#check invisible index

[chleem]

Flashing lights #1

Series; actor Drew x actress reader

Summary: Drew gets involved in the worst scandal of his career. One way to solve it? Proving to the whole world that he’s the sweetest lover to exist. Who better to help than the one person he can’t stand? You, an A class actress with an alcohol addiction. So, will Drew clear up his reputation, or leave with a bigger mess to clean up?

Genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers(?, slow burn, angst, smut,

Warning: mentions of alcohol, swearing, mentions of k!lling oneself, mentions of rape & sa, mentions of drug usage, smoking & vaping, (read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy/ translate my work

⋆.˚ this is entirely fictional, if uncomfortable then don't read

♡⸝⸝ prologue | index | chapter2

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Late February 2024

Is that five, or six bottles in front of you? 

Your vision is burry, head feeling twisted, and your limbs feel as if they weight a hundred kilograms each. “Shit,” you curse, your hands reaching over to your bag. 

In attempt to reach it without standing up, you fall, and you laugh. Alcohol was able to make that fall feel painless. Getting up however, felt like the hardest task ever, but you manage, and you rummage through your bag for your pack of cigarettes. 

You find it; but no cigarettes to be found in it. 

“Fuck!” You yell, throwing your empty pack across the trailer. Good thing your makeup staffs gone, and no one to see your about-to-erupt tantrum. Reaching for your phone, you call your manager, Laura, only for it to go straight to voicemail. Wow. What are managers even for? 

Gotta do everything by yourself. You throw your phone onto the couch, and walk out of your trailer. You didn’t care whether anyone saw you; you just cared about getting a smoke. 

The afternoon sun is blinding to you, the effects of alcohol making it even more unbearable. Is there a convenience store around? Fuck, maybe you should just ask the staff for a smoke. 

You keep walking along the other trailers, feeling some eyes on you. Well, usually at a filming set everyone is busy with their own business, but you’re Y/n. You grab attention by simply breathing. Others might love it, but growing up in showbiz, you just wish to get away from it. Even if just for a second, you would love to be an invisible person. 

You keep walking, hoping to spot anyone with a cigarette in their hands. But your legs beg to stop, and you feel extra dizzy when you bump into a hard…wall? Well, it was hard, but soft at the same time. 

Warm hands wrap around your waist just as you’re ready to fall onto the ground. Even your drunken state knows that you should be clinging onto something if you’re about to fall, and in this case, you were holding onto the person’s biceps. 

You look up, feeling as if this person was 200 centimeters. Shit. He’s tall. 

His hat is low, but you could see blue circles staring down at you, and although his face was attractive, his expression was mean. As if wanting to murder you. Well, he probably does, since a stranger fell into him. 

“You-“

His cologne hits you, and the urge to throw up hits. 

Vomit splatters on his entire shirt, and just like that, you pass out, still in his arms. 

——

Woah. Even getting up slowly triggers the muscles in your brain. 

You blink a few times, adjusting to the lights in your trailer. What time was it? Did you already finish filming? A million questions enter your head as you look around you, and you notice the five large empty liquor bottles on the table. 

Right. No memory whatsoever. 

A wet towel is on your forehead. Weird, you think, as you throw it to the side. 

But then you hear the trailer’s bathroom door open, and you immediately feel uneasy. Who the fuck could be in here other than you? 

The stranger walks out, and he’s half naked. 

And attractive. 

But he’s half naked! 

You quickly check yourself, and yes, you’re still in your clothes. 

“Who… who the fuck are you?” You say, feeling really unsafe right now. You had no gun, no weapon of any kind, and you were terrified. This stranger was extremely fit and tall, and he was standing just a few feet away from you. 

He’s staring at you with his blue eyes, and honestly, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he gonna kill you? Rape you? 

“You have no idea who I am?”

“Yes, you fucking creep. Get out of my trailer before I yell,” you threaten. 

His eyebrows furrow as if you were in the wrong, and he crosses his arms, leaning against your vanity across from you. Woah. His arms. It looks very delicious-

What. “Seriously. Get the fuck out,” you point over to your trailer door. 

He throws his head back, an annoyed groan escaping him. 

What’s his problem? You think, eyebrows furrowed. Okay. That uneasiness, has transformed into anger. “Fuck- get the fuck out, your weirdo. I’m…you know what, I’m calling the fucking cops.”

You look around for your phone, but see it charging on the vanity beside him. 

“Drew Starkey,” he finally says, and you look at him, confusingly. Never in your life have you ever heard that name. Were you even suppose to remember or know this person? He groans again, not even hiding his annoyance at you. “Wow. You’re such a bitch, you know that?”

The audacity- “you’re in my fucking trailer right now. You’re in the faults here. You can’t come in half naked, and act annoyed at me. You fucking cunt-“

The door to your trailer opens, and you squint at the light coming in. 

It was your manager Laura, and she’s holding a bottle of water, a pack of cigarettes, and a folded t-shirt. 

“Laura! A fucking pervert in my trailer-“

“Here you go, Drew. Again, so sorry,” Laura ignores you, handing the man, who apparently, is called Drew, the clean t-shirt. The name he just told you, it was his name? Why did he act so offended earlier, when he said it? Is he like some kind of, celebrity? Impossible; you've met almost all the top actors in showbiz, you would've known him.

“What the fuck,” you voice out, chuckling to get the anger and confusion out of you. You watch as the stranger puts the shirt on, enjoying the way his muscles flex and relaxes is… kind of arousing. But you pull away, feeling embarrassed and egoistic to admit you’re attracted to this rude stranger. 

Laura comes near you, placing the cigarettes and water on the table and sniffs you. “Yeah, you’re still a bit tipsy,” she comments, before grabbing perfume and mints from your bag and sitting down. “Can you still film?”

“What time is it?” You ask, while grabbing the pack and lighting a cigarette up. You breathe it in, and smoke out, immediately feeling more relaxed and in your element. 

“4:20.”

“What time was I suppose to be there?” You giggle, breathing in your cigarette. Oh, it felt so good to smoke. All the energy booster you needed. 

“2:30,” Laura says, sighing. 

“Oh shit,” you laugh, putting the cigarette between your lips. You forcefully spray the perfume on you, knowing the cigarette is probably going to cover the smell anyways. You take another blow of the cigarette, before putting it into Laura’s mouth. She groans angrily at you, and you just chuckle, looking over to the stranger now. He’s not shirtless anymore, and has a hat on. He’s staring at you, with a mean expression now. “What are you still doing here?” You rudely state. 

“Y/n, he’s gonna be here for a long time,” Laura replies instead, and you turn around to her. You look at her with furrowed eyebrows, confused by what she meant. Laura also stares at you with an amused expression. “What, you guys didn't talk?”

You frustratedly throw your arms around and stomp your foot. “What am I supposed to talk about to a half naked guy in my trailer? Laura, use your fucking brain.” 

You turn around and the stranger is now sitting on the couch. You ignore him, turning back to Laura. “Is he my new manager or something? Laura, who the fuck is this?”

“Drew Starkey. You honestly don’t remember him?”

“Am I suppose to?” You reply, reaching for the pack of cigarettes, hoping to bring it with you to set. But ‘Drew’ stops you, his hand, which is surprisingly very warm, wraps around your wrist to stop you. You glare at him, telling him with your eyes to get his hands off you. But he doesn’t. So you verbally express it to him. “Get your fucking hand off me or I’ll chop it off for you.”

“You can’t even walk in a straight line, Y/n.”

Annoyed, you yell, “Get your fucking hand off me."

He does, but he quickly grabs the pack out of your reach, stuffing it into his pocket. Wow. What a jackass. And who is he to care? To take away your stuff? You pray that he gets explosive diarrhea the whole day tomorrow. This asshole deserves it. 

“Whatever,” you say, walking over to the door of your trailer. And he’s right, because you trip over yourself on the way there. You laugh under your breath out of frustration and embarrassment, and turn back around, pointing at ‘Drew’ and looking at Laura. “Get this jackass out my trailer. I don’t care what he is, he better be out of my sight.”

You don’t even bother hearing what her response is, and you leave towards your set. Now, you’re in a worse mood than before. All thanks to the stranger named Drew.

——

Everyone knew you were a good actor. You’re one of the best. And to make it even more astonishing, you’re only 25 years old. Meaning, your acting could get better. But it’s already the best of the best. Maybe its your pure gift, or maybe because you’ve been doing this since you were 13. Either way, you were a fucking good actor. 

The director specifically appointed you to star in his film, which is about the world coming to an end. Director Ravens was quite famous in showbiz, so who were you to decline? Besides, your co-star was Hugh Jackman, a brilliant actor, who you've also grown to admire while filming. 

Your character was a girl in her twenties, who had fallen in love with a stranger despite knowing that the world was getting destroyed within a week. A tragic love story, yet it was beautiful. 

This scene, is your solo one. Your character finds out her brother is dead, and cries with feelings of sadness, regret, and happiness. It’s a scene that would be hard to portray, but you do it well. 

Although you were almost three hours late to set, you make up for it with your acting. One take and the director informs you that it's perfect. And no one disagrees, and the complaints about your tardiness disappears, once they rewatch the scene. You must still be tipsy, because you swear you saw some of the staff shed a tear. 

You don’t offer to watch or reshot the scene, since you wanted to be out of here as soon as possible. But director Ravens insists on another one, hoping to get it from another angle. And you do as he pleases, since, well, he’s the director. 

Wow. One of the most important scenes in the movie only took you twenty minutes to film. 

Director Ravens gives you a break before the next scene, and you walk off before he wants to give you compliments. You didn’t need to hear what you already knew. 

But as you walk over to your seat, someone already occupies it. Drew. 

“You’re still here?” You scoff, crossing your arms. 

You want to rip his blue eyes out to get him to stop staring at you. Why does he like to stare at you so much? 

He pulls a random chair close to him, perhaps wanting you to sit. “Wow. So you can remember faces.”

“Yeah, if they’re as ugly as you,” you lie, because, his face is so damn attractive, that you can’t forget it even if you wanted to. You sit down on the chair, looking ahead of you. “I thought I said I want you out of my sight?”

“You can’t decide that,” he replies. “Who are you to order me around?”

“And who are you to sit in my chair? If anything, you should be kissing my ass right now.”

“Why should I?”

“You’re seriously asking me that?” You scoff. “Look around; that’s what everyone else is doing.”

On cue, a staff member hands you a bottle of water, and you take it without saying thanks. 

“And they’re fucking idiots,” Drew says, and you turn to look at him. He’s still staring at you! Crazy. 

“Shut up. As if you didn’t enjoy the show,” you say, referring to your acting just then.

“I did.”

You scrunch your nose in disgust, “good thing you’re not an actor. You’re horrible at lying.”

“I am.”

‘’What? A liar?”

“No; I’m an actor.”

The fuck? Suddenly, a different staff member interrupts the conversation, a girl holding her phone out to the both of you.

“Can I take a selfie with you?” She shyly asks. 

Of course it’s directed to you, so you simply reject her. “Sorry, but-“

“Yeah, sure.”

Your jaw is probably on the floor right now. The girl wasn’t asking you; she was asking Drew. He stands up and takes a selfie with her, and then hugs her goodbye. 

So… he’s famous? No way, because you’ve never heard of him you entire life. Probably a newbie that got famous by luck. 

You look away from him once he sits down, embarrassed to even face him. You just thought he was some staff member that the company had assigned to serve you. But he’s actually an actor? 

“You were saying?” His deep voice interrupts your thoughts, and you feel your ears go red. Holy shit. You need a smoke real bad right now. Fuck that, you need some liquor in you right this instant. 

Director Ravens saves you, yelling that its time for the next scene. So, you hurry and throw the water bottle at Drew, who catches it as though he’s not surprised at all. 

And he smirks, lifting his hat a bit as if to get a better look up at you. “What’s this for?”

Flustered, you walk off without another look back, partly embarrassed and angry. And you busy yourself with getting into the emotions of the character, and soon, Drew is forgotten as if he never existed. 

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

word count: 2.3k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: so...what's your impression of y/n so far?

hope you enjoyed chapter one, i had a blast writing this...although, chapter four was the funniest one yet. btw, i am not joking when i wrote slow burn in the warnings, so pls be patient! and i setted this story to start in february, to match the time of real life events. other than that, rest are fictional!

elevator | other | index | prologue | ch2

[heliosunny]

Yandere! Xavier x reader

Twisted sleeping beauty.

English is not my first language, please excuse me for that.

Some definitions are different from the ones in the game.

Have fun reading!

Once upon a time, there was once a peaceful country. No one knows what exactly happened as the civilians who live there were under a spell. The spell made them forget everything, including memories related to the royal family. Not a single soul remembers they once had a kind-hearted king and prince.

Y/n, a time traveler, got separated from her crew and landed her space ship on this foreign land. Her food already ran out, so she had to leave the ship behind and search for food. She stumbled across an abandoned castle. 'What is this place?' She wondered. The girl got inside, the place was left in such bad condition. Carefully, Y/n avoided the cracks on the stairs, thinking there might be food somewhere in this place, anything would do. Rather than risking her life hunting those weird-looking creatures for meat without a proper weapon in her hand, searching for left-overs in this castle had a higher chance for succeed. Speaking of the 'monsters' outside, the second she landed here, she knew something was definitely off. Y/n used up all her bullets on those surrounded her ship to prevent them from damaging the ship further.

'Where are all the people?' To think Y/n is the only one left makes her scared. She hates the thought of dying alone in a foreign land. Despite having checked every single room, no sign of life was found. That is, until she entered a room filled of strange flowers with white petals and star-like pistils. In the centre of the room lies a bed.

"Is that.... a man?" Y/n dashed through the plants, she had a feeling not to touch these things. The moment she got near the bedside, a scroll suddenly appeared in front of her. An invisible force made her grabbed the scroll, it lighted up and opened. Among the strokes on the surface of the paper, Y/n can only understand some of those which are [...... help ....... the ... prince..... curse...]. If only she had brought some translate device from the ship. The scroll burnt itself, leaving no trace of dust. "The hell? What am I supposed to do next?" Y/n sighed, the sound of her growling stomach signal her to keep looking for food or she might die of starving. She turned around only to find the door in which she entered was blocked by those flowers, now grown thorns on its stem. "Damn it, should've brought a knife.."

She sat on the bed and bumped into something. "What is it this time?" Y/n turned her head, she almost jumped after finding out there's about a man lying on the bed which was once empty. 'Is he dead?' She poked the man, once, twice.. no sign of moving. She placed her index finger under his nose, he's still breathing. 'Oh... so he's the prince?' She thought. Although she tried every methods possible to wake him up, nothing works so far. 'Could it be...' Her brain travelled to that one fairy tale she read 'Nope, not gonna happen.' She isn't going to kiss a strange man just to.. escape the place and possibly get some food.. Oh well, maybe she should try before finally giving up. "Here goes.."

It works. The man opened his eyes. "Y/n?" Y/n backed up, how does he know her name. "It's me, Xavier!" 'Who's Xavier?' It's all over her face, Xavier knew he made a mistake. He apologized, saying she looks exactly like a childhood friend of him. Still, that doesn't explain how that specific friend shared the same name as her. The growling sound coming from her stomach breaks the awkward silence. "You must've been hungry, come with me". The man named Xavier stood up from his bed, he made some weird gestures with his hands, the flowers opened a path for them both. 'That was cool.' Y/n thought to herself. Without facing her, Xavier smiled, he knew exactly what's going on inside her mind.

The moment they stepped outside, Y/n coudn't believe in her eyes. The castle which once cold and bleak now look like it's new. No vines, aged rocks, nothing, just brand new. The guards and maids are everywhere, they bowed the moment Xavier walks towards them. 'This is what will happen when I help the prince?' Y/n lost in her thoughts, so many things are coming up all at once. She tripped over his long coat without noticing and was caught by Xavier.

Xavier: You alright? Y/n: Y-yeah... Xavier then called a maid over to guide Y/n to the dining room, he said that he had other plans to do. Y/n nodded and simply went with the maid.

Night falls, Xavier hasn't returned. Y/n had a bath, a lavish meal, changed into a night robe. This literally is the best day since the moment she crashed here. Those monsters were still roaming outside, maybe Xavier is handling them. Eventually, Y/n got bored and sneaked outside. She changed into a more comfortable outfit and got to the top of the castle on her own. She was surprised she encounters no guards on the way here. The wind was blowing strongly, reminding Y/n of her home planet, sadly she couldn't return due to its destruction. A big howl woke her from the thoughts, followed by a bright ray of light.

"Couldn't sleep?" Xavier asked. His steps were quiet, so Y/n didn't notice him standing behind her.

"I want to see you." Y/n turned around to face the young looking man. She didn't know much about him, but he treated her kindly. That raises a lot of questions. "Is that blood?!" Now that she took a good look at him, not only some part of his clothes was torn, blood splashed almost everywhere. He's not even trying to hide the fact that he's cleaning the bloody sword on his hand.

"This? Yeah." Xavier answered nonchalantly, didn't even bother to look up to see the reaction on Y/n's face.

Y/n: Does it related to whatever is going on downthere? The monster and..

Xavier: What monster?

Y/n: The crouching thingy with claws? They're right... there?

She looked down, from where she is, there were plenty of them, but they vanished.

Xavier: You should go to bed.

Y/n: But..

Xavier: I'll answer your question in the morning.

After a restless night, Y/n sat on her bed as she couldn't stop herself from thinking of the eerie things she encountered the moment she got into the castle. A knocking sound, following by a female voice from outside told her to have breakfast.

Xavier: Y/n? You in there?

Y/n: Yeah, coming.

'Why is he rushing?' Y/n brushed her hair and changed into more proper clothes. She couldn't hide the tiredness from her eyes, but maybe he won't notice anyway. As expected from Xavier, one moment he was here calling out her name, the next moment he was already gone somewhere else. Y/n followed a maid, she's carrying some sort of tray with something covered in cloth. Xavier stood up when he saw Y/n entered the room. He ordered the maid to put the tray on the table and leave. "Come, sit next to me." Xavier pulled out the chair next to where he was sitting and gestured her to sit. Before she could ask, Xavier insisted Y/n to finish her breakfast first. Y/n was only able to eat half of what's on the plate. Her eyes wandered all over the place and stumbled upon some portraits on the wall with the face scratched off.

Xavier: That used to be the portrait of my father. I can no longer remember what he looks like. He loved himself and his family, so whenever he had the chance, he would hire artists to draw those.

Y/n: I see..

Xavier: As for the.. monsters.

Xavier seemed hesitate. He walked over to where the tray is and took off the cloth covering it. On the golden tray are some shiny crystals vary in different shapes and colors.

Xavier: They are called protocores. They are used commonly by soldiers to improve their combat abilities.

Y/n reached out her hand to grab one but was stopped by Xavier.

Xavier: They are also known as the core of the monsters you saw.

Y/n: Which mean the monsters are the people of your kingdom?

Xavier: You could put it that way. But, a protocore simply is harmless if it undergoes certain procedures.

Y/n: Then..

Xavier paused for a moment before continued: It's hard to admit, but my father's greed was the cause to the downfall of the kingdom.

