#it's such an odd feeling to start learning a language from scratch...

[cooperscreosote]

My very first Welsh lesson was already quite useful...I mean, we all had to say 'good night' to a dragon before and didn't know the correct words, right? ;)

[nylqnder]

BURDEN QUINN HUGHES

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!coach!reader

summary: you and quinn, both dealing with your individual struggles, are able to find solace in one another.

warnings: coach!reader, platonic (but like maybe the start of something more?), very much inspired by what people say about our queen jessica campbell so sexism + misogyny, quinn dealing with feelings of not being good enough, probably more that i'm missing but that's the general vibe

wc: 2.37k

The arena was almost eerily silent after morning skate. Most of the team had already showered and left, their laughter and chatter fading into the distance. The echoes of their skates had long since disappeared from the ice, leaving only the soft hum of the arena lights and the rattling of the air conditioner.

You sat alone in the video room, the glow of the monitor illuminating your focused expression. Game footage flickered on the screen — defensive breakdowns, missed passes, and a handful of lackluster power plays that made you grit your teeth.

The weight of the Canucks' struggles pressed down on your chest like a concrete block. Frame by frame, the footage laid bare every mistake — blown coverage, lazy backchecks, and forwards stranded without support. It wasn't just a bad stretch; it was a pattern, a slow unraveling of confidence and cohesion.

You leaned forward, pausing the playback at a brutal turnover that led to yet another odd-man rush. Your jaw clenched as the opposing winger effortlessly deked past your defence and buried the puck top shelf. The players' body language told its own grim story: slumped shoulders, frustrated glances, and hollow stares at the bench. The swagger that once defined the team had been replaced by hesitation and doubt.

A slow sigh escaped your lips as you scribbled notes on a crumpled sheet. Tighten defensive gaps. Better transition reads. Revamp special teams. The list was growing longer than you'd care to admit. But it wasn’t just tactics — it was heart. How do you coach belief back into a team that’s forgotten how to win?

The nagging whispers of self-doubt were now becoming shouts as the losses piled up. Being the second female coach in NHL history was a weight you carried with both pride and exhaustion. Every misstep wasn’t just seen as a tactical error—it was treated like evidence. Evidence that maybe you didn’t belong, evidence that the old-school skeptics were right. 

When the Canucks were winning, the narrative was a feel-good headline: Trailblazing Coach Proves Gender Barrier No Match for Hockey Savvy. But when the losses piled up, the tone shifted. Experiment Failing? Pressure Mounts for Second Female Coach. 

The whispers lingered even when the arena was empty. Analysts questioned your systems, fans dissected your bench demeanor, and anonymous accounts on social media spewed their venom without consequence. They didn’t just criticize strategy — they questioned your very right to stand where you stood.

You clenched your pen, the tip scratching harsh lines into the paper. The criticism was constant and insidious, seeping into every corner of your thoughts if you let it. So you forced it out. You learned to compartmentalize, shoving doubts and insecurities into a mental lockbox and focusing on the task at hand. You kept your head down, analyzing film, strategizing drills, and blocking out the noise.

You'd never been one to walk away from a fight, and hockey was no different. You reminded yourself why you'd taken this job in the first place — not just for yourself, but for every girl who grew up loving the game and wondering if there was a place for them in it. There was. You were proof of that, whether the world wanted to accept it or not.

Out on the ice, Quinn Hughes lingered, skating slow, deliberate laps. He was always the last one off the ice, pushing himself long after everyone else had called it a day. You’d spent countless hours working with him — he was the Canucks’ captain and a gifted defenseman, and you related to him deeply, having been a defenseman yourself during your playing days. You’d seen firsthand the weight of the season beginning to settle heavily on his shoulders. 

The physical toll was obvious. His left hand, heavily taped beneath his glove, clenched his stick with a tension that spoke of discomfort. You'd caught him flexing his fingers during breaks in practice, a grimace flickering across his face before he masked it with stoic determination. The medical staff had recommended rest, but Quinn had brushed off their concerns, insisting that the team needed him. He was stubborn like that — a trait you both shared, for better or worse.

But it wasn’t just the hand injury eating away at him. There was a weariness in his eyes that tape and ice baths couldn't fix. The weight of leadership pressed on his shoulders, compounded by the growing friction in the locker room. Pettersson and Miller, two of the team's brightest stars, were locked in a silent feud that was becoming harder to ignore.

You'd seen the glances exchanged during line changes, the curt nods instead of fist bumps after goals, and the palpable tension during meetings. They weren't shouting matches — at least not yet — but the simmering resentment was affecting everyone. Players tried not to choose sides, instead desperately trying to keep the locker room from ripping at the seams. 

Quinn had tried to mediate, his voice low and measured as he pulled them aside after practice. But neither Elias nor J.T. seemed willing to budge. Their competitive drive, which usually fueled the team’s success, had become a wedge driving them apart. And Quinn, caught in the middle, was paying the price.

You restarted the clip of yet another failed powerplay, trying to identify what needed to change in order to see some results. Do you change the personnel? Do you change their positioning? Try a different zone entry? The seemingly endless options bounced around in your head, causing yet another pounding headache to develop. 

Then it came: the sudden, jarring clatter of sticks clashing against hard surfaces. The sharp bang of a door slamming open reverberated through the empty arena corridors. You flinched, the sound cutting through the quiet like a slap. Something heavy crashed inside the locker room, followed by a burst of shouting and cursing.

You rose from your chair, the glow of the monitor fading behind you as you walked down the hallway toward the locker room. Stepping inside, hesitantly while holding your breath, you took in the sight before you.

Quinn sat hunched over in his stall, his posture crumpled under an invisible weight. His skates, helmet, stick, and gloves were scattered across the room like the aftermath of a storm. The helmet lay upside down near the far wall, and one glove was still spinning slightly on the floor, evidence of its recent violent trajectory.

His chest heaved, and a sheen of sweat clung to his brow despite having left the ice some time ago. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white against the dark fabric of his practice gear. The air was thick with the acrid scent of frustration and the faint, putrid scent of sweat that you could never fully get accustomed to.

You hesitated at the threshold, your instincts warring between giving him space and stepping in. But Quinn Hughes wasn’t someone who had outbursts — not like this. Seeing him unravel was unsettling, a stark contrast to the composed leader you’d come to know.

Silently, you crossed the room and sat in Garland’s stall directly across from him. Quinn didn’t look up, his shoulders still rising and falling with uneven breaths. The echoes of his outburst lingered in the space, settling into a weighty silence that clung to the walls. You crossed the room and sat down in Garland's stall across from him, folding your hands between your knees.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hum of the arena lights filled the void, punctuated only by the distant hiss of the ventilation system. You let the quiet stretch, knowing that sometimes the best thing you could offer was simply presence — no forced pep talks, no immediate fixes, just being there.

Quinn's fists slowly relaxed, his breathing evening out. He stared at the floor, the sheen of sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his expression was a war between anger and defeat. You knew that look well — it was the face of a leader trying to hold everything together when the cracks were becoming too wide to ignore.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice steady but gentle.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “What do you think?”

Fair enough. “Looks like you had a... spirited moment.”

His lips quirked faintly at your attempt to lighten the mood, but it quickly faded. “I just—” He broke off, struggling to find the words. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m supposed to be the one holding it together, and I can’t even hold myself together right now.”

You nodded, allowing the weight of his confession to hang between you. “Leadership’s a hell of a burden, isn’t it?”

He scoffed, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I knew it was going to be tough, but this? Watching the team fall apart? Petey and J.T. at each other's throats, the power play tanking, the media breathing down our necks? Feels like everything's slipping through my fingers, and I can’t stop it.”

“You’re not failing them,” you said firmly. “You care. That’s why this is eating you up inside. And that’s what makes you the right guy to wear that ‘C.’ The team doesn’t need a perfect captain, Quinn. They need one who shows up, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

He shook his head, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “It’s not enough. I’ve tried talking to Petey and J.T., but it’s like talking to a wall. And the guys... they can feel it. The tension. I see it in the way they skate, the way they sit in the room after games. It’s like we’re all waiting for something to snap.”

You leaned forward, your voice low but resolute. “Then don’t wait. Set the tone. You don’t have to fix everything overnight, but you can start by showing them what it looks like to keep fighting. Lead by example — on the ice, in the room, wherever they need you. And as for Petey and J.T.? If they won’t listen to reason, maybe it’s time for a little tough love.”

Quinn exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Feels like I’m failing them,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “The team, the fans — everyone. And I can’t even play at my best with this damn hand.” His voice cracked as he looked down at his fingers, flexing them with a grimace.

“You’re not in this alone,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with understanding. “And you’re not the only one under a microscope. Trust me — I get it.”

Quinn frowned, curiosity flickering through the storm behind his eyes. “What do you mean?”

You shifted slightly, trying to organize thoughts that had been gnawing at the edges of your mind for weeks. “Look, being a coach in the NHL is tough for anyone. But being a woman? It adds a whole extra layer. When we win, I’m a novelty story. When we lose, I’m a failed experiment. And they don’t hold back either — I hear the whispers, read the headlines I shouldn’t be reading.” You exhaled shakily. “The criticism goes beyond X’s and O’s. They don’t just question my strategy; they question whether I should even be here in the first place.”

Quinn's expression hardened. “That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, bitterness tinging your voice. “But it’s reality. And I can’t let it break me, because the minute I do, they win. So I compartmentalize, push through the noise, and keep fighting. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me sometimes.”

Quinn was quiet for a long beat, his brows furrowed in thought. “It’s like no matter how hard you work or how much you care, it’s never enough, is it?”

“Exactly.” You gave a humorless laugh. “And God forbid you show any cracks, because then you’re weak. And weak doesn’t fly in this world.”

The weight of unspoken truths lingered between you, heavy but oddly comforting in its shared understanding. For once, you didn’t feel like you had to keep the walls up, and judging by the tension easing from Quinn’s shoulders, neither did he.

“I guess that’s what leadership is,” you added quietly. “Taking the hits so the people around you don’t have to. Even when it feels like it’s breaking you.”

Quinn's eyes met yours, something raw and unguarded flickering there. “You ever wonder if it’s worth it?”

You hesitated, the question hitting deeper than you expected. “Honestly? Sometimes. But then I think about why I started all of this in the first place. I love this game, and I want to prove that people like me — people who don’t fit the mould — can belong in it too. That keeps me going.”

He nodded slowly, as if turning your words over in his mind. “Guess I need to figure out what keeps me going.”

“You will,” you assured him, voice steady. “And when you do, hold onto it like hell. It’ll be what gets you through the worst of it.”

Quinn’s shoulders eased, some of the tension leaving his frame. “Thanks. I mean it. I didn’t realize you had so much to deal with too.”

“Welcome to the club of people pretending they're fine when they're not,” you said wryly. “The dues are pretty steep, though.”

A faint chuckle escaped him. “Guess that makes us both members, huh?”

You grinned. “Looks like it.”

For a moment, the weight in the room lifted, replaced by a tentative but undeniable sense of connection. You weren't just coach and captain anymore; you were two people who understood what it was like to carry heavy expectations and try not to buckle under them.

Quinn met your gaze, his expression earnest. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you know... I'm around.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and warmth bloomed in your chest. “Same goes for you, Captain.”

For a moment, the tension lifted, replaced by a tentative but undeniable sense of connection. You weren’t just coach and captain anymore; you were two people who understood what it meant to carry heavy expectations and keep fighting anyway.

[mari-lair]

I just want to say, I love Researcher Siff so much. (He's so me frfr) I want to hold his and help him with the world. But I do wonder, would the King understand what Siff was saying if they spoke in the lost language? What would their dynamic be like?

The king would be very interested in Siffrin, more than the poor researcher would have liked.

It would start as mutual excitement cause "FINALLY SOMEONE WHO ALSO GETS IT!! YAY I WAITED SO LONG FOR THIS!!!" which is a bit unnerving for the party who wants to kill the king and all, but the happiness doesn't last. Once Siffrin speaks the star language the king grows obsessive. Forget the life cycle of stars and the name of every constellation! The king wants to shake the researcher until he spills the country's name and describes everything about how their land used to be.

Which Siffrin can't, his research was about understanding and studying the stars, he was so tunnel-visioned on it that stars are literally all he can see now, he has zero idea what their island looks like or its name, he accepted that it is gone and even that trying to remember it make it harder to study the language, so he didn't 'trigger a memory of the language' in one of his researches, Siffrin had to re-learned from scratch. If compared to a native star accent, their own would feel odd, definitively not fluent.

So the dynamic would be "yay, someone to talk about stars! :D" but switch quickly to the king being angry that siffrin is "hiding things from him", aggressive enough to make Siffrin anxious and the party get protective.

And no, the king would not understand the lost language. He would recognize it!!! VAGUELLY!! but not understand...

[t1ts-4-donaldson]

Alien!Art Donaldson Headcanons + Thoughts:

This is beyond odd but I just rewatched a few episodes of star crossed the alien show and the brain worms won't leave me alone. (Some of his body modifications are inspired by the show).

Very quiet prefers to listen to you speak than talk himself. When you first meet he prefers to write out his thoughts more than voicing them. He has the tendency to stare, it's a little unsettling at first his eyes open wide locked in on whatever he’s fixated on especially when he's in public and around strangers. You usually apologize for his actions through a forced smile and distract him with something else giving him fidget toys he insisted you’d buy

His curiosity tends to get him into trouble, walking around your home picking up fragile items and letting them slip out of his grasp as his attention is caught elsewhere. But he's very nifty with technology, you'll find him on your computer or phone making adjustments he see's fit that actually work out in your favor

Night owl he'll try to be quiet but you'll hear him snacking on chips while sifting through books, he's hyper fixated on the tennis section of sports illustrated magazine though

the most empathetic being you've ever met, he sits with you watching all your favorite films and shows. He'll hunker through thrillers, action even horror while cowering behind blankets his body basically meshing into yours in fear. But his personal favorites are romances shedding tears for the ones with tragic endings. Poor thing is weeping by the end of them. "Why would they end that way?" He blubbers eyes fixated on the screen as tears run down his face lighting up his birth marks a mix of intergalactic hues staining his cheeks. You can't help but reach out and wrap him in your arms "life doesn't always have happy endings Art.." you mumble rocking him back and forth consoling the weeping man.

Very sensitive to human touch at first it unnerved him your he would naturally stiffen up the minute you'd try lay a hand on him. You had learned to be gentle using hand signals to try to guide him to do things. On his home planet it wasn't really necessary unless it was for reproducing or being cordial between each other but he craves it the minute he realizes how nice it feels, initiating contact himself attempting to hold your hand in his, walking up and wrapping his arms around you randomly through out the day although the awkwardly/wonky the act slowly becoming his love language towards you.

Is a quick learner, his eyes are always observing you so he copies your actions, he picks up some of your own quirks as well, the way you scratch your nose or stand a certain way. You also see him copying other people around him or online, the funniest ones are of him imitating dances on tiktok.

He also wants to teach you some of what he knows, is eager to show anything that piques your interest, sitting you down outside at night pointing at the stars explaining you some of what he knows. It's endearing when he get's so excited talking about home and his family is adorable. (he starts shaking with joy)

Thinks astrology is silly but entertains the idea for you anyways

Becomes interested in you and your body after learning about sex and human intimacy, he first had seen it on the titanic admiring how soft it was then flipped through the channels euphoria happened to be playing intrigued and unsettled by how aggressive sex could be trying to ignore how flustered it made him not understanding why something like that made him so horny. The last time he see's it before you find out is when he’s snooping through your computer opening up your history clicking on a link eyes wide when he sees the most recent video from an adult website 'woman getting fucked until creampied.' His eyes are open like saucers, his mouth agape watching the entire clip he's tugging his growing boner without realizing it.

That’s when you notice him staring a bit more ogling you whenever you’re wearing low tops revealing your chest or while your walking in and out of your bathroom in a robe as you get ready for the day he get’s shy after you mention it "is something wrong?” You frown a bit concerned. He vehemently shakes his head no but you can see right through it the minute your gaze shifts down to his pants and the tent in them. He's flushing red when he's caught, tinges of pale pink glowing through his birth marks betraying his true emotions.

He shows you some of his powers. Occasionally moving objects with his mind, toying with your emotions to make you feel better when you've had a bad day and showing you how his birth marks work, how water triggers the blue and purple galactic colors to arise, he secretly hopes you find him cool living for your praise.

Alien Art is very endearing once he begins developing feelings for you. Picking up picture frames around your home and tracing your face in them admiring how happy you look a tiny smile forming on his face. He'll sit at your vanity and spray your signature perfume on himself because it calms him down. Will steal your clothes and sleep in them whenever he can (you'll sift through your closet trying to find your favorite hoodie and shirts you find it all in a pile on his bed under the covers <3)

Strangest thing he does is mouth at cutlery and cups you've used. He'd be walking around your place sucking the rim of coffee mugs left out on the table or spoons you used to drink soup with (oral fixation goes crazy). He likes the idea of having your lips on his but he's too scared to actually try and make a move.

just loves you from a distance (for now).

I can go all day talking about Alien!Art <3 might self indulge in more

[deezee112]

The worst ending 26 : The Marionette's Strings

The worst ending 25 | The worst ending 27

Yandere!Ernesto Foulworth x GN!Reader

A/N : Sorry for not updating. I've been really stressed lately. Last week, a strange man made me feel extremely uncomfortable, and it's left me feeling paranoid all the time. Also, the ending might not be as enjoyable because I'm genuinely feeling terrible.

Warnings : emotional manipulation , Unsettling imagery , mind games , eerie atmosphere , Implied death , manipulation , disturbing implications , Loss of control , trust betrayal , unsettling relationships

Tags :

@iris-arcadia @yuu-twisted

If you want me to tag you please tell me.

English is not my first language.

A pair of sharp orange eyes peered up at you. He was small, barely able to stand on his own, yet there was something calculating in his gaze, something too aware.

You crouched, tilting your head at him. " You're a quiet one, huh? "

His ears twitched, but he didn’t respond. He only blinked, his fluffy tail curling slightly behind him.

You sighed, offering a small smile. " That’s alright. You’ll learn to speak soon enough. "

Still, silence.

Your eyes softened as you reached out, carefully brushing his messy hair away from his face. " But first…a name. "

A name meant something. A name made things real.

