to wipe clean the slate of life and start anew.

staring at the regal man kneeling by the goddess’ side, silent tears running down his face, you disappear with the wind.

-

as you travel, you slowly realize the world you’ve manifested in is not one of roaring vehicles nor bustling machinery like several before, but of the last one you’d visited, the one of the goddess and the heartbroken man.

you make your way back to the same land, where once stood a ruined fortress now stands a flourishing city. you can see how stalls line the sidewalks, even from where you stand on the cliffs of the outskirts, paved pathing making for a guide towards the entrance of the harbor.

as you’re thinking about how far this city has grown since you last walked the land, you catch sight of a quick-footed figure, alert and patrolling the vast land that is liyue.

this is who you’ve been looking for.

-

at first, it was just an obligatory interest. one that is duty-bound, directed by a play-writer hidden behind the boundaries of the world and tied together by the strings of fate.

then, as the weeks, months, and then years go by, you find yourself watching the little things he does, inadvertently noticing things you wouldn’t have realized without paying even closer attention.

the way that he protects the city both day and night, even when there are hundreds of other adventurers like yourself (a side job you’d picked up where you’d complete commissions whenever you were free) to do that.

the way he lets his short hair flow loose and untamed, the mark on his forehead only drawing out the elegance he exudes.

the way he’s quiet, caring even in the silence when he still suffers. the hope that you can ease his pain, even if only for a moment, with a comfortable silence.

it all makes your mind spiral out of control, your emotions coming undone from the container you had them sealed in.

you wonder what it is.

(you might have an inkling of the answer already.)

-

“today’s your birthday?”

you turn around, brightening slightly at the sight of the adeptus. you could get lost in the mirrors of his eyes if he would let you.

maybe he would let you.

“..something like that.”

you’d only revealed it last year when mrs. goldet had asked. it’s been a few years since you’ve made your way to this inn when you think about it.

he shifts where he stands for a moment, maybe a little nervously, and then presents you with a neatly wrapped gift box. he must’ve taken time with it.

“may i open it?”

he gives you a brief, confirming nod of his head.

when you undo the ribbon and carefully open the lid of the small box, you come to see a finely weaved butterfly of leaves.

you lift your gaze from the tiny creation, and xiao immediately looks to the side.

“take it. it’s an adepti amulet- staves off evil.”

you look at the reddened tips of his ears and the defensive scowl on his face and file it into the archive of your memories.

“thank you, xiao.”

-

“please hand this to xiao.”

you look at the packet the geo archon (zhongli, you learn he’s called) presses into your palms with utmost sincerity.

“it’s... to relieve his pain.”

your eyes soften unconsciously, and you dip your head in silent agreement. now, to look for him.

-

ah, so this is where he was.

your heart aches, the feeling of an overwhelming, all-consuming urge to cry rising up in you.

the wind picks up, tree leaves swaying in the breeze, following the movements of the two figures residing in the hollow of the forest.

a safe place for just the two of them.

you are intruding.

the longer you stand, watching, staring, unable to look away no matter how desperately you wish to, the more your chest throbs, the bone-deep ache of wanting to disappear spreading throughout your body.

the sound of a flute, clear and sweet, floats through the air, slim fingers smoothing over the sides and playing with skill you could never imitate.

the figure you’ve been looking for, upright and powerful and all that you have ever seen (all that he has ever allowed you to see), is relaxed for once. you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his spear is left untouched, rested upright against the trunk of a tree at the edges of the clearing.

you do not belong here.

then, to the sound of the flute, xiao begins to dance. the field of flowers blooms with his gentle, languid movements, petals surrounding him as he flows around the serene space.

it is exactly as he’d described to you once before, that his sweet dream would be to dance in a field of flowers to the sound of a flute.

his dream has become a beautiful reality.

you cannot dream that it would be you he dances with anymore.

as he spins around, a stunning dance that displays his years of experience with agile movement, he turns, takes off his mask, and smiles, the genuine kind that is both awkward due to disuse and tooth-rottingly sweet at the same time. a full blush covers his face warmly.

you should’ve realized long ago whose flute he was imagining.

you blink once, twice, and the tears start to fall, ones you never thought you would cry.

if you could, you would offer your entire being up to him, your heart, these thoughts, these new feelings, on a platter for him to keep, stored away from where anyone could ever reach them. it is not theirs’ to see, only his. it would never be anyone else’s, only his.

(he does not need them, not your heart, nor the medicine.)

the pain in your chest doubles over.

(he does not want them - except it’s only your heart he does not want.)

you understand now what morax had understood hundreds of years ago, where you as an immortal spirit did not.

(he does not want you.)

your gaze tilts upwards from where you stand in the shadows of the greenery, watching the picturesque scene in front of you unfold.

you are a child of the forest, but for once, this forest is not for you.

-

the moment you walk back to the inn, you feel the otherworldly tug.

how convenient.

(oh. you love him.)

it’s to be expected. your time here is up.

you smile at the owner, and maybe she sees something in your eyes because when you hand her the packet (“give this to xiao when he returns, please.”), she nods and says nothing.

(love, love.)

and so you return to your forest, steady footsteps over hills and plains and lakes and rivers. the blue of the sky melts to orange-reds, then to navy-blacks, then back to orange-reds once more, and the cycle repeats over and over and over again.

(lovelovelovelove-)

the moss greets you first, shifting under your feet in semblance of the way his eyes would whenever you met his gaze.

then, it’s the birds, singing slow melodies you know he loves, their clear song a reminder of how he would hum familiar tunes.

finally, it’s the trees, their leaves falling and submerging you softly, like how you would to him with blankets when he fell asleep out on the balcony, tired from the weariness of an immortal life.

you too, are now tired.

for one last time, you sob your heart out, sitting on the forest floor with nothing around you but the animals and plants.

what do you cry for? the birth of these painful feelings? the lack of reciprocation?

(you’re unsure.)

(maybe it is for your unimportant existence.)

you blink your eyes closed for the final time, and your body falls to the ground with a thump.

the butterfly of leaves drifts out of your clutches and fades with a desolate glow.

where everything begins, everything similarly ends.

(may you stay asleep for eternity so you don’t have to remember.)

you disappear.

[hiccstrxd]

Heaven is you

This was an idea i had for Rayla's birthday and the outline seemed too wholesome to not do it lol. It has family feels and rayllum being soft as always. Read it on ao3.

Summary: Rayla always remembers her past birthdays with fondness. But this one in particular has brought her an abundant amount of joy, filling her heart with the purest of loves.

Or a recollection of Rayla’s birthdays through the years.

i.

Rayla always remembers her past birthdays with fondness.

She recalls being four and waking up to her mum’s soft voice in her ear, a happy birthday, my love being lovingly murmured in the air. She would pretend that she was asleep, cracking one eye open from time to time and doing her best to contain in her laughter as her mother would start to rub her hair soothingly to wake her up. But she would burst into a fit of giggles before her mum could say anything else — even though Rayla is pretty sure she saw past her flimsy excuse of a stoic facade — and her mother would start to laugh alongside her, tickling her belly and asking her when has her little moonbeam gotten this sneaky.

She hadn’t, obviously.

She’d scoop her in her arms and they would go downstairs where her dad would be cooking her favorite breakfast — he’d always go all out when it was her birthday. And he’d see them still laughing as they approached, he’d see them — his two favorite people ever — and he’d come up to them, lifting her in his arms and making her laugh, telling her that today she chose what they would do because today was all hers. Because he’d move earth and sky for his tiny warrior.

And she remembers the glimmer in her mum’s eyes, her father’s beaming smile, her own expression mirroring theirs; she remembers feeling loved, safe, and content.

ii.

Rayla recalls being eleven and coming back after nearly an entire day of training to a cake on the dining table, a sole candle lit on its center, and a neatly folded paper resting beside it. It was rather late, her whole body ached as the practice had been a vigorous one, but upon seeing the homemade gateau she no longer felt the ever consuming exhaustion. No, she felt lighter, more at ease.

Ethari had been sporting the warmest of smiles, his eyes showing every bit of love towards his foster daughter who they had come to care for as their own. Runaan had walked over to where his husband was and stood right next to him, somehow matching his emotion almost instantly — he had been sort of tense before leaving the meadow — and they had wished her the happiest of birthdays, holding her tightly in their embrace, muttering words of comfort and pride and love.

