#brunt x mechanic

[jackie-shitposts]

now i’m curious could you rank cs ships as well

YES I can- i think this is the same one you used? i was a lil indecisive but here be ye

[zyafics]

i love love love your writing<3

rq: rafe had came up to tanneyhill's balcony for some peace at his own party. though he didn’t expect reader to be there, looking utterly lost. he knows reader is new. seen you before, too, hanging out with sarah’s crowd; under a pogue’s arm whenever they see him around, telling you rafe isn't anything worth talking, or interacting with.

first off, i am so sorry it took me so long to get this done (as with a lot of my requests) but thank you so much for enjoying my writing!! 🩷 i hope i do this prompt justice (literally shaking in my boots as i post this 😭)

masterlist

pairing s2!rafe cameron x female reader

content (3.2k words) fluff + angst, rafe spiraling (s2 canons), lowkey enemies tension, rafe growing possessive of reader <3

dedication to @mintforadollar who listened to me ranting about this plot a month ago, only to now complete the request, <3 luv u & prompt credited to this on c.ai!

lıllılı Champagne Coast by Blood Orange

Rafe wants to be alone.

His mind is caught in a tailspin, muscles singing with ache from his latest altercation. It didn't help that the fucker managed to get some good swings in, ripples of pain spread from his jawline to his left eye. When he enters the second floor of Tannyhill, all he wants is to catch a breath of fresh air away from the party. His party.

He didn't expect to see you.

"Out." Rafe commands gruffly. You flinch at his abrupt command. "Second floor is off-limits."

He adds nothing else as he marches over to the edge of the balcony, digging his scraped palms into the smooth ridges of the handrails. He didn't want anyone here to witness the brunt of his frustration and disappointment, or how his mind swims with disoriented and incoherent thoughts. He wants to be alone.

But you won't let him.

Cautiously, you take a step forward—not in the direction of the exit, as he hoped—but towards Rafe instead. Lifting his head at the sound of your faint footsteps, agitation flushing through his expression at your proximity. "Didn't I tell you to get out?"

"You got into a fight." You mumble your observation, examining his hardened profile to discover the bruise that decorates his jawline, swelling with discoloration, the darkening under his left eye, and the split of open skin right above his brow.

He scoffs. "No shit."

"And you're bleeding."

He is? He didn't know that. All consumed by the adrenaline rushing through his system—that has yet to wind down—Rafe lifts his hand to run his fingers over the most prominent aches around his face. When he presses against something wet, he withdraws, finding a fresh coat of blood over his fingertips.

Rafe grimaces at the sight—not the blood, he's used to that—but the fact that his opponent succeeded in cutting him too.

Now, he definitely doesn't want you here. Before Rafe has the chance to kick you out the third time, you offer assistance. "I can help," you say meekly, messing with the hems of your top.

He didn't catch it over the loud thumping of his heartbeat in his ears. "What?"

"I can help," you repeat, louder this time, wincing at the projection of your own voice. You don't like the strain in your tone, the desperation seeping through. You'd do anything to avoid returning to the party. "I know how to patch up wounds. I'm training to be an EMT."

"I didn't ask for a life story." He snaps, a mechanical response to any aid. The idea of someone taking care of him is unheard of; unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He doesn't know how to react other than complete and utter rejection. "Besides, I can take care of myself."

Rafe assumes his harsh words would drive you away. The bite behind each syllable has been enough to scare off everyone else but you remain firm in your position. If anything, your expression softens, eyes washing over his rigid posture with a sympathetic look. He hates it.

"I know," you start slowly, eyes cascading down his face, carefully monitoring his reaction. "But... wouldn't it be nice if you didn't have to?"

His expression breaks.

Your kindness strikes directly to his chest and his heart clutches at the way you address him. With humanity. Even when he's been nothing but a complete asshole to you, demanding your departure, you respond with a sense of warmth. Rafe clenches down his jaw.

When he doesn't answer quickly enough, a sign of his contemplation, you add. "Please."

Reluctantly, Rafe gives in. "Fine."

Rafe moves from the balcony deck to reenter Tannyhill, not bothering to check if you're following behind. He heads straight to the ensuite connected to his bedroom, checking under the sink for his first aid kit, before throwing the box over the counter.

That's when he catches a glimpse of himself through the mirror, the ugly bruising that lines his face, the dried blood that stains his temple. His jaw tightens at the sight.

You enter shortly after, seeing him with his back to the mirror, his spine pressed against the rim of the porcelain sink. Your eyes do a quick sweep of your surroundings, before landing on Rafe and his rigid form, arms crossed over his chest, and a cold look on his face. He just wants to get this over with.

You glance outside, to his room, with its openness, before meeting his gaze. "Can we go to your bed?"

His answer is immediate. "No."

You frown but ask nothing more. Rafe's trying to make this difficult for you, refusing to cooperate because it's easier than submitting to your grace. Easier than admitting he'd like the help. You work around that.

Grabbing the antiseptics from the kit, you proceed to clean his wounds, softly massaging his flesh in the process. For a moment, it feels too good and Rafe fights the urge to lean into your hand before a sharp pain rips through him from the open cut and he hisses.

You immediately pull back, mumbling a quick apology.

His eyes squeeze shut, it takes a moment for the throb to cool down, and once it does, Rafe reconnects his gaze with yours to find the remorseful look behind your stare, the softening of your features met with utmost concern. You don't make another move to try again.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." He bites out, wanting to rid you of that look. He's not weak. Stop looking at him as if he is. Despite the reassurance, you have yet to continue. "You're not going to be a good doctor if you shy away every time your patient gets hurt."

"I feel bad." You admit, chewing on your bottom lip.

"Why? You didn't do this."

He's the one who got into the fight. The one who swung first. While he may have won in the end, having knocked out the guy in the middle of the yard, it doesn't neglect the damage done to him in the process. But, at the end of the day, it's his fault.

You don't see it that way. "Because you're hurting."

You're too soft. That's what Rafe determines. Every little moment, little sprouts of empathy, every inch of sensitivity, is going to hurt you in the end. It won't save anything.

"I don't need your pity," Rafe snaps, giving you the first taste of reality under his razor-sharp tongue. He could be considerate, and understanding, but he isn't. That's how he learned.

"It's not—" You sigh. You don't want to argue and relent against his jabs. Without further commentary, you continue forward with your duties: aiding in his treatment and biting through the humane urge to sympathize with his pain.

Rafe takes the silence to observe you while you work. He knows you grew quiet because of his rough manners, and he won't lie to himself and say he enjoys it. He doesn't. But it adds to the list of everything else he has done wrong in his life; his long string of failures that his father can't wait to remind him of.

In the quietness, Rafe recognizes something about you. It takes a moment, after all the aches and throbs, but the recognition dawns on him that you're new. You hang out with his sister, Sarah, and the rest of the filthy group of no-good Pogues on the other side of the island. There have even been occasions when he saw you under JJ's arm, slinging around red solo cups and a grim soak of southside.

"Where's your friends?" Rafe asks, surprising you with the roughness behind his voice.

You lift your gaze to his. "Hmm?"

"The Pogues. Don't you hang out with them?"

You swallow hard, feeling like a child being caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You hoped your newcomer status would be enough to shield yourself from Rafe's wraith, especially his hatred towards your selected group. "Why?"

Rafe immediately picks up on the shift in your demeanor, the rigidness in your shoulders that tells him exactly what he needs to know. "You've heard about me, haven't you?"

You hesitate to answer. Rafe presses on. "What'd they say?"

Your friends have told you many warnings about the notorious Rafe Cameron. It all comes down to one conclusion: he's dangerous. He's irrational, self-centered, and narcissistic. He isn't worth talking to because all he cares about is himself.

However, you like to find out for yourself.

Rafe leans forward, lowering himself to meet your height and his face is right in front of yours. An arrogant smirk rises to his lips, a challenge for you to answer. "Come on, princess, don't tell you came up here without doing a bit of research beforehand."

You recognize this as a facade, a way for him to hide his true feelings because it's easier to disturb others. To mess with people and not reflect on your own. You place a hand against the solid of his chest and gently push him back, forcing him to reinstate the safe distance established before. You continue back to your line of work.

Your little push surprises Rafe. It also intrigues him too.

"They said you weren't worth talking to," you say softly, avoiding eye contact as he follows your every move. "That you're dangerous."

He scoffs at the reveal, but it pinches his heart that his own sister would agree. He values her opinion more than he'd like to admit. Drawing out a noncommital shrug, pretending not to care, he declares. "They're right."

You hum. "Maybe."

He looks directly at you with a raised brow. "Maybe?"

Your eyes finally connect with his, "I'm still figuring that out." You pull back, setting the supplies back into his aid box. "Done."

You're about to take a step back when Rafe grabs your wrist, holding you in place. Your breath shortens, and you peer down at the place of your contact before raising your gaze to his.

"What do you mean by that?" He demands, his expression hardens but his eyes are pleading. That juxtaposition, between who he is and what he wants, is the exact thing you're trying to uncover.

You aren't afraid of him. Not like the others.

"I don't know," you answer truthfully, sweeping over his face, reading the conflict his features can't seem to contain. Rafe, you're slowly unraveling, is someone who puts his heart on his sleeves. He just hasn't had anyone who cares enough to look for it. "I just don't know if I truly believe that."

"Why not? The rest of the island does."

It's almost a spiral. An edge closer to it. You think it's because Rafe finally has someone who looks past his mask, his deception that the rest of the island gladly takes. They're afraid of him; he engineered that reputation by hand. But you've met your fair share of burnt souls to know they're all worth saving.

You answer him.

"Your eyes." You explain gently. "They say it's the windows to someone's soul."

"And?"

"And, Rafe Cameron, you're someone who isn't as heartless as you'd like the rest of the world to believe."

His grip loosens from your words and you take the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and settle your arms by your side. Rafe watches as you offer him a soft smile, one that reaches your eyes, and you're about to return to the balcony deck for some peace when he follows you into his bedroom.

"That's not fair." He denounces, halting your exit.

You turn around to face him. "What is?"

"You can't come in here and make those assumptions. You don't know shit about my life."

Rafe doesn't like to be read so clearly; to know that whatever he's trying to front isn't deluding you. For some reason, he needs to convince you that every rumor and gossip is true. That he is bad. The idea of it is embedded so deeply into the crevices of his self-worth, that he's having a hard time believing anything else.

Rafe expects your reaction to meet his fury, but the slope of your brows furrow together calmly. A delicate practice over years of training. "I never said I did."

"You're acting like you do."

You frown. "Now you're making assumptions about me," you refute, pointing out his hypocrisy, and a tinge of sharpness slips through. "You asked and I answered. You can't be mad because you don't like them."

"Then why?" He snaps, irritation spewing with his venom. "Who the fuck are you to make that judgment?"

"I thought you didn't want to hear my life story."

He huffs. Rafe finds himself at a crossroads. While you're standing there, with your collected composure, he feels like he's unraveling by the seams. There's something about you. The way you read through him like glass. He doesn't know if he likes it or not. If he needs it or not.

"Bitch," he mutters under his breath at your lack of compliance, and your breath hitches at the term, a flash of anger goes through you like a surge. He recognized that look; it was something he was all too familiar with.

You turn around, about to sprint for the exit once again when Rafe calls out. "Wait."

You don't want to turn around this time. Rafe had managed to make you break through your own facade, your own composure that you spent years trying to cultivate. Something about being in the same room as the eldest Cameron makes you regress into your formative years.

"Turn around."

Your jaw is slighted, but you try to hold it together. You loosen your features before you turn on your heel. You still don't think Rafe is the person he's trying to present to the world, and you doubt that he truly carries that much cruelty in one body, but that doesn't mean you have to be in the same room as him.

But something made you stay.

Rafe crosses the large space, standing just in front of you. His breath is hot against yours, his eyes sharp. You tilt your head, meeting his stare, but to contrast his intensity, your gaze is soft yet firm, your eyes unwavering. Just because you are kinder than he is doesn't mean you are weak.

"You know what it's like, don't you?" He murmurs gruffly, his voice straining at the exposure. This questioning also carries the weight of admission underneath; to bridge a kinship. "Or are you a liar?"

You're not. But no one's ever asked the questions Rafe is asking either. Not your friends back home or the new ones with the Pogues. They treasure your friendship but they don't understand your depth.

"No."

"No, what?"

"I'm not a liar," you bite out. Rafe's mouth curls into a satisfactory smile, and he gets a glimpse of your real character. The true you underneath all that dignity. It's like his own dirty secret. "I know."

You saw through Rafe because you understood him. You shared the same sentiments. You groomed the same callousness. Every act he performs, you went through first. You can't point at his reflection without looking at the mirror yourself.

But you're a bit different. You learn to control it. You discovered that all that anger was something else. Hurt, pain, injustice. You take it all and put it in a box, caged behind thick chains and hard locks. Never to be touched again. Rafe takes it out to the open, free to play. You may come from the same origin but you take two different routes.

However, Rafe sees you much clearer now. To know you can understand him, see through his perspective, and filter out his incoherent thoughts. That's something he'd never experienced before in his life.

"The voices, anger, and impulses?" His voice shrinks, eyes searching yours. You hesitate before nodding once. "You get that too?"

It comes out when you're most hurt. "I do."

He feels like can breathe for once, to not feel completely isolated from the rest of the world. Rafe always feels off, like something is wrong with him. Nothing can be explained; nothing is allowed to be explored. Even when he sought therapy, his father denied his request. He thought he‘d be forever alone in all this.

He steps forward, closing in the distance until there's only an inch of space separating you. But even that feels too big. Oxygen stuck in your throat, Rafe connects his gaze with yours to whisper. "You're like me, aren't you?"

You swallow hard. You didn't realize understanding someone could be a reflection of your own damning soul. You don't know if it's a good thing. "Yes."

His pupils are dilated and nearly pitch-black. His breathing shortens, and his gaze pools with desire. You feel it too. Your heart accelerates beneath your ribcage, your stomach knotting with want. When Rafe leans forward, about to capture your lips on his, you ready yourself to let it all in.

But you're a bit different.

You turn your head away at the last second, his contact coming to your cheek.

"I'm..." You exhale, squeezing your eyes shut. "I'm with JJ."

The world stills on its axis, and you feel the gravity of it beneath your feet. You slowly peel your eyes open, only to find Rafe having pulled back, his hand, midway through the air to hold your chin, closes into a tight fist.

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes swimming with regret.

The look on his face is heartbreaking because you know him in parallel, you know what he's feeling. You take a step back, for your sanity or his, it’s unclear. All you know is the distance was safe. Until it wasn't.

"I should go." You whisper.

Rafe says nothing as you pad your way across his room, slipping out of the door. He remains motionless in the same spot, his jaw set, his fists clenched by his side. The adrenaline pulses return through his veins.

Fuck.

It takes a minute to gather himself. Hearing nothing but the throbbing bass beneath him, pulsing through the floor. His heart is wretched, his stomach full of nausea.

Rafe returns to the balcony to pull away from his room, the place where you had been, and he steps closer to the ledge. Everything in his mind is too quiet; sterile and white-screeching. He doesn't know how to fathom this change.

His blue eyes search across the lawn and he easily picks you out of the crowd. He knows you well now. Those brief, fleeting moments attached to his soul are permanent memories.

You rejoined the party with Sarah and the rest of the Pogues, while JJ saunters over and throws his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and whispering something in your ear. You smile and laugh, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

When you look up, you find Rafe already watching. His eyes are set on yours, unmoving, and the intimacy of his gaze strikes something deep. You had to turn away to preserve yourself.

Rafe slowly comes to his understanding on his own. He never had someone who understood him, much less in such a short time. You unravel him behind gentle stares and quiet observations. You knew him because you knew yourself, and he doesn't want to lose that. He doesn't want to lose you. He can’t. 

So, he decided.

You weren't his.

But he's taking you anyways.

IMPORTANT: if you want to follow my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[pucksandpower]

okeyyyy!

but we need a Grid Kids that maybe y/n and seb were in an car accidente (and y/n took the worst of it) and now the roles are reversed, now they are gonna take care of them

Loving this series so much

Grid Kids: UNO Reverse Card

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: the roles are reversed when disaster strikes and your grid kids make it their duty to take care of you

Series Masterlist

The rain is pouring down and the paddock is filled with the usual organized chaos accompanying a wet race. The garages are lively with the sounds of mechanics tuning engines, engineers going over data, and drivers preparing for the race.

Suddenly, a deafening silence descends as a member of the Aston Martin team rushes in, face pale and voice shaking, “There’s been an accident. It’s Sebastian and Y/N.”

The news spreads like wildfire. The paddock, usually filled with the roars of engines and excited chatter, is now eerily quiet. Your grid kids, upon hearing the news, rush to find out more details, their faces masks of concern.

A shaky video from a fan’s phone plays on loop on their screens, showing the aftermath of a devastating collision. Your car is almost unrecognizable, crushed, with the driver’s side visibly less damaged.

George, having seen the video, collapses onto a nearby chair, tears streaming down his face. “This can’t be happening,” he whispers.

Lando, usually the life of the party, stands frozen, disbelief evident in his eyes. Mick, face ashen, tries to make calls to get more information while Lance rushes to find his father to find out if the team has heard anything more.

***

Soon, details emerge that you bore the brunt of the impact and your condition is critical while Sebastian, though injured, is stable. The helicopter is already airlifting you to the nearest hospital.

As the severity of the situation sinks in, your grid kids, in an unprecedented move, gather together for an emergency meeting. The weight of the decision is clear in their eyes.

After what feels like an eternity, Charles stands up, his voice firm yet choked with emotion, “We’re pulling out. We can’t race knowing Y/N is fighting for her life. We need to be there for her, just like she’s always been there for us.”

The decision is unanimous. One by one, they all agree. Telling their teams and the FIA descends the paddock into even more chaos.

***

The hospital waiting room is filled with a mix of team colors. Red from Ferrari, orange from McLaren, deep blue from Red Bull, green from Aston Martin, white from Haas, and black from Mercedes. The fierce rivalry that usually defines race weekends is nowhere to be seen. Instead, they’re united in their concern for you.

Sebastian, despite his injuries, is by your bedside, holding your hand, praying silently for a miracle.

As the hours drag on, the grid kids take turns sitting by your side, sharing stories, hoping their voices provide some comfort, even in your unconscious state.

Mick, teary-eyed, recalls, “Remember when I missed my dad? You were there for me.”

Lando adds, “And when I just wanted milk? You welcomed me like family.”

Charles, voice filled with emotion, says, “We’re here now, for you, just like you’ve always been for us.”

***

As night turns into dawn, there’s a shift. Your vitals start stabilizing and the worst seems to be over. The relief is palpable as the somber mood hanging over your family fades away.

Sebastian, tears of gratitude in his eyes, thanks each one of them. “She’s strong, and with all of you here, I knew she’d find a way to fight through.”

***

A week has passed since the accident and you’re now firmly in the recovery phase. The room is overflowing with flowers, cards, and quirky gifts — each one a symbol of just how much you mean to the racing community.

As you slowly regain consciousness, groggy from the medication, the first thing you spot is a balloon, bobbing near the ceiling, with the words “Speedy Recovery!” It has a little caricature of you in a race car with your cat (in a tiny sweater) on your shoulder. Another one reads, “Get back on track soon!”

Mick enters the room with a tray, “Look who’s awake! I made you my special recovery smoothie. Okay, it’s mostly chocolate ... but it’s the thought that counts.”

Charles follows, holding a peculiar-looking teddy bear dressed in a racing suit. “Meet Racy. He’s going to keep you company. We tried to smuggle Speedy in under our hoodies but got caught so this is the next best thing.”

Lando waltzes in, proudly holding up a t-shirt with “I survived a car crash and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” printed on it.

Max pops his head around the door, holding a full-sized F1 helmet, “You better wear this the next time you get in a car.”

George, with his trademark smile, presents a plush safety car. “To keep you safe and sound, always.”

Lance, trying to contain his grin, brings in a steering wheel cushion. “For those moments when you feel the need to take control of your recovery.”

You can’t help but chuckle at their antics. “You guys ... always know how to lighten the mood.”

Sebastian, holding your hand, grins, “They’ve been brainstorming ways to cheer you up nonstop for days now.”

***

Determined to keep things positive, your grid kids rally together for a surprise. As the evening descends, they transform your room into a mini-movie theater. They even managed to sneak in a projector.

The movie choice? “Cars” of course.

Lance, armed with a bucket of popcorn, declares, “I mean, if we can’t race real cars today, might as well watch animated ones!”

Mick dims the lights and George hits play. As the familiar sounds of the movie fill the room, everyone settles in ready for a night of laughter.

***

It doesn’t take long for the grid kids to turn the movie night into their own commentary session.

As Lightning McQueen races across the screen, Max quips, “I think I could’ve taken that turn better.”

Lando, laughing, chimes in, “And Mater reminds me of Charles after a few too many energy drinks.”

Charles feigns outrage, “That’s unfair! I’m at least 10 percent more sophisticated than Mater.”

You, through bouts of laughter, shake your head, “Honestly, I can’t decide what's better, the movie or your commentary? You guys might have a future on a broadcast somewhere if this whole racing thing doesn’t work out.”

As the credits roll, Sebastian whispers, “This is exactly the medicine you needed.”

Your grid kids truly make the day memorable, proving that through thick and thin, family — in whatever form it may take — is everything.

***

The sun is high and the paddock is buzzing with energy as preparations for the upcoming race are in full swing. As you and Sebastian approach, there’s a sudden almost comedic halt in activity. It’s as if someone hit the pause button on a remote. Everyone turns to face you, jaws dropped.

