#tech-o makeshift

[jaysdoodlehell]

Tech-O AU design specs WIP (part 2) :3

[nonsscrapheap]

TFP: Universal Observations

WE HAVE RETURNED! AND HERE WE START... THE MECHA AU!!!

MWUAHAHAHAHAH— expect some changes and similarities to the ever popular Mecha Pilot Jazz AU- but TFP kids-centric just because I can! and I have a solid outline and plot for this au that i could have used for an actual fic but NOPE! REACTION FIC INSTEAD!

this... took longer than i thought it would. you'll see. but ENJOY!

ACT I: Alien Mecha - I -

[ ----- TP : UO ----- ]

Omega Outpost One

[ UNIVERSAL OBSERVATION ACTIVATEDENTER KEY WORD TO START UNIVERSAL OBSERVATION ]

"So! While you were looking into this thing, did you figure out how to uh- do the key words thing properly?" Jack asked Raf after Bee was kind enough to move the couch from its usual place by the TV to a place closer to the screen being projected by the o-Observer.

Might as well get comfortable while they were going to watch other universes… Bulkhead and Optimus were even going around to get some cybertronian-sized chairs from their rooms so they didn't have to stand around the whole time. Might as well get comfy if they were going to do this…

It's been what, nearly a couple of hours? Since Arcee had drove in with Jack and now they were involved with some weird tech that was letting them look into other universes.

She still wasn't sure about that, about the entire situation. She didn't exactly trust the thing; came out of nowhere, they had no idea how or why it was there, and now they were supposed to be using it when they could barely understand it?

Arcee just wanted to shove it somewhere and leave it be. Unfortunately she was outvoted, and now they were going to watch another universe where who knows what was going to happen…

Okay so maybe she's being a little biased about it, she just… Seeing Arachnid from both worlds acting… UN-Arachnid-like, not a word she knows but shut up, it messed with her. Okay? It messed with her more than she'd ever like to admit.

Especially the… Actor world?

The 'Shattered Glass' world had been weird enough with Arachnid being nice to the kids and herself being… violent (she doesn't want to think how her counterpart had been so savage with that other Makeshift) but at least her and Arachnid had been enemies.

Even with the flipped moralities thing it had going on, that made sense.

But the Actor universe had completely flipped her on her pedes, she could barely fathom the fact that her coutnerpart, even if she was an actor, was friends with any kind of Arachnid. Actor or otherwise.

Sure they were rivals but it was clear from their interactions on the show, they were more like- friendly rivals instead of go-for-your-throat-cables kind of rivals.

Or maybe they'd been putting up an act for the liveshow? Didn't want to show it in public? She doubts it though, she would've been able to tell if they were acting like- or maybe she wouldn't?

Primus, this whole situation was more than ridiculous.

She shook her aching helm and instead focused on Raf, she'd been half-listening and half-lost in her thoughts. His answer to Jack was yes… and no.

"Remember how I said the machinery inside is really damaged? Well, it affected the input settings for Key Words- the Observer is just going to choose random words from whatever its users say for now until more of it can be repaired." Raf explained. "So you, Miko and I just have to keep talking randomly and it'll latch on to whatever words we're saying, make them key words and find a universe that way."

"Just the three of you?" Arcee frowned, unsure if it was a good idea to leave the control over the Observer to the three human children- she knows Jack and Raf could be responsible, Miko less so, but even then…

"Unfortunately with the state of its internal machinery, adding new 'Users' to its database is not possible. Like everything else, we're just going to have to wait until it's repaired before the children can add us to its user registration." Ratchet grumbled, thanking Optimus when he offered the medic with a chair when he and Bee finally got back

"So I just have to say random words like before? Didn't I already try that but it ended up going for Jack instead?" Miko pointed out, lounging back against the couch. "Did you check if there was like- a priority thing between the three of us? It got my key words first, then Jack's, now it'll probably do you Raf."

That was… a fair assessment really.

Raf nodded slowly, thoughtful, "Uh, no I didn't check for priority but hmm… considering how it's been going on? That makes sense."

"Miko making sense? Today's really full of surprises." Jack teased, grunting when the girl punched his shoulder with a mock-glare on her face. "So, we thinking it's going to focus on Raf for Key Words?"

"Since you and Miko went first, I'd say yeah." Bulkhead agreed, taking a seat between Bumblebee and Arcee. They were all sitting now within the main base, gathered somewhat comically around the floating screen from the Observer.

.: Well, go ahead Raf. Say a bunch of words. :. Bee encouraged.

"Uhhh, hm- cars? Racing? School-"

Miko interrupted him with a groan, "Noo, don't say any words related to school! We come to the base to get away from school! Not watch it!"

"Miko, let Raf say whatever he wants." Jack sighed, though he did privately agree but it was Raf's turn to show a universe.

"Ugh," Raf groaned, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I wish the Observer let me use my laptop to input the Key Words! Or have a holographic keyboard for this section as well." He complained, pouting at the screen.

The Observer had provided a keyboard for Raf to control when he and Ratchet prodded it for its commands and such, managing to stumble their way into a blueprint of its inner machinery somehow through sheer luck and stubbornness.

"Hopefully when it's more repaired, it will do exactly that." Ratchet huffed, agreeing with Raf's complaint.

"Hopefully." Raf grumbled, "Gotta wonder though, just who made these things? I know the only alien tech I've come across is Cybertronian- mostly Earth-based cybertronian in the base, but even Ratchet said that the mechanical engineering was beyond Cybertronian make."

"Current Dimenion's Cybertronian ma- there we go."

[ KEY WORDS ; ALIEN MECHA ]

"Alien Mecha?" Arcee repeated with the others, "That thing's definitely busted if it just got mecha from mechanical." There were murmurs of agreement but it all died down as the screen loaded fully and they were all treated to the very first sight of this new universe.

( "Alien Mecha." A warlord repeated with disdain but slight curiosity. )

[ The screen's edges were frosted and fogged white. Details were fuzzy, as the faint and muffled sound of shrieking was heard.

A small boy was standing alone on a yard, holding a toy sword. The boy's face was familiar, eyes opened wide at the screen.

The entire sequence was slow and sluggish. ]

Confusion was quick to set at the bizarre way their first view of the universe was shown. "Is that…" Bulkhead started slowly.

Optics and eyes turned to a certain teenage male. "Me?" Jack finished in disbelief, mouth agape at the familiar sight of his younger face that he's only seen in old pictures at home! "That's me! When I was a kid!"

"Woah… Wait, why is everything slow-mo?" Miko squinted at the screen, "And have white-edging?"

Raf frowned, "Is anybody else hearing screaming?"

( "Who the frag is that?" A red racer deadpanned.

His seeker comrade scoffed, "Nevermind who that is, just what is happening?" )

[ A shadow loomed over the small boy, dark and large as the white frost and fog seeped into a darker color and the shrieks grew louder, turning into fullblown screams.

A monstrous looking creature, canine-like in body, towered over the boy. Segmented with dark purple metallic plates that had dark green muscles underneath that bulged dangerous between the seams. The lower jaw of the hideous creature split in half to open, dark blue sludge dripping from its open maw.

The boy stared at it with wide, fearing eyes. ]

"What the frag?!" Arcee hissed, digits clenching tightly on her elbow joints at the sight of something in front of tiny, tinIER, Jack. "What is that?!"

Raf was quick to latch on to Jack, his own eyes wide with fear and apprehension while Miko gasped first in excitement then concern, realizing that now probably wasn't the time to say the monster looked cool when a version of her friend's kid self was standing right in front of it.

Optimus stiffened, frame going tense like the rest of the Autobots, but his optics shuttered, an old memory trying to resurface.

( "WHAT THE FRAG IS THAT HIDEOUS CREATURE?!"

"Hm… It's rather familiar…" A warlord uttered before turning to see a visored mech displaying two pictures, a familiar human and the human child on the screen. "I see, it's one of Optimus' human pets but much younger..." )

[ "JACK!" A voice screamed and echoed, the screen blurring- time speeding up for the briefest moment before slowing down once more.

Suddenly there was a familiar woman rushing in, metal bat in hand, colliding hard against the monster's open maw. A desperate young woman with a near-feral look of panic and anger on her face. ]

"MOM!"

"Ms. Darby!"

It was a chorus of noise as they watched the woman take the monster head on with nothing but a metal bat. Jack was standing now, with Raf holding on to his sleeve tightly and Miko on the very edge of her seat.

The bots were tense, Arcee especially considering that was her charge and her charge's mother on the screen. As much as June had been a bit of a helicopter-parent (a term she learned from Miko and the internet), she understood the woman's apprehension and protectiveness.

They've smoothed out some differences, but even when Arcee was annoyed with her, she didn't want to see her in danger like this.

( "What a contrast, I had that woman cocooned helplessly yet here she is, trying to take on something beyond her size." A spider muttered, optic ridges raised with interest as she watched the screen.)

[ The screen flashed, rapidly going through still images splattered with blood, red and black, while being hazy at the edges. Screams continued to sound in the background, gradually getting louder and louder with each image.

June's bat bit in half, leaving a jagged end. June shoving the jagged bat and her arm into the mouth of the beast, somehow managing to pierce through the head. It falling dead. June cradling her arm and shouting at a man. Another, identical monster appearing behind her. The man grabbing Jack who finally, frantically reached out for his mother.

"Take Jack and run—" "MOMMY!" "RUN!"

The last image was of June's back, facing a new monster before it all went black.

A pair of eyes snapped open, breath hitched and uneven. Jack Darby, much older now, woke up in the bottom of a bunk bed. ]

"Wait, what happened? What just happened?" Jack was struggling to comprehend what he saw- the brief flashes of images on the screen had been quick, but Jack didn't like the implications of what he saw regardless. "She's alright, she's fine. Mom's- okay. She's got to be."

"I mean, she's fine here. Dunno about over there though." Miko said then winced at the look that Jack and even Raf gave her.

"Miko!" Jack hissed, upset that- well, Miko was right. His mother was fine in his universe, but it was still distressing to see what was implied to have happened to another version of her in another universe.

At the very least, it didn't show how she… if she…

Arcee didn't know how to reassure him, feeling similarly upset over the situation- no one in the room was unaffected by it. Not even Miko, though she was trying to lighten things up in her own way. Arcee shook her helm and focused back on the screen. "You look older Jack." She noted aloud, trying to change the subject.

He did. Older than he was right now.

( "Did I watch that right or did that tiny human manage to kill one of the- whatever the frag that was?" An ex-wrecker questioned aloud.

"She shoved her arm and weapon right through the mouth, unorthodox yet effective. Unfortunately not without its demerits." A warlord muttered to himself. He had to admit, even he was hesitant to do such a thing. He would give credit where credit was due, the human female was brave- reckless, yet brave. Organic as she was, she died a death he would not disrespect. The creature, however, was familiar, he tried to scour his memories for why it seemed familiar and where… )

[ Jack groaned, getting up from the bed, pressing a hand against his eyelids and sitting at the edge. He looked around the room, it was modest. Small almost. Militaristic but a little personalized with a few knickknacks and items around the small area.

Beep! Beep!

He heard an alarm clock beep, and not long after, the sound of a pained groan and he quickly turned the alarm off. Standing up to look at the top bunk, a small lump hidden underneath a blanket.

"Raf? You good?"

The lump shifted, "… yeah…" Was the quiet reply.

Jack frowned then whispered low, "How bad is it today?"

"… need my headphones…"

"Full stop?"

"… halfway… shades too…"

"Got it bud." ]

Miko squinted at the screen, "Where are you two? Where am I?" She asked, a bit put out that it was showing both Jack and Raf- well, mostly Jack. Raf was hiding underneath a blanket. But why was Raf sleeping in a bunk bed with Jack in that room anyway?

.: What's wrong with you? Uh, no, other Raf? :. Bumblebee beeped sadly, not liking the sight of Raf being so… quiet and tired. Even without being seen, the boy seemed miserable hidden underneath the blanket on screen.

"Dunno Bee, I hope other me's alright."

Arcee tensed, optic ridges furrowing as she heard Jack speak. His voice…

[ Jack grabbed a pair of thick headphones from the desk beside their bunk bed, fiddling with it a bit before opening a drawer to grab a pair of shades as well. He placed them on the top bunk's bed before going over to a small bathroom that was attached to their bedroom.

The screen focused on Raf, who finally emerged from the blanket. He looked exhausted, bags underneath his eyes, complexion pale and hair a mess. He winced as he hears the door close, quickly grabbing the headphones to shove over his ears, he grabbed the shades but didn't put them on until he climbed down from the top bunk to get to the lightswitch.

He only turned on the lights after he put on the shades. ]

Raf tilted his head, "Huh, I think other me might be hypersensitive to sound and light."

"Or maybe he just wanna look cool first thing in the morning, it's okay Raf. I'd wanna look cool with headphones and shades too." Miko teased making the tween roll his eyes.

"No, look- I think those headphones are noise-canceling headphones, my cousin has a pair, they block out loud noises and stuff. And those shades are pretty tinted, he put them on before turning on the lights." Raf reasoned.

Ratchet frowned, "That would make sense… Rafael, do you require the same items for yourself?" He didn't like the way the younger- well, technically older, no, the other Raf on screen looking so… haggard.