The story of a king who loved his people and the greed for power lead him to foolish decisions. One important decision was to ask for the help of a witch. The king requested her to make his army the greatest of all, so the witch gave them mighty strength. The hearts of the soldiers were no longer human, they no longer experience pain or have the ability to express sympathy. They were bold, ruthless, everything to ask from a perfect army. But in return, they have to pay for a heavy price. Those who couldn't endure the strength coming from the protocore, which is now their hearts, turned in to monsters.

Y/n: So that's what happened..

Xavier: My mother sacrificed herself to put me under a sleeping spell, hoping one day someone would wake me up.

Xavier looked at Y/n tenderly.

Xavier: I took a stroll and found your ship. It's..

Y/n: I know... I don't think I'll be able to fix it without the necessary supplies.

Xavier: Then stay.. I believe you can fix it, of course, with my help.

There's no reason not to, Y/n doesn't know where to stay aside from this place. Xavier expressed himself sincerely and succeeded in gaining Y/n's trust. A week passed. Y/n adapted to the life here faster than she thought. Xavier and the others was kind to Y/n, but something feels off. She noticed the way the castle would change during the day compared to night time. How the maid and guards disappeared at certain times of the day. Aside from that, Y/n had a feeling of being watched all the time.

One day, while Y/n was digging up some 'scrap' around the castle, she found a path lead to the underground basement. She hates the dark but also hates to stay at this planet as much, she'd try anything to find materials to fix the damn ship. She misses her friends and probably so are they. Y/n doesn't hate the people here, they are more than kind to her. It's just the loneliness and the odd feeling this place brought her. 'What are those chains?' It was daytime but without the only source of light in her hand, she definitely wouldn't see a thing.

She stepped on something and it cracked, Y/n moved the light down to her foot to see some sort of skulls. Luckily, Y/n managed to cover her mouth before making any sound. 'The fuck?' Just as she was about to retreat, she heard a voice coming from inside.

"You came to draw my blood again?"

Y/n walked over to the owner of the voice, an old lady with both hands chained to the wall, surrounded by weird looking texts on the ground which seem to be drawn by blood.

"Who are you?" The lady's iris lighted up as if she'd found a savior.

Y/n: My name is Y/n.. You are.. the witch?

Y/n took a guess, maybe she was right, judging from the expression on the person's face.

Y/n: What do you mean by draw your blood? Did someone do this to you.

She let out a wicked laugh. "Dear, you don't know a thing. The monster you keep by your side.. he's-" Without letting the lady finished, a sword flew passed Y/n's head and sliced the witch's throat. Y/n dropped the light in her hand and almost tripped over. Rather than the pain from felling down onto the ground, she felt warmth surrounding her. "Xavier?" He nodded, he created a light orb inside his palm.

Xavier: What are you doing here?

Y/n: I'm just trying to find something that can fix my ship... Sorry.

Y/n didn't understand why she had to apologize. Maybe she was scared. 'Scared of what?' Y/n questioned herself but couldn't help but tremble in Xavier's arm. The two didn't speak a word after returning back to the castle. That night, before going to bed, Xavier decided to pay Y/n a visit.

Xavier: May I come in?

Y/n didn't answer.

Xavier: Y/n?

He had this uneasy feeling, Xavier kicked open the door to find Y/n not in her room. He looked out of the opened window, there's a vine lead all the way down to the ground, she must've glide down using it.

Xavier let out a sigh, he knew this day would come, but not expecting it'd be this quick. It wasn't a matter of time before Y/n discovered the whole truth he's been hiding.

Meanwhile, Y/n, who is at the basement, is trying to find more clues relating to the witch. The bodies was removed, no chains, no magic circles, no blood, no nothing. Just as she was about to give up, a wind suddenly blows her way. "Wind? At such place?" She turned back, some glowing texts appeared on the rock wall. There, she discovered the ugly truth, hiding from her. "That explains eveything."

Xavier: Had fun?

Y/n: Xavier!?

Xavier: Judging from the look on your face... how much did you know?

Y/n: You're the one who asked for the help of the witch?

Xavier: Well.. yeah.

Xavier took a step, two step, til he was able to corner Y/n, leaving no way out.

Xavier: Don't you want to know why?

Y/n: The witch left a message, saying that it was for your love. Why did you even blame it on the king?

Xavier: Y/n, my love..

His hand caress her cheek, but Y/n moved her face away.

Xavier: He is the man who ordered to kill her. I simply took my revenge.

Y/n: On the whole kingdom? Have you gone mad?

Xavier: YES! I can do anything for my Y/n. He and his beloved people must pay for taking away what I care most.

Once upon a time, there was a prince who fell in love with a peasant. He dreamt of building a strong kingdom for her to live in peace and devoted his life for her. Soon his father, the king, found out about this thwarted love. He ordered guards to get the girl, tied her to a post and burned her alive. "Such witch dares to charm my son shall receive the worst death". Witch? Xavier thought. Thanks to his father, he had such great idea. He went into the woods where the greatest witch live. "Are you sure about this? You'll have to pay a heavy prince, young man" She said. Xavier smirked, he had lost her, what could be worse? He gained an immortal body, an invincible power and one powerful curse to turn the people he want into the monsters called wanderers. Leaving only a small number of people alive, blessing them with immortal and erased their memories.

He revenged them. Now what. The witch came to collect the price she deserved. What she didn't expect, is that the prince had already prepare for a thing to encounter her spells. "Like what you see? I had to kill a dragon to get this sword. I won't kill you, yet." So the prince locked her down the basement. As he couldn't endure using such power in a long time, Xavier felt sleepier than ever. Each time he sleeps, the amount of time he spent in his dream was more than the previous one. He travelled the planet to find a cure, until he found an oracle in a dungeon. The one said that he'd fall asleep and woke up when the right person arrive. Searching for a clairvoyant is his next step. In the far future, Y/n will land on this planet. That's all he needed to know. He returned to his kingdom, met the witch. He controlled her to put a sleeping spell on him, while he himself wrote the scroll for the future Y/n to come and read. Everything was according to plan.

Y/n: You.. but I'm not the same girl, Xavier.

Xavier: You are.. you are just denying. I'll give you anything you want...

Y/n: I want to go home!

Xavier: This is your home!

Y/n: But I don't want th-

Before she could finish, Xavier moved in, his hand gripping her chin firmly. His touch was insistent, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that left no room for escape. Y/n’s heart raced as he leaned in, his lips brushing hers with a force that silenced her protest. The kiss was demanding, taking more than it gave. Her body tensed, a mix of resistance and shock coursing through her. When he finally pulled away, Y/n’s eyes were wide, her chest heaving with the aftermath of the unwanted contact.

“Stay....” he murmured, his voice softer now, but still charged with the weight of his actions. Y/n shook her head. "Then that leaves me no other choice.. I'm sorry.. But you can't escape from me." Y/n felt a strange power flowing inside of her, the next moment, she collapsed in his hands. "Let's start with making you forget this... then.. I'll give you an immortal life." He hugged her tightly "What's next, Y/n? How about I'll make you my queen?"

[i-have-stolen-endless-names]

The Devil In Love - Chapter 1 "The First Step"

Possible Trigger Warnings

>>Alucard is a Warning on his own.<<

Overall Yandere Themes

Mentions of: Manipulation, Stalking, Alucard is thinking of biting you and drinking your blood, the beginning of obsessive and possessive behavior

Minors please do not interact!

Content

Reader is working at the Hellsing manor as a housekeeper

Story is set before the happenings of Hellsing - Still Spoilers ahead

Reader is gender neutral, no pronouns are used but "you"

Age, ethnicity, height, weight and any other physical attributes are never mentioned. You are free and encouraged to imagine yourself or an OC in this scenario.

Summary

Overall a rather harmless chapter

Alucard and Reader get to know each other better

Index

Previous Chapter: Prologue Next Chapter: In A Demons Embrace

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Technology always interested him. The allure of modernity was something this old vampire was very curious about. Computer… the internet… Humanity evolved so quickly. This little invisible network they created was the closest they would ever have to magic. At least for those who have no access to such an ancient power. However, he must admit, those new courting rules were curious to him.

Alucard was by no means a foolish man. He had been very intelligent from the start. Had he been born in a time not torn apart by war, he could have had chances to become a great man. Not a man stained with blood. Not a man who was corrupted with power.

Nonetheless, the shift of old world courting and modern dating was… a curious thing. He had many lovers in his old life. Women, men, people who were neither or all at once. If he had any more knowledge about the "modern slang" he most likely would be labelled as pansexual. Nothing would stop this man from pursuing what he wanted. What he needed. His reason for desire was currently busy.

You were busy. Typing away on the keyboard in front of a massive computer. Hellsing had the most modern technology available and yet it all still looked so very chunky.

Not even Alucard could imagine that in a few years everything would change. As usual, he had been watching you for a while before he manifested behind you. Ittook so adorably long for you to notice him. The startled noise that left you amused him immensely. "Good evening."A sharp fanged grin welcomed you. His presence made you still a bit nervous. How delectable

"Good evening….I did not hear you come in." Your comment made him chuckle. He rarely used doors. Sliding through the walls was much more amusing. Especially when he could scare you in the process. "A library is supposed to be quiet, is it not?" His eyes narrowed with mirth. "May I join you?"

Always so polite, one could almost forget that he was a monster lusting after you. Once you have given him permission he sat next to you. Perhaps he had pulled the chair intentionally way too close to yours. Your knees were touching.

"What is the little help doing, mh?" One of the many nicknames he had given you. "Taking a break. I was checking this new website and…" You startled to babble about whatever currently interested you. His lips curled upward and he listened intently to you.

lt was curious, really, how suddenly he felt himself intrigued by your interests. Perhaps he should gain some more information about your little hobbies. He listened… and listened…

At one point he threaded his fingers together and leaned back in the chair. It almost appeared as if the vampire was content simply letting you talk for a very long time. Until you started to change the topic.

"On that note, there had not been many vampire attacks recently, have there?" Look at you, showing interest in his work as well. Or maybe you just had false hope that no more ghouls would threaten humanities existence. "How perceptive of you. I indeed have not been called to any mission for a while now."

Drinking from blood bags was simply not the same as devouring some hot blooded little thing, like you.

"What do you do when you are not out and about shooting ghouls?" Your question took him a bit off guard. What did he do? Aside from suffering nightmares and remembering the past…

Surely you would not appreciate being told that he was watching you so often. Even though he was a monster he still had his charm, in his own twisted way. Seemingly you took his silence as nothing positive, the little frown on your face was precious. "I enjoy going to the library."

Hellsings library was big. It offered books, computer and a silent space to do other things. Once he had seen a little maid painting in this room. The room simply offered many possibilities. "You should join me more often." What a horrible mistake to make. Perhaps you see him as this little thing that needed coddling.

Maybe you were simply lonely and sought any company you could get. Whatever it was… he could not stop the grin from forming onto his lips. Your occasional "accidental" meetings now had turned into something much more frequent and willing.

It may not occur to you but you were blindly feeding into his obsession. Like a little lamb strutting over to the wolf, so naive…

"It would be my greatest pleasure." For the first time in centuries something else than bloodshed excited him.

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[ghoulsverse]

Chapter Three: Subject 00-113

3.1k Words | [tags] PTSD, Mentions of abuse

Chapter Index | Ao3 Link

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“The hardest part isn’t pulling someone from the fire. It’s convincing them they aren’t still burning.”

The quinjet touched down with barely a whisper against the rooftop landing pad.

Wanda watched the skyline through the small window by her seat, still half asleep. The city wasn’t buzzing yet. No honking cars, no blur of lights. Just that strange quiet that clung to mid mornings when the world hadn't quite put its armor back on.

Fitting.

Behind her, she could feel Aliah shifting restlessly in the seat, wrapped tight in the silver emergency blanket like it could somehow make her invisible.

Natasha was already up, moving with that same catlike, unbothered grace she always had before a mission… or after one they hadn't expected.

The ramp lowered with a hiss.

Cold air flooded the cabin, sharp enough to make Wanda blink hard once, twice.

Aliah didn’t move.

"Come on. It’s okay." Wanda said gently, standing and offering her hand without expectation.

For a long beat, Aliah just stared at it.

Then, slowly, she unfolded herself from the seat and followed.

Not touching. Not grabbing. Just moving in the shadow Wanda made for her.

Bruce was waiting at the far end of the platform, arms loose at his sides, wearing a soft hoodie and sneakers like he hadn’t been briefed that they were bringing back a potential unstable asset.

Wanda appreciated that.

So did Aliah, if the way she didn’t immediately spark was anything to go by. She was still on edge, but she didn’t feel threatened.

Steve and Sam stepped off the jet behind them, staying a few paces back… clearly trying not to box her in. Natasha flanked Aliah's other side without a word, her presence solid and non-threatening.

It worked.

Aliah kept walking.

Small victories.

"Hey there." Bruce said when they got close enough. His voice was low, even. Like he was greeting a spooked animal, not a teenage girl wrapped in fear and static. "I’m Bruce. I’m not gonna poke or prod you, okay? Just wanna make sure you're feeling alright."

Aliah’s fingers twitched at her sides.

Wanda could feel the tension climbing her spine, that buzz of energy crackling just under her skin.

She stepped a little closer, not blocking Bruce, but standing between Aliah and the unknown anyway.

"If you're hurt." Wanda said softly. "Bruce can help. But only if you want."

Aliah’s eyes flickered between them… wide, calculating, too old for her age. Whatever her age may be.

Then, finally, she nodded once.

Tiny. Barely more than a dip of her chin.

Bruce smiled. Again, small victories.

"Alright." He said gently. "Let's get you somewhere quiet. No tests. Just a check-up."

Aliah flinched at the word ‘tests’, but Wanda caught it… and Bruce did, too. He didn’t push.

Just turned and started walking toward the door inside, slow enough that Aliah could set the pace if she wanted.

Wanda glanced at Natasha once as they followed, just a flick of her eyes. Natasha didn’t say anything, but the tight set of her jaw said plenty.

They both knew it.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

Wanda could feel it in the tightness of Aliah's movements, the way her feet barely made noise against the floor, the way her head kept snapping toward every creak and hum of machinery.

She was absorbing everything.

Aliah kept her eyes flickering. 5 exits. 7 people. 2 flights of stairs.

Not that any of this information was useful for her, but it was comforting. She could never escape with other people in the room who were powerful like she was. It's just what she was trained to do.

Catalog everything. Forget nothing. 

Bruce led them toward the temporary medical bay, repurposed conference room, wide open, sterile as a lab. No locks. No restraints.

But the moment they crossed the threshold, Aliah froze.

Wanda felt the shift in the air before she even turned.

Aliah’s body went rigid, her breath hitching sharp and fast. Her fingers twitched violently and some of the metal tools began to float. Sparks of white energy flickered uncontrolled at the tips of her hands.

Hydra Base: Hemlock - 2 Years Ago

Aliah sat bare, in nothing but a hospital gown on the edge of a hospital bed. Her eyes flickered around, German and Russian soldiers walking around with clipboards on the other side of a 3-inch pane of glass while Doctor Evez stood next to her with a long needle that could only be compared in size to an epidermic needle.

“One last injection, and you will be our greatest achievement.”

“No more after this?” She asked in a soft, timid voice.

“No more, 113.”

Aliah nodded, wincing as the probe went in. She stayed quiet as Doctor Evez conducted his procedure, him speaking aloud to the soldiers on the other side of the glass. Accent thick.

“Genesis Subject 00-113 has shown remarkable adherence to advancements. The donor genetics are exceptionally compatible.”

“This is the final procedure needed to stabilize the DNA. Since the donors are both enhanced, one genetically and the other post term, it is imperative that the two samples merge completely before they can begin to grow on their own. Since Subject 113 is 12.7 years post full-term, the cells will continue to regenerate until the subject has reached 21 years of age.”

A silver/blue liquid began to filter in the needle. It burned slightly.

“Subject 113 is the only full term success of these donors. Unfortunately any other samples of the donors were used in the previous test subjects. A perfect specimen for the Widow selection. Subject 00-113 is one of a kind.”

He turned towards Aliah with a sick smile on his face. “Aren’t you, 113?”

The burning stopped, her eyes and senses can tell she’s not in the facility anymore, but her feelings still exist.

Wanda took a step toward her, but the girl recoiled instantly, stumbling back into the doorframe with a clang.

Aliah shook her head and dropped to her knees.

The white energy surged around her in a wild pulse, sharp enough to make the light panels flicker.

Bruce immediately stepped back, hands up, his voice calm. "Okay. Okay."

Natasha moved subtly… placing herself between Aliah and the nearest sharp object, casual and non-threatening.

Wanda crouched down low, palms open, heart in her throat. “What do you need?"

Aliah’s breaths came in ragged, fast little gasps, her eyes wide and wild. Glowing.

Wanda didn’t dare reach for her. Not yet.

Instead she did the one thing she knew would calm her. She let her own magic show.

Red mist drifted lightly from her palms, swirling harmlessly into the air. Calm, controlled, gentle.

Not a weapon.

Not a trap.

A simple message. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Aliah stared at the mist.

Her trembling slowed, barely, but enough. Enough for Wanda to see her. Enough for Aliah to blink hard, trying to drag herself back from wherever she’d gone.

Wanda kept her voice soft. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

Aliah didn’t answer with words. She just glanced at the med bay again… At the too-bright lights, the clinical smell, and shook her head violently.

Wanda nodded. No hesitation.

"Okay." She said. "No hospitals."

She turned her head toward Bruce and Natasha.

“Do you want to come upstairs? I can show you some TV shows that I like to watch.”

Aliah nodded, her eyes slowly returning to her normal color. Her fingers didn't stop trembling but she followed close behind Wanda and Natasha.

The elevator ride was silent.

Not the comfortable kind.

The heavy, uncertain kind. The kind where every floor ding sounded too loud against the tension stretched thin between them.

Aliah stayed close to Wanda’s side, her hands still trembling but only slightly. White energy flickered faintly at her knuckles, but it didn’t lash out.

Not yet.

Natasha stood on the opposite side of the elevator, arms folded, watching the numbers light up one by one.

She wasn’t guarding. She was waiting.

Like she knew that Aliah could take care of herself, but that she wouldn't turn for help. Natasha saw herself in the young girl. She looked at the girl almost in remembrance. When Clint had first brought her to the tower, she felt like an outsider.

The doors slid open onto the residential floor Wanda and Natasha shared… simple, private, a little worn around the edges in the way real homes were.

The common area was dimly lit by a single standing lamp.  A soft throw blanket was crumpled on the couch. Fred the half-dead plant sagged sideways in his pot.

It smelled like cinnamon candle wax and whatever Natasha’s version of dinner had been the night before.

It didn’t smell like hospitals.

It didn’t hum with the weight of surveillance.

It felt... human.

Wanda stepped out first, glancing back to offer the smallest, most careful smile.

"You can stay here with me and Nat." She said quietly. "As long as you want."

Aliah hovered at the threshold for a second, like she wasn’t sure she was really being offered anything.

But then she crossed over.

Small, silent steps.

No explosions. No resistance.

Just a girl stepping into a place that didn’t expect her to be dangerous.