You watched him closely as you spoke. " Ernesto. "

His head tilted ever so slightly.

" That’s your name. " you said gently, watching for any sign of understanding.

For a long moment, there was nothing.

Then his tail gave a small, involuntary wag.

Just once.

You almost missed it.

A quiet breath of laughter escaped you. " So you do like it. "

He didn’t smile, didn’t speak, but you swore just for a second there was a glint of something amused in his orange eyes.

From the very beginning, Ernesto was different.

Cunning. Sharp.

He was a child, but he wasn’t childlike.

His eyes always seemed to watch, to calculate, as if he was weighing every word you spoke, every move you made.

Still, he was affectionate so much so that it was almost misleading.

" Pet my head. " he would say, pushing against your hand, his tail swishing lazily behind him.

But his words always came with a sly smile, as if testing you.

He would complain often, whining about trivial things " I’m boredddddd " " I don’t like this! " " Why do I have to listen to them!? " but all the while, his tail would wag, betraying his real emotions.

He was impossible to read.

And yet, you always understood him.

" You act like you hate everything. " you mused one day, scratching behind his ears.

He leaned into your touch with a satisfied hum. " Maybe I do. "

" You don’t. "

His tail gave a slow, contented flick.

" You always know what I’m thinking. " he murmured.

" I try to. "

He turned his head, looking at you with an unreadable expression.

" You don’t have to try. " he whispered. " You just do. "

Ernesto never trusted people.

Not in the way others did.

He was polite when he needed to be, charming when it suited him, but it was all calculated a carefully constructed act.

The only one he let his guard down around was you.

And even then, there were times when he tested the boundaries of that trust.

" Would you still love me if I did something terrible? "

It was an odd question. One he asked in passing, as if it were nothing.

" Why would you do something terrible? " you countered.

He shrugged, smiling that same unreadable smile. " Just wondering. "

You gave him a look, ruffling his hair. " As long as you’re honest with me, I’ll always love you. "

His smile faltered, just for a second.

" Even if I lie? "

You frowned. " Are you lying? "

He didn’t answer.

He only wagged his tail.

It started with a puppet.

A simple wooden marionette, handcrafted with delicate precision.

You had bought it on a whim, thinking it might amuse Ernesto, who had always been fascinated by intricate things.

At first, he only examined it, his sharp eyes scanning every detail.

Then, he began to play.

Not like a normal child, though no, Ernesto studied the puppet, learning how each string controlled its movements, how every slight pull dictated its limbs.

" You like it? " you asked one evening.

He twirled one of the strings between his fingers. " It’s interesting. "

You watched as he made the puppet dance, its wooden limbs moving with eerie precision.

" It only moves if I tell it to " he mused, his tone almost absent. " Without me, it’s nothing. "

You chuckled. " That’s how puppets work, Ernesto. "

He turned his orange eyes to you.

" Yeahhh... " he murmured. " That’s how they work. "

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

You had been looking for Ernesto for hours, calling his name into the empty halls, your voice echoing back at you.

Something felt wrong.

Then music.

A faint, haunting melody, coming from a dimly lit room at the end of the corridor.

Your heart pounded as you stepped inside.

And then you saw it.

The stage. The red curtains. The single spotlight.

And in the center

A puppet.

It sat motionless, dressed in fine clothes, its head tilted unnaturally to the side.

But the face—

It was yours.

Your own features, carved into wood, painted with delicate strokes.

A perfect replica.

Cold dread crept up your spine. " Ernesto—? "

A familiar laugh echoed from the shadows.

" You’re late. " he said, stepping into the light. His orange eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

" Ernesto " you breathed, " what is this...? "

He tilted his head, amused. " A performance, of course. "

He tugged a single string. The puppet twitched.

You took a shaky step back. " This…this isn’t funny. "

" But it’s not supposed to be funny " he murmured, stepping closer.

His tail flicked behind him.

" It’s supposed to be real. "

And then

Strings wrapped around your wrists.

You gasped, jerking away, but they tightened, pulling you forward.

Ernesto watched, unblinking. " Don’t be scared. "

The strings coiled around your limbs, forcing you upright.

Your breath came in short gasps. " Ernesto let me go—! "

He only smiled.

" You always said you understood me. "

The strings tugged harder.

" Then you should understand this too. "

And then

The final pull.

A sharp snap.

And the performance came to an end.

Days later, the townspeople would whisper of the tragedy.

Of the strange puppet show that had been discovered in the abandoned theater.

Of the single marionette found hanging from the stage

A puppet with eerily human like features.

And a boy with orange eyes, sitting in the front row, watching in silence.

[georgiapeach30513]

Your Mark On Me, Part 7

Summary: you and Bucky learn to navigate your relationship

Pairings: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of arson, mutual pining, mentions of branding, mentions of a gun kink, unprotected sex, PIV sex, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 5.3K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers by @firefly-graphics

*Bucky edit by @nixakimbo

“Mmm,” you moan. Feeling more rested than you have in years. A warmth radiates from your belly, and you start to turn to your side. But the warmth hisses at you, and you jolt awake. Staring down at her sweet face. Her blue green eyes twinkle at you before she crawls back up to lay on you. And then you panic.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Alpine meows up at you, tapping her paw on your face before you ever get to six. Pressing herself against you, and you feel her body vibrate with her purrs. It’s not that she isn’t beautiful and adorable. You’re just in a stranger’s home.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Her toe beans tap a bit harder on your chin, and you give her a frustrated look. “This is my process,” you whisper, looking towards the door to the bedroom. “Is he a light sleeper?”

Alpine jumps off the bed, and bounces to the door, turning back to look at you innocently. You aren’t sure if she needs to just get out of this enclosed space, or if she needs to see her owner. You shake your head, and bring your knees up to your chest. You didn’t know how you were going to get out of his house without him seeing you. Or worse, where would you go?

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Her screeches and loud meows make you open your eyes. Her hand scratches at the door in front of her.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“Hey, baby, what’s — oh,” he walks closer to you, and your breath stops. “Shh,” he softly says, pulling your hand up to his mouth. Feel my breathing. Inhale. Exhale.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“You want to breathe, just follow me,” he pulls your hand down to his chest, and you feel his warmth under your palm. “Come on, I know you can do it. I’m not going to hurt you,” finally, blinking as you gasp for air. “There ya go. That was perfect. Follow my breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Alpine, come here, girl. She stayed with you all night, didn’t you?”

The fluffy angel jumps in your lap, and you smile as you look down at her. Starting to run your fingers through her fur as your breathing and heart regulates, “I think she likes you. She hasn’t even begged for food. So, what do you remember from last night?”

“Fire,” that was the simple answer. The complicated answer was you cleansed yourself of all the embedded memories in that house. You couldn’t tell this stranger that.

“Yeah, there was a fire. Why didn’t you leave the house?” His fingers tap over his knee. An odd gesture that makes you think he wants to hold your hand. You can’t right now, even though it doesn’t make you want to run. For a stranger he’s showed more kindness to you than people that were supposed to protect you.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to watch it devour everything.”

He licks his lip, pulling the bottom one in as he bites it. Contemplating the next question. “What happened to your arm?” It’s the first time you’ve noticed he has an arm that is made of metal. Thinking you might have offended him with that question, you start to stumble over your words, “I’m sorry. I have scars, too. I don’t like talking about them,” his metal arm isn’t all you notice since he is topless.

“It’s okay. This arm doesn’t bother me anymore. It was an accident when I was in the army,” armed forces and a wounded soldier equals bad. It was always bad, “I don’t drink, and the only thing I do on a regular basis is smoke. I’m not that kinda soldier.”

“My dad was,” your eyes flick up to look at him, and he gives you a tiny nod. “How did you know where I lived?”

“You’ll hate me if I tell you. I don’t want you to hate me,” you didn’t want to hate him, and aren’t even sure you could. He is too kind to hate.

“Did you follow me from the grocery store?” He grimaces, but nods. “You didn’t bring me milk.”

“I saw you have a panic attack. I’m familiar with them because I’ve had them. I needed to make sure you made it home okay. It’s nothing sinister,” what should repulse you is sweet. The man who didn’t know you took the time to make sure that you were okay. And had returned at least on one occasion, but something tells you that it wasn’t just the once.

A silence passes between the two of you, and Alpine turns to put her paws on your chest, meowing softly before she nuzzles into you. “You kept coming?”

“Would you hate me if I said, yes?”

“No.”

“Since we’re being honest, why did you burn the house?” While it seems ill advised, you trust this man. He’d saved your life on more than one incident, and had continued to come in just to check on you. You want to tell him your life story.

“It was a piece of shit that housed a piece of shit, and it killed the piece of shit. I didn’t want it to kill me, either. I needed a fresh start. I didn’t need to be burdened down with…I’m not crazy. I’m odd, but I’m not crazy. There’s things that I don’t want to talk about right now,” it feels good to speak candidly about your past. Let a perfect stranger know your odd reasons for destroying that part of your life.

“But would you? Eventually talk about those things?” You aren’t sure why, but you like him. Not in some weird sexual way, but you like him. He’s warm. Soft, understanding, and patient. His voice is deep and loving. The lack of love you have felt most of your life makes you want to cling to him, but you need a boundary set up, so he can’t hurt you. They always do. You trust them, and they flip.

“Eventually. Thank you. I need to get dressed, and — I have nothing,” looking down at the clothes on you, realizing they’re his, your breathing starts to pick up. You had nothing. Just your laptop, and whatever you were wearing last night. Wherever it was.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“Hey, shh, we can go out and get you clothes.”

“I have nowhere to even live,” you burnt everything. The roof over your head.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“It’s not even been twelve hours since last night,” his voice never gets agitated. It remains steady. Even. It almost makes you calm down. But you had nothing left. It was all ashes.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“Inhale. Exhale,” why did he keep interrupting your counting? Why did he even care?

One. Two. Three. Four.

“This place has two rooms. Don’t worry about where you’re living. You can have this room. I don’t have much. Most nights I sleep on the couch anyways,” inhale. Exhale. He is serious. “I’m not asking for anything from you.”

“Why not? Why are you doing this for me?”

“I’ve been there. I just want you to feel kindness for a change. No one deserves to live in a mental hell. Even if it makes you a creative genius,” you crack a smile, naturally giving his leg a soft tap as you giggle. He knew enough about you. It is silly, but it makes your cheeks heat up in embarrassment thinking about him searching what you did for a living. Odd that he was able to find out that little tidbit, “What?”

“You not only followed me home, you read up on me?” He winks and nods his head towards a bookshelf. Your eyes scan over each of the books in there, and each one of them is yours, “You’ve…you bought them all?” You try to hide your smile, because what should be weird, is oddly adorable.

“No, I read them all. They’re amazing. I don’t know what really happened to you, and I don’t expect for you to tell me your true story, but your experiences have created worlds. You should be proud you used your life for something amazing.”

“I did, didn’t I?” You never compliment yourself. Never even like to bring attention to your work. It’s why you use a pen name. You never talk about your worth, but he was. Not just your worth, but your work. So much of yourself went into writing those worlds. Those moments and memories. The lack of wanting to do book tours, you never hear the good side of it. It felt nice.

“You want me to make breakfast? I make amazing eggs Benedict. I’ll even let you feed the queen Alpine her breakfast,” that sweet baby meows loudly, and jumps into the floor. Turning back to look at you with an angry noise. “She’s impatient.”

“I don’t want you to pity me.”

“I don’t. You fascinate me. There’s no pity coming from me. Except the pity I’ll feel if you don’t feed her fast enough, and she starts nibbling on your baby toes. It stings a bit.”

“Okay,” you whisper, following the smart kitty out of the bedroom. She seems to know where everything is, so you’ll listen. And maybe, hopefully this wasn’t a big mistake.

“And what exactly are you making?” You ask Bucky, jumping up on the counter opposite of the stove just to stare at his back. He continues to move around the food, and Alpine meows up at you. “Your daddy says you can’t get up here.”

“She can’t. Baby, go get on your tower, or you can ask your…Shy Violet to get off the counter, and quit bothering me,” Bucky peeks back at you, wondering if you caught his slip up in calling you Alpine’s mom. You didn’t. You are still smiling down at Alpine, pointing towards her tower.

“Daddy says no getting up here. Go on, my sweet girl, I’ll cuddle with you later,” Alpine has to be the smartest kitty alive because she meows loudly and angrily before she trots over to her cat tower, and you reach into the salad bowl pulling out a lump of feta. “Bucky, what are you making?” You give a little whine to him, lifting a leg to tap on his butt.

His arm quickly reaches behind him, and grabs onto your leg, “I told you that you better quit trying to touch my ass,” he actually wished you would touch it with your hands. Each day that passed he needed you to be more than just his roommate. Sleeping in the same bed as you was becoming harder, and so was he. It was fine, but it wasn't enough. He wanted all of you.

“Yeah, but you won’t tell me what you’re making for dinner,” you had that voice. The one that drove him crazy, and made him melt. You used it in your most comfortable state, and that filled his heart with so much warmth.

“Quit eating the cheese,” he warns you without looking. “It’s Tuscan gnocchi.”

“You’re putting spinach in it, huh?” Letting go of your leg, he turns around to smile at you. Your quirks make you that much more appealing. He just wanted to keep you in his pocket to protect you. “I don’t like spinach.”

“You can’t even taste it.”

“Then why are you putting it in there? It makes no sense whatsoever if you can’t taste it..”

“Do you trust me?” He asks, removing the pan off the burner. Turning off the stove he turns around to look at you, and you shake your head no. “You better trust me,” his voice darkens in a playful way, and your belly gets all fluttery with the pesky butterflies.

“Or what? What are you going to — ahhh!” You scream as he picks up your body to sling over his shoulder.. Carrying you into the living room, and dumps you onto the couch. His hands extend above your body, and he wiggles his fingers. It only means one thing. “Bucky don’t! The food!”

“No. You know, Shy, you asked for this.”

“No, I didn’t! Bucky, no!” You roll out from under him onto the floor, and you jump up quickly. Avoiding the tickles that he was threatening. “Aha! I defeated you!”

“If I really didn’t want you to escape me, you wouldn’t,” he taunts you, taking a slow and calculated step towards you.

“Or maybe I’m just that good.”

“Really?” You giggle nodding your head as he takes another step. “We’ll see about that,” you didn’t like the sound of that one bit. You knew Bucky was more than capable, but there is something about that chase. “Run, Shy.”

“Ahh!” Screaming as you run past him and on the other side of the coffee table. “Missed me.”

“I wanted to.”

“That’s what they all say when they just can’t — woah! No cheating,” your cheeks burn by how large you are smiling. Running throughout the house while Bucky slowly stalks after you. “Your arms are longer than mine, it’s not even fair.”

“What’s not fair is the advantage I have given you. I could catch you anytime I want.”

“Oof,” he pulls you roughly into his hard body. Wrapping both arms around you, and holding you so close to him. “You cheated.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” your chest heaves with his close proximity as you gaze up into his silvery eyes. “Why are you trembling, Shy girl?”

“I’m not,” you are. You always do when he gets close to you. Your body yearned for him. Screamed out his name whenever he got too close. And your mind told you not to mess up a good thing. “I’m not.”

“You know what I love about you living here?”

“What’s that?”

“I love hearing your laugh. Listening to your ideas on what you’re working on. Even if it’s your ridiculously pretty handwriting on napkins that are scattered around the house somewhere. I love coming home, and you and Alpine are taking your afternoon nap asleep on the couch, and you only wake up when you smell me cooking. I love that you also don’t count anymore.”

“I do, too,” Bucky scrunches up his nose, shaking his head no. “I’ve got it down to counting to three. But I still count,” his face moves a tiny bit closer to you, and you gulp. There isn’t anywhere to go. He had you in a death grip, and your heart in a chokehold.

“Why aren’t you dating anyone?” You blurt out, making his movements towards you stop.

“Why would I want to date? No one would put up with what I do, and you,” you had feared he didn’t date because you lived here with him. Your heart sinks a tiny bit thinking that he thought you were holding back.

“I could…you know, I could always leave,” you can’t even look at him after you suggest that. You didn’t want to be anywhere that he wasn’t. But you also couldn’t risk ruining the friendship that the two of you have.

“I don’t want you to.”

“Why? Is this an Alpine thing?”

“No,” he whispers as his eyes dart to look at your lips, and your chest starts heaving. You are an observer, and you couldn’t miss that motion. It’s something you had been hoping for.

One. Two. Three.

“This is definitely a you thing,” his husky voice whispers as his lips hover above your own. He is so close, and neither of you dare to move in any other direction.

One. Two. Three.

He was not suggesting what you are thinking. Bucky is always a straightforward guy. If he meant anything more than what your brain was making up in your head he would say something.

“And a me thing,” he adds. He was suggesting what you were thinking. But now the reality of it was crashing in on you. Making your chest heavy, and your palms sweaty.

“One. Two. Three.”

“Shh, you’re counting out loud,” before you can get out another word, his lips press softly against your own. One sweet chaste little kiss, and you start to see stars. “Breathe, Shy. I can stop if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” your words are barely audible as your hand snakes up his chest, and settles behind his neck. Pulling him closer to you, and you slot your lips against his. “I don’t want you to ever stop,” your lips are right against his, and he lifts you up. Holding you tight against his chest and your legs settle around his waist, while the two of you discover each other again.

This time is so much more intimate. Innocent open mouth kisses until his tongue tickles against your lips, and you whimper out his name. He softly pushes your back up against the wall as your tongue meets his. Tasting the cigarette he had before he walked inside, and craving even more. Ready to devour him. Sinking into him, and feeling like home.

You have never had this much love and comfort in your life. Bucky was dangerous to everyone, except you. He was soft. He was perfect. He was your everything. “Dinner’s gonna get cold.”

“Bucky!”

“Shy, I don’t want to stop. But if I don’t, I’m going to have you laying on the floor, while I have my way with you, and you deserve more than that.”

“What if that’s what I wanted?” He shakes his head no, but you give a roll to your hips. “I do.”

“You do right now because your hormones are running rampant. Baby, I don’t want to just have sex with you. I want us to be our everything. I can’t have just sex with. I need you to love every part of me. Even the bad parts because I’m not changing who I am and…”

“You know I love you, Bubba,” he knows the care you have for him. The excitement you feel when he comes home. But he wants your entire soul to be fused with his.