Lance feigns fainting, “Is it a mirage? Or has our beloved Y/N truly graced us with her presence?”

Max approaches with an exaggerated limp, mimicking you, “Thought I’d get into the spirit of things,” he says with a smirk.

George emerges from the crowd holding a makeshift red carpet (it’s just a red towel he stole from Ferrari), rolling it out in front of you. “For our returning queen,” he declares with a bow.

Charles and Lando appear, each holding one end of a “Welcome Back” banner. You try to turn your head to read it … they accidentally held it upside down.

You’re trying hard to hold back tears of laughter. “You guys are impossible,” you manage to say between your chuckles.

Mick, with a gentle smile, approaches holding a small framed photo. It’s of you surrounded by all your grid kids, taken during a race earlier in the season, with the inscription “Family, Always.”

Touched by the gesture, you softly say, “Thank you so much, Mick. This means a lot.”

“You’ve always been there for us,” he replies. “It’s only right that we’re here for you.”

Sebastian, wrapping an arm around you, adds with a grin, “I think they missed you.”

You really loved your grid kids.

[ravensliterature]

Sentinels' Siege

A/N: Yeah, it has definitely been a minute. Saw the new X-Men 97 show and got inspired. Please enjoy this!

pairing: Magneto (Erik) x GN!Reader

warnings: Character death

w/c: 784

Prompt: The reader here has forcefield powers. The sentinel is attaching Genosha and the reader saves Erik at the expense of their own life.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the heart of Genosha, amidst the ruins of a once-thriving nation, the sentinel's ominous presence cast a shadow over the land. Its metallic form, a symbol of oppression and fear, loomed tall against the crimson sky, its mechanical eyes scanning the desolate landscape with ruthless efficiency. But amidst the chaos and fear, you stood as a beacon of hope, your powers of forcefield manipulation shielding not only Magneto but also civilians of Genosha from the sentinel's relentless assault.

Two spheres of energy shimmered in the air, each pulsating with the strength of your will. One enveloped Magneto, the other surrounded you and the civilians seeking refuge within your protective embrace. It was a delicate balance, maintaining both shields amidst the onslaught of the sentinel's attacks, but you refused to falter, driven by the unwavering resolve to protect those you loved at any cost.

As the sentinel unleashed its barrage of energy blasts, your forcefields flickered and crackled with energy, absorbing the brunt of the attacks. Beside you, Magneto watched in awe and gratitude, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of your unwavering determination. But beneath the surface, there was a surge of panic within him as he witnessed your struggle to maintain both shields.

He reached out to you, his voice a plea amidst the chaos. "Y/N, my love, you mustn't—"

But his words were lost in the cacophony of battle as your forcefields strained to their limits. With each passing moment, the pressure mounted, threatening to break through your defenses and claim you all.

Flashbacks of your time together flooded your mind, each memory a bittersweet reminder of the bond you shared. You remembered the first time he had entrusted you with his secrets, the way his eyes softened as he spoke of a future where mutants could live without fear. You remembered the stolen moments of tenderness, the quiet nights spent gazing at the stars, finding solace in each other's company amidst the turmoil of their world.

But amidst the memories, there was the harsh reality of the present—the sentinel's relentless assault threatening to overwhelm your defenses. Your forcefields flickered and waned under the strain, cracks forming along their surfaces as they struggled to hold back the tide of destruction. Yet still, you refused to yield, your determination unyielding even in the face of insurmountable odds.

Magneto watched in silent anguish as you stood as the bulwark against the storm, his heart heavy with the weight of your sacrifice. He reached out, his hands grasping at empty air as you fell, the light fading from your eyes even as his world plunged into darkness.

In that final moment, as the sentinel loomed over Genosha victorious, Magneto could only cling to the memories of the love you shared—a love that had been both his greatest strength and his deepest sorrow. But though you were gone, your spirit would forever be etched in his heart, a guiding light in the darkness that now enveloped him.

And as he gazed upon the devastated landscape of Genosha, a vow ignited within him—a vow to carry on the fight in your honor, to ensure that your sacrifice would not be in vain. For in giving your life to protect others, you had shown him the true meaning of heroism—a selflessness that transcended even death itself.

But amidst the chaos and despair, there was one final moment of connection—a silent exchange of love that echoed across the battlefield. As the sentinel's onslaught reached its crescendo, engulfing you in a blinding blaze of light, you locked eyes with Magneto one last time.

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still, the world around them fading into insignificance as you mouthed the words that echoed the depths of your soul, "I love you."

Though no sound escaped your lips, the sentiment rang loud and clear in the silence of the battlefield. It was a declaration of devotion, a testament to the bond that had transcended the trials and tribulations they had faced together.

Magneto's heart clenched with a mixture of grief and gratitude as he returned your gaze, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears. And as the light consumed you, engulfing you in its brilliant embrace, he could only watch in silent agony as your form disappeared amidst the chaos.

But though your physical presence had been extinguished, your love would forever burn bright within his heart, a beacon of hope in the darkness that now enveloped him. And as he stood amidst the ruins of Genosha, a solitary figure against the backdrop of devastation, he vowed to carry on your legacy—a legacy of love, sacrifice, and unwavering strength in the face of adversity.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Best Intentions

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Angst. Smut (individual warnings applied to each chapter) Word count: ~12k (spread over three parts)

Summary: Tom's landed on his feet since arriving back in Longsight; a steady new job as a mechanic, utilising the engineering skills he learned in the navy, and the companionship of his childhood friend. Life should be idyllic, but nothing is ever that simple when it comes to Tom. And it's always her that bears the brunt of it.

Chapter one Chapter two Chapter three Epilogue Wedding night

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

[drabblesandimagines]

Kitty

Pairings: Rei x reader Buddy Daddies fluff, descriptions of gun violence

Wordcount: 4,027 (revised 22/03/23)

You weren’t exactly sure how long ago it had been - a year, possibly? More? - but on one particular torturous night, he’d strangled you after what he deemed a ‘stressful day’. Your throat was sore for days after, your vocal chords husky and raw. You found it easier just to not talk after that and he seemed happy enough with the development, so you were too. If you spoke, there was a danger that you’d say something to upset him and he’d lash out in anger. Of course, he still did lose his temper and you would bear the brunt of his anger, but now it was only over other grievances rather than anything you brought on yourself.

You didn’t even flinch when he jammed the cold metal of the gun into the side of your skull. It wasn’t the first time, that’s for sure. He did it a lot at the start of your time there, enjoying your sobs as you feared for your life. Now you just wished he’d just pull the trigger. Get it over with – you weren’t sure of your purpose here. You were the maid - you cleaned and served him and were his personal punchbag. Thankfully, he’d never touched you in that way, but surely he’d had enough enjoyment out of you by now.

It had been a typical evening in the house – he’d retired to his study with his cigar and whisky while you cleared the dinner table for him and his goons. The gunfire had started soon after that. You hadn’t thought too much of it at first, sometimes when his men drank they got a bit trigger-happy with each other over minor disputes. It was only when he ran into the dining room, gunshots echoing behind him that you realized it wasn’t as you first thought. He grabbed you around the neck, breathing heavily as his assailant entered the room and your abductor pressed the gun into your head.

A sullen man with an undercut and black hair tied up upon his head is staring at you with an equally blank stare on his face as yours, his aim steady. He’s dressed in a well-fitted, obviously tailored suit - a professional, you guessed.

“Let her go,” you heard a voice hiss behind you, another gun cocking. He was trapped, surrounded by two guns. The barrel left your skull and then everything happened in a blur - someone yanked you back and threw you down to the ground as there was a single gunshot. Your abductor’s body crashed to the floor, blood oozing from a hole in the middle of his forehead.

You look up, expecting a bullet to hit you next. The two men stand over you, looking down. The voice behind you turned out to be a blonde man, classically good-looking with fluffy hair and also very well-dressed. You watch as he puts away his gun and crouches down in front of you.

“Are you okay?” The blonde man asks gently and you must’ve given him a confused look as he backtracked. “No, stupid question. Is anything, er, broken?” You'd hit the floor pretty hard but nothing had cracked. You shake your head.

“That’s good. How long have you been here?” You think for a moment, opening your mouth slightly but the words don’t come. It was the only defense mechanism you had left. If you don’t speak, no-one can get mad when you say the wrong thing, right? And these two were assassins, clearly. They’d just put a bullet in your abductor’s head and maybe you’d be next if you didn't say what they wanted. You resort to a shrug – it's honest, you don’t know how long it’s been.

The blonde frowns, before pursuing his line of questioning.

“Erm… Well, is there someone we can call for you?”

You shake your head again, twisting your fingers in your lap.

“Do you have a name? I’m Kazuki, and that’s Rei.” He points to the black-haired man behind him.

You dig your nails into the palm of your hand at that. Your name… You shake your head.

The blonde looks at his partner in desperation.

“And the rest of the house is clear?”

“Mm.” Rei confirms. “She’s the only one left. She wasn’t in any of the files.”

Kazuki sighs. They’re in the middle of nowhere. He can’t, in all good conscience, leave you here, especially in the state you appear to be in. They know that eventually they’ll be another drop and the deaths will be discovered, but who knows how long that’ll be and won’t they blame you? The pony-tailed man raised an eyebrow, seeming to read his thoughts.

“If you get to bring a kid and a woman home, I’m definitely getting a cat.”

“I know, I know,” Kazuki mutters. “But we can’t just leave her here. Let’s take her back to the city and then maybe Kyu will be able to dig up something about her.” He turned back to you, debating. “Maybe she’s got some personal items. Do you have a room here? Can you show us?”

You swallowed before nodding in the affirmative. Why would they want to see that? You got to your feet and the blonde quickly stepped in line with you. Rei stalked behind, his gun still drawn.

You led them through a back passage to your “room”. It wasn’t really a room to be perfectly honest, it was a broom closet. The door had a heavy padlock on it but it was no longer used - you’d stopped trying to get out of there long ago. You swung the door open and pulled the cord, a solitary light bulb flickered and illuminated the grimy room. There was a pile of blankets on the floor – your makeshift bed - and a folded pile of two dresses, socks and undergarments. Your ‘uniform’. Screwed into the concrete wall was a shackle but, as with the padlock, it had been a while since it had been used.

“Uh… Okay. I...” The blonde stumbled over his words. “I was going to ask if there was anything you want to bring with you, but I guess not.”

You looked down at your feet, awkwardly. Those were the only clothes you owned, but you didn't particularly want to bring them with you.

“Okay, let’s go. We’ve got a van out the front. We’ll get you back to the city and take it from there.” You followed Kazuki dutifully to the front door, Rei once again walking behind when you saw the outcome of the ambush. Your abductor’s security team strewed about the floor, some riddled with gunshots, some a single wound but all very much dead. It should’ve shocked you and it would’ve however long ago, but it wasn’t the first time you’d seen corpses since you’d arrived here. Thankfully, you'd never been given that clean-up.

At the front door, Kazuki looked down at your sock-clad feet – frilly white thigh highs of all things to match that horrendous maid outfit he had you wear. “Erm, do you have any shoes?”

Shoes? You shook your head. Why would you have shoes? You never went outside. You had them once, but you don’t know what happened to any of the things you’d been wearing when you’d first been brought here.

“No? Right. It’s not far, will you be okay to walk like that?”

You nodded. If you had shook your head, would they have left you behind?

The night air was crisp and the freshest thing you’d ever tasted. On occasion you’d pushed your face right up to the windows, trying to breathe it in, but it was rare. The house had always had someone around, yanking you back from the window in case you tried to jump.

There was a catering van parked off to the side of the driveway. You hopped in the back as instructed and sat in the chair Kazuki pointed to. Rei took to the steering wheel and they began the long drive home in silence.

You didn’t want to or even mean to, but the motion of the van had you dozing on and off, meaning you'd pick up snippets of their conversation.

“Maybe she just can’t talk.” You hear Rei suggest.

“No, I think she’s traumatized. She’s covered in bruises. How long do you think she’s been there?”

“Dunno.” A pause. “What are we going to say to Miri?”

--

An hour or so later, you arrived back in the city. They parked in an underground car park and you followed them to the elevator, up to what seemed quite an elaborate apartment.

Kazuki insisted you sleep in Rei’s bedroom – the man wasn’t really using the room anyway, he’d told you - and you weren’t really in a position to disagree. He’d given you a rundown of the facilities. “So, the toilet’s downstairs near the front door. Rei sleeps in the downstairs bathroom. Don’t ask." He rolls his eyes and then slams his hand into his forehead. "Sorry, no, that sounds insensitive. I mean, if you wanted to ask that’s fine. I’d love to hear you speak, actually, but… Ugh. Okay. Sorry. You’re safe, it’s late, I’ll let you get some sleep.” And he ducked out the room as fast he could.

--

You didn’t get a lot of sleep. The bed was nice but after months of months on a floor, is it possible that a bed could feel too soft? A lack of sleep wasn’t new though and you had technically napped on the drive here. Your duties at the house often ran late into the night and started early the next morning. When the sun rose that morning, you were already up, sat perched on the end of the bed, feeling anxious. What were you meant to do? What were they going to do with you now?

As these thoughts swirled around your head for however long, there was suddenly a knock at the door. “Er, morning! Are you awake? I won’t come in…” It was Kazuki.

You got to your feet and sprinted over to the door, opening it swiftly - he’d hated waiting for anything.

“Hi!” Kazuki gave a great big smile, clothes in hand. ”I hope you slept okay. I forgot to offer you some clothes last night, but I’ve found these.” He handed over the bundle. “They’re clean – things I’ve been meaning to get rid of since they’re a bit small for Rei now. The shorts are gonna be way too big, but they’ve got a drawstring so that should keep them up. Is that okay?”

You nod, clutching it close to your chest.

 “Okay, well, you get changed and I’ll come back in five. Breakfast should be ready soon and you can meet Miri – she’s our little girl. You might’ve heard Rei talk about her last night. See you soon.”

You nodded, and he shut the door. You walked back over to the bed and laid out the garments. A white t-shirt, soft grey jersey shorts with a cord and a black zip-up hoodie. How long had it been since you hadn’t worn a dress? You pulled it off and over your head before pulling up the shorts. Kazuki was right – they were too large but pulling the drawstring tight and securing it in a bow sorted out the issue and the t-shirt was only a little oversized and the hoodie was cosy and covered the bruises on your arms. Thinking of the little girl they'd mentioned, you also kept your thigh high socks on, knowing they would also hide the purple marks on your calves. It was the comfiest you could remember feeling in a while, though.

A knock at the door. “You ready?”

You jogged to the door again, throwing it open, before standing straight and clasping your hands in front of you.

“Okay, great! Er, just follow me.”

You descend the spiral staircase and see a little girl sat at the coffee table, scribbling happily across three pieces of paper, a box of crayons spilt out in front of her. There's a man sat besides her on the sofa, headphones around his neck and mashing at a controller. It takes you a second to recognise them as Rei - he's dressed more far more casual now - in a pair of sweatpants, a navy t-shirt and hoodie on top and his hair is down. Off-duty.

“Hi!” The little girl gasps, her eyes widening in interest at your presence. “I’m Miri, what’s your name?”

Kazuki watches in interest as you open your mouth but quickly close it again, digging your nails into your palms once more.

“Er, Miri, this is Papa Kazuki's…” he hesitated, thinking of how best to phrase it, “..friend. She’s not feeling too well at the moment. She’s sort of lost her voice.”

Miri's eyes widened. “Like a spell?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Like a spell.”

“You must be a princess!” She squealed, remembering a storybook. “But what’s her name?”

“Er, well…” Kazuki scratches the back of his head. “That’s where we’ve been struggling.”

“Oh, I know, I know!” Miri grabbed another piece of paper and scribbled on it before sliding it over in front of you, alongside a crayon. “See, it says ‘Miri!’ Now it’s your go – write yours.”

You bit your lip before kneeling down besides the coffee table and picking up the crayon. Your hand was shaking. Your abductor had never called you by your name - he'd called you maid, stupid girl was another favourite, and there was a myriad of derogatory terms used by his goons. You’d fought back the first few weeks, when your spirit wasn’t crushed. Your penmanship was as wobbly as Miri’s, but Kazuki read it over slowly, a frown across his features.

“I don’t remember is a funny name!” Miri squealed. There was silence in the room – even Rei had stopped mashing the controller buttons for a beat.

Kazuki winced at Miri’s statement. “No, Miri. I think that must be part of the, er, spell.”

“Oh…” Miri frowned, pondering for a moment. “Well, I’ll call you princess! Sit with me, princess!” She tugged at your arm, trying to pull you up to the sofa besides her.

“If Miri gets to call her princess, can I call her kitty?” Rei's voice makes you jump.

“Princess Kitty!”

Kazuki looks mortified at his company. “It’s not up to me! Is… is that okay with you? I mean, until we can figure it all out.”

You nod – they were nicer names than you were used to.

Breakfast was a far more lavish affair than you were used to – the plates were laden and there was so much choice. Rei and Miri said grace and you bowed your head in thanks, following suit. The two then proceeded to demolish their servings before you could even fathom, quickly abandoning the table for their previous activities at the sofa. Kazuki chuckles, “Yeah, they’re like that, unfortunately. We can take our time.”

The food felt rich and heavy in your stomach, so you forced a bit more down than you originally wanted so as not to seem ungrateful. It was never a good outcome. Kazuki got to his feet and stretched, and you took it as your cue to start clearing.

“Oh, no, no, it’s okay. You’re our guest. Go sit with Rei and Miri - relax.”

You froze, relax? What…?

“Yeah, come sit with me again, kitty!” Miri chimes, patting the space besides her. “We can watch Papa Rei win!” Seems like she’d be won over by Rei’s name for you.

“Sorry,” Kazuki rubs the back of his head. “I promise when we find out your real name we’ll nip that in the bud. Go, sit."

You walk over to the couch and sit down besides Miri, as she and Kazuki had instructed. She laughed joyfully, watching the man game for a couple of minutes as the blonde bustled around in the background, appearing to pack a bag.

“Miri, come on! Time to go.”

“Oh…” Miri frowned, before she scrambled into your lap. “Will you still be here when I get back, kitty? I want to hang out with you more!”

“Yes, Miri…” Kazuki hesitates before he says your new name, apparently, “kitty will be. Can you go get your coat on?”

“Yay!” Miri squeezes you around the neck, before dashing off towards the front door.

“Okay,” Kazuki stands in front of the TV, trying to divert Rei’s attention from the screen. “I’ll drop Miri off at daycare and then go see Kyu, let him know how things went and if he can get us any information. I’ll bring us back some lunch, okay?”

“Bye.”

You nod.

Kazuki rolls his eyes, before he heads towards the door. Miri declares herself ready and Kazuki puts his shoes on. The door opens and Miri yells, “Bye, Papa Rei! Bye, kitty!”

The door closes.

You stare at the television. Rei was playing some sort of shooting game – you thought that was an odd way to relax after last night. You weren’t sure what you were meant to do now, though. Kazuki had set out his morning, but not yours. You had your routine at the house – serve and clear breakfast, wash the dishes, make the beds, do the laundry, sweep and scrub the floors… Though, what you really wanted to do at this moment if anyone was to ask was use the facilities, but you weren’t sure what the deal was here. When you were on your own doing your chores you could visit whenever, but if you were with him, you were expected to remain there - head bowed, awaiting instructions. Was Rei the same? You shuffled subtly in your position, trying to relieve the pressure on your bladder somewhat. You hoped he wouldn’t notice but, due to his profession and upbringing, he was acutely aware of his surroundings at all times.

“What’s the matter, kitty?”

You freeze and sit poker straight, maybe you’d annoyed him with your movements, distracted him from his game, made him lose…

He pauses the game and leans forward, sliding one of Miri’s pieces of paper towards him and another crayon.

“Can you write it down?”

You bite your lip and pick up the crayon, your stupid hand shaking again. Please may I go to the bathroom?

Rei blinks as he reads it, as if making sure he's read it correctly. “Sure. You don’t need to ask permission.” He unpauses his game and continues button mashing. You exhale, getting up to your feet, bracing yourself for it being a trick. He’d loved changing the rules to keep you on your toes, after all.

Nothing comes as you take a step - no harsh word, no fist or kick - followed by another in the direction of where Kazuki had shown you last night. As you enter and turn to close and lock the door, you can see Rei is still engrossed in his game.

After completing your business, you wash your hands thoroughly in the sink and look at yourself in the mirror. Your face is pale and your braids are messed up. You want to re-do them but you don’t want to seem like you’re taking too long in here – what if there’s a time limit? You tuck in a few loose strands before unlocking the door. Rei’s game play continues and you beeline it back to the couch, sitting exactly where you’d been before and watch.

Your mind starts to wonder – what was going to happen? Were you going to serve these two now? Is that how it worked in the criminal word – kill whoever and their property gets passed on to you? But that didn’t make sense, earlier Kazuki had said you were a guest, right?

“Here, kitty,” Rei says softly, interrupting your thoughts as he presses a controller in your hands. “You can be player two.” He’s switched the game when you were staring into space – Morio Kart now flashes on the screen. You’d seen it years ago but never played. There were no games consoles growing up – you hadn’t even had a television towards the end. Everything had been sold off to try and alleviate your father’s debts.

“Have you played before?” You shook your head. “You steer using the joystick, press this one to accelerate, this one to drift, and this one to throw stuff.” He points to the buttons one by one and you burn it into memory at once. It’s important to remember instructions.