Wanda kicked off her boots by the door, peeling off her jacket and tossing it haphazardly onto the couch.

Natasha hung back by the window, flicking the blinds half shut without being asked. Dimming the outside world a little more.

Small acts of protection.

Not orders. Not commands.

Just... space.

"We can put something on, keep you distracted so Bruce can make sure everything is okay.” Natasha spoke smoothly.

Aliah didn’t answer. But she didn’t retreat either.

Wanda crouched and flipped through a few options, scrolling past news broadcasts, action movies, dark crime dramas.

Too loud.

Too violent.

Finally, she landed on something soft and ridiculous, her favorite. The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Gentle colors. Dumb jokes. A world with stakes small enough to laugh at.

Wanda hit play.

The TV glowed to life.

Aliah moved hesitantly toward the couch, still wrapped in the silver blanket like it might deflect betrayal.

She perched on the farthest corner, spine stiff, eyes locked onto the screen with the kind of sharp, terrified focus Wanda recognized too well.

Natasha sank into the armchair without a word, boots still on, one arm draped casually over the side.

Wanda took the middle seat… close enough for Aliah to feel, but not close enough to trap her.

She kept her hands visible. Kept her voice low. Her breathing is steady. And let the movie fill the space between them.

It wasn’t much.

It wasn’t a solution.

But it was a start.

And sometimes, survival wasn’t about running faster or fighting harder.

Sometimes it was just about finding a couch, and two strangers willing to sit still long enough for you to believe the world might not be trying to kill you after all.

Bruce stood there, wearing the same hoodie and sneakers, holding a small tablet tucked against his chest.

He didn't step inside.

Didn’t cross the threshold without permission.

"Just a quick visual check." He said gently, addressing Wanda, not Aliah. "Nothing invasive. Nothing scary."

Natasha glanced back at Aliah, watching, tense but silent. Wanda knelt beside the couch again, making herself smaller, less imposing.

"Would it be alright?" She asked Aliah directly. "Bruce just wants to make sure you're feeling okay. You can say no."

For a long moment, Aliah didn't move.

Then, very slowly, she gave one jerky nod.

Bruce entered carefully, staying several feet away.

No tools. No wires. Just a small light he kept pocketed.

He scanned Aliah visually… pupil reaction, breathing rhythm, minor tremors in her hands. He spoke softly as he worked.

"You’ve been through a lot." he said. "No one's expecting you to be okay overnight."

Aliah didn’t answer.

But she didn’t flinch away when he checked the old bruises on her wrists from whatever Hydra restraints had left behind.

Wanda stood closely, not hovering. “I know it’s hard right now, but if you remember anything, it would really help.”

Green eyes looked void of any emotion. Choosing carefully on what to say or think around the infamous Wanda Maximoff.

She’d heard whispers of her around Hydra. The runaway.

If she could get away, then that garnered some kind of trust.

Aliah opened her mind up softly to Wanda. “Subject 00-113. That’s what I was called.”

Wanda nodded softly and turned towards Natasha before speaking to Aliah again. “That’s good, sweetheart.”

“I can only remember that I had two donor samples and that they said I was almost 15 years post full term.”

“Is it okay if I share this with Nat?”

A soft nod.

The witch stood and pulled Natasha to the corner of the living room, keeping her eyes on the young girl whose focus was being pulled by the noise of the TV.

“She was given a number for her identification and I think she’s about 15 years old.”

Nat crossed her arms over her chest and spoke quietly, her mind trying to piece together the information. “Did she say anything else?”

“She remembers that she was made from only 2 donors.”

“Meaning only 2 samples of DNA.”

When Bruce finished, he nodded once, respectful, and stepped back immediately.

"All good." He said quietly. "No more check-ups unless you want them."

He turned to leave without lingering.

Natasha shut the door behind him with a soft click.

The show droned on in the background. Aliah perched on the far edge of the couch. Still braced for impact. But here.

Still here.

Wanda stayed cross legged on the floor, her back against the couch, close enough for Aliah to feel her presence but far enough not to crowd her.

Natasha had moved to the far corner of the room, pulling the window blinds lower with two fingers, cutting out the skyline’s last glimmer of sun from the afternoon.

Then she settled into the armchair, loose and casual, as if she'd just come back from a routine mission and this was just her ritual. Comfortable.

Her body language was perfect, lazy, indifferent… but Wanda didn’t miss the way Natasha’s eyes flicked toward every tiny noise Aliah made.

Protective.

Quiet about it.

But there.

Aliah hadn't said a word since Bruce had finished his careful check.

She still sat curled on the corner of the couch, a silver blanket clutched around her, eyes half lidded and distant.

Natasha could tell she was fighting sleep.

However long the girl must have been on edge, staying awake to assure her survival in an abandoned facility. Now again, in a foreign building with a bunch of people she doesn't know.

Aliah would drop at any second assuming for that time, she’d been awake.

50 hours. Since they received word of the facility. Then drafted a mission and rescue.

Around 50 hours, this girl had been awake. Ready to run at any moment.

But for now, she wasn’t running.

For now, she stayed.

Wanda let the quiet stretch.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt necessary.

Every second they didn’t demand something from Aliah was another second proving they weren’t here to chain her down.

A particularly ridiculous scene flickered across the screen and sharp noise escaped from Aliah's corner of the couch.

Not laughter.

Not quite.

Just a quick, startled huff of breath, immediately smothered like she hadn’t meant to make it.

Wanda pretended not to notice.

Natasha did too.

The movie kept playing.

The world stayed soft for one more minute.

Wanda let herself lean her head back against the couch, closing her eyes briefly.

She didn't sleep.

She wouldn’t, not yet.

There was too much weight still hanging in the air, too many unanswered questions.

Where Aliah had come from. What Hydra and the Red Room had done to her. Why did her powers felt so familiar.

But she intended to find out.

Somewhere across the room, Natasha shifted just enough to kick her boots off, letting them thunk quietly against the floor. She didn’t speak. She didn’t leave.

Neither did Wanda.

Neither did Aliah.

Natasha being the first to break the silence. “You can sleep. We won’t leave.”

Aliah just shook her head.

Without thinking it over anymore, Natasha grabbed the pillow from behind her on the chair, tossing it on the floor in front of the couch. Then she got down and slid into the space next to it. “If you can feel people like Wanda can, feel me here. I won’t leave your side while you sleep.”

Minutes go by, feeling like hours.

The widow returned her focus to the TV, allowing the girl to make her own decision. On her own time.

It was subtle, but it worked all the same. A small figure slid off the corner of the couch and laid her head down on the cushion.

For the first time in what must have been days, Aliah closed her eyes in a room that didn’t expect anything from her.

And the three of them stayed like that… Suspended in the slow hum of the TV, the warmth of shared breathing, the fragile peace of a night that hadn't shattered.

Not yet.

“How did you do that?” Wanda asked, just above a whisper.

Natasha let herself smile at the mess of hair next to her lap. Just close enough to feel the presence and warmth but not close enough to touch. “Beds and couches are too soft.”

“What?”

“When I first defected… I had to sleep with handcuffs on the bedpost.” She started. Speaking softly, monotone. “They made us sleep that way in the Red Room to make sure we wouldn’t leave or escape. It was a bad habit, but for the first few months here, it was the only thing that brought me comfort. The beds were too soft. It wasn’t what I was used to. I couldn’t sleep that way.”

“Nat…” Wanda’s voice cracked but Natasha just waved it off, having had time to process and accept her own past.

“If she was raised by Hydra, I’m assuming she never had a real bed. Maybe a cot. The couch is too soft. The floor isn’t.”

The witch just nodded. She blinked a few times to hide the wetness behind her eyes. So many emotions were flowing through her that she didn't know how to process.

She's been living with Natasha for years now, but she never knew this side of her.

Then the young girl who slept quietly on the floor, having never known a normal childhood.

What a mess this was.

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Taglist: @seventeen-x

[holylulusworld]

The assistant (10) - Apologies

Summary: You are invisible most of the time.

Pairing: Former!Boss!Steve Rogers x Former!Assistant(plussized)!Reader

Possible pairing: Jake Jensen x Reader, Lloyd Hansen x Reader, Curtis Everett x Reader, Ari Levinson x Reader, Andy Barber x Reader, Mike Weiss x Reader, Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Warnings: angst, flirty CEvans characters, language, plus-sized/chubby reader, protective brothers, Lloyd being Lloyd, arguments, fighting, violence, brothers being brothers, choking (non-sexual), injuries

A/N: We are back to business and bam, did I just add another brother? Yes. No. Maybe.

The assistant masterlist

The assistant (9) - Revenge for champions

Lloyd reluctantly opens the gate for Steve. He eyes the captain warily, and huffs. “Captain Asshole.” He grunts.

“Kidnapper,” Steve bites back. Like promised, he came in civilian clothes, and without his shield. He’s carrying a duffle bag while surveilling the property on his way toward the mansion.

“I see Captain Asshat came,” Ari sneers at Steve. He looks the captain up and down, wondering what everything sees in the blonde.

“Play nice, Ari,” Andy warns. He doesn’t like having Steve on their property either, but this way, the brothers have control over the situation. And he made a few calls. Things will go according to his plan, not Steve’s. “No killing Captain America.”

Lloyd snorts. “Speak for yourself, not me. If he only breathes wrong, he’ll bite a bullet.”

“Ah, we already reached the status of threatening,” Curtis steps out of the mansion, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. “Jake checks on the cameras, and Mike is doing Pilates or crap with Y/N.”

“If he touched her,” Steve wants to jump at Curtis. “I’ll break his neck.”

“Whoa…whoa,” Lloyd points his index finger at Steve. “If anyone breaks our little chaos’s neck, it’s me. He’s my brother, not yours.”

Andy coughs and looks away. He doesn’t know how to tell his brothers whom he called to join forces with them. If they must fight Captain America and the Avengers, they’ll need every help they can get.

“So, uh—” he loosens his tie. “We should talk about something before we let him inside. I made a few calls and asked for a favor.”

“You asked for a favor?” Curtis turns his head to look at his brother. “Andy, what did you do? I hope you don’t try to bullshit us with your lawyer crap again.”

“I wish it was only about lawyer crap…” Andy looks at the still-open gate. He huffs and removes his tie. “I called someone to join us today.”

“Another guest?” Lloyd rolls his eyes. “Andy, we’ve got our hands full with Captain Turd over there. I don’t have the nerves to handle our little chaos, Cappy and another guest.”

“Here we go…” Ari sighs when a car drives through the open gate. He shakes his head before punching Andy’s arm. “He’s an outcast, brother. How dare you call him?”

“He’s still our brother,” Andy argues. “I mean…yeah…he chose another family over us, and his love for money is making me sick but…”

“Andrew Barber, there is no but!” Lloyd lunges at his brother. He has his hand around Andy’s throat to slam him into the wall.

“Whoa, stop it!” Ari struggles to drag Lloyd off his brother. “We don’t kill each other, Lloyd. Save your energy for our real enemies.”

“He invited Ransom fucking Drysdale, Ari! How could he? That bastard said we are not brothers,” Curtis yells as said man gets out of his brand-new car. “You! Get off our property!”

Curtis storms toward Ransom to punch his face. “You fucker!” Ransom dodges the next punch. He likes the finer things in life but didn’t forget how to fight. “Andy called me!”

“What is this all about—” Jake and Mike stop in their tracks. While Ari tries to keep Lloyd from strangling Andy, Curtis and Ransom throw punches at each other. “Guys! What’s going on here?”

“So, this is how you keep Y/N safe?” Steve huffs. He drops his duffle bag to the ground to storm past Jake and Mike. “I’ll get her out of this madhouse!”

“Buddy, you better stay out,” Jake puts his hand on Steve’s chest to stop him and make things worse. He doesn’t stand a chance against Captain America, but right now, he gives a shit.

“GUYS!” you stomp your foot. “What is going on here?” You storm toward Lloyd to slap his shoulder. “Lloyd, let go of Andy. Ari same goes for you. Stop hitting your brother’s back.”

“But—” Lloyd pouts. “He…and then…and he invited the gold-digger!”

“I don’t care, Lloyd Hansen,” you poke his arm. “We do not hurt the people we love. I want you to apologize to your brother.” You harrumph and tap your foot. “Lloyd, apologize to your brother or there will be no dessert for you.”

Lloyd’s eyes darken. He looks at your crotch and hums. “I love me some dessert, Cupcake. What do you have to offer?”

“Not that, you little pervert,” you slap the back of his head. “Now play nice, Lloyd.”

“Fine,” he pouts. “I’m sorry for choking you.” He looks at Andy, not sorry at all.

“Ari, your turn,” you point at Ari. “I’m waiting. There will be no head massage and hair pulling for you if you do not apologize for slapping your brother.”

“Is it just me, or is this kind of hot?” Lloyd grins. He’s happy that he isn't the only one who got in trouble this time.

“Lloyd, I’m sorry for slapping your back. Even though you deserved it and I only tried to keep you from choking Andy to death.”

“Very well,” you clap your hands and turn your attention toward Mike. “Are you okay? Did one of them hurt you too?”

“No, I’m good but—” He points at Curtis and Ransom. They are tangled in each other, fighting for control. “Uh-we should stop them too…”

“Christ on a cracker!” You throw your hands up. “You…” you point at Steve. “Hands off Jake.” You look at Jake. “Jakie, no violence. How about you and Mike talk some sense into your brothers.”

“Sure, Sweetie,” Jake relaxes when you press a soft kiss on his cheek. “But if he blinks, I’ll smash him with my laptop.”

“Fair,” you nod and walk toward Curtis and Ransom. Curtis tries to wrestle Ransom to the ground while Ransom tries to kick Curtis’s shin. “Guys, what’s your problem?”

“Hey,  Sunshine,” Curtis pants. He pushes Ransom to the ground, grabs his arm, and twists it. “We are good, Y/N. Just give me a minute to convince my brother to leave our property.”

“Another brother,” you crouch down to get a better look at the man on the ground. “You really are the seven dwarfs.” You smirk at the man staring up at you. He grins and licks his lips.

“Oh, that’s a nice new addition,” Ransom purrs. “Tell me, Sugar. Whom do you belong to?”

“She’s our friend, stop hitting on her,” Curtis puts his foot onto Ransom’s chest. “You are not welcome here.”

Ransom sucks his lower lip in. “She belongs to all of you.” He whistles. “You’re a sweet thing. Hmm…I can think of a thing or two to make you happy.”

“Ransom!” Jake grunts. “Don’t talk like that to Y/N!”

“Curtis, let his arm go,” you place your hand on Curtis’s shoulder to calm him. “People are watching.” You whisper. “We don’t want to draw too much attention toward us. Remember?”

“You’re lucky she stopped me,” Curtis drops Ransom’s arm and steps away. “If not I’d rip your arm out to slap you to death with it.”

“Curtis!” You tut. “Why are you so angry at him?”

“He left us when we needed him the most,” Lloyd wraps his arm protectively around your shoulders. “We were barely fifteen, and that bastard talked some rich people into adopting him. They wanted an heir, and he wanted to get away from us.”

“Can you blame me for not wanting to end up being a mobster and get shot dead? I wanted more from life than that. Just like Andy. But he’s here, parading around the mansion!” Ransom growls. “You forgave him for leaving, but not me. I was a kid looking for hope.”

“You’re a gold-digging whore wanting shiny things, nothing else,” Lloyd spits on the ground next to Ransom. “I suggest you stay far away from me, and Y/N.”

“Lloyd…” Andy sighs. “Please stop this shit. You can’t expect all of us to want the same things you want from life. We tried a different life, okay. The moment you called I was there. Just like Ransom came here after I asked him for help.”

“He won’t get one of the good bedrooms,” Lloyd pecks your cheek before he turns to walk inside the mansion to calm down. “We should head inside and…” he looks at the still-open gate. “Can someone close the fucking gate?”

“So…” you press a cool pack to Curtis’s cheek, “Ransom is the last brother or are there more of you?”

“You can’t get enough of us, huh?” Ari smirks. He bandages his hand while glaring at Lloyd sitting across from him. “You didn’t have to choke Andy.”

“You didn’t have to…” Lloyd mimics Ari. “I do whatever the fuck I want to do.”

Jake and Mike keep out of their fight. They busy themselves watching Steve. The captain sulks in a corner while you play nurse for the brothers.

After offering a cool pack to Ransom and taping his split eyebrow, you took care of Curtis. “Press the cool pack to your cheek. It will help.”

“Thank you, Sunshine,” Curtis sighs when you run your hand over his head. “You’re the best.”

“Andy, no. We need to put something on that too,” you sniffle looking at Andy’s bruised neck. You carefully touch his skin. “Lloyd, you should be ashamed of hurting your brother like that. This is not okay.”

“I said I’m sorry,” Lloyd grumbles under his breath. “He had it coming. What’s a good choking among brothers, right?” He flashes you a smile. “Come on, that one was funny.”

“Not if anyone gets hurt, Lloyd,” you tut. “I thought we wanted to prove to Captain Rogers that I’m safe with all of you. The moment he set foot onto your ground you started fighting each other.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. He watches you and listens closely. This is his chance. If he can convince you that the brothers are dangerous, you’ll follow him.

Part 11

Tags in reblog.

[gryph-the-condor]

This is part of a comic that I may complete inspired by @irunaki baby Athena/ Egg! Athena AU where simple put Athena was born from an egg and adopted by Odysseus. It is very cute and I recommend you check out the cute art!

An Offer of the Gods Part 1

Link to the index post to see all parts (Idk what to call it)

The young owl of Ithaca Athena bolts out the garden entrance into the cold night Air.

She finds herself on a stone bench beneath a great tree

Overwhelmed with fright and emotion flashes of events past and future plague her mind. Her vision blurs a tears being to openly roll down her feathered face.

A noise alerts the young owl.

She stops and immediately stands to confront this intruder.

Though seemly invisible the intruder made themselves know with a devious laugh. Almost maniacal and unhinged.

"Show your self"

The laughter paused. And as if she could sense the smile forming on the intruders face he made himself appear Infront of her.

"I am Hermes, my darling sister." The figure started while giving a almost mocking bow. Both his hands appeared to be holding a head pieces.

"Well half sister, although godly genetics are always so... Complicated." Sign*

"Well"

"Uhhhhhhhhh....."

"Uhh what is your name?"

"Athena, I am the daughter of Odysseus, the king of Ithaca!" She says defiant. Hermes Unbothered continue.

"Well Athena, I bring good news! Zeus and the other Olympians want to meet you!"

"What" =⁠_⁠=

"Haha well, your father deemed you to be ready to join the pantheon as a new god officially!"

🎉

[juunobox]

── it means everything. (pinocchio x gn! reader)

summary: reader is a writer, feeling sad about the state of krat and their hobby. mulling in their own thoughts, P returns and comforts reader. p is sweet and supportive<3 fluffy moments warnings: very subtly implied passive suicide ideation, mc feeling hopeless and crying a little note: first time writing p x reader. sorry if it isnt the best i genuinely just needed to feed myself bcs there is an urgent lack of p x reader out there. i tried to make this cute-

You stretch your upper torso in your seat, staring at the pile of papers in front of you. You've just finished writing the second chapter of your book, as well as rewriting the prologue—an effort that consumed your entire day. You glanced at the nearby clock, checking the time. You thought about your puppet partner Pinocchio, it's about time he'd return from a day of stalking. It's getting late at night, the usual time he would come back.