Raf blinked at the question before shaking his head, "No, well, sometimes I am overwhelmed by stuff but not to the point of needing things like that." The medic gave a toneless hum, but made a mental note to keep an optic on him just in case.

( "Ugh, why are we watching the Autobot's pet humans? I thought this was about Alien Mecha or whatever the 'Key Words' were." A seeker grumbled.

"Considering in all three instances so far had these children on screen, perhaps it has to do with the fact they're the 'hosts' or 'users', whatever that orange mech said. What was his designaiton again? Ring? Rong?" A racer asked, confused.

"- My name is Rung -"

"Ah, thank you Soundwave." )

[ Jack stepped out of the bathroom, towel on his head and dressed in a modified military jumpsuit. "Bathroom's all yours Raf."

The young teen nodded at him before he went past Jack to enter the bathroom, closing the door behind him as Jack took a moment to sit down. Rifling underneath his shirt to grab a locket from underneath his shirt.

He took in a deep breath and clicked it open, an incomplete picture of a family was on one side of the locket. His expression was sorrowful as he looked at the faces of a woman, a young boy and a man- the man's face had been scratched away, barely recognizeable. The other side of the locket had an engraving, faint but barely readable. 'Till all are one - R' ]

Jack's breath hitched at the sight of the locket, at the expression his other, older self had on his face. Any hope for his mother in that universe had completely wiped away from that alone, And the sight of his father's scratched face didn't bode well for him at all.

"'Till all are one?'" Bulkhead read, optics narrowing at the engraving. "Hey, Optimus. Ain't that…" He trailed off, uneasy and unsure.

"What is it Bulk?" Miko asked, curious as to why he seemed so uneasy.

"… The phrase, 'Till all are one' is mainly a Cybertronian phrase. It is a promise, usually made before important battles." Ratchet said, just as uneasy and unsure at the fact that the other Jack had such a phrase engraved into that locket.

"Why does Jack have a Cybertronian promise engraved in his locket?" Raf asked pointblank, confused as the rest of them.

Throughout the entire thing, Optimus was silent. A strange feeling nagging at the back of his processor, but unable to recognize what or why he felt this way.

( The phrase is noted on a warship, general confusion as to why it was there but mostly swept aside. The phrase has always been more of an Autobot tradition during their war, but it was noted how strange it was that the human had it carved into a strange place. )

[ Jack spent a good minute looking at the locket, expression changing before he closed it. Tucking it back securely underneath his shirt.

The scene cuts to both Jack and Raf jogging lightly through the halls, dodging grown men and women in semi-familiar military uniforms. They were quick to arrive at a mess hall, the line was thankfully short, and there were plenty of tables to sit around. ]

Arcee squinted at the sight of the militiristic humans lingering around others, they looked familiar.

"What a fraggin' minute. Those are MECH agents!" Bulkhead blurted out in realization as he saw the human uniforms in proper lighting, recognizing their clothes from the time he rescued Breakdown. "Why're Jack and Raf with MECH?!"

"What? Why are we with MECH?" Jack blinked rapidly, wondering why he and Raf were with the organization that tried to nab a Decepticons and were definitely not Autobot-friendly. Hell, they were wearing modified MECH uniforms too!

( An ex-wrecker recognizes the uniforms as well, swearing heavily, "Those're the humans that nabbed me and my optic!" He hissed, his glare at the screen turned towards a chuckling spider-bot. )

"Wait, if Jack and Raf are there then I…" Miko trailed off, going silent as soon enough, her suspicions were proven correct.

[ A young woman with short hair sat down with Raf and Jack, the ends of her hair were faded pink. Her uniform was incomplete, her top jacket was tied around her waist to show off her well-toned arms. She grinned at them, though it seemed forced. "Mornin' guys!"

"Morning Miko." Jack greeted back with a nod.

"Morning." Raf mumbled tiredly from his cup of coffee. ]

"Dude! My hair!" Miko complained, wondering why her hair was so short, not to mention it clearly needed a touch up. Her signature pink was all faded! "Well, at least I grew up strong! Look at those muscles! Haha!" Also, giving it a second look- her hair didn't look too bad. She was really rocking the really short hair there.

"The question still stands as to why the children are with MECH in this universe." Ratchet muttered, frowning at the scene of the three on screen. They had grown up, they were together, and yet he couldn't help but notice that something was off about them.

Not just because they were with the strange yet malicious human organization that had tried to bomb them using Breakdown's optic as bait.

.: Maybe… Maybe MECH isn't that bad in this universe? They might be on our side there. :. Bumblebee hesitantly offered, though it was clear he wasn't entirely onboard with his own suggestion. He was very worried over why Raf seemed exhausted.

[ "Sensitive?" Miko squinted, noticing the headphones and shades. "How much we talkin', quarter? Half? Full?"

"Half." Jack answered for Raf who was too busy drinking coffee to do so.

Miko whistled, "Plus shades? Man, Doc Shock must've been hard on you yesterday then."

Raf set down his cup and sighed, "Please don't call the Doctor that, he doesn't like it. At least just call him with his actual callsign."

Miko snorted, "I'll call him whatever I damn please, but you know what? I'll call him by his full callsign when he pilots a mecha again. Pfft, who wants to quit piloting to become a scientist?" She scoffs, tossing food into her mouth with a grunt.

"Shockwave, that's who." Jack answered in a deadpan, "And he's not just a scientist, he's Head of the whole science division and main engineer for our mecha." ]

"SHOCKWAVE?!" All three kids covered their ears from the loud shouts from the Autobots,

( Similar shouts of "SHOCKWAVE!?" came, mostly from a panicked seeker. )

"Shockwave?! Near the kids!? WITH MECH!? Ex-fragging-cuse me?!"

.: Raf was with Shockwave?! Why?! Oh Primus, what happened?! What did he do to Raf?! :.

"Those kids gotta get out of there! Pronto!"

Jack waved his arms, "Woah, woah, woah! Time out! Pause!" He exclaimed, not just to gain the attention of the bots, but also pause the screen as it was still going while most of the Autobots were talking over each other, the most upset he's seen them in a while since this all started. "What is going on with you guys? Who's Shockwave?"

"A monster, that's who." Arcee spat, frame trembling at the very thought of the cycloptic mech.

"We talking literal monster, or—" Miko was sternly interrupted by Ratchet, "He's a monster in every way that counts. Shockwave is a mad scientist, emotionless and psychotic. He's infamous for his sparkless experiments throughout the history of our war. He has no morals, no limits he won't cross, if given the chance he would experiment on his fellow Decepticons." He said grimly with a tight, furious expression.

Raf swallowed, now looking very nervous. "So the fact that I'm doing- something with him is…"

"Worrying." Optimus finally spoke, his expression grim before he gave them all a reassuring look. "However, we must keep in mind what Rung told us earlier on. This Shockwave is already different from the one we know, he is working with the humans, with MECH, we do not know what he is capable of. The same goes with MECH, we do not know what they are in this universe. Until further information is gained, we must remain calm."

"Easier said than done!" Bulkhead exclaimed, servos clamping over his arms, giving worrying looks to both sets of kids, on and off screen. "MECH's bad, Shockwave's worse! But with both…"

Jack sighed, apprehensive but determined, "Hey, Optimus is right. We have no idea what's going on, but there's only one way to find out… We good on continuing?" He waited, watching everyone nod in agreement after some time. "Alright, uh, Observer. Continue!"

[ "Yeah yeah…" Miko huffed, "Just… You good Raf? Whatever he's working on, you've been sitting out of spars more and more. Tired as hell with your sensitivity-shit either half-way or full on. That doesn't really happen unless you've been clocked in your mecha for more than eight hours or something."

Raf gave her a weak smile, adjusting his shades and headphones self-consciously. "It's fine, I'm fine. Doctor Shockwave just has a new invention that'll change our fights, hopefully. He needs my help since I'm the only Rescue-class pilot with a way above average sensitivity, compatibility and a high enough IQ to keep up. At the rate we're going, we might have a new class on our hands."

Jack and Miko gave him impressed yet worried looks, "No shit? New class? Got a name for it already? How's it going to help with the fights?" Miko asked a bit excitedly.

"Nothing official yet, we're in the mid-stages and MECH wants big results before we try to present it to everyone else. As for how it'll help…" Raf hesitated and shrugged, "Sorry, but I can't really say right now." ]

"They keep saying those words. 'Pilot', 'Mecha'." Ratchet mumbled, faceplate thoughtful. "Just what does it entail? From those words alone I would think… is it possible…?" He shared a look with Optimus who looked troubled.

A sharp, happy squeal gained their attention as Miko was suddenly on her feet, wide-eyed with a starry grin on her face. "No way, no way! NO WAY!"

"Woah Miko! Calm down! What's got you so excited?" Bulkhead asked, confused by the sudden spike of excitement from his charge.

Miko pointed at the still going screen, "Dudes! Dudes! How can you not figure it out already?!" She demanded before abruptly shaking her head, "No, no! No, I'm cool. Just- wait, watch! WATCH!" She pointed back towards the screen, urging them to keep watching.

[ Alarms suddenly blare and the three of them share a disgruntled look, Raf adjsuting his headphones with gritted teeth. "Well, at least we got to eat some of our breakfast." Was all Jack said before all three of them were rushing off of the table. It was a rush of movement from everyone around them.

<CALLSIGNS: TAILBREAKER, WRECKER, SENSCRIPT YOU ARE BEING CALLED FOR DUTY. I REPEAT, TAILBREAKER, WRECKER, SENSCRIPT YOU ARE BEING CALLED FOR DUTY.>

"All three of us? Together? Must be big!" Miko exclaimed with a near-feral grin.

"Less talking, more running!" Jack barked at her.

Jack, Miko and Raf were sprinting down the hall, many got out of their way to let them through- there were shouts, orders and more in the air as the three of them were rushed into two separate changing rooms. ]

Arcee recoiled, first other Jack's voice seemed so much like- now that name came up—

.: Arcee? Are you okay? :. Bumblebee asked, breaking her out of her spiraling thoughts.

The femme took in a deep invent, shaking her helm and giving her fellow warrior-scout a reassuring smile. "Y-Yeah, I'm… I'm good, Bee. Don't worry about it." Despite her words, the yellow mech still gave her a concerned look in his optic.

They both spied Miko practically vibrating in place on the couch, excitedly looking at the screen and shushing Jack whenever he tried to ask her if she was okay or what was up.

( "Wrecker?" An ex-wrecker muttered confusedly, unknowingly mirroring a certain other ex-wrecker in Omega Outpost One. )

[ The scene cut to a familiar man with a scar running over his nose bridge, he stood in a control room, a pulsing map on the giant screen before him. "Pilot status?" He asked aloud, a nearby woman manning a control panel answered him.

"Gearing up sir, ten minutes max till deployment."

"Make it eight, these readings are uncomfortably close to our base. The last thing we need are the XTRs gunning for us." ]

"Silas." Optimus murmured uneasily, frowning at the sight of the man.

( "That puny little— next time I see him, I'll smash him to bits!"

A spiderbot laughed, "Do you need a hand with that, Breakdown? Or sorry, an optic?"

"Enough! Both of you, silence!" A warlord commanded, glaring at the bristling cons who were quick to back down and mutter 'Yes, Lord Megatron' soon afterwards. )

[ "Shockwave." Silas addressed a man who stood by a giant window, overseeing what looked about to be five gigantic robots. Each varying in size and color, though only three were being surrounded by people and worked on. "Is it ready?"

"It is abrupt, calculations may be off if we attempt to do a live-testing so soon." Shockwave, a man wearing a dark-purple labcoat and a full-faced red-tinted visor said. His voice was slightly modulated, artificial, but mostly toneless. "But yes, it is ready. Senscript is ready." ]

Everyone did a doubletake at the sight of 'Shockwave'. The Autobots nearly fell off their chairs!

( On a warship, multiple Decepticons almost stumbled in place. A cacophany of noise at the sight of their mad scientist Con turned human. )

"Wha- I thought this 'Shockwave' guy was a bot! Er- cybertronian? Like you guys!" Miko exclaimed, her previous excitement temporarily displaced by the sight of the admittedly menacing man that stood on screen.

"He is! He's- Shockwave's a cybertronian… here." Ratchet said, realization kicking in as he remembered this was a different universe. "However, it seems that, in that universe, he is not."

"Sweet Primus! Human Shockwave? I don't know whether to be relieved or scared scrapless!" Bulkhead gawped, torn over the fact that the infamous mech was human in that universe.

"I-Is it a good thing or a bad thing that Shockwave is human there?" Raf dared to ask, nervously rubbing his arm.

"I don't know Rafael," Ratchet answered with a tense frown, "I don't know."

.: I don't like him. :. Bumblebee's frame was tense, servos clenched on his lap. .: He did something to Raf, to- 'Senscript' and now he and Silas need Raf to do something. I don't like it. :.

[ "Then let the live-testing begin. Get those pilots out there and subdue the commanding XTR." Silas commanded. "Deploy as soon as possible."

Miko stepped onto a platform, dressed in a thick, dark pink protective jumpsuit. MN-00 was stamped in white across her back. She put on a thick visored helmet, securing it on her head. The platform rose towards a towering, tank of a robot with thick metal plating and dark red painted on gunmetal black. It was the biggest mecha within the gigantic hanger, needing two separate support structures to keep it aloft.