She remembers thinking that there was still a void in her heart as the aftermath of her parents’ absence, but being there surrounded by her two guardians that loved her an abundant amount and whom she loved as much in return, that showed her day after day their support and their care was enough to bring her solace.

She had felt love all the same.

And she always looked forward to reading her parents’ letter at the end of the end. The words were like a warm hug from afar. She became misty-eyed and held the letter close to her heart for hours as if she was keeping her parents in a safe place near her heart.

iii.

She recalls being sixteen and sitting alone in the Xadian forest. She had been wounded and restless, tired and alone. Everywhere and everything hurt, but ironically she had felt numb from head to toe. Somewhere in the back of her mind she vaguely remembered what that day was supposed to be.

And the bittersweet afterthought made matters worse because then the pang in her chest was just a little too hard to ignore.

Rayla had felt cold and empty, being alone with her thoughts was as harmful as it sounded and the unbecoming urge to cry was getting hard to suppress. But she ended up shedding tears, letting them fall freely as they have been welling up and contained in since much too long ago.

It was her birthday, and she had tried to forget it, making herself not feel, perhaps then the pain would subdue.

It hadn’t.

iv.

It was her birthday and she couldn’t get the royal physician’s words out of her head. They were spinning, echoing, repeating themselves. And she felt equal amounts of excitement and trepidation all at once.

Congratulations Your Highness, you’re with child.

They have been trying, of course, they have, so the news shouldn’t be such a surprise to hear that their efforts had actually turned out fructiferous. But they have, and she didn’t know how to assimilate them without cutting the appointment short and leaving a very confused physician behind, one who was patiently waiting for a reaction out of her.

Because she was excited and elated and so beyond happy that it was taking a lot of willpower to remain seated and not run off to find Callum.

“Your Highness? Is everything all right?”

She blinked, “Of course.” Rayla offered them a smile. How could it not be, honestly?

And after a couple of recommendations and how they’d like to see her in the span of a few weeks — after all, the babe was still a halfling and the pregnancy was to be monitored constantly for that matter — they bid her goodbye with another well-meaning congratulation on the way.

Rayla couldn’t help the fast pace in which she was walking nor the beaming smile from breaking out.

“Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking nonstop for you. What did the physician say?” She heard Callum’s voice round the corner; the worried tone of her husband of three years was enough to make her smile deepened because he was just the sweetest person ever and she just knows that he’s going to be the best father out there.

And the mere thought was enough to make her heart burst with adoration.

He took a couple of steps forward and placed one hand on her cheek, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth, “Are you all right?”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words left her mouth before she had time to catch herself, before she had any time to dwell on how to tell him, but after they were out, she knows that there was no better way, no better time. Because seeing those expressive, loving eyes widen in realization, going through every emotion in the span of a second, how his hand stilled its movement on her cheek and how she heard his breath catch in his throat was as heartwarming as if she’d had outlined a grander plan in advance to break the big news to him.

“Really?” He whispered, barely audible.

She hummed.

“You are pregnant?”

She hummed again.

“There’ll be a tiny, perfect mix of the both of us in a couple of months?”

Rayla nodded unable to keep the grin off her face, her arms coming upwards to lace them loosely around his neck and raising herself on her tiptoes to breath small kisses across his cheek — damn those two inches he had gained on her. Their chests were pressed together, and she felt the deep rumble in his chest that soon turned into a peal of boisterous laughter that surely could be heard through the entire hallway. The sound was too contagious to not let out one of her own.

His arms came to encircle her waist, engulfing her in a tight hug, both of them shaking with laughter and happiness and pure delight.

“We’re having a baby.”

“We are.”

They pulled back slightly, faces inches away from each other’s, noses brushing against one another, breaths mingling in their shared space. She wanted to capture this blissful moment in a picture.

And then his lips slowly curved into a smug grin.

“Don’t.” Rayla raised a single brow, looking pointedly at him because she knew where his mind had headed in a matter of seconds. And because she also remembers rather vividly exactly what he had thought about — it had been a very nice anniversary gift, after all. It had carried the promise of fervent love, a burning passion, and a couple’s desire of at last starting a family.

He let out an amused laugh, “I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t have to, I practically saw you thinking about it!” She rolled her eyes playfully and crossed her arms over her chest, letting out a huff in faux disbelief at her husband’s antics. They locked gazes, grass green meeting amethyst violet, a glimmer in both of them. They couldn’t help the small laugh thereafter.

His eyes softened as the laughter ceased, pulling her closer by the waist and planting one tender kiss on the lips, feeling all the love conveyed in such a small action and trying to reciprocate as much as she was receiving.

“I love you.” She said lovingly when they parted, her hands coming up to cup his jaw in a light grasp.

He brought one hand to his lips, kissing the underside softly, “I adore you.”

Rayla knows that it wouldn’t be easy, parenting — motherhood— never was as the rising self-doubts, the exhaustion of both mind and body, the anxiety of diving into the unknown, and all the possible mistakes that were bound to be made. But, she thinks, as long as they have each other — and everyone else who has been there for that matter — this baby would be raised with abundant love and affection. She'd make sure of it.

It was superfluous to say that this birthday by far had brought her one of her greatest joys. A surprise that couldn’t be topped by any other.

[stargaze-issei]

— "𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞" (𝐛. 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭; when your father, the head of the japanese mafia, was killed, your childhood friend swore to protect you till his death. now, you're the empress of the underground world, and he doesn't know what's harder, to keep you safe or manage to hide his feelings. what will he do when, for the first time, your life's at risk and he isn't anywhere near?

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; mafia!au, angst.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; swearing, mentions of blood, guns, murder, kidnap, yk... mafia stuff.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 2.7k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; lemme know if u want a part two bc i felt like it was getting too long and i don't know if anyone will read it or like it 👉🏻👈🏻

"where the fuck are you?" bakugou's voice stroke over the phone, noticeably angry. he had told you several times to never go anywhere without him, which you mostly did, if it weren't for him being away a lot of times. nothing less was expected from your right hand, who handled every dirty job, and considering your line of work, it wasn't scarce. but you did had other bodyguards, just as trained as katsuki, willing to give their lifes for you, which was extremely better than having bakugou giving his life.

to his eyes, you were still the little girl from before. he saw you as a someone who needed protection. at first, you agreed. your father was murdered, someone managed to get through all his security and killed him, none of the guns he and his security team carried around could protect him, killing you would be like stealing a sweet from a baby. bakugou had always kept you safe, despite his agressive usual safe, he cared about you more than he cared for himself. so you stuck to his side, believing, hoping, he'd die for you. but that was a long time ago, now, you could defend yourself, and had raised a sense of loyalty in your people by your own. your father's empire was based in fear, yours? by admiration. you didn't see your people as working ants, but as important parts of a whole. still, anyone who was a threat to you, bakugou made sure to erase them forever.

"don't talk to me like that, i'm your boss" you could feel him losing his shit, a smile began to form in your face. even when everyone respected you, he was still the same.

"you can't boss anyone if you're fucking dead, you dumb shit" a laugh came out of your throat, he couldn't avoid smiling at the sound "wait, oh, okay, i know we're you are. stay there, i'll be in three" he hung up before you could reply.

you looked back, at one of your guards who was just putting away his phone. of course they told him. why couldn't you go get your own coffee? being in the office all day was tiring, to be five minutes outside was all you asked for. a few seconds after, they handed you your coffee, obviously, a guard had to try it first, in case that barista wanted to suddenly murder you. of course he didn't.

"who let her go outside without me knowing, huh?" a furious katsuki appeared through the door, making a scene in the place. you gave him a warning look. if there was something you hated, was that. everyone in the area knew who you were, but why make it any more obvious. those people were just living their usual lifes, and people tend to get nervous around you. "the car is waiting outside" he understood, but you knew he was going to scold you anyways.

you walked outside, smiling, and got into the car, followed by katsuki and one of his subordinates, the other one got in the front sit, next to the driver.

"save it, i'm n–"

"the fuck you are" he cut you "your safety is my responsibility, if i say you can't go out without me, then you fucking don't. specially not when there are people after your head" there was no denying he was right, but still, it upset you.