In the meantime- you reach for your cup of tea, sipping it carefully before setting it down on the desk as your gaze drifts to the pile of freshly written papers. Sometimes you wonder why you continue writing your book. Krat is falling apart, after all. It's not the city it once was, the city you had known. What's the meaning?

You were lucky to be saved by Geppetto's puppet amidst the chaos and fortunate not to have contracted the petrification disease. Your near-total lack of self-defense skills makes your survival among the frenzied puppets seem like a miracle. You were hiding beneath a carriage in Elysion Boulevard when P found you and brought you to the refuge known as Hotel Krat, the only safe place left in the decaying city.

As you read through your own writing, paragraph by paragraph, you realize something isn't quite right— the prologue chapter. You think the writing isn't as good as how it was written the first time. You remember losing it while running for your life through Krat, barely managing to stay alive. Maybe that was the cost of being saved by P.

You set the papers aside, feeling an invisible weight settle in your chest. Why do you still write? Why are you still here? You've lost everything—friends, family— all to the petrification disease or the frenzied puppets. Maybe surviving is a curse, to grapple with the guilt of being the only one left.

If Pinocchio hadn’t found you that day, maybe it'd be better off that way. You don't know how much longer you can live like this...

Knock knock.

The soft noise snaps you out of your musing. You quickly run to the door, only to realize tears have been rolling down your cheeks. You hadn't noticed them amidst your thoughts and what-ifs. Quickly wiping them away, you compose yourself. You wouldn't want your puppet partner to see you like this. Despite being a puppet, you treat him as a real boy, even though he's still learning about human emotions. He ventures out daily on errands— navigating the dangerous streets of Krat. While he may not comprehend exhaustion nor fully grasp human feelings just yet, you empathize with his efforts. Despite these differences, you find comfort, sincerity and a sense of belonging in his presence.

You swing the door open, meeting Pinocchio's blue eyes with a forced smile. You try to remain casual, despite the turmoil inside you. "P! You've returned. How was today for you?" you ask, not expecting any verbal response. Pinocchio is a puppet of few words, usually replying with a nod, a shake of his head, or one and two words. Today is no exception, either. He nods with a slight smile, a way of telling you that it was fine. His head soon slightly tilts while pointing his index finger at you, that you interpret as- "What about you?"

"My day was okay. I spent it writing some of my book again," you say. To your surprise, P remains still instead of giving you another nod or smile- now looking at you with what appears to be a small frown.

You rose a brow, "What is it, P?" you ask, not quite understanding his intent. His eyes widen momentarily before he fidgets, struggling to express himself. He points at your eyes, pleading for you to understand. You glance at him, puzzled.

"…My eyes?" you murmur.

P nods almost hesitantly.

"Tired?" he finally speaks, his voice gentle.

"Your eyes… tired?"

You blink slowly, not expecting such a question. Your mind races, searching for a response. The way P's blue eyes implore you only increases your nervousness. "Oh! Yes, must be because I haven't been able to sleep much lately… but don’t worry. I plan on sleeping earlier tonight, though, so don’t you worry!" You laugh lightly, trying to sound casual and lighthearted.

P doesn't appear convinced. He stays motionless, his eyes silently urging you to say more. For a moment, you wonder if he can see through your lie—he's a puppet capable of lying himself, after all.

Before you could say something more, P steps forward and enfolds you in his arms. He pulls you into his embrace. Despite his wooden and steel body, his embrace brings you immense comfort. The weight that has burdened you for weeks—no, months—seems to melt away, at least a little bit of it.

You linger in his embrace for a moment longer before P gently withdraws, yet his grip remains on your shoulders. His expression is filled with genuine concern as he gazes at you.

"You hugged me..? Why?" you ask, feeling a bit self-conscious under his intense scrutiny.

P fidgets, clearly searching for the right words to convey his thoughts. He gestures towards the pile of papers on your desk and then back at you, his eyes brimming with curiosity and hopefulness. "Your writing... important," he says slowly, as if trying out the words to see how they fit.

You blink in surprise. "You think my writing is important?"

He nods. "Yes. It… gives meaning."

A lump forms in your throat as you realize he's trying to tell you that your work, your words, still hold value, even in a crumbling city like Krat. How can he tell? Is your distress so obvious that those around you can easily notice? You feel a little embarrassed at this realization, but P's simple affirmation fills you with a warmth you haven't felt in a long time. Your cheeks warm slightly at his words, and you nod, offering him a gentle smile.

"Thank you, P. That means a lot to me," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.

P smiles, a rare and genuine expression that lights up his usually stoic face. You know he still struggles to emote, so his smile looks a little awkward, but the effort warms your heart. He gestures towards the pile of papers again and then back at himself, silently asking if he could hear your story.

"You want me… to read it to you?" you ask, a bit taken aback.

He nods again, his eyes bright with anticipation.

"Alright," you say, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Let's sit over there."

You both move to the small couch in your room. You pick up the papers and sit down, P settling in beside you. The close proximity is comforting, and you feel a sense of calmness wash over you in his presence. As you start reading, P listens intently, his eyes constantly switching from your face to the writing in your hand.

You read aloud, the prologue and chapter one unfolding in the quiet room. P's attention never wavers, and his expressions shift subtly with the spoken narrative. It's endearing to see how engrossed he seems to be at your little story, even though it doesn't feel that much interesting to you. Paragraph by paragraph, the story eventually reaches a tender moment between your characters- a kiss shared under the moonlight. P's eyes lit up with a spark of curiosity flickering in them as you read aloud the scene for him. As you’re about to turn the page, he places a hand on the paper, stopping you.

“Is something the matter, P?” you ask, trying to understand his concern. His index finger points at the word 'kiss' on the paper, looking at you with a curious expression.

"You're asking what a kiss is?" you clarify, trying to make sense of his question. P nods, confirming it.

You pause, taken aback by his curiosity. "A kiss is… well, it's a way to show affection. It's something humans do to express their love and care for each other," you explain, feeling a bit flustered. “And there are various kinds of kisses—romantic and platonic, depending on the context. The kiss shared between my characters here is more like a romantic kiss. It’s shared between lovers, while platonic ones are shared with friends and family…” You speak slowly, hoping he’d understand the explanation.

P nods slowly, processing your words. You can hear his gears ticking a little faster than usual, indicating he's processing all this new information. He seems satisfied with your explanation, treating it with the same seriousness he applies to everything he learns.

Taking his nod as encouragement, you continue reading to him, pausing and slowing down whenever you notice P needing further explanation of certain phrases or sentences. Sometimes, he gently stops you from turning the page if you miss a cue.

As time passes, fatigue catches up with you. Your eyelids grow heavy, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning against P's shoulder, your voice trailing off as sleepiness overtakes you. P notices immediately, glancing down to see you asleep. Gently, he sets the pile of papers aside, ensuring not to disturb you. Leaning back, he gazes down at you sleeping soundly against him while sensing an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. His gears and springs tick a little faster, a new sensation that he finds oddly pleasant.

P watches you sleep, observing how relaxed you look. His human hand gently caresses your cheek, moving a stray strand of hair away from your face. The puppet leans closer, hesitating as his gaze drifts to your forehead. The memory of your explanation about kisses comes to mind. After a brief pause, he cups your cheek in his hand and finally presses a little kiss to your forehead.

As he pulls away, he could feel his mechanical heart's beat slowing down. He hadn't realized they had been ticking a little faster up until then. The now familiar warmth settles in his chest again as he takes in the sight of you sleeping peacefully against him, not fully understanding the gesture yet but liking the feeling of giving you a tender kiss like so.

The chestnut-haired puppet then wraps his arms around you in a protective embrace, holding you close to him as you sleep. In this quiet moment, he feels like he had gained a deeper understanding of human emotions and the connections that bind people together.

Though Krat may be falling apart, in this small, intimate space, there is still peace and comfort.

For now, that's enough—for both you and P.

[sasheemo]

When We Collide

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Returning to the forest the morning after Agatha’s outburst, you attempt to restore order. Tensions flare as past assumptions are shattered, and Agatha reluctantly begins to open up under the weight of vulnerability and unresolved questions.

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

As you enter the familiar woods, the cool morning air greets you, filling your lungs with the earthy scent of damp leaves and moss. Each step crunches against the carpet of foliage, a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded here just the day before.

But something feels different today, heavier. The remnants of Agatha’s magic hang in the air like an invisible veil, tinged with her raw emotion.

You shake your head, trying to silence the conflicting thoughts. "You’re not here to check on Agatha” you tell yourself, but deep down, you know that isn’t entirely true. You reason your apprehension is directed just at the sake of the forest, trying to remind yourself that the fragile ecosystem deserved better than the mess Agatha left behind. You’d been using this place as an escape and you refused to let it be tarnished by the fallout of someone else’s turmoil.

Finally, you reached the clearing, your stomach twisting into knots at the sight before you. There, piled high, was the wreckage of broken branches and uprooted plants that Agatha had carelessly discarded. Your disappointment morphed into anger as you approached the pile, an unimpressed scoff escaping your lips.

This is her idea of fixing it?

With a flick of your wrist, you summon your magic, the air around you buzzing with energy. You focus on the pile, envisioning it engulfed in flames. “Back to the earth” you mutter softly as you channel your frustration and, as the flames flickered to life, you feel a sense of satisfaction washing over you. You are watching the flames dance in a controlled fire, when a rustling sound echoes through the trees behind you, followed by a voice that cuts through the air like a knife and makes you turn immediately. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You hold her gaze and despite her coldness, or maybe because of it, there’s a part of you that refuses to back down. “I didn’t think you’d come back to fix it, Agatha” you reply, watching her closely. “Thought I’d finish what you started”

She narrows her eyes, clearly not amused. “I didn’t ask for your help and I don’t want you here” she mutters, arms crossing defensively as if shielding herself from an unseen threat.

You cross your arms in return, mirroring her stance. “And yet, here I am.”

The silence stretches, tense and unyielding, you can feel her indifference trying to chase you away but you don’t move. You wait, watching the way her fingers twitch, the way her jaw tightens. This isn’t the same Agatha you’ve seen before in passing glances—poised, composed, a picture of confidence.

She stands there, the hood of her deep purple cloak partially covering her features and you can’t help but search her face, remembering fleeting memories of times you’ve crossed paths. She was always at the edge of your life, a presence looming just out of reach. You can clearly see her, walking through the coven’s halls with that same proud gait, her head high as if carrying secrets you could only guess at. In all those moments, she’d barely looked your way, barely spared a glance, addressing you only when necessary or required. And yet, you realize, you always knew where she was. Her figure was a fixture in your periphery, a silent reminder of the path you’d been expected to walk.

But in the last 24 hours, seeing her like this, almost brittle, that image started to shatter. You feel a strange sense of satisfaction in piercing her armor, but there’s something else too. A nagging feeling that makes you want to reach out, to make her drop the pretense. But why should you care?

She’s watching you with a mix of suspicion and something you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if she’s hiding as much as you are. Her shoulders seem tense, and though she tries to stand tall, there’s a slight slump that betrays her exhaustion. You wonder if she spent last night lying awake, haunted by whatever had brought her here to begin with.

“So, you’re here to gloat? To judge me for—“ she suddenly accuses, her jaw tightens as she looks down, studying the ground as if it could give her an answer.

“No.” you cut her off, surprised at your own intensity. “I’m not here to gloat.”

She meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the hard lines around her eyes soften. There’s a question in her stare, one she doesn’t seem willing to ask aloud. You find yourself wanting to answer it anyway, but the words elude you. What are you supposed to say? That her tears made her seem…human? That seeing her break apart the way you sometimes feel on the inside made you feel less alone?

“I didn’t tell anyone” you say, unsure why you’re bothering to reassure her. 

Her shoulders relax a fraction, though her eyes remain guarded. “Why not? I thought you’d use anything you could against me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Believe it or not, Agatha, I don’t have time to waste on plotting your downfall. I have my own life, my own things to deal with.”

She watches you, skepticism etched into her features, but you can sense her defenses faltering, the slightest crack in her armor. You can’t help but push a little further, hoping to get to the truth, though you can’t explain why it matters so much.

“What happened yesterday?” you ask quietly. “What was so terrible that it…made you do all this?” you gesture around, your hands pointing outwards to the remains of her outburst.

Agatha’s face hardens again, but this time, the mask seems thinner, almost translucent. “You wouldn’t understand” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

You feel a pang of frustration, mixed with something else—something softer. “Try me.”

She lets out a sigh, and for the first time, you notice how small she looks against the towering trees, her defiance shrinking in the morning light. “It’s…complicated.” she murmurs, almost to herself. Her voice holds a vulnerability that for some reason makes you want to reach out, to say something, anything, to make her see you’re not the enemy she’s built you up to be.

You take a hesitant step closer, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on you. “We both know our mothers have their own agendas” you say slowly, testing the waters. “But that doesn’t mean we have to live by their rules. Maybe you don’t owe me an explanation, but…you don’t have to keep pretending, either.”

Agatha glances at you, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, then hesitates, her fingers brushing against the frayed hem of her cloak as if grounding herself. Your words settle between you, fragile and raw. You swallow, feeling your own walls begin to crack, pieces of yourself you’ve hidden away for so long resurfacing in the silence. You want to tell her you understand—that you, too, feel trapped beneath expectations that aren’t yours. But the words remain lodged in your throat.

Agatha seems to relax, if only slightly, her gaze lingering on yours as if searching for something she’s not sure she’ll find. You can feel the tension ebbing, neither of you says anything but there’s something that feels like an unspoken understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the burden you both carry. Finally, Agatha lets out a quiet breath. “I don’t need your pity” she murmurs, but her voice lacks its usual bite.

“I didn’t come here to pity you” you reply, and for once, the words feel entirely true. The moment hangs in the air, thick with tension, until you continue “I just assumed—”. Before you can finish your sentence, Agatha raises her hands, her magic swirling around her. With a flick of her wrist fire leaps from her fingertips, merging seamlessly with the flames you already conjured.

You turn back around just in time to see the pile bursts into a roaring inferno, both of your magics entwine feeding the flames with vibrant intensity, the fire still controlled yet wild. Entranced by the view, you can’t help but reflect on the striking contrast between the two versions of Agatha that now live in your mind. One is the girl you had seen yesterday—vulnerable, trembling, tears spilling as she mourned the chaos of her actions. And the other is the Agatha Harkenss you’re used to see around Salem, the version that everyone knows, radiating power and confidence with a fierce smirk on her lips. How can someone be so broken yet so … mesmerizing? It is unsettling, and you find yourself wrestling with the realization that maybe she is far more complex than you initially believed.

With the heat of the flames casting flickering shadows around you, you can feel your heart racing—not just from the exertion of magic but from the tumult of emotions swirling in your chest. You are angry, yes, but there is something else simmering beneath the surface: a growing curiosity about Agatha, about what makes her tick, about the real girl hiding behind the confident façade.

While you are lost in your thoughts, Agatha takes a few steps closer until she is standing beside you. The crackling fire roars around you, its brightness illuminating both your faces, creating an almost surreal atmosphere where everything else fades into the background. The ash dances in the air like tiny fireflies, swirling in the breeze, and for a moment, it feels as though the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

You both watch as the flames finally begin to settle, turning into a smoldering pile of embers. Agatha huffs, snapping you out of your thoughts and brushing her hands together with a satisfied face. “There. I fixed my mess.” she states, a hint of finality in her tone as she turns to leave.

Suddenly, as she starts to walk away, an inexplicable urge wells up inside you and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out “How are you?”. The question surprised you as much as it did her.

Agatha freezes in her tracks, her back still turned to you, leaving a heavy silence hanging in the air between you. The moment stretches on, filled only by the soft crackle of the dying fire. Your heart races, anticipation coiling tightly in your chest as you wait for her response, not sure it will ever come, making you instantly regret the vulnerability of your words.

After a long pause, Agatha slowly turns around, her expression unreadable. “What does it matter to you?” she asks, her voice sharper than any blade. The defiance in her eyes sparks like the last embers of the fire, but behind that fierce façade, you catch a flicker of something else—insecurity, perhaps? A hint of fear? You can’t tell.

You feel frustration boil inside you again, igniting a fierce determination to break through her barriers. The words slip out before you can stop them, the image of her vulnerable figure holding the injured animal instantly surging back in your mind. “Yesterday I- I saw your face. I saw you crying. You weren’t okay.”

Her eyes narrow, the defiance morphing into something darker. “It’s none of your business.” she snaps, but the edge of her voice wavers slightly, betraying the vulnerability she is trying to hide.

You are tired of her games, of her dismissiveness “It is my business when it spills over into the only place where I can find peace!” You step closer, the ambers casting a fierce glow on your face, mirroring the intensity of your emotions. “You made it my business!”

Agatha shifts uncomfortably, the bravado slipping for just a moment as she glances away. “I’m not here to justify myself to you” she mutters, but the words lack conviction. You can see the internal struggle playing out in her eyes, as if she is caught between the impulse to retreat and the urge to reveal the truth.

“Then what are you here for?” You press, your curiosity sharpening your resolve. “To burn your problems away and pretend yesterday never happened?”.

“Pretend?” she shoots back, her voice rising. “I’m not pretending! You think you know me, but you have no idea!”

“I don’t think I know you, I know I don’t, I just want to understand.” you insist, your voice less sharp but equally steady and firm.

Agatha falls silent, and for a moment, it feels like the air itself thickens. You can see her breathing deepen, her eyes darting away, searching for something to anchor herself. “Why would you even care?” she finally asks, tentatively, as if your interest is a foreign concept.

“Because I don’t … I can’t, believe you’re just some spoiled girl throwing a tantrum” you reply, surprising even yourself with the fierceness of your conviction. “I saw you yesterday, Agatha. You were… real. Vulnerable. And it’s like you’re trying so hard to build a wall around yourself and pretend it didn’t happen”

Agatha’s jaw clenches, and she seems to shrink in on herself, the defenses she erected feeling more like a cage than a shield. “You don’t know what you’re talking about” she hisses, but you catch the tremor in her voice, the way it cracks just a little.

“Then tell me” you said softly, your anger dissipating like smoke. “What was it? What happened?”

The silence stretches out again and you can almost see the battle raging in her mind, the urge to spill everything battling with the instinct to protect herself. And then, as if she finally reached some unspoken conclusion, Agatha lets out a sharp breath and sinks to the ground, sitting cross-legged amidst the remnants of the smoldering fire.

“Fine” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You want to know? Let’s get this over with”

You follow suit, sitting across from her, the embers crackling softly between you. “I’m listening” you encourage, your heart racing with anticipation.