“I don’t want that kind of love. I love you, Shy, but I need…I want to fall in love with you, and if we continue down this path is going to be us fucking, and end up hating each other. I can’t do that. I won’t lose you.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means we’re going to have dinner, and this weekend, I’m going to take you on a date.”

Alpine hisses, jumping onto your stomach as she gets in a defensive pose, looking at the door. You blink the sleep out of your eyes, focusing on Bucky. He never barged in the house like that. Alpine, now satisfied with the lack of intruder in the house, nuzzles back on your belly, and you search Bucky’s face confused.

“Bubba?” He grits his teeth, looking at anything but you. “Bub, where have you been?”

“Steve’s,” he whispers, stomping into the kitchen where he pulls out a bottle of beer. Throwing the lid into the garbage before sitting on the couch. Didn’t care that Alpine growls more than purrs when he pulls you into his lap. Nursing his beer while holding you tightly.

“He’s lost his fucking mind. He branded her. Put a goddamn tattoo of his mark on her neck, and she didn’t ask him to. He brought someone new to his house where he wants to keep her. His house was supposed to be a secret, but no, let's tell everyone where you plan on taking the one person that could even attempt to soften him up. And what happens when he gets soft, he gets harder. He’s scared of his own emotions, and that fear could have just…she won’t forgive him.”

Pursing out your lips, you don’t know the best approach to help Bucky. You just want him to work his thoughts out, while you listen. Pulling his metal arm up to your chest, you hug it. It was one of his least favorite things about himself, but it was one of your favorites.

“He was getting there, Shy. I know he was. And he had to prove to himself he wasn’t actually falling for that girl, so he goes and makes her hate him. That way when he officially breaks her, it’s that much more of a challenge to him. He’s fucking fucked in the brain.”

“You’re gonna have to work on not cursing so much, Bubba,” you whisper, nuzzling more into him.

“And then he had the fucking audacity to mention you, and…I hate him. He’s never had anyone that has ever called him out on his shit, but me and Sam. And then he dismissed me like it was nothing. Now he’s got Sam, but Steve — you know he has this tendency to trust the people he’s hired, and you just fucking can’t. Not with her. She’s defenseless, and wreckless, and pushes his and everyone else’s buttons, and…”

“How is she?” Bucky looks down at you, before smacking the arm of the chair. “What happened?” He shakes his head no, leaning back on the couch. He was always trying to protect you from the reality of his world. But you want to be there for him, like he is for you. “Bub, I knew when we got involved seriously what kind of world you lived in. If we’re going to be a family, I want to know.”

“He made her watch in a mirror as he fucked her with a gun.”

“You know that’s an actual kink, right?” He lifts up, to stare down at you. “I don’t want your gun anywhere near us. But that is an actual kink. When she called, did she mention if she enjoyed it? That girl is just as sick and twisted as he is. But did he go too far?”

“He just said her cum was dried on his gun. But…no, she didn’t tell me if she enjoyed it,” he makes his scrunched thinking face while he contemplates everything that had happened tonight.

“Maybe she’s too ashamed to admit she did. Maybe she didn’t. But you said he tattooed her neck?” He nods his head before letting it drop back on the couch, and stares up at the ceiling. The idea of whether you loved or hated that part of the evening. “So what’s going on now? What did she say when she called you?”

“That…” Bucky squints his eyes as he watches the blades of the ceiling fan. “That her and Steve were never going to be able to get rid of each other. That he marked her, and — she wants to make him pay. But there’s only one way to make him pay when it comes to her.”

“Bucky?” He sits back up again, his mouth turning up into a smile, “Did you say he dismissed you?” When he nods, your head tilts to the side because you know that Bucky and Steve run deeper than a business partnership. They were a part of each other. Twin flames that burned brightly together. “What does that mean?”

“You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me.”

“And I want you to see a lot more of me,” you let your robe fall off your shoulder, exposing your naked body underneath, “And we’ve got to get used to not having sex all over the house. So let’s take this into the bedroom.”

“What are you up to?” He gives you a smirk as you let your dressing gown fall to the floor in a fluffy heap. “You’re naked in front of our daughter.”

“I sleep naked, James,” an animalistic growl emerges from his chest. That name always got to him. “And now I’m going to ride my fiancé until he comes, and he lets his brain stop for a moment.”

“Why does my brain need to stop?” You pull him by his shirt down the hallway. Swatting away his hand when he tries to touch your soft curves. “My sweet Shy girl, why do you need my brain to stop?”

“Because you deserve it. Now, take off your clothes, and get in the bed, please, James. I need to see all of you,” Bucky needs to see you as well. Stumbling about to get out of his clothes. His cock bouncing up once it’s free from its confines. “Get on the bed, Bubba.”

“Yes, ma’am. I like this side of you. Talk to Steve once and,” crawling onto the bed, your hand presses against his mouth, and you shake your head no. Straddling him, you grab the base of his cock, and run it through your slick.

“What we’re not going to do right now is say that name. You’re going to lay there, and you’re going to enjoy what you’re looking at. If there is something that needs to be said, I will say it, do you understand?” His head nods rapidly, and you let your body take every inch of him.

Settling down your hands smooth up and down his chest. Giving yourself a moment to adjust while you admire how beautiful he is. All the ink and scars on his body make him even more beautiful. They told his story. It was a painful story. Starting to rock your body over him, your right hand runs down his metal arm, and he smirks up at you.

He knew it was a favorite of yours. He’d woken up enough times to find you hugging it. Smiling at your sleeping form as it finds comfort in the one thing that everyone else feared.

Whimpering, you start to bounce over his body, realizing he was the first person that you had ever loved completely. The only person who saw your flaws and loved you even harder because of them. Bucky was your person. The one you were going to spend the rest of your life with, and build something more beautiful than the life you were given.

Bucky’s hands drapes over your skin. Tracing over your softness as his fingers paint your curves. He couldn’t have created a more perfect woman. You saw past his anger, and his past. You didn’t look at him as something to cower in front of, you brought out that lighthearted part of him he thought that he had lost.

You were his everything. No one had ever meant more to him than you. It’s what Steve feared the most. Someone had become more important to Bucky than Steve. Steve could never replace you. And Bucky knew he wouldn’t die for Steve anymore. He needed to come home to you.

He whispers out your name as he stares up at you. Your chest heaving with exertion as you squeak out his name. “James,” tears start to roll down your cheeks, and he begins to sit up, ready to check on you, but you push him back down to the bed. “You stay there. I love you.”

“I love, Shy.”

“We love you.”

“I love Alpine, too,” you shake your head as the tears start to roll faster. “Shy?”

“Your baby loves you,” you gulp as both his hands press up against your stomach, and you nod your head. “I just found out this morning.”

“Shy, baby, we’re having a baby?” You can’t even speak, just smile, nodding your head. “That’s why Alpine was protecting your belly. She’s such a good girl. Just like you. Shy, you’re making me a daddy?”

“I’m trying to make you come,” your little giggle is stifled by your tears. Overwhelmed with emotions didn’t even describe it.

“Will the baby feel me?” If he wasn’t so serious, this wouldn’t be as cute. “Can our baby feel me inside you?”

“No! Bubba, people have sex when pregnant all the time. Shh, feel my breath. Breathe with me,” you bring his hands up to your chest, and move over him like it was your job. Smiling because he was going to make the best father that there ever was. He was going to be so protective, but oh so soft and loving.

Your breathing picks up, and Bucky’s does right along with you. Holding what you said to him seriously. Both of you breathe each other in as identical futures run through your minds. Beautiful lives that were birthed from two broken souls. Two souls that found each other, and were never going to be without each other again.

Your hands start trembling on his chest as your belly heats up. Pleasure courses through your veins as you get closer and closer to release. “There ya go, Shy. I’m almost there, baby. Let go. Let go for me.”

“James,” you whine, biting on your lip as your walls flutter around him. He grits his teeth as he gets closer to the edge. “James!” Your cunt clenches down tight around him, holding him in a death grip, and you sigh as his seed spurts deep inside of you. Turning your mouth up into a dopey smile as you look at him.

“God, you’re amazing, Shy.”

“And you’re a daddy, Bucky.”

You groan as the bedroom lights up and Bucky’s phone buzzes on the bedside table. Even your fluffy fur ball growls when you reach over Bucky to grab it. Rolling your eyes when you see Steve’s name, “What do you want?”

“I thought I called Bucky’s phone?” You sit up in the bed, getting a disgruntled meow from Alpine as she moves to the foot of the bed. “Is it — is it not?”

“It is, this is his fiancé, who is this?”

“Oh, this…has he not mentioned me? I’m — I don’t know what I am to Steve other than trapped in this bedroom, and he’s out there where the food is, and I’m starving,” Steve had found himself a whiny brat. “Do you think Bucky or you could bring me some food somehow?”

“He doesn’t work for Steve anymore,” you relax back in the bed, starting to run your fingers over Bucky’s metal one as it finds its way back your belly

“Oh, so I’m going to starve here?”

“Do you want to stay with Steve? Or are you done?”

“I said some things to him, but I…I don’t know,” Bucky wouldn’t get involved in Steve’s private affairs. That much you were sure of. If that stupid girl didn’t know if she didn’t want to be with Steve or not, you wouldn’t either. “He hurt me.”

“Would you have gotten that tattoo if he asked?”

“Yes,” absolutely no hesitation. “I sound stupid. I like him, and I like what he does to me, but I think he just wants this sick fantasy of popping my cherry, and then he’s going to be done with me.”

“No, he won’t. Steve doesn’t have to work for sex. He could pick any girl at that club to suck him off whenever he wanted to. He’s working on you. You’ve piqued his sick interests, and you’re just as sick as him. You get it?”

“Bucky acted like you were shy,” you are. More so with men. But this woman was threatening the peace you and Bucky are creating. Her and Steve were like chaos junkies.

“Is he asleep?” You could hear her rustling around with the door, and giving a little peek.

“Yes.”

“Then sneak and get food. If that man wanted to get to you, he would have. For whatever reason, he’s given you some weird form of boundaries. Get food, and figure out what you want. If you want him,” you take a deep breath as you stare at your sleeping fiancé. He didn’t want to admit the power that you had over Steve. Men could be blind to the power of a woman, especially the power radiating out from between their legs.

“If I want him, what?” Her voice is frazzled, willing to listen to whatever it is you were going to tell her. She had to have known. But maybe she didn’t understand the way that Steve was.

“If he’s giving you that space, you’re the one that owns him.”

Next

Masterlist

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[mothergold]

dottore x reader | minors do not interact

warnings: gender neutral reader, dottore accidentally triggers you, soft dottore because we deserve it, no pronouns/gendered terms for reader, past trauma/abuse, dottore is most likely ooc, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, estabilished relationship, flashbacks, reader cries for most of this, homicidal thoughts/urges (dottore), established relationship, wrote this in tumblr drafts meow.

a/n: this was so healing to write 🩵

summary: due to an unfortunate series of events dottore learns about the darker parts of your past.

It all happened so fast. One minute you were listening to Dottore ramble on about something and the next moment you’re crying, back pressed against the wall. Shame and guilt washed over you the moment you realized what had happened. He hadn't hurt you, barely even touched you, yet you couldn't help but cower in fear.

It wasn't something Dottore was used to. Seeing the look on your face, the terrible way your eyebrows furrowed while your eyes burned with a pain he couldn't recognize, it was almost too much for him to bear.

You refused to answer, or rather, you couldn’t. Dottore held back from touching or reaching out to you. Instead he studied your facial expressions and body language, relying on you to tell him when the time was right to make physical contact.

Still, regardless of how patient Dottore was you wouldn't move a muscle. Neither of you said anything. You wanted so desperately to resign yourself to the comfort of his skin, but stronger forces kept you pressed against the palace walls.

Dottore did well to shield from anyone that may have made the unfortunate choice of walking down that hallway, but he was quick to deter any of those peering eyes and any hushed voices were swiftly silenced.

A feeling he had not felt in a long time washed over him. "Are you able to stand?" His voice was low and calm, like the soft humming of a quiet building.

You paused before nodding your head. Slowly you stood up, your knees wobbled and threatened to buckle at any given second.

"May I touch you?" He asked, offering one of his hands to you.

There was an odd sort of gentleness which hung from his words that made you a little less tense. Your eyes which were trained to the ground finally peered up at his hand. For a moment you hesitated, but thankfully the moment was brief. Cautiously you took his hand and allowed yourself to relax against his body.

You felt the world around you begin to spin. Your vision grew blurry with every pathetic tear that fell from your eyes, and your hands shook with fear as they clung to your lover’s coat. Dottore very slowly wrapped one of his arms around you and pressed you close to his chest. If it had been any other time you would’ve teased him for being so soft, but at that moment all you could think about was your horrible past.

As you softly cried into Dottore’s chest you had begun to remember events, faces, people, in grave detail. It was as if everything was surfacing all at once. Dottore quickly urged you to walk along with him, leading you into his private quarters. As you made your way to his room you made sure to stick close by him, keeping your eyes on the ground in front of you while squeezing his hand tightly.

Once you’d finally made it to his room he promptly shut the door and gently sat you onto his bed. You sniffled quietly as tears continued to roll down your face. Still, Dottore hadn’t uttered a word and instead merely held you close in his arms, safe from any and all harm.

There was a long moment of silence before Dottore finally spoke. “What was their name?” He struggled to contain his anger and hide the urgency of his question.

You started to cry a little harder, scared to answer his question. “I’m-I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” There was a brief pause and then you bounced your leg and scratched at your skin as if you were contagious. “I-I know that must s-sound dumb, and I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so stupid.”

The way you spoke only caused his anger to grow, and yet, he continued speaking to you in the softest tone he could find. “When did it happen? Do you know what they looked like?”

He knew logically his approach was most likely doing more harm than good, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never burned so hot in his entire life. In all the years he’d lived he’d never felt rage quite like the kind he experienced in that very moment.

You shook your head. “Please, Zandik, I can’t.” Your voice broke on that last word, and oh, how it destroyed the poor man’s heart.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself that you were the one in pain, and that you needed him with you most of all. So, swallowing his pride he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his lap. Dottore rocked you back and forth in a moment that was mainly filled with silence, until about ten minutes in when he started to softly sing a lullaby from his childhood. He’d known it was something mother’s would sing to soothe their crying child, and although he had never experienced it first hand, he figured it could be used towards helping you.

Dottore smoothed down your hair with a careful hand, handling you with the gentlest of touches. There wasn’t much he could say without making a bigger mess than there already was, but perhaps he could at least hold you close and keep you safe for as long as possible. He’d never promise such a thing, or at least he never had before, but perhaps he could make an exception for the love of his life.

[nodus--tollens]

Press F to Harvest Apples

English is not my first language so please forgive my grammar or any mistakes I made. Enjoy!

Life is chaotic—like a massive RPG filled with too many NPCs begging for screentime, events that make no sense and somehow play out of order. Sadly (or not), I’ve decided to ignore the main storyline and stick to the side quests. What’s better than picking flowers while the whole world burns?

This has always been my way. From the moment I became aware of myself as a person, I’ve avoided the main quest of life as one might avoid a plague. Instead, I focused on the things that didn’t matter for my “curriculum”—those odd, seemingly irrelevant pursuits that, though never destined for practical use, were simply too fascinating to ignore. These side quests, as I call them, are the ones that fuel me. And at the moment, my favorite is gaming.

Gaming is how I came to know the people I talk to now—this vast group of over ten idiots, barely sharing a single braincell between them. I’ve never been one for face-to-face interactions. Working in a field that demands constant public engagement already drains enough of my energy for that. So, meeting people online, from the comfort of my own bedroom, where the only thing I need to worry about is whether my mic is working, feels like a welcome escape.

Inside the bedroom, the outside world felt distant, muffled—like the quiet hum of a forgotten dream. The silence was occasionally pierced by the soft click of keys on the keyboard, each press and release forming a rhythmic pattern, almost hypnotic in its repetition. It was a strange kind of therapy, one that eased the tension clinging to their mind. The room was bathed in a warm, rich yellow light, the kind that flickered like the glow of embers in a dying fire. This light came from hidden LED strips in the ceiling and the delicate Lotus Flower Lamp nestled in the corner near the bed. Its petals caught the light, reflecting a soft, pinkish hue that contrasted with the yellow warmth—an object from a thrift store, one they still took immense pride in.

Sitting in front of the computer, their face bathed in the cold glow of the monitor, they barely registered the flickering screen before them. The game played on—colorful, fast-paced, chaotic—but their attention drifted elsewhere, slipping through the cracks of the moment like water through cupped hands. Voices crackled through the headset, laughter and groans erupting with every blunder, every near miss. Someone screamed something incoherent, another cursed between fits of laughter, but the noise felt distant, muffled, as though buried beneath layers of cotton.

They had always been an afterthought in these games—the last pick when teams were formed, the one left waiting while others paired off. Despite always being there, always online, always ready, it was something they had learned to accept. Or at least, they told themselves they had. But acceptance did not ease the quiet sting of being overlooked, nor did it dull the weight pressing against their ribs—heavy and persistent, like an overcast sky.

It had always been this way, and perhaps it always would be. A cycle repeating itself endlessly, like a broken record spinning on the same scratch-worn groove. Like a garden that refused to change, where the same flowers bloomed in the same tired arrangement each spring—predictable, unyielding, as if no other seed had ever been given the chance to grow.

Yet, amidst the familiar monotony of this garden, something new had begun to take root—a single bulb, breaking through the soil, its petals just starting to unfurl.

Caleb was a recent addition to the group—a newcomer in the ever-chaotic mess of voices and inside jokes. Unlike the others, he didn’t share the single, battered braincell they all passed around; he had one of his own. Introduced by a friend they had met in-game, Caleb had slipped effortlessly into the rhythm of it all—the banter, the shouting, the frantic coordination that rarely amounted to anything useful. He wasn’t around often, but when he was, everyone welcomed him with an ease that made it seem like he had always been there.

They had never truly spoken beyond the occasional “hey” or “what’s up,” the kind of surface-level pleasantries exchanged between two people who simply existed in the same space. He was good at the game—really good—his skill in FPS matches far beyond the rest of them. At first, they had all wondered if he was some kind of pro player, his precision and speed almost too perfect to be true. Yet, every time they asked, he just laughed.