"there's always people after my head, bakugou".

two weeks ago, two men went into your office. they were in charge of some dealing territories, though small, important. most contraband had to pass those places, you controlled those police departments making everything easier to your truck drivers. they were beaten, cover in blood and barely standing.

"our men, all of them... they all..." only one of them could talk, the other being too shocked to even look at you. "kazuhito's men, it was them... they said we had to tell you, they're coming after you" you couldn't show any fear in front of your so called soldiers, and your template remained at ease. a shout was enough to get those men the help they needed, after holding their hands, you promised to go see them once they were checked by doctors. you called bakugou as soon as they left, he was the first who should know and help you decide what to do next.

the kazuhito family had always been rivals, enemies of the worst kind. everyone suspect they were behind your father's assassination, but with no proof, even you knew it would be the biggest mistake to charge against them, despite your personal desires.

"i already told the drivers they had to take rout b for a while, but we can't let them just keep what's our" you explained to katsuki once he arrived. "those drugs have to get in town by us, damnit". it was clear how frustrated you were, those assholes had mess with your and your father's hardwork.

"if we retaliate, a war will unchain. your father tried to avoid that for years"

"and see how he ended up" bakugou didn't know if it was the anger, or you talking. "we will lose everyone's respect if we don't do something, they killed dozens of our people, katsuki".

he was trying hard to stay objective in that situation, but it was near impossible. a war would put you in more danger than ever, your life was at stake, and bakugou wasn't sure if he was willing to risk it. growing up by your side, your father taking him in when his parents died, you were his only family. more than that, he loved you. the only reason he was able to do his job right, was the fear of losing you. your head was already valued in millions, how could he protect you in the middle of a conflict, that would end only with your death or the kazuhito's leader's death? your power was bigger than theirs by little, but they did something that reckless, which meant they thought they had out powered you. had they? or were they just bluffing? had they miscalculated?.

"we're taking action, wether you support me or not" you looked into each other's eyes, you knew him enough to understand his fear, just not the reason behind it. your voice softened "but i'd much rather do it with you by my side".

"you're the boss" he spoke, already regretting it "i'll schedule a meeting so the high charges let everyone else know, i'm staying at your place so we can trace a plan".

and there you were now, being reprimanded by bakugou. he was extremely tired, he decided to stay with you until things were calmer, which could be several months from then. getting up at six a.m, going to sleep past midnight, being always looking for possible threats, it had given him bags under his eyes.

"i'm sorry" you said once you were alone with him, it was only then that you could let your guard down "i'm making this harder for you".

"yeah, you are. but it's my job, after all" that came out wrong, he thought. it wasn't his job, it was his fucking life purpose. he wanted you to live a long, happy life, as hard as it seemed.

"i guess it is" deep down, his response disappointed you.

"hey, look at me" out of nowhere, his body was insanely close to yours, you felt his breath in your face as he lifted your chin with his finger "there's nothing i wouldn't do for you, got that, dumbass?"

for a brief moment, the taste of his lips was all you could think about. i bet they're soft. but as fast as it started, it was over, katsuki pulled away harshly, inventing an excuse to leave. he had flown too close to the sun, so close that it burned his skin.

a few more people went to see you that day, asking for diverse permissions, advice and stuff like that. since it had been slow, compared to other times, you decided to home early. a call to your team, and the car was already outside. bakugou left instructions for your departure, because he had things to do somewhere else, much to his displeasure. you were accompanied by your escorts to the doors of the building, that seemed like a normal office compound. there were waiting two other guards, making a total of six people protecting you. way to go, bakugou.

"how's your wife, ryota?" you asked the driver. of course, not everyone fitted in the same car, so you got into the second one, middle seat, between a built up woman and a big man. you tried to remember everyone's name, but it was difficult.

"she's good, ma'am, sends her regards" he smiled at you over the mirror.

"and the baby? he must be a month old, right?" at the memory of his child, his face lightened "you should take some days off, i bet your wife and son miss you"

"i have a duty with you, m–" a loud impact interrupted him, the front glass had exploded. the car had an abrupt movement back and forward, all you could see was blood, everywhere.

the woman next to you took her gun out, in order to protect you , you thought, completely wrong. before everyone could react to her act, she shot the guard in front of you.  you looked at your side, searching for someone alive, the same bullet that had killed ryota was in the guard's at your right forehead. besides you , the only other person was that woman. if she hadn't glasses on, that stare could've seen throughout your soul. then you remembered, katsuki made you bare with a knife under your sleeve. with a weird move, you felt its sharpness against your skin, it was there, but she read you like a book. before you could even pull it out, another shot stroke followed by a intense pain in you thight. the bitch had shot you. you blamed it on the adrenaline, because nothing hurt. what happened after was a couple of blurry images in your memory.

bakugou had called you more than a hundred times, you, the drivers, the guards, everyone in his fucking team, but no one knew anything. the cameras at your house never showed you arriving, your phone's location was off. he was out of his head, if he didn't hear from you in the next five minutes, someone's going to die. he rushed into his car, following your rout at a dangerous speed. 

both cars were full of bullet holes, and every guard he had hired was dead. there wasn't a place without blood. tears of pure rage came to his eyes, fuck, it was his fault. he started to look for you, but the whole world was spinning around him. where were you? where was your body? were you alive?, this couldn't be happening. he had left you unprotected, alone, and now you could be dead, because of his uselessness. his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"sir, we– we have– the kazuhito's are here" he left as fast as he came. they had touch you, they had taken you away from him, and he wasn't going to let them get away with it, even if he had to go against a whole army, whoever was behind it all was going to pay.

a man in a suit was sitting in the chair of your office, smoking a cigarette, as calm as a rock. katsuki was so close to rip his head of right there, that somebody had to hold him down. his own people updated him, saying that he had gone into the building alone, with no weapons of any kind, not even a cellphone.

"where the fuck is she?" he crashed his hand against the desk.

"ah, mr. bakugou, please take a se–"

"tell me where she is right now if you want to keep your head, fucking bastard" his hand had wondered to the tip of the gun in his belt, menacing to blow up at any second.

"you won't do that, mr., if i don't return to my people in one hour, she'll be so fucked up that not even you will recognize her" a laugh surge grom bakugou, a dark, cold laugh.

"i don't have to kill you, then" one of the man's hand rested in the desk, like asking for katsuki to rip it off his body. as you did, he also carried knifes under his shirt. in less than a second, one of them was buried into the man's hand. he screamed, both in shock and pain, giving your bodyguard a hatred look. "what do you want, shitface?"

"i-it's quite simple, actually" his face was white as paper, and even though he wanted to talk normally, his voice shivered "we want you to take over the y/l/n's business, under our command of course" he let out a sigh, trying to keep his composure and ignoring his bleeding hand "if you– if you agree, she will have to leave japan and never..."

bakugou won't agree to that. not now and not ever. to give away what you and your father built from scratch, and spent decades keeping safe, was like killing your child, and your father's memory. to send you away, alone, where he most likely won't see you again in years, was also off the table. it wasn't funny anymore. he started walking around the man's chair, picking up his sleeves. he checked the clock in the office, he had forty-five minutes with the man, meaning, forty-five minutes to make him talk. he ressourced to every fast interrogation method he knew. the people outside the door weren't surprised when they heard the man's screams, even wondering what had taken so long for the boss to start acting. katsuki was never a patient man. his senses were blocked, he couldn't hear anything but screams and begging, all his eyes could see was pain through all the man's body, his hands felt nothing but warm blood. but for the first time in a while, he wasn't enjoying it. he was doing it out of need, the need to save you. every minute that went by, was a minute were your life risked. he never felt so close to losing his sanity.

"outside the city! she's in one of our safe houses outside the city! i don't know which, please stop!" ten minutes before the timeline he finally gave up. your intelligence had all their safe houses, storages, garages, every location needed. not a second passed when one of yours men delivered a map with all the points marked. there were five in total.

"throw him outside in ten minutes" he shouted, walking to the armory "two teams, six people each, my fucking people, hear me? now, dammit! we're leaving in a minute, if i have to go by my fucking self, i'll do it"

when he was armed to the teeth, almost a dozen of people followed him outside. they were his most trusted men and women, being trained together, he knew they were as skilled as him, and they were all willing to put their life's at stake for you, their boss. in the car, bakugou barked the instructions. he had narrowed it down to two possible locations with all the information he had. if they had to kill every person in those places, then be it. he's going to get you back.