Jack stepped on a similar platform, dressed in the same dark, thick protective jumpsuit- only it was in a deep blue. JD- 05 was stamped across his back. He was securing the same visored helmet on his head. The platform took him to a thinner, shorter mecha- at least compared to Miko's mecha. It just needed one support structure. Its plating was dark blue on grey.

Raf was on the last platform, also dressed in a jumpsuit, his was a smooth red-orange. RE-13 was on his back. His helmet was secured, and a little different. Much thicker compared to Jack and Miko's helmets, it covered part of his neck as well. His mecha was the smallest of the two, half the size of Jack's mecha but surprisingly widely built. Its plating was red-orange on light grey, with a medical cross painted over the chest and shoulders. ]

Miko's confusion over Shockwave was instantly gone as she grabbed Jack and shook him rapidly. "I KNEW IT! I knew it- pilots? Mecha? WE'RE PILOTING GIANT ROBOTS! LIKE ACTUAL GIANT ROBOTS! LIKE GUNDAM!" She squealed, ecstatic beyond belief.

"That's… woah." Jack blinked, a bit speechless as he watched himself step into chest cavity of the giant robot-mecha. He thinks the mecha was as tall as Optimus, maybe a bit taller. Hell, Miko's mecha was ginormous!

Raf tilted his head, looking at the red medical crosses on 'his' mecha, remembering what his other self said earlier. "Rescue-class…" He muttered to himself, brows furrowing in thought. "Sensitivity…"

Arcee didn't know what to say, how to react- the fact the kids in that universe, although they were older, were getting into what looked to be sparkless bodies of Cybertronians— no, they were human built mecha. Not… Not cybertronians, still, looking at these things was… disturbing.

Their visored heads just reminded her of empurata victims, faceless. Miko's mecha didn't even have full-five digits, just three, clearly created to smash into things. Raf's mecha was thickly built but smalll, the color scheme and that symbol seemed like he was a support type of mecha, didn't he say something about rescue earlier? And Jack's mecha… the colors, the designation were so close to Tailgate's that it made her spark hurt. But he didn't have the same frame as Tailgate, his legs were built different, digitigrade and clearly for speed.

( "… Okay, I think I know where this is going." A red speedster deadpanned, hiding how uncomfortable he was at seeing the mecha. It was uncanny really, how Cybertronian-like they were yet weren't. )

[ Miko sat in her cockpit, strapping herself into the seat. She grinned, "Callsign: Wrecker, clocking in!" From behind, her helmet shifted, opening a segment to a previously unseen part of her neck. previously hidden underneath her hair. Two ports. As she sat back, the seat's head opened to reveal two wires which automatically plugged themselves into Miko's neck. She gritted her teeth, her grin turning feral. "Syncronization, plug in complete!" Her mecha whirred to life, steam escaping the wires and connectors to the support structures as they disconnected from her. ]

The teenage girl's excitement faltered, but only for a moment just to wince at the phantom pain she felt at the sight of the wires stabbing themselves into her neck. "Oh weird! Why'd they have to do that? Gundam didn't have that!" She complained, rubbing her neck with a shiver.

Ratchet was muttering to himself, already theorizing on what was going on- yet his mutterings were put to a stop when he noticed how tense and disapproving Optimus looked. "… Optimus?"

The Prime didn't look at him, merely watched as Jack and Raf came in next.

[ "Callsign: Tailbreaker, clocking in." A similar sequence followed, his helmet shifting behind him to allow the wires to plug themselves into his two ports. Jack gritted his teeth, fingers digging into his arm rest before they relaxed. "Syncronization, plug in complete." His mecha hissed as he was released from the supports as well.

Raf's clock in was a bit different, he sat in his cockpit, strapped in. "Callsign: Senscript, clocking in." He took in a deep breath, his helmet shifted open, revealing not two, but five ports along his neck. He let out a pained yelp as five wires dug into each port. "S-Syncronization. Plug in complete." ]

"Wait, why does Raf have five ports instead of two like Miko and I?" Jack asked, frowning at the sight of the young boy- well, teen now in the screen, yelping in pain.

"That's a lot of ports." Miko agreed, frowning, her excitement dimming slightly from how uncomfortable on-screen Raf looked with five wires plugged into his neck like that.

.: That doesn't look comfortable. :. Bumblebee said unhappily, worried for his human charge's counterpart. He looked over to see Raf shivering, rubbing at the back of his neck with a deeply uncomfortable look. .: Shockwave must have done something. :.

"The question is, what." Arcee muttered, "He and Silas are up to something."

( "If only Shockwave was here, perhaps he could give some insight of what's happening." A seeker wilted over the pointed, displeased look his warlord leader gave him. "Even though his counterpart is human there, I'd imagine he would've had an inkling to his counterpart's thought process regardless… It's truly a shame that he died on Cybertron."

A seeker gulped nervously, "Hahaha… i-indeed..." )

[ "Pilots lock in; XTRs appeared south-west to MECH base. Deploy in T-minus 2 minutes, your orders are as follows; deal with all the grunt XTRs and subdue the commander." Silas' voice came into the mecha's comm-system. Each of them standing at the entrance of the hangar.

"Pilot Senscript is crucial to this mission, not a scratch is to be on him. Senscript hang back as Tailbreaker and Wrecker deal with the chaff and get the commander subdued for your main objective."

Shockwave's voice came, making all three of them tense. "Your main objective is to live-test my invention. Senscript, just as we practiced and tested. Ensure a link is possible with the cortical psychic patch and download or scribe whatever data you find within the XTR commander's processing unit. Operation: Patch-Link will now begin. Do not fail me."

Silas interrupted, sounding irritated. "Do not fail MECH. Deploy, now."

All three pilots let out a unified 'Yes sir!' as the hanger doors opened, letting them deploy out of the base and towards the 'XTRs'. ]

"Cortical Psychic Patch?!" Both Ratchet and Arcee shouted, causing all three humans to wince. Bumblebee flinched at the mention of it, whirring lowly to himself in a low, wordless beep.

"I knew it! I knew it, no Shockwave is good! Cybertronian or otherwise!" Arcee snarled, her helm spiking in pain from years ago- the ache of the patch going in, of Shockwave rummaging through her memories… Not to mention not too long ago.

"Pause! Cortical- y-you mean that thing that let Megatron into Bee's mind? Back when Optimus was sick with the cybonic plague?" Raf gasped, looking sick to his stomach as he remembered what happened. Bee had heroically went into a comatose Megatron's mind to retrieve the cure, but Megatron had managed to hitch a ride back, controlling his friend and returning to his original body afterwards.

It had been a mess, and caused more than a few nightmares.

"Ugh, thinking about it, the kids plugging into their mechas is reminding me of that." Bulkhead muttered aloud, wincing when he sees Raf pale even more as well as the disturbed looks from his fellow Autobots. "Uh…"

.: Wait, i-if Shockwave wants Raf- er, Senscript? To use a cortical psychich patch… just what, or who, is he patching into? :. Bumblebee asked, focusing back on the screen with great apprehension.

"He… wanted him to patch into something called an XTR… do you think- back at the start, were those…?" Jack hesitantly theorized with a distressed look on his face.

Miko didn't hesitate, "Observer! Continue!"

This universe was definitely different from the other two they'd last watched…

[ ----- TFP: UO -----]

THIS TOOK... 6.4k WORDS... that is the LONGEST chapter in this story so far. and originally i wanted to end SOMEWHERE ELSE but that would've taken WAY LONGER!

i certainly hope you guys enjoyed because this was fun! and it's just going to get better! also please don't mind the mecha descriptions, i suck at those currently. hoping to get better at those at some point. but just know, i gave miko the biggest, baddest mecha (with a surprise for later), jack a strong but slimmer mecha built for speed (with a surprise, for later but from jack himself) and raf a nice support mecha which is smaller, thicker (and yes, he also has a surprise for later. next chapter even!)

also! did you know... jack and tailgate have the same voice actor?? i had fun knowing that! and now so does arcee! kind of! she is getting SO MUCH TAILGATE VIBES from Mecha Au Jack, especially when Jack's in his mecha and using his callsign of Tailbreaker. hehehehehe this'll be very fun.

also also! did i just kill june in mecha jack's backstory? yes. i did. we move on!

thank you all for supporting me and the story, i'll see you all next chapter!

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[mlqueen89]

Four | Boundaries

Are there some aces up your sleeve? Have you no idea that you're in deep? I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week How many secrets can you keep? 'Cause there's this tune I found That makes me think of you somehow an' I play it on repeat

Do I Wanna Know by The Arctic Monkeys

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin / ofc (top gun: maverick)

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

Warnings/triggers: smut in overall series, mentions of parent death/absence, swearing (let me know if i missed any!)

word count: 8,274 summary: the one where ellie assembles the avengers her team and pulls back the curtain on her tech. jake switches up his approach and ellie grapples with early push back from the pilots. A/N: this chapter and the previous chapter were originally one chapter, but my magnanimous beta kindly told me to chop it in two, which left some breathing room for the wonderful opening scene, of which i’m so incredibly proud. and then i let my fingers go wild, and this chapter got split in two. basically, it’s so clear at this point that i’m gonna need more than 10 chapters to tell jake and ellie’s story properly. these kids are just the most fun, but also, the most stubborn.

this one is plot heavy. this whole chapter (technically 4 & 5) was the most exciting and fun chapter i've written for jake and ellie’s story so far, i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i've added a bunch of terms to the glossary, so feel free to head there if there’s something you’re not sure of terminology wise. i really wanted to make this authentic – ya know, as authentic as fanfiction could be. ❥ playlist ♡ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ glossary of terms ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ❥ 

Midway Park, Lemoore, California — 2005 

The early morning October air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of fresh cut grass and rubber tires as families gathered around the makeshift track for the annual soapbox derby.  

Ellie clutched her helmet under one arm, the other hand resting on the sleek grey soapbox car she and her dad had worked on for weeks with interspersed help from one or more of his old wingmen. Its reflective paint gleamed under the sunlight, a perfect replica of his old F-14 Tomcat, right down to the call sign, now replaced with her name and RIO painted on with the steady hand of her uncle Wolfman. 

She’d excitedly run the race in her head as she tried and failed to sleep, her eyes scanning over every detail of her helmet sitting on her dresser across the room and the olive one-piece flight suit hanging behind her door in the dim glow of the moonlight seeping in through the cracks in her slatted blinds. She hadn’t even eaten her whole breakfast that morning, partly because Wolfman had cracked the egg wrong in the pan and there were shells to pick out of the scrambled eggs, but mostly because her stomach tossed. Her legs swinging impatiently under the table as she pushed her food around her plate and watched her dad read the paper and sip his coffee like he had all the time in the world.  

“Alright, Ellie, here’s the deal, kiddo,” her dad said, crouching to her level. In his aviators, Ellie could see the reflection of her wide eyes before she took a look at the lineup of cobbled together cars and the other kids crowded around the roped off track. “The under-10 category?” he waved his hand, dismissive, “that’s baby stuff. You’re better than that.”  

Ellie frowned, her small hands gripping the curved edge of her old ski helmet, scrawled with uneven, bubbly kid letters RIO. “But I am under 10. I’m eight and a half and...” Ellie paused to count on her fingers, her pink nail polish chipped and barely there, “... two days!”  

Rick tilted his head toward his wingman, Leonard “Wolfman” Wolfe, who stood nearby with a clipboard and a devil-may-care smirk. “Not today, Rio. Today, you’re 10 and a half—officially. Right, Wolfman?”  

Wolfman tapped the clipboard with a pen, his mischievous grin widening. “Right-o, born two years earlier than the records say, 1994. Funny how paperwork can get all... mixed up.” His hand waved in the air, a magician performing a disappearing act, shaking an etch-a-sketch.  

Ellie’s eyes widened as her gaze shifted between the two men. “Dad, is that… allowed?”  

Her dad chuckled and ruffled her hair playfully. “Let’s just say it’s a tactical adjustment. Mid-flight maneuver. Trust me, you’re ready for the big leagues.” He crouched closer, lowering his voice. “You wanna race against kids who can barely steer, or you wanna take on the best and show them what the Nevens are made of?” Her dad tapped the patch with the wings stitched to the left side of her olive coloured jumpsuit, the last name Neven, E. embroidered there.  

Ellie’s lips twitched into a gap-toothed smile, her nerves melting under her dad’s infectious confidence, the feeling of pride blooming in her chest. “The best.”  

She reached up to touch the patch, her tiny fingers grazing the fine stitching. Ellie, her dad and Wolfman had hovered over her mom’s shoulder as Ellie’s thrift store coveralls turned flight suit passed under the thumping needle and thread of her mom’s sowing machine, each stitch pinning the embroidered patch to her uniform. She’d felt the importance of it then and now she carried it like a plate of armour. 

“That’s my girl,” her dad beamed widely before he stood again, slapping Wolfman on the back. “Alright, make it official, Wolfe. She’s in the higher category.” 

Wolfman offered a half-salute before he scribbled something on the form tacked to the clipboard and stepped up to the registration table, where a volunteer in a bright yellow shirt shuffled through forms. “We’ve got an entry for the 10-and-up category,” he said, sliding the clipboard across the table with a pop of the chewing gum in his mouth, a wry smile on his lips.  