--

The next few days are odd. Kazuki said Kyu - a business associate of theirs? - was doing his best to work out your past, but to let him know if you recalled anything that might point them in the right direction, however vague it might be but you couldn't even provide a city name. The new routine would consist of breakfast, Kazuki finally relenting in letting you help with dishes whilst he took Miri to daycare, you’d then sit with Rei, occasionally acting as player two, have lunch, fold some laundry with Kazuki, one of them would collect Miri and you’d colour or play something with her in the evening before dinner.

Tonight, things in the household are tense. Kazuki is at his wit’s end, arguing with a disengaged Rei – you’re not quite sure what about but you wanted to keep out of eyeline. Being around raised voices had never ended well for you. You’re at the top of the stairs after you’d taken up the load of laundry you’d folded with the blonde earlier while he was distracted in the dispute, and from your elevated position you can see Miri reaching for the pan of boiling hot water on the stove and your heart stops. You can’t make it down in time to physically stop her and Kazuki and Rei aren’t going to see in time...

You lean over the edge and open your mouth, “M-M-M-Miri, n-no!”

All eyes snap to you at that point - Miri’s included, thankfully, and she stops. You slapped your hand across your mouth, feeling bile rise up in your throat. Your voice sounds so foreign and wrong and you shouldn’t have done that. No, no, no…

Kazuki’s eyes move to Miri and he sees the little girl 's hand hovering centimetres away from the hot pan. “Miri, don’t touch that!” He roars, and she snatches her hand away but continues to stare up at you, along with Rei.

“Kitty spoke!”

“She did,” Rei agreed, and you bite your lip hard. Idiot.

Kazuki had made his way over to the hob, turning off the heat and pushing the pan to the back. Dinner would have to wait. “Miri, I’ve told you a dozen times, you can’t be playing around here. You can get really hurt.”

“But, Papa Kazuki,” she tugs at his trouser leg, “kitty said my name!”

You dart down the stairs, bowing your head over and over apologetically. Your eyes are brimming with tears. It wasn’t your place to discipline the girl, of course it wasn’t…

“She did, didn’t she?” Kazuki replied warmly, before balking when he saw your face. “Oh, hey! No, no, don’t cry! There’s nothing to cry about, we’re not mad. We’re glad to hear you speak, honestly. Aren’t we, Rei?”

Miri is now at your arm, pulling at it. “Say it again! Say it again!”

“Can you?” Rei asks, sounding curious.

“Please!” Miri squeals.

You swallow, looking at all their hopeful faces. It was an order, wasn’t it? “M-M-M-Miri.” You oblige, before ducking your head again.

Miri laughs, tugging at your arm with renewed vigor. “Now say my papas’ names!”

“Miri…” Kazuki warns. “Kitty can speak when she wants and say what she wants, okay? She’s not a performer for you.”

“But I like hearing her voice!”

“Yes, we do too”, he stressed, meeting your eyes at that point, “but she can take it at her own pace.”

There is a lull in conversation – everyone’s eyes are still on you and you hate it. Thankfully, Miri’s stomach rumbles loudly.

“Papa, I’m hungry!”

“Right, dinner!” Kazuki returns to the hob and starts bustling around the kitchen, forgetting about his argument from Rei a few moments before. You’re thankful for the intervention, the distraction and you duck into the bathroom to catch your breath.

--

Kazuki has taken Miri up to bed and it’s just you and Rei on the couch. He’s gaming as usual, but he has the volume turned down low.

“You can say my name, if you’d like.” He mumbles.

You look at him, unsure. “I’d like to hear you say it, but you don’t have to. I think you’re scared of someone thinking you’ve said the wrong thing, but you should be able to say whatever you feel. Since you already said Miri’s, maybe my name would be easy to say next, to ease you into it.”

His eyes have never left the screen as he speaks. A few moments of silence follow before you squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “H-hi, R-R-Rei.”

You open one eye and look over. “Hi.” He replies back, a small smile on his face.

Part two now here.

[cambion-companion]

One shot of Aemond x genius reader? I remember him saying “I have no need for a clever wife” in the book but what if he slowly fell for a sharp tongue nerd lol.

Also can the reader be an inventor as well? Like she’s so intelligent that she’d be maester if she wasn’t a woman.

Oh hi friend! So...this is going to be a 2 part fic. I wanted to set it up so that the reader and Aemond get a chance to really fall for each other in the next installation.

Let me know if you want to be tagged for Part 2.

Aemond x reader

“Hand me the crow’s foot wrench.”  You held you hand out expectantly, still bent with your face close to the work bench.

“The…what?”  Aemond was at a loss, scanning the many tools littered on the table next to you.

You sighed, straightening and turning to where he stood looking frustrated.  You knew he was unaccustomed to not having the answer for everything, it made the corners of your mouth twitch in an unbidden smirk.  You plucked the correct tool from the table and wiggled it before his frowning face. “This is the crow’s foot, Aemond.”

“It looks like a small piece of metal to me.” He huffed, rolling his one violet eye.  The other was covered by a leather eyepatch and despite your curious questions, the young man refused to let you see under it.

You returned his dubious gaze with a cheeky smile and returned to your work. Aemond, despite himself, moved closer to hover over your shoulder.  “What are you doing here anyway, Y/N.  You shut yourself up here in the maester’s attic for hours each day.”

“You miss me?”  You gave him a sly look over your shoulder. “I’m touched.”

“In the head, perhaps.”  There was an undertone of annoyance in his voice now as he gestured to your work. “This is a mess of cogs and coils.”

“It can be much more than that if you let me focus…damn.”  Your hand had slipped on the tiny wrench, sending several springs you had so carefully lined up flying.  

Aemond tsked and you rounded on him, needing to pull your head back a bit as he was standing so near. “Aemond please.” You hissed. “I need to concentrate!”

He threw up his hands and backed away, giving you some space.  “I don’t know why you don’t pick up sewing or playing an instrument like the other ladies at court.”  He walked around the little workplace you had arranged for yourself. Bending down to examine one of the small mechanical egg that opened and closed when a lever was pressed.  

“Because I’m not like the other ladies at court.” You muttered, concentrating once more upon your newest invention.  

“That much is self evident, Y/N.”  He seemed to like saying your name and, if you were being honest with yourself, you liked hearing it from his mouth.

He approached your shoulder again, touching it lightly.  “I know you don’t want to be distracted from…whatever fascinating contraption you’re creating, but my mother wishes to see us.”

Your hand gave an involuntary twitch at his words, causing the metal compartment you had just carefully sealed to pop open, spraying forth a cloud of charcoal ash.  Your face took the brunt of it, but Aemond, having positioned himself close behind your shoulder again, spluttered and coughed along with you. You turned to face him, waving a hand in an attempt to clear the air somewhat.  He looked a mess, his angular face now covered in a thin coating of black dust, his silver-white hair, so sleek and polished, was now the shade of a moorland swamp.

The two of you stood there a moment, taking in the other’s appearance, before bursting into a peal of laughter.  Aemond’s left hand clutched the nearby table for support as you doubled over, holding your stomach.  

After many moments of trying to pull yourself together you finally straightened, wiping a tear from your face and immediately regretting it when your hand came away covered in black ink.  Aemond shook his head at you, his curved mouth still grinning. “I’m guessing that wasn’t your intention.”

“Your deductive powers know no bounds, my prince.”  You started carefully making your way out of the room and in the direction of your chambers.  

Aemond snorted derisively, coughed, then followed you. “I will meet you outside your rooms and escort you to my mother, the queen.  Don’t take long, knowing you I could be waiting hours.”

You whirled around, indignation flaring in your eyes.  On a wild impulse, you rubbed the back of your inky hand across Aemond’s cheek, leaving a dark streak upon his face.  “You insufferable minx!” He tried to grab for your hand but you gathered your skirts and fled the scene, leaving the astounded prince behind.

It proved a difficult task, but with some soap and a coarse cloth, you managed to rid yourself of most of the charcoal dust.  You changed out of your soiled dress into one of scarlet red, with golden details.

Aemond was nowhere to be seen in the hallway as you exited your room, and you leaned against the wall to wait.  It was several minutes before you heard approaching footsteps and saw him round the corner, stopping when he saw you waiting there.  You moved to greet him; he had cleaned up well though you spotted a small dot of black next to his ear. “Hold still a moment.”  You said, reaching forward and rubbing away the mark with your thumb.

Aemond started at the contact but held still for you, his eye taking in your features.  He extended an arm, which you took, and escorted you to where his mother waited.

“That took a while, Aemond.”  Alicent rose from where she had been sitting near the fireplace. “Lady Y/N, a pleasure to see you as always.  Please, sit.”  She gestured for the two of you to sit on the sofa across from her.

You sat next to Aemond, your knee and shoulder brushing against his, sending a jolt of electricity through you. “What is this about, mother?” Aemond queried, so he didn’t know any more than you.

“Forgive me for being blunt about this.” Alicent began, running stressed hands along her skirts. “Time is of the essence. Aemond, you are nine and ten years of age. It is past time for you to be betrothed to a suitable lady, and I wish for that lady to be Y/N.”  She raised her voice over Aemond’s sudden protestations. “Lady Y/N comes from a strong noble house whose support we desperately need right now.  You have said on multiple occasions how beautiful you find her, yes you Aemond. She is learned, clever and more than a suitable match.”

“I have no need for a clever wife, mother.”  Aemond snapped.

Your face warmed, having nothing to do with the fire. You glanced sidelong at him, his jaw was taught, his fingers tapping impatiently on his thighs.  

“It is already done. I have been in correspondence with Y/N’s family, and they have agreed.” Alicent continued as Aemond abruptly stood, turning to the fire. “It is your duty as the second-born son of Viserys Targaryen.  We need allies, Aemond. Or we’ve no hope of winning the war to come.”

You watched his back as Aemond stared into the flames.  There was nothing you could say against this if your family had already signed you over to the Targaryens.  The idea of wedding Aemond didn’t seem altogether unpleasant, however you had long since accepted your marriage would not be one of love, being a lady from one of the great houses.

Alicent turned her worried face to you. “Again, I am sorry this was so abrupt, Lady Y/N.  You know I am fond of you, and I look forward to welcoming you fully into our family.”

You tried to smile at her, it felt weak on your own face.  Your eyes flicked back to Aemond’s still form, the sheet of pale hair running down his back, tense shoulders finally seemed to relax.  He faced his mother. “I will do my duty to this family as I always have.”  His eye flickered to you. “Forgive me, lady Y/N.” He said with a formality you were unused to in the several years you had known him. “I’m honored to accept you as my betrothed.”

With these words, Aemond crossed with long strides to the chamber door, opened it, and disappeared into the halls beyond.  Alicent blew out a long sigh. “I expected that to go better.”

“May I leave, your grace?”  You needed to escape, to go somewhere the fresh air could waken your numb senses.

“Yes, yes.”  Alicent waved you off, staring into the flames with an expression of such utter sadness it made you hesitate.  But only a moment before you also fled the room.

[uselesssomebody]

could you maybe do poe comforting an overwhelmed reader by giving them his jacket to wear 🥺

𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕜𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕒𝕓𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕠𝕟 - poe dameron x reader

complete masterlist | poe dameron masterlist

words || 𝟠.𝟟𝕜

summary || in which poe kinda makes the reader's life hell

a/n || 8,7k??? what is wrong with me

➵ nonnie you're gonna have to sift through like 8k words to get to the request but star wars fics need good world building

➵ yo send me moon knight requests or any oscar/pedro characters i'm banging them out right now

➵ not edited (yet)

➵ send me requests if you have ‘em. enjoy!

warnings || fluff/angst

her tools fall out of her hand with a distinct clatter, as she rises from her haunches for the first time in about an hour. she runs a gentle finger over the the edge of the removed metal plate, examining her handiwork at re-configuring, and then bettering the main control center.

it’d looked like hell when she'd first seen it, just 10 minutes after the black squadron had returned to d'qar - after a particularly nasty run in with some tie-fighters after attempting to survey a first order base. though all the members had bore a part of the violence and destruction, he who bore the brunt of it was their oh so brave leader - poe dameron.

of course, his extreme courage, and never-ending headstrong-edness did enough to serve his position as the resistance's golden boy. on the other hand, though, that same bravery owed to her consecutive long nights.

see, no one thought about the little guy - dameron was probably basking in the praise he was receiving at the moment, while no one ever remembered that the only reason his shots were so good was because she'd tinkered with the weapons system until perfection. the only reason he could ever complete any of his complicated maneuvers was because she ensured his controls ran smoothly - never jamming - and that the wings of his starfighter weren't falling off. though that may seem like a base requirement of her job, she knew that wasn't an occasional fix; no, it was much closer to weekly.

it was dark on the surface of the base, and she was beside a measly lamp to finish her work. she lightly tapped against the metal on the outside of the x-wing, satisfied with the adjustments, and, when she finally stretches out her body, standing fully upright, she feels the quirk in her shoulder from the hunching, and the cramp of her forearms and palms at her meticulous but firm grip on her tools. she sighed deeply as her bleary eyes made her see spots.

she hears footsteps approach her, and she collects her items as her close friend and fellow mechanic rose comes up behind her.

"how's it going?" she hums discontentedly in response.

"i'm done, at least." it's not a great answer, but rose understands, a soft smile gracing her lips as she grabs the lamp, holding onto it to allow her friend to place her tools away.

rose's own x-wing was one of the new recruits, given a lesser brunt during missions and scouting. thus, she'd finished ensuring it was in the best shape ages ago. she'd decided to finish up some other things in the meanwhile, before doubling back to see her eternally overworked friend's progress.

"you wanna head back to the bunks?" she rubs her nose as she thinks about rose's question. as they begin leaving the flight deck, she can hear the light echo of people from afar.

"if you want to, don't wait up for me. i need a drink, though." she finally decides, not wanting to deprive her friend of sleep, but also knowing that she needed something to help her unwind from the busy day. rose simply shrugs, gesturing to the both of them making their way to the cantina.

as they enter, a decent amount of people are still milling about, though many look ready to begin wrapping up their nights. there's a empty table a ways away from the bar so, upon taking rose's request, she urges her friend to sit down as she heads to the bar.

the bartender's a lovely guy: a weequay called aid-zarg, that everyone just refers to as 'ay' or, if they're close, 'zarg'. he'd been a bit against the nicknames, but had eventually caved to them.

"ay - how're ya?" she slides into a stool in front of him, attempting conversation tentatively. he shrugs - his expression seems cold, though she knows that's just how his face is.

"alright. long night?" she smiles, but it's almost a grimace.

"something like that." she orders for her and rose, and patiently taps against the wood counter as he prepares them. when he finally slides them over, she gives him a nod of appreciation, and he returns it with a nod of acknowledgement, before she turns back to join rose.

rose glances at her as she slumps into her seat, looking half-ready to pass out.

"maybe you should talk to the general about your schedule. you're half-asleep all the time; that can't be good for a resistance member." rose takes a sip of her drink as she presents a solution to her friend's never-ending dilemma.

"i - i would, but it's not fair to assign extra work to anyone - everyone's got a specific part of the base to tend to, or a specific ship, or fighter, or whatever." she thought about her hesitance as she watched the slosh of her drink, "everyone else's already working, and i don't want to make it anyone else's baggage just 'cause my pilot has an ego the size of a death star." rose purses her lips to keep herself from laughing - not wanting to encourage her friend's catty commentary.

"how'd you end up getting assigned his, anyway?" rose mumbled. her friend laughed into her drink, slowly recanting the reason:

even before she'd come to d'qar, it was common knowledge amongst the mechanics that being assigned to fix up dameron's x-wing meant you'd lose out on a weeknight or two, if it was temporary, and your entire night life - if it was permanent.

so, when she'd arrived, and presented her previous qualifications as a mechanic on tatooine, many knew that she was at least experienced and, at most, very efficient.

so, almost as a rite of passage amongst the mechanics, she'd been assigned the dreaded ship. and she'd fixed it up in record time. at first, it was an achievement she wore like a medal, the surprised faces of the resident mechanics enough to make her beam at her skill, and her knowledge of its contribution to the resistance's efforts.

then, though, it became a permanent assignment. and, for a while, it was manageable. but then, the fights got tougher; the first orders weapons more destructive.

"and suddenly, i'm up at 1 on a work night." she finally concludes. rose, having known her since she arrived, was privy to her friend's sometimes tired, always slightly pent-up rants on any topic that aggravated her, so she waited patiently for tonight's, "it's just-" there it is, "he's so fucking - ugh - would it kill him to just follow the plan? to listen to his instructions, to not be so reckless and not go out of his way to get himself killed - no, fuck that actually - his plane destroyed? i don't know - i get it's important to be versatile, and brave, and whatever bullshit, but c'mon - every time? keeping me up every night?"

rose was sure she hadn't even stopped to breathe in that entire time, but she definitely paused her rant to take sips of her drink, which then spurred on the vent further. she contemplated maybe removing the drink from her hand, but figured that after her long evening, she deserved it, along with a listening ear.

she sighs deeply into her drink as she finishes her story, not exactly expecting an answer from rose, but happy that she could at least get it off her chest.

suddenly, she feels a firm hand on her shoulder, making her and rose squeak and whip their heads to the person. what they hadn't realized was the volume with which they were speaking, causing her eyes to widen as she realizes that the object of her annoyance stood behind her, a goading smile plastered over his - unfortunately - gorgeous face.

“yeah - that guy’s a pain in the ass!” he hisses sarcastically, as though in his group of friends, gossiping, “what’d you say he was again?” he hunches down, so his face is in line with hers. she tries to glance desperately at rose, but all she can make out is her brown overalls behind poe’s jaw. she swallows, but looks him in the eyes, an unwavering look on her face.

“i was saying that he’s reckless. and he’s the reason i’m having a drink - as opposed to, y’know, sleeping. what anyone should be doing this late.” her voice is clear, and she watches the confidence in his face falter for a moment. then, as quickly as it hesitated, his smile returned, rising back up to his full height. he pokes his tongue into his inner cheek, looking between the both of them.

“enjoy your drinks, ladies.” he says it with a shockingly non-confrontational tone, accompanied with a shrug. she feels her cheeks heat in embarrassment as he gives her a slight nod to her, before turning and heading in the direction of one of the newer recruits - frank? flynn? - as she turns back to her drink, eyes closed in humiliation.

finally, she glances up at rose, and sees the uncomfortable grimace mirrored on her face.

“please, please, can you not shout when you complain about someone?” she chastises and begs her friend in the same tone, telling her off for her borderline rude behavior, and for the subsequent awkwardness it caused her. it makes her laugh, as she nods, assuring her that she won't. as rose bemoans she situation, she smiles into the rim of her drink, trying not to think about the warmth that she felt.

she wasn't quite sure if it was still embarrassment, or something else.

as she and rose had finally decided they'd taken enough from the night, and were ready to pass out into the longest sleep they had time to muster, rose heads towards the exit while she rushes to the bar to bid adieu to aid, and to front over the cost of their drinks. the quiet bartender thought her to be funny, so prices were usually discounted, but what did confuse her was the shake of his head and the shrug he passed when she asked to be reminded of the prices.

"already paid for." her eyebrows quirk at the non-descriptive explanation, and she wonders who'd paid for them in the short time they'd sat in the cantina.

"huh? by who?" aid was never great at names, but even he couldn't forget her infamous donor.

"dameron."

the revelation muffled in her mind over the night, as she wondered what exactly had possessed the cocky pilot to pay for their drinks, especially after hearing her bad-mouth him.

perhaps, she figured, it was a gesture of good-will, to imply that her snarky comments did little to actually affect him. and, for a moment she thought it was sweet.

until she passed by him in that same cantina, surrounded by both the members of his squadron, as well as some others, recounting the story of how he'd narrowly ducked in and between the cliffs of some outer rim territory in order to avoid a gang of small-time pirates. he spoke animatedly of how he narrowly made it out from a 20 meter gap in the cliffs, though how, tragically, one of his wings had taken a brunt of impact.

she grimaced at the casualness of his words, and of the enraptured expressions of everyone else, only speaking in order to reiterate how truly amazing they thought he was.

of course she remembered that mission, as she'd spent a grueling 3 days fashioning a new wing tip to add to his starfighter before his next mission - pulling maybe a collective 3 hours of sleep over the 3 nights.

and, suddenly, his gesture seemed almost more of a mockery.

though she knew that he continued to leave her blood boiling, and thus attempted to avoid him as much as possible, he seemed to have a remarkably different idea, deciding that his prevalence as a topic of conversation of her yielded him permission to become the one she spoke to.

he'd greet her as he hopped off of his ship, whenever he passed the flight deck as she worked, and somehow always managed to walk past her just as she knew he was clocking out for the night, leaving her to work an additional few hours - at least - to rescue his overworked vehicle.

poe didn't believe that he was being malicious - not at all. after all, she had no idea how difficult his job was either, so what gave her the right to complain? she didn't know that the only reason he pulled off complicated maneuvers was to divert attention from less experienced recruits, or that the days of planning missions - just for many of them to fail - also left him exhausted, and owed to many of his own contemplative, long nights.

thus, a strange, very aggravating dance occurred between the both of them. she was stubborn - as stubborn as him - but, of course, she - rather stubbornly - would never believe it, owing neither to want to secede and create a more comfortable environment by discussing their issues or - and this was completely off the table - apologizing.

though, due to this, both of their friends were subject to suffer through their passing remarks, or the strange tension that seemed to follow the pair. as the days continued, rose found herself seeking out the amused eyes of finn - poe's good friend - as he took in the scene, smiling or laughing alongside him at the absurdity of their situation.

it was this growing familiarity between their friends, in fact, that had owed to her current lonely late night. the black and green squadrons were responsible for the destruction of a medium, but connected first order base in the mid rim. it was an unlikely victory - outnumbered by tie-fighters at least 2 or 3 to one, but the meticulous plan crafted by finn, poe and a few of the others, and green-lit by the general, had created it.

there was much celebration when they'd headed back - and that spirit soared through the entirety of the base, with everyone coming together to remember their primary goal: weakening the authoritative role of the first order. it had gone on late into the night, as she can still hear the loud, carrying voices from the cantina. she's headed in the opposite direction, though, as she usually does. she'd seen dameron's ship when it'd come in, and - though it didn't look all that rough, she could tell it could do with a tune up.

she hadn't asked rose to stay alongside her, seeing the twinkle in her eyes as she'd spoken to finn in the aftermath of the mission, smiling widely in a way her friend didn't see all that often. so, instead, she’s left in company of just her tools and the occasional creak of the old, overworked machines.

there's quiet squeaks as she's unscrewing the control panel of the starfighter, but the noises are dwarfed by the sounds of steps approaching her general direction. she wonders if someone's forgotten something, or if it's rose stopping by the check on her, but she decides to ignore it, unable to pinpoint how close the other person is. that is, until she sees them round the nose of the x-wing.

it makes her start violently, dropping her tools with a clatter as she jumps. her heart's beating so fast that she can't even see all that clearly, and, when she finally realizes who it is, frustration clouds over her confusion.