[whumpmatsus]

Can we see Karamatsu and Ichimatsu fight over some chocolate milk. Maybe with little injuries.

at first I was like "oh that's a little silly"

but then I was like... well, fuck, this is EXACTLY the kind of thing these dumdums would do 🤣

-

All things considered, it’s not too often that the Matsuno brothers fight over food when there’s plenty to go around. As long as they all get a fair share, even if it’s a special treat, that’s usually good enough for them.

Notable exceptions include four-packs of anything, given how impossible they are to split evenly, and… chocolate milk, though obviously not for the same reason.

Oh, sure, the local supermarket where Mom shops frequently carries six-packs of single-serve flavored milk, like the kind of packaging one would get with juice boxes to put in kids’ lunches. They almost always have strawberry, banana, coffee, orange… but for whatever reason, a dumbass reason as far as the brothers are concerned, that supermarket doesn’t usually carry chocolate milk.

So, of course, when Mom brings several cases of chocolate milk home, it means war.

There are twenty-four little boxes of it in total, which means they each get four. It’s easy. Or, it should be. As horrible as they all are, when it comes to sharing a treat like this, they want to stick to splitting it up just right so every brother gets as much as he’s supposed to.

The truth is that with something like this, all of them want to savor it. They want to make it last. After all, when it’s gone, it’s gone, and who knows when they might get more?

Unfortunately, given that there’s now only one box left, someone must not have drunk one of theirs. The problem is that both Karamatsu and Ichimatsu are pretty sure the only remaining one is theirs. Considering what a rarity it is, they’re prepared to fight tooth and nail for it.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what they’re doing right now.

“Villain!” Karamatsu hisses as he brandishes a soup ladle like one might a sword. “I think I would remember if I had taken my last one!”

Ichimatsu mirrors the gesture, but his weapon of choice is a metal spatula. “And I wouldn’t?! Give it up, Shittymatsu! Just because your memory is as sucky as your face, that doesn’t mean you get to steal my last drink!”

The clang of metal hitting metal echoes through the kitchen. “It is not yours! I deliberately saved my last one for today… I was going to drink it right before I went to pachinko so I’d hit it big!!”

“Oh, please! How would that make you hit it big?!”

“It would energize me!! Keep your foul, thieving hands away from my chocolate milk!”

“It’s not yours!” This angry assertion is punctuated with Ichimatsu winding back before swinging the spatula at his older brother’s head. It hits its mark with a slapping sound that would be sickening to anyone outside the family who heard it.

As far as the other Matsunos are concerned, this is just another day in the household. Or another day with the sextuplets, at any rate.

Most of the time Karamatsu is horrified by the thought of hurting any of his brothers. He’s always reluctant to do it, even when they’re hurting him. Today, however, he strikes back with equal fervor to Ichimatsu’s blow. Maybe it’s something about the allure of chocolate milk, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s now got a cut on his temple, dripping blood down the side of his face.

The ladle is just as true as the spatula was, smacking against Ichimatsu’s cheek in a way that’s certain to leave a bruise. As soon as it connects, though, a more pressing issue presents itself: Ichimatsu screams, dropping his ‘weapon’ in favor of clutching his cheek.

“FUCK! Oh, my God, my teeth!”

It appears the spell is broken, at least for Karamatsu. He tosses the ladle to the floor and rushes to his brother’s side. Ichimatsu is in a heap on the floor by the time Karamatsu kneels next to him, feeling guilty despite his own injury from Ichimatsu drawing first blood. “Ichimatsu! A-ah, I’m so sorry… let me see…”

Ichimatsu whimpers pitifully and moves his hand away from his jaw so his brother can take a look. “I think I’m bleeding…” He glances up with a mirthless snort. “S-so are you, though.”

“Yes, well… we’ll deal with that later.” He sighs and grabs a sheet of paper towel, carefully pressing it against where the blood in Ichimatsu’s mouth seems to be coming from. “Here, hold that for a minute and I’ll get a real towel so this doesn’t stick to your teeth.”

He’s back in only a few seconds, quickly replacing the paper towel with a damp, cold cloth. Hopefully, that should soak up the blood as well as soothe the pain. “I’m so sorry, again… I got a bit carried away. But that’s no excuse ― a good man shouldn’t be causing his little brother pain over something as trivial as a drink. Please forgive me… how bad is it? Do I need to drive you to the hospital?”

Ichimatsu shakes his head and eagerly holds the cloth against his mouth. “Ow… no… don’t think anything’s chipped or broken… just hurts.” He looks up again, and a wave of self-consciousness flashes over his face. “… ‘m sorry, too. I threw the first punch. You should fix your face.”

Karamatsu almost chokes himself in an effort not to start laughing. Then he reaches up to touch the cut and remembers that, well… he should fix his face. He’s bleeding, too. “Ah… right, yes. Here, let me… help you to the couch first, so you can relax. I’ll fix this and then come check on you.”

He helps his younger brother up to his feet so they can head into the other room. Surprisingly, Ichimatsu doesn’t pull away. He also doesn’t lean much closer; he just lets Karamatsu do whatever without any complaints. “Ichimatsu… you take the last chocolate milk. It might be yours anyway, so… I-I don’t want to fight over it.”

“N… nah, I, um, I think it’s probably yours,” Ichimatsu huffs. “Maybe I’m remembering that I drank my last one yesterday. After I got home from feeding the cats.”

Karamatsu chuckles softly as he deposits Ichimatsu on the couch. “You can have it, though. Please. I really want you to take it. As an apology, because I… I do believe I hit you a fair bit harder than you hit me. So I want to make it up to you.”

Ichimatsu settles down on the couch, tentatively removing the cloth to check how much he’s bleeding. Thankfully it looks like it’s starting to slow down. “Are… you sure?”

“Yes, of course! Anything for my darling fourth brother.” Karamatsu beams, giving a gentle pat to Ichimatsu’s leg. “It’s not worth hurting each other over, and I’m sorry I’ve done so. Let me go clean my cut… then I’ll get some painkillers into both of us. And I’ll bring you that milk ― it should cheer you up!”

“Heh. Okay.” Ichimatsu doubts there’s anything in the world that could truly do that job, but it’s funny to watch Karamatsu try. And maybe he’s just a tiny bit grateful. “Um. Thanks.”

The second eldest offers another smile and a thumbs up before he heads to the bathroom. All things considered, the wound Ichimatsu gave him isn’t too terribly bad. Though it does sting to wash off with soap, it’s not bleeding heavily, so after he gets it cleaned and puts a bandage on it, it feels better.

He’s out of the bathroom in only about five minutes, heading to the kitchen to grab the last chocolate milk. Maybe if Ichimatsu is feeling up to it, they can even share it.

When he walks into the room, Totty is there now, closing the fridge. “Hey, Karamatsu-nii-san! I heard a bunch of noise out here a minute ago… do you know what happened?”

Before Karamatsu can ease his youngest brother’s worries, his eyes are drawn to the box in Totty’s hand as he lifts it to take a drink.

It’s the last box of chocolate milk.

Son of a bitch.

[tripleaxeldiaz]

maybe one day i’ll fly next to you

chapter 6/8

read on ao3

start from the beginning

Eddie gets cleared with two weeks to spare, and they celebrate by making out on Buck’s couch for so long it actually starts to hurt.

Buck can admit that as excited as he was to give this thing of theirs a go (“You can call me your boyfriend, Buck, it’s not a bad word”), there was still a part of him that was nervous. Nervous about how it would affect him, would affect both of them, especially now, when they’re physically and emotionally exhausted as they hurtle closer and closer to Beijing. For the first week, Buck kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Eddie to realize this was a mistake and break it off cleanly, before they got in too deep. He knows what a monster he can be when he’s strung out on stress, and only Maddie has ever been able to see past the short words and shorter temper and get him to breathe again. 