As the voices slowly faded and people began to log off, the room grew quieter, the usual banter and shrill screams dissipating like smoke. Only the ambient hum of their own room remained, the soft clicks of the keyboard punctuating the stillness, while the music bot droned on with a playlist they had tossed together five hours ago. Conversation dwindled to a bare minimum. Only four people remained now—a far cry from the usual ten or more, if you didn’t count the bot itself. What had once been a whirlwind of chaos had reduced to pure, almost unsettling calm.

The screen, which had once showcased the game their friends were playing, was now filled with an RPG they had stumbled upon and occasionally played. The main quest, of course, was ignored in favor of talking to an NPC about collecting plants—an oddly fitting activity, not just in-game, but in real life too. It was as if they had found a strange connection between this side quest and their own existence.

Taking a deep breath, they closed the game. Their eyes scanned the screen, searching for something—anything—to do.

— Do you guys want to play something? I’m kinda bored.

Their voice, soft and quiet, echoed through the call, the icon lighting up green as they spoke, then fading back into the silence. A "no" was what they expected—and that’s exactly what they got from two of the others. But not from Caleb. Not from him, the one person they hadn’t really spoken to much. Maybe that was the reason. Maybe it was because he didn’t know the rumors, didn’t hear the whispers about their so-called reputation as the "bad player."

— Are you sure? I’m not exactly the best player there is, probably the worst out of everyone here, so it’s fine if you want to pass.

— Why would I? I can carry if needed. Don’t stress. Just send me your nickname so I can add you.

Caleb’s voice came through casual, with a light laugh at the end—something they didn’t expect. It was so sincere, so effortlessly reassuring, that they were left speechless for a moment. Two minutes passed in silence before they finally gathered their thoughts and sent their nickname.

The music bot was cranked up to a louder volume as soon as they joined the lobby. The usual chaos filled the background, but this time it felt a bit different. They’d never played with Caleb before, so they didn’t know what to expect. They had only seen him in passing—good at the game, maybe a little too good, but that was about it.

The queue popped fast—way too fast for this godforsaken hour. Who was even awake at this time of night? Oh, right.

It was just another FPS game, something they’d played a hundred times before, but tonight, they decided they weren’t going to play the usual role. Everyone expected them to be the support, the one who hung back, kept the team alive. But for once, they weren’t going to do that. For once, they weren’t going to hide behind the safety of a healing ability or a shield. They locked in a duelist champion, ready to take the lead.

— Duelist? Feisty, I like it. — Caleb said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement, the playfulness almost tangible. — I could’ve sworn you were a support main.

— Eh, kinda? — they replied with a casual shrug, though he couldn’t see it. — I don’t mind playing other roles, it’s just that the chance never comes up, and, well... nor the courage. — They let out a small chuckle, half self-deprecating, half lighthearted.

— People are a pain in the ass?

— People are a pain in the ass. — they agreed without hesitation, the words coming out almost like a mantra.

The first few rounds went smoothly enough. Sure, they weren’t playing at their best, but no one complained. Caleb didn’t mind when they apologized again, even though it was the ninth time in the same round that they missed something. In fact, he just laughed it off and said it was fine. He didn’t mind. The teammates didn’t complain either. It felt... strange, almost unnatural, to have someone be so calm after they missed so many opportunities. Their friends would have gone insane by now, throwing out insults or at least sighing dramatically. But Caleb? He just stayed calm, like it was too easy for him, like mistakes didn’t carry any weight.

It was almost like playing with someone from a different world, where things didn’t matter as much.

This round was already decided—victory was a mere formality. Caleb had promised to carry, and carry he did. His precision and composure anchored the team, even in the midst of chaos.

The music bot switched songs right before the round started, playing a track that felt like an old friend. The first notes hit, and their heart quickened. The bass began to thrum beneath their skin, like a storm trapped in a bottle, its tension thick and undeniable. The volume cranked, and the music seemed to take on a physical presence. Every beat reverberated in their bones, like they were part of the sound itself. Without realizing it, their lips began to move, singing along instinctively, absorbed completely in the chaos of the moment.

— “Fuck it, I'll get famous out of spite” — they sang softly, the words slipping out like a breath. The screen flashed as an enemy fell, but they barely registered it. The music pushed them forward. The bass wasn’t just a sound—it was an electric hum that ran through their veins, an invigorating pulse. It urged them on, deepening their energy, syncing them with every action. Every kill came so naturally, so effortlessly, it felt like the game was just a rhythm to follow, the kills nothing more than punctuation in the flow of the music.

— “I’ll make it overnight, be starring in the movies, just to make you cry” — they sang as another two enemies fell, almost simultaneously. A double kill, a triple kill—everything was fluid, seamless. There was no pressure, no rush. They moved with the beat, like the game had already decided their role.

— “Baby, I'll be in your dreams, and every magazine” — they sang the next verse, their voice quiet, almost a whisper. There was no aggression in the words, just the calm steadiness of someone who had found their rhythm, their place in the chaos. The game no longer felt like a battle. It felt like a dance, one they’d done countless times before.

— “Go tell everyone you knew me, They'll say O-M-G, Damn, you fumbled the bag, I'm never gonna let you forget” — they let out the final line with a light smile, the words flowing easily, like it was all part of the moment. The game ended. Their victory was quiet, simple.

Ace.

The song lingered, filling the room like a final exhale.

— I thought you said were the worst player among everyone here — Caleb’s voice came through with a laugh, genuine and surprised, yet it held some playful teasing in its tone, as he stared at his monitor, the victory screen flashing in front of him.

— In my defense, I am. And I have no idea how that happened. — they replied with a half-grin, still feeling the hum of the song in their chest, the final moments of the round still swirling in their head. — Also, what in the ever-living fuck is your aim? Can we talk about that please?

Caleb’s laugh broke through the tension, rich and unrestrained, flowing like thick syrup into a cup of warm apple tea. It was a sound that made something stir in their chest, a fluttering they couldn’t quite place, like the soft tickle of nerves when something feels just a little too right.

— Yeah, yeah. — he teased, his voice playful yet teasing, — Says the one who somehow managed to obliterate the whole enemy team while singing. Please, share the tactic, I could use it.

— Oh, shut it. — they muttered, rolling their eyes with a scoff, a small smile tugging at the corners of their lips as they clicked through the last of the game’s menus. — It’s a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

A soft silence settled between them. It wasn’t awkward—just the kind of quiet that fills the spaces when two people are comfortable enough to let the world around them slow for a moment. The only sound left was the mellow music bot, a calm melody playing in stark contrast to the chaotic beats of earlier. Their eyes, heavy now, stared blankly at the monitor, no longer seeing the screen but rather the fading glow of the game.

— I think I’ll go to sleep. — they said softly, breaking the silence at last. — It’s already pretty late. Thank you for the game, it was really fun.

— Yeah, I think I’ll go too. — Caleb’s voice came through, lower than usual, deeper, like a murmur that slid through the distance between them. There was something about it—something quiet, something unexpectedly intimate—that sent a flutter in their stomach. Why did this guy, someone they barely knew, have that effect on them? It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.

— No need to thank me. — Caleb continued, his tone warmer, almost vulnerable. — I enjoyed it more than you imagine.

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable but carrying weight. Then, with a softness that seemed to echo in the quiet, Caleb’s voice broke through once more, the question casual, but somehow charged.

— See you tomorrow?

They hesitated, just a beat too long, as if the words themselves were weighing more than they should. Then, without thinking too much about it, they responded—quiet, but certain.

— See you tomorrow, Caleb.

[rocketedtothestars]

I’m trying to come up with a one shot idea I wanna write. This is the idea I have so far.

A little messy but I’m working on it. Was laying here and had this whole idea so I’m using my phone to write it out and thought it would be fun to share. 💕 I do intend for this to get fluffy at some point but this is what I have so far.

Was just in that mood to write something 👉🏻👈🏻🥺

Description/Idea (so far)…

I had this whole idea of an argument breaking out when he comes home from a mission. Maybe him taking out some of his anger on you (yelling, pointing his clawed finger at you while standing on the counter top, etc). But you just kinda let him yell at you for a bit. Of corse you eventually lash back, telling him it’s ’unfair’ for him to take it out on you. He’s been so aggravated his last few missions when he came home. But this one was different. You bring up the fact that you want to help out more. Maybe learn to fly or fight even. It upsets him. It upsets him a great deal because he doesn’t want to loose you… (I can’t seem to think of what occurred for him to be upset on his mission just yet, but I’ll come up with something, even if it’s silly cause it’s fan-fiction and I could go about this any way I see fit) but I’m thinking a delivery went all wrong? He enters the room, and you can already feel the tension radiating from him. For a while you brought up how you wanted to learn to fly a ship or even fight. You wanted to be able to fend for yourself. It had been months since you were really able to do much, and typically Rocket wanted to be with you. For your safety. In your mind, you felt like a burden. Your jobs were simple, and every so often you’d do some odd jobs on Knowhere with Kraglin, Drax, or Nebula. You challenge Rocket’s walls, insisting you are ready to learn, to which he clearly doesn’t want you to. Not out of toxicity, but out of fear. He had lost too much in his past. And he didn’t want to loose you.

warnings: Language, very light fluff.

Written for M!reader and Gay Reader 🏳️‍🌈

It takes place after Vol. 3 (so with the new Guardian’s lineup)

Rocket slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the small apartment. You glanced up from the kitchen counter where you’d been chopping vegetables, the knife pausing mid-slice. He stomped toward the counter, his boots making small thuds against the floor. You could tell immediately he wasn’t in a good mood. His fur was slightly matted, his ears pinned back, and his tail twitched with irritation.

“How was the mission?” you asked, your voice calm, though you could feel the tension radiating off him. You set the knife down and turned fully to face him. Rocket didn’t answer immediately. He climbed onto the counter with an ease born of habit, tossing his holster onto the surface with a loud thunk. Standing on the counter brought him nearly to your eye level, and his brown eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unreadable. He crossed his arms, his claws tapping against his sleeves as he leaned slightly forward.

“‘How was the mission?’” he mimicked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, sure, let’s pretend it wasn’t a flarkin’ disaster.”

“Rocket, what happened?”

“What happened is I spent the whole damn day babysitting a buncha idiots who couldn’t follow a single flarkin’ order!” he snapped. He took a deep breath tho, gazing down at the counter, scratching the back of his neck.

“Well,” you paused, trying to pick the right words. It seemed like each time you offered to help, you were shut down. Yes. You were his boyfriend. He loved you, wanted nothing but for you to be safe. You knew just how much he cared about you. How much you meant to him. And he too, meant just as much to you. “-I was thinking maybe it’s time you start teaching me somethings… Kraglin thinks I would make a good pilot, well, co-pilot at-least? Even said he was willing to teach me a thing or two?”

DEEP in your hearts of hearts you know he doesn’t mean what he says. It’s not your first rodeo dealing with his sharp tongue. Even when it hurt sometimes.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re not goin’ out there!” He shouted, baring his sharp canines at you as he pointed off in the distance. “-You think this is some kinda game? You don’t know what the hell you’re doin’, and you sure as shit ain’t ready for what’s out there! I know you want to go out there, I know you want to help, but I can’t take any risks. I KNOW what it’s like out there, way more than you ever will!”

His words cut deep, like a dagger straight to your heart, but you swallowed the pain, forcing back the tears. He knew you were sensitive—maybe that’s what he loved most about you. You cared, even when he was a complete dick. You weren’t doing this for yourself; you were doing it for both of you. Together. No matter how much it hurt, you wouldn’t back down.

“Rocket, I know you’ve been through hell. But I can’t just sit here… I can’t sit here, and then you come home on days like this, lashing out at me. It’s not fair. And goddamnit, you know I already know—I’ve heard this shit before.” Your voice faltered, the weight of his words pressing down on you like it always did. Every time you tried to bring this up, to contribute, to help, it ended the same way: shut down, dismissed. “Rocket, please…”

“‘Rocket, please! Rocket, please!’—‘please let me go out and get myself killed, please let me help you.’” he mocked you, raising his voice and pitching it up slightly to match your soft tone. His voice dripped with venom as he finally stopped, growling low and pointing a sharp, clawed finger directly at you. The tip was just inches from your face, and instinctively, you took a step back, feeling the edge of the counter press into your lower back.

“The answer is flarkin’ no!” His ears pinned flat against his head, his amber eyes blazing with frustration and something rawer underneath. If you didn't know any better, you'd say they almost looked a bright red. His tail lashed behind him, bristling with agitation as he bared his sharp canines. “Besides, it’s not like you could do much as of now. The mission’s over—done. It was a fucking wreck. Then I gotta come home, make sure you’re alright, then I gotta work on flark knows what? Probably help Kraglin or Nebula set up the—” he waved a hand dismissively— “Hellstorm Systems or whatever the hell it's called.” His words still stung, his tone cutting, but even as he ranted, there was something in the way his gaze flickered that betrayed him. Behind all the anger and mockery, you could still see the fear. The fear of losing you. But right now, his walls were up, and his words felt like a barrier. His way of keeping his real emotions hidden.

Rocket’s sharp gaze followed you as you instinctively backed into the counter behind you, his clawed paw still extended, though it faltered for a moment. He noticed, of course—he noticed everything. The way your shoulders tensed, the way your hands gripped the edge of the counter behind you, as if grounding yourself against the storm of his anger.

You’re too good for him (So he thinks), But you know he is the best damn thing to ever happen to you and it couldn’t be any further from the truth. You love him. You understand him, maybe not everything he went through. But you do allot for him. You’d do anything to make him happy. To see him smile. Go through great lengths, even with the little knowledge you have on anything here.

You wasn’t a Guardian—not like the others. You were still finding your place. Rocket wouldn’t say it, but his worry was clear. He wasn’t afraid you’d fail—he was terrified you’d get hurt. But you couldn’t just sit back. You wanted to be more, not just for yourself, but for him. Cleaning his pistols, something he’d taught you, and something you would do for him out of the kindness of your heart felt small, but it was a start. A step toward proving yourself—to him and to yourself. You’d left everything behind to be with him, and though Rocket rarely admitted it, a part of him carried the weight of that. The guilt gnawed at him—at the way you were practically stuck on Knowhere. The only time you seemed to go out was with him, and you were fine with that. You preferred him at your side. Those harsh words he threw at you when he didn’t know how to say what he really felt. You did the odd jobs, kept the apartment running, cleaned his guns of corse, but there was always more.

“I can’t keep waiting for you to decide I’m ready, Rocket. I’m not asking to be a hero—I’m asking to survive. What happens when you’re not there to protect me? What am I supposed to do then? Just hope for the best?” Your voice cracks slightly, but you keep going, holding his gaze as the two of you stood in the small kitchen of your Knowhere apartment. “I… I left everything for you. The least you can do is let me learn how to fend for myself, fly a ship, damnit, something—because one day, I might have to, whether you like it or not, and you damned well know it.”

The way he avoided teaching you to pilot a ship. When you brought it up mid-argument, his eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding, the amber depths burning with frustration—and something deeper. His fur bristled, his ears twitching as he clenched his jaw revealing his canines, trying desperately to hold back. You could see it, the way he fought not to snap any further than he'd already had. To keep from saying what you already knew he thought. What he already said. It’s too dangerous. It always was. But you weren’t blind to reality, and neither was he. He couldn’t protect you from everything. You had to learn to stand on your own at some point. The last thing you wanted was to depend solely on him—and deep down, you wondered if that was what scared him most.

"You think I like bein’ this way? Flarkin' yellin’ at you? I don’t! But I know what’s out there! I know how fast things can go to scutt, and if somethin’ happened to you ‘cause I didn’t stop you—" He cut himself off, his canines bared as his voice broke for a split second. His eyes darted away from yours, burning with frustration, fear, and something deeper that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say aloud.

Your eyes softened, leaning away from the counter behind you. You knew Rocket meant well. Even like this. He'd never hurt you, maybe with some of his words, sure. But he damned sure wouldn't let anyone else. But you could see it, even as he tried to turn his head away from you. Through those bared teeth those beautiful brown eyes of his gave away everything. You made your way over to him, wrapping your arms around him. It caught him off guard. It always did. But he caved. The warmth of your body next to his. It was comforting. It was exactly what you knew he needed.

"I can't... I can't lose you..." His voice was sofer. It was as if his anger melted away in an instant. He was still frustrated, yes, but he wasn't mad at you exactly. He knew he couldn't protect you from everything. But he could damn sure try.

"Rocket..." Your voice was a mere whisper, your hand trailed up his back. Even through his uniform, you could feel his pulse quicken in your arms. "-I love you. I'm sorry, I just... R-really want to-" And before you could finish that sentence. You were instantly cut off by the warmth of his breath against your neck, followed by a tender kiss. You had a healing hickey in the spot he was kissing-from him.

“Okay, I admit it… You’re right…” he whispered against your neck so tenderly. The way his warm breath felt against your neck. It made you melt. Every. Single. Time. “We’ll start, next week… if anyone’s going to teach you to pilot a ship it damn sure isn’t going to be Kraglin.”

You couldn’t help but muster a small chuckle, feeling his calloused paw run up against your back and along your sides. You wanted to let him know how argumentative he was, and while he had a valid point. You didn’t say a word. He you felt his whiskers tickle along your neck, the way his tongue slowly glided over a faded bruise along your neck. One he had left a few nights prior. “R-Rocket, I just want to be…”

“-Baby boy…. I know. Don’t ever think you don’t do enough, okay.” He said, planting a kiss along your neck once more, interrupting you. “You are so stubborn sometimes, you know that?” His tone was so much more relaxed now. Even as you guided your hands up and back down his back, you could feel those implants through his uniform under the palm of your hands.

“I know,” your voice was soft. As you slowly pulled away, your hands stopping just above the base of his tail, you had all but forgotten you were in the middle of making dinner. “-I should probably get back to making dinner?” It was a simple stew. Nothing fancy, but you were whipping up something that was quick and easy.

And that is all I got so far. Sorry this is long, maybe even a little messy. But it’s all for fun. 💖

[teitpp]

Dal/Gwyn, Janeway/Chakotay parallels

I've been mulling this over for a while so I just wanna put all of these down. I really have been enjoying the parallels between these four, and there's a bunch. Will add to this as I think of more.

Dal and Janeway:

They're both on a quest to find home. Janeway back to Earth. Dal back to his family.