[pinenutpbj]

Several Sentences Sunday

Thank you @avonne-writes for tagging me 🥰

Here’s a snippet from my Algeria fic where Gale and John detour to a local market

If you’d like a bit context: part one, part two

John paused occasionally to examine fruits, bread, or dried meat, conversing with vendors in a mix of halting French and pantomime. Gale trailed behind, feeling both conspicuous in his uniform and invisible amid the bustling marketplace. The fabric of John's uniform had darkened between his shoulder blades and lower back, the dampness spreading whenever he bent forward or twisted to check their surroundings.

At one stall, an elderly man with a deeply lined face gestured them closer. He spoke rapidly to John, who listened with concentration before replying with what seemed like a question. The old man smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and disappeared into the back of his stall.

"What's happening?" Gale asked.

"He has something special," John replied. "Says it's from the Atlas Mountains. We can trade a chocolate bar and a compass for it."

The old man returned with a small clay pot sealed with wax. He cradled it carefully, removing the cap to reveal the contents, the citrus tang cutting through the air. John extracted something—a slice of lemon wrapped in honey—and handed it to Gale, the sticky sweetness lingering between their fingers. Their hands were filthy, but John had never been one for such concerns. He licked the residue from his index finger, then placed his thumb into his mouth. The knuckle, thick and callused, disappeared between his lips. Gale watched, a strangely satisfying prickliness rising to his collar, into his mouth, as if he could taste the wild honey on his own tongue.

Tagging @shipstorms and @constanthaunt if you wanna!

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Artist: https://www.instagram.com/twalxxart/ Twalxx

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. There has been an emergency and you have been called into the line of fire. You have been injured by the Black Mask, how will Jason react?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, mentions of gunshots and death

Word Count: 2.4k

Masterlist

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part 9: If I Have to Throw You Over My Shoulder I Will

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

Jason Todd

[Jason, please we need backup. We need you.] Dick had sent about ten minutes ago. 

Some dark part of me wanted to do nothing. The part of me that was tortured and beaten. The part of me that was angry no one cared enough to avenge me. But I loved Dick like he was my flesh and blood. And whether I admit it to myself or not… I love Bruce the same way.

Often I think about how my life led me down this way. Was it fate? Was it God? Was it just dumb fucking luck? 

There is one theory I keep circling back to. The Red String Theory. At birth, we have invisible red strings tying us to the people we are destined to meet. Was I tied to my parents? Bruce? Alfred? Dick? Tim? Barbara? Steph? Cass? Damian? Duke? Or even… him? 

That’s too many. If that’s true, my fate lines look more like a messy evidence board. Or maybe a fucked up marionette puppet. Like I was made to be influenced by those tied to me. Pushed and pulled. Just a vessel of violence. 

But the Red String Theory couldn’t be true. At least not for me. I’m so covered in red. You can’t pull a red thread out of a sea of blood.

My morbid thoughts halted when I saw Pizza Joe’s. I parked off to the side. In an alley, no one could see. I approached the gunshots, listening for Dick. Boy Wonder was nowhere to be seen, but I made mental notes of the men that were perched on the buildings. 

I made my way discreetly around the building, toward the back. My heart stopped dead in my chest.

Y/n was pinned against the wall. With a gun in her mouth. Fighting with everything in her against the Black Mask.

Something in me snapped. Without hesitation I shot twice at his arm, severing the flexor digitorum profundus and rendering his index and middle finger useless. I shot through his stupid fucking masked head. I shot through his heart. I shot through the bastard's fucking dick. I shot. And I shot. And I shot. No one hurts her. Ever.

I barely noticed Bruce as I stepped over him. I could have checked his pulse, his status, anything. But all I cared about was getting to her. 

Anger and fear surged inside me, at the sight of seeing her covered in blood. I started to panic. My chest felt like one thousand pounds of pressure was crushing me. All I could do to calm myself down was to pull her into my arms and hug her tight enough that I felt her heartbeat against mine. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.

I had stayed away from her this past week. Trying to keep her safe from whatever bullshit I would bring her. But here she was finding the danger all on her own. Without me to make sure she was safe.

Seeing her face, feeling her against my body, lit something up inside me. Anger surged.

“Why the fuck are you here?” I growled.

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

Jason grabbed my chin, slowly moving it from side to side, inspecting my blood-spattered face. His mouth was moving but all I could hear was the damn ringing in my skull. Jason frowned and looked at both my ears. I felt a warmth run down the left side of my neck. 

Jason leaned into my right side, his cold helmet brushed against the shell of my ear making me shiver. “You’re hurt.” The words were simple. But they were laced with bitterness and anger that went beyond reason.

I looked up at his Red Hood, “Dick needs your help.” I couldn’t tell if I was screaming the words or saying them at a reasonable volume. I couldn’t gauge Jason’s reaction either which annoyed me. I wanted to rip that helmet off and see his face. 

“I’m looking at someone that needs my full attention right now. Grayson can handle himself,” he snarled the words at me. 

Gunshots sounded loud enough for me to hear. My brain started spiraling into the worst-case scenario. A Dick Grayson riddled with bullets involuntarily entered my mind. “Please help him. Please, Jason.” I grabbed his arm as I begged. His bicep tensed under my grip. 

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he ground out. “Get behind me.” Despite his harsh tone, he gently moved me behind him. His broad shoulders and generous height covered me completely. I kept a hand at the base of his hip. Ready to heal him if needed. 

There were four shooters surrounding Dick, and three on the buildings, all pointing their guns at him. Jason opened a pocket on his thigh and reloaded his right gun one-handed. He was so smooth with the movement it was like he was doing something simple like buttering toast. He was dexterous at a level I can only describe as masterful. 

Jason aimed at an impossible speed and precision. Seven shots rang out. Seven men fell. I don’t even think they realized Jason was enemy fire until they already had a bullet fly through them. It was seemingly impossible. 

Jason didn’t give me a chance to assess Dick or Bruce before throwing me over his shoulder and walking away.

“I need to help them! Jason! Jason, listen to me!” I yelled and slapped the back of his leather jacket. He ignored me or I didn’t hear his response. Knowing him, most likely the former.

Suddenly, he moved me off his shoulder and straddled me onto his motorcycle. My mind was acutely aware of his large hands pinning my waist down.

“Grayson is fine. He will take care of Bruce and your car. I’m taking you home. Now.” He was leaning toward my good ear again, his voice was dark and commanding. Lighting a certain part of me on fire. Who am I kidding, my whole being burned. 

“I am fine, Jason. Really. You got there in time. Just let me heal the boys and I’ll go with you!” I sneered at him.

“How about no,” Jason sneered back and straddled onto the motorcycle behind me. His firm body was flush against the entire back side of mine. My breathing became uneven when he reached his arms around me and revved his motorcycle before accelerating. I tried not to lean back into him. But he was so warm and I was so tired. Jason must have felt my tension. His hand found my hip, as he continued steering with the other. He pushed back, forcing my body to melt into his. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, making me shiver. 

Gotham was a blur of lights as Jason drove us back to the Batcave. In a record, 6 minutes. Which I tried not to take personally.

He rode us through the entrance, and as close as he could get to my workstation. He got off quickly as if trying to get away from me. But just as quickly scooped me up from my underarms and placed me on top of my examination table. I blushed at the firm way he moved me around. Like I was his to just grab and move as he pleased. He was an extremely strong man. He made it seem like it was no effort at all. 

He roughly took off the Red Hood. His hair was a wild mess. His eyes were dark with what appeared to be anger and concern. His breathing quickened as he looked me over.

“What blood is yours?” He curtly asked, messily digging into my neat supplies. I tried not to cringe as he did. With his mask off it was a lot easier to understand him because I could read his lips and vaguely hear him.

I looked down at my red-stained hands. I curled them up and down. The blood was sticky and cracked. Suddenly, an assault of memories flooded my mind.

The hospital wing after the mass shooting—healing a man being tortured over and over for information—my mom's bloody nose—my bloody legs dripping into my sneakers. Breathing became sharp and rushed. 

A hand gently caressed my face, “Hey, hey. It’s just me. It’s Jason,” his voice and touch was gentle. Easing my mind back to reality. When I was no longer trapped in my own mind I realized that Jason was once again cleaning up my hands. He washed the blood off of them until you never knew I had stabbed a man in the neck. 

His hands were warm and calloused and thorough. For a moment he just held my hands in his. His thumb traced small circles on the inside of my wrist causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. Slowly, he trailed upward to my forearm, and an angry sigh left his mouth. Wordlessly, he cleaned and tended my cut. Wordlessly, he wiped the blood and brain matter from my face and neck. Wordlessly, he took off my stained hoodie and disgusting scrubs. Until I was left in my white undershirt and tight black shorts. 

His eyes were hard and staring just above the curve of my breast. Right where my heart rapidly beat. Right where the Black Mask had made a small but deep cut. And then his eyes trailed upward. Toward my bruised neck, and burned cheek. 

“I should have killed him slower,” he growled out. I hadn’t realized how close Jason was to me. Somehow he had gotten between my legs and mere inches away from my face. My cheeks heated, as I took in the oddly delicate features of this harsh man. He had a very light sprinkling of freckles across his nose. His eyes were more of a stormy gray than blue. His eyelashes were so pretty and long I wanted to slap him. And his Cupid’s bow was sharp and defined which highlighted his full lips. I swallowed roughly. 

“Thank you, for—for helping me,” I whispered, afraid that if I spoke any louder I might scare him off. 

Jason scoffed angrily, “You shouldn’t have been in that position in the first place. I’m going to beat Bruce with an inch of his life—”

Gently, I gripped Jason’s hand, “I chose this. Don’t be mad at Bruce. If anything, be mad at me. I should have been more prepared. I should have brought a weapon.” 

Jason leaned his forehead in so it was just barely touching mine. I involuntarily held my breath. 

His hands reached for mine as he traced along my old burns. “We are bad for you.” He whispered. 

“You guys have given me a part of myself that I thought was lost forever. How could that ever be bad?” I lifted a hand hesitantly up toward his cheek. Jason leaned in like he was desperate for the contact. For comfort. For me. 

“I can’t get you out of my head. I want—” Jason’s soft words were interrupted by the screeching of my car followed by the Batmobile. Jason practically jumped five feet away from me. I frowned at the lack of contact.

Well, Bruce is well enough to drive, that’s good. Pretty fucking shit timing though, Batboy. 

I lowered myself from the table. I tried hiding my wince, but I saw Jason tense. He reached forward steadying me, before scolding, “Do not push yourself for them.” 

Dick came out of my car with a large dimpled smile and a huge ugly shinner. Bruce looked pale but better. I motioned for them to sit where I was just perched. Ready to finish healing them.

Bruce was simple. I just had to re-patch him up. Finish what I started. Dick was a bit more complicated. Homie had the snot beat out of him. One of the bright sides was that he wasn't shot. 

When I was done, both Dick and Bruce politely excused themselves to their rooms. 

I slowly cleaned up my workstation. Jason silently helped me. His mouth was a firm line. 

My hands shook with exhaustion when I was done. My eyes went in and out of focus. My head was pounding from the exertion and the physical trauma. I covered my bad ear, trying to will the ringing to stop. Jason noticed and gently pulled me to him. Before I knew it he had his arm under my knees and back, and he cradled me into the elevator.

I snorted at him, “I’m fine, Jason, really. Don’t go through the trouble of carrying me.”

“I think I want to rip that word out of your vocabulary,” he snapped. “Let me just carry you. Don’t make it a big deal.”

My heart sank, and I whispered, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“While I’m at it, I’ll take that one too,” he said, pressing the button number 4. Our floor number. “Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re fine. Don’t ever apologize for existing.” He huffed and paused, “Please.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. The elevator ride went by shockingly quickly. He walked past his room and into mine. He set me down on my bed gently. He pulled my blankets back and covered me. I got deja vu as he did it. I smiled under my covers. 

Jason pulled an armchair towards my bed. He angled it so he could see both the door and the windows. I looked at him, confused. 

He shrugged at me, “I didn’t like seeing a man have a gun in your mouth. I actually don’t think I saw it for more than two seconds before everything went red.”

“So, that explains why you’re watching me in my armchair because…”

Hashbrown barrelled toward Jason. She rubbed her body on his feet demanding attention. Jason swiftly picked her up and held her on his lap. She seemed to soothe him as he pet her. The tension in his body decreased, instead of ramrod straight he leaned back. Almost comfortable, but not quiet. 

“Because I need to make sure that you’re okay,” he said after a few minutes went by. 

“Why?” I asked, needing an answer. 

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt. Or in danger,” he answered. 

“Why?” I demanded, again. 

He roughly raked a hand through his messy hair, “I don’t know why. I just feel like… like you’re mine to protect. You put all your energy into healing other people. You deserve someone to care if you’re healthy and safe.” 

I think only two people in the world have ever cared about that. Sam and my mom. His words were like wildfire to my mind and body. 

Warmth bloomed in my chest, followed by boldness, “Do you have to protect me from all the way over there? Or can you protect me in my bed?”

Taglist: @soundsfunbutno @killxz @morpheus-girl @redhood414 @bungunz @conicoroahre @greenyofthegreens @taytaylala12 @theroyalmanatee @nym-0-s @sarahskywalker-amadala @bonesbonesetc @dreaming-of-the-reality @gone-batty-fics @thescarletcryptid @bakugosgf2005 @irregular-child @vythika96 @greenyofthegreens @mythicalmo @eccentricarabella-blog @princessbl0ss0m @ghostindeath @whirlwind2005 @the-lights-are-loud @00hellohello00 @tfygcdy @theblindhag @murkyponds @midnightecko @crookedmakerfury @cosmicqueenieb @deans-spinster-witch @princessbl0ss0m

If I missed anyone please let me know <3

Author's note: Thank you all so much for your kind words, comments, messages, and interactions!! They inspire me to keep writing. I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story, thank you again <3

Hashbrown Cam!

[fangirlfuel]

Chapter Two: The Weight We Carry

---

Previous index Next

---

The city gleamed like it was dipped in molten silver, every light reflecting off the Red Sea’s rippling surface as if it were trying to compete with the stars above. Jeddah was alive, electric, and louder than it had any right to be. But she moved through the chaos like a quiet flame unbothered by the noise, focused on her work, and once again, barely noticed.

Except by him.

Lewis had watched her from a distance ever since Bahrain. Watched how she listened more than she spoke. Watched how she waited until others finished complaining before offering advice. Watched her in the small moments, writing notes in a battered leather journal, laughing softly with a junior mechanic, helping a driver stretch while staying entirely in the background. It was strange. In a world where everyone fought for the spotlight, she seemed content in the shadows.

And yet, she was becoming impossible to ignore.

---

It was Friday. Track walk day. The paddock buzzed with media, engineers, chaos. And she was there, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning schedules, a soft expression on her face that hadn’t changed even when a senior engineer barked at her for a mistake that hadn’t been hers.

Lewis had seen it happen from across the garage. The man’s voice was sharp, frustrated, not cruel, but careless.

And she? She didn’t defend herself. Just nodded quietly, apologized, and went back to work.

It hit Lewis in a way he hadn’t expected. Not because he hadn’t seen that kind of thing before, but because she never seemed to let it change her. She absorbed frustration like it was rain on her skin, never letting it soak her to the bone.

After the meeting, he caught up to her by the pit wall. She was sitting on a low concrete block, scribbling something in her journal, chewing lightly on her lip like she was trying to solve a puzzle in her head.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said simply.

She looked up, startled. “Oh. It’s okay.”

“It’s not, though.”

Her smile was gentle. Tired. “He’s just under pressure. They all are.”

“You are too.”

She blinked at him. For the first time, he saw a flicker, something in her eyes that suggested maybe she wasn’t as untouched as she pretended to be. But she tucked it away quickly.

“I handle pressure a little differently,” she murmured. “Besides, you’d be surprised how invisible someone like me can be in this world.”

Lewis tilted his head. “I don’t think you’re invisible.”

She looked at him for a long moment, the noise of the paddock blurring into a distant hum. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“It’s not kindness,” he said quietly. “It’s just the truth.”

---

That night, the track was still lit ,mechanics working late, lights bouncing off sleek carbon bodies. She stayed behind, checking hydration charts, protein levels, adjusting supplements for several drivers. Not all her clients were with Mercedes. She floated between teams, contracted independently.

She found herself near the marina, leaning over the edge to let the wind hit her face. The clipboard hung loosely in one hand. She wasn’t crying. Not really. But the burn behind her eyes hadn’t left since earlier.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Lewis’s voice was softer now, quieter in the dark.

She turned, surprised. “You’re still here?”

He shrugged. “Could ask you the same.”

“Couldn’t sleep. My brain’s wired after these races.”

“I know the feeling.”

They stood side by side, both staring at the dark water below, lit faintly by the purple glow of track lights.

“Do you ever feel like…you give all of yourself, and people still only see a fraction?” she asked quietly, eyes not leaving the water.

Lewis didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “All the time.”

She glanced at him.

“You think people know me,” he continued. “They don’t. They know the champion. The activist. The driver. But not me.”

She hesitated. “And who is Lewis, then?”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“I’m still figuring that out,” he admitted. “But lately… I feel like I don’t have to figure it out alone.”

Her breath caught.

Something shifted between them, barely there, but undeniable. The weight of shared loneliness, the quiet understanding that neither of them quite belonged in the places they excelled.

He stepped closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

“You don’t talk much about yourself,” he said after a beat. “Why is that?”

She chuckled softly. “People aren’t usually interested.”

“I am.”

He said it so simply, so clearly, that it made her heart stutter.

She looked up at him,.and in the soft golden light, she saw it: not the driver, not the icon, not the world champion.

Just a man, searching.

And for the first time in months, maybe longer, she didn’t feel so invisible.

---

Rumors began the next morning.

It started with whispers. A Ferrari physio making a joke in the hospitality tent. A photographer raising an eyebrow at a shared glance. Someone said they saw Lewis fixing her radio strap. Someone else said she smiled more around him.

She ignored it all.

She was here to work.

But she also noticed the way he waited for her at lunch now. The way he always said goodbye with a quiet “get some rest” like he meant it. The way he stepped between her and a rude sponsor without hesitation during a chaotic media scrum.

And she noticed the way her stomach twisted slowly, unexpectedly, when he did.

---

On race day, everything was a blur. Saudi Arabia’s track was unforgiving. Tight, fast, dangerous. Lewis fought hard. She watched from the garage, fingers pressed against her lips, tension in her shoulders she couldn’t shake.

When he crossed the line, taking a gritty P3, there was relief. Cheers. Celebration.

She waited by the cooldown area, medical bag slung over one shoulder.

He saw her instantly.

Sweat clung to his neck. His breathing was heavy. But his eyes?

They were soft.

“Good race,” she said, handing him water.

“Good energy,” he replied, and smiled. “You brought it with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You did all the work.”

He drank, then paused. “Still. Helps knowing someone’s out there actually seeing you.”

Their eyes locked again.

It wasn’t a confession.

Not yet.

But it was a promise.

And maybe, just maybe he world had finally begun to notice what Lewis had seen from the start.

Not just her kindness.

Not just her strength.

But her.

----

To be continued...

.