"what the hell are you doing here?" it's harsher than she usually is, but it'd been a really long day, and she wasn't excited at the notion of dealing with him.

immediately, poe's defensive.

"kriff, calm down! i just wanted to check in on her." he lightly pats on the nose of his x-wing, as if it were a pet, and she suddenly wonders where his actual pet-droid - the orange one - is, "wanted to make sure nothing happened to it." he continues, not looking at her.

she opens her mouth, wanting to say how dumb of an explanation it was, but she truly can't find the energy to start a back-and-forth with him, so she simply goes back to work, shrugging. seeing that he still doesn’t leave, she drops her head, sighing deeply.

“what - what exactly do you need to know about it - her - dameron? do you need to watch the circuits as i reconnect them, or maybe eyeball every screw i twist in?” he seems shocked by the outburst, mouth hanging open for just a moment, before his hands raise up in a faux-surrender.

“if you want me to leave - i’ll go.” he pauses for a second, but she can still feel that more words are soon to leave his tongue, so she doesn’t say anything, eyes falling down to the circuits she'd just spoken about, “but i’m not exactly excited by the idea of you - someone - down here all by themselves.” she purses her lips.

“well, i’m sorry to inconvenience you - but you are flying again tomorrow morning, and your ship isn’t exactly tip-top.” she’s ready to turn back, hoping it’s enough of an argument to suffice him, but’s he’s adamant.

“at least take a break? everyone else’s at the cantina - it’s not like a drink’d hurt-” she rolls her shoulders, sighing deeply.

“if i agree, will you stop talking?” his voice stops, but a smile grows in its stead. he shrugged.

“you want me to stop? i thought you adored the sound of my voice-” she rolls her eyes, the hint of a smile ghosting over her own lips at the sarcastic joke. muttering a small shut up, she raises to her feet, dusting off her outfit, before stepping away from her work. he gestures to the large doors leading out the flight bay, and she nods, walking to meet his stride.

they reach the cantina in a moment, the silence between them filled instead with the increasing sounds from everyone else. as she enters, she notices the large overflow of people around the bar, evidently still celebrating. she takes a deep breath as she looks around desperately for where exactly she's supposed to do.

poe, keeping a close eye on her so as to not lose her to the crowd, points towards the table where their friends are sitting. she nods, flitting right behind him to benefit as he pushes his way through the crowds. when they finally reach the table, he can see a calm rest on her face, especially in the presence of rose. he follows her gaze to the close proximity between rose and finn, and, when she averts her gaze, she meets his, making him smile with a shrug, as if saying i know, right?

as poe grabs a drink for the both of them, and she's finally able to actually meet finn and speak with rose, she finds herself loosening up, grinning at rose's excited expression, or finn's somewhat deadpan humor, or the sweetness of her drink. sometimes, poe's own jokes forced an unwarranted laugh from her as well - which he definitely took notice of.

for a while, he'd also noticed the apprehension of not being able to finish her work, but he reminds her subtly that his ship hadn't been too beat up: it wouldn't disintegrate if he tried to exit the atmosphere tomorrow, and she'd have time to fix it up before it got to that point. it allows her to really mellow down, and she settles - alongside rose -with a few other members of the black squadron as they discuss the day, their missions, and the base.

poe's more decent, she realizes, than she gave him credit for, as when he's reintroducing her to the other pilots, the first words out of his mouth is acknowledgement for her hard work. it almost makes her giddy, especially after it's followed by miscellaneous praise from the others. she feels a smile creep up on her countenance, and it's only bolstered by the many small, sweet glances he'd shoot in her direction.

though, like all good things, it doesn't exactly last.

as the night drags - and maybe it's also her exhaustion, or the fact that poe's a few more drinks in - she can feel that respect that grew for him begin to chip away again.

his mouth just works too fast for his brain to catch up - she supposes - as she feels annoyance creep over her as she hears him gloat about his many stories as a pilot. though many of the stories have less to do with him giving her more hardship, when she sees the more egoistic parts of his personality reveal themselves throughout the night, she feels that same aggravation that led to that one night of late drinking with rose.

at some point, she feels that hearing him boast over and over and over was just too much to bear, so she knocks the rest of her drink back, waves rose and finn off, and slips out as she came in, deciding a night of good sleep may soothe her turbulent mind.

only a moment after she left, does poe return with a drunken smile, just about to introduce her to one of the many recruits he'd mentored - in order to remind said recruit about the importance of respecting your mechanic.

the smile fell as finn - almost sadly - mentioned that she'd left.

it's been a few weeks since then, and poe's reeled in his antics - much to her pleasure. though, she couldn't help the twang of something she'd begun to feel when he walked past her station, not acknowledging her in the slightest.

she wondered why; after all, that was what she'd initially wanted.

neither could continue ignoring each other, though, when they were called into the communications center of the base by the leader of the division, and the general herself.

she made her way up there quickly and, meeting poe at the door, hoped her confusion wasn't apparent on her face. if it was, he did little to quell it, as he instead focused on opening the large doors.

now, she'd only met the general a few times - and the other she knew only by rank. he, on the other hand, seemed very buddy-buddy with the pair, forcing her isolation for a moment as the three greeted each other. when, finally, they turned to outline the reason for the meeting, she was directed to sit down, and listen carefully.

she was told of how the resistance had recently learned from a rebel spy on an important first order ship that said ship had been collecting significant amounts of data on the resistance, and were soon hoping to transmit that data to a more central base.

the spy had gone on, stating that if there was a way to shut down the servers in the main control room of the ship, the data would be corrupted and would be useless.

there's a pregnant pause after the delivery of this information, and she swallows before speaking.

"what - um, what exactly do you want me - us - to do?" poe's role may seem somewhat self-evident - as in, flying a passenger onto the ship or jetting them out - but her own contribution was a bit more dubious.

after all, this seemed a mission best suited for the few technical analysts on the base, as opposed to the mechanic that she was, if it included corrupting intel and shutting down servers. truly, she didn't know what the first thing about that.

the general, ever so observant, smiles lightly as she understands her question. the comms leader responds for her.

"the spy has mentioned that the core system and servers are held in an old compartment - a remnant of the original empire - and, thus, much of the system is reliant on old, though complex, circuitry." she inhales deeply, better realizing her stake in this. the other person continues, "as one of our best mechanics and - obviously - our best pilot-" okay, that stung a little bit, and the smug little grin on his face definitely didn't help, "myself and the general believe it best we run a covert operation: you will sneak onto the ship, make it to the servers, destroy them, and then come back. it's a bit technically challenging, but the likes of the two of you should ensure a smooth operation."

as they finish speaking, she can feel her heart going a mile a minute - unable to believe that she - she! - was going to try and play super-spy and sneak onto a massive first order ship. she was sure poe now realized her shock, as he gave her a small reassuring nod.

it wasn't particularly reassuring, though.

they were then told that time was of the essence, and that it would be best that they leave as soon as possible. they were told to recruit another pilot and mechanic, in the case of a back-up that may exist on the ship, before being given stolen first order uniforms, correct to their assignments.

as she headed back to the flight bay, poe and the comms leader in front of her, she felt a strange, nervous churn in her stomach. she mulled over who she'd choose as the secondary mechanic, but realized the answer was - quite literally - staring her in the face.

rose joins her at the entrance of the flight bay, curious as to why she'd been called in, and, as she recounts the meeting, she posits the position to her friend. as one of the most competent mechanics she knew, but also someone who knew how to think quick on her feet, she knew that she'd be a great fit.

rose agrees in a heartbeat - her loyalty to both her friend and the resistance unwavering against the fearful mission.

she walks further up the flight bay and, upon seeing dameron similarly speaking to finn - likely to convince him as well - she joins him, now intent on how exactly they would find a ship that would go undetected by the first order.

the general - having planned ahead - had an answer for that as well, taking the four out into a forest clearing behind the main base. two large tie/sf-fighters stood, just slightly battered, on the lush greens of the ground. they're in decent condition, she supposes, for what she knew were likely captured or shot down ships by d'qar's defense system.

they're each handed earpieces, going to guide them as they entered the first order ship, and they are waved off as she and poe enter one of them, while rose and finn enter the other.

"everyone ready?" the crackling of the comms for the mission - led by a lovely ex-bounty hunter called pala - came through, as she adjusted into the gunner's seat, and poe into the pilot's. rose answers first, a chipper 'yes' coming through between the other 4 devices. she nods to no one, as though she were really just trying to convince herself.

"as we'll ever be," she mumbles, owing to a grunt of agreement from finn. taking the answers into consideration, pala transmits the coordinates of the ship to poe and finn.

both vehicles rumble as they lift up off the ground, and she feels herself white-knuckling her seat as she anticipates the flight.

as they reach the range of the ship, poe flies ahead, surveying the entrance and - by extension - the exit points. she hears a deep voice crackle through poe's earpiece, but she can hear it echo along the narrow walkway separating her and the pilot as well. it lists off - what she presumes - is the plane's serial number, and she holds her breath as she waits for poe's response to the question, "what business do you have here?"

"the admiral sent us in for reintegration - i've got a deserter on board." she lets out a gasp at the answer he'd chosen, blatantly throwing her on the bus, but the approving echo left her annoyance to a minimum as, at least, he seemed to have bought it.

they begin lowering down into the ship's flight bay, and, before she can even stand up all the way after it becomes stationary, poe's behind her, helping her up. she doesn't know if she should thank him, but decides that she should definitely not, when she finds him grabbing both her wrists and pinning them - though gently - behind her back.

"the hell? what're you doing?" her words come out more shaky than she maybe intended, but he'd really taken her by surprise.

"you're a deserter, remember. can't exactly take you in like we're the best of friends." his tone is sarcastic and she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"they only think that because that's what you said." he doesn't dignify her with a response, honestly making her more agitated. he opens the door of the sf-fighter and tightens his grip for a moment, as the two of them are greeted by what looked to be a colonel. it's confirmed as they near him, his nameplate engraved with the title, and poe nods at him - a little too comfortable.

"they caught this one trying to flee three days ago." he gestures to her, and the unrelated sour expression on her face was definitely helping his case. the colonel nodded, looking at her with the utmost disgust.

"and she will be reprimanded accordingly. bring her to the cell bay." poe nods, pushing her lightly as he continues forward.

"you're a good actor." she can feel his goading smirk, and she shakes her head.

"i hate you."

as they enter further into the ship, he finally releases her, their clothes helping them blend in as crew members. her fingers find her earpiece, ensuring it was on, as she spoke into it.

"rose, finn? you guys get in alright?" there's a beat of silence, and her worry grows strikingly, but it quells just as quickly when she hears the familiar tone of finn's voice in her ear.

"we're fine - heading down to the storage to find those back-ups." she glances at poe, who nods at her, before speaking.

"alright - we'll meet near the flight bay after." finn and rose both agree.

pala begins speaking a few minutes later, guiding them through the base as they reach the server room. poe keeps look-out as she crouches beside the large, cylindrical structure. circuits surround it in an orderly manner, but she can tell the ancientness of it - dust floating around, pooling around every crevice.

she reaches into her deep pockets, procuring a small screw before closely eyeing the intricacies, and getting to work.

poe's eyes flit between her frame and the hallway right outside, keenly watching for stormtroopers, and praying that none would come. he feels himself blank for a moment, not used to feeling so helpless - or, at least, not the one taking charge of a solution for a situation. he resigns himself, though, to simply waiting, gripping his blaster tightly as he waits for her to finish.

finally, she stands back up, watching the lights on the server begin flicking on and off rapidly and sporadically, owing her to believe that she'd done something right, and that the information contained was - at least - corrupted due to the circuitry she'd just purposefully fucked up.

she's by his side in a moment, peering out as well to see if they had any company. for a beat, there's nothing, and they think they have the all clear, until she hears rose's voice.

"shit!" her eyes widen at the exclamation, and they both immediately leave the room, heading back in the direction of the flight bay.

"rose? what happened, are you guys alright?" there's an eerie silence, as rose nor finn reach to communicate back through their earpieces.

"-over here! poe, we gotta head back, they're right on us!" finn's voice comes though, finally, but it does nothing to quell the pair's heightened worry.

"wait - finn, they'll chase after you - wait till we-" poe begins.

"we don't have time!" rose's voice is frantic, and the sound of blasters surround it. her eyes squeeze shut as she breathes deeply.

"rose - okay, get out of here. we're right behind you." there's no confirmation from the other end, but she tries not to let that deter her as she and poe continue towards the flight bay.

there's a smattering of patrolling stormtroopers, but her sharp ears and his sharper reflexes keep them from being caught as they slink along the shadows, tattooed to the walls of each hallway.

the large hangar finally comes into view, and they can see the familiar sf-fighter exiting it, evidently being chased by single-manned tie-fighters.

knowing they were unlikely not to be caught in this last stretch, they flee the short distance between the secluded entryway and their awaiting ship, with her rapidly beating against the button to open the door as poe covered her, keeping those whose attention they'd drawn at ever-decreasing bay with his calculated shots.

finally, the panel lowered, and they swapped positions, her shoddy shots managing to continue slowing them down as poe seats himself in the pilot's seat.

no sooner than had the panel closed upon itself are they up in the air, and she desperately straps herself into the gunner's seat, knowing she had to put her limited knowledge of the position to any use. the entrance to the hangar is rapidly closing as the colonel from earlier can be heard through the ship's comms, desperately trying to keep the pair trapped within the base.

she can feel her back imprint against her seat as poe speeds the vehicle up, just narrowly exiting the snapping jaws of the base's exit. as she takes the smallest breath of relief, does it disappear once more.

"'re you guys out? we could do with some help!" finn's voice evidenced that he was trying to keep his cool, but the fear in it was also obvious. poe's responding in a heartbeat.

"we're there in a second!" she can feel the ship begin climbing as poe checked the scanner for any other vehicles. finally, they see the sf-fighter, being narrowly tailed by two tie-fighters. poe - true to his word - comes between the forces in a heartbeat, almost dancing with the tie-fighters as he weaves between the both of them. she feels dizzy at the quick movements, but suppresses the urge to pass out and grips harder at the armrests.

"finn - get outta here, i have them!" poe's speaking through the comms once more and, as he finishes his sentence, the ship's horizontal, peeling away from finn and rose - the tie-fighters hot on his trails, evidently disgruntled by the flashy flying. finn doesn't wait a second, activating the hyperdrive and inputting the coordinates of d'qar.

on the other side of the galaxy, poe's still leading the two tie-fighter's away, but the shitty ship is impeding his ability to duck and weave like he could in his x-wing.

"'m gonna need your help here!" she jolts awake at the request, realizing that she needs to man her station. her eyes desperately flit over the various buttons, before she grips the aim stick. her eyes are trained against the tie-fighter directly tailing them, and she centers it in her view, before aggressively hitting the button to shoot.

and, it's a narrow miss. she curses, trying to refocus, but a dread begins creeping up her gut.

"i don't know what i'm doing, dameron - get us out of here!" it's an order, but, really who was she to order him around.

"we've got this - we can take 'em out." she's used to his confidence and belief in himself, but she knew they truly couldn't.

"will you just-" seeing another clear shot, she takes it. it goes a bit better, with it hitting the end of one of the fighter's wings, causing the ship to dip to one side. her worry is soothed as she celebrates the small victory to herself.

then, as though a higher power was absolutely fucking with her, it all goes to shit.

she feels the ship rumble and heave sharply as she hears a loud crash, and she whips her head around, trying to find the source of it. she desperately grips at the aim stick, trying to keep it steady and ready to fire again, but she doesn't have a moment to use it when another loud blast and creak is heard.

"shit!" her eyes widened at poe's exclamation.

"what the hell just happened - whad'ya mean-?" her words are cut off due to the wind being knocked out of her as she's slammed against one of her armrests.

"we're going - fuck - the engine's been hit - hold on-" his words are breathless against the comms, and she can hear the exertion of effort by the grunts that carry through the hallway. she grips the armrests for dear life as she waits to see what would happen. she can feel the ship make a sharp turn and, behind them, the tie-fighters trail behind a little, as if they were playing with their prey.

"what're we doing?" her fear is evident in her tone, and her voice is a bit croaky in her heightened confusion.

"i'm trying to set us down on that planet over there." she can't see it, looking out from the back of the ship, but she knows that can't be the best idea in their current state. though, seeing the creeping tie-fighters makes it seem like there's no other choice.

she can see as they enter the atmosphere, hearing the shrill whistle of wings singeing on impact. then, she closes her eyes, bracing for impact as the both of them sit in anticipating silence. she's thinking we're going too fast, the ship's gonna blow up with me in it - god fucking dammit-

and that's the last thing she remembers.

he wakes up to a mouthful of dirt, bent very awkwardly over the semi-buried dashboard of the sf-fighter. his window's broken open, and the sun - or suns? - is blinding through it. he blinks aggressively, his vision swimming a spotty as he spits the gunk out of his mouth, wiping his lips against his fucked jacket sleeve. there's enough of a space between the ground and the glass of his window pane for him to just about crawl through, feeling the heavy impact on his legs from the crash. he looks around, desperately wondering where the hell he was.

it's a grassy planet, filled with lush vegetation and small ponds and lakes. the ship was half-sticking out of one, and his pants legs are soaking wet, the skin of his fingertips pruned. he can feel a sharp sting of pane every time he moves his foot and, peeling back the end of the sopping cloth, sees the discolored swelling of his ankle - having been sprained or twisted in the crash. he lets his head fall back - could have been worse, a lot worse.

he looks up at the looming, though destroyed figure of the sf-fighter, and, seeing the other end balanced precariously above the ground. for a moment, he doesn't pay it much attention - until he remembers.

his shoddy ankle sings in agony as he makes large, limping steps towards the other end of the ship, realizing that he didn't yet know the fate of his other passenger - his mechanic.

of course, in the recess of his mind, he had a guess. but he couldn't entertain it.

finally getting to the end. he peers in to see if she was okay. he's panting heavily, desperately trying to ignore the pain as he focused on using the little light on this side to look through the broken glass. he could see her legs, bent a little awkwardly - but not broken - and he traces them up to her head and torso - which was tightly strapped against the seat. it was the only thing keeping her from falling onto the floor, and her heads hanging. she's definitely not conscious, and he can't help but feel his heart sink as he steps closer - ankle be damned - reaching through the broken glass to unstrap her. when he does, her body flops forward - as he believed it would - a bit like a ragdoll and, though the angle definitely didn't help, he did his best to pull her out. when he could finally observe her in the sunlight, he could feel his chest swell in relief at the movement of her chest up and down. pulling her towards him, he could feel her breath against his neck.

so relieved, he doesn't realize, for a moment, the shallowness of those breaths, and the dampness of the cloth around her shoulder. when he does, though, he desperately removes the fabric. he winces at the sight, having to look away for a moment, before looking back down to observe the extent of her injury.

her upper arm got a long, deep gash, and the blood from it had soaked through her sleeve. not wasting a moment, he slides the sleeves of his own jacket off, tearing a thick, long strap from the t-shirt he wore under it. he wraps it as tightly as he can manager around her arm to staunch any further bleeding, hoping it wasn't too late, and trying desperately to ignore the small whimpers or stuttered breaths that she let out at the action.

he rises to his feet, a difficult task, in his condition, and notices a small shade of trees just a bit away from the pair. breathing deeply - almost in an effort to will away his pain - he grabs her good arm and pulls it over his shoulder, hoping his good leg wouldn't give out, as he makes his way there.

she wakes up in a cold sweat, looking up to see the large leaves of a tree under the backdrop of an orange sky. she scrambles to sit up in a moment, unable to fully comprehend her surroundings. her heart's going a mile a minute, her body entering fight or flight mode, before she hears his voice.

"you're alright - you're good. m'here." she recognizes his voice more quickly than she'd maybe be willing to admit and, when she goes to turn to the source of it, she feels a scream of agony in her arm. her sharp grunt of pain is louder than she maybe had hoped, but fuck - did her arm hurt, "yeah - uh, you've got a bad cut." his voice is soft, as if he were trying to lull her into a sense of calm.

it worked. for a moment.

until she remembered what happened. the tie-fighters, her pleads to go the hyperspace, the engine failing, the jolt of the impact of the straps holding her body in place, the blood in her hair from the open wound on her arm, her head going blank and her passing out from the pain.

she remembered all of it. including what he'd said.