The volunteer, a woman in her mid-forties, frowned, gathering the clipboard with a wary look at Wolfman before she redirected her green eyes to squint at the paper. “Eleanor Neven? Didn’t she race in the under-10 category last year?” The woman’s eyes passed between Wolfman and Rick and then stood slightly to peek at Ellie over the edge of the table before they returned to the form, her finger tapping at the birthdate, skeptical.  

Rick flashed a dazzling smile, the aviators reflecting the woman’s face back at her as he clicked his tongue. “Kids grow up fast, don’t they? She’s been eating her Wheaties.” For effect, he patted the top of Ellie’s head and pulled her to his side.  

“Plus, last year was a mistake. Wrong birthdate on the form. Happens all the time with military families. You know how it is—paperwork gets shuffled around, lost.” Wolfman added smoothly, leaning against the table as a line formed behind him with other families waiting to register.  

The volunteer hesitated, glancing between the two men again before she sighed, unclipping the form from the clipboard before she slid it into the appropriate pile and began gathering the numbered aprons. “Well… if the birthdate checks out—” 

“It does,” Rick said firmly, all the while his smile never wavered. “I triple-checked it myself. Wolfman here looked it over too. We were both there when she was born. She’s ten and ready to roll.”  

The volunteer’s eyes narrowed, her gaze passing from her dad then to Wolfman before she quietly handed over the documentation.  

Ellie watched the exchange for a moment before she reached up and tugged on her dad’s sleeve as Wolfman collected the stamped form and they stepped away for the next family to register. “Dad, what if they find out? Isn’t this cheating?”  

Rick crouched again, resting a hand on her shoulder as Wolfman crouched behind her, clipping the numbered bib there. “Rio, here’s the thing about flying—or racing,” he reached out to pat the edge of the soapbox plane’s greyed body, “sometimes, you gotta bend the rules a little to get to where you’re going. It’s not about cheating—it’s about knowing you’ve got what it takes, even if the rules don’t think so. Pushing against the limits a bit so we know where the edge is for next time. Tell you what, when we see Uncle Mav, we can ask him about it, huh?”  

Over her shoulder, Wolfman snorted loudly, before he coughed, clearing his throat as Rick shot him a look before he moved on to wrap a numbered arm band around Ellie’s bicep.  

Ellie’s gaze flicked to the track, where older kids were already testing their cars, their faces set with confidence. She squared her shoulders, set her jaw and nodded, though her fingers fiddled with the straps of the helmet tucked under her arm. “Okay, Dad. Let’s do it.”  

“Atta girl,” Rick said, standing and saluting her before he clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation. “Now, get ready to smoke ‘em.”  

They wheeled the soapbox to the race area, Ellie’s fingers tapping out on the outside of the helmet under her arm, her heart beating hard in her small chest. Instinctively, Ellie walked around the soapbox car, her fingers brushing the frame.  

“Always do your preflight before boarding,” her dad had been gazing at her in the rearview at the red light two intersections before the race grounds. 

“Visual 360, fuel and instrument check.” Ellie had nodded, listing off the checklist; her neck craned from the back seat to see if she could scope out any other racers headed to the track. She unbuckled her seat belt to slide closer to the center console before Wolfman threw her a look over his shoulder. 

“Seat belt in this aircraft, kid.” He tutted at her, sliding his aviators down his nose as he popped his gum, pausing on filling out the registration forms in his lap, “you think we’re rule breakers?” 

“We’re not?” 

“Rule benders,” Wolfman corrected, levelling her with a look until she slid back into her seat and buckled up with a click before he pushed his glasses back up and turned his eyes ahead, “we prefer the term rule benders.” 

Climbing into the soapbox, Ellie settled into the low seat as her dad crouched beside the car, sliding the helmet over her head and clipping the strap under her chin. Wolfman leaned forward and tapped dutifully on the top of the helmet, as her dad adjusted it, tugging at the chin strap sharply. Wolfman grinned at her, but when he spoke, it was for his wingman. “She’s ready for this, you think?”  

Ellie’s eyes found her dad’s through the clear visor as he snapped it down over her eyes, his features softened as she smiled her gap-toothed smile at him and adjust the helmet around her head. “She’s a Neven, Wolfman. She was born ready. Right kiddo?”  

“So, Tilly’s given the a-okay, then?”  

Ellie didn’t miss the look her dad threw at his WSO over his shoulder. 

Wolfman raised his hands and chuckled. “Fair enough. Let’s hope she doesn’t notice we didn’t tighten the steering bolts all the way.”  

Rick’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”  

“Relax, Hollywood. I’m kidding.” Wolfman chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Mostly.”  

Her dad groaned as the announcer called for racers to line up and he pushed her car onto the pitched ramp, the ready position. Ellie gripped the wheel as her front tires settled against the gate, the countdown echoing overhead.  

Ten.  

Nine. 

“Preflight checks complete, Lieutenant Neven?” He asked, standing at attention beside the soapbox, his voice calm and steady as the countdown reached the last eight seconds. 

Eight.  

Seven. 

“Preflight checks complete.” Ellie’s foot tapped on the break and twisted the steering wheel, leaning over to watch the tires pivot on spot. “Pattern clear?” 

Six. 

Five. 

“Pattern clear, aviator.” 

Four. 

Three. 

“Requesting clearance for take-off, sir.” 

Two. 

“Clearance granted, Lieutenant Neven.” 

One. 

“Go get ‘em, Rio,” she heard him whisper as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to his fingers and slapping them on the call sign stuck onto the front of her helmet. “Let ‘er rip, kid.”  

The gate in front of Ellie’s car dropped, her wheels moving forward and the soapbox rolling down the pitched track. Despite herself, she gave out a squeal of excitement as she gained speed, the wind picking up and whipping the strands of hair that escaped from under her helmet around her face. 

The world around her blurred, the orange, red and yellow hues of fall rushing by her in a wash of colour, thrill of the speed and the race flooding her senses. For a moment, the sound of the wind and the beating of her heart, she felt like she was flying, a small dot in an endless blue sky. Hollywood and Rio.  

On the second turn, as she broke from the pack of other racers, Ellie felt the change, the sudden increase in speed as the wheel in her hands vibrated and rumbled, wobbled and jammed, harder to steer. But then the hill grew steeper, and her soapbox car picked up more speed than she expected. Ellie’s heart jumped into her throat as she tried to remember what her dad had said about staying steady, about procedure if she came up on a problem with the steering. The third and final turn came fast—too fast—and Ellie leaned into it hard, pulling the stiff wheel as far to the right as she could muscle, but she felt when the car beneath her veered sharply, suddenly uncontrollable. When the front wheels hit a natural dip and then sudden bump in the track, Ellie felt it in her stomach. 

The next few seconds were a blur. Ellie’s grip on the steering wheel slipped, the wheel jerking to the right. Ellie felt the soapbox pitch before she left the seat inside, the sting of pavement rubbing a hole in the arm of her flight suit, hot and raw. In an instant, she felt the sharp pain shoot up her arm from her elbow as she tumbled awkwardly, the world around her spinning. 

The prickle of the hay bale stuck through the back of her clothing as the shooting pain in her arm intensified, the world stilled as she looked up at the blue sky above. Around her, she heard the hum of the wheels passing her and the eruption of cheers as the racers crossing the finish line. 

The taste like a handful of pennies in her mouth came next and when her hand went to her lips, it came back red. From where she lay on the grass, she could see the canopy of autumn leaves clinging to the branches, the blue sky filling in the rest of the mural overhead. 

Her head was spinning, and tears welled up in her eyes, leaking down the side of her eyes into her ears, as the pain in her arm intensified. She tried to sit up but whimpered, clutching her arm close to her chest. The finish line taunted her in the near distance, the checkered banner billowing lazily in the breeze. 

Suddenly, her dad was there, dropping to a knee beside her. “Ellie! Hey, hey—are you okay?” His voice was panicked, but his hands were gentle as he scooped her up into his arms, holding her close to his chest. 

Ellie sniffled, tears rolling down her cheeks despite her best attempts to hold it together, the pain in her arm and the sting of losing when she had been so close, the perfect storm that threatened to break her composure. “I-I broke it, Dad,” she managed through choked sobs, her arm cradled against her body, her breaths coming in gulps. As if an afterthought, she traced her front teeth with her tongue and hiccupped a small sob when she found a larger gap there than had been before, “and I lost a tooth.”  

Her dad’s face softened with a mix of something Ellie couldn’t quite map, his brow pulling together into a line as he brushed hair away from her face, tucked it up the lip of the helmet still stuck on her head. “Aw, kiddo, I’m so sorry. We’ll get you fixed up, okay? Let’s get you to the hospital.” 

Shifting her, he fished the car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Wolfman who, without a word, took off toward the parking lot at a clipped pace.  

Ellie could only nod weakly, burying her face in his chest, the familiar scent of his aftershave and coffee settling her, cocooning her. Even through the pain, there was a comfort in his arms, the sound of his heart pounding in his chest, thumping against her tear-stained cheek centering her like the tick of a metronome guiding her back to calm. 

As they headed to the parking lot, each bump or bounce of her dad’s gait a painful jolt to her arm, pushing a hiss from her lips, she heard him whisper softly, against the side of her helmet. “You were so brave, Rio. I’m so proud of you.” 

Ellie nodded with a sniffle as the sound of Wolfman pulling up the van closer, brakes squealing, drew her attention. “Mom’s gonna be mad.”  

“Oh, don’t worry about your mom, kid.” Ellie watched as her dad tried to laugh, but there was also a hesitation there that stopped his lips from turning up into his usually contagious, mischievous grins. “Your mom’s not gonna believe I let you get behind the wheel on the 10 and over track.” 

Ellie let out a soft, watery laugh. Tilly Neven wasn’t one to trifle with. “You’re in trouble.”  

Rick chuckled this time, the sound reverberating through her as he stepped over the curb into the parking lot and Wolfman slid open the door to the backseat, for a second, her dad held her a bit tighter. “Yeah, well… wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.” 

Ellie had never been good at public speaking. She’d never joined a debate club or been the first to volunteer her ideas if it meant a presentation.  

Once she’d received the text from Tony, confirming the tech upgrade and the program installation in the jets, she’d relaxed, but only slightly. It still meant that she had to do the part of her job she disliked the most, “the elevator pitch”. 

She’d have to face the men who would be flying her tech and say Hi, I’ve added a hunk of metal and some wires into your jets. It’s going to help, trust me. Ask them to put their trust in her, their lives in her hands. It won’t malfunction according to these computer simulations. It won’t leave you hanging in a dogfight. Pinky promise. 

She didn’t expect it to go off without a hitch. She didn’t expect them to cheer and lift her up on their shoulders. 

All she needed was a chance, a small bit of faith before they leapt. 

Ellie stood at the front of the briefing room, her hands resting lightly on the podium, her gaze scanning the faces of the four pilots clad in green flight suits seated before her. The air smelled of stale coffee and old leather, the scent of a room that had seen countless debriefings, strategy meetings, and quiet moments of reckoning.  

She had spent years developing this technology, refining it, arguing for its place, its relevance, in the future of aviation. She’d tweaked it here, twisted its usefulness there, bridged a gap when she’d been turned down at one turn and climbed through windows when doors closed in her face. Now, standing here in front of the men who would be the first to fly with it, she had to vault this hurdle too, convince them it was worth trusting with their lives. Standing here, pitching for their faith in her, was more nerve wracking than presenting in front of Admiral Simpson and Rear Admiral Stark. 

Taking a breath, Ellie steadied herself, ignored how Teak and Lover scuffled between each other in their seats, how Hangman’s eyes never left her, the feeling of his gaze, eyes focused, hot on her even when she wasn’t looking at him. Rooster sat behind him and kicked his chair with a well-aimed boot, the sudden jolt of his seat enough to knock Hangman out of his stare. 

She didn’t ask for their attention, didn’t wait for them to notice that she was ready to begin. With a click of the remote in her hand, the screen behind her flickered, displaying the blueprint layout of an F-18, its labelled components taken straight from the NATOPS handbook. “Gentlemen. I assume Captain Mitchell has already given you a brief overview of what to expect, so I won’t waste your time on introductions or small talk and formalities.”  

From the corner of her eye, Ellie could see Mav fold his arms across his chest, his eyes trained on her. He’d given her the floor immediately without preface, without introduction. 

“You’ll recognize this as the wireframe of your F-18,” Ellie continued before she clicked to the next slide. An overlay slid into place, the standing systems overlaid with a complex web of radar signals, AI pathways, and electronic warfare integrations—her tech, on full display, laid bare. If she was expecting a reaction, they didn’t give her one, just silence. 

“What you’re looking at is the next step in avionics evolution,” she pressed on, her voice steady, turning toward her audience. “A fully integrated, adaptive system that combines radar, AI-driven threat assessment, electronic warfare, and seamless data-sharing into a single interface. Instead of relying on separate, often outdated systems, this package will allow you to fight, evade, and communicate with a level of efficiency we’ve never seen before.” 

If her heart wasn’t beating in her ears, she would hear the silence that met her words. She’d recognize it as the silence that wasn’t the good kind, the kind of silence that led her to over-explain herself. But she didn’t. 