But one day, after an awful practice that brought the monster out in full force, Eddie found him hiding out in the locker room, fuming by himself and at himself. He didn’t chastise him like he could have (like he should have), didn’t tell him he was overreacting or that he was too much. Instead, he did what had become such a pillar in their friendship: he sat next to Buck and waited. And when all the anger and frustration finally seeped out of him, Eddie was there with a warm, solid, grounding hand to pull him back to his feet and away from the edge he was mentally leaning over. No judgement or invalidation, just genuine empathy. 

And that’s all it took for it to slot into place for Buck. That no matter what, they’re friends — best friends — first, and their very unique life paths means they understand each other on a level that no one else can. Being boyfriends just means they get to do more fun things together now, like making out on couches like the real teenagers they never got to be.

The weeks after Eddie’s clean bill of health fly by, and they’re heading to Lake Placid before he knows it. Buck’s excited — he’s always excited for Nats — but he also feels a looming sense of foreboding, like any minute, something is going to go terribly, terribly wrong. The last time he competed here was four seasons ago, when he won his last Nats gold, two weeks before shattering his leg and Olympic dreams in one fell swoop. Who’s to say it won’t happen again? Maybe the universe has decided that the Olympics are not for him, and this weekend will result in a last place finish or another injury or something else that takes everything away from him again.

He feels a warm palm against his and a squeeze, looks up to see Eddie watching him, framed by the snowy mountains whizzing by the bus window. His brow is creased in worry, like he can see the storm starting to swirl in Buck’s head. That worry, the way Eddie knows him, is strangely grounding, pulling him out of his dark cloud enough to actually enjoy the view of upstate New York they have as they make their way to their hotel.

The pre-competition routine is easy, familiar, and Buck lets himself get lost in it, block out any and all doubts that keep trying to sink their claws into him as the weekend gets closer and closer. Eddie’s there every step of the way too, not at all the distraction Buck had been worried about for way too long, but a welcome calm in the clusterfuck of his emotions, something for him to hold onto and gravitate back towards when it all starts to be too much. He can’t believe he survived this season — or any other season — without this to balance him out, but he knows for a fact that he’s never letting it go.

It’s the morning before shorts, and Buck is woken up by obnoxious pounding on their hotel room door. He feels a groan rumble through Eddie’s chest where it’s pressed against his back, smirks as he feels his arms wrap tighter around his waist.

“If we’re quiet enough, maybe they’ll go away,” Eddie whispers.

“Get up losers, we know you can hear us,” Chim yells through the door. Buck throws back the covers, chilly morning air making him even more irritated, and yanks the door open, coming face to face with Chim and May.

“Oh thank god, he’s wearing pants,” May sighs in relief.

Buck squints an eye at her. “It’s 8:00am, what could you possibly want from us this early?”

“It’s team bonding day,” Chim says with a grin. “We’re going to Mirror Lake. Grab Eddie and your skates and meet us at the bus in 15.”

“What if we had our own plans?” Buck asks, crossing his arms. “How do you know we weren’t gonna spend all day in bed having—” A hand clamps over his mouth from behind him before he can finish.

“We’ll see you guys down there,” Eddie says. He shuts the door on them and pinches Buck’s side, turning toward his suitcase to find clothes.

“What?” Buck asks, laughing. “I was gonna say having a movie marathon, you didn’t let me finish.”

That earns him a sweatshirt thrown at his head, but Eddie’s looking at him all fond and soft when he throws it, so Buck’s not complaining.

Mirror Lake is the very definition of “winter wonderland” — the ice seems like it’s never ending, so clean and smooth you almost feel bad skating over it. Mountains and forests surround it on all sides to hide it away from the rest of the world, and Christmas lights are still strung up in the trees and around houses. It’s fairly empty this early, just a small group of kids playing a pickup game of hockey near one of the inns. A dusting of snow covers and muffles everything, bringing a sense of stillness and calm that’s unmatched anywhere else.

Buck takes a deep breath and revels at the bite he feels in his lungs. All the thoughts and voices filling his head finally quiet down, and he can just be here, enjoy this time with his friends without worrying about what’s going to happen tomorrow or next month. He knows it won’t last long, will all come flooding back as soon as they leave the lake, but he’s going to soak it all in while he can. 

He’s fallen behind the group a bit as they spread out, taking in the sight of everyone — Maddie and Chim holding hands and matching strokes like always, Hen and May making up some kind of obstacle course, Bobby and Athena lost in deep conversation as they glide. He keeps looking until he spots Eddie, a little ways from the group, moving and spinning to the music only he can hear in his head. He’s as graceful as ever, confident in every movement, but there’s peace in him too — he’s at ease, free from the pressure of competition and perfection that Buck knows rests so heavily on his shoulders. The early morning sun bathes him in golden light, but it’s nothing compared to the smile sent his direction when he catches Buck watching.

He’s so beautiful it actually takes Buck’s breath away.

Eddie makes his way back to him, the light following in his wake. His smile is even brighter up close, but Buck only gets to enjoy it for a moment before he’s being pulled into a kiss so sweet and slow and perfect it makes him dizzy. Eddie pulls away just as quickly as he came in, the smile replaced with a smirk, and Buck barely registers the words “Race ya!” before Eddie’s speeding off to the other side of the lake. He’s stunned for a minute before he pushes off too, catching up with Eddie and doing his best to cut him off the rest of the way. Their laughter echoes off the mountains, surrounding them in their own joy, and Buck for the life of him can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie’s in first and Buck’s closing out the group, because apparently the universe gets a kick out of watching him suffer.

They’ve been in this same situation so many times before, and he used to be able to turn his irritation at another flawless skate from Eddie into determination, propelling his own skating to be as close to perfect as possible. Now, though, he feels...proud. And happy for Eddie, because despite the weeks out and any lingering pain, he was flawless again — everything perfectly landed and rotated, a commanding presence on the ice. It’s a weird feeling, but it’s also nice, especially when Eddie winks at him and mouths good luck as he makes his way to the kiss and cry, and Buck’s whole body fills up with giddy butterflies.

Turns out butterflies work better than anything else for him — he’s 10 points in first place after shorts, and he feels so electric, so on top of the world he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Until he sees Eddie again on their way to the presser, costume still sticking to him with sweat in all the right places, hair mussed and cheeks rosy.

Then there’s only one thing he wants to do, and he can’t believe he has to be polite to reporters before he can do it.

He manages to be nice and not stare at Eddie the whole time, but he snaps as soon as they get back to their hotel room, pushing Eddie up against the door as it closes and kissing him fast and dirty.

“Is this your way of distracting me so you win tomorrow?” Eddie asks, breathless from the kiss, fingers threading through Buck’s hair as Buck trails kisses down his jaw and neck, pausing only to shove Eddie’s jacket and shirt off so he can get to more skin. He stops again just as he gets to Eddie’s chest, his breath ghosting over a nipple and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Eddie’s pupils are blown wide when he meets his eyes, and the blush on his cheeks and crawling down his chest is so pretty Buck could write sonnets about it.

He smirks, the novelty of the effect he has on Eddie far from wearing off. “Do you want me to stop?”

Eddie shakes his head, cupping Buck’s jaw to pull him back up. “Fuck no, don’t even think about it,” he says before kissing him hard again, tongue licking into his mouth immediately, and Buck can practically taste the quiet, subconscious sounds Eddie makes as his fingers run down his chest and stomach. He quickly thanks whoever made track pants a part of the Team USA uniform before shoving Eddie’s down his thighs and finally getting a hand on his cock, already hard and leaking. Eddie whines as Buck breaks their kiss, but it settles into a sigh as he resumes his trail down his body. Normally he’d spend a lot longer working his mouth over as much of Eddie’s skin as he can reach, relish in the salty sweet taste of it and hit all the places that make Eddie’s hips buck forward without his permission, but he’s only got one goal in mind at the moment. He’ll make it up to Eddie later.

He finally swallows Eddie down, hears a “fuck” and a thump above him as Eddie’s head hits back against the door. He knows exactly what Eddie likes — the first week of their relationship was pretty much dedicated to figuring out all the best ways to make each other fall apart. Eddie gets a hand in his hair again as he hollows out his cheeks and hums, vibrations sending another wave of shivers over Eddie, making his hips rock even more. Buck looks up, and Eddie looks wrecked, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, head thrown back and neck bared. It’s a miracle, really, that Buck doesn’t come right then and there.