'we've got this'

there's a lump in her throat, and she desperately tries to swallow it down as she stares vehemently at the dirt under her. she refuses to look up at him, and hopes he realizes why.

"do - does anyone know we're here?" her voice is more broken than she'd hoped it was but - fuck, she was scared. she can see him shrug in her peripheral.

"i'm sure they'll find us." she sighs deeply, turning away to the extent that she can. there's a calm, though cold, silence between them, before she can hear him sharply inhale.

"helluva trip, huh?" there's a jokey cadence to his voice, and it takes her a moment to actually process what he's said, his casual tongue actually igniting a rageful fire in her.

"what?" it's a whisper - backed by such an anger that she worries if she speaks louder, she'll scream.

"i'm just saying - pretty, uh, pretty crazy thing, right?" she shuts her eyes, and a small part of her brain knows that, at best, this is his way of making the best of a bad situation and, at worst, this is just some shit attempt at small talk. but - be it his words in the past, or the pain of her arm, or maybe even just the fact that all she could hear was his confident words like a low buzz in her ears since she remembered what he'd said - she was furious.

"yeah - it's fucking insane how i'm lightheaded because of all the blood i lost, and how i can't move a centimeter without wanting to cut my arm off, and how i can feel the bruises forming where the straps kept me from splitting my skull open on my broken window. it's a helluva experience." her words are softer than she'd thought they would be, but she knew if she was any louder, she may have screamed at him until her lungs collapsed or her throat gave out - whichever came later.

she doesn't have to turn back to see the expression on his face, and, truly she feels a bit shit for lashing out at him.

but she was on a random fucking planet with a mangled fucking arm and her only company was a pilot with no fucking plane.

so, excuse her for the outburst.

"i-" poe's stammering behind her, but she can't hear it, as her vision swims when she tries to get on her feet. she can see the ship in the distance, and knowing that it was her best bet at company right now, she trudges towards it, "where're you going?"

she doesn't dignify him with an answer.

when she finally reaches the large structure, she situates herself against the pilot's dashboard, gently kicking away the broken glass as she tentatively crouches down. she looks over the panel, hoping that at least one of the comms was still working. she procures her screwdriver with her good arm - well, technically not, but at least it didn't hurt all that much to move - before lightly tapping the back of it against any and all of the buttons, seeing if anything worked.

her arm now had a dull, thrumming pain, and she desperately tried to ignore it as she focuses on identifying what the comms were. she traces over a panel that seems to be promising, pulling the screwdriver towards it to see if she could meddle with any of the circuitry under it to get it to work - however briefly.

pulling it up, she realizes both the awkwardness of her position, and of her grip on the tool, unused to using this hand for it. her muscles ached, her arm ached, her temples ached as she desperately tried to slot the head of the tool into the screw, failing once, twice, thrice, before dropping the tool with a groan of anguish.

she's heaving - no, sobbing, feeling the liquid of her tears roll down her cheeks. she slumps against the glass, palming her cheeks as she desperately tried to muffle her exhausted weeping, only the sound of her small hiccups escaping.

she hated getting like this - crying out in the open, and she only reserved the ordeal for true upsets. though, this was one of them. she was so tired, and in so much pain, and she'd just been so horrible to poe as well - when he'd just tried to lighten her mood.

through the blood rushing in her ears and the motion of her hiccups, she doesn't realize the heavy thuds of poe's limping steps. she only realizes when he's in front of her, blocking the dimming sunlight from her eyes, and she covers her face entirely, not wanting to see her in this state.

he doesn't comment, though, only falling to his own haunches before sitting beside her, granting a respectful silence and, more importantly, friendly contact.

she swallows harshly as she forces her hiccups down. she doesn't look at him, worried it'd make her start up again, but he knows she's not uncomfortable with him there.

taking her good hand, he gently drops an opened bag of nuts. she looks at it, a bit confused.

"always keep 'em on me. emergency snack." he says it so casually and, it being contrasted with the slight childishness of the information, makes her crack the hint of a smile.

maybe she was hysterical.

"- hope they'll make you feel better." he continues, and she nods, popping one in her mouth and absorbing the mild, sweet taste.

"thanks - thanks." she mumbles, and they're quiet for another moment.

she hands them back to her, and, in that moment of contact, he notices her cold skin. he glances over her, realizing her thin top without a sleeve, and he shrugs off his jacket. it's a bit mucked up from the crash, but it's better than nothing.

tentatively, he moves a bit closer to her, gently placing the material around her, careful of her arm. still she winces - but only for a moment. really, she's more confused.

"what're you doing?" she whispers, and he's close enough to hear her now.

"you're cold." he's not wrong, but she still protests.

"and you?" he smiles.

"well, i'm pretty hot-headed. i'll be fine." it's a joke, and she really wants to laugh at it, but she can't help but feel bad once again for her words. taking it differently, poe continues solemnly. “i’m sorry.”

it’s a quiet mumble into the still air. it sounds foreign, coming from his mouth, as he tries to fit the extent of how apologetic and shitty he feels into the fleeting, overused phrase. she stays quiet, the only noise being her soft exhales.

“i - i know.” she mumbles back, unsure of what more to say. of course he was - he’d never intended for this. nonetheless, he’d been subject to her own emotions, to an unjustifiable degree, “i am, too.”

his contemplative expression returns a smile instead, now, and she finally turns to look at him.

"i'll buy us a drink when we get back, okay?" he offers, making her scoff.

"you're so great at apologies." he shrugs, as though it's obvious fact, and not a light jab.

"then what about dinner?" her eyes widen a little at the proposition, and she's speechless for a moment. then, she snorts, pushing her good hand across his face and playfully pushing him.

"get us out of here; then, we can talk about dinner." he smiles widely under her palm, and laughs as she takes her hand off. he leans back just that bit further against the metal, and the readjustment causes the dashboard to shift just slightly.

a small item comes rolling down, and falls right in his lap. he grasps at it and, realizing what it is, his eyes widen. he brandishes it in between the both of them, and she also realizes: it's his earpiece.

he gently presses the input button, and immediately starts calling out for finn, rose or pala. they wait a moment, with baited breath.

"poe - kriff, we thought you were dead!" finn's voice is unmistakable, and the revelation makes the pair's spirits soar.

in no less than a couple minutes were the told that a ship was coming by to collect them, and, as the earpiece's output stops for the moment, she rests more peacefully against the destroyed ship, and he mirrored her movements.

"so, about that dinner?"

[ugotnojamzzz]

Rulers of Ruin

Chapter 5

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: There will come a day when I will sit down and write an alluring synopsis for this series. But that day hasn't come just yet lol. Stay tuned for more chapters to come.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 2.9k

Masterlist

Chapter 4

--

As her initial days at the Kim estate unfolded, Y/N found herself not so much in captivity as in an odd limbo. Though technically a "guest," her freedom was limited by the subtle yet unmistakable presence of guards who followed her every move—to the visible annoyance of Taehyung, who seemed to bear the brunt of this duty.

Namjoon, the orchestrator of her current predicament, was conspicuously absent, his presence dwindling to nothing more than brief sightings at long corridors or fleeting shadows behind closed doors.

This absence gnawed at her, feeding a growing unease about what might be going on—was there some new development involving her brother? Was the standoff between their clans escalating in ways she couldn't see from her gilded cage?

The estate was too quiet. Here and there, people would appear—agents, staff, and other unidentified figures who seemed to have urgent purposes and places to be. Their steps were brisk, their conversations clipped and hushed, hinting at a larger narrative playing out just beyond Y/N's reach.

No one ever seemed to so much as glance in her direction. She was part of the scenery, a fixture within the ornate walls of the mansion, which allowed her a certain degree of observation she wouldn't have possessed otherwise.

Y/N quickly found herself attuned to the rhythms of the house. She began to memorize the patterns of the guards’ patrols, the shifts changes, and the locations of the surveillance cameras—each detail a potential piece in the puzzle of her eventual escape, should the opportunity arise.

Her days developed a routine that brought a semblance of stability. Mornings were spent in the vast, sunlit atrium where breakfast was served promptly at seven. The meals were quiet, the food exquisite yet eaten with the mechanical motions of someone whose thoughts were elsewhere. Afternoons allowed for time in the extensive library, where Y/N pored over books with titles ranging from political treatises to ancient warfare.

Walks in the garden were permitted in the late afternoons. These were her least confined moments, though still shadowed by Taehyung. It was during these walks that she carefully counted steps, noted blind spots, and committed the timing of guard shifts to memory, all under the pretense of leisurely strolls.

One quiet afternoon, Y/N was absorbed in a book, sipping tea in the plush setting of the drawing room, with Taehyung lounging beside her.

The picture of absolute boredom, he sprawled in his bergère chair, idly swiveling his head back and forth to the ticking of the clock when suddenly, the calm was shattered by the doors bursting open.

Two young men marched in with confident strides.

"Taehyung-ah, there you are! We’ve been looking for you," one of them called out, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious room.

"Come on, let's go," urged the other, his tone impatient.

"Can't," Taehyung sighed heavily, nodding in Y/N's direction as she sat immersed in her book.

"Aish, still on babysitting duty, I see," grumbled the first, and with that comment, Y/N's patience snapped. She closed her book with a definitive clap, her eyes lifting slowly to assess the source of her interruption. Her jaw clenched as her gaze fell on two faces that weren’t linked to particularly fond memories.

"YN, this is Jimin," Taehyung introduced, gesturing towards the platinum blonde who had escorted her from the depths of the basement upon her arrival. He sat down next to Taehyung.

"And that’s Yoongi," he continued, nodding towards the man with piercing eyes who had struck the hell out of her a few days prior.

"We’ve met," Y/N responded icily, her gaze fixed on Yoongi. She subtly ran her tongue over the small cut on her lip—a lingering souvenir from their last encounter.

"Yeah, sorry about that, by the way," Yoongi said with a nonchalant shrug as he picked up a tangerine from the table and began peeling it, "you know the drill, orders are orders."

Uninterested, YN turned her attention back to her book.

"So, they really have you following her around all day?" Jimin's question, laced with curiosity, sliced through the room's previous tension. Y/N couldn't help but feel a flicker of offence at their casual disregard for her presence.

Taehyung nodded, a hint of resignation in his voice. "And nights too," he added, rolling his tired eyes slightly. "Guess that's my punishment for the whole capture thing."

"Yeah,” Yoongi chuckled, “I heard that was quite a scene."

"Shut up," Taehyung shot back, not quite able to mask his irritation. Though the physical mark of his black eye had faded, the embarrassment of the botched operation lingered like a stubborn stain.

It had all been planned meticulously, expecting her to be passed out in the SUV almost the second she stepped off the plane. Everything was supposed to go smoothly. What could some frail boarding-school girl possibly do, anyway, right?

But she clearly hadn’t gone down without a fight.

"To be fair, everyone has their strengths," Y/N suddenly commented, her voice even and calm, eyes still fixed on the page of her book, not even granting them the courtesy of her gaze. She turned a page deliberately, then added, "It’s just a shame yours isn’t your job."

At her words, a stifled giggle escaped Jimin, who couldn't help but appreciate the sharp jab. His laughter, however, was short-lived. Without missing a beat, Yoongi delivered a swift slap to the back of his blonde head, a clear reprimand for his lack of decorum.

"Punk," Yoongi muttered under his breath, shooting a glare at the younger boy, who rubbed the back of his head, still smirking slightly despite the admonishment.

Jimin shifted his focus. "Hey, by the way, did you end up finding a proper room for her?" he asked, turning towards Y/N with a curious gaze.

Yoongi leaned forward slightly. "Right, where did they stash GI Jane?"

Taehyung raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh shit, you haven’t heard?" he said with a smirk, "Namjoon had her moved to the attic."

The boys exchanged a knowing look.

Yoongi whistled softly, "You’re joking."

“I wish,” Tae replied.

Then, with a sly grin, Jimin added, "Well, someone’s going to be happy about that."

The three of them chuckled together, sharing a moment of amusement that. Y/N didn’t quite understand what they could possibly mean, yet she felt little inclination to probe further.

“Alright,” Yoongi suddenly said, rising to his feet with a glance at his phone. “I’d love to stay and have tea with you ladies, but I’m afraid I got some business to attend to,” he added, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “You know the drill, ord—”

“Orders are orders?” Y/N interjected, her eyebrow arched in defiance.

Yoongi paused to look at her, a hint of respect flickering in his eyes. “I like her,” he stated to his friends, before heading towards the door.

« Wait, are you going to the vault ?” Taehyung asked, suddenly up on his feet like a puppy eager for a walk.

“I am,” Yoongi confirmed. “You’re not.”

“But Hyung—” Taehyung started to protest.

“You’ve got a job here; can’t leave the girl alone, can you?” Yoongi cut him off, nodding towards Y/N.

Taehyung paused for a moment, before quickly turning his attention to Jimin, who already knew what was coming. “Jimin-ssi,” he began tenderly.

"No.” Jimin cut him off,

“-Please, » Taehyung insisted, "I’ll be super quick.”

But Jimin didn’t look convinced. “It’s gonna take more than that,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a content smirk.

Exhaling in frustration, Taehyung negotiated, “I’ll take your training shifts for a month.”

“Four,” Jimin countered without missing a beat.

“Three?” Taehyung bargained.

“Deal,” Jimin agreed finally.

Grinning triumphantly, Taehyung leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on Jimin’s head before hurrying out the door. Y/N watched the scene from the corner of her eye, slightly taken aback by the easy camaraderie among the boys, a stark contrast to the rigid hierarchy and stern discipline that characterized her own clan.

The room settled into an uneasy silence after Taehyung’s departure, the echo of the door shutting marking a palpable shift in the atmosphere.

Y/N returned her attention to her book, the quiet only disrupted by the occasional rustle of pages turning. Jimin watched her for a moment before finally breaking the stillness.

“It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?” he commented, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he nodded towards the cover of the book in her hands.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

“Subtlety isn’t my forte,” Y/N responded without looking up, her voice even and composed.

Jimin chuckled softly, the sound lightening the mood. "What a refined way to make a point," he mused, settling more comfortably into his chair.

“Everyone loves a good escape story,” she remarked, “Vengeance and all.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Jimin frowned in amusement, “Picking up some tips?”

Y/N finally looked up to meet his gaze steadily, "Ravens don't need tips when it comes to revenge," she countered, her tone lightly mocking. "Besides, had it been the case, I would've opted for something a little- bloodier,” she added thoughtfully. “Some Greek tragedy, perhaps."

Jimin's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered her words, a flicker of intrigue passing over his features. The idea seemed to both alarm and amuse him.

"Now, if you don’t mind," Y/N concluded, turning her attention back to her book with a definitive air.

However, words from their previous encounter lingered in her mind, unresolved. Distracted, it seemed the words she was reading might as well have been in French. After a moment, she gave in, her eyes drifting from the page to meet Jimin's once again. Her gaze was intense, laden with unspoken questions.

"What is it?" Jimin asked, noticing the change in her demeanor.

She wondered whether she should bring it up. "You said something," she began slowly, recalling the unsettling moment before she’d been dragged to meet Namjoon. "Back in the basement."

"I remember," he acknowledged, his voice steady.

The memory was sharp in her mind: his grip firm on her, fingers pressing into her jaw uncomfortably. "You may not remember my face," he had said, "but I certainly haven't forgotten yours, little bird."

She drew a deep breath, maintaining her composure. "I might have been playing a part down there, but my answer was honest," she stated clearly. "I don’t remember ever meeting you before."

“I’m not surprised,” he replied, a slight smirk appearing as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Y/N's eyes, sharp and ever observant, caught a glimpse of something on his forearm. The fabric of his slightly rolled-up sleeve had shifted just enough to reveal it—a mark all too familiar to her.

It was the raven scar, the very same that marked the completion of the rigorous initiation within the Park clan. It was unmistakable, a sign of trials endured and loyalties bound.

He noticed her stare and followed her gaze to his arm.

"Y-you—" Y/N began, her voice faltering.

"I’m not a spy," Jimin quickly interjected, reading the suspicion in her eyes. "If that’s what you’re thinking."

"But- that’s—" she managed to say.

"I know what it is. » Jimin paused casually, “I did have to do it myself, after all." He nodded towards her own arm, acknowledging the similar mark that she bore. "Just as you had to do yours," he added, locking eyes with her.

Y/N unconsciously ran her finger along her own scar, tracing the line that symbolized so much more than just membership. She stared at him, clearly confused.

“Listen," he continued, “if you need to know anything, it’s that, far as I’m concerned, this ,” he casually pulled aside his collar to reveal the tattoo of the Kim clan emblazoned on his skin “is the only true mark of allegiance I bear.”

"But you..." Y/N began cautiously, glancing around as though fearful of being overheard.

"You can say it out loud” Jimin said casually, “it’s common knowledge around here.”

"You used to be a raven, then?" she asked directly.

Jimin smirked, mischief coloring his expression. "Well, kind of,” he confessed. “I guess I never technically completed the induction."

YN's brow furrowed in confusion. It was unheard of for Raven pledges to back out. In fact, it- never happened. You either got in, or you died trying. Suddenly, a memory clicked into place.

"The farmer boy," she murmured aloud, her voice tinged with realization.

His eyes met hers, and he flashed a knowing smirk. "In the flesh."

She remembered now. She must have been twelve at the time. A pledge, no older than 15, had vanished on the night of his induction. The clan had sent a whole militia to search for him, but the boy had disappeared without leaving a single trace. They assumed he’d somehow gotten himself killed.

"You didn’t have blonde hair back then," she observed.

"Yeah, well, a fugitive does what he must to survive," Jimin replied, running a hand through his platinum locks. "But I reckon it suits me, don't you agree?"

YN, still contemplating, ignored his remark. “They never did figure out what happened to you," she noted.

"It’s simple, really. I just made a break for it—headed south- well, as far south as my busted shoes would take me,” Jimin explained, “Ended up in Seoul.”

His voice took on a reflective tone as he thought back to those early days. It had been a daily struggle, filled with petty thefts and back-alley skirmishes. Things were rough, but nothing compared to the grim fate that awaited him up North.

That was until a significant encounter had changed everything. He vividly recalled the moment a black-haired boy with a distinctive tattoo on his neck had noticed him during a street fight, knife in hand, moving as if it were merely an extension of his body. The boy, though slightly younger than Jimin, had watched him defend himself with a calculated interest, a smirk slowly forming on his lips.

Impressed, he had approached Jimin immediately after the scuffle, casually extending an unexpected offer for food and shelter against some- off the books labor.

“And just like that," Jimin snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up with the recollection, "my new chapter began."

“So, you’re telling me the Kims just— took you in?” she scoffed in disbelief. “Do they even know you’re a northern traitor?”

“Are you kidding? It’s my edge," Jimin countered with a hint of amusement. "They don’t get trained fighters like me on every street corner, not to mention my knowledge of the Park clan can always come in handy, especially in times like these.”

YN's expression hardened slightly at his words.

“So, you're a snitch” she shot back sharply, her disdain clear. “Surprised you didn’t join the rats. »

 “Oh, come on, give me a break,” Jimin rolled his eyes at the insult. “Like you’re one to talk about loyalty? Didn’t you take off right after your fa—”

“I didn’t take off,” she snapped back, cutting him off sharply. Clearly, he had touched a sensitive nerve.

“What would you call it then?” Jimin pressed.

“I—” Y/N began, her voice faltering as she caught herself, the raw edge of her emotions nearly breaking through. She quickly regained her composure, straightening her posture as she held his gaze. “I don’t owe you any explanation,” she stated firmly, though Jimin noticed the white-knuckled grip she had on her book.

Jimin nonchalantly picked up his cup of tea, the steam curling lightly above it as he spoke. "Rumor has it you didn’t even make it to the funeral," he remarked, taking a casual sip. The observation was pointed, and he watched closely as Y/N's jaw clenched.

He had caught wind of it. After all, the news had echoed through the underworld back then, a tantalizing piece of gossip for those in the know. Park Sanghoon, the formidable leader of the Park clan and Y/N's father, had taken his last breath. Of course, his only son Jaebeom had been there to take over the operations; still, his daughter’s abrupt disappearance at such a critical juncture had been nothing short of an oddity.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the air thick with unspoken words. After a moment, Jimin set down his cup and met her eyes with a level gaze. "I would say I’m sorry,” he started, pausing deliberately, “about his passing, I mean."

YN's throat moved visibly as she swallowed, her face a mask of controlled emotions.

"But I’m really not," Jimin continued, his voice dropping slightly. "And I have a feeling you’re not that sorry either."

At his words, Y/N shot to her feet, her movements sharp and sudden, fists clenched at her sides. Her body radiated animosity, but a trace of something else flickered in her eyes.

"You don’t know shit," she spat before storming towards the door.

Jimin let out a heavy sigh. “You can’t just walk off on your own,” he called after her.

“Call the cops,” she snapped back, her voice echoing as she strode through the hall, her back stiff with defiance, "see what they have to say about it."

--

Hope you liked it. If some of you are intrigued or interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to interact and I'll start posting some more chapters! Also questions and remarks and feedback are welcome xxx

Some of you may be wondering when our second lead will appear... Well, fear not, for the smell of fresh kookies is coming from the kitchen I'm cooking in today.