Rooster, sat forward, his forearms on the table as he studied the schematic with an unreadable expression. Lover was nodding slightly as he squinted between the screen and scribbling notes in a small flip notebook he’d pulled from the breast pocket of his flight suit. Hangman lounged in his seat, fingers laced behind his head, smirking, carefully flipping a toothpick in his mouth. And Teak—Teak sat back, arms folded over his chest, a look Ellie recognized as the tell-tale look of skepticism written across his face. 

Ellie paused, her eyes drawn down to her notes. Pause for pushback, she’d written. She didn’t have to pause for long., 

“So, what?” Teak drawled, tilting his head slightly, waving at the screen. “You want us to trust some... glorified autopilot to make our decisions for us?” 

Unflinchingly, Ellie met his gaze, actually looking at him for the first time. Teak’s jaw flexed; the sharp lines of his cheekbones and nose lending him a striking appearance. His eyes, an intriguingly particular shade of cerulean, not unlike a clear September sky, studied Ellie as she took her time to process the response. “No. I want you to have every possible advantage when you’re up there. The AI isn’t replacing you—it’s making sure you have all the information you need, exactly when you need it.” 

Ellie clicked the remote again, and the screen shifted to a simulation. Two aircraft maneuvered through a contested airspace, one operating on traditional avionics, the other using her system.  

The first fighter responded only to what its sensors could detect, reacting to threats as they appeared through visuals or radar. The second fighter’s system anticipated missile locks before they happened, evaded before the pilot even registered the danger visually, and counter-jammed enemy radar before the target was painted. “It’s all based on data, numbers. But right now, those numbers look very good,” her eyes turned to the screen and watched the simulated planes for a moment, observed as they streaked through the mock mission, data readings popping up on what looked to be a pilot Heads-Up Display. 

“This system isn’t meant to fly for you,” she continued, turning back now as the simulations continued to play on loop on the screen behind her. “But it will see threats before you do, adjust possible countermeasures dynamically, and ensure your radar stays clear even in a fully jammed environment. In short? It gives you an advantage over the enemy, helps make sure you have a better chance at coming home.” 

Hangman broke the silence next, the sound of his low whistle drawing Ellie’s attention as he leaned back in his chair, his open legged posture, relaxed as ever. “Well, damn. That’s one hell of a sales pitch.” 

Rooster, his eyes still flicked across the data readings displayed on the screen behind Ellie, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “How fast can it adapt if an enemy starts throwing curveballs? Let’s say a bogey or SAMs or laser guided missile systems.” 

Ellie clicked again, dismissing the simulation and bringing up another set of figures. All colourful charts and data sets. She’d come prepared for this line of questioning.  

“Milliseconds. It’s built on machine learning models trained on thousands of real-world engagements. The more it’s used, the smarter it gets. If someone tries to jam your frequency in one way, it recalibrates instantly. If an unknown aircraft enters your airspace, it cross-references flight patterns to find weaknesses, predict its next move before you would have to react. It shows you possibilities.” 

“So, you’re saying it levels the playing field against fifth-gen threats?” Lover was sitting up now, his pen tapping against his open notebook, his broad shoulders rolling forward as he pointed at the data set. Ellie thought she read excitement in his hazel eyes as he thumbed his nose. 

“I’m saying it not only evens the playing field, but it tilts it in your favour.” 

Silence stretched between them, charged with something between curiosity and uncertainty. 

“Sounds like a lot of fancy tech that can get hacked, fail, or—oh, I don’t know—override pilot input at the worst possible time,” Teak said flatly, Ellie could almost detect the chortle behind his words. Convincing Teak would be a challenge. 

Ellie forced herself to pivot—she had dealt with resistance before from officers ranking higher than Teak. Early on, she had learned pilots didn’t like change, especially not changes that altered the way they had trained, the way they had survived. Wolfman had told her as much the first time she’d passed the idea by him, Mav had all but told her what to expect from every level of Naval officer, so she wasn’t about to let skepticism derail the entire briefing. Skepticism was a given. 

“It has redundancy systems,” she said evenly. “If one function is compromised, the AI reallocates resources to keep the essentials running. If something catastrophic happens? Manual override is always in your hands. It’s a tool, an aid, not a replacement for skill.” 

Teak scoffed before he loudly popped his chewing gum. “Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t put my life in the hands of an algorithm.” 

Hangman chuckled, tilting his head toward Teak who sat a row behind and to his left, a lazy grin growing on his face. “Teak, buddy. You sound like my granddad bitching about GPS when it first came out. Relax, old man.” 

Rooster huffed out a quiet laugh. Lover fought a smirk. Teak’s jaw ticked as if he swallowed his words. 

Ellie let the moment settle before she spoke again.  

“Look, I know this is all new. And I know change isn’t easy to trust. But the fact is this system isn’t here to hold your hand. It’s here to keep you alive in environments where traditional systems would leave you blind, deaf, and dead in the water.” 

She let her words sink in before she continued. “I don’t expect you to trust it yet. That’s what testing is for. But I do expect you to fly with it and see for yourselves, let it speak for itself.” 

Ellie scanned the pilots before her; Teak’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing more. Rooster sat back, nodding slightly, still mulling it over. Lover shrugged, casting a quick look around the room, eager. Hangman just grinned, his eyes never leaving her. 

“Well, sweetheart,” he said, the amusement in his tone clear as he adjusted his seat in the chair, “I do love a good test drive.” 

Ellie rolled her eyes and ignored him, clicking the remote one last time to pull up the first test flight parameters. 

“Good,” she said. “Because you’re all wheels up in about 30 minutes.” 

Maverick clapped his hands together, rising from his chair. “Alright, aviators; suit up and make your way to the tarmac. Let’s see what this tech can really do.” 

The room stirred to life, chairs scraping against the floor as the pilots stood, some stretching, others already discussing the upcoming test amongst themselves. Ellie stayed put, gathering her laptop and notes, methodically shutting everything down. 

The pilots filtered out one by one. Rooster passed the podium, tapping out a quick rhythm on the edge and shooting her a small nod on his way out, and Lover muttered something about looking forward to seeing it in action as he tucked his notepad away before air drumming with his pen. Teak, however, barely spared her a glance as he brushed past, his shoulder grazing hers a bit too close for comfort. 

Ellie exhaled, letting the tension in her shoulders ease. That had gone about as well as she could’ve hoped, a little (expected) pushback, but three out of four pilots being open to try it wasn’t too bad of a ratio. She’d had worse before. 

“Nice job, Rigby.” 

She blinked, glancing up. Hangman was still there, standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, the toothpick sticking out the corner of his mouth, and that ever-present smugness dialed down to something… different.  

Ellie hesitated before she responded. “Thanks,” she said, closing her laptop. “Though I’m sure you’ll find something to critique once you’re in the air.” 

Hangman chuckled, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, sounds like you know me better than you think.” But there was something almost appreciative in his expression, something that lingered a beat too long. 

Ellie’s fingers curled around her MacBook, as something unreadable settling in her stomach. 

Then, movement near the door caught her eye, breaking her from the moment. 

Teak. 

He hadn’t left after all. He lingered just outside of the briefing room in the hall, his sharp gaze passing between her and Hangman pointedly, assessing. Ellie wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but judging by the way his expression flickered—something tight, something almost knowing—he’d seen enough to form some kind of opinion. 

Jake winked at her, clapping a hand on the edge of the podium as he stepped past her, “see you on the tarmac, Rigby.” 

Ellie forced a nod, schooling her expression as Hangman stepped out, his hand grabbing Teak’s shoulder and giving it a shake, “c’mon granddad, I’ll show you how all those buttons work.” 

Teak shook Hangman off, his lips pulled into a tight line as he lingered, just a second longer. Ellie’s eyes met his for a beat, a moment when he held it. Then, just as quickly, he was gone. 

From the control tower’s observation deck, headset on, fingers drumming against her folded arms, Ellie listened the comms chatter. 

From her vantage point, she could see the three jets taxi into position, the Californian sun sitting high in the blue, cloudless sky. It was as perfect a condition as she could have hoped for, at least the weather was cooperating. Around her, the Control Tower hummed with the activity of the staff, coordinating clearance with the ground crew and flight patterns of aircraft already in the air. 

For years she’d imagined standing here, envisioned a time in the future where she’d be watching as her tech did its thing and the numbers started rolling in. Now, actually standing here, her heart beating in her throat, she found herself overrun with the need to fidget, the chew her lip, to bite her thumbnail. 

Down on the runway, she watched as the jets roared to life, sleek bodies glinting in the afternoon light. Rooster, Teak, Lover, and Hangman. All of them sitting in cockpits wired with the most advanced avionics package ever put into a single system. If this worked—if it really worked—it would change everything. On the other hand, if it failed... well it didn’t bear thinking about, not right now at least. Ellie felt her foot tapping out on the tiled floor as her fingers dug into her arms. 

“Alright, gentlemen,” Maverick’s voice crackled over the comms from somewhere in the sky, the feedback from the cockpit scratchy in her ears. “Today’s a simple test. We’re looking for a baseline. The system is going to integrate with your HUDs and onboard AI, feeding you the real-time data and making sure you have everything you need to stay alive. Your job? Fly how you normally would. My job? Try to kill you. Hard deck is 5,000 feet—let’s keep it clean, nothing fancy.” 

“Clean and ‘nothing fancy’ ain’t exactly in my wheelhouse,” Hangman drawled, his accent cutting through the frequency, his voice sounding isolated, in a tin can. Ellie resisted the shiver that rolled up her spine. Though he was hundreds of feet away, a small spot on the runway, his voice in her ears sparked something in her. 

Ellie rolled her eyes, mostly at him, but a little at herself, instead choosing to focus on the screens in front of her, hovering over the shoulders of the techs sitting in front of the radar equipment which beeped dutifully. 

Rooster’s sigh was deep as he cut in over the frequency. “Just try not to break anything before we even get started, Bagman.” 

“No promises, Rooster. No promises.” Ellie could hear the smirk in Jake’s voice. “Lover, you ready to walk your old man through this?”    “I swear to God, Hangman,” Teak shot back, quickly, his comms fizzling to life. “Keep running your mouth—” 

“Easy, easy—” Jake responded without missing a beat, the clicking of toggles being flipped dull in the background behind his voice, “no need to get feisty now, just say the word if you need me to break it down real slow for you.” 

“Knock off the chatter,” Maverick cut in. “Wheels up in thirty seconds.” 

Down on the flight line, the engines surged, afterburners flared, and one by one, the jets launched down the runway, blurs of speed that streaked into the sky like silver bullets. Ellie’s gaze shifted, watching their flight paths on the monitors in front of her, the integrated system humming to life as it started pulling in data, linking each aircraft into the seamless digital web one by one. 

“Telemetry looks good from here,” Ellie spoke into the headset, her eyes took in the data as it began streaming to the screen in front of her. “All systems online and reading normal. How’s it looking up there?” 

Rooster was the first to respond, his familiar voice filling Ellie’s ears. “HUD’s crisp. AI’s already starting to flag heat signatures and terrain. Feels intuitive.” 

Ellie could feel the prickly of excitement before she schooled it back; too soon to start celebrating. 

“Same here,” Lover added, a smooth calmness in place. “Looks good from where I’m sitting. Got anything nice to say, Teak?” 

“System seems a bit chatty. Lots of information to sort through. Feels like it’s thinking for me.” Teak’s voice came through on cue, predictably, less enthusiastic. 

Ellie bit her tongue, she’d make a note to address it later in the debrief. She’d carefully remind Teak that the whole point of the system was to boost and enhance their decision-making, not replace it. As with anything new, it wouldn’t seem natural or easy in the beginning but would benefit them in the long run. Old dogs, new tricks. 

Hangman’s voice came last. “It’s good, I’ll give you that. But let’s see how it handles when I put it through the wringer.” 

Suddenly, a spike of data jumped on Ellie’s screen. Hangman’s jet shot forward, pushing past the planned test parameters before Ellie could yell out a warning over the comms. Outside, Ellie could see his jet as he yanked into a high-G turn, rolling hard, his plane screaming through the sky at an angle that should have stalled out lesser, greener pilots. 

Alarms flared on Ellie’s screen, screamed in her ears, so loud she instinctively lifted the headset off one ear. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, already flipping through the diagnostics filling her screen, her fingers flying over keys to manually redistribute the generative thinking, fast. 

“Hangman!” Rooster barked, his voice booming over the screaming of her tech in her ear. “You trying to rip your own wings off?” 

“Relax Rooster,” even as Hangman grunted through another high-G cartwheel, strained against the force that pushed him back into the seat, Ellie could hear the playfulness in his tone, “just seeing if this fancy tech can keep up with me. So far, it’s keeping pace.” 

Barely, Ellie thought, her mind scrambling as she worked through the manual controls, pulling the recalibration coding from the back of her mind as her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest. The system was compensating as best it could, shifting power away from instruments and recalibrating to track Hangman’s sharp, unexpected turns and dives, climbs and rolls. It was working—but Ellie could already see stress indicators creeping in, the red signals flickering in the corner of her screen, the warning signs of a catastrophic failure. She hadn’t coded the parameters today for bullshit. If Hangman kept pushing, he might overload the AI’s allocation process before it had the chance to adjust and provide the baseline she was looking for. 