Both captain a nontraditional crew and bring them under the Starfleet banner. Dal captains his crew of escaped prisoners from Tars Lamora and Janeway the combined members of her original crew and the Maquis in each case this is born of expediency. They need the crew numbers to get the ship running. And for both part of their journey becomes learning to be a better captain to their unique crews.

Both explore and grapple with their relationship to starfleet ideals. In Dal's case learning Starfleet ideals and laws from scratch and putting them into practice. In Janeway's having her existing ideals tested by an environment where they are difficult to hold to. She and Dal both experience obstacles that test their commitment to these ideals and face consequences of straying from them.

Stars: Dal's window of dreams. Janeway's love of nebulas. The stars mean different things to these two: freedom to Dal and discovery to Janeway but both are seen to have a particular affinity for them.

Learning to lean on their crew: Both in one way or another return to themes of accepting help rather than depending only on themselves. For Dal, this comes from a past of self-preservation and survival. For Janeway, from guilt-driven instinct to put her crew before herself. Both see some of their greatest successes and moments of growth when they set aside those tendencies and accept help from their crew.

Gwyn and Chakotay

Both leave their home for Starfleet, and later return to it when it is in trouble. Chakotay leaves Dorvan/Trebus at 15 against the wishes of his father in order to pursue Starfleet Academy. and only returns when it attacked by the Cardassians. Gwyn idealizes Starfleet her whole life on Tars Lamora only to decide to try to save Solum rather than join her friends as warrant officers.

Both have complicated relationships with their dead fathers. Both of their fathers disagreed with their pursuit of Starfleet, and wanted them to embrace a future that more directly benefited their homeworld. Both were in conflict with them before their deaths and Both of their fathers were killed violently, spurring a shift in their thinking.

Both love exploring other cultures. Gwyn has a love of languages. Chakotay of archeology/anthropology. Both enjoy learning about new people and places and making connections.

Both of their homeworlds are abandoned by the Federation for political reasons - a treaty with the Cardassians in one case and a commitment to non-interference in the other. In Chakotay's case this leads him to turn against starfleet for a time, feeling that it had abandoned its ideals. I'm curious if Gwyn's mission to Solum will lead her down a similar path.

Both act the first officer to an equal. Chakotay was a captain of his own ship before agreeing to be Janeway's second in command. Gwyn has more technical expertise about the Protostar's systems than Dal, and more familiarity with the Federation.

Dal/Gwyn &. Chakotay/Janeway

Both pairs begin their relationship at odds in similar ways. Janeway is seeking to arrest Chakotay. Dal is first Gwyn's prisoner and then takes her as a captive.

The Moral Star/Coda parallels. I just enjoy a good "You might be dying in my arms and I never told you how I felt moment" okay. I am a sucker for it.

Gwyn and Dal ending Season 1 in a similar place to where Janeway and Chakotay were at the start of it. Chakotay winds up trapped on Alt!Future Solum after accepting a mission to complete some of the unfinished work/fix some of the mistakes Voyager had when it first traversed the Delta Quadrant. Gwyn ends Season one going to fix some of the mistakes made between Solum and Starfleet in the alternate future. Janeway and Dal, meanwhile, are at HQ with their own Starfleet-focused duties.

Speculations:

All of the above have me wondering if both couples are in a similar place romantically. Dal and Gwyn are just beginning a romantic relationship when they separate. Is that where Janeway and Chakotay are as well?

And will this mean that Gwyn will also need a rescue? Will her mission go sideways like Chakotay's did?

[pkg4mumtown]

Special Weapons and Tactics (Ch. 5)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Original Male Character (OMC)

Rating: Mature

Summary: Another body surfacing doesn't help the already hopeless situation for León. Thankfully, he has someone willing to jump in and pull some strings.

Content Warnings: strong language, first person POV, canon-typical violence, mostly fluff, descriptions of murder, casefic

A/N: (March 8, 2025: The fic has been officially transitioned to Hotch/OMC. The fic sort of got away from me and I realized I've been putting more detail than I should be for a reader insert as I've been writing future chapters. I apologize ahead of time for anyone who enjoyed it as a reader insert, but I wanted to rectify this in the hopes that future chapters wouldn't feel so forced/odd/specific as I write them.) Thanks for sticking it out with me! Hope you enjoy!

Spotify Playlist songs for Chapter 5: Lately, Paralyzer, Rock Your Body, In the Shadows, My Type, Just Like Heaven

Also available on AO3 - I do use a workskin on AO3 for text messaging, so I uploaded screenshots of the texts here. I know this isn’t what iOS looked like in 2010 but I didn’t feel like learning a new workskin lol.

tags: @l-a-u-r-aaa (let me know if you want to be removed since it's not quite what you signed up for anymore)

July 2010

I crouched over the new victim, Gregory Thompson. He fit the victimology of the other victims including the one found on Friday, Jackson. I ran through everything I theorized last night—this morning—two hours ago—whatever. My mind was hazy and sleep deprived, causing me to scrub my face rapidly in an effort to wake up.

“Everything matches, from the castration to the rage but why is he doing this?” I sighed heavily.

“Homophobia?” O’Malley offered. It wasn’t a bad guess but it was too general, too wide.

“Nah,” I absentmindedly scratch at the scruff on my chin that I hadn’t had a chance to address. “This is personal. If it was just homophobia, any random homosexual man would do but he targets these older men specifically. I think they remind him of someone.”

I stood and walked with O’Malley away from the scene, letting forensics do their thing. Her brow was drawn tight when she finally spoke up, “Like a partner?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” I grunted as I climbed into her car. “How old do you think he looked in that footage?”

“Not much older than mid-thirties maybe, it was hard to tell.”

“And he’s been described as young. So, I’m thinking around the ages of the partners of the victims?”

“You think someone fitting the victimology wronged him and that’s why he’s doing this?” she questioned, starting the vehicle and pulling away from the scene.

“It makes sense,” I sighed, staring out at the shops as we drove back to the station. “There’s just no way to track down couples if they can’t be legally married.” I threw my head back against the headrest of the seat, “What bugs me is the hopping around states, it’s like he just picked a state at random. We had six murders in Missouri but only four in Oregon, why?”

“Cops got too close?”

“Mm,” I thought for a moment and dialed Fielding. “Hey, did all of the suspects in Oregon check out?”

“One second,” I heard her rapidly type. “Yea, all three suspects checked out. All had air-tight alibis.”

Fuck.

I’m not a profiler, but I’m smart.

Come on.

“Ketamine is a controlled substance, schedule three?”

“Yea…,” she answered slowly.

“Check out males in their late twenties to mid-thirties with professions where they could get a script for it. Cross reference with records in Missouri, Colorado, and Maryland.”

“There’s less than legal means, too” Fielding suggested.

“Yea, but the way this guy’s moving, I don’t think he could afford to be buying this constantly,” I chewed on my bottom lip anxiously.

“Alright, I’ll get back to you.”

As we drove back to the station, I got another call.

Hotch.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“We’re wrapping up tomorrow, how’s yours going?” He murmured over the phone, clearly trying not to draw attention to himself.

“Not great. I’m real envious of how fast a whole team gets shit done,” I grumbled. “I found a history starting in Missouri, to Oregon, and now in Maryland. Victimology all matches, they were drugged with ketamine, they’re being castrated, the unsub seems to fit the age of the victim’s partners.

“You think it’s personal?”

“I do,” I hummed. “It’s just a lot to juggle with just me and my analyst.”

“Send it to me.”

“No, Hotch. You guys are in the middle of a case, I’m not going to drag you from one to another with no breather.”

“We should be leaving tomorrow. Let me at least get a profile started for you. How long do you have between murders?”

“Two days, he’s going hunting again tomorrow.”

-

When I got back to the station, I was diving deep into the case files again. Noon came and went, and I had yet to hear from Fielding. The search must have been far too wide for anything helpful.

I fought to end the jaw cracking yawn that split open my face as my phone rang. It was Hotch again.

“Hey, you’re on speaker. We’re flying your way now. We wrapped up in record time,” Hotch informed me.

“Come on, I told you it wasn’t necessary.”

“The case was comically easy, I need more mental stimulation than that,” I heard Reid in the background.

“There’s nothing comical about murder, Spencer,” I heard Rossi speak up.

“I just mea—,” he was cut off when Hotch started speaking again.

“I already spoke to your chief, we’re coming. Garcia, are you there?”

“Here, sir!”

“Do you mind if I loop in my analyst, too? She’s gotten me this far.”

After getting Fielding on the call, the BAU started assessing the unsub once I sent Hotch all of the information Fielding and I gathered.

“Do you want to start us off?” Hotch directed the question to me. “It’s your case.”

“Sure, thanks,” I cleared my throat and gathered my thoughts. “We have two homicides in the Mount Vernon area of Baltimore, so far. They’re both mid to late forties, homosexual, and have partners a decade younger than them. They were drugged, abducted from local gay clubs, viciously beat, and then castrated while still alive.”

I heard a soft “oh my God,” which I made out to be from Garcia.

“The castration looked clean like they didn’t hesitate, so I assumed they’d done it before. I had Fielding look into murders that fit the victimology, and she found ten other cases like it that have fallen through the cracks. The states seem random from Missouri to Oregon and now Maryland.”

“Look at the ones in Missouri,” I heard Derek speak up. “These were definitely his first ones. The castration is jagged like he hesitated.”

“Or like they struggled. Maybe he didn’t have the dosage right yet,” Rossi jumped in.

“This seems extremely personal. Cutting off genitalia while they’re still alive? He wanted them to suffer,” Reid chimed in.

“He could be jealous of the couples? Maybe he had something like that in the past.” Morgan offered.

“Using ketamine to get them to cooperate suggests he’s calculated in his methods,” Hotch added.

“It suggests a level of planning and desire to minimize risk. He’s not impulsive. He’s choosing them for a specific reason,” Reid agreed.

“There doesn’t seem to be any racial motivation either,” Prentiss said.

“So, he’s using the clubs to find victims who fit his profile. He’d have to be charming, gain their trust. He talked to them for a while before they followed him out, right?” JJ asked.

“Yea, and only as soon as they weren’t around their partners. I thought maybe the age difference might be a trigger. Maybe some relation to the partners of the victims since he seems to be of similar age. Like someone fitting the victimology wronged him and made him snap?” I chimed in.

The group was silent for a beat.

“What if he was cheated on by his older partner? The castration might be a message?” Rossi questioned.

“Maybe he’s trying to send the ex-partner a message,” Reid breathed, like a light bulb just went off in his head. “You said the states seemed random but what if he’s following his ex? When he approached the victims, he could have charmed them into cheating on their partner, therefore fulfilling the profile.”

“And leaving a trail of blood following the ex,” Hotch murmured. “Garcia, look up middle aged men who’ve made the move from Missouri to Oregon to Maryland within the time frames of the murders.

“I have Fielding looking at men in those states who could get access to ketamine, we can see where that overlaps.”

“Good work, we’ll be there soon.”

I hung up the call and breathed a little easier.

“That was pretty remarkable,” I heard O’Malley from the doorway.

“Yea, no kidding,” I scrubbed my face with my hands. “We’ve got a team on the way and some searches running. They think he’s following the partner around the country so we’re trying to look for someone who’d fit the victimology hopping around those states. They’re coming in from Indiana but should be here in an hour or two. We want to try and get ahead of him and based on the past murders, he should be out hunting tomorrow night.”

“Take a breather, kid. Go get some food. You’re doing good work,” the woman smiled and rubbed her temples as she walked away.

-

Inhaling wasn’t strong enough of a word for what I was doing to the sandwich I managed to find at a nearby shop. Though, not eating for over twenty-four hours would do that. With my mouth full and my forehead resting sleepily in my hand, I nearly missed the soft knock on the door frame.

“Hey,” I heard, making my head shoot up, cheeks bulging.

“Oh, shit,” I stood, wiping my hands on my pants as I struggled to finish what was in my mouth.

“You look like hell,” Hotch murmured.

“Just what every hot girl wants to hear, thanks Hotchner,” I shook his hand for looks as I saw the team watching us from the corner of my eye. It was honestly just an excuse to hold his hand.

“Garcia and Fielding have a hit. You ready?”

I saw the team waiting for permission, “Yea bring ‘em in.”

Hotch waved them in, and they got started immediately.

“Garcia found a match on the unsub’s stressor. His name is Richard Anderson, forty-eight years old,” Hotch started.

“We got him to get us a list of his previous partners and cross referenced with the list from Fielding. We got a match.” Derek finished.

“Parker Foley, thirty-five-year-old pharmacist. Richard admitted to cheating on him two years ago. We got an address here in Maryland,” Rossi watched my eyes widen.

“Let’s go?” I reached down, immediately grabbing my vest, not even waiting for them to start moving as I felt my feet start carrying me through the threshold.

Hotch reached out and grabbed my wrist before I could step out of reach, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“The faster we get this done, the faster I get some sleep,” I gave Hotch a pointed look, daring him to stop me. “I need to finish this, Hotch.”

Seeing the determination and emotion swirling in my eyes, he knew I meant business and relented. I strapped on a green, tactical FBI vest not unlike the one I wore on SWAT missions, preferring the customization to the standard blue vests everyone wore.

Hotch and I climbed into the car first, waiting for the others as we planned on taking two SUVs. We sat in a brief silence as we waited for the rest of the team. Hotch looking over with worried eyes as I picked at the material of my vest.

“León,” he murmured softly. “I know I keep pestering you and I’m sorry. I just—I know this must hit hard for you and I was worried.”

“It’s fine,” I murmured, and immediately felt bad that he felt like he had to apologize for checking up on me. “I’m just frustrated at how easily cases like this fall through the cracks because no one gives enough of a shit about us.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to come,” he placed a comforting hand on my arm and gave me an understanding squeeze before the moment was ripped away as Prentiss and Reid got in the car with us.

“JJ and Morgan are going with Rossi,” Reid announced.

With that we sped off to the address Garcia sent us. Eventually, the SUVs skidded to a halt outside of a seven-story apartment building.

“We’re looking for apartment 5B,” Hotch announced as we exit. “Rossi, JJ, Morgan go for the west entrance. We’ll take the east.”

Everyone nodded and split off toward the two different stairwells. Our guns were drawn as we cautiously made our way up the five flights of stairs while keeping an eye out for Parker. Without running into any other tenants, we approached his apartment door and hugged the wall to prepare for entry. I placed myself on point, reaching for the knob to gently twist it.

Locked.

I stepped away from the wall and readied myself to kick the door in. Morgan reached over, banging on the door to announce our presence and then nodding to me. I forcefully kicked the door open, ignoring the splintered wood in its path. I cleared the initial corners and waved some of them off to the left while the rest of the team followed me to the right and began checking rooms. I approached a closed door, breathing sharply before throwing it open and clearing it quickly. It was a ransacked office with paper everywhere and items knocked over.

“Clear,” I announced to the group.

There was a resounding confirmation that the rest of the apartment was clear, too.

“Hotch,” I called over. “Look at this, it’s a mess.”

“Like someone tore it apart,” he confirmed as he entered, eyes jumping around the room for anything that stood out in the mess.

Pulling a glove from my pocket, I wrapped my finger in it and opened up Parker’s laptop. As the screen blinked on without a lock screen, a Facebook post on Richard’s profile appeared. The caption read, “Love of my life,” with a picture of Richard and a young man who wasn’t Parker.

“Posted thirty minutes ago,” I noticed.

The rest of the team entered the small room, murmuring to each other about the state of it. Rossi read the post, too.

“If this post caused him to lash out like this, he might have moved his timetable up.”

“Look at this,” Hotch found a few sticky notes of clubs nearby littering the desk.

“Those two clubs were from the first two murders,” I commented, recognizing the names immediately.

“He must be going here next,” Hotch held up the last club.

-

“We can’t go in guns blazing,” Rossi commented as the team discussed tactics. “There will be too many people, he’ll slip away and probably hurt someone in the process. We’ll lose him.”

“Reid and I can go in undercover and get him to approach?” Morgan suggested.

“No, you don't fit the victimology, he won’t care about you,” I pursed my lips. “Reid might fit but you look too young, Derek.”

“I fit,” Hotch stepped forward.

Everyone’s eyes bounced between Reid and Hotch, analyzing if they could make it work. I had no doubt about their abilities but having two of the most socially awkward of the team go in together seemed like a bad idea. That combined with Reid maybe having the most knowledge about the gay community between the two did not bode well.

“I’ll go with you,” I spoke up. “I’m around Parker’s age, it might trigger him more. Hotch and I fit the other victims and partners pretty spot on. I also have experience in the community.”

“Thank you,” Reid sighed gratefully. “No offense,” he rushed to say, realizing he had said it out loud.

“None taken,” Hotch gave Reid’s shoulder a pat. “Let’s get ready.”

The team cleared out of the office so I could change, having an old outfit from another undercover operation in my go-bag. It was also my only other option besides the collared button down and hybrid tactical pants I currently wore. They weren’t exactly party material.

I pulled a pair of tight black jeans out of my bag along with nicer looking boots. Tugging them on was a chore, especially in a rush and I had to adjust myself several times to feel somewhat comfortable in the front. I located a leather belt in the depths of the bag to round off the outfit. Shrugging off my button down, I searched around for the top I thought I pulled out and sighed, kneeling back down to dig in the bag for it.

A soft knock sounded at the door, “Come in,” I answered, finally finding it.

“Hey, is this—uh,” Hotch started and stopped as soon as he located me in the room.

“Come in,” I urged him, shaking out the high-neck tank top and watching his eyes lose focus and drift down my exposed chest.

“Is this, um, okay?” He tried looking everywhere else as he presented his outfit to me.

I tugged the top over my head, leaving my shoulders and arms exposed nearly up to my traps. The bottom hem was cropped and ended about two inches above my belt. I smirked seeing Hotch’s eyes drawn to the trail of hair there.

He had changed his pants to dark jeans and lost the tie, leaving his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, “Lose the jacket, too. Might get warm inside.”

He shrugged out of it, pulling his dress shirt tight to his chest, “Good?”

“Mmm,” I hummed and stepped in closer, aiming my hand for his chest. My fingertips barely skimmed the skin where his top button was undone, “Undo this one, too.” I undid the second button before he could move, “More to look at.” I patted his chest and stepped around him, leaving the office and him standing here to collect himself.

“God damn,” someone mumbled under their breath as I found the team.

“He dress like that the times you ran into him?” Morgan murmured to Reid, who was in a trance.