Chapter 6

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

[transmutationisms]

I feel like this is likely a bat to a hornet's nest topic but I deeply respect your takes and thoughts overall a lot so here goes: I really appreciate that the show frankly goes out of its way to not pathologize its characters and lets the audience sit with them in the context of their own lives. So I'm kind of baffled that so much focus is given to "diagnosing" them in fan discussions, the vast brunt of which Kendall gets. I don't understand how you can watch this show and understand him as someone who's been heavily abused and had his reactions to being abused weaponized against him and come away being like "wow it's so cringe he acts like that, he must have a brain disease and is just too stupid to understand that. every action he takes is because he is manic/depressed/letting the disease manifest. if only he took the good moral Legal drugs that I do instead of the ontologically bad ones that are Illegal and for dirty addicts. hopefully one day he will Get Help and Receive Treatment so he will be more palatable (no whatever he's done up to this point doesn't count because it didn't work which must inherently be due to his own moral failings)." How did a show like this attract so many Reganites??

bat at a hornets' nest yes. yeah i've said before that i dislike diagnosing fictional characters as a general rule. it's tautological ("they do [x] because they have [y], and they have [y] because they do [x]") and abrogates further analysis of their motives or the meanings of their actions. and it's doubly irksome to me with succession, because unlike a lot of tv, i genuinely don't think that it's written within the weltanschauung of dsm neurobio determinism. ie, it's not a show where the answer to "why did he do that?" is ever supposed to be "his brain is just like that"—these actions are supposed to mean something about what the character wants and needs, and the effect of the capitalist milieu on those things. it's psychological, not psychiatric (& of course, psychoanalytic approaches are common in formal literary studies, whereas blunt psychiatric diagnosis is decidedly less so).

with kendall's drug use there are some particularly irritating ways this all plays out. i've been fiddling with my own reading emphasising the context of logan's demands on kendall and the construction of bourgeois masculinity, and have tried to place kendall's drug use as a response to neoliberal control mechanisms à la deleuze or foucault. i could certainly be challenged on elements of this reading, but what i see on this website is generally just an endless slog of very biomedicalised reads that seem to have no awareness of the particular historical and social baggage present in that model. i do agree there's an element of reactionary DARE-esque moralising going on here (stg if i have to read one more post written by someone who, like, has never so much as met a coke user and thinks all drugs instantaneously give you irreversible morally weighted heart damage, lmao), but it's honestly not just that.

i think most of the time when people do this they're not trying to be reactionary or regressive, and often they not only don't believe themselves to be moralising affective distress, but actually think the dsm diagnosis is the way to avoid that type of moralisation. this is essentially the "it's a discrete disease entity, so they have no control over it and can't help it, so it's not their fault" argument. in practice this fails on many levels. for one thing, it often implicitly assumes that 'ending the stigma' requires any kind of mental disability or affective distress to be treated analogously to physical disability or illness, as though those latter are not also consistently stigmatised and moralised—because ableism is actually more complex than that and has to do with the fact that capitalism values people on the basis of the 'use' it can make of them and their bodies, etc etc. it is also, again, a wildly decontextualised understanding of affective distress, the reasons why people use drugs—including in a manner that feels compulsive and out of control—and so forth.

i'll add also that wrt succession, i actually do see a LOT of pathologisation thrown at roman as well, and more than an incidental amount directed at connor, tom, shiv, and logan. which is to say, i don't think this is solely about people's discomfort with addicts. there's a broad tendency among fans, echoing the even broader social tendency, to see medical diagnosis as personally liberatory, and medicine and psychiatry as passing 'objective' judgments that are necessary in order for a person to 'get better.' this is essentially positivism and is very much a status that the medical profession has fought to obtain (in france you can trace certain 18th-century discourses on national decline, aristocratic luxury, and the corrupting influence of the city -> the birth of clinical medicine after the first revolution -> social hygiene and the pathologisation of the parisian urban poor -> the third republic's 'physician-legislators' and the general class status and professionalisation of medicine; i know less about the gory details of the american and british cases simply by dint of what i do professionally).

we tend to forget these histories when talking about science; it presents itself as a set of timeless, incontrovertible truths that are simply waiting to be uncovered, and we have entire industries of science communication and journalism that propagate this view. which is to say, circling back to succession, i don't believe that most people diagnosing and pathologising these characters are trying to be reactionary or are aware that there are reactionary and moralising elements inherently built into these discourses. i think they're largely people who have not been given the tools to see alternatives, like the perspectives dominant in the history and sociology of science, which are very much kept paywalled and inaccessible on purpose because this is profitable for the academe.

this type of popular literary analysis is simply not going to go anywhere as long as this is still the status and the moral resonance of medicine (and psychiatry by extension because it gained its professional independence without sacrificing the appeal to medico-scientific epistemological authority). i don't think succession viewers are any more or less prone to this type of thinking than the general population they exist amongst. i firmly disagree with this attitude, obviously, and like i said, i don't actually think succession is written 'psychiatrically,' which cannot be said for all tv lol. but i more or less expect to encounter this type of deference to medico-psychiatric judgments in 95% of social interactions and contexts, again because of a combination of institutional control of information, other forms of inaccessibility, and physicians' and psychiatrists' advocacy for their own class and professional interests, both historically and ongoing today.

[gridgirldrabbles]

Forgive and Forget

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x Y/N

Words: 2.7k

Warnings: angst

Request: you’re back, yay! ik you have a ton of requests so get through so I hope you don’t mind me adding another one 🥺 but I thought it might be cute to have something where you and pierre/max (your pick) have a fight and you decide to go back to your family for a while. then they fly out to you to apologise and you end up having to share your bed. you’re still mad though but it’s cold af where you are. friend to lovers with stubborn cuddles, lovers to lovers. let your imagination go wild.

 The entire garage was silent. Mechanics were all on their feet, hands on their helmets as they took in the scene unfolding before them. It was like it was happening in slow motion. Your stomach was churning as you stood in the back of the garage, Pyry stood beside you as you waited for Pierre to get out of the car that was currently in bits having been shunted off the track. The longer the silence of the radio lasted, the more you felt like you were going to throw up.

After what felt like years but was realistically only less than a few minutes, a groan was heard over the radio, followed by ‘I’m okay.’ You could hear the collective sigh of relief as the garage realised Pierre was okay, probably badly bashed up but the fact he was conscious was a good sign. Pyry and yourself made your way to the medical tent where he would be taken for a medical assessment, sitting quietly in the waiting room as you weren’t allowed to see him before.

As soon as the door opened you were both on your feet, your heart clenching at the site of your boyfriend. He already had bruises forming around his eyes, the darkening circles accenting the furious look on his face. His eyes met yours, but the face of thunder didn’t change in the slightest. ‘Let’s go.’ Pyry offered to drive the two of you back to the hotel as Pierre obviously wasn’t fit to drive at the moment.

The car ride back was nothing short of uncomfortable. While Pierre was usually the most loving and doting boyfriend you could ask for, he had barely spared you a glance since he’d spotted you waiting for him outside the medical tent. You weren’t sure why you were getting the silent treatment out of everyone, but you knew it wasn’t the appropriate moment to ask what was wrong. As you pulled up to the entrance of the hotel the door was flung open with a short ‘thank you’ muttered to his trainer before the door was slammed shut behind him. You thanked Pyry for driving as you scrambled out the backseat of the car, legs working hard to keep up with the long strides Pierre was making.

The elevator ride was just as quiet, the only noise to be heard was the awkward background music accompanied by Pierre’s heavy breathing. As soon as the doors opened on your floor he was out like a rocket, not sparing you a glance to see if you were coming with. It was so unlike him to act like this that your stomach was twisting in anxiety, wondering if he was more hurt than he had told the doctors. The hotel room door shut softly behind you, Pierre was pacing the room and you could tell that he was just getting angrier with the situation with every passing second.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ You spoke quietly, not wanting to aggravate him further. His pacing stopped as he turned to look at you, eyes cold as he took in your figure.

‘No. Especially not with you.’ He stood planted in his spot as you took in his words. Especially with you?

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ You couldn’t help but be on the defensive, feeling as if you’d done nothing wrong while taking the full brunt of his anger.

‘It means that I don’t want to talk about it with you.’

‘But why me in particular?’ This wasn’t something you were going to let go easily, he’d riled you up now. Your arms were crossed in front of your chest, eyebrows furrowed as you tried to understand what he was saying.

‘Because it’s all your fault! This entire shitty season is your fault. If you weren’t so fucking needy then I could focus on racing and helping the team, but you demand all my fucking attention like a child.’ The look he was giving you was anything but loving, which was all you’d ever seen from him before. Your heart was hammering against your ribs at his statement and as much as you were willing them not to, you could feel your eyes beginning to water. He rolled his eyes in your direction, ‘Go ahead, cry about it like you always do.’ You could feel your heart breaking at every word he spat in your direction. This wasn’t your Pierre. It was like you were in a room with a stranger.

‘All I’ve done is be supportive of you and your career, you know that. I’ve sacrificed so much to help you in any way I can, but it’s obviously not enough for you.’

‘I can’t be around you right now.’ With that, he walked straight past you and out the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him. You broke down in tears as his footsteps retreated down the hallway. You’d never seen him react to anything that way, never seen such anger, let alone directed towards you. He’d always been so sweet and caring, treating you as if you were the apple of his eye. Which evidently you weren’t anymore. You couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d felt this way.

Once you’d cried yourself out you began packing your suitcase to head home. There was no point in sticking around somewhere you clearly weren’t wanted. You booked yourself the first flight to your home country, wincing at how expensive it was but deciding it would be worth it rather than having to stick around here.

You were stood waiting outside the hotel for your taxi when you heard your name being called from behind you. Charles was walking up with a smile on his face, he’d had a great weekend, so it was no surprise he was so happy. His smile faltered as soon as he saw your tear-stained face, instead his features being taken over by a look of concern. ‘Are you okay?’ Before you could reply he’d pulled you into his chest and you could feel your eyes welling up again. You explained what had happened and the Monegasque couldn’t hide the shock on his face.

‘Do you not think you should stay and talk it out?’

‘He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want to talk to me. I think it’s best if I just go home.’

‘Milan home or home home?’

‘Home home.’

Charles couldn’t help but feel angry at how his best friend had treated you, and he didn’t want you to be left on your own with a stranger when you were in this state, so he cancelled your taxi and offered to drive you to the airport instead.

‘You really don’t need to drive me; you should be out celebrating your win!’ As much as you appreciated his kindness you didn’t want his memory of his win to be tainted by your and Pierre falling out.

‘I honestly don’t mind, I’d rather make sure you were okay. Plus, if Charlotte knew I’d let you go to the airport alone in this state she’d kill me.’ At least that made you laugh. Charlotte had become one of your close friends after you started dating Pierre, being one of the few people who understood the trials and tribulations of dating a formula one driver.

After making sure you got checked in okay with your bags, Charles left you to your own devices, but not without giving you a big hug and asking you to text him when you got off your flight. The wait in the terminal was long and you couldn’t help but think back to the argument, his harsh words playing over and over again in your head. Should you have told him you were leaving? He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want to be anywhere near you so he probably hadn’t even noticed you’d gone.

Every time your phone went off you couldn’t help but hope it was Pierre who was messaging you, asking you to come back to the hotel so he could make it up to you. But it wasn’t. Soon enough it was time to board your flight, and as soon as the plane was in the sky you were fast asleep. The drama of the afternoon had obviously worn you out. Landing was a breeze, but it felt like you were just going along with the motions of collecting your luggage and organising a taxi home, not really putting any thought into your actions.

Your knuckles made contact with the front door of your family home. You hadn’t even told them you were coming; it had slipped your mind in the madness of booking a flight so quickly. The door opened in front of you and your mother stood before you. As soon as your eyes met her they were flowing with tears again. She didn’t even have to ask to know something had happened with Pierre. She had always been weary of you dating someone with such a high profile, worried it would end it tears which it definitely looked like it had.

Your parents didn’t ask any questions, knowing you would tell them in time what had gone wrong, but they didn’t want to presume it was about your relationship with the Frenchman. They fed you before tucking you into bed, just like they used to do when you were little. You had checked your phone before getting into bed, but you still had no messages from Pierre. As hurt as you were by it you tried to repress the sadness and just focus on getting some rest so you could deal with it tomorrow. It was clear that you were exhausted, the emotional events of the day having taken their toll on you. You thought it would’ve been hard to sleep given the situation, but you drifted off immediately, not being woken until the next morning.

You awoke to a familiar laugh ringing through the house. Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in your surroundings. Back in your childhood home, but that laughter definitely didn’t belong. Begrudgingly you got yourself out of bed, trundling down the stairs until your eyes confirmed what your ears suspected. Sat at your kitchen table next to your mother was your boyfriend, laughing away at something she had said.

He glanced up and smiled softly as he saw you, an action that wasn’t reciprocated, instead being met by narrowing eyes and a frown that would scare even the mightiest warrior. The look of hope on his face faltered. Had he made the right idea to follow you? He knew how badly he had fucked up yesterday, then he had lost his phone which made it a million times harder to try to find out where you were. It wasn’t until he ran into Charles who gave him the worst telling off he’d had since he had left home that you’d left the country and gone home.

Your mother could feel the tension spreading across the room, and she knew the look on your face meant trouble. ‘I think I’ll leave you two to it,’ she said before making herself scarce. You made no effort to sit down, instead remaining standing to take the dominant position in the room. Pierre didn’t really know what to say, he didn’t even know if you wanted him here.

Before he had the chance to speak you took the silence as an opportunity, ‘what are you doing here?’ The accusatory tone of your face made Pierre cringe, he was well aware of the fact you would be angry at him, but he thought it would be a quick fix. That was looking more unlikely the longer he stayed sat at the table.

‘I came to see you.’ Your eyes rolled of their own accord at his daft reply.

‘I gathered that. But you made it pretty clear yesterday that you didn’t want anything to do with me.’ If someone had told you twenty-four hours ago when you were still curled up in bed with the love of your life that in a day’s time you would be stood in your childhood home on the verge of breaking up, you would’ve told them they were mad.

‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am for yesterday,’ he rubbed his hands over his face, and now you’d taken notice you could clearly see that he hadn’t slept at all since you last saw him, ‘I acted like a dick and I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s a light way to put it.’ You muttered under your breath, but it was still loud enough for Pierre to hear and respond with a huff.

‘I was angry about the race; I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

‘You think? You said some really hurtful things yesterday, Pierre.’ The tears were welling in your eyes for the countless time since yesterday as everything he’d said came screaming back to you. ‘Do you really think I hold you back that much?’

As the first tear rolled down your cheek, your hand wasn’t quick enough to stop it before Pierre had leapt out his chair and wrapped his arms around you. You wormed your way out of his embrace, not ready to immediately jump back into his embrace quite yet. ‘No! You can’t just come here, say sorry, give me a hug and think everything is going to go straight back to normal.’

He retreated a few steps back from you. His own eyes were watering, the reality of the situation finally settling over him as he realised quite how badly he’d fucked up. ‘Mon amour, how can I make it better? I can’t explain to you how sorry I am. I never should have said those things, I said them because I was pissed off at the race. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘You wouldn’t have said those things if you didn’t think they were true.’ All you could do was whisper those few words as your throat constricted, the waterfall willing to be let out from your eyes, sobs begging to escape your mouth.

‘They’re not true. None of them. I don’t know why I said those things because they’re not true.’ Pierre was shaking his head, tears falling onto his flushed cheeks, the emotions finally taking over him.

You sighed, not knowing how to deal with the situation. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Your question confused him, were you really offering him food right now?

‘Breakfast?’

‘There’s no point in us talking about this on an empty stomach, we’ll just get more upset.’ He nodded slowly at your point because he knew it was true. You were both notoriously grumpier when you hadn’t eaten yet.

So, that’s how the day went. Eventually the pair of you retreated up to your bedroom so you could have some privacy, to properly talk through what had happened yesterday and how you were going to get through it. By the time dinner time came round you’d undeniably made some progress but not enough to the point where you were back to normal.

Of course, you weren’t going to kick Pierre out of your house, but you had no extra rooms, so it meant he was laying next to you on your bed come bedtime. Neither of you quite knew where you stood at the moment, there was still an air of tension lingering in the room. While you’d spoken a lot today, you still couldn’t shake the feeling of when you first heard those words and Pierre couldn’t shake the guilt he was feeling. So you settled on saying a quick goodnight before turning your backs to each other, something you’d never done in the history of your relationship.

Apparently this didn’t last long, because when you woke up the next morning you were tangled together like headphones in a pocket. It was impossible for the two of you to be any physically closer together without having sex. You had to be honest with yourself, the feeling of being back in his arms was comforting, and his smell washing over you had brought a sense of calm you hadn’t felt in the last forty-eight hours. You snuggled your face back into his chest as you began to feel him stirring. You two were going to get through this, you were going to be okay.

[edutainer2022]

A bit of angst that kept rolling around in my brain. Gordon doesn't hold his tongue by accident. Scott is being Scott. The Mechanic unassumingly saves the day. It never came up there was only one pilot to man Zero-X... Emotions run a bit thin and raw the closer it gets to Zero-XL launch.

ONE FOR ALL

There were things they didn't say to Scott. Not even in jest or in the heat of the argument. Not even at the peak of exasperation. But Gordon was not mad. Gordon was happy - all of his dearest dreams were coming to pass almost at once. Penny (pretty definitely) liked him back and they were going to get Dad. He hadn't felt this giddy since the Olympic pedestal. So he slipped.

Scott was a man possessed these past weeks, once the T-drive was firmly underway, courtesy of the Mechanic, running them rugged with drills and contingency upon contingency scenarios. Grandma tutted, but kept to herself. John and Eos designed elaborate simulations to take the brunt off some. Alan asked Virgil quietly if that was how Dad had been. Gordon didn't remember very well himself, but judging from Virgil's sigh it was exactly how Dad was way back when. Gordon didn't mind at first. Or at all, really. He got it. In space everything was out to get you, and they were all going beyond the event horizon with potentially lethal experimental equipment and no back up available for light years around. Who knew what they'd find there, besides Dad. Actually, the carefully sidestepped elephant in every room they ever stayed together these days was just that - what they would or wouldn't find there, among the stars. Gordon didn't mind as well because he wanted to be sure his top form was back after the crash. Not just run of the mill aquatic resques ready, but deep space mission of a lifetime ready. But it was a long day, and a long drill, and Scott was wound up for another go, while Gordon had a call scheduled with Penny. Because they did this now - holocalled and chatted about everything and nothing, working around commitments and time zones. And so Gordon let an innocuous enough "Gee, bro, calling five! Some of us DO have a life, you know!" roll off his tongue, before it was too late. It wasn't too late to dress it as a joke, though, which it WAS. No harm, no foul. Except he noticed Scott freeze for a second, eyes dark and jaw set. But more importantly it was hard to miss Virgil's wide-eyed panic glare, directed his way.

Gordon would have chalked it up to Virgil overreacting, because Virgil always overreacted around anything that could potentially, finally, shatter Scott. Would have, were they not assembled in the lounge the next day, Scott making a disturbingly compelling case why they shouldn't ALL be risking the trip to Oort Cloud and how it was not prudent to remove ALL Thunderbirds at once from the solar system. Big brother had clearly given it some considerable thought, which should have quietened the sickening guilt that took up residence in Gordon's stomach overnight, but somehow didn't.

Scott was calm and completely rational - it scared Gordon even more than what big brother was saying: Zero-XL, like Zero-X, was designed to be manned by one pilot, if need be. Dad did so and it worked. The T-drive frame could be propelled by Three. No need to haul all other birds (brothers, all other brothers plus Kayo and Brains!) across the galaxy and remove Five from orbit. It was, essentially, a scout mission, like they did a thousand times with One. It would only need a first responder pilot - Scott, obviously. If things went south in Oort Cloud - Scott would send Zero-XL back to Earth with a message, so the brothers would know to go get him, or not. In any event they would have Three back.

Gordon was perceptive enough to read between the lines what the abject horror in Virgil's gaze was already spelling in pooled up tears - a) Scott decided, unilaterally, he was to go alone because, unlike everyone else, he had nothing to loose, and b) Scott was not going back if Dad were not there, alive. If there was a (c) there, it got lost in the utter chaos that erupted.

Alan cried bloody betrayal through already abundant angry tears. John threw his tablet across the lounge into the wall with such force it shattered. Brains was so astonished he actually began reciting the variables of it being a viable plan, when Grandma put a firm hand on his shoulder, making him stutter to a stop. Virgil was calling Scott's name under his breath, in a nonsensical plea that always, as far back as Gordon could remember, came down to the mantra "please don't, don't go where I can't follow".

Scott was composed and quiet, as he sat back down on the couch, a serene smile landing on Virgil, then Alan. A glimmer in his eyes, though, belied a fever to fight for his decision. Taking advantage of the general frenzy, Gordon slid off the seat and crouched before Scott, practically kneeling, making sure the big brother had his attention. He wasn't vain enough to think his off-handed comment singlehandedly triggered this... whatever brand of martyrdom Scott was up to this time. But he wasn't taking any chances either. Okay, so maybe Gordon wasn't a Sam to Scott's Frodo. That was Virgil. Scott carried the Burden and Virgil dragged Scott away from the haunted murky depths. But Gordon certainly could be a Merry. He could do something stupid and brave. So he spoke in a rushed, heated wisper:

- Hey, big brother! You DARE go alone, I promise I will stow away on board - you'll never find me. You couldn't find me at Gran Roca, and you wouldn't now. And I WILL pour sugar into Centurium deposit if Brains says it's too risky for you to go. You hear me?!