Her tech picked up Maverick on her screen as he joined in. 

Maverick’s jet came in fast from above, dropping out of the sheltered glare of the sun like a streaking missile. Ellie could see the system flag Mav on Hangman’s HUD in an instant, feeding Hangman a collision path before Mav entered weapons range. 

“Bogey incoming,” Ellie heard the AI voice warn in Hangman’s ear, on her end, she could see the system scanning, populating his HUD with information on the unknown aircraft. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Hangman muttered. “Breaking left. You got eyes on him Rooster?” 

He rolled hard to evade, dipping lower into the valley, barreling toward the 5,000-foot Hard Deck, forcing the system to compensate for rapid altitude changes, environmental shifts, and G-force strain all at once. 

Bitching Betty dinged through the cockpit, through Ellie’s headset. Altitude. Altitude. Pull up. Pull up. 

Ellie’s pulse ticked up as the warnings started going off again. 

“Break right, Hangman.” Rooster was in through the comms now, “I’ll get tone if you’re out of the way.” 

“Hangman, ease off,” Ellie cut through on the comms, her voice carefully controlled and calm but firm. She tried her best to keep the panic out of her tone, “You’re overloading the processing core. The AI needs time to redistribute resources, give it half a second to think and do what it’s there to do.”  

“Sounds like a ‘me’ problem.” Hangman was into another roll, breaking right as Rooster’s jet streaked in to assist and Hangman tumbled into another evasive maneuver, Mav hot on his tail. 

“It will be when you lose your radar feed,” Ellie shot back, around her the Control Tower Operators calmly diverted aircraft around the training area. “If you don’t—” 

The screen flickered on Ellie’s end, the system’s red flashing code stuttering, reflecting the same blip on Hangman’s HUD on the top corner of her display. 

A half-second glitch. 

A data delay. 

Not long enough to crash the system—but long enough to be dangerous if this were a live, life or death dogfight. 

In her ear, Hangman cursed under his breath as Mav capitalized on the momentary hiccup, his jet screaming in with impossible speed, locking a missile tone before Hangman could fully react, adjust. 

“That’s tone. Fox Two!” Mav’s voice cut through the comms, calm, collected. 

A simulated missile strike. If this had been real, Hangman would be punching out right now. 

The comms fell silent for a beat before Maverick’s voice came through, even and unreadable. “That’s a splash.” 

Ellie let out a slow breath as the system regulated, the red indicators disappearing from her screen as the system isolated the issue and rerouted, recalibrated. The system had held. Barely—pushed into the red, hanging on by what seemed to be a simple line of code. 

Hangman, to his credit, was quiet for a moment. 

“Well,” Jake began, the huff of exertion from the laundry list of evasive maneuvers and the strain of the resulting G-force on his body, “guess I found the breaking point.” 

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose, the tips of her fingers turning white, closing her eyes to breathe out a noisy, measured breath. 

“You found it immediately,” Rooster at least had the decency to sound as exasperated as Ellie felt. 

Lover hummed in agreement. “Kinda impressive, Hangman, honestly. You always go around breaking your most expensive toys?” 

Ellie exhaled sharply, evacuating all the air from her lungs before she breathed it in anew. Patience.  She’d need to practice patience or take a vow of silence to keep herself in check. “Hangman, get back into formation. The rest of you, continue the test as planned. And for the love of fucking god, stick to the parameters this time.” 

“Copy that,” Rooster said. 

“Got it, Boss Lady,” Lover added, his voice light. 

Teak, gruff as ever, just muttered, “Knew this was a bad idea.” 

Hangman sighed, pulling his jet back in line. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. For now.” 

Ellie didn’t believe that for a second. 

Ellie pushed open the control tower door with more force than necessary, so hard it swung back against the outer side of the building with a heavy slam as she stepped onto the sunbaked tarmac at a clipped pace. Her boots hit the pavement hard as she strode across the flight line, headset hanging loosely around her neck, her pulse still elevated from the way Hangman had handled the test. 

She’d expected the first test flights to be bumpy. What she hadn’t been expecting was that the bumps might come from Hangman. After his tone in the briefing, Ellie had expected pushback from Teak, had been waiting for him to act out, but Jake? This was just him being a cocky son of a bitch, and she wasn’t about to let it slide. She couldn’t. 

The rest of the test had gone according to plan, but the baseline readings had been skewed because of Hangman’s hadn’t followed instruction. Today had essentially been a wash for anything except for redline readings. 

As she approached the line of jets, she threw her hand up to shield her eyes against the dipping sun, catching the last pilot climbing out of his jet—Rooster. He caught sight of her immediately, his pace shifting, angling himself in her path before she could storm clear across to the hangar and into the locker room and rip into Hangman in front of everyone. 

“Cool it, Rigsy,” Rooster murmured, hands up in a peacekeeping gesture as he tracked backward while Ellie pushed forward. Against his 6’1 frame, Ellie looked small, and the wall of his body blocked her trajectory. “You look like you’re on the warpath.” 

In the reflection of the aviators over his eyes, Ellie could see herself, eyes narrowed. “Move, Bradshaw.” 

Rooster didn’t budge, shifting as Ellie tried to step around him when she realized he wasn’t going to clear the path. “Not until you take a breath, or maybe seven.” 

Ellie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, trust me, I’ll breathe just fine once I’ve had a word with Seresin.” 

Rooster exhaled through his nose, arms folding across his chest as Ellie stopped abruptly. There was no way he was moving. Fleetingly, Ellie wondered if being stubborn was a requirement for flight school. “Yeah? And what exactly are you planning to say? Because from here, it looks like you’re about to walk in there and lose it in front of the entire locker room.” 

Ellie clenched her jaw. “He went off-script, overloaded the system immediately. Forced it into a failure point before I could even establish a baseline. That’s not testing limits—that’s recklessness. You have to establish the baseline before you—” 

Rooster shook his head. “That’s how he flies. You knew that.” 

“That’s how an asshole flies,” she shot back, a flare of anger, not unlike the flickering lick of a solar flare, rising inside of her. 

Rooster’s lips twitched, almost as if he might laugh, but in a moment, he was composed again, not taking the bait. His hands were on his hips now, helmet tucked neatly under an arm. “Look, I get it. Maybe better than anyone. He’s frustrating. He’s cocky. But he’s also one of the best pilots in the Navy, and trust me, you want him pushing this thing to its breaking point. Better him than someone out there getting shot at when the stakes are high.” 

Ellie’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, the muscles of her jaw working to bite back the words she really wanted to say. It took her a moment, carefully choosing her words before she spoke again. “That’s not what this was about. He didn’t do that for the sake of the test. He did it to prove he could break it. That’s all he cares about—looking good, coming out on top. He doesn’t give a damn about the work that went into this.” 

Rooster studied her for a long moment, his eyebrow quirked high. “That’s a lot of assuming for someone who works with provable theories and data sets for a living.” His jaw ticked as if he was clenching and unclenching. “You don’t know him.” 

“And he doesn’t know me,” Ellie shot back. She wanted to say that Jake didn’t know what it was like for her, he didn’t know how many pieces of her life and her time and her blood, sweat and tears had gone into every fiber of this tech. She wanted to say that he didn’t know why she was doing this. Instead, she shifted her weight and tightened the fold of her arms across her body. She could be stubborn too—it practically ran in her DNA. 

Rooster sighed, shifting his weight. “I guess you’d better get used to being pissed off then, because he’s not going anywhere.” 

Ellie pressed her lips together, her frustration still simmering, but Rooster wasn’t done. “Look,” he said, more measured this time, “I told you before—Hangman will follow if you make it clear who’s in charge. But he’s got to respect you first. And right now? You’re just reacting to him. He pushes; you push back. Wash, rinse, repeat until you both die. He thrives on that. I tried it that way. It doesn’t work.” 

Ellie narrowed her eyes, studying Rooster for a moment, before she rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “And what exactly do you suggest? That I just let him run the show?” 

Rooster shook his head. “No. I’m saying he’s testing you just as much as he’s testing the system. You want to keep him in check? Show him you can handle him.” 

Ellie’s fingers twitched at her sides. She hated that he had a point, hated even more that Hangman would probably enjoy knowing just how much he was getting under her skin. It took a measured breath and a focused thought with intent to push down the anger into her toes. “How do you suggest I do that?” 

Rooster shifted his weight, as if he were trying to pull something out of his hat. “Maybe start by coming out tonight?”  

Ellie huffed, the sun starting to heat the back of her neck uncomfortably. She didn’t shoot it down right away and so, likely sensing an in, he continued. 

“Hard Deck. Might help your case if the guys see you as something other than what they’re pegging you for now.”

Ellie arched a brow, she didn’t want to engage Rooster right now, she hated that her anger was ebbing away, if only slightly. She hated that there were politics she had to play into to get her tech where it needed to be. “Oh? And what exactly are they pegging me for now?” 

At that, Rooster smiled. Ellie knew Rooster knew her well enough by now to see that her anger was dissolving. “A mysterious, tech-obsessed hard-ass who spends too much time in her office and not enough time pretending to be human. Also, someone trying to make their lives harder.”    Ellie huffed a laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “Great. Love that for me. Is it terminal, doctor?” 

“Not entirely, it’s fixable at this stage,” Rooster teased as she watched his shoulders relax. “Couple rounds at the Hard Deck, let ‘em see you’re not a soulless drone, and suddenly you’re one of us. I’ve seen you with Nic, I know you can be fun, or at least fun-adjacent.” 

She gave him a skeptical look, choosing to ignore the comment about her being fun. “I don’t think drinking beer with you guys is going to make Hangman and Teak be any less of pains in my ass.”    “No, but it might make Teak less of a pain in my ass if he stops thinking you’re some uptight, out-of-touch scientist trying to change the way he flies,” Rooster pointed out. “Might be worth it.”    Ellie exhaled, considering. “What about Hangman?” 

“You mean the way he flies or the way he’s been trying to flirt you into submission since he laid eyes on you?” 

Ellie felt her stomach dip and she took a careful, measured swallow. “Both.” 

“Not sure that’s curable.” Rooster hissed, perfect bedside manner for delivering a terminal prognosis. 

Ellie huffed and set her hands on her hips. She wasn’t the type to care what pilots thought of her—she built tech to save their lives, not to win their approval. But Rooster had a point. If she wanted them to trust her system, they had to trust her first.  “Alright,” she said finally, pushing back from her desk. “One drink. But if any of them start talking about ‘mansplainy’ shit, I’m out.”  Rooster nodded, the grin on his face. “Fair deal.”    Rooster waited for a beat, stepped back and waited another, as if he were testing to see if Ellie might sprint past him on her way to the locker room anyway. When she didn’t move, he offered her a small wave and turned, stalking down the tarmac and peeling parts of his flight gear off as he did so.  

As his figure shrunk, Ellie sighed and rubbed her temples.  Great. Now she had to go pretend to be human. 

a/n: i mean, does ellie even have a mom/dad with wolfman and mav stepping in? not me cackling as i imagine wolfman in an apron making scrambled eggs, terribly. anyone wanna crack that with fanart? haha

if you love this series, reblog, comment, like! chapter 5, the technical ending of this chapter will be up tomorrow!

tags:  @hookslove1592 @mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @jbennsquared @dempy

@obsessed-fan-alert @djs8891 @lunatygerqueen @khouse712 @alipap3

@yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96 @luckyladycreator2 @lovelylndskies @cardi-bre91

@whatislovevavy @qutequeersstuff @tgmreader @writergirl28 @literal-tv-menace

@queenslandlover-93 @fantasyfootballchampion @marrianena

taglist if you want to be added/removed!

[forgeofthenine]

More modern s/o!

Said s/o has some trinkets from our modern world? (Their backpack of stuff yeeted itself at the s/o via wormhole) what objects would the tiefling bachelors be interested in once their s/o comes over to them to show them what they got via the inter dimensional care package system?

I love the term interdimensional care package and I want more excuses to use it in everyday life. These ones are short and sweet, hope you enjoy :)

What modern objects are the bachelors interested in

Dammon

Show this man your cellphone, he is obsessed

He likes seeing anything you have with you that's tech related, a smart watch, a cellphone, even a tamagotchi

Dammons especially excited if you actually let him take them apart, though beware the fact he won't be able to put them back together again

He's very interested in you showing him how they work too, as much as you're able with no WiFi and limited battery

His ears perk up so sweetly as he listens to you talking, eagerly taking in any information he can

If you really want to surprise Dammon, pull out a fire lighter

He's always lighting his forge completely by hand and couldn't even fathom a modern lighter

It's something he's absolutely fascinated by, and easily the one he'll be the most depressed about it breaking and/or running out

Dammons beaming the entire time he's tinkering with your stuff, he's a bit like a toddler thats been given some new toys

Zevlor

Zevlor is curious about all the random stuff you might have in your bag

Lip balm? Hand cream? Random crumpled receipts? He's interested in everything

He'll listen intently as you tell him about every mundane, everyday thing you have hanging out in your bag

What really gets him excited is if you have any books with you

It doesn't matter the genre, he's eagerly reading them from cover to cover

I think Zevlor would be impressed by any classic literature, but he'd have plenty of questions

"Would you be able to explain what 'france' is?"