“Christ, Buck, I’m—” Eddie tugs on Buck’s hair in warning, but it just makes Buck go faster, coaxing and coaxing until Eddie’s spilling into his mouth. Buck just barely has time to finish swallowing before he’s being yanked back to his feet and into a searing kiss, Eddie wasting no time in tasting himself on Buck’s tongue. He barely registers where Eddie’s hands are until he feels one wrap around his cock, steady and determined. He’s so keyed up now that it doesn’t take much — a few twists of Eddie’s wrist and a bruise sucked onto the underside of his jaw has him spilling over Eddie’s hand before he knows it. 

He presses kisses to every part of Eddie’s face he can reach as he comes down, soaking in the warmth radiating from him, only stopping when Eddie not so discreetly tries to wipe his hand on Buck’s pants.

“Hey!” he cries, laughing at the look on Eddie’s face. “Go wash your hands like a normal person and come meet me in bed.”

“Room service?”

“Duh.” He kisses Eddie’s nose before flopping onto the bed and flipping through movie rentals. The rest of their evening is quiet, full of bad movies and french fries and conversations about everything and nothing, and Buck feels an ease that he never feels the night before free skates. Tomorrow may be make or break for him, for both of them, but in this little cocoon of theirs, his face tucked into Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s arms around him as they drift off to sleep, the worry and nerves and anxiety feel too far away to touch him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The worst part is that he knows it’s a dream.

He knows if he jumps in real life, he’ll always come back down. Maybe not gently and maybe not on his feet, but after half a second of air time, he will touch the ground again. 

But now he’s taken off and he just keeps going — it’s completely impossible, but he’s still scared. Scared of the unknown that he’s propelling towards, scared that he can’t control his body or where it’s going, scared that it’s all going to end and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Fear turns to pure terror as his weight shifts of its own accord and starts sending him back to the rink he’s made up in his head. He thinks (hopes) he’ll wake up before he makes impact, but the panic is still clawing at him, sinking into his bones and running all the worst case scenarios though his head. He crashes through the ice but it doesn’t stop — flashes of disappointed faces, snippets of voices tinged with pity for him and the fact that he failed once again. It’s cacophonous and overwhelming, but he catches specific voices — Maddie, Bobby, Eddie — that try to push through, try to pull him out, but it’s not enough. He’s falling into the nothingness of his own failure and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.

He finally wakes up, his skin feels like it’s buzzing, alive with lingering panic. He’s got an arm around Eddie’s waist and his face pressed into the back of his neck, and he takes a minute to breathe him in and get his heart to slow back down. It’s early, barely light out, but Buck slips out of bed, grabs the comforter from the other one, and quietly slides open the balcony door. The snow is just starting to glow from the first rays of sunlight, and everything is quiet, still, a direct contrast with the thoughts and feelings still swirling in Buck. He sits on the little bench facing the surrounding forest, does his best to focus on the chill in the air and the quiet nature sounds around him, tries to shut out everything else and be right where he is.

It takes a while, but it helps. 

The sun is fully up by the time he goes back in, and Eddie’s just finishing packing up his skating bag. Buck’s bag, actually. Eddie’s is already set by the door. He feels on the verge of tears again, but not in a bad way.

Eddie turns to him as he slides the door shut. His eyes track everywhere, like he’s cataloging Buck, taking stock before making a move. Buck’s stupidly grateful for it — he feels like one wrong move could send him cracking all over again, and it wouldn’t be Eddie’s fault, but he’d get the brunt of it. But Eddie knows him better than almost anyone, so whatever move he makes will be a good one.

He watches Eddie move slowly toward him and reach for his hand, giving Buck every opportunity to back up and say no. That’s not at all what he wants, so he meets Eddie halfway and laces their fingers together.

“Do you need another minute?” Eddie asks quietly.

Buck shakes his head. “I’m okay. We have to leave soon anyway.”

“Will you believe me if I tell you that everything’s gonna be fine?”

“Probably not.”

Eddie nods. “Okay.” He tugs Buck toward him, gently kisses his forehead, cheek, and lips. “We need to be downstairs in 30 minutes.”

Buck squeezes his hand and heads towards the bathroom. He steps into the shower and tries to convince himself that Eddie’s right.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Channel your nerves, Buck. Everyone here is rooting for you. Show ‘em what you got.”

Buck nods at Bobby before pushing off the boards. He hears On the ice, representing the 118 Skating Club of Los Angeles, Evan Buckley and the applause that follows, but it sounds tinny and far away. He’s trying to channel everything — his nerves, doubts, fear of failure, whatever — and make it work for him, but it’s not as easy today. He feels heavy, like his body isn’t quite in line with his mind and what he needs to be doing, and he knows he’s going to be fighting himself for every element for the next four and a half minutes.

The music starts and he tries to float with it, use it to push through the extra gravity he feels and lift himself up more. He lands his first jump — his triple axel, usually one of his strongest — but feels himself wobble, knows his GOE will be low. He misses the second jump on his first combo and has to mentally comb through his program to figure out where he can tack it onto to make up points. On and on it goes — he doesn’t fall, there’s no monumental breakdown, but he’s subpar, doesn’t meet his own expectations and probably doesn’t meet those of the USFSA. He finishes with the fakest smile he’s ever slapped on his face and all but sprints to the kiss and cry.

Nats scores are always inflated, so he doesn’t do bad, but he’s certainly done better. There are three skaters left, including Eddie, and a terrible part of him hopes that the other two eat ice so he can still finish on the podium and salvage his spot in Beijing.

They don’t. Naturally. He sits in the green room as they each have the best skate of their season and leap frog over his score. Eddie’s last to go and he lays it all out there, like he’s already at the Olympics, but Buck’s hardly mad about that. He’s a force, attacking every jump but still keeping a softness in his movements to match Jeff Buckley’s voice. Buck’s got chills up and down his back during his last step sequence and into his final pose, and he knows it’s a gold medal by a mile. And he’s happy for Eddie, ecstatic even, but he also feels his heart break a little bit, because Eddie winning puts him in fourth.

The pewter medal. A stupid consolation prize that only the USFSA gives out. He’s technically still on the podium, but it somehow feels worse than if he’d finish last.

“You had a great Grand Prix this year, that counts for a lot more than Nats,” Eddie says on the ride to the airport the next day. It’s the first time Buck’s let him talk about it without changing the subject or kissing him or literally walking into another room. He’s run out of energy to avoid it anymore. 

“They’ll want someone consistent, and that’s clearly not me.”

“You have the second highest overall score in the country this season, fifth in the world. They can’t ignore that.”

Buck shrugs, picks at an errant string on his hoodie to avoid looking Eddie in the eye. He feels lips press to his temple and unconsciously melts, head moving down to rest on Eddie’s shoulder.

“It’ll all work out. We’ll be in Beijing together, I know it.”

Eddie’s always so confident, so sure in his convictions and unwavering in his beliefs. Buck loves him for it but it’s also unnerving, because he wants to believe as hard as Eddie does, but he knows how this goes. He works and works and pushes and pushes but in the end, it’s not far enough. All his hard work, his literal blood sweat and tears, can’t get him that extra inch closer to where he wants to be.

It happened four years ago, and he can feel it happening again. And this time, he won’t be able to blame a broken leg for his failures.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Buck, stop shaking your leg, you’re gonna trigger an earthquake.”

Buck scowls at Chim but stops. It’s been three days since Nats, three days of waiting, knowing that at any minute, the USFSA is going to post their final Olympic team. He’s been on edge for 72 hours because they won’t have an idea it’s happening until it happens, and he thinks he might be starting to go insane.

“It’ll be soon,” Maddie says from where she’s leaning on the boards. They’re all supposed to be warming up, a long day of practice ahead, but they’re congregated around the benches instead, anxiety crackling between all of them like lightning.

He doesn’t even notice his leg starts shaking again until Eddie places a hand on it to stop him.

“Opening ceremonies are in three weeks,” May says as she stretches on the floor. “They’re cutting it awfully close if they don’t announce, like, today.”

Chim groans as he stands up from the bench to join Maddie. “Why is it even taking so long? They’ve seen how the season’s gone so far, there can’t be that much left to deliberate.”

“Do you think they’re actually still deciding, or just waiting because it’s dramatic?” Buck asks.