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey (Ch7)

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: Following Homelander and Layla's disastrous morning after, she bumps into another hero at Vought Tower. Upon seeing the state of her, Starlight offers solace and the opportunity for Layla to put herself back together before she faces the world. Shortly thereafter, Homelander erupts on live television, changing public perception of him forever.

additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, panic attacks, references to sexual assault, excessive drinking. this is where all major canon deviations begin! 🖤

Halfway down the hall, Layla hears something crash and shatter in the penthouse behind her. She nearly loses her footing, but by some kind of miracle, she maintains her composure through the walk to the elevator.

She swallows back the taste of her own blood, wipes the tears from her cheeks, and viscerally feels the looks she garners from the handful of bewildered Vought employees she passes. The building isn’t nearly as empty as she would have hoped it would be on a Saturday. Such as it is when the heroes all live in-house.

She presses the button and waits, bitterly musing all the while how utterly ridiculous it is to have two elevators for a building with one hundred floors.

It’s been years since Layla has faced a walk of shame like this. She’s been so careful to curate her experiences–her entire life–in order to avoid this dreadful humiliation. She knows the picture she paints: a skewed and wrinkled dress, her jacket draped haphazardly on her shoulders, bruises scattered on her body, mascara tracks down her cheeks. It’s an ugly, empty feeling.

However, it’s easier to focus on that ugliness than it is to process everything that just happened. She isn’t ready to replay the events in her mind just yet, to backtrack the descent from a blissful morning-after to the bloody mess she stumbled out of.

She touches her tongue to the stinging slice on the inside of her mouth, closing her eyes.

You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot.

Looking up, she sees a mural above the elevator depicting the heroes of the Seven. Never in her life has she wished more for Transluscent’s power of invisibility. She stares at the painting of Homelander. It doesn’t really look like him, the jaw too wide and too square. His hair is too blonde, lacking his darker undercut. It’s like some kind of caricature of him.

Then again, she’s hardly the expert on the man. This morning taught her as much.

Unfortunately, she isn’t invisible. That much is clear when she physically feels someone stop near her, senses the tentativeness in the air as she hears them take a breath before addressing her.

“Uhm, I’m so sorry, excuse me,” comes a gentle, feminine voice. Layla screws her eyes shut, and forces herself to remember how to be a person. “I’m not trying to be rude, but you… Is there anything I can do for you?”

Opening her eyes, Layla prepares her best placating smile, but she comes short of it when she actually looks and sees who’s talking to her.

Starlight is beautiful. Flaxen locks tumble over her shoulders in loose curls, and she stares with such warm, big brown eyes–so overwhelmingly full of empathy and concern–that Layla is temporarily stunned. She’s thoroughly embarrassed to be seen in such a state by someone so lovely, so widely adored, so much younger, that she flushes.

“You’re so sweet, no, I’m okay,” she says, self-consciously adjusting her coat. She lowers her voice when she says, “It’s worse than it looks, I’m…” She hesitates, trailing off. Starlight has taken a small step closer since she started talking.

She looks wholly unconvinced, and if Layla were in her position, she knows she would feel the same. She pushes out a strained smile, and gives a small shrug, fighting desperately against another bout of tears the longer she’s stared at by those mournful, painfully understanding eyes. The connection is so immediate. It’s raw and human in a way Layla realizes she desperately needs.

“Listen, I’m not trying to overstep, it’s just that I’ve been where you are,” she says gently. Layla recalls the Deep, and Starlight’s very public campaign against him. It’s no wonder she’s responding so urgently. “And if you want, you can come to my apartment,” she offers, standing right next to her now, her voice hushed. “You can get cleaned up, get changed. I have lots of clothes. You’re totally safe, okay? I promise. I’ll be there the whole time.”

Layla wants to tell her that it’s a misunderstanding, but the words don’t come to her. She glances at the illuminated dot on the elevator. Still over forty floors down. The thought of withstanding the ride all the way back down, pretending not to notice the way people are staring at her, makes her nauseous. Fearing that if she opens her mouth, she’ll lose her poise completely, she only nods.

“Okay! Okay, come with me,” Starlight says, putting a hand on Layla’s elbow to help guide her. Starlight walks with impressive command, seeming tall despite her relatively diminutive stature. As they walk together, it isn’t Layla that catches their attention. It’s the shining star at her side. She’s grateful for the cover of her glow, feeling less and less like she wants to disappear into herself.

They don’t speak on the way to Starlight’s suite, but her hand does remain on Layla’s arm. She swaps sides with her when they pass a group of employees, offering them a friendly greeting, throwing in a wave. She makes for a radiant distraction, every move purposeful.

It’s the kindest thing Layla can ever remember a near perfect stranger doing for her.

They reach a distinguished door that perfectly suits Starlight’s ensemble, embellished with white paint and accents of gold. She inputs a passcode that she doesn’t seem concerned with obscuring from Layla–0163–and the door automatically swings open. She leads the way inside, and the door closes behind them.

Only then does Starlight leave her side, walking ahead of her. “Let’s grab you some things really quick, you can just pick whatever, I’ve got a ton of promotional stuff if you don’t mind looking like a walking advertisement for Vought, but really, take whatever you want,” she says, gesturing for her to follow.

Starlight’s apartment is stark and modernistic, full of sharp angles and sleek lines. The archway to her living room is made of thick speckled marble, and beyond that, an accent wall of pure gold. It’s intensely opulent, and while it may suit her hero colorscheme, it’s considerably colder than Starlight herself seems to be. It’s not unlike Homelander’s penthouse in that regard: it speaks only of the image Vought wishes to present.

Following along, Layla says, “Thank you, Starlight. I’m Layla, by the way.” That causes Starlight to stop dead in her tracks, turning around. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, right, hi. You don’t have to–you can just call me Annie,” she insists, laughing at herself. “Wow, I am so tunnel visioned sometimes.”

“Annie,” Layla repeats with a smile. The name suits her far more than this apartment does. “Thank you.”

Annie returns a warm smile before resuming the task at hand. Her room is just as luxurious and sleek as the rest of her apartment, but unlike the other rooms, it’s clear she’s made this space more her own. There’s a pinboard hanging above her dresser with over a dozen photos pinned to it. Below that, a framed photo of Annie in her younger years, donning her classic Starlight attire, standing next to a woman Layla assumes might be her mother.

Etched into the frame is:  “He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.” Psalms‬ ‭147:4

“Okay, so, for real, help yourself to anything,” Annie says, gesturing broadly to the closet. “It’s kind of funny that I even have all of this when they only ever want me in the Starlight get-up.”

Upon closer inspection, sure enough, Annie’s closet is largely of a variety of high-end brands, specifically in crossover with Vought’s brand. Ever prone to opulence herself, Layla can’t help but touch the sleeve of a cardigan that catches her eye. It’s white with a faintly shimmering metallic trim, and slightly bulbous gold buttons. It looks designed very specifically for Starlight, and by a renown French designer no less.

“Go for it,” Annie encourages.

“This is a Balmain,” Layla says, looking at her in earnest astonishment. “This is easily worth thousands of dollars.”

Annie turns a slight shade of pink, looking just as surprised. “Oh, uh… Well, it was–it was a gift, you know. Promotional stuff. A crossover thing, I think, I just… It’s not really me. It’s nice, though! And if you like it, you should take it. I don’t think I’ve ever paid more than fifty dollars for a sweater. I’d just get it dirty,” she says, the words tumbling from her lips like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs. “You seem like you’d make better use of it than me.”

“Have you worn it before?” Layla asks, easing the garment from the velvet hanger that it rests on. Annie shakes her head. “Have you even tried it on?” Another shake of her blonde tresses. Exhaling an amused little breath, she puts the cardigan into her hands. “You should. It was made for you.”

“It was made for Starlight,” she corrects, but there isn’t any trace of disdain in her voice. Instead, Layla recognizes a sense of melancholy in the way Annie stares at the garment.

Starlight–Annie–provides a stark and mystifying contrast to Homelander. There is an aura of disconnect between who she is, who she wants to be, and who the world has made of her. Layla had expected her to be something of a princess: sweet, but aware of her royalty. Not embarrassed by it.

Homelander desperately wants to be the king of his kingdom, but the crown has fallen around his throat, and he chokes violently against it.

“I’m sorry, that sounds ungrateful now that I’ve said it. I just mean that it was made for me to wear, but it wasn’t made for me. It’s–I don’t know, it’s strange being me, but… Not me,” she says, holding the cardigan between her hands, absently moving her thumbs along the smooth, exquisitely soft fabric.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Layla assures her, turning back to the closet. There are more Balmain pieces, as well as a handful of Cucinelli, and even a Burberry gown. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars hanging in this closet. 

“You have a strong sense of yourself. That’s good. This world will eat you alive if you don’t,” she says, combing her fingers through the rows of clothing. Her hand stops on a simple white blouse–still costly, she knows from the feel of it that it’s made of viscose–and plucks it from the rack. She finds a long patterned skirt to match it. “For what it’s worth, I was happy to see this look of yours come back,” she says, gesturing to Starlight’s current ensemble, her signature cape and dress returned to her. The body suit with a plunging neckline and thigh high heels had looked ripped straight out of a playboy magazine, not a superhero lineup. “It suits you,” she continues, finally looking back at Annie, who’s smiling up at her with those big warm, shimmering brown eyes of hers. 

Annie nods, idly hugging the cardigan to her middle. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

Layla smiles, folding the clothes she’s selected over her forearm. “That said… it’s okay to enjoy your spoils a little bit,” she says, nodding her head towards the closet. “You’re not any lesser for indulgence. I know, I know–strong women don’t care about pretty clothes, the ones who do are vapid airheads, hell on earth because Eve ate the apple, yada yada. But I’ll tell you a little secret,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. She whispers, “Sometimes an apple is just an apple, and apples… are delicious.”

They both laugh, the undercurrent of unease that had been lingering since the moment they met finally abating.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're, like, dangerously easy to talk to?” Annie asks, hanging the cardigan back up in the closet. Layla notes that this time, she moves it amidst the clothes she regularly wears.

“Yes, people love to tell me things,” she muses, following when Annie beckons her towards yet another room. She’s made an entire career off of making people feel comfortable enough with her to divulge some of the darkest, most secret aspects of themselves. A little girl talk is a welcome reprieve.

 The bathroom is as lavish and impersonal as the rest of her apartment, feeling more like a hotel than a personal residence. There are tiny wrapped soaps and Vought branded bottles on every shelf. There are neatly folded stacks of pristine white towels, all of which are embroidered with a golden S. The level of detail to the place is almost unnerving, especially given how very unlike Annie it all is.

Much like with Homelander’s penthouse, it’s like walking through a meticulously crafted custom enclosure, not a home.

“Again, help yourself to whatever, I’ll be in the living room if you need anything,” Annie says from the doorway, offering a little wave.

Layla thanks her, and once the door shuts, she lets out a long, deep breath, her eyes falling shut. Her whole body feels heavy and aching, more exhausted than she can put into words. All she wants to do is lie down and never stand back up, but beneath her dress her skin feels tacky, and her muscles are yearning for the soothing caress of hot water.

She scrounges up the will power to undress and climb into the shower, taking her time to wash away the events of the last 12 hours from her body. The same can’t be said of her mind. Her fingers linger over bruises that have only grown darker, pressing lightly against her tender flesh. Homelander may as well have written his name, these marks ensuring she won’t forget their night any time soon.

It was so very nearly perfect.

She plays it over in her mind again and again, her body on autopilot through washing her hair. His son, the mother of his son, his relationship to them, his relationship to Layla herself, to his own name, it was all… “Complicated” was what he’d called things with his child. That seems to perfectly sum up just about everything in his life. She had tried to spare them the mess of an argument, falling back on familiar coping mechanisms–disconnecting and evacuating to find perspective–but the situation had escalated so rapidly from that point, she can barely track it even in hindsight. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he had begged, looking smaller than she'd ever seen him. ”It’s my birthday.”

She doesn’t know how true that is. She’s always assumed the yearly birthday bash Vought celebrates on July 4th was a corporate thing in line with his personification of America, not his actual birthdate. She doesn’t know if this is a further entanglement of John and Homelander, or if there’s something deeper–something more sinister–at play.

Perhaps Starlight can shed some illumination on the matter.

Finishing the shower leaves Layla refreshed, albeit still weary. She draws her hair into a sleek updo and applies her favorite red lipstick as both comfort and armor. She won’t let any more of the world see her in shambles.

Stepping out into the living room, she finds Annie waiting patiently at the circular dining table, pouring over what looks like a script, though she closes the binder when she sees Layla approaching. “Hey!” Annie greets brightly, looking equal parts relieved and delighted. “Hey, wow. You look amazing,” she says, standing.

“I have you to thank for that,” Layla shoots back, reaching to take her hand, which Annie readily offers. “Thank you, Annie. Really. This meant more to me than you’ll ever know,” she says, squeezing her hand between both of hers.

Annie flusters, making a handful of noncommittal, dismissive noises. “No, no, it was the least I could do–and I mean that, okay? Like, the least. I could do more. I’m technically co-captain of the Seven now, and if you… You know, you wanted to–” Layla squeezes her hand again, smiling. “I understand. Thank you, Annie.”

She smiles back, but it doesn’t entirely reach her eyes. Layla can tell that she desperately wants to do more. She’s a hero, after all: she’s looking for a villain to defeat. Unfortunately, there isn’t one in this story. There is no clear cut antagonist for Starlight to conquer.

There are just two people whose jagged edges failed to line up, cutting them both in the process.

“Okay. Okay!” She says, but it’s clear that she’s having trouble dropping it by the way she keeps hold of Layla’s hand. “Okay, but if you change your mind, you can call me. I’m kind of a big deal,” she says playfully, leaning in as if it were a secret. “And I can pretty much guarantee you I can kick their ass. It’s not like it’s Homelander.”

Layla’s expression falters, her smile falling from her lips. Annie recognizes it before she can recover, and the dawning look of horror that comes across her face is one that Layla will never forget.

“Oh my god,” Annie whispers. “It was Homelander? Homelander?”

God damn it.

“Please don’t say it like that,” Layla pleads, expression imploring. “It’s not what you think, it was consensual, it just… It ended poorly, and we fought,” she continues to explain, but Annie only looks more and more bewildered as she goes on. “Please don’t tell anyone. My–our relationship is complicated, and it’s better that no one else knows.”

“Relationship,” she echoes incredulously. “Your… relationship with Homelander,” she says, clearly processing the words as she says them. “Holy shit.”

“Yes, and you’re very sweet to want to help me, and you have, but there’s no villain for you to unmask here,” she says, pulling her hands away.

Annie barks a sharp laugh at that, but catches herself quickly. “Sorry, sorry, that, uhm… Okay. I’m sorry, I just… I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Please,” Layla says again, leveling her with an even stare. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. It’s not something I can afford to be embroiled in,” she says, hoping that Annie’s desire to protect her will extend into this plea for secrecy. 

Reluctantly, Annie nods. “I get it, I swear, but are you sure you’re safe? I don’t think you understand who he really is,” she says, her shock and incredulousness fading into a very urgent concern that makes something in Layla’s stomach twist up. “He’s not safe, Layla. Like, I mean really, really not safe. He’s freaking unhinged,” she whispers, as if he could be listening right this moment.

It occurs to Layla that he actually could be.

That twist in her gut sharpens, and her brows furrow. Instead of concern, however, she recognizes it as a sharp jut of defensiveness. Her lips part, but she takes a pause. “Is today his birthday?”

Annie’s expression smooths out in a wave of surprise. “What?”

“His birthday,” Layla repeats a touch impatiently. “Is today really his birthday?”

“Oh, uhm,” she frowns, clearly caught off guard by the abrupt switch in gears. “I don’t know. He certainly seems to think so.”

Huh. Does he truly not have anyone?

“I should go,” Layla says, reaching for her jacket where it hangs off of the back of one of the dining chairs.

“Wait, I’m sorry! I’m reacting badly, I know that, I’m just–I’m worried,” she says, an edge of panic audible in her tone.

“I know, I know, it’s okay. I’m not offended. I just have a lot to think about,” she says in turn, offering a slightly strained smile. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I really do, but I need time.”

She finds herself needing a lot of that lately.

Annie looks wounded and young at this, making her difficult to walk away from. After a beat, Layla moves closer and takes her into her arms, closing her eyes as she squeezes her tightly. “You’ve been a friend to me today, Annie. Thank you.”

The embrace is returned by strong arms that remind Layla this is no simple young woman. She has a similar gravity to her grip as Homelander, but her hold lacks his tangible desperation for touch. When they part, Annie doesn’t leave claw marks.

“I can still be your friend,” she says softly, pressing something into Layla’s hand. Opening her palm, Layla finds a folded posted, and unfurling that, a phone number. “The offer stands. If he… if… Just call me, okay?”

“Okay,” Layla relents, doubting she’ll get out of here if she doesn’t. She slips the paper securely into her purse. “I will. I promise.”

There’s a touch of relief in Annie’s expression at last. She manages a weak smile. “Thank you. Will you text me so I know you got home safe?” She asks, sounding every bit like a fretful mother hen.

“Sure, yes, of course,” she assures, mirroring Annie’s smile. The tension in the air is undeniable, an anxious thing that lives and breathes between them, but there is no fix for it. Layla does what she does best, and turns to flee from it, unprepared to face Annie’s ominous warning head on. The split behind her bottom lip stings when she touches her tongue to it.

All the while, Annie watches her go, her perfect brows pulled into a tight pinch. She has the ache in her gaze of someone who desperately wants to do more, but has been left at a loss for how to do it. Layla almost feels guilty for the distress in her eyes, but currently finds herself lacking the emotional bandwidth for it. She’s stretched so thin, she barely finds the strength to pull the door open.

That little piece of paper in her purse feels heavy, but not as heavy as Annie’s desperate words tumbling around in her head like bowling balls.

“He’s not safe… really, really not safe.”

Layla orders herself an Uber, and this time around garners significantly less attention walking the halls of Vought tower, glancing warily over her shoulder. She can’t shake the anxious–or in some small and twisted way, hopeful–feeling that she might see him looking back at her.

However, he remains a phantom possibility in her periphery. She slides into the car that pulls in to pick her up, and somehow manages to keep herself together on the drive back to her apartment.

It’s already 10am by the time she makes it inside, slipping out of her shoes and her jacket, dropping her purse on the floor, leaving them like a trail of breadcrumbs from her front door to her kitchen. Her head is throbbing, so she grabs a Tylenol from the shelf above her microwave and pours herself a modest glass of a rich dark merlot to wash it down. If she had any sense left in her she would serve herself a mimosa to at least pretend to herself she’s drinking responsibly this early in the morning, but the heavy tang of the red on her tongue makes her temples tingle and soothes the fray of her nerves.

Exhaling a rough breath, she pulls a container of semi-questionable leftovers from her fridge and sits down with it at her computer. Her empty stomach leaves her buzzed from the single glass, but she’s determined to put her mind anywhere else. She eats cold pasta with a spoon, and opens several emails with the intention of answering them, though after about an hour all she has is several half-hearted drafts and a perpetually churning stomach.