“No comment,” he answered, quickly shutting his mouth. “Yes.”

“Damn,” Morgan muttered, watching Emily volunteer to help me with my wire.

“Mhm, imagine my disappointment,” Reid sighed.

I did one final spin to make sure the wires wouldn’t come loose, non-verbally gauging the opinion of the team.

“Hot, Doc,” Derek spoke up first, looking over my outfit for my gun, “Are you packing?”

I gave him a smirk, implying something far dirtier.

“Get the hell out of here,” he shook his head and shoved me away.

I laughed as I retreated and spun around, meeting Hotch, who had already been wired.

“Ready?” I asked, ruffling my closely cropped hair into something less federal agent-like, hopefully.

“Sunset’s barely started, we should get going,” he murmured with his brow tight in concentration.

“We’ll be tapping into the cameras inside. Let us know when you see him,” Rossi gave us one last instruction.

We borrowed a car from the station and headed over, making it quickly since the station was only about ten minutes away. The rest of the team would be nearby in vans monitoring the operation and ready to act as soon as we caught Parker.

Hotch seemed tense in the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel to silence since he’d immediately turned the radio off when the car started. I couldn’t tell if he was being his usual stoic self or if he was nervous about what we had to do and was too professional to say anything. It would be his first kiss with a man after all, I realized.

“Relax, hermoso, you’ll do fine,” handsome, I teased, hoping to ease his nerves. I fished lip balm out of my pocket, quickly putting some on and offering it to Hotch, “I don’t like dry lips on either party.”

Hotch huffed, cracking a glimpse of a smile, and took it from me, applying it quickly before handing it back to me.

After parking the car, we made the short walk to the club. I easily fell into step with Hotch, slipping an arm around his waist and hooking my fingers into his belt loop. I felt his arm lay heavily over my shoulders and pull me close, tucking me into his side. I was a few inches shorter than him, making the action easy, but most definitely outweighed him. His body began relaxing the closer we got, made known by the kiss he dropped on my touseled hair.

The transition from the fairly quiet outside to the loud, thumping inside the club was a stark change. I felt bad for the team’s ears as the sudden sound traveled through the mics to their headphones. We found a single chair open at the bar and made a beeline for it in the crowded area.

“This is going to be more difficult than we thought,” I heard him murmur close to my head.

“It’s Sunday night, what did you expect?”

Hotch pulled the chair out and waved me to sit. What a gentleman.

“You sit, honey. I wanna dance,” I pouted, separating myself from him.

Hotch sat on the bar stool with his knees wide and pulled me closer by my hands to stand between his legs. His head tilted up at me endearingly, searching my face for how I was going to respond to the position, “Have a drink with me first.”

“Fine,” I leaned forward, snaking my arms around his shoulders. Without missing a beat, I pressed my lips against his to get the first one out of the way. Immediately, his hands clung to my waist and wrapped around my body to hold me close. I pulled back much sooner than I would have liked, smiling at the way his eyes hadn’t quite caught up and remained half closed. “I’ll have what you’re having,” I smiled and dropped another quick kiss to his dazed smile.

Fuck. Me.

We’re working, we're working…

I leaned up against the bar while hanging off Hotch’s shoulder, mindful of the patron to my other side. I didn’t want to accidentally bump into the patron as I took up the space between his stool and Hotch’s. My hand moved to Hotch's hair at the base of his neck, then ventured around to rest on his opposite shoulder. His hand found my lower back, trailing it up, down, and then much lower to imply ownership. I had to bite back several moans as his hand grew a mind of it’s own as he got into character, squeezing the muscles of my ass every so often.

Hotch took charge of the drinks, flagging down the bartender and ordering two glasses of scotch.

We toasted our glasses and took long sips to shake off any lingering nerves. We scoped out the crowd discretely, only stopping to whisper anything we noticed to other for the team to hear, creatively designed to look like a variety of kisses. The more playful we came across, the better.

Not too long in, both of our glasses were half empty when I felt one of Hotch's hands grab me by the hip. I stumbled a bit, not expecting it since I was swaying to the music with my drink. I played along, following the direction his hand tugged me until I was seated on his thigh.

“This seat taken?” I cooed as I sat, catching myself in his lap. He didn’t respond, just tugged me even closer with his hand bringing my torso closer to his roughly, “Fuck, papi,” I let out a whine, making a show of nearly spilling my drink.

Hotch's face moved closer to mine, an uncharacteristically wide smile on his face, “Sorry, sweetheart.” His lips brushed mine quickly, “Twelve o’clock.”

I gave him room to look, moving my lips to his chin.

“Eleven,” he murmured against my cheek.

I pressed another kiss to his jaw. I felt his fingers dipping under my shirt, making me squirm, and I barely resisted biting the skin of his jaw in retaliation.

“Ten. He stopped. He’s looking,” Hotch murmured against the shell of my ear and I felt an involuntary shudder run through my body.

I finally pulled away with a scandalous gasp, “You're filthy.”

“Just getting warmed up,” he grinned back, running a hand high up my thigh.

I was going to have to readjust after that.

I knocked the rest of my drink back and stood up off his thigh, “’Kay, all done.” I wobbled on my feet for show. “Time for dancing,” I grabbed his hands, trying to pull him to his feet.

“Go ahead, baby. I want to finish my drink,” he said loud enough that hopefully Parker overheard.

“No, fun,” I pouted. I leaned down for one more kiss, the alcohol in my veins making me braver.

It was purely selfish.

My tongue slid along the seam of his lips, his mouth barely beginning to open when I pulled away. I turned around to saunter away when I felt a sting on my ass. I turned to throw him a look over my shoulder, finding him smirking back.

“Did he really just fucking do that?” I muttered as I made my way over to the dance floor. I could only hope the team’s reaction to the exchange was as hilarious as I imagined.

Now, I just had to wait for the buzz of an incoming text from the team telling me when they moved. I tried to stay near the outskirts of the dance floor but didn’t want to be noticed either. My view of Hotch was severely limited as a result. I finally saw a foreign head appear next to Hotch’s after a few minutes. Parker had clearly waited for me to leave first before moving closer to Hotch.

“Is anyone sitting here?” an unfamiliar voice sounded next to Hotch. Parker stood next to the newly vacated seat next to Hotch. The patron had left at some point while we were drinking.

Hotch feigned being surprised well considering he had been subtly tracking Parker's movements since I left.

“Uh, no, please,” Hotch smiled pushing my empty glass away.

“Thanks,” Parker smiled pleasantly, turning to hold his bag in his lap as he sat.

A few moments passed with Hotch spinning his glass on the bar top. He took a quick sip and looked Parker's way again, who was doing a good job of looking diligently at the menu.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Hotch finally spoke up.

“Oh, that’s okay…”

“Please? I insist,” Hotch leaned toward him, letting his eyes drift down Parker's body.

“Okay,” he tucked a stray brown hair behind his ear shyly, giving Hotch his best doe eyes. He reached a hand out to Hotch, “Parker.”

“Adam,” Hotch, responded.

I glanced over every now and then, trusting the team to let me know when something happened, but being overcautious at the same time. Hotch scooted incrementally closer until there would have been no room to stand where I had been standing between those two seats.

Progress, good.

I didn’t linger watching them just in case Parker decided to look out at the dance floor. I found an all too willing dance partner and focused on the feeling of the phone in my pocket to combat the effect of the scotch as a result of my poor eating habits today.

“So, your—uh—boyfriend? Is he coming back?”

Hotch cocked his head to the side ever so slightly.

“Oh, come on. I saw him walk away when I got here,” Parker took a sip of the drink Hotch bought him to mask whatever bitter emotion was crossing his features. “He’s cute.”

“Sure, but between you and me...” Hotch leaned forward into Parker’s space, “...he thinks he’s a lot more important than he is.”

Parker was silent but nodded for Hotch to continue.

“I have a stressful job and, well, he just makes it worse with his constant bitching,” Hotch shrugged. “He’s only really good for one thing,” Hotch let his eyes flick down to Parker’s pants.

“Mm, he sounds awful,” Parker responded, pretending not to notice. He suddenly leaned into Hotch, making Hotch almost recoil at how fast he moved. Parker placed a steadying hand on Hotch’s thigh, sliding it upward, “Do you mind handing me one of those napkins.” He tilted his chin toward the stack of napkins over Hotch’s shoulder.

Hotch was all too aware of the vulnerability of this and made a mental note to not touch his drink after. He turned back to Parker seeing him rifling through his bag only to bring his hand out empty.

“Thanks, I thought I brought my eye drops. I think someone around here has a cat or something,” Parker dabbed at his eyes.

Hotch knew exactly what Parker was doing while his back was turned but played along, “Oh, how awful. Are you okay?”

“Yea, yea,” Parker moved to stand up. “I’m gonna get some air, maybe a smoke will do me some good.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yea,” Parker smiled sweetly, grabbing onto Hotch’s forearm. “You can join me if you want.”

“I could use a...smoke,” Hotch stood. He placed a coaster over the glass and moved to walk with Parker outside.

“You’re just gonna leave that?” Parker asks innocently, pointing at Hotch’s glass.

“Oh, yea. I don’t want him to come looking for me if the bartender takes it,” Hotch lied smoothly.

“O—okay.”

My thigh buzzed, making me look up instantly. I saw Hotch’s taller frame first, his head bobbing through the crowd with Parker in front of him. I traced their path and saw that Parker was taking him to the back exit. I didn’t move until their backs were entirely toward me and Parker’s hand was on the back door. I slowly started moving, breaking out into a run as soon as the door closed behind them. Leaning against the wall just next to the door, I ripped open the Velcro holding the inner ankle seam of my pants together. I had learned my lesson after trying to tug my pants up on a different undercover operation. I drew my gun and reached for the handle.

Once Hotch let the door close behind him, Parker was taking his hand and tugging Hotch toward him.

“Come here,” Parker bit his bottom lip, letting himself be backed up against the brick by the taller man.

“Thought you needed some air,” Hotch—Adam—smirked.

“I lied,” Parker grinned, using one of his hands to bring Hotch down by his neck.

The kiss was rough and aggressive. It’s nothing like the kisses Hotch shared with León earlier and he decided immediately that he hated it. He broke the kiss, instead running his mouth along Parker’s jaw and down his neck while keeping track of his hands for any sudden movements. He lost one hand, and the thought made his heart rate pick up.

What contingencies did this guy have?

Hotch didn't have to wait long before the door they just came out of squeaked open. My voice boomed from next to them, “FBI, put your hands up!”

Hotch let go of Parker, slowly putting his hands up and taking a step back. Once Parker realized that Hotch didn’t look nervous about the situation, he realized he’d been made. Parker’s furious eyes glared into Hotch as I ordered him to put his hands up again. A glint of metal caught my eye as Parker’s hand twitched, “Needle!”

Parker’s hand flew up, but Hotch was quick to catch his wrist and pin it to the wall, not caring about the brick biting into his knuckles. Parker struggled against Hotch but he pressed a forearm against the murderer’s throat to prevent him from squirming. I could see the team running into the alley with guns drawn, making me sigh in relief. I approached cautiously, fishing a glove from my pocket and prying the syringe from his fingers carefully. With the drugs secured, Hotch roughly turned him around, pressing him up against the wall face first. Morgan took over and slapped cuffs on Parker and directed him away.

As they took him away, I found the discarded cap to the needle and carefully recapped it without incident. I passed it off to one of the attending officers who, thankfully, had a plastic bag on him.

“Good work,” Rossi gave Hotch a slap on the shoulder and turned toward me. “You, too, kid.”

Everyone exited the alley except for Hotch and me. He looked positively disheveled but in a cute way, with his shirt rumbled, hair a mess, and kiss-swollen lips. The adrenaline was beginning to die down in my veins, causing my shoulders to droop. My energy, both physically and mentally, had been more than expended over the last two days. I finally let myself feel the emotions I’d felt since I learned about the case. My eyes stung and I pressed the heel of my palms against them to mitigate the feeling, deciding too late to turn away from Hotch. A sob barely escaped my lips before I felt Hotch’s arms engulf me and cradle me against his chest.

“Shhh, you did a great job,” he murmured against my forehead. “We got him. He can’t hurt anyone else.”

With one last shuddering breath, I pulled back and wiped my face, “Thanks, sorry.

“No need to be sorry.”

Hotch’s eyes were watery, but the dam didn’t break.

I really want to kiss him again.

By the looks of it, so did he. His face got closer but stopped short as he resigned to just press his forehead against mine. I kept a firm hand on his chest to let him know it wasn’t the best of ideas.

“I know,” he murmured. “Would it be okay if it did happen again, though? Some time?”

I nearly snorted with how absolutely ridiculous the question was, “Yes, Hotch, it can happen again.”

Though, despite my feelings on the matter, I didn’t expect that it would be as natural as he might hope. Our emotions all ran high during this operation and I was sure once that wore off, we’d be back to dancing around it.

“Good.”

“You know they’re making bets on you, right?” I stepped out of his comforting embrace.

“I don’t doubt it. Who told you?”

“Derek. But, oh, how I love sabotaging office bets,” I smirked.

-

Chapter 6

[faroreskiss]

The Power of Understanding / Part 5 (v2)

v2 (rewritten) posted on: 2023/09/10

Read of Ao3

Cheat Sheet

Chapters: Part 4, Part 6,

Warnings: None? Red parts are "Post-Calamity Hylian" (PCH), AKA the language you speak with Wild.

In this chapter: More backstory, how you met the chain and how you found out about the price of it.

The rest of the breakfast was uneventful; you and Zelda enjoyed the delicious pumpkin pancakes prepared by Link, with homemade butter and cream. Yum.

Even though it was a day when you didn't have to go to the lab with Zelda, there was still much to do. It takes a long time to build a kingdom from scratch, after all. This was to everybody’s advantage, as the unspoken things were going to stay unspoken for a little longer.

Today's topic was children. Ugh, you really didn’t like them as much, but you couldn't deny that their brains were like sponges for information, and it was interesting to observe how they learned things, especially languages. Zelda was planning a history and grammar lesson for the village kids, and you, of course, volunteered to help with the material prepping.

Link also liked teaching, but this time his subject in the "school" was going to be "P.E.", as you taught him the word. A fancy way of saying he was going to teach horse riding.

The weather was luckily quite sunny on that day, perfect for a class outside. While the history class was nearing its end, he went to run some errands and to pick up his horse from the Hateno stable. It was built recently and kind of on the outskirts of the village.

A couple of hours later, he came back with a very odd group of travelers. All armored, relatively young men and a teenager. They looked quite intimidating, yet somehow familiar to you.

Including Link, all of them looked like a huge mess, as if they just fought something. Some of them had blood stains on them, some had scars that looked like they were recently bleeding. Zelda was still teaching the class, so you stepped out of there to make sure children didn’t get distracted by the group and walked towards them.

“Link?” you called to him. “Who are these people?”

As you said ‘Link,’ you couldn’t help but notice how the travelers behind him kind of also perked up, even if just for a second. You raised an eyebrow, carefully considering what to make of them as they exchanged looks between each other and nodded.

“Erhm,” he hesitated, scratching his head. “I don’t know actually. I can make out some of the words they say but it’s not super clear, right when we thought we were figuring it out, we ran across some weird monsters on the way, and they were able to handle themselves pretty well, so I thought… I don’t know, the whole thing is weird. More we walked, the less understandable their speech got. I thought you could maybe help… so..”

“Hello!” you greeted them with a wave.

One of them, the one with the wolf pelt, said something. You could almost, almost make it out. There was something familiar about what he just said, if only you could understand…

Then a horrible, splitting headache and a piercing sound started assaulting you. You screamed in agony, getting down on your knees and holding your head.

“(Y/N)? Are you okay?”

Then some type of darkness swallowed you whole.

_______________

You groaned, feeling dizzy. What just happened? Your stomach was feeling queasy. One moment you were in the village square, and now… in a forest? It seemed like those 8 people were also with you.

You called out to Link, then realized he was right next to you, motionless. You held his head and called out to him again.

He startled at your touch, and it seemed like the first sense he regained was hearing. “(Y/N)?” He seemed to recognize your voice, but it's like his brain still needed a second to process what's happening. Then an expression of relief crossed his face, “Hey.. I’m okay,” he said as he composed himself. For some reason, his speech became… less recognizable. It was him alright, but you felt the feeling of familiarity slowly seep away. It felt wrong.

“Hey!” you called out to the rest of those people, who were all in some type of state of dishevelment, gathering their belongings from the floor or using the dirt ground as their puke bowl. The one with some type of animal pelt on his shoulders approached you and Link.

“Uhm,” he said cautiously, “A’ yu okei?”

It took everything in you to not laugh out loud. Was that supposed to be English? You understood what he meant, but it’s been so long since you heard, well, plain English. Hylian was just a weird mashup between Japanese and English from your point of view (and sometimes other languages), and it took a bit for you to learn.

Either way, you composed yourself and decided to try your luck with plain English. It was taking you so long to answer, you started feeling rude towards this nice gentleman who looked oddly familiar. He had some markings on his face. Quite distinctive, and to be honest, he was such a hottie. 

You just nodded at him, “And you? Are you okay? Can you understand me?”

“Ya, I caen. Ya spei’k almost onaji like ore.”

Okay, but this was ridiculous. Sure, the "Post Calamity Hylian," let's call it, was also a mash like this, but at least it sounded like an actual language. This was just strange, like a bad joke.

But it also made sense. Some games in the TLoZ series used kana as the basis of their Hylian alphabet, like in Minish Cap or Wind Waker, or OoT; you even tried to transcribe some once. Some games like Skyward Sword or Twilight Princess, however, were using a script based on the Latin alphabet. Huh. Maybe that’s why…

But then, these people must be…? You just needed to test it.

“Link?”

There was no mistaking it. Every single one of them perked up and looked towards you.

“Oh shit,” you cursed under your breath.

Link tilted his head and gave the man a confused look when he spoke. “Hm. You sound odd. But you were sort of speaking Hylian, yeah?” He seemed puzzled as he looked back at you.

“Does that mean you understand what he's saying?” he continued, staring at you.

Link seemed puzzled as he watched you communicate with the man and didn't understand what's going on. He watched you talk, though, and when you finally finished and asked the man if he understood you, the man suddenly nodded his head rapidly, giving an 'Uh-huh' sound.