Eddie snorts. “Probably the latter.”

“Guys!”

They all turn towards the doorway to the locker room, and Buck feels his blood run cold. Hen is there, looking calm as ever on the outside, but he meets her eye, and he knows.

“They just posted the list. Bobby has it up on his computer.”

Chim grabs Maddie’s hand and sprints, and May is hot on their heels. Eddie gets 10 feet in front of him before he realizes Buck hasn’t followed. He’s frozen in place, hands numb, heart beating so hard he’s worried about his ribs. Right now, on the bench, he can convince himself he’s living in a world where his dreams haven’t been crushed, where he still has a chance. Once he takes a step, that all ends.

Eddie comes back for him, grabs both of his hands and waits until Buck meets his eye. When he does, he gives him that small, soft smile Buck knows is just for him, and it feels like he’s saying I believe in you. It’s enough to get him moving.

They catch up with the others just as they get to Bobby’s office, and they jostle and crowd around the desktop, trying to get a clear view. Buck’s thankful for his height and looks over everyone, the world quickly narrowing to just him and the computer screen.

From the top, the list goes men, ladies, pairs, dance, so he starts from the bottom to delay any disappointment. 

He feels the tears prick when he sees Chim and Maddie listed, his smile nearly splits his face at May’s name. Eddie was inevitable, but his heart still soars when he sees it written out.

And then.

And then.

His name. His name, just above Eddie’s. 

Evan Buckley. Right there, clear as day, in Times New Roman font.

He’s glad Chim and May are already crushing him in a hug, because he’s pretty sure his knees have given out.

This is real. This is happening. Eddie is squeezing his hand and Maddie is crying and it’s happening.

They are officially, officially, going to the Olympics.

[cdyssey]

Exit Strategies

Summary: Before they break Alexei out of a maximum security prison, Yelena convinces Natasha that they should rest, that they need to.

A/N: I finally got the chance to see Black Widow today and ugly sobbed through almost half of it. Natasha and Yelena deserved so much more—oh, my GOD, it's not fair.

AO3 Link

—

It’s only when the gas needle edges precariously below a gallon that Natasha frowns, the stark cut on her lower lip curving like a bow just begging to snap.

“We need gas,” she breaks the long silence between them. Yelena glances over at her sister’s profile, sharp and distinct even in the semi-darkness, slightly tinted blue by the BMW’s luminescent dashboard. Her angular jaw. The ribbon-like strands of red hair plastered to the side of her face. The bruises beginning to feather the column of her neck from their recent fight.

And the purple shadows beneath her visible eye.

The lines.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Yelena quips because it’s easier than being sincere, easier than dealing with all of the effed-up history between them. They used to snuggle in the same bed, wrists crossing wrists. Mere hours ago, they came close to strangling each other to death with curtains. 

“We also need to rest. Can’t go taking down a multinational child soldier complex on zero hours of sleep, y’know.”

“Mmm,” comes a noncommittal reply, short, patronizing. “You sleep. I’ll drive.”

Yelena simply stares at the older woman, searching, incredulous, and frankly, a little miffed. Has she always been this much of a martyr? She interrogates her own memories—the ones from her childhood are the clearest she has—and surprisingly concludes that, yes, she’s always been this way. 

Natasha would get into fights on the playground when older kids tried to bully Yelena.

And she was good with her fists.

She would always win.

“Don’t be stupid, Natalya. You’re not superhuman. Let’s pull off at an exit and get a motel room.”

“We don’t have time for that. My contact’ll be at the rendezvous spot at twelve tomorrow.”

“A few hours tops,” she promises, wheedling, glancing at the car’s central display. It’s 2:07. There’s plenty enough time for them to get some sleep and make it back to Norway, especially with how fast Natasha drives. They’ve never been under eighty-five the entire time they’ve been on the freeway. “C’mon. I stink. You stink. We both need showers and a vodka shot.”

“I don’t stink,” Natasha wrinkles her nose disdainfully. But even as she says it, she lets off the pedal and eases into the right lane. The speedometer slowly sinks from over a hundred to ninety… eighty… seventy…

“You do,” Yelena snickers, mischievous, triumphant, a little kid again teasing her older sister about a hopscotch victory. She arches a smug brow. “You smell like shit.”

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

But she watches, with fascination, as the corner of Natasha’s mouth twitches, the cut on her lip quivering too.

—

They get gas at a twenty-four hour station and buy a few necessities inside—some snacks, a bottle of cheap vodka, gauze, painkillers, a pack of Skittles for Yelena.

It’s been a long time since she’s had Skittles.

They’d once been her favorite candy.

Natasha had always preferred chocolate bars.

And behind their mother’s back, their papa would indulge them. 

Hush, my little kittens. He would raise a conspiratorial index finger to his mouth. Don’t tell Mama now.

“Jesus hell,” the clearly sleep-deprived cashier says, taking in their haggard, bloodstained appearances.

“We just got back from fight club,” Yelena supplies cheerfully.

“Do you got change for fifty euros?” Natasha asks.

—

At 2:40, they finally pull into a motel, a dingy, little dump far away from the main part of the city. The stolen BMW looks out of place against the worn-down building, all sleek and shiny and new. This is the kind of establishment that most people settle for, not actively choose—unless, of course, said people are two Russian killers trying to evade detection from a militant Taskmaster.

Yelena and Natasha are silent as they creep into the motel room that had been designated theirs by the scruffy faced twenty-year old working the night shift at the front desk, handguns drawn as they flick on lights and canvas the room as they had both been trained to do.

Two queen sized beds.

A boxy TV that looks like it could have been at home in the nineties.

A musty smell in the air.

A spluttering air conditioner in the window.

A framed painting on the wall of something that looks vaguely phallic.

“Clear in the bedroom,” Yelena calls after she checks under each bed. 

No monsters under there.

“Bathroom’s clear too.” Natasha walks out of the side door, replacing her Glock in her thigh holster. “If the front door gets blocked, our exit strategy’s the window in the bathroom. Leads out into some woods. We can climb a tree and pick threats off from a decent vantage point.”

Again, Yelena stares at the woman in front of her, trying to reconcile her bruised and scratched face with the kid from twenty-odd years ago, the one who used to make shadow puppets on the wall for her to laugh at, who’d comb her wet hair at night when Mama was working. 

There’s so little light in her eyes left, the particulars of her voice perfectly calculated to be distant.

Yelena wants to pull her hair out, wants to stomp around a little, wants to throw a tantrum and scream.

They lived together for three years.

They were sisters.

And Natasha… Natasha is distant.

“Do you always have an exit strategy?” Yelena blurts out a little stupidly. Of course she has an exit strategy. They’re trained fucking spies for God’s sake! Hell, Yelena even has a tentative exit strategy! 

(She's just gonna crash through the window and start shooting.)

But she is and really isn’t asking about exit strategies. 

Even as her lips formed the words, she knew this. Even as the words fell from her tongue, she felt their insufficiency and knew the depths of her own vulnerability.

Is that all you can look me in the eye and talk about, Natalya?

Exit strategies?

This is our first night together in twenty-one years, and you can stand here and tell me that the trees are the best place for blowing people’s brains out?

Natasha shrugs a single shoulder before limping over to the side table, where they’d placed their singular grocery bag.

“Go take a shower, and make sure you get all the dirt outta your wound.”

Yelena’s eyes flick downwards at her bandaged arm and then back to her sister again.

“You’re such a mom,” she repeats herself numbly as Nat draws the vodka bottle out of the bag, untwisting it with a deft motion and taking a long, practiced drag.

“Shower,” she exhales once she’s done, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “We’re leaving in six hours.”

—

Yelena takes a quick shower, ten minutes to the dot, and feels a little like a human again, even though the water was only lukewarm at best, and she has to put on her sweaty clothes from the day before. At least her hair and face are clean, the grime beneath her nails all scraped off, her wound cleansed of dirt. After she towels her hair off, she doesn’t put her jacket and tactical vest on just yet, remaining stripped down to just her undershirt and pants. 

She’s slept with her gear equipped before.

On most nights, really.

Tonight, though, just for a few hours, she doesn’t want to.

(She knows she doesn’t have to—her older sister is here.)