Certain that she won’t manage anything more productive, she pours herself another glass of wine and plants herself on the couch in front of her TV. Turning it on, she winces at the immediate flash of Homelander’s face, staring proud and determinedly down at her in an advert for his newest film. Quickly, she flips to another channel, letting out a long suffering breath before taking another swig of wine. She puts on something she’s seen before, something easy, and sinks back into the couch, pulling her blanket off of the back of the sofa and into her lap.

She doesn’t watch so much as she dissociates to the sound of her television, nursing the too-full glass she’d poured, taking the occasional sip as her mind circles the drain of the events of the morning over and over and over.

Homelander crashed into her life like a meteor. In such a short burst of time, he blew a hole in her life the size of a continent, and as she sits by herself day drinking to old episodes for comfort, she realizes how achingly empty the thought of his permanent absence leaves her.

By the time she finishes her glass of wine, she’s slumped almost completely horizontally. She sets the glass on the floor and completes the descent, curling up under her blanket. She passes out in the clothes Annie gave her and falls into a deep, troubled sleep.

Hours later, Layla wakes in a fugue state. Her apartment is silent, the television paused on a prompt that wonders if she’s still watching. The way that almost feels like the warmth of concern for her wellbeing is slightly alarming. With a groan, she pushes herself upright and digs both thumbs into her temples, looking around. 5:42pm.

“Fuck,” she sighs, swinging her legs off the couch. She knocks the wine glass she’d left there flying, and gives another emphatic fuck as she gets up to fetch it. She walks it to the sink, but upon seeing the mostly empty bottle of merlot still open on the counter, she decides she may as well finish it off, and pours the rest into her already wine-stained glass. She carries it to her fridge, where she digs around until she manages to assemble a plate of shredded mozzarella, a pepperoni sausage and a jar of pickled mussels.

She brings her assortment back to the couch and settles right back down in front of the television, taking a  sip of her wine before she finds something slightly more stimulating to watch while she piles cheese on the end of the pepperoni with each bite.

The process of eating feels entirely mechanical. She’s only half paying attention to anything, but when she hears her phone alarm suddenly going off, she startles. Untangling herself from the blanket, she goes to where she dropped her purse near the front door, and fishes her phone out of it. Her stomach drops. BIRTHDAY BASH her screen reads. She’d promised him that she’d be watching from home. She forgot that she’d set an alarm.

Layla chews her tongue indecisively on the walk back to the couch, settling down with an uneasy sigh. It’s starting now. She taps her nails incessantly on the back of her phone, stomach twisting. The wine glass is empty and there’s a slight spin to her vision. Sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth, she picks up her remote and flips the channel. She’s met with the middle of a performance, a hero she doesn’t recognize singing some kind of boy band pop ballad.

Her stomach flips wildly. There are golden statues of Homelander on either side of the stage, and she finds she can focus on little else. It’s not hard to understand why he thinks himself a god when he is surrounded by golden effigies of himself and feverish, screaming worshippers. The world has created an impossible standard for all that he is. She absently touches her bruised lip, pressing on it until it stings.

The performance ends, and she recognizes the next hero–A-Train–who emerges on stage. He lends credit to Supersonic for his performance, answering her earlier quandary. She’s taken heroes for granted most of her life, considering herself removed from their fame and services. A part of her had even resented them for a long time. If the world was so full of heroism, why hadn’t any of them saved her parents?

Christ, the wine was really getting to her.

She snaps back to attention when A-Train announces the man of the hour, a severe looking portrait of Homelander flashing on the screen behind him. Her mouth feels dry, and she suddenly wishes she had another tall glass of wine in her hand, but she finds she can’t unglue herself from her seat. She sucks in a shallow breath, paying careful attention to his body language as he steps out onto stage.

Despite the celebration centering on Homelander, the camera favors Starlight as the two make their entrances. It’s surreal to remember that just this morning, she had shared space with each of them respectively. That she was wearing bruises from his hands and clothes from her closet. That feels like another lifetime entirely.

Homelander hasn’t stopped nodding since he stepped on stage. His smiles are tense and fleeting, flickering on and off like a sputtering flame fighting the winds around him. Starlight speaks, conducting herself well, but the look on her face when she’d realized who Layla had been with haunts her, coloring her perspective now. Annie looks like an entirely different person on that stage, voice tight and guarded. She’s not sure how much of that is an echo of He’s not safe. Really, really not safe, though.

Regardless, the announcement is going well right up until–

“Hey, Homelander! Your nazi died!”

Layla’s jaw drops. Anxiety hits like a chunk of ice falling into her gut. The camera remains painfully still, focused on Homelander’s frozen expression. His smile is too wide, full of teeth, and his eyes hollow. The silence left in the wake of that man is chilling.

Starlight intervenes, breaking the tension with an attempt at mediation. “Homelander, he’s just–he’s a human!”

“No,” Layla blurts aloud, standing from the couch. She pushes her hands into her hair. “Oh, Annie, no, no, stop.”

“He’s just like the rest of us. And we all make mistakes, right?”

It’s all wrong. She can see it in Homelander’s face, in the rapid way he’s blinking, in every twitch and spasm of his jaw. He looks like he’s about to explode.

To her mortification, he does.

“I’m not ‘just like the rest of you.’ I’m stronger, I’m smarter… I’m better. I am better!”

There’s so much fury and righteous vindication in him, but so too is there pain. His eyes are glassy, and she feels as if she can hear the wardrum pound of his heart even from here, see the vein throbbing in his neck. He looks like a caged animal lashing at the bars, roaring, demanding that the spectators see him for what he really is. See how tired he is of pacing for them, pretending he isn’t a wild creature that could rip them apart if he simply chose to.

Layla’s sick to her stomach. It feels like watching him rip himself apart in real time.

“You people should be thanking Christ that I am who and what I am because you need me!” He looks directly into the camera, and Layla feels it to her core when he says again, “You need me!”

The broadcast cuts abruptly into a glaringly loud ad, and Layla collapses back down onto her couch, breathing as if she’d just delivered the impassioned monologue. 

“Oh god…” she exhales, covering her face. She isn’t egotistical enough to think herself the sole cause of such a catastrophic meltdown–it’s clearly been a long time coming–but witnessing it, she can’t help but feel like she may have been one of several straws that broke his back. The desperation in his glassy eyes from this morning haunts her. His image is everything to him.

What happens to a man like that if he loses it? What happens to the world?

Her mind spirals on a series of progressively more dire theoretical scenarios, and whether or not she could have avoided all of this had she just stayed with him. Talked him down. Her lip doesn’t sting anymore, but the repercussions of this will echo a great deal further.

She winds up pacing for nearly an hour, unable to settle her mind. She tries calling Chris, but after two failed attempts, she remembers their conversation about his honeymoon in Italy with Jason, and she curses under her breath. The other bottles in her bar cabinet are looking progressively more tempting when a distinct thump outside catches her attention. It almost sounds like something landed on her balcony. She thinks it must have fallen from an above neighbor, or maybe a bird, until she gets close enough to realize there’s a person out there.

“Oh my god, Homelander,” she rasps, frozen still in her place. He perfectly silhouettes her own reflection, staring at her through the glass, his expression gnarled in terrible anguish. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but he looks as though he’s been crying.

After a beat of hesitation, she walks to the balcony door and twists it open just enough to stand in it, staring at him at a loss. “Can I come in?” He asks, voice reedy and thin. Pleading. It’s a shocking contrast to the anger she witnessed on the broadcast, but hardly surprising. She could see this torment lurking beneath it even then. It breaks her heart nonetheless.

She can already feel her own eyes beginning to prickle hotly in sympathy tears. “I don’t think that’s a good–” “Please,” he interjects, teeth locked in a tight grimace. “Please, Layla, I don’t… I don’t have anyone. Do you understand? I-I fucked up tonight, I fucked up bad, and I have nothing. If any of it was real, if you care just-just one fucking bit about me, then please. Please let me in,” he begs, bringing up his gloved hand to brace above her head on the doorframe, subtly rocking back and forth.

With every breath she takes, Layla feels the jagged edges of her aching heart pierce her lungs. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she takes a tentative step backwards, and then slowly opens her door to him, adrenaline pumping through her veins a mile a minute.

Of course she cares. She cares so much it makes her feel sick.

With a small nod, he steps inside, shaking out his hands. “Did you… Did you…?” He trails off, seemingly unable to bring himself to properly ask, but she knows what he’s trying to say.

“I saw,” she says gently, closing the balcony door.

“It’s over. It’s over, I’m fucking-I’m fucking finished,” he says with a wild gesture, running his hand through his already mussed hair.

She remains in place, keeping a subtle distance between them. “You’ve been under unfathomable stress. You were mocked on live television for something you’re still grieving, something that wasn’t your–” “It doesn’t fucking matter!” He snaps, both hands in the air. “No one cares about that, no one gives a fuck how I feel,” he hisses through his teeth, fresh tears welling in his eyes. He screws them shut, as if willing the tears to disappear. “I’m not their god, I’m not their hero, I’m-I’m nothing,” he says, starting to tug at the collar of his suit as if it’s choking him. He exhales a rough, mirthless laugh that sounds closer to a keen of pain.

He hooks the fingers of both hands in his collar, sucking in a strained breath, and Layla realizes with a start that he looks like he’s having a panic attack. She moves swiftly to him, gingerly taking hold of his wrists. “Shhhh, let go, let go,” she says kindly but firmly, knowing he responds best to a mix of the two. Thankfully, it works, his eyes meeting hers, his breaths a shallow frenzy. 

“I can’t breathe,” he tells her, his confusion obvious in his tone and the furrow of his brow. If this has happened to him before, it’s been a long time.

“You’re panicking. Let’s take this off you,” she says, unfastening his suit top. “Listen to me breathe, alright?” She takes a deep breath in, and then on the exhale, counts out, “One, two three…” Another inhale, then, “One two three…”

She’s seen this happen before. Sometimes her sessions get intense. They can unlock memories and triggers her clients didn’t even know they had. This is far from her first time talking someone down from a panic attack.

He still looks confused, but he lets her disrobe him to his undershirt, the padded suit sliding off of his shoulders. They fight with his gloves briefly, slipping those off first, and then the top falls to the ground with a particularly heavy thud. He keeps his focus on her, and after a few rounds, he’s breathing with her, lips very faintly following along to her repetitive countdowns. 

“That’s good, you’re doing so well,” she praises, cupping either side of his head. With her thumbs, she massages his temples. “Little longer now, breathe in, one two three four five…” She counts, holding a longer exhale, and then a deeper inhale. He follows her lead, leaning into her touch, and eventually his eyes fall shut, his breathing even.

Relieved, Layla tenderly pets down either side of his face, relaxing the muscles in his face, hoping to ease him back into himself. When he opens her eyes, they’re dreamy and tired. He looks more devastated than she ever could have imagined him. His eyes nearly close as he leans in towards her, but she turns her head away before he can kiss her. He lets out a strained little whimper, forehead coming to rest on her shoulder. He clutches desperately at the fabric of her shirt like he wants to pull her closer, agonizing for the reassurance of touch.

“What am I gonna do?” He asks morosely. She can hear the tightness in his throat like there’s a hand choking him.

“Sleep,” she tells him, taking his hand in hers.  “For right now, all you need to do is sleep.”

With that, she guides him to her bedroom. He’s perfectly malleable in this state, moving when and where she leads him without an ounce of resistance. She sits him on her bed and kneels down to unfasten his boots while he watches her, dazed. She never could have imagined their places swapped like this when she first had him before her, fastening the heels he’d bought her.

Tugging his boots off, she sets them aside. His belt comes next, much too clunky to sleep in. He stands back up for this part, helping her, but he pushes his pants off, too. She supposes the padding likely isn’t very comfortable to sleep in, either. She stops him when he moves to push off his undergarments as well, though.

“Leave those,” she says gently.

“I can’t,” he says tightly, paused with his thumbs hooked under his shirt. “I can’t sleep with… I can’t,” he says, struggling to articulate himself. She wonders if it’s a sensory issue. 

“Okay, alright. It’s okay,” she says, helping him to take off his shirt, too, followed by his underwear. Giving his hand a squeeze, she uses her opposite hand to pull back the covers, and gestures him into bed. He goes easily, but when she begins to pull the covers up over him, he stills her hand with his own.

“Aren’t you getting in, too?” He asks, brows furrowed over top of large, watery blue eyes.

She hesitates. “Homelander, I–” He flinches so hard that she stops. His gaze drops from hers, shame written clearly in the lines of his face.

“...John?” She attempts, but he shakes his head wordlessly.

He’s in shambles, and despite the little voice of reason demanding that she create distance, she aches too badly for him to leave him like this. Swallowing, she gives him a gentle pat. “Okay, darling. Move, move in. Roll over,” she says, which he does readily, sliding to the center of the bed. She slips in behind him, and after only a brief hesitation, slides her arm around his middle.

He greedily accepts her touch, laying his arm over hers and interlacing their fingers, letting out a shuddering breath that sounds like relief. He squeezes her hand, and she presses her forehead to the nape of his neck.

Their bodies slot together with such ease, it nearly feels like they were made to. Embracing him like this, she finds she better understands the story of Icarus and why he was so compelled to fly to the sun, even as it scorched him.

There is an inexplicable feeling that comes along with holding close something that burns so hot, that feels so much grander than yourself.

They lay like that for hours. Layla’s not sure how much of it he actually spends sleeping. She drifts in and out herself, rousing when his shoulders shake with silent sobs. She soothes him each time, hushing at his ear while she strokes his thumb with her own. He always settles. Eventually, she manages to drift into a deeper sleep, lulled into it by the heat of him in her arms, cradled preciously to her chest.

Unsurprisingly, he fits perfectly into the craterous void he left in her.

Chapter eight.

[sonkitty]

The Sideburns Scheme Post #93

(For reference: The Sideburns Scheme)

Crowley, Good Omens 2, Episode 6, Every Day, forgot

...

Sideburns Check

The sideburns are still a probable longest-length.

...

Brighter Red Streak Check

The above image is brightened some to show the streak better.

The more saturated red streak of hair can be found.

...

Hairstyle Changes

I don't know how to describe the differences, so here are the two batch pictures close together for your own reference.

The top one is from the previous post. The lower one is from this post.

...

Earthly Objects

(For reference: Earthly Objects)

With Gabriel having recovered his memories, the scene starts off with a focus on names. All names said are those of angels who are not Muriel.

Michael, Saraqael, and Uriel are shown to still have self-touches with their hands.

Gabriel has a self-touch of crossing his hands over his heart at the sight of Beelzebub while Muriel is visibly behind Gabriel's left shoulder.

Eventually, Gabriel and Beelzebub visibly touch and hold hands.

Crowley touches Nina as part of his offer to escort the mortals out of the bookshop.

There are plenty of questions in the dialogue.

...

Time to pay attention to the pockets.

Regarding the Tied Hands...

The tassel tips of Crowley's tie strands are still obscured by the cardboard box when Gabriel sees Beelzebub with Crowley behind him.

There are signs of a potential retying, but it's missing a strike of a clasp on a lapel edge. Crowley has his watch visible and an extended index finger. Instead of having a thumb joint line up with a lower part of the jacket, his left thumb CMC joint actually visually touches his left lapel of the jacket. He has a self-made pocket with his body otherwise with his hands and front of his jacket. He shows his back to the camera twice in the process of this potential retying.

Crowley and Aziraphale keep to them having Crowley on Aziraphale's right instead of left despite how much time has passed while Gabriel recovered his memories. Crowley briefly switches their sides with his offer to escort Maggie and Nina out of the bookshop.

When Beelzebub refers to Aziraphale taking care of Gabriel, both Crowley and Aziraphale are visually pocketed between Gabriel's and Beelzebub's blurry faces.

...

Story Commentary

For me, the most notable thing about this sequence is how Gabriel ignores Crowley, as if Crowley is not there. While he ignores Muriel, Maggie, and Nina too, it's more pronounced with Crowley because he names Aziraphale, his gaze briefly follows Aziraphale's look toward Crowley and then shifts away. Then Gabriel blinks as he passes over where Crowley should be.

Is Crowley invisible again and this time selectively to Gabriel? Well, when it comes to the presence of other supernatural beings, the invisibility seems to be a thing with doors, but maybe. The two do seem to have some kind of arrangement for Crowley to have agreed to whatever plan led to the story we have.

In any case, Gabriel ignores Muriel as well.

Both Crowley and Muriel are the supernatural beings actively touching earthly objects found within the bookshop after they entered.

While Gabriel ignores Maggie and Nina, part of that is understood to be his circling the room and when his focus lands on Beelzebub.

Maggie and Nina themselves might be somewhat cloaked from notice to the other supernatural beings since Michael expresses shock once Maggie and Nina make their presence known by speaking aloud.

With Michael's alarm at mortals being present with others in the bookshop, they order "someone" to turn the humans into pillars of salt. It's evident Michael wants Uriel to do it. Uriel is in shock too, and looks at Michael with continued shock.

At the realization that Uriel will not simply comply on command, Michael tries Saraqael next.

Saraqael replies, "I'm on it."

Crowley steps in, offering to attend to the matter.

This action is among those that suggest his longer sideburns have a higher rank meaning among angels. Michael looks surprised. Saraqael looks neutral. They don't lower their hand, but they don't turn the mortals into pillars of salt. Uriel shifts from looking at Michael to looking at Crowley in mild alarm. Nonetheless, the three angels ultimately abide. Nobody stops Crowley from actually escorting the mortals out of the bookshop.

While Muriel is still engrossed in a book and not participating in the discussion or decisions with the angels, they do manage to hide their pocket chain anytime they are shown on screen.

After Crowley leaves, the scene establishes that Gabriel and Beelzebub are still busy gazing into each other's eyes, so Gabriel has continued to ignore Crowley.

...

That's it for this post. Sometimes I edit my posts, FYI.

...

Main post:

The Sideburns Scheme

[holylulusworld]

The assistant (9) - Revenge for champions

Summary: You are invisible most of the time.

Pairing: Former!Boss!Steve Rogers x Former!Assistant(plussized)!Reader

Possible pairing: Jake Jensen x Reader, Lloyd Hansen x Reader, Curtis Everett x Reader, Ari Levinson x Reader, Andy Barber x Reader, Mike Weiss x Reader

Warnings: angst, flirty CEvans characters, language, plussized/chubby reader, protective brothers, Lloyd being Lloyd, fluff, domestic brothers, Steve Rogers being annoying, arguments

The assistant masterlist

The assistant (8) – A Captain and six brothers

That bastard is still out there. He’s lurking,” Lloyd grumbles angrily. “Let me get the big guns out. I’ll kill him with one precise blow to his ugly face.”

“Lloyd we talked about this. We won’t kill Captain America,” Andy tuts. He checks on the security cameras again.

“But the thought is nice—” Lloyd flashes his brother a smirk. “Right? Don’t you want to lose control sometimes and just punch the asshole?”

“You’ll only break your hand,” you grab Lloyd’s hand before he can punch an invisible enemy. “We talked about this. Let me handle my former boss. He’s stubborn but will lose interest soon enough.”

“I don’t think he will leave anytime soon,” Ari looks out of the window to keep an eye on Steve. He’s sitting in front of the gate, pouting like an angry child.