“Yes, yes I do… Oh Link, not sure how I can explain this to you, but I think… All those people are called Link.”

“Don’t you understand him when he talks?” you asked back to your interlocutor with the animal pelt.

“Lady, we someho’ managd da comms wi the rest o’ da grup, but koitsu over here still koe no gibberish to us,” he said, pointing at Link, as he looked to the rest of the group, asking for confirmation.

He sounded absolutely ridiculous. If only...

"So, I take it, you are also Link then?" you said back to the guy with the pelt. You felt a tinge of pain in your head. You didn’t pay much attention to it.

“Yep.”

The pelt guy was still standing nearby, staring at Link intently. His expression was a blend of sadness, frustration, and pity. It looked as if he held strong negative emotions towards Link.

Your eyes widened. Did this Link and your Link ever meet? If you are correct, and if that is the Link from Twilight Princess… They kind of did. Didn’t they?

Meanwhile, all the Links (you were pretty sure at this point) already gathered their belongings and moved toward the conversation.

Most importantly, you were still not screaming out loud, and the fangirl scream stayed in your brain. These people were all Links, you were pretty sure. This was almost like a dream come true, if you disregard the fact that you are in the middle of fucking nowhere in a forest with an upcoming throbbing headache. You tried to keep your cool.

“Ey, Rancher. Learn anything?” another Link with something wrapped around his neck, a scarf perhaps, asked, as they stopped chattering between each other. He was the one that sounded the most understandable so far. 

The tinge of ache actually started to intensify even more. It was still manageable. You dealt with worse. The skinny looking Link was absolutely staring at you with a puzzled expression.

Pelt guy (probably Twilight Princess Link?) didn’t break eye contact with you as he spoke. “No, but for some reason, you speak better now?” he replied to him, it might have sounded sarcastic in any other context, but he sounded genuine. 

“Yeah, okay, what the fuck?” came from the Link with the red tunic.

“Ookay, guys, this is really trippy. You don’t sound so funny anymore,” said the teenager.

The Link with one eye missing and the skinny-looking one looked at each other. They seemed more like they had an idea about what’s going on.

“Huh… didn’t think translation magic actually existed, just like that,” he said slowly, looking up at you. 

Your Link also spoke, “I… understand them, but it is hard. The words don’t sound… quite understandable, but I get the gist of it? Maybe?”

Pang. Another tinge of pain in your head. Sharper this time.

Your headache was intensifying. More anybody spoke, the worse it got. Did you suddenly develop migraines? You were pretty sure that’s not how migraines worked. 

The teenager gave your Link a puzzling look. ”Uh, that guy is BARELY understandable.”

Another pang. It felt like somebody stabbed you in the eye, but from the inside. 

Your head was throbbing. The more they spoke, the more it hurt.

The ‘introduction round’ went through anyway; each of them explained the story of how they met, how they have been together a while. How they were all the chosen heroes of their respective eras, the strange monsters that appeared recently. To anybody else, it might have sounded like these people just escaped an asylum. But the Triforce marks in their hands, some of the accessories they carried… To you, that was unmistakable. You squeezed Link’s hand subtly, and told him to trust you. That these people were not lying to him.

But even in the state you were in, you were about to explode with excitement; girl, you played all of these games. When it was Link’s turn, you were the one that explained it to them. They still weren’t able to understand him quite well. You didn’t mention the 100 years of sleep part, but told them about the Calamity and how Link defeated it some time ago. The rest was his to tell, if he decided to. 

Pang. Pang. Pang.

Though for some reason, the so-called "understanding better" buff was not there as much anymore. Links had noticed it as well, the Link next to you noticing it first. The more they were able to understand Link, the less clear their speech got to each other. Basically reverting to what it was, before you met them, you supposed. And more your Link sounded foreign to you. 

Pang. Pang. Pang. Pang. Pang Pang Pang Pang Pang Pang Pang.

And you REALLY weren't feeling well.

The Old Man raised his eyebrow.

You made eye contact with the skinny Link (Link from the first game, you were pretty sure), who understood that something was wrong, as blood from your nose was dripping onto your blouse.

Then you lost consciousness.

```````````

[netherzon]

Chapter 1 of Bear Jail

Exactly what it sounds like. Kuma gets put in Polar Bear Jail.

(note, there are no Hetalia characters other than Kuma in this chapter, but there will be in the next one I promise!)

Rating: T for language

Content Warnings: discussions of animal abuse and the exotic pets black market.

It was around 2pm when their hotline went off.

“Hello, hello! You have reached the emergency Polar Bear B Gone hotline.” Riley snorts from her desk across the room.

It was an unconventional hotline. There were only 900 people in this town anyway, and most of them had interacted with their team before. It was probably fine.

“Caleb?”

Yup. “That’s me.”

“Aha, I thought it sounded like you. It’s me, Bob? You answered the phone two weeks ago when that other rascal got caught by the fire hall while we were celebrating my niece’s engagement party?”

“Uh huh?”

“They’ve broken up now, by the way. I heard her say you were pretty cute at the engagement party, should’ve seen the end coming really. Are you single by any chance?”

“You called because you saw a polar bear right?” Caleb quickly changes the subject, “There’s a fine if you called this hotline for non polar bear purposes.” He wasn't actually sure if there was a fine, but it felt like there should be.

It has the effect of getting Bob back on track anyway, “Yes! Right, I live in Zone 2, and there’s a bear sniffing around my shed.”

Caleb gestures towards Riley that she should start mobilizing their capture team, “Any identifiable traits? Can you see a tracking collar”

“No to both.”

“Adult or juvenile?”

“Looks like an adult to me.”

“Does it seem hungry?”

“Well, yes, but not the way I think you mean.”

Caleb frowns, “What does that mean?”

Bob clears his throat on the other end of the line, “Well, it’s just— it’s just sitting by the door to the shed. Like a dog. It looks like a healthy weight. It hasn’t tried to break in, but I think I also saw it trying to open the door with its mouth?? Like it was biting the door handle and trying to turn it. But other than that it hasn’t gotten very, uh, physical? But I think it can see me too, if that makes sense? It looks at me sometimes. Like it's waiting for me to open the door for it.” Bob’s voice gets lower with each word, like he’s afraid the bear will hear him,”It’s very creepy. Never seen a bear act that way in all my life. And I’ve lived in the Polar Bear Capital of the World for 50 odd years now, so that’s really saying something!”

Caleb gets stuck on the idea of the bear trying to open doors, especially in a way so obviously learned from humans. The goal of their work was to make cohabitation safer for humans and bears by minimizing interactions between them. By maintaining a healthy feeling of caution on both sides. Humans stay away from bears. Bears stay away from humans. Nobody gets into any trouble.

If this bear had already learned how to open doors though…. If it was so familiar with this already that it really didn’t bother just trying to knock the door down, something it could probably do easily if it's an adult.....

“Hello?

Caleb is knocked out of his thoughts by Bob’s staticy voice over the phone, “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. We’re on our way over, alright?”

“Alright”

~~~~~~~

The rest of the team are almost finished getting dressed when Caleb enters the garage.

Dereck looks over at him, everything he says underscored by the sound of his long, graying beard scratching the waterproof material of their jackets, “Details?”

Caleb grabs a sweater and starts listing:

“Zone 2,” dress warmly, bring cracker shells.

“Large, probably an adult,” pack regular dose tranq darts.

Dereck nods along with each point, “Way ahead of you.” He gestures for everyone to get in their trucks.

Caleb hesitates pulling on his gloves, and Dereck notices.

“Is there anything else, kid?” Dereck asks.

He considers mentioning the behavior Bob described, but, “Nah, nothing ‘bout the bear,” he raises his voice to be heard over the noise of multiple engines starting, “Just thought everyone should know it's Joey’s cousin again!”

He hears someone in the third truck groan loudly. The window starts rolling down, but Joey’s head is already poking out when it's only halfway, “Bobby?!”

Caleb only has to grin for Joey to go off again, “The bear’s sniffing around his shed too, ain’t it?!” Joey leans further out the window, “You know, he told me he was going ice fishing a few days ago. That moron left the fish guts in his shed again, I’d bet money on it!”

“Alright, that’s enough chit chat,” Dereck admonishes, “you can rip your cousin a new asshole after we’ve scared off the bear who wants to do it for you, Joey.”

He gives Caleb his own disappointed father look, before climbing into the first truck.

~~~~~~~

“Remind me which cousin this is, and do they live on Airport Lane or Airport Road?”

Caleb looks at Riley in the driver’s seat, leaning forward so the end of her braid doesn’t press uncomfortably into her back, “Airport Road, close to where it changes into Lake Road and Farnworth Road.”

“Got it,” Riley says. Her voice is low and smooth. He always prefers riding over with her.

On the way over he sends the message he always sends to his wife before every job like this: “

“You were acting strange in the garage,” Riley says, and Caleb flinches. It’s no use denying it. Riley is too perceptive, and now he’s stuck in a confined space with her.

“Bobby told me the bear was acting strange.”

“Strange how? Is it injured or something?” Riley asks, confused. An injured bear would be a completely different task for them. Caleb would’ve mentioned it to the team if that were the case.

“No, it seems…” he pauses, “I don’t know.”

Riley presses again, “Seems what?”

Caleb collects his thoughts, and then cautiously asks, “Hey, do you think it's possible polar bears are still going through the black market as pets?”

Riley snorts with derision this time, “Do I think its possible? Not only possible, I’d be surprised if they’re not. I know its hard for us to understand how anybody could do that, but I wouldn’t put anything past someone with enough money to get away with it.”

“Okay, so, what if somebody released that pet polar bear up here?”

Riley frowns outright. Her grip on the steering tightens, “You think it was a pet?”

“Bobby told me,” Caleb says cautiously, “that the bear tried to open a door the way a human would. By using the knob. That it wanted to get into his shed, but it didn’t just break down the door, it tried to turn the knob.”

Riley blows a lock of graying hair out of her eyes as she considers this. After a moment, her shoulders slump, and she speaks with a new sadness, “It must’ve seen humans do that a lot.”

Caleb sighs, sinking with the weight of it, “Yeah.”

~~~~~~~

When they arrive, the bear is still sitting patiently by the door of the shed. The only sign that it's moved is the circle of snow packed down around the shed’s perimeter.

He sees Derek and the rest of the crew speaking to Bobby through the door of his house about 7 meters away. They are all facing the bear, but they shoot disturbed looks at Riley and Caleb when their truck pulls up.

“What’s going on?” Riley asks, taking in their tense stances.

“Nothing!” Joey whisper-shouts, wide eyes still fixed on the polar bear, “Nothing is going on! It just sits there!”

Derek shakes his head in warning and begins shifting down the porch stairs towards them. “What’s up with this bear, Caleb?” he asks. His tone is deadly serious.

He decides to keep it short. “We think it didn’t come here from the wild. That it used to be someone’s pet.”

Riley nods. Derek’s eyes widen with understanding, before he curses. They all eye the bear. The Bear stares back at them. Now that the team is aware of it, all its other behaviors fall into place. It’s not starving even in the off season because somebody’s been feeding it. It doesn’t break the door down because food has always been given to it. It stares at them expectantly now because it’s always been humans giving it that food.

It doesn’t fundamentally change the mission, but it does change a lot about the mechanics of it. They still don’t know where it came from, if somebody dropped it off here or if it escaped from somewhere. It might be easier to convince it to get into one of their transport tubes, but it could also be harder. People could convince themselves they could turn a bear into a tame house pet, but it was always a roll of the dice. Plus, they weren’t trained on how to interact with the bears this way. They’re entire goal was to make sure the bears didn’t get familiar with humans or associate them with food. It seemed like they’d already lost that battle here.

“Alright,” Derek starts, ready now to give them directions, “we probably won’t be able to scare it away from town like we’d usually do. If it was a pet it will probably just come back to where the people are anyway, and if it doesn’t know how to hunt on its own it won’t survive out there either. Our best bet is to get it in a transport tube, bring it back to the center for further assessment, and if it can’t live in the wild we’ll just have to find a zoo or sanctuary or something that can take him in. Understood? This has turned into a capture mission.”

The team give a chorus of “Understood!” In response. While they are apprehensive, it’s all they really can do. The bear can’t stay here.

Their usual techniques are ineffective though. Nothing they do shakes it. The bear watches them bang pots and pans and set off firecrackers with total passivity. They turn on the engines of their car and rev them as loud as they can with no response. They can’t use tranq rounds cause they wouldn’t be able to bring it to the transport tube on their own. They try for 20 minutes, edging closer and closer. The bear just refuses to move.

Out of sheer desperation, Caleb does possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

He decides to talk to it.

With shaking hands, he calls out, “Hey!” It’s a small test. Just wanting to see how the bear reacts.

His team shoot him deadly looks, warning him not to do what he’s about to do.

The bear though, the bear responds by looking directly at him. It doesn’t charge him, or growl, or display any other signs of aggression. Caleb forges on.

“Are ya hungry?” He asks. To all of their shock the bear almost looks like it nods. Its attention is focused even more on Caleb now.

“Do you wanna eat?” His voice shakes with fear. Not me, he wants to add. He knows if the bear decides that’s what it was hungry for, though, there’d be nothing he could do about it.

This time, the bear heaves itself up on all fours. The rest of his team clutch their tranq guns nervously as they all watch the bear walk towards Caleb. Caleb also watches nervously, but he doesn’t raise his own gun. Scenes from How to Train Your Dragon flash through his mind, and he comes to the irrational conclusion that he also needs to lay down his weapons to gain the beast’s trust.

The bear doesn’t seem to notice or care either way. It walks right up to Caleb, leans in. Caleb can smell it’s bad breath as the bear sniffs him once, twice, and then obediently sits back down in front of him. Caleb stares into its deep, dark eyes —something he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to do with bears— and imagines he can hear its thoughts. Do you have food for me, human?

“Y-yes,” Caleb whimpers, ”I have food. Food for you.”

The bear huffs once. The burst ruffles Caleb’s hair. Show me, he swears he can hear it speaking.

“Okay,” on shaky legs Caleb backs away, loath to turn his back on the bear, “I’ll show you where you can get some food.”

He walks backwards, like that would give him a fighting chance if the bear lunged. The size of polar bears up close has never stopped being impressive to him, but he’s never been so close to one that’s awake. They try to make it clear to the bears that there’s nothing of interest to them when it comes to humans. There’s nothing to be curious about, nothing to gain from coming towards human towns other than a month spent in a very, very boring room. That’s why people are allowed to visit their center, but they never show anyone any actual bears, and employees only ever interact closely with the bears that are injured or sick.

His work has never been without danger, but he’s never tempted it so much. The Bear follows him closely. His coworkers follow behind them from a great distance. He can see they are alarmed by how close the Bear is, but they won’t say anything. He knows they won’t want to risk startling or provoking it, in case it does decide to attack him.

He leads it to the closest transport tube. They bait all of them with seal meat. Once the bait is pulled on, the other door to the tube falls down. Trapped bear, ready to be taken in. Simple.

The bear comes up beside him and regards the tube. He gestures towards it encouragingly. The bear shakes its head, but complies. Miraculously, it walks by Caleb without incident, so close that for a second he can’t see anything but it’s white-yellow fur. It walks easily into the tube, grabs the seal meat, and yanks. The door at the other end falls down. The Bear walks back to look at them through the bars. Now what? it seems to ask.

Caleb’s knees buckle underneath him. The rest of the team runs up to him, yelling and crying in equal measure. He’s the youngest of all of them, so they’ve always babied him a little. Right now, it’s just comforting. He can tell they’re angry, but when Riley pulls him to his feet they surround him in a hug. He can hear her admonishing him with motherly concern, “Don’t ever do that as again, understand me? Don’t ever do that again!”

He eyes the Bear over Joey’s shoulder. It tilts its head at them. I wasn’t going to eat you. I can tell you wouldn’t taste good anyway.

Derek recovers more quickly than the rest of them. He sniffles, wipes a few tears of relief off his cheeks, before turning to the Bear. He keeps one hand firmly on Caleb’s shoulder. His mouth is set in a grim line.