As she hangs her damp towel on the nearby rack, she notices that the window behind the dinky toilet has been cracked open about an inch, propped up by one of motel’s washcloths.

A handgun has been strategically placed on the back of the toilet.

A Glock-22.

An exit strategy.

When Yelena enters the main bedroom again, she sees that Natasha is sitting on the bed closest to the window—(the most vulnerable position, she briefly thinks to herself)—shirt off, tenderly probing a nasty-looking laceration just below her ribs.

The dried blood blooms across her stomach like a flower.

Crimson.

Replete with thorns.

“Damn,” she breathes, and Nat quickly looks up, eyes wide, brow furrowed.

“It’s not deep,” she says immediately. “Just long.”

“It’ll scar,” Yelena shakes her head.

Wounds like that always scar.

“I’m no stranger to scars.” A proffered grin—slight, elusive, wry. And no sooner than she says it, Yelena spots the long, telltale surgical incision where the hysterectomy had been performed, and to the left of her belly button, there’s a scar that had once clearly been a bullet’s entry point. “I collect them everywhere I go.”

It’s an innocuous enough statement, but the contents of it jog her memory.

She's reminded of what that their mama said long ago in a military camp somewhere in Cuba.

Pain only makes you stronger, remember?

Yelena has always drawn vague comfort from the words—usually when she’s nursing her own sundry wounds, doing her best to recover from them.

But tonight, looking at Natasha’s body—which surely mirrors her own—she can’t help but think that those words might’ve been bullshit said by a poor, dying woman.

Sometimes, pain can only hurt.

“Your turn to shower,” she says, jerking her thumb emphatically at the bathroom door.

A half-smile.

Her lips are dry and cracked.

“Make sure you get the dirt outta that wound.”

“Asshole,” Natasha chuckles, the sound low and hoarse, and maybe even a little painful because she winces at the end, her bloodied fingers involuntarily drawing themselves up her ribs. 

“сука,” Yelena returns, throwing herself unceremoniously onto her bed, hiding her own laughter in a pillow.

Bitch.

—

When Natasha returns some thirty minutes later, she’s already twisted her damp hair into a messy plait, and she’s fully clothed, dressed like an armed gunman is going to burst through the curtained window at any moment.

Yelena had already flicked off the lamp and bunched the stiff blankets up to her nose in an attempt to get comfortable… but she hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

Waiting.

She watches, ever observant, as her sister lithely winds through the room without making so much as a sound, the graceful ballerina that the Red Room tortured her to be. She’s similarly silent as she slowly lowers herself onto the other bed, gingerly propping herself up against the headboard, angling her torso towards the door.

But this is apparently too sudden of a movement for her body to currently handle.

A hissing noise escapes past her clenched teeth.

“You should sleep,” Yelena croaks aloud, having seen enough, having heard more. “I’ll take the first shift.”

Her sister’s hawklike stare finds her in the darkness. 

“What? No. Go to bed,” she snaps, obviously annoyed. “You were the one who wanted to stop for the night.”

“Yeah, because I looked over and saw that you looked like death warmed over!” She retorts haughtily. “However much you might pose otherwise, you’ve gotta have needs too.”

This quiets Natasha.

At the very least, it makes her look away.

She shifts (very incrementally) on her bed.

She plays a little with the end of her braid.

“An hour,” she says, so quietly that Yelena almost thinks she’s saying “an oar” for some bewildering reason.

“Чего?” What? 

“An hour,” Natasha repeats emphatically. “Wake me up in an hour. It’s… all I need.”

“Okay.” Yelena sits up abruptly, eager to please, desperate to show that she still cares.

It’s a bit sickening, really—the woman practically abandoned her.

She got out and never looked back…

“I mean it.” Her sister doesn’t quite lay down, but she does slouch a little more comfortably against her pillows. “An hour.”

“Yah.”

—

Yelena isn’t a woman of her words, though.

She lets her sleep for two.

“Dammit, Yelena,” Natasha groans, pulling her fingers hard over her eyes. “You told me you'd wake me up."

“Don’t be so dramatic, Natalya,” she yawns, finally slumping her head against her pillow. "It didn't kill you to get a little more beauty rest."

"Asshole."

As the dark takes her away, she smiles.

Bit—

—

A soft hand on her shoulder, a gentle shake. 

Yelena blearily opens her eyes to see Natasha standing over her, staring at her with that same inscrutable expression—complicated…  and utterly unreadable. It gives her the impression of being pierced through all over, analyzed and deconstructed.

Even though she’s quite clothed, she feels naked.

Seen.

“We gotta get moving,” she says matter-of-factly. “There’s coffee on the nightstand. Once you wash your face, I’ll change your bandage again.”

And then, stepping away, she disappears from view. From the sounds she’s making, she’s clearly cleaning the room, thoroughly removing all traces of their less than six hour presence in this motel in the middle of practically nowhere. In mere minutes, it will be like they had never been here at all.

And so it goes for Red Room operatives.

So it went in Ohio.

When Yelena sits up to stretch, blankets that she hadn’t fallen asleep under cascade heavily to the floor.

She glances to her left.

Sees a bed that’s been all but stripped clean.

—

In the bathroom, the gray light of dawn leans against the partially opened window. Yelena sits on the side of the half-bath as Natasha makes quick and expert work of cleaning her wound and bandaging it up again, snipping the excess gauze off with her penknife.

“Looks better today,” she simply comments as she replaces the knife in her utility belt. “Might not scar if you’re lucky.”

Unspoken between them but nonetheless understood, neither of them have really been lucky.

They were orphans abandoned by their mothers.

They were children who were trained to kill.

And now they have so much blood on their hands.

Red dripping from their ledgers.

Scars on their bodies, so many wounds on their souls.

Yelena’s not even thirty yet.

(Her life has given her plenty of reasons to suspect that she might never be.)

“Pssh,” she snorts derisively as her sister finally yanks the washcloth out from the window. 

It closes with a smart snap.

A decisive finality.

Yelena is just bending down to lace her boots up when Natasha suddenly speaks again, apropos of absolutely nothing.

She could have just left.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot.

Gripping the washcloth loosely in one hand, she stays.

“There was... this S.H.I.E.L.D. guy,” she says, her voice reluctant, full of clear misgivings, “who used t’complain all the time that I never had an extraction plan. No exit strategies either. I’d just go in… complete my mission… and it’d be up to my enemy’s aim if I made it out intact.”

Yelena looks up to see that her sister’s back is turned to her, her back stiff, the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades jutting visibly through the black fabric of her shirt.

Somehow, even in a bathroom barely big enough to admit the both of them, she seems strangely small.

Young even.

She curls her fingers around the nearby towel rack like a kid gripping the monkey bars.

“I used to think that maybe that was the best way to atone for everything I’d done,” she continues, her voice ever distant, so perfectly controlled. “To be so reckless with my life that if I died during a mission, someone might actually call it heroic.”

A laugh, short and humorless, entirely disaffected from the horrible words that the same voice just spoke.

Yelena wraps her arms loosely around her stomach.

And represses the primal urge to shudder.

But wish though she could, she can’t look away from Natasha Romanoff.

Mesmerized.

Horrified.

Concerned.

She should hate this woman.

For all of these many years, she has loved her unconditionally.

“But then I got with the Avengers, you know, and I was suddenly in the public eye, tasked to save people, to try and protect my team…”

A violent pause. 

Natasha lets go of the towel rack rather abruptly but neatly folds the rag over the top of it.

“It’s different when you’re on a team,” she finally shrugs. “You start making exit strategies because it’s not just your life on the line anymore.”

“So that’s what we are, huh?” Yelena can’t stop herself from asking. Her voice drips its own sarcasm; it relishes in mockery; she hopes it’s enough to hide her hurt. “A team?”

They’d once been family.

Every night, Natasha told her that she loved her.

Every night, Yelena replied just the same.

And in all the years afterwards, there was always a small part of her that hadn't lost hope that her big sister was going to come back for her one day, that she was going to bring the Avengers and rescue her—rescue all the Widows—from Dreykov.

She got out.

Thousands of girls didn't.

“For now,” comes the quiet reply. “C’mon. Finish getting ready.”

Natasha doesn’t look behind her when she walks out.

Yelena is starting to think she never does.