He'd love a good cheesy romance too, but he's much less vocal about that

You'd find Zevlor hiding away in his makeshift office stumbling through red, white, and royal blue or similar

Rolan

Rolans another one that's interested in books, particularly if you were attending uni or something and had textbooks with you

This might seem a little strange, but I think Rolan would also be interested if you carried medical equipment in your bag

Things like asthma inhalers, EpiPens, or the stuff you need to check blood sugar levels

He's inquisitive by nature, and he also wonders if these types of things can be replicated or replaced through magic

If you had any food in your bag, think a muesli bar or a bottle of cola, then he'll be trying to keep Cal and Lia from insisting on trying it

Rolan will still pretend to be reluctant but he's first in line to try whatever you might offer to them

I feel like he would hate carbonated drinks but Lia loves them

"How do you drink this, it tastes like I've angered it?" "That's what makes it good, Rolan."

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 14 Shattered Lines (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : Waking up hungover in Stark’s room leads to a tense morning filled with frustration and conflict. Stark’s hot-and-cold behavior—saving a life one moment and dismissing it the next—creates a constant emotional whiplash. Seeking relief through training, a brief conversation with Steve offers some clarity, but Stark’s harsh criticism and withheld validation continue to sting. Attempts to find stability only deepen the frustration, leaving everything unresolved and fragile.

word count: 16.8k

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You wake up with the sensation of a jackhammer pounding relentlessly between your temples.

Each pulse is a detonation. Your throat is raw, dry as if you’d swallowed sand. Your eyelids weigh a ton, stuck together by fatigue and poorly digested alcohol. You’ve got a hangover. Not a mild one. One of those that crushes your skull and reminds you, with a specific kind of sadism, why downing glass after glass of wine is always a fucking bad idea.

You groan as you sit halfway up, a grimace twisting your face when your wrist makes itself known with a sharp, painful throb. And that’s when your brain finally connects. This isn’t your bed. Not your makeshift couch in the Tower. Not even that impersonal room you were assigned.

It’s… something else.

You slowly turn your head, each movement sending nauseating waves through your skull. Morning light filters through a huge bay window, bathing the room in a pale, almost unreal glow. The walls are dressed in subdued tones — grey, metallic — yet the space exudes a strange warmth. A quiet elegance. The kind of understated luxury where every object probably costs more than your last three paychecks combined.

A massive desk sits against the far wall. It’s cluttered with still-flickering holographic projections. Technical plans, animated schematics, a few handwritten notes. And there, right next to it — a jacket casually thrown over a leather chair. A watch left on the edge of a console. Details too personal to belong to a guest room.

Your stomach tightens. You freeze. You’re in Stark’s bedroom.

The realization jolts you awake — clean, brutal, like all your mental alarms just lit up at once.

Your eyes widen, your heart skips a beat, and suddenly the room feels too big, too quiet, too… smooth. You scan the space, searching for something — anything — that could explain why you’re here. Why you ended up in this damn high-tech sanctuary that still smells like new leather and clinical perfection.

— “Fuck, no...”

Your voice is rough, hoarse, almost foreign. You run a shaky hand over your face like you could erase last night by sheer touch. But the fragments return — disordered, acidic. The party. The alcohol. Stark’s lingering gaze. The alley.

Matthew. The knife. The panic. The pain.

You lower your eyes slowly. Your wrist is still carefully wrapped, enveloped in medical gauze that seems almost out of place in a setting like this. But it’s there. Solid. Precise. Ah. Right.

Bit by bit, the memories piece themselves together. Stark catching you, his gestures brusque but precise. His voice, annoyed but not indifferent. The taste of blood in your mouth. The dizziness. And that sentence.

“You can sleep here.”

You — unable to say no. Too tired. Too broken to protest.

— “Shit...”

You exhale the word more than speak it, in a blend of shame and resignation. You don’t know what’s worse: having slept here like a lost child or the fact that Stark didn’t kick you out at dawn with his usual predatory sarcasm. You sit up suddenly, jolted by a nervous surge. Bad idea.

Your skull explodes instantly in a wave of dull pain. You stagger, hands out to avoid falling. Your stomach knots, threatening to empty itself. You close your eyes, inhale slowly, deeply — like you could slow the world’s spin with sheer will. Why did you drink so much last night? You already know the answer. Because you were scared. Because it hurt less. Because for once, you wanted to forget. And now? Now you’re here. Standing in Tony Stark’s bedroom. And him? Where is he?

Your gaze darts to the bed. Impeccable sheets. Not a crease, not a trace. He didn’t sleep here. Not for a second. A cold shiver crawls down your spine. You step forward cautiously, your unsteady gait betraying every protest of your aching body. Your fingers brush the edge of the desk, as if anchoring yourself to something tangible. No sound. No presence. Nothing but silence and the faint beeping of still-active holographic blueprints. A sigh escapes you, long and heavy, as you stretch cautiously. Your back cracks. Your head still pounds. You need coffee. Urgently.

But first… you need to get out of here. Now. Before Stark walks in and this already borderline situation tilts into full-blown awkwardness. You cast one last glance at the room, as if to make sure you haven’t left anything behind. Nothing but your dignity, maybe. You turn the handle slowly, as delicately as possible, heart pounding in your temples. The door opens with a barely audible click. You slip into the hallway, eyes alert, every sense on edge, ready to retreat like a thief caught in the act. No one.

A sigh of relief escapes you, almost involuntarily. Your chest loosens — just a little. You close the door as discreetly as you opened it, holding your breath as if any noise could trigger an alarm. The hallway is bathed in soft light, still tinted with the pinkish hues of morning. Impeccable walls, perfectly polished floors… everything seems to remind you that you don’t belong here. Every step you take feels too loud, too heavy, as if the Tower itself were reminding you of your temporary intruder status. Your skull keeps punishing you for last night’s excess, each pulse echoing painfully through your sinuses.

And your body? It protests every movement. Your wrist throbs in waves, your stomach threatens rebellion at the slightest jolt, and your legs drag like they carry the weight of your shame. You need coffee. Seriously. And a good excuse to disappear.

You walk slowly through the silent hallways, heading toward the communal kitchen you spotted the day before, guided by instinct — or maybe your nose. The air here is fresh, clean, almost too much so. There’s a metallic, precise scent, that clinical smell typical of technologically sterilized places. You’re starting to get used to this atmosphere, to this almost inhuman perfection. And if you’re being honest, it kind of scares you. You reach the corner of the hallway when voices break the silence. You stop dead.

Two familiar voices.

— "…he’s lucky Tony was there, you know."

— "I know. But honestly, this can’t keep going. Something has to be done."

You frown, straining to listen without moving. Pepper. And Happy. You’d recognize that concerned, diplomatic tone anywhere. And Happy’s deep voice, always a bit gruff, more direct. You don’t quite understand what they’re talking about yet. But your heart speeds up. They’re talking about someone. Probably about you. You swallow. You inch forward, just enough to hear — but not enough to be seen. You glance at the glass wall on your left. They’re in the kitchen. Standing, backs to the door. Coffee in hand. Serious expressions.

And you? You hesitate. What now? Walk in like nothing’s happening? Turn back and pretend you were never there? Or stay frozen a little longer, nerves on edge, like their next sentence might decide your future here? The atmosphere seems calm, but there’s a heaviness in the air, like a conversation was paused the second you arrived. You hesitate for a split second on the threshold, heart still pounding too fast. Then you take a deep breath, force your back straight, and step into the room, eyes locked on the coffeemaker. Maybe if you move fast enough, you can grab your coffee without getting interrogated. But of course, that’s too much to ask.

The moment Pepper sees you, she cuts off mid-sentence. Her eyes land on you with surgical precision, probably noting your stiff posture, drawn features, the shadows under your eyes. Her cup remains halfway to her lips. Next to her, Happy sizes you up with a half-smirk, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

— "You look like hell."

You don’t even bother reacting. You just sigh, grab a clean mug from the cupboard, and search for the coffee.

— "Thanks, Happy. Always a charmer."

You pour the dark liquid in silence, not sparing them a glance. The simple sound of coffee hitting the cup anchors you, grounds you. Pepper stays more composed, but her gaze is much sharper. Uncompromising.

— "Are you okay?" she asks, gently.

It’s not a real question. It’s a test. You can hear it in her voice, in her posture. She already knows. Or at least suspects. You shrug vaguely, lifting the mug to your lips. The warmth of the porcelain in your hands helps keep you steady.

— "I’ve had worse."

— "That’s not exactly comforting," Happy mutters, sipping his coffee. "Considering what we saw last night, ‘worse’ sounds pretty damn alarming."

You clench your jaw and swallow a mouthful of too-hot coffee without flinching. You don’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not here. And especially not with them.

— "I just drank too much, that’s all."

A flimsy lie. Even you don’t believe it. Pepper shares a silent look with Happy. One of those wordless exchanges full of meaning, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve already been dissected and filed away. But to your surprise, she doesn’t press. She stays quiet. Maybe out of pity. Maybe out of strategy.

You slowly lean against the counter, mug in hand. You force yourself to breathe. To keep your eyes open. You take another sip. This time, it starts to work. Your thoughts settle a little. Your heart slows. And that’s when Stark walks into the kitchen. Impeccable. Of course. Suit clean-cut to perfection, glasses on, tablet in hand. The look of someone who hasn’t slept but still runs at one hundred percent. He spots you immediately. Scans you. A beat. Then he raises an eyebrow without breaking stride.

— "Upright. Breathing. Not bleeding out. Progress."

You’re not sure if it’s sarcasm, provocation, or some strange form of compliment. Maybe all three. You just lift your mug in response, a silent toast to your miserable survival. He steps closer, glancing at your mug, then your face.

— "You slept on my couch. Can you stop snoring next time ?"

You nearly choke on your coffee. Pepper exhales a sigh as long as the week, and Happy chuckles into his mug. You want to sink into the floor. Stark lets you stew in that brief illusion of peace, pretending you can start your day without a hitch. One sip. Then another. The warmth of the coffee soothes your nerves, your heart finally calming… just enough for his voice to cut through, sharp and laced with perfectly measured nonchalance.

— "So… what was the plan last night? Get stabbed in an alley before your trial period's even over?"

Boom. You close your eyes for just a second. You saw it coming. Or at least, you should have.

Happy freezes mid-bite into his croissant, eyebrows raised with incredulity. Pepper lets out an already weary sigh—the kind reserved for unmanageable kids or lost causes. You set your cup down a bit too forcefully on the counter, the sound echoing in the tense silence. You take a slow, measured breath, trying not to react too quickly.

— "I didn't exactly plan on getting attacked, if that's what you're asking."

Stark tilts his head slightly, feigning sympathy.

— "Oh, really? Because from here, it looks like you're actively campaigning for punching bag of the year. And doing pretty well at it."

You grit your teeth. Because it hurts. Because it isn't entirely false. And because you're not even sure if you still have the strength to defend yourself.

— "I handled the situation."

— "Oh yeah?" He raises an eyebrow. "Then I must've imagined dropping my car keys to scrape you off the pavement."

Happy almost chokes with laughter. Pepper crosses her arms, shooting Stark an icy glare.

— "Tony."

He ignores her completely. Of course.

— "You've got a target on your back, and you keep moving forward like it's just... some minor inconvenience. Mind telling me how many more times you plan to get your face smashed in before realizing pride doesn't stop knives?"

And that's the last straw. You pivot toward him, your eyes blazing with anger, exhaustion, and everything else you've held back for days, weeks, maybe even longer.

— "And what exactly do you want?!" you snap, louder than intended.

Your voice cracks through the kitchen, and even Happy, who's used to Tony's outbursts, freezes slightly.

— "What do you want, Stark? Should I get on my knees and thank you? Send you flowers for saving my life?!"

He doesn't flinch. He just leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes locked onto yours, unwavering.

— "I just don't want to find your corpse on the sidewalk. It'd really mess up the office vibe."

You laugh—a short, dry, nervous laugh leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

— "Of course. It's always about productivity, isn't it, Boss?"

His expression barely shifts. But you sense a slight tension in his jaw. Silence settles. Less arrogant. Less controlled. Pepper finally breaks it, her voice gentle but firm.

— "No one's saying you have to face this alone."

You lower your eyes, feeling your breath falter. You run a hand over your face, as if you could erase all the weight in one motion. But it's still there. The heaviness. The image of Matthew. The ache in your wrist. The fear in your gut.

— "I can handle it." Your voice is rougher, less certain. "Like I've always done."

Stark lets out a small laugh, but there's no mockery this time. Just dry. Bitter.

— "Yeah. And we've all seen how well that's worked out."

The silence that follows is brutal. Dense. And this time, no one laughs. You want to respond, to throw something back—anything—just to not stand there like a humiliated child. But nothing comes. No words find the strength to leave your throat. Pepper gently places a hand on your forearm. A discreet contact, yet grounded, like an anchor in your storm.

— "Why do you refuse to let us help you?"

You don't answer immediately. Because you don't know. Or maybe you do. But you've never wanted to put words to it. You've preferred surviving without thinking. Just moving forward. Not feeling. You clench your fists. Hard. Too hard. Your injured wrist protests, but you don't care.