“We’ll take it back to the center now, and I’ll call an old friend of mine from when I worked at the zoo and see what he thinks about this.”

~~~~~~~

More Notes!

This fic was inspired by the the Polar Bear Holding Facility in Churchill, Manitoba, otherwise known as "the Polar Bear Capital of the World". The holding facility was established in 1982 as an alternative to what they'd been doing before if a bear got too close to town, which was just killing it. It is colloquially called "polar bear jail". They'll try to scare bears out of town first, but bears that walk into town repeatedly or begin breaking into buildings get put in "polar bear jail", where they are given water, but no food to avoid creating an association between humans and food. After some time, or after the Bay freezes over again, the bears are re-released outside of town.

You can read more about it on Atlas Obscura here:

[moonxbat98]

Before The Dawn

Gregory/OC

Three months before the Thompson family move to Scotland sixteen year old Alice Ellington is the new kid in town and no one has ever seen her out with her parents, or knows where she lives; except for Gregory. He knows her parents are dead and she’s a street kid, living like a squatter in an old house on a hill. What he doesn’t know is that she isn’t as fragile as she looks, or that she’s not human. But that’s a secret Alice intends on keeping for as long as she can.

A/N: Will contain graphic depictions of blood, gore, violence, and death. Will notify readers of any changes within the ratings of nudity, sexual themes, and strong coarse language.

Restless and Relentless

Song for the chapter: Shortest Day by The Gathering

—

Gregory’s POV

Something didn’t feel right about this night, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He scratched his head in deep thought and still came up blank; what was it about tonight that had him on edge?

Other than the fact they, his family, were getting even closer to the night of the first comet in three hundred years. Three hundred years spent, seemingly wasted, hunted down relentlessly by vampire hunters and searching endlessly for the stone of Attamon; a piece of rock that was said to break curses.

That they, his family, believed would break their curse. The curse of vampirism. Honestly, it wasn’t so bad.

Gregory scowled at the thought of being reduced to feeding on animals, remembering the times his family used to descend upon unsuspecting families in the dark. Those times had been simpler.

Until the vampire hunters became a bigger issue and his father, Frederick, began growing soft.

Retreat, his father had said.

We must find some place to hide, his father had said.

We must no longer draw attention to ourselves, his father had said.

When Frederick grew weak, Gregory had thought it was outrageous. Their family used to be ruthless until a change began stirring inside of Frederick and it was decided then they would no longer feast like king’s upon mortals.

The want to become human again became an obsession for his father and Frederick soon learned about a mysterious stone through Von, which was believed by conspiracy theorists to have broken off of the comet Attamon and was said to possess serious magic.

Ever since then they’ve been wandering around Scotland, in a desperate search.

Gregory was starting to lose hope, he often thought it was a goose chase.

Also, did he really want to be human again anyway? He was only a month away from turning sixteen when he was bitten in his sleep. His hormones had been all over the place, all the noblest females seemed to flock at his beck and call; only one woman had he wanted the attention of.

And that woman betrayed him, so in a time of great rage Gregory later ripped out her throat with his shiny new teeth. She didn’t deserve to be immortal, in his eyes anyway. Though she had begged for him to change her until she no longer spoke a breath.

Not to mention Gregory had a long standing feud with Malachi; another boy who, in the village, became like the other noble families with a thirst for blood.

But now Gregory was reminiscing. He needed to get out of his head before the anger started to grow like a fire in the pit of his belly, blinking his eyes against a heavy rainfall that overtook Scotland with random surges of wind. Though his clothes and hair were sopping wet he felt no cold.

He stood atop a store building with a bright neon sign hanging in it’s window, looking down at the empty streets below. He’d found himself hopping from one store rooftop to the next in a new shopping center that was recently built. Not like he would ever enter these buildings during the day and only one inside the shopping center was still open.

Except only one mortal was inside, behind a wall of glass for protection and leaning lazily on the countertop thumbing through one of the magazines behind the odd booth. Other than that one person Gregory sensed no other humans around.

Although they were on the opposite side of the shopping center than him Gregory inhaled the sweet, tantalizing scent of lavender and vanilla from where he stood. He growled and dropped to sit on the ledge of the building he was on, leaning in to get a closer look at the unsuspecting human.

His vision was perfect, no mortal eyes could see as well as he could in this downpour. To his delight he could see her so clearly he noticed the shiny metal in the young woman’s face; it was everywhere. In her nose, on her succulent bottom lip, even her eyebrows glinted with silver.

She was intriguing, for a mortal. What was that metal on her face? And her hair was colorful, or at least had streaks of color in it. Red, blue, purple, and green mixing with black. The young woman popped gum in her mouth and Gregory noticed shiny, silver metal there too.

His fingers gripped the edge of the building tighter, nostrils flaring as he picked up a stronger scent coming off of the young woman. Gregory grinned toothily as the scent registered in his mind; it was her blood. A sweet musk that came only from a woman’s monthly cycle, at least to vampires it was intoxicating.

She was dangerous to him.

The unsuspecting young woman had no idea she was being watched, or rather hunted. But something had stirred her from her lounge position, even as Gregory jumped from the ledge of his perch and landed silently on the wet ground below. Her eyes flickered over to stare out her glass booth and through the building door, although Gregory was sure she still could not see him through the unrelenting weather.

He could see her well. He saw her eyes, big and full of just as many colors as her hair. Blues, greens, golds, and browns.

Alice’s POV

The rain outside was relentless tonight, beating heavily on the windows of the cleverly named smoke shop; Blaze It Up, her boss clearly a stoner in his mid–thirties. There was a time she would’ve laughed at the absurdity, but something felt off about the sudden change in weather.

Some big bad thing brewing in the late night storm as she languidly leaned against the counter, chewing on a stick of Juicy Fruit while she delicately flipped through the latest Rolling Stones magazine like it was the holy Bible.

To onlookers, if there had been any in the last hour, Alice would’ve appeared calm and peaceful; content, some would say. On the inside she was on edge, there was an itch in her bones that had her combat–booted foot tapping behind the glass box.

She couldn’t stay still and had a harder time focusing on the magazine she’d plucked from the file–holder style shelf behind her. Other titles jumped out from the magazines, but none interested her as much. Vanity Fair, Better Homes and Gardens, Cosmopolitan, etc.

The newspapers held more intrigue as it’s headline practically shouted: Another Teen Slain by Rogue Beast!

Alice thought to herself, who reads the newspaper anymore?

The article continued on with a warning for residents of Scotland to be aware of your surroundings, travel in groups. Even saying the police are in a feud with state officials concerning the possibility of needing to issue a curfew.

She had no idea she was currently being watched, other than an eerie feeling of her hair standing on end; on the back of her neck, gooseflesh appearing on the skin of her arms as the AC blew down on her from an overhead vent.

It wasn’t the cold that had her hair raising, nor the pimples rising on her skin. The black turtleneck sweater and her leather jacket kept her covered almost completely.

Her senses were on high alert and her eyes narrowed in on the rain outside, searching. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but her eyesight was impeccable.

Even through the downpour Alice could see the street lamps lining the cobblestone sidewalks, the store front buildings in the new shopping center; going past the glass windows of those buildings and looking into the stores themselves. She saw everything and nothing at the same time.

That’s when she heard it, from miles away; the faint sound of an approaching engine. A normal human wouldn’t have picked up on the sound it was so quiet, but roaring to her. Her nostrils flared in annoyance, reaching under the counter for the sawed–off shotgun her boss kept.

It was real, the gun, but the bullets weren’t; salt rock shells made to hurt. Not to wound. The sawed–off was kept purposefully for protection, not murder. She hoped like Hell they would do more than just bruise, if she had to squeeze the trigger.

Unlocking the only door into the “protective” box she stepped out and loaded the gun with a couple shells, appreciating it’s double barrel with her fingers before snapping it shut. As delicately as she had touched The Rolling Stones magazine, prepared to fire.

Walking into the rain outside with her long, single–slit on the side skirt billowing around her stocking–covered legs Alice held her weapon in one hand and waved her other in an arc over her head. The torrent of water coming down from the sky followed her movements, creating an umbrella effect over her.

She glared into the darkness down the road as a single headlight began forming in the distance, the distance that separated her and the rogue beast for only a minute.

[a-queer-crip-writes]

Silent Night

If I had known what was going to come afterwards - would I have done anything differently?

Yes. I think a lot of us might have.

It started with the music. There was a hush in the frozen air as the guns fell silent. Then the sound of carols being sung floated slowly across to us in the dawn mist.

A different language, of course, but a familiar tune. And even the language wasn’t so alien. I learned those words in Sunday School as a lad. I sang them with our church choir every Sunday of Advent for all the years of my boyhood before my voice broke. Before it was the language of the enemy, German was the language of Father Vessau, our old priest. I’m glad he didn’t live to see any of what came later.

It was the familiar story of the Virgin and Child, of course, but it was so perfectly still, so quiet other than the haunting voices floating across the trenches, that it seemed written for this very moment.

Perhaps that was the reason I stood up, clambered out of the trench onto the frozen mud and blood and stepped out amongst the coils of barbed wire. I waved my empty hands and yelled “Hello! Merry Christmas!” into the still air like a child going out on Christmas morning. The earth was scarred and torn up, dotted with deep pits and holes where the water had frozen into hazy cracked glass. Earth stood hard as iron; water like a stone. Even walking deliberately slowly and noisily, letting my footsteps crack and echo, I was nearly halfway across the space between our trenches in a few moments. Such a ridiculously short distance to have been an uncrossable chasm for so long.

And on the other side, someone else was doing the same. The pale sun glinted on cropped blondish curls as a young man about my own age climbed above the parapet and waved back. “Hallo! Fröhliche Weihnachten!” His pale face split in a grin as he started walking towards me, picking his way just as carefully between the coils of wire and the deep divots in the frozen earth.

We met somewhere in the middle and shook hands. He looked pale and his blue eyes were weary, but bright with strange wonder at the stillness of the day. His hands were warm, and I remember noticing he had beautiful teeth in his beautiful smile as we handed each other cigarettes and lit them, the smoke curling up in the still air.

Then my mates were coming up behind me. Bill, and Alec, and Bob, and Davey. Other men came up behind the man I was sharing a cigarette with too, appearing like spectres before coalescing into tired young men with hesitant, hopeful smiles, all touched with the same odd wonder I could feel on my own face. There were handshakes and cigarettes being passed back and forth as the sun rose and the mist cleared. Someone brought out a bottle their mother had sent them for Christmas and passed it round. The warm scent of whisky carried in the stillness on smoking breath, overlaying the old faint notes of blood and cordite still drifting on the air.

We lit a fire and stood around it, giving each other tips on how to keep it going in two different languages. People scrounged up some halfway potable water, boiled a kettle, started a brew-up. Everyone handed round sweets, more cigarettes, pieces of bread loaded luxuriously thick with jam. Someone brought out a squeezebox and someone else a trumpet and they began to play carols. Halting missed notes sounded magical in the still air. People passed around photographs of girls and children, parents and dogs. Later on, someone brought out a makeshift ball of rags and newspaper and some of the lads began to kick it about together on the frozen earth.

The thought came to me as I stood there, my hands warmed by an old tin mug with the German words on it almost unreadable under scratches and dents, that maybe we had all died at some point in the last terrible night under the incessant thumping and screaming of the guns, and this was heaven. That the burden of life and nationality had passed from us all quietly in the darkness and now we were all just men again, being simply human in the silence.

The young man whose hand I had shaken stood nearby, still smiling shyly. My schoolboy German was only sufficient for a few halting phrases, and he spoke even less English than that. His smile, however, was warm under a rather fluffy blond moustache - I sympathised; despite manful attempts to encourage it by shaving twice a day, my own upper lip was barely more than shadowed still - and his eyes, though red-rimmed with cold and fatigue, were as softly blue as the summer sky and immensely, brightly alive in his pale, chilled face. They seemed to get his point across almost by sheer force of life in them, even when words, hand gestures and pantomime failed.

His name was Mikel. He showed me a picture from the inner breast pocket of his coarse grey greatcoat - his mother, a sweet-faced, slightly stout woman with greying hair climbing softly out of two coiled braids, and their dog, a proud-eared little bull terrier, in front of a little white-walled cottage with a plum tree by the door and a mass of flowering wisteria climbing the walls. His father had died when he was small, he told me, and his mother was all alone now except for him and Schon. I felt in my own breast pocket for my cigarette tin. While I was lighting our cigarettes, I showed him the photograph my own parents had taken of us all just after I enlisted. My father, balding, thin and dignified; my mother, dark-haired, thin and anxious with her hand on my arm, carefully, carefully not clinging. My three little sisters stiff in their Sunday best dresses, except for little Elsie grinning, eternally unladylike, her beloved smile undimmed by the faded print. Mikel’s face split in a grin just as warm and unselfconscious as his eyes lighted on it.

At one point, I walked off to take a piss behind a hump of tortured earth. As I was doing up my buttons, I looked up and saw Mikel doing the same. His blue eyes met mine, and then his warm lips did; there were dozens of men not twenty feet away and we could have been the only two people on Earth in that moment. I folded him in my arms as I kissed him back; he was thin, the bones of his ribs poking into me through his coat. His hand was cold in mine then, and I squeezed it tight briefly before we separated to come back to the others our own ways.

There was a moment as darkness began to fall when I thought We don’t have to go back. I could see the thought in the faces of every man around me, British and German alike. We looked at each other silently. The twilight muted our khaki and their grey uniforms to indistinguishable dark shapes in the dusk, with pale blobs of faces floating above them. All I could see, looking around me, were people. I looked across and met Mikel’s eyes shining bright out of his face in the gathering darkness.

Merry Christmas, Pip, he mouthed to me silently, smiling sadly.

Fröhliche Weihnachten, Mikel, I mouthed back to him, still tasting his mouth on mine. It was like another kiss exchanged across a few feet and a vast distance, in front of a hundred other men.

And then, achingly slowly, we all turned and trudged back, back to our trenches and our lives and our enemies.

Bill and Alec were dead by next Christmas, and Davey was back at home with two fewer legs than he had left with. We never had another Christmas truce. Miracles only happen once, and are not repeated when you lack the courage to accept what they offer you.

I thought of Mikel often in those other Christmasses, the ones with no truce and no silence in them. And plenty of other times besides as I stood staring out across that little space of broken earth that had once again become as wide and perilous as the great grey sea. I would light a cigarette, cupping my hand around it to shield it from a sniper’s sight, and taste his lips on mine again with my first inhale. I was offered sniper training myself several times when different sergeants picked up on my quickness of hand and eye. It would have meant a little more money to send home to my mother, struggling to feed and clothe the girls after the influenza took my father, but I always managed to find a way out of it. Snipers had to see the faces of the men they shot as they killed them. It would have killed me quite as sure as any bullet.

Did I kill Mikel, I often found myself wondering on those long days and nights filled with the ceaseless pounding of artillery, with any one of my hundred terrified blind shots into the darkness? Was he out there still, less than the length of a football field away, just as cold and terrified and alone as I was? Did he ever make it back to his sweet-faced mother and his jaunty little dog waiting for him by their little cottage under the apple tree? Or did one of those anonymous grey-clad corpses hanging on the wire after any one of a thousand forays have soft blue eyes like the summer sky above Pitlochry before they glazed over forever?

I could have tried to find out, after it was all finally over. I had an empty sleeve and several long-service medals by then, and no man would ever have called me a coward, but I never found the courage in myself to look up his name on any of the German casualty lists that came through, or to try to write to him through any of the international Veterans organisations I joined later in my life. I only ever mentioned his name to my wife Emma once, when I woke shuddering and sweating after a Bonfire Night when our grandchildren were small. The air was full of cordite and screams, and after I finally succeeded in finding sleep I ended up dreaming of him standing bloodsoaked and silent and sad in the mist a few yards from the edge of my trench.

I think of him still. Emma died a few years ago, and I don’t sleep well these days without her warmth beside me, even with my faithful little bull terrier Sasha curled up at the end of the bed by my feet. I often wake long before the dawn and am quite unable to find sleep again. I end up staring and smoking, watching the horizon outside my window turn slowly to grey and gold. Like me, Sasha is getting on these days, and her dicky bladder wakes her with the sun. On winter mornings, her arthritic old bones wake her even earlier, and I get to watch it rise with her trotting along beside me.

As I walk, I light a cigarette, cupping in my hand as though to shield its light from being seen, even though there’s rarely anyone but me out there. I touch the match to the end and inhale, and once again I taste his kiss as though it were Christmas morning once again, and a different world waiting for us there if we had only had the courage to reach out and grasp it.

[malka-lisitsa]

You didn't deserve any of that.

Funny, Katherine had never really heard that before. She doesn't tell the full story of what happened with Nadia's father often. She told her father. He convinced her it had been her fault. That she had been stupid and willful and rebellious and it was her punishment for bringing shame to the family.

And so Katherine had internalized that it was her fault. That she had been stupid. That she had let it happen. Katherine was barely seventeen when she had Nadia. Sixteen when she met him. Yet she held herself responsible for being manipulated by an older man because her father did.

And in return she never told the full story again. Not really. Not in detail, but you could hear it, in the way she spoke about travelers. You could hear it in the silence, and the way she never said his name.

"Stop." She shook her head, hand held up as he apologized for everything. Katherine wasn't quite sure why she stopped him. Maybe she wasn't sure where the change would lead. Maybe she was scared of rebuilding their relationship from scratch. Maybe she was scared of not being seen as a villain because it's been so long since she wasn't. "its, it's fine Damon."

Katherine took a moment to recollect herself and cleared her throat, finishing the bottle off in her hands and then chucked the glass into the fire in front of them.

She didn't say anything else about his apology after, she needed time to process it. To come to terms with it. To accept it, not for him but for herself. To allow herself to feel like she deserved it.

"Part two, the exile. Enter Klaus."

Katherine bit her lip and picked at her nails for a moment.

"After my father threw me out I ended up in England. So I became English. Fixed my accent, learned the culture, the talk, the language. I did some odd jobs here and there, some of them cleaning houses, but I managed to settle into working as a waitress at a local tavern. It wasn't the best but it kept me off the streets and to myself. At least it did till a guy named Trevor walked in one day. Somehow he knew I was a doppelganger, started to get to know me. Eventually he asked me if I wanted to go to a party, blah blah long story short he introduced me to Elijah... who introduced me to Klaus..."

Damon said nothing. Not a word.

As Katherine’s story spilled from her, broken and raw, he sat completely still—shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes locked on her even when she refused to look back. There was no smugness, no performative sorrow, no sideways glances like he was waiting for some dramatic turn. Just... quiet.

Because this wasn’t a performance. This was her soul, splintered and offered up in shaking hands. And Damon? He wasn’t about to fumble it. As she spoke, his mind worked furiously—connecting dots she hadn’t drawn for him, filling in the blanks with quiet horror. The scar on her hip. The sudden, jaded way she talked about love. 

A few times during her monologue, he reached for the bottle, taking slow, steady drinks. Not to numb anything. Not this time. Just something to hold onto while she tore open old wounds and bled them into the room for him to witness. And when she quickly wiped her cheek, he averted his eyes—not out of discomfort, but respect. He gave her privacy in her pain, even if it shattered something in him not to reach out and stop the tears himself.

When she finished, trailing off, Damon slowly and silently held out the bottle to her, almost completely empty but he was willing to give her the last bit for comfort. 

His voice, when it finally came, was low. Gentle. “I… I don’t have words.” He admitted, his throat thick, his gaze scanning her, without pity—just grief. Shared grief. “You didn’t deserve any of that. Not a single second of it.” He paused, glancing down for a beat as if trying to collect what little composure he still had. Then, quietly. ““And… I know this probably doesn’t count for much,” he began as his voice was thick with something he rarely let slip out. “But I’m sorry.”

“For the things I said. All the jabs. The cheap shots. Calling you a monster like it was the only thing you were ever capable of being.” He let out a dry, humorless breath. “Turns out I didn’t know half the story. Just thought I did.” There was guilt there, plain on his face. No mask. No charm to hide behind. “You aren’t some heartless villain out to ruin lives.” He said. “You were just a girl. A scared, hurting girl who had to make impossible choices. And I… I treated you like you were the sum of your worst moments.” He looked away for half a second, jaw tight, like the weight of it sat heavy on his chest. “I’m sorry for that, Katherine. You deserved better than what I gave you.”

Damon let the silence settle between them for a beat, giving her space to breathe—really breathe—after everything she had just laid bare. “If you want to keep going…” He said, carefully, like he didn’t want to spook her out of the moment. “I’ll keep listening.”