Scott reached out to pull him up by his shoulders, miraculously unperturbed, and equally not mad. If Gordon had been worried before, he was now Virgil levels of petrified.

The salvation came from the least likely source, not for the first time in so many months - the Mechanic. Summoned to the lounge earlier with all the other inhabitants of the villa, he was hanging on the perifery through Scott's speech. If they figured the Mechanic to be anything through their rocky "collaboration", it was to not be one to sugarcoat things. So he didn't that time either. He would pull apart the T-drive, destroy the specs, and surrender back to GDF custody before he agreed to the "neurotic maniac" (direct quote) to go anywhere near it unsupervised. And he wouldn't subscribe to the T-drive being tested in action without an engineer on board "he could actually trust". That settled the argument right where it started. And if things nearly came to blows, there were enough hands on deck available to haul Scott away. Up and all the way into the movie room away.

If Grandma mouthed an inaudible "thank you", the Mechanic just shrugged. If John was intercepted, leaning his forehead on the hatch of the space elevator and punching it methodically - Gordon didn't comment. He got it. John was mad at Scott. Gordon was mad at himself. They both were mad at the set of circumstances that lead their biggest brother to believe in earnest he was dispensible. They all were mad Scott was the first one to beat them to the suggestion of giving only one brother up for the mission. First responder, as ever. Big brother, as ever. They all needed Dad to be found for it all to veer into any semblance of healing. In the meantime, they all clung to each other through a mirthless movie night with almost paranoid vigilance.

Gordon mused, idly, he would still need to bum detailed Zero-XL specs off of Brains, to go over potential stow away nooks.

[cellophaine]

Dark Paradise

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Word Count: 1841

Warnings: Hurt and comfort. Fluff.

Author's Note: Guess who did not work on her WIPs and started a new one? This idea struck me when I was scrolling through Twitter and I came across a photo of Charlie with his big bulky arms and my head went hmm no thought just feel. Then it took shape in my head, and now it's here! I do have more of this to make it into a small series if there is a demand for more!

P/S: This is my first time writing for Michael so it's still a foreign land for me, any characteristic is my personal interpretation of him. This takes place in season 1.

GIF Credit: @pajamasecrets

The night had pulled its inky shade over the sky, dying the clouds and its backdrop a dull shade of gray. The wind sunk its biting claws into the exposed skin on your neck and hands, which meant if you didn't press harder on the pedal, you might catch the brunt of the rain. You squared your shoulders and revved the clutch, letting the engine roar louder and carry you further away from the city.

Your eyes were on the road, but your mind was elsewhere, working to stave off the emotions from resurfacing. You could feel yourself gradually shutting off from the arduous day, putting distance to everything that happened. It numbed the pain somehow despite the taste of copper still lingering in your mouth. It was your defence mechanism, and with where you were heading to, and who you were seeing within the next minutes, you would need it.

The first few droplets of rain fell and clung to you by the time you made it to the familiar neighbourhood. The street was empty, void of sound and people, making for a surreal experience as you were so used to the noise of Dublin. It was the exact reason why you and him chose this area. Close enough to others, yet secluded enough to preserve privacy and raise no suspicion. Both of you could come and go as you pleased.

Your motorcycle pulled up at the house, and you took a moment to observe its exterior as the rain fell, dying the bricks a darker shade. The curtains were closed, but the light at the door was on.

You shut off the engine and hopped off, opening the latch of the low iron gate before guiding your motorcycle into the small front yard. You placed the helmet on top of the seat and closed the gate. Before you could place your hand on the knob of the dark green door, it flew open, revealing the man behind it. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

He looked worse than when you saw him last, which was a week ago. His hair was tousled as if he had run his hand through it so many times. His stubble had grown slightly thicker. A spark of relief flashed in his sunken eyes when they settled on you. They roamed and explored and you knew he was looking for any sign of injury. You felt the same ease. He looked tired if not injured, and you would rather take the first than the latter any day. For a long moment, you said nothing to each other, taking in the sight of the other person, silently assessing.

"Are you hurt?"

You finally found your voice, small with an edge of shakiness. Relief washed over you as Michael shook his head. He asked.

"Are you?"

You mirrored him. It was a harmless lie, one you could handle and one he didn't have to know. His features softened. He stepped back, allowing you to come in and closing the door behind you.

The house was lit in dim lights, and even though it looked cold and lacked almost everything personal, it had provided you with such great consolation for the past few months. Maybe a part of the appeal was Michael being there with you for most of your time here. You draped your jacket over the chair and turned around to meet his eyes.

"Do you want anything to drink?"

You shook your head at his offer.

"I’m fine."

You walked to the couch and sat down, pointedly leaving a space beside you so he could join you. He accepted your wordless invitation; the couch slightly dipped, bringing you closer to him. Your shoes were off, and Michael's house slippers were off too as you made yourself comfortable. One arm hung on the couch's back, the other on his lap, his body opened itself to you and drew you in for comfort. But you ignored it, wanting to distract yourself with something else. Something stronger than a soft cuddle, and louder than a comforting hug. You needed to feel a different type of heat, one that didn't originate from anger and bloodlust.

You crawled to him, settling yourself between his thighs. Michael stayed quiet, patiently waiting for your next move when you moved into his space, and took his face in your hand. You caressed the stubble, feeling its roughness and his soft exhale on your lips when you erased the distance and kissed him.

It was soft and teasing at first, then it grew harder, and greedier as you gave into your greed of him. One week without him was one week too long, and even though you knew it was a bad idea to get so attached, you couldn't help it. It was never your intention to get so hooked on his touch, his voice, and everything about him, but perhaps it was your selfish want that decided that for you. Your primal instinct, your desire that said you deserved something of your own, even when it was something unnamed, undecided by both of you. Perhaps it was just a fleeting infatuation since it couldn't possibly be love, because if it was, it would be detrimental for both of you. You knew better not to start the fire, not to give into temptation, yet you couldn't help but dive head-first into this unknown territory. That all it was, you told yourself, a guilty pleasure you allowed yourself in your situation in which what you wanted was forbidden.

Your kiss grew needy, and you pulled away for some much-needed air. You made your way down his throat, nipping and kissing at his skin, pleased to hear the soft moans reverberating in his throat. Michael's hands grabbed at you, at your clothes, and found their way under your shirt. You were so deep in the taste of his skin on your tongue that you didn’t pay attention when his hand grazed the bandage on your side. Upon the discovery, Michael pressed his fingers to it, and you gasped out of surprise more than pain. He immediately pulled away and looked at you inquisitively.

"You’re hurt."

"No, I’m not. Please–"

Another press of his finger and you hissed. Michael sat up straighter, pulling at your arms that were wrapped around your torso out of reflex to shield yourself.

"Let me see."

"No."

"Let me help you–"

"I don’t need your help."

You jerked yourself out of his reaching hands and darted to the other side of the couch. The distance wasn't much, but it made you feel protected somehow. You kept your face turned away, embarrassed that he found out the very thing you were trying to hide. Your hand found your side, touching the gauze and sighed in relief to find the gauze dry. For a little while, the air between you was tense with silence.

You could feel the frustration warm in your blood. You just wanted to forget about today, but Michael was a reminder of why what happened to you happened. It could be worse if it wasn't for his warning. You could bleed to death in a parking garage right now.

The couch dipped and moved again before you felt Michael's arms wrapping around you. He pulled you toward him like you weighed nothing, and settled you between his thighs once more. Your body was still tense, rigid to his handling. His hand wove into your hair, grasping just enough and pulling gently so you fell into him. You melted completely into him as he found the sensitive spot behind your ears and kissed it. He kissed your temple next, like an unspoken apology. You let him hold you, let his finger draw a soothing pattern on the skin of your arm, let your breathings join as one, let the weight of your day slip away from your shoulders.

"Was it Eric?"

His voice was small, timid as if he didn't want to confirm it himself. You shook your head.

"Eric could never get this close to me. Try again."

A soft chuckle and a brief pause later.

"Jimmy?"

You shook your head again. Michael was unsure now, you could tell by the way his pattern on your skin was disturbed.

"Amanda?"

You nodded.

"I know. Surprised me too."

You fell silent again. The memory of everything that went down this afternoon became fresh cut again, and it stung as reality set in. Michael spoke; his words sobered you up quickly.

"You know, my offer still stands. If you come with me, my family will know that you’re with me. They won’t touch a hair on your head. I’ll see to it myself. I’ll protect you."

You sighed heavily. Michael hadn't given up on the idea that was so fantastical that it would never come true. After all, this was real life, not a fairytale.

"And who will protect you from Eamon, Michael? He is nothing if not a vicious man who would stop at nothing just to prove a point."

At his silence, you advanced.

"He would destroy your family to get back at you for meddling with his bastard daughter."

The paradoxical nature of your relationship was a secret only the two of you knew. Beyond rivals, you were supposed to be enemies. But amidst the vendettas and vengeance between your families, you found solace in each other. In a time like this, when your families were at war with one another, if the knowledge of your clandestine bond got out, it would be a death sentence for both of you. Yet, you were willing to put your heads in the noose, waiting and holding your breaths for the moment the floor underneath your feet would give out. You were doomed from the start.

You turned in his hold to face him. You touched his chin, urging him to look at you. His expression was guarded, and his eyes were full of the sadness he tried to keep at bay. But you saw it. You saw through him as you went through similar emotions yourself. His suffering and yours were one and the same.

"Can we … not talk about it tonight? I just … want to be here, with you."

It took him a moment, but eventually, Michael nodded, and you thanked him with a soft kiss. You returned to the old position, his hold on you tighter now as you unconsciously shifted closer to him, craving the close contact. Under this roof, within these walls, neither of you was your family. You were simply two people who shared the same thoughts you wouldn't dare to name, feelings you wouldn't dare to acknowledge, because to do that was to accept that you cared about each other more than you should, that you should have never been involved in the first place. In this house, you bore no names and obligations. You could just be yourselves.

You were on borrowed time, and you knew it.

*Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!* Follow my side blog to receive notifications whenever I post! @cellophaine-archives

[eulogyfornobody]

Acceptance when you have Chronic Pain

I saw this video on Youtube of a psychologist (Dr. Diane LaChapelle) talking about acceptance when you have chronic pain. Here is a summary of it.

2 components of acceptance

Pain willingness -> involves recognizing that the pain or condition is chronic and that efforts to control or avoid it may not be effective.

Activity engagement -> encourages individuals to continue living their lives despite the challenges posed by their conditions.

Why it's so hard for people to accept

The term "acceptance" itself can be met with resistance. Patients expressed feeling defeated and hopeless when told to accept their conditions, interpreting it as giving up on the possibility of improvement.

Nuance of Acceptance

Acceptance is not a one-time thing - it's a nuanced, ongoing process that involves acknowledging the chronic nature of the condition, making lifestyle adjustments, and gradually redefining one's sense of normalcy. Acceptance fluctuates, with some days being more accepting than others.

Factors facilitating acceptance

Importance of a proper diagnosis.

Acknowledge chronic nature without giving in to despair.

Do and try what you need, but don't obsess over finding the cure

Use language that resonates: "coping with" or "dealing with."

Losses and emotional turmoil

Patients often experience a range of emotions, including disbelief, anxiety, depression, guilt, and anger.

The saddest thing about anger is that it's the people cloest to use that get the brunt of our anger and irritability - and this can cause a lot of problems in relationships. When you're in pain 24 hours a day, every little thing annoys you because you're always on edge

The losses associated with giving up activities and roles can lead to a profound sense of grief, impacting one's identity and contributing to emotional turmoil.

70-100% of individuals with chronic illnesses experience depression due to associated losses.

Identifying the losses

Figure out what the most distressing loss is

By pinpointing the most distressing aspects, individuals gain a starting point for managing associated emotions.

Expressing emotions is encouraged, be it through talking, journaling, or seeking professional support.

Strategies for Coping and Acceptance:

Identify Priorities and Core Values: Encourages individuals to reflect on their priorities and core values.

Take Responsibility for Changes: Actially MAKE the necessary changes in life based on identified priorities. Priorities can change based on symptoms, and it's important to make conscious decisions instead of going on auto-pilot.

Focus on Today and Practice Mindfulness: Recommends evaluating daily accomplishments in the context of the present, promoting mindfulness to shift focus from the past or future. Don't compare yourself now to the level of achievement you except in the PAST. Be compassionate and evaluate based on how you're feeling TODAY, and how you feel about what you've done today given that you're in X/10 pain.

Gratitude Journal: keep a gratitude journal to foster positivity and appreciation for daily achievements. Think of 3-4 things you are grateful about to end the day positively.

Embracing acceptance is vital in tackling chronic pain, helping to ease emotional distress, and paving the way for healthier coping mechanisms. It's about acknowledging and validating the emotions tied to pain, breaking free from the constant struggle, and gaining a more realistic outlook. Acceptance empowers individuals to adapt, stay engaged in meaningful activities, and avoid the pitfalls of catastrophic thinking.

[amywritesthings]

ownership of mine. (3/4)

Pairing: Kino Loy x F!Reader (ANDOR)

Word Count: 5.3K

Summary: The Empire has integrated their prison systems, with you as one of the few women now incarcerated at Narkina 5. The unit manager takes you under his wing -- but for reasons you didn't anticipate.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ only!); Prison, Violence, Gore, Aftermath of Torture, Unresolved-to-Resolved Sexual Tension, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Dirty Talk, Implied Power Imbalance, Age Difference

A/N: My first ever finished series! I've had so much fun writing this fic in the last few weeks, and continue to be forever grateful to the wonderful support that inspired me to make this beyond a one shot. I have loved writing Kino, and I've loved writing this pairing, so I hope you enjoyed the finale of this piece.

                         PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR

( Read on AO3 )

By the one hundred and sixty seventh day, Unit Five-Two-D went to shit.

Your recollection of that day is hazy at best, scrambled by the adrenaline that has been simmering in your gut since your arrival at Narkina 5.

Everything happened so fast.

. . . . . .

The day’s work begins without a hitch, where urgent hands meet cold machines. 

Kino shouts his typical encouragement spiel to get Table Seven to work harder. He stalks around Table Five like a predator hunting its prey for sport and, as a result, take fourth place. Tables One and Two whistle and gloat of their successful hike into their namesake places — Table One in first, Table Two in second — leaving Table Four somewhere in the middle.

Somewhere safe.

Then Winshaw’s hands give out.

What is months in the making — the stalling, the ointments, last-ditch attempts to solve an ever-growing problem — crashes down hard as a star-structured mechanic slips onto the table and rolls near an edge.

Winshaw holds both of his cramped hands curling inward with excruciating pain and whimpers in a sickly tune between pursed lips. 

The rest of the table scrambles to catch the large metal item before it can fall to the ground, but there’s no use.

The part discards itself at Taga’s feet.

The man is lucky to jump out of the way before it can crush his toes.

Metal against tungstoid steel sounds off a fateful boom through the sterile white room, causing your side of the table to instinctively put your hands parallel to your heads before the guards can question your intent.

(No threat. We aren’t a threat.)

You stay frozen for a beat, but a hefty shove at your shoulder spins you clear from your post and into the red-beaten face of Pusl.

“S’your kriffing fault!”

You don’t even register that he’s speaking to you. One blink and your attention is on Winshaw’s agonized expression. Another and you're faced with a fuming Pusl a mere few centimeters away.

(A threat.)

“Changing places with him hurt his hands more!” Pusl shouts in your face, but the words do not register.

You barely recognize that you’re stepping back, colliding with Gris’ shoulder. Gris shoves you forward.

“There’s you, thinking you know better than everyone," Pusl continues with a growl, "but I was right about you this whole time.”

Something hits your face.

It’s Pusl’s stubby finger pressing harshly into your cheek.

When you look down to view them, his fingers wrap brutally around your chin and drag you towards his spitting mouth.

“Was it worth it, Lady Narkina? Was your whoring around worth hurting Winshaw—”

You don’t remember swinging.

You don’t remember hitting him so hard that your knuckles bruise, but you do.

Right in front of the entire factory floor — in front of the guard tower above — Pusl goes down the minute your closed fist collides with his cheek.

And you follow.

Before you can stop yourself, you drop to your knees and over Pusl to grab a fistful of his overgrown hair. Your fist remains closed, remains tight, and you collide his nose with the brunt force of your hand.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“What are you doing, Table Four?”

Kino’s voice booms over the blood pumping in your ears, but you keep hitting. Reeling your arm back and shoving it forward — you repeat the motion over, and over, and over, and Trem’s worried call for the day shift manager to stop this, stop it before she kills him! isn’t lost on you.

In the moment, you just can’t find a reason to care.

Gris’ large hands take hold of your shoulders to drag you back, but you keep hold of Pusl’s hair to stay right where you are. The rest of the men halt production to watch, silent in their panic.

You know you see red.

You know it’s Pusl’s blood making your hand wet.

(You don’t care.)

Gris pulls at your body again, this time with a force unlike anything you’ve ever felt, until your bottom drags along the pristine white floors now littered with speckled red dots.

“Enough!”

Kino booms above you towards the right of Gris.

A sickeningly sweet chime sounds above, and everyone goes silent.

The final bell.

Your chest heaves with a breath you cannot catch, not when you’re holding onto your anger, your shame, with a vice grip.

Pusl lay on the ground, limbs splayed and face wrecked. He wheezes and whimpers, unable to move from the attack. Gris keeps you in a head lock to keep you from advancing any further, but you do not resist the hold.

Not when you can see Kino rounding the corner from Winshaw’s crooked form to you, with an indiscernible expression.

You meet his eyes, but you do not see him.

The rest of Table Four shuffles away, bare feet padding along the floor with newfound fear. Kino is the only one to step forward, but he blinks up to Gris.

“Let her go.”

Kino doesn’t shout. He doesn’t scream. The neutral baritone of his voice is calculated, low, to keep the command between the three of you.

“She tried to kill him!” Gris yelps, shaking his arm around your neck for emphasis.

Kino shakes his head, palm flat and pointed to the ground. “I said let her go, Gris, before someone else gets hurt. I can’t step in when they do.”

He pointedly peers up past the both of you to the tower, and Gris releases your neck on impact. You fall forward with the shove onto all fours as bloodied hands smear red along the white floor.

Kino does not move to help you.

No one does.

Sweat clings wayward pieces of hair to your forehead, cheeks, and you can feel a violent shake from leftover adrenaline rattle your body. Kino’s jaw sets, albeit not without a tremble when he shouts the next few words as he dips his chin to acknowledge the device strapped to his forearm.

“Time’s up! Production’s over. Due to insubordination, Table Four’s on the block. Congratulations, you lot get the pleasure of lining up last. The rest of you can stop gawking and get the fuck on the lift back to the barracks.”

“But Winshaw!” It’s Trem on the other side of the table, speaking nothing beyond a squeak.

He doesn’t care about his own safety.

Trem doesn’t deserve your punishment. None of the others do.

Not when you couldn’t keep a lid on your own anger.

(Not when it could’ve only been Pusl in that chamber.)

You feel sick to your stomach.

“I know, lad,” Kino reassures without losing his authoritative tone. “I know. I’ll speak with the guards, let them know what all the fuss is about. In the meantime, clean up Pusl.”

Gris shuffles around you to pick up his unconscious friend. “And he’ll—”

“—go through punishment like the rest of you because his hands weren���t hurt,” Kino explicitly states.

It’s not an invitation to negotiate his terms.

Gris glares to you, nearly purple in the face from the rage he cannot — and will not — act upon. Not in front of Kino.

Not like you did.

You suspect there will be repercussions by the both of them at a later date, but for now all you can do is stare at the unconscious and bloodied Pusl a mere few feet from you.

You’ve heard what they do to teams that fail.

Everyone works so damn hard to avoid it.

Now Pusl — and you — have sealed Table Four’s untimely fates.

. . . . . . You underestimate just how grueling the electric floors can be.

Straight from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head, everything is underwater yet on fire with no means to cure it. Too cold, too hot — you see why every inmate in this unit works so hard to avoid the touch of the floor, even at its lowest notch.

An hour after the rest of the men have retired to their cells, the doors open and Table Four stumbles out of the lift to the barracks with battered bodies and dry throats.

Many of the other inmates are watching, waiting, with mutual understanding of the losing table’s punishment.

Kino stands in the middle of the fray, hands balled tight into fists.

One by one, the injured try their hand at leaving the lift. Some stumble. Others limp, like they’ve gone through this a thousand times.

You want to walk on your own two scorched feet like nothing is wrong.

(Your fault.)

One step down and the pain shoots clear up your calves. Another step and the world begins to dizzy, setting off a cold sweat.

Third step, your knees give out.

(This is all your fault.)

Your head never hits the floor, instead landing on something hard yet soft. You’re hoisted in the air, weightless and breathless, until you find yourself cradled in the arms of Kino Loy.

“Get the rest of Table Four out of the lift!” his voice booms over your head to the other. “It’ll be an early turn in tonight, boys, so get everyone to their cells. Now.”

Everything is hot yet freezing. Against him your limbs shiver violently, expelling sweat in buckets. Your eyes roll up to find his scruffy chin above the crown of your head as Kino stares straight ahead, steps quick and deliberate.

“Let me — walk,” you protest weakly, but Kino keeps walking.

“You’ll never make it to the fucking cell,” he growls back, baritone grumbling in his chest. “Just shut it.”

“Kino—”

“I said shut it,” he demands under his breath. “Listen for fucking once in your life, kid.”

And for the first time in your Narkina 5 sentence, you listen.

Intently, because every jostle of your limbs sends a belated shock to your system.