“Fine,” you huff. “He leaves me no choice.” You get your phone out to call someone to get Steve off your friends’ property. “I hate getting him involved, but this can’t be helped.”

“Gentlemen,” Tony watches you and the brothers step out of the mansion. He grins and licks his lips at Steve’s reaction. The captain barks orders at your friends, ready to take the gate down.

“Mr. Stark, thank you for coming,” you usher the brothers toward the gate. “I didn’t know what else to do. The captain won’t believe me that I stay at my friends’ place on free terms.”

Tony flashes you a smile. He’s still disappointed that you didn’t want to work for him but understands that you needed space and tried to start a new life, with a new job. 

“Anything for you, darling,” he gives you a curt nod before turning his attention toward Steve. “Cap, we should go now. There’s nothing for us to do here.”

“Tony, they are holding Y/N hostage,” Steve points at you standing next to the brothers. Ari, Lloyd, and Curtis immediately crowd you. “See, they won’t let her breathe. I can only imagine what they have done to her since she came here.”

“OH, yeah,” Tony smirks at his friend. “She looks very displeased.” He quirks a brow. 

“See—” Steve nods. “You can see it too!”

“Steve, I tried to be sarcastic. Y/N is glowing and looks happy. We should leave her and her friends alone.”

“No! I won’t leave her to these vultures wanting to take advantage of her kindness and innocence. I have to save her!”

“Ah,” the cocky billionaire nods thoughtfully. “I think we are having a Snow White situation here.” Tony smirks at his friend. 

“What do you mean, asshat?” Lloyd grunts, ready to fight Iron Man and Captain America if he must.

“Seven guys longing for one woman?” Tony snickers. “Six brothers and one Captain trying to win the beautiful princess’s heart over.”

“I understand that reference, but I’m not a dwarf, Tony,” Steve grunts. “If she’s Snow White, then I’m the Prince Charming!” He points at the brother. “And these men are not friendly dwarfs but criminals and kidnappers.”

“Hey! I’m not a dwarf either, Iron Bucket,” Lloyd angrily glares at Tony. “I know you were always good to Y/N, but I won’t let you get away with insulting me…or my brothers.”

“Wait! I think Snow White got seven dwarfs, right?” Mike throws in. He furrows his brows, struggling to remember the fairytale their mother used to read to him. “We are only six.”

“This makes Captain asshole the seventh dwarf,” Curtis laughs loudly. “I think he’s the one they called Dopey. He doesn’t understand the simplest things.”

“I’ll free Y/N!” Steve points his index finger at Curtis. “You won’t hurt her on my watch.”

“Hurt her?” Jake has had enough. He steps toward the gate, hands wrapping around the bars. Jake sneers at Steve and grits his teeth. “The only person hurting her was you! She lost her job, the one she loved because you wanted to stick your dick into that stupid bitch’s snatch. What a man you are. Ordering food for everyone but the sweet woman saving your ungrateful ass every day.”

“You know nothing about me and Y/N!” Steve angrily replies. “I-I made mistakes but tried to apologize. When I came to her home, she was gone. Kidnapped by you and your brothers!”

“We didn’t kidnap her! Y/N is my friend. She came to my café to tell me about all the shit you pulled on her. Day after day she worked her cute ass off to make your life easier. Was it too much to ask for that you gave her a little respect and paid for her fucking lunch?” Jake kicks the bars. “I swear, you’re lucky the gate is in between us. If not, you’d be dog food.”

“Whoa, Jakie,” Lloyd places his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Freaking out and threatening people to kill them is my job. How about you bring Y/N back inside and leave this job to me and Ari.”

“She stands right behind you, Lloyd,” you grunt and slap Lloyd’s ass. “I can speak for myself.” You step next to Jake to look Steve in the eyes. “Listen, I know you believe what you are doing is the right thing, but you couldn’t be more wrong. These men are my friends. Jake is my friend and he’d never hurt me. Please just leave.”

“But they—” Steve points at Lloyd. “I don’t trust them. I know you are kind and believe people are always good, but there are bad people out there, who want to take advantage of a pretty girl like you. I can’t let them do this to you.”

“My friends won’t harm me in any way,” you purse your lips. “I’m not like Sandy, a damsel in distress. I don’t look tough like Agent Romanoff, but I know how to defend myself.”

“She can defend herself,” Ari places his hand on your shoulder, “but she doesn’t have to. We are here to defend her and her honor. So, if you’d kindly fuck off now, we want to have dinner with our lovely Y/N.”

“Tony, don’t you have anything to say?” Steve despairs. He can see the determination in your eyes and can only hope you are not wrong. He’d never forgive himself if these men take advantage of you. “Do something!”

“Alright,” Tony claps his hands. “I got enough of this, kiddos. I’m too old for this shit.” He says. “Even though, Capsicle is older than me.” 

“Tony!” 

“How about you let Steve stay for the night? He promises to behave, and you promise to let him have a look at Y/N’s room.”

“He can have a look at my ass before I let him inside my home!” Lloyd points at his ass. 

“Uh-I don’t know,” Mike murmurs. “If he can have a look around the house and sees that we are treating Y/N with respect, he’ll leave us alone.”

“I hate to say it, but Mike ain’t wrong,” Andy throws in. “He won’t leave and I’m not much into getting spied on. Having Captain America lurk around your house is bad for our reputation. People will start asking questions.”

Steve watches the brothers and you discuss Tony’s suggestion. He uses his enhanced hearing to listen to your heartbeat. Your heart beats normally. You’re not afraid at the moment, but he’s still not convinced that you are not in danger.

“Fine by me.” Steve finally says. 

“The shield stays outside,” Lloyd points at Steve’s shield. “…and you won’t set foot into our home wearing your ugly suit. Civilian clothes, no shield.”

“He’ll follow your rules and leave your house, tomorrow morning,” Tony stretches his hand out. “I give you my word, Mr. Hansen.”

“I’ll keep you up on that promise,” Lloyd grabs Tony’s hand. He squeezes hard, making sure Tony knows the man in front of him isn’t afraid of Iron Man at all. “If you break it…well…you don’t want to know what happens if you fuck with Lloyd Hansen.”

“Revenge for champions will happen,” Ari grunts. He points at Tony. “You better keep your buddy in line. If not, I’ll release the beast.”

“…I’m the beast,” Lloyd smirks darkly. “I love letting hellfire rain down on my enemies. Especially when I can defend our sweet Y/N…”

Part 10

Tags in reblog.

[himbosuplex]

Mais, talk about! (Gambit/Rogue/Magneto)

Mais, talk about! [X-Men '97 (Gambit/Rogue/Magneto)]

Premise:

Remy LeBeau stands outside Magneto's room, unable to forget an impromptu kiss earlier that day and wanting to finally put an end to the uncertainty that lingers between he and Rogue.

But the answer isn't quite as simple as he thought...

[Link to the fic on AO3]

Notes:

Posting this at near 3am before X-Men '97 inevitably kicks over my sandcastle and declares it wrong in every way.

Please take the references to off-screen events with patience, as this is but a portion of a much longer fic I'd like to write but simply just don't have the energy to at the moment, so the most you get of prior events is a spicy comic I made recently. I wanted to, at the very least, float the idea of "Romyneto" to more people, as surprisingly few folk have considered that maybe you don't need to fracture a love triangle... Maybe you just need to make it into a heart.

Hashtag let Rogue have both the spicy chaos bisexual AND Sexy Grandpa... she's been through enough and deserves it.

Also a final author's note: I'm from Texas, not Louisiana, so pardon my clumsy use of Cajun French. I did an embarrassing amount of research for this short of a fic, but hopefully it'll pay off in the future. Anyway, keep reading for the actual fic!

-----

Remy stood outside the door to Magneto’s room, resting his forehead on the rich stained wood. He had been mustering up the courage for close to ten minutes to knock. The only thing propelling him forward was the fear of being seen loitering.

All he intended was to check if Magneto was awake and willing to talk. It was the early hours of the morning, but who the hell had a normal sleep schedule anymore? He briefly considered waiting for Rogue to return, which would likely be the wiser choice. However, Remy wasn’t always known for making the most prudent decisions, especially after a drink or two to calm his nerves. Waiting for Rogue wouldn’t alleviate the intense anxiety he felt at that moment.

After all, he was dealing with someone who was intellectually superior and more powerful in every aspect. Magneto was someone who seemed to excel effortlessly at everything, akin to a character from one of Jubilee’s video games. Moreover, Magneto could actually touch the woman Remy loved. Perhaps it would be easier to just give in or give up. It wasn’t that Remy opposed being in an unconventional relationship with Rogue, or even being intimate with another man. It was simply the fact that it had to be him—a person who felt threatening on multiple levels and made him feel inadequate whenever he was around.

Clenching his fist, he rapped on the door before he could chicken out and leave. He had never been this gêné, this easily embarrassed. It frustrated him to feel this way and it frustrated him that of all aspects of his life that he could feel insecure about, it was this. He always had so much confidence with Rogue because he did truly think any physical hurt he experienced was entirely worthwhile. Now he wasn’t even sure if she felt the same about him anymore.

Maybe he should just wait and talk to her like an adult, like Jubilee said. As much as he hated being called out by a teenager, he did have to begrudgingly admit she was right. No one answered the door, so he assumed that some people did indeed have a normal sleep schedule. Or at least, he hoped so. Turning to leave, he managed only a few steps before the doorknob clicked, and the door slowly opened.

Qu’el tonnerre m’écrase.

He leaned towards the partially open door, peering into the dark room. There was nothing. Could it have opened by itself? He knew the chances were slim, but he held onto hope. As he moved to leave, some invisible force pulled him back towards the door. Merde. It seemed better to comply than to be dragged in like a child. Gingerly pushing the door open with his index finger, he entered the dark room.

“So you awake, eh?” he said as casually as he could manage, adjusting to the dimness. The door clicked shut behind him, and the curtains parted slightly, allowing a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the room better. “You gonna talk or just gimme frissons?”

“Do you make a habit of waking people up at three in the morning?” Magneto’s voice carried an edge of irritation as he gestured for Remy to take a seat on the edge of the bed. Sitting upright, his hair tousled from sleep, and his chest bare, Magneto exuded a commanding presence even in the dim moonlight filtering through the room. The sheets draped luxuriously around him hinted at more than just his bare chest, drawing Remy’s attention despite himself. While his usual skintight uniform left little to the imagination, Magneto’s well-sculpted physique was even more striking when unclothed.

“Non.” Remy took the indicated seat, unable to suppress a smirk. “Only when Gambit feeling particularly vindictive.”

Annoyance briefly flashed across Magneto’s face before he regained his usual icy composure, his features settling into a mask of stoicism. “Did you intend to discuss anything or were you just being ‘vindictive?’” His cold eyes bore into Remy, reflecting the moonlight with an almost ethereal glow.

Remy felt the urge to respond with his usual charm and sarcasm, but he knew better than to try such tactics with Magneto. He was just as immune to this as he was to Rogue’s abilities. Nor did such banter seem conducive to actually hashing out anything going on between them. Clearing his throat nervously, Remy ran his fingers through his hair, searching for the right words to broach the subject weighing on his mind.

“Why Magneto go and kiss Gambit, huh?” Remy’s question hung in the air, heavy with tension.

“I’ll acquiesce, but first I wish for you to answer my question.” Magneto’s sneer was evident even in the dim light.

“What dat, den?”

Magneto’s piercing gaze filled him with unease. “Why did Gambit kiss Magneto back?”

Remy felt a weight press down on his chest, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He should have anticipated this question, especially after bringing up the kiss from earlier that day, but he still wasn’t prepared for it. The shame of his desperation hadn’t abated at all since it had happened. An overwhelming urge to flee flooded his mind, urging him to make a dash for the door in the hopes it would yield. Excuses and cop-outs ping-ponged across his mind, and he was ready to try anything to avoid answering the question.

“Ah,” Remy began, shaking his head. “Maybe we gon wait til Rogue gets back, yeah?” He attempted to shrug off the weight of the conversation, rising to his feet in an attempt to retreat to the safety of his own room. But once again, he was met with resistance, pulled back with enough force that he stumbled and flopped onto his back, legs still dangling over the edge of the mattress.

“Do you require a reminder?” Magneto’s voice was low and commanding as he leaned in closer, silver hair falling around his face. At such close proximity, his intense eyes were mesmerizing, and Remy could feel the warmth of Magneto’s breath against his skin. “You never gave the impression of someone who would flee so easily.”

Remy wanted to respond with one of his usual comebacks or snide remarks, but his brain failed him. Clutching the bedsheets tightly, he attempted to quell his frayed nerves. The offer of warm lips was tantalizing, his loneliness making him feel touch-starved and desperate. From such close proximity, he could better appreciate just how attractive Magneto truly was. With sky blue eyes framed by strong brows and accentuated by thick, dark eyelashes, Magneto’s features exuded a captivating allure. Rather than detracting from his sharp features, the creases and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth seemed to enhance them, giving him a distinguished air. It was the kind of face that anyone, regardless of preference, could acknowledge as objectively handsome.

Clearing his throat, Remy shifted uneasily. “Man gets tres lonely sometimes, yeah.”

“This is true, yes. Therein lies your answer.”

Once more their lips touched, this time without Remy giving any pretense of resistance. Heat surged through his body, his fingers digging into the bedsheets as he held on tighter. Initially, he had attributed his resentment of their first kiss to the realization there was merit to Rogue’s attraction. But now, he knew the reason was far more primal: he wanted to be kissed again.

There was a comforting strength in the way Magneto kissed him. While Rogue possessed raw physical power, their rare moments of physical contact held a delicate yearning—a desire to be held and protected in ways her power denied her. But with Magneto, it was different. His unwavering confidence manifested even in moments of intimate affection, a man who was more than capable of taking what he desired. As their lips parted, Remy couldn’t help but feel vulnerable and consumed by a deep longing.

“You say dat the answer, but it don’t make sense, no.” Remy pushed himself back up, turning around so that the two of them sat face to face. “Mais la, why would you ever be lonely?” The tone of his voice implied what he left unsaid: ‘You have Rogue.’

“It is not mine I speak of.” Magneto extended his hand, reaching towards Remy’s arm. The movement caused the sheets around his waist to slip downward, revealing the bare skin of his hip. Only the bed linens separated his unclothed body from the cool air. The moonlight played off the contours of his body, accentuating every curve and muscle.

Remy hesitated, his mind racing with thoughts of how Rogue might react to the situation. It was evident that she and Magneto had been spending considerable time together, reigniting whatever bond they shared in the past. However, he couldn’t assume that their relationship had progressed to the extent his insecurity insisted. Would he truly be any better if he acted behind her back? He couldn’t deny the attraction he felt towards Magneto, nor could he ignore the tantalizing prospect of exploring a relationship unburdened by the complexities of their current love triangle. And yet, he couldn’t shake the guilt that gnawed at him, the fear of betraying Rogue’s trust and the uncertainty of how she would react when she found out.

As he looked into Magneto’s piercing blue eyes, he saw a depth of understanding that promised something more than just physical intimacy. It was a proposition of mutual respect, a chance to be seen and valued in a way that most around him failed to do. Despite the taunts and deliberate attempts to antagonize, he got the distinct impression that Magneto thought more highly of him than it seemed at face value.

Perhaps it wasn’t about choosing between having Rogue for himself or letting her be with someone else - but about embracing the complexity of all their desires. Though their exchanges were often fraught with confrontation, there were moments when Remy caught glimpse of a softer side to Magneto. It was in the way Magneto’s gaze lingered longer than necessary, the soft way he looked at Rogue, and the subtle hints of approval that slipped through his stoic facade.

“Gambit don’t know…”

“You came here tonight to talk, so let us talk.” Magneto interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. He continued to offer his extended hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Remy accepted, allowing himself to be pulled down beside Magneto into a supine position.

“When we talk before, you said… you could help Gambit make tings work.” Remy continued, his fingers fidgeting nervously as he played with the hem of his crop top. “How you gonna help if Rogue already choose you? How I gon’ compete wit Magneto of all people?”

“As I explained before, I have no interest in competition - nor do I wish to force Rogue to make a choice. Given that you are here, I presume you considered my words.” Magneto’s gaze was steady and unwavering.

“Been considered, yeah. But dat don’t make ‘em easier to reconcile, no.”

Magneto ran a coarse hand up Remy’s stomach and under his shirt, eliciting a sharp inhalation from Remy in response. Despite their similar size and stature—identical in height and nearly in weight—Magneto exuded an aura of all-encompassing dominance and strength. Every movement carried with it a sense of purpose and intentionality, from the firm grip of his fingers to the deliberate pressure applied when touching intimately. It was enough to convey a degree of authority and dominance, without crossing the threshold into discomfort.

“I am disinterested in forcing you to do anything you do not wish to participate in,” Magneto spoke, his voice low and measured. “No matter what you may have assumed, Rogue does care about you deeply. It is evident that we both share affection for her.”

With a subtle shift of his hand, Magneto gripped Remy’s waist firmly, pulling their bodies together. “Facilitating the two of you to touch without the barrier of her power would be effortless for me, a mere afterthought. However, I have no desire to be but a third wheel or to ‘share’ that which cannot and should not be treated like a belonging to be passed around.”

Remy’s body trembled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, his mind racing as he tried to process the implications of Magneto’s words. He wished he had chosen to wear something less revealing than gray sweatpants for this visit, something that didn’t tent so easily under the pressure of Magneto’s touch.

“Do you accede?” Magneto’s voice cut through Remy’s thoughts, drawing him back to the present moment.

“Got me too much an envie to fuss. Maybe Magneto make a good cher, yeah?”

“I will interpret that as a yes.” Magneto spoke with a hint of amusement.

“Mais talk about! Got a lot to learn you if you gonna be with Gambit!”

“Very true,” Magneto conceded, wrapping his arms around Remy and pulling him close. “Apropos of nothing, you may call me Erik. In private, at least.”

“I like dat, me,” Remy murmured, nuzzling his face into Erik’s strong chest. He looked forward to when Rogue would return from her trip and couldn’t help but anticipate the surprise that awaited her.

With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to bask in the warmth of their shared moment. For the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope that he could find happiness in this unconventional arrangement. Remy found himself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Erik’s heartbeat beneath his ear. As he succumbed to the embrace of slumber, he couldn’t help but feel grateful for the unexpected turn of events that had brought him here.

[alsunday]

❛ you woke me from my nap. ❜ / shokooooooo

"boo-hoo---" monotonous reply comes, index finger hovering over the center of his forehead. access denied.

telling him that their study period isn't naptime would be a waste of her breath. it's not like yaga's bothered to check on them yet. instead, one of his dolls meandered in every few minutes or so to ensure they were at least all within the room still.

only a couple more sheets of work to go and she'd be done for the day. she might even get a good night's rest for once if she managed to fall asleep. for now, however, her attention has shifted focus to her slumbering friend. how nice it must be to easily slip into unconsciousness without a shred of care in the world.

"you have a mission later? gonna go to the konbini. i'm running low on snacks in my room. must restock." she attempts once again to push through the invisible barrier between herself and him, index finger still poised and pointed. impossible. "c'mon, i'll even let you pay for me."

@thstrongest ... meme.