Kino takes a step higher and bends at the hips, lowering you until you feel your back hit the familiar material of your cot. He stays above you, never once removing a hand from your shoulder — a constant reminder that he’s still here — as he answers questions from other frantic prisoners.

Mess.

It’s all a fucking mess.

In your sweat-slicked haze, you can hear a more fragile voice come into earshot. You turn your chin just enough to see Winshaw, held tightly by Trem, as he peers into your cell and up at Kino.

“Will she be alright?”

It’s Winshaw. If you weren’t careful, you’d think he was worried.

“Nothing sleep won’t fix,” Kino replies casually without ever removing his hand. “I’ll eat dinner later. Staying here for most of the night making sure this one doesn’t freeze to death before the bell. How’s the hand?”

“Better,” Trem answers for Winshaw, voice gentle and melodic in your ringing ears. “Much better, now.”

“Good. That’s good. And how are you doing?” Kino asks Trem with a sliver of protective care.

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Trem tries to lighten the mood. “Everyone’s fine, besides… well, besides Pusl and her. And I’m — Kino, we’re so sorry about—”

“No,” Kino interrupts, and it’s softer. “No apologies. As far as I’m concerned, the day is over. We start anew tomorrow without incident.”

“But Pusl—”

“Will live,” the day shift manager interrupts again. “And if he steps a toe out of line again, then I promise he’ll be dealt with.”

“He started it.”

Your chin tilts to get a view of Trem on the outline of Kino’s pant leg. The smaller, lankier man stares up at the older man with bright, sad eyes.

“I saw it happen. Pusl grabbed her by the face and he called her a—”

“I know, Trem.” Resolved. Exhausted. Kino draws out a long sigh and shakes as if he’s nodding above you. “I heard. Go get some rest with the rest of the blokes, yeah? Tell ‘em they’re no good without it.”

“Yes, Kino.”

With care, Trem shuffles Winshaw out of view towards his cell. Kino stays by your side as you ride through the chilling waves of pain, opting to sit at the foot of your cot with your bloodied and bruised hand in his.

Watching.

Waiting for the final bell to turn in, locking him to the mercy of your cell for the evening.

You pass out before it rings.

. . . . . . One hundred.

Chin downcast, you stare at the idle screen flickering with an unfamiliar number.

You were down in the 400’s only twenty-four hours ago. Now the number shows something closer to your original sentence.

“Rise and shine, boys! Floor’s safe!”

The day shift manager’s words are underwater. Men start to step down from their cells, but you remain.

“Form up for the lift. You know the fucking drill by now. Oi — you.”

That’s Kino in his cell, cautious in his bark in what sounds like an attempt to get your attention.

You don’t respond.

Others shuffle towards the lift like zombies, awaiting the next day of work.

You don’t.

Can’t, not when you’re still staring at the flickering number with a heavy gaze.

Quick feet pad towards your cell, but a slow hand gently circles your bicep. Kino ducks into your peripheral with his salt and pepper hair.

“What is it?” 

When you still remain silent, the day shift manager lightly shakes your arm.

“Talk to me, kid, what is it?”

“They added one hundred days to my sentence.”

“They what?” From your side view, you see his chin turn over and down to see what’s there: what isn’t a mirage or a post-punishment haze, but a real number.

“For yesterday’s display,” you mumble, soured, but it twists into a laugh. “For what I did to Pusl. Chances are it’ll go up even more once you’re gone. I won’t be yours by that point.”

“Hey.” He switches his tone to harsh, cold, and pushes your chin with his index finger and thumb to look at him without choice. “Don’t. Do not say that.”

“You know I’m—”

“The number doesn’t make a damn bit of difference, do you hear me?”

“I’m not getting out of here, Kino.”

You push the thought out in a blurt, running the risk of your voice wavering with emotion. It swells faster that you can stop it — your eyes water, throat closing, as the hope you’d once shared feels so lost.

“That’s — not — true,” he accentuates every word, purposefully looking into your eyes.

Your chin trembles under his grip. “It is.”

“It’s not,” he emphasizes, leaning in. “One hundred days go by in a blip. You know this. You’ve been here for over a hundred, and look how fast it’s gone. You’re getting out of here.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it'll an entire year after you.”

Finally — finally — you leave your unfocused haze to look him in the eye.

Kino’s brow smooths with a sympathy you wish it didn’t hold.

Then he pulls your chin in, and you’re met with plush lips.

Frozen in place, you don’t dare move a muscle when the older man pulls you closer, free hand on the back of your head, to press a searing kiss to your lips. Eventually your body thaws, inch by inch, until you're grappling for him.

He shifts you both further into the cell, pushing you into the ivory wall with abandon. You hear him take a sharp inhale through his nose before pulling away a fraction of space, yet his hands remain.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he mumbles, his lips ever so gently brushing against yours. “Whether it’s two hundred days, three hundred, four — doesn’t matter. I’ll be there.”

Kino abruptly pulls away, adjusting the shirt of his uniform back to its neatened form. You remain against the wall to catch your breath, staring as he offers one last glance before exiting your cell to join the rest of the crowd by the lift.

Down the hallway you hear him shouting, but his voice is more hoarse than it’d been only a mere moment ago.

Your lips still tingle from the force of him.

When the warning chime rings its final bell, you leave your cell to follow the rest of the men to the factory floor.

. . . . . . A month passes.

An entire month passes and he’s never attempted to make another move like that again.

Kino Loy is much too busy bringing Unit Five-Two-D back to order — partially to do with your healing, another with the animosity of Table Four, but mostly to do with the fact that the factory incident has off-set production for almost an entire week.

Winshaw received medical attention without a grace period, but Table Four got by. Pusl was assigned a new position — one far away from you, closer to the start of the table’s build — but that was never a conversation between Kino and yourself.

He decided.

You endured.

And for the most part, the tension of your ill-fated table has simmered. Trem sticks closer to you when the time to transition from barracks to factory floor arrives, and you find yourself looking for the younger inmate in the morning.

Because at night, Kino has resumed sleeping with his back to you.

You’re not sure if it’s from stress or old habits or fatigue, but you continue to sleep facing him.

Waiting.

All your brain thinks about when you accidentally lock eyes on the factory floor, in the barracks, is the way his lips felt against yours.

How, if you were brave enough, you would leap into his cell and do it again.

You don’t think he regrets it, not really. For the most part, Kino is still Kino. He still visits your cell after shifts, talks to you while you both eat food across the hallway, but there is an underlying pressure between the space.

A point of no return.

A line he cannot — and won’t — cross.

So you will.

You wait. Every night when the lights fade and the barracks are filled with sleeping prisoners, you stare at his back and wait for him to eventually roll over.

(Is this what he did in the first few months, when you first caught him staring?)

It takes one entire month for him to finally — finally — turn in his sleep towards you.

The movement is lethargic, as if stuck between reality and a dream, before his blue eyes slowly blink open to stare into yours. Your one hand is tucked under your ear as a makeshift pillow. The other rests against your belly, elbow draped over your side.

When you’re certain you have his attention, the hand on your belly moves south.

Kino doesn’t move.

Your fingers duck and slip under the waistband of your uniform without straying your gaze from his. From the faint light of the white and red buttons on the wall of his cell, you see his eyes open a fraction wider.

(Good.)

Holding your breath, you slip lower until the tip of your index finger presses against your clit. Your sight flutters for a moment, the relief of touching yourself almost far too much, but you stay strong in remaining silent.

Although the older man cannot see your hand, the movement is enough to make his hand by his head ball into a tight fist. His gaze ducks from yours to stare lower, to watch, as you draw quickening circles around the bundle of nerves.

You shift your hips, turning until your back is flush with the cot. Parting your knees with abandon, your head dips back from the ecstasy of it all.

You won’t last long, but that isn’t what it’s about.

This is about a show he cannot touch.

The anticipation of his eyes following your movements like he’s a parched and starving man watching a mirage.

When your orgasm comes quick, tense and all at once, you slam your thighs together and shake. You bite your tongue from uttering so much as a whimper, fearful of alerting anyone nearby, before your body floats back down to Earth.

And when you turn your chin to see if Kino’s still watching, you find that he’s standing at the edge of his cell with his hand pressed to the wall, keeping himself back from stepping onto the electrified floor.

He looks positively wrecked from this angle: he breathes heavier, lips parted, pants so uncomfortably tight that you can see the outline of his cock through his uniform.

There isn’t an option to cross this bridge, not when there is a physical barrier separating the two of you into the morning hours.

Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, daring to speak without a voice.

He hears you in the deafening silence.

(I want to burn.)

. . . . . . Kino is particularly louder the next day.

Shouting at every table, stalking every inmate, expecting the most; he hasn’t unclenched his fists since he stepped out of his cell. The veins of his neck protrude when he yells, bare feet demanding in their steps, and he doesn’t look at you.

Can’t.

Because you know if he looks at you, he’ll remember what you look like when you come.

Table Four is particularly spry, pushing for a second-place slot for the first time since the incident involving Pusl. You are diligent, quieter than usual despite the casual quips around the table, and keep your head down.

You have to or else your heart will beat out of your chest.

Because you know if you look at him, you’ll lose focus all over again.

(Something neither of you can afford until the shift is over.)

The final chime is a blessing. The men of Table Four cheer at their newfound success, but Kino is matter-of-fact. Cold.

He wastes no time ushering his men into the lift back into the barracks, as if he’s haunted by borrowed time.

You’re too self-aware not to wait for the showers, allowing most of the men to pass you for the lockers as you wait in your cell.

Hours pass.

Kino never shows up.

When it’s finally time for your turn, you take to a casual gait down the barrack hall and into the showers. Head down, shoulders squared; you almost lose your breath when you hear another pair of feet padding in behind you.

You continue to walk until you reach your usual stall, only to crane your chin over your shoulder to see who it is that stands with you.

It’s Kino Loy — hands still balled into translucent fists, neck still tense, shoulders still tight.

Still wrecked.

“What?” you greet, forcing neutrality in your tone. “Something wrong?”

His nostrils flare, like the sound of your voice snaps against his skin like a taut rubber band.

“Tell me.”

Your brows furrow. “Tell you what?”

He takes a step forward.

“Tell me to go and I’ll go.”

His voice sounds as if it’s struggling at the precipice of control.

You remain where you stand.

“Why would I tell you to go?” you inquire, and he draws a slow inhale through his nose.

“Tell me to go,” he repeats, taking another cautious step forward. “And I’ll go.”

Instead of responding, you press your lips together and take a step back into the stall.

Kino follows in a danceless tango, pressing forward. Both of you continue to walk until you run out of room — your back hits the cool tiles of the shower wall, caging you in. He stops as soon as he’s toe to toe with you. His hands never leave his side.

“I’m begging you,” he murmurs in the safety of privacy, and his voice betrays that crack of resolve, “to tell me to go.”

A beat passes.

You feel as though you can’t breathe.

Wordlessly your hand rises and reaches for the shower dial, turning the knob until water spouts beyond the both of you. The water ignites a white noise, encompassing the stall. The droplets of water speckle wet dots along the shoulders of your uniforms.

“Don’t.”

His brow shifts with a hint of confusion when you speak, voice trembling.

“Don’t go.”

They’re the only two words Kino needs to hear.

His hands release from fists at his side and raise, attacking either side of your face to pull you into a grueling kiss as his body propels yours into the wall.

The way he presses his lips to you is nothing like the moment in your cell a month before. This is feral, mashing teeth and lips and skin wherever he can touch. His hands disappear from your face to duck lower, scrambling to draw under your damp uniform shirt to feel — your hips, your sides, the curve of your breasts.

He’s an animal unleashed.

(I want to burn with you.)

The sensation of his thumbs brushing along your ribcage forces you to hold your breath, avoiding a loud moan from filling up the shower room. They press, pushing you into place as he pulls away from your mouth and drops out of sight.

Kino Loy kneels, just as he did all those weeks ago, and drags your uniform down with him. Suddenly you’re very aware that he’s face to face with a half-naked version of you, but he doesn’t give you time to think.

There isn’t any time at all.

“What you did last night… cruel. So bloody cruel,” he muses, urging you to step one foot out of your pant leg, then another. You oblige. “Knowing I couldn’t touch you.” His hands glide up your calves to your thighs, widening your stance. His thumbs part your lips, exposing your wetness to him. “Knowing I couldn’t taste you.”

You swallow thickly. "I needed to get your attention somehow."

"You've always got my attention," he responds, admiring the sight in front of him. "No matter where you are, it's always you."

“Kin—”

The last syllable of his name is lost in a gasp when he dives in, latching his lips around your clit with an insatiable tongue. You use the walls of the small shower stall to keep yourself stable. He moans below you, low and rumbled, before swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud.

Below, the sight is filthy. Kino looks up at you while his mouth greedily finds what makes your thighs tremble. He takes, and takes, and takes; as if it’s his last meal he’ll ever have on Narkina 5.

If you die this way, then you’re certain it would have been worth it.

Familiar crests of pleasure begin to build in waves, shocking your body in a different way to the electric you’ve come to know. Kino removes a hand to test the waters, sliding through your slit as he finds your entrance with the tip of his index finger.

He loses his brutal rhythm to catch his breath, ragged and broken.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he murmurs as if in awe of the discovery. “S’this all for me?”

(As if he cannot believe it’s because of him.)

“It was just as bad last night,” you admit just as small, bucking your hips into his teasing fingers. “When I imagined it was you.”

"You imagine me often?"

"All the time," you answer, and he squeezes your outer thigh with a curse under his breath. "But I need more than this."

"More?" he chuckles and slowly pushes a finger inside of you. "Like this?"

You buck into it with a choked whine. "You know what I mean."

“I do know, but I will warn you that I won’t last long, love,” he speaks into the softness of your thighs, kissing the inner parts of them with pure adoration. “I want this to be good for you.”

You laugh breathlessly, dropping your head back to the wall. “This is already good for me. Just shut up and fuck me.”

Kino leaves a brief love bite to your inner thigh at your demand, but rises back to a stance. His fingers replace where his mouth was, teasing your clit in agonizingly slow circles.

“What do you want?” he asks, looking you straight on with that authoritative gaze. “I need to hear you say how you want to be fucked.” Your knees grow weak. “How you want to cum.”

Feeling useless with your hands not doing much of anything, you scramble to push his uniform down his hips to release his aching cock. Your hand curls around him, earning a hiss of need from the older man.

“I want to watch,” you reply, pumping him with the same slow intent. “I want to see you when I do.”

Kino’s jaw tenses as he nods, slipping his hand from you in order to position both hands around your thighs. “Might want to hold on, then.”

And with that he lifts you like you’re nothing, the muscles of his arms prominent now in the dampened white shirt that’s practically translucent from the water. You wrap your right arm around his shoulders while your left hand presses flat to the stall.

But he stops.

He stops, and your body’s screaming at what little time is left before the rest of the barrack figures out you’re both gone.

He tries to find his breath, fails, and blinks up at you.

The older man’s eyes are nearly black, pupils blown with desire.

“Are you s—”

“Please stop asking stupid fucking questions,” you interrupt, pressing your lips against his for emphasis of consent. Kino takes this with a buttery groan, lining up his cock while pressing the both of you flush to the wall for stability.

You’ve never felt a more delicious sensation of your life when he pushes forward and stretches you, fully and properly, burying himself to the hilt.

The noise that escapes your mouth is abrupt, a squeak at best, and he captures your lips in another kiss to quiet you before slamming his hips into yours.

Over and over he fucks up into you, pushing his wet chest into yours, and offers no mercy. Rough, pointed, with a passion unmatched; Kino gives you everything he has, brutal in the snap of his hips.

You were already close from before, but now the sheer image of this happening — that Kino Loy, day shift manager of Unit Five-Two-D, is fucking you senselessly in the shower stall of the Narkina 5 barracks — is too much.

You whimper into his mouth, voice heightening as each thrust brings you closer to the edge. He whispers obscenities against your mouth just as you fantasized; how badly he’s wanted to do this; how much he’s thought about fucking you, making love to you, being everything you need in a man; how he’ll spend all his days as a free man between your legs if you’ll have him.

It’s too much.

You can’t even warn him when you come.

All you can do is yelp when your walls clamp down on him, orgasm shattering your body into seismic trembles. He catches your mouth with his to swallow your cries, erratic in his own thrust until he meets you and lets go.

Kino follows you over the edge, arms trembling to hold you until his hips still, cock still twitching inside of you.

There it is.

The point of no return, reached.

You pull away to find air, painfully aware of the steam overtaking the shower.

They’re going to know.

(They’ve always known.)

When he gently glides you off of him and back down to Earth, you remain with your foreheads pressed to one another’s in the search for shared air. Your feet touch the water-soaked floor where half of your uniforms lay crumpled in a heap.

Kino Loy snakes a hand up and around your head, pulling you in for one final, decisive kiss. When he pulls away, it’s a mere centimeter.

He speaks, low with authority and crackled with ruin.

“You’re mine.”

You reply, just as low and just as ruined.

“I’m yours.”

[not-a-space-alien]

Magnanimous Moonrise & Savage Sunset Masterpost

Hi everyone, I'm here to share a new story I've started. It's inspired very heavily by this series by @whumpsday, as well as the spin-off series Shattered by @oddsconvert. I can't say it takes place in exactly the same universe, because I had to alter some elements of the lore (specifically the mechanics of the persuasion ability, as well as vampires' dietary requirements), but they can be related however you like!

Content warning:

This story will contain graphic descriptions of violence, torture, heavy angst, and rape/non-con. (Since it seems to matter to some people, warning that it contains very bad things happening to a transmasculine character.) I will do my best to put specific warnings on individual chapters, but I would prefer if minors did not read this fic. It is rated M and is for an adult audience. 18+ readers only, please.

The two stories I linked also merit a viewer discretion is advised warnings, as they have similar themes. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, etc. Please enjoy responsibly.

If I ever forget or miss a tag, or fail to take some precaution, please let me know! I would never want to upset or hurt anyone for real.

Please also let me know if you spot typos or broken links!

***

So, I am doing a fun little experiment where I am writing dueling stories. Corresponding chapters will be the same events narrated from the perspective of a different character. Savage Sunset is from the perspective of a vampire hunter, and Magnanimous Moonrise is from the perspective of a vampire. If you want a little mystery, you can read Savage Sunset first. If you want all the answers right away so you can enjoy the full brunt of the angst, you can start with Magnanimous Moonrise. I personally feel like the best experience might be starting with Savage Sunset, but you can read them in either order. The chapter numbers are chronological.

Thanks to @appelsiinilight for this image

Savage Sunset:

Alexis and Ariana are partners and vampire hunters, trying to protect as many people as they can from the horrors of a world where vampires see humans as cattle, fair game for being snatched up and taken home as food.

Magnanimous Moonrise:

Valen is a vampire on a mission...one which unfortunately puts him at odds with vampire hunters, who aren't happy about such a creature being so deep within their territory.

Chapter list:

Chapters appended with "S" are Savage Sunset; chapters that end with "M" are Magnanimous Moonrise

Chapter 1S | Chapter 1M

Chapter 2S | Chapter 2M

Chapter 3S | Chapter 3M

Chapter 4S | Chapter 4M

Chapter 5S | Chapter 5M

Chapter 6S | Chapter 6M

Shorter pieces that take place during the timeskip between 6 and 7:

First Night, Silver Darts

Chapter 7S | Chapter 7M

Chapter 8S | Chapter 8M

Chapter 9S | Chapter 9 M

Chapter 10S | Chapter 10M

Chapter 11S | Chapter 11M

Chapter 12S | Chapter 12M

Chapter 13S | Chapter 13M

Chapter 14S | Chapter 14M

Chapter 15S | Chapter 15M

Chapter 16S | Chapter 16M

Chapter 17S | Chapter 17M

Chapter 18S | Chapter 18M

Chapter 19S | Chapter 19M

Chapter 20S | Chapter 20M

Chapter 21S | Chapter 21M

Chapter 22S | Chapter 22M

Chapter 23S | Chapter 23M

Chapter 24S | Chapter 24M

Chapter 25MS

Chapter 26S | Chapter 26M

Chapter 27S | Chapter 27M

Snippet that takes place after ch 27: Aftermath

Chapter 28MS

Chapter 29MS

Flashback: Snuff

Masterpost for Desperate Daybreak, the sequel story!

Bonus

Here is the story on AO3, since I know tumblr has formatting issues sometimes!

Interactive/Choose Your Own adventure version of the story!

Kithrara family tree

Art of Valen | More Art of Valen | Even More Art of Valen | Yet more art of Valen

Art of Ari

Art of Lex, Ari, and Valen with the bird

Doodles

Picrews

Additional asks/memes/misc content may be found on my blog under the tag #MMSS

Crossovers:

K&J x MMSS crossover masterlist! (A series of crossover fics based on RPs between me and whumpsday, mixing MMSS with K+J) (Not canon--just some fun AUs)

Epic K+J EU art (extremely good and impressive art by me)

Valen eats cake

Watch Your Step Vampire AU (sort of a crossover)

PS if you want to be tagged when I post a new chapter, just leave a comment on this post! :) (Or subscribe on AO3 if you prefer!)

***

Tag list <3

@aceouttatime

@annablogsposts

@cc1010foxy

@darlingwhump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@dokidokisadness

@emcscared-whumps

@gt-daboss

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@nicolepascaline

@oddsconvert

@pigeonwhumps

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@scoundrelwithboba

@starfields08000

@some-thrilling-heroics

@soursagas

@thecyrulik

@the-scrapegoat

@vidawhump

@whuarri

@whumplr-reader

@whump-cravings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpycries

@whumpsday

@writereleaserepeat