— "I don't understand…" you finally whisper, voice ragged. "Boss… How can you say stuff like that, as if I'm just… a number, a failed project, a fucking casting mistake."

Your voice shakes. It's not fear. It's frustration. Pure, brutal, and it's rising, roaring like a storm about to break.

— "These last few days, I fought. For real. To prove I wasn't just a parasite, not just some lost kid."

You meet his gaze head-on now. Refusing to look away.

— "I kept quiet. I took the hits. Worked myself nearly to death to show you I had value. That I wasn't a burden."

You breathe heavily, almost gasping. Anger coils in your throat, squeezing your chest.

— "Last night, when you took me back… when you patched me up, I thought 'this is it.' Maybe… you'd finally see me differently."

A laugh escapes you. Dry. Bitter. There's nothing funny about it, and that's obvious.

— "But no. Of course not."

You fix your eyes on his.

— "You're just an asshole."

Pepper flinches. Happy looks up, surprised. Stark doesn't budge. He watches you. Calm on the surface. But you see in his eyes that he's processing, calculating, assessing.

— "And that's exactly why I don't want your help," you continue, your voice harder, steadier. "Because you only see what you want to see. The fragile guy. The nuisance. The collateral damage."

Stark arches an eyebrow, arms crossed, gaze still locked onto you.

— "Oh yeah? I pull you out of some armed lunatic's grip, and that's how you thank me?"

You stare at him. Anger, contempt, exhaustion swirl in your gaze.

— "I never asked you to save me."

And the silence falls again. Dense. Cutting. You breathe heavily. Your heart pounds wildly. Every word you've just spoken has drained you, as if you've spat out everything you've swallowed for weeks. But it's out now. And you're waiting. For it to explode. Or collapse. It might be the hardest sentence you've ever said. Because it's true. You've never asked for his help. Never begged for any outstretched hand. You've never wanted to be some damn rehabilitation project, a broken kid he could test his moral limits on. All you've ever wanted was to be left alone. Quietly. To work, exist, breathe without constantly being reminded you're just a mess that needs fixing. Pepper and Happy exchange a glance—one of those heavy silences where words become useless. The atmosphere is electric. Charged. You laugh. Short. Bitter. An acidic sound scratching your throat as much as your pride.

— "You say I can't manage my life, but since I've been here, I haven't made a single mistake. I've followed everything. Your rules. Your schedules. Your impossible demands. Yet still... I'm just dead weight in your eyes. Always this damn problem you have to contain."

You point at him, your whole body vibrating with restrained anger.

— "You spend your time testing me, pushing me down, waiting for me to collapse like it's inevitable. And then you act surprised because I don't want your help?! You're the one who taught me to handle things alone, Stark! You're the one who conditioned me to shut up and grit my teeth!"

And there's a moment—a single moment—where you see something flash in his eyes. Something more human. Somewhere between shame and regret. But as quickly as it appears, it's gone. The mask returns. Cold. Neutral.

— "You're not wrong."

His answer stops you cold. But he doesn't stop there.

— "The difference is, I knew when to stop messing around."

You open your mouth, ready to explode, but he lifts a hand, and strangely, you halt.

— "If you can't see you've already pushed past all your limits, then yeah, I'll keep putting pressure on you. Because I'd rather have an employee who hates me than find a kid cold and dead in some damn alley."

You stand there. Frozen. Shaken. And what breaks you the most... is knowing he's sincere. You look away, unable to bear that truth thrown at you without filter, without empathy. Just raw. Brutal. Like a slap in a room already overflowing with pain. You leap to your feet.

— "I don't need to hear this."

You grab your coffee cup, but the taste left on your tongue is like ashes. You cross the kitchen with heavy steps, every heartbeat pounding in your temples like a war drum. But just before reaching the door, you stop. You turn back. Your eyes catch Pepper's. Then Happy's. They haven't moved. But they've heard everything.

— "And you... you're okay with this?"

Your voice is dry. Shaky. A reproach disguised as a question—or perhaps the opposite. Pepper lowers her eyes, her fingers tightening around her cup. Happy remains stone-faced, arms crossed, but his features are tighter than usual. He slightly turns his head away. No one answers. You smile—a smile that's anything but. It's a grimace. A crack on the edge of collapse.

— "Of course you're okay with it."

You slowly nod, throat tight.

— "Why did I think for even one second it would be different..."

Stark says nothing. He still watches you. Motionless. He doesn't stop you. Doesn't call you back. Not a word. Not a step. And you don't know what's worse: that he doesn't care, or that he knows exactly what he's doing. You hate him for it. You grit your teeth. You turn on your heel.

— "Forget it."

And you leave, letting the door slam shut behind you—a sharp sound, too close to a farewell to just be an ordinary exit.

Pepper stays frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on the still-quivering door through which you left. The silence left behind is dense, almost tangible. She slowly runs a hand through her hair, pushing back a stray lock behind her ear with a quiet sigh. But she doesn't speak. Not right away. Happy, still leaning against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest. He glances sideways at Stark, brows furrowed, his gaze darkened by an anxiety he no longer bothers to hide.

— "Not gonna lie, boss," he finally says, voice deep and controlled. "That wasn't very elegant."

He's not trying to provoke him. But he's not sparing him either. Stark doesn't reply. He's seated on one of the kitchen stools, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. Between his fingers, a metal spoon turns slowly, still stained with melted sugar. A repetitive gesture, almost absent. He stares at the object as if it might hold an answer—or at least a distraction.

— "Did you hear what he called me?" he finally mutters, without looking up. "Me, an asshole."

He lifts his head towards Happy, a half-smile stretching his lips. Sarcastic, bitter. A well-practiced facade.

— "Funny, I never would've guessed."

He lets out a small, dry laugh, but no one laughs with him. Pepper slowly approaches, heels clicking softly on the floor. She gently sets down her cup, then leans against the countertop, arms crossed.

— "You know he wasn't entirely wrong," she calmly says, her gaze fixed on Stark's. "You provoked him. Again."

— "I brought him back in one piece. Even gave him a private room. Should I throw in a stuffed animal and chocolates on the pillow too?" he retorts sharply, tone harsher than intended.

— "That kid showed up bleeding in front of the tower. He was shaking. He had marks around his throat, Tony," she replies instantly, her voice steady but icy with intensity. "And he apologized. He apologized, as if he'd put you in danger."

Stark looks away. The spoon stops turning. He sets it down on the table with a sharp clink.

— "He thinks he can handle everything alone," he mutters. "And you think we should cradle him."

— "No," Pepper corrects sharply. "I think he needs us to stop treating him like a problem. Stop telling him he's a burden or a project to fix."

Happy, silent until now, slowly shakes his head.

— "He's not built for the kind of pressure you're putting on him. Not yet."

Stark doesn't reply. His fingers interlock, his elbows return to rest on the table. He remains frozen, clearly lost in thought. Pepper fixes him a moment longer, then softly exhales, as if the air in her lungs had become too heavy.

— "He called you an asshole," she murmurs. "And you know what's bothering me? That you didn't even try to defend yourself."

Stark doesn't react. He stares vaguely at the wall, and in his eyes, despite the facade, you can see something rare. Doubt. He raises an eyebrow, a sarcastic glint in his gaze, as if to brush aside the gravity of the discussion.

— "Didn't know you'd become his shrink, Pep."

— "I'm not his shrink," she immediately replies, sharp yet calm. "But I'm not blind either."

She straightens up, arms crossed, and stares at Tony with an expression that's made billionaires, senators, and Avengers alike yield.

— "You've pushed him to the edge since he got here. I understand wanting to test his limits, wanting him to prove himself, but this... wasn't a test. It was a demolition."

Stark chuckles, dryly, humorlessly.

— "Since when do you dictate my methods?"

She stands her ground, unflinching.

— "No one's asking you to be his nanny. But have you ever thought about seeing him as a person, just once? Not a burden, not an investment, not a test. Just a human being who's drowning."

Silence falls. Stark doesn't respond immediately. He sighs deeply, setting down the spoon with deliberate slowness. His gaze drifts momentarily toward the closed door.

— "I'm doing what's necessary," he finally says, sounding like a rehearsed defense.

Happy rolls his eyes, irritated.

— "Damn, Tony."

Pepper turns away, leaving without another word. Happy follows, leaving Stark alone, staring at his half-empty cup, replaying a trembling voice screaming, "I never asked you to save me."

And for the first time in a long while... he's not sure if he's right.

You slam the door behind you, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Your bedroom—impersonal, too clean, too quiet—suddenly feels suffocating. Your footsteps echo on the immaculate floor, but you stagger. Your breathing is ragged, irregular, and your hands are still trembling from the mixture of rage, humiliation, and the fatigue clinging to your bones.

You collapse onto the bed without even taking off your shoes. Head in your hands, you try to push back the storm raging in your chest. But it's pointless. The turmoil doesn't fade. It loops relentlessly, like a scratched record. Your thoughts derail. You want to scream, break everything, or just disappear under the covers and never have to face this fucking world again.

Then they return.

The memories.

The images.

The nightmares.

Insidious. Unstoppable.

Yesterday's dream hits you head-on, like an uppercut to the gut. This nightmare that isn't really a nightmare anymore. It's too precise, too vivid. The shadows encircle you again. Chilling laughter rises in the dark, twisted, cruel. You feel the fear rising, panic gripping your throat. You see his eyes again—Stark's eyes—frozen, cold, distant. And you, on your knees, unable to move as the blade sinks into your stomach like slow punishment. The burning of the metal, warm blood flowing, pain engulfing everything. And his gaze, again. Indifferent. Unshakeable.

You sit upright abruptly, panting. Your eyes scan the room as if expecting to find a ghost. You're covered in sweat, sheets stuck to your skin. Your heart pounds too hard in your chest. A trembling hand slides over your face. Fuck. Why does it haunt you so much? Why does he haunt you so much? You stand, pacing the room like a caged lion. Air seems scarce, the space shrinking. You open a window, letting the cold bite your skin, hoping it anchors you a little. You clench your teeth, gaze lost among New York’s towers.

Why is he like this?

How can he, in one single night, become the only barrier between you and death… then, come morning, trample you as if you were nothing? Why this constant swing between shield and weapon? Between an outstretched hand and verbal punches?

Last night, he could have left you there. Let you die in that alley. He had a thousand reasons to do it. He wouldn't have even had to justify it. But he came. He found you. He pulled you out. He cleaned your wounds, treated your wrist, put a blanket over you. And this morning… this morning he stripped you raw with his words. You run a hand through your hair nervously. Does he want you to thank him? Beg him? Be his official punching bag?

He understands nothing. Or maybe he understands too much. And that's the problem. You sit down again, elbows on your knees, gaze empty. You don't know if you hate him anymore. Or if you just want him… to stop being that damn mirror reflecting everything you run from. Everything you are. You lower your head, exhausted. You just wanted him to see. To see that you're doing your best. That you're not a hopeless case. Just a lost guy trying to stay on your feet.

But maybe that too was asking too much.

This morning, he shattered everything. With a few words. With that icy tone, that biting irony he uses as a weapon. His coldness, his pragmatism. As if nothing from last night mattered. As if the attack, the blood, the shock were merely minor inconveniences in his overbooked billionaire schedule. As if saving your life had just been another chore. A logistical hiccup. Nothing more. He handed you a blanket last night. Let you sleep in his room. Looked at you with that strange, almost… human intensity. As if there was a moment—just one—when he saw you differently. Where you were more than a project, more than a damaged kid lost in his sterile hallways. You thought, for a moment, that it mattered.

But this morning, he put you back in your place. Brutally. Coldly. Without hesitation. In his eyes, you're just that: an employee on probation, a sensitive file, a problem better contained before it infects the rest of the team. He didn't say those words. He didn't need to. It was all in his speech. His actions. The silence between two barbs. The barely hidden contempt behind every disguised piece of advice. You feel anger pulsing through your veins. You clench your fist so tight your knuckles whiten, your jaw locked tight. Why are you still here? Why do you keep waking up in this tower where every look reminds you that you don't belong? That your time is limited?

But you know why. You know it too well. Because if you leave now, he wins.

They win. All of them. Those who said you wouldn't last. That you'd give up. That you're too fragile, too broken, too unstable to accomplish anything. And you refuse. You refuse to let them be right. You refuse to let him be right. You stand abruptly. Your muscles scream at you to stop, but you ignore them. You pace, anger eating away at you like slow acid. You pass by the mirror, catch a glimpse of your reflection, and quickly look away. You don't want to see yourself as you are now—defeated, messy, vulnerable.

The memories rise again, like poisoned bubbles.

Matthew. His face returns uninvited, that twisted smile, that venomous voice. He played with your nerves too. He also swung between closeness and contempt, between fake tenderness and pure cruelty. But Stark isn't Matthew. He isn't violent. Not directly. He doesn't demean you with insults or blows. He doesn't hold you through fear. He's worse. Because he gives you the illusion… that he might be different. He lets you glimpse a crack. A weakness. A human part, almost compassionate. And then he closes the door. He locks the access. He becomes that untouchable, unreachable, insensitive figure again. And you stand here, wondering if you're imagining these moments. If you're clinging to ghosts. If he ever truly saw something in you, or if it was just a strategy. A game.

And that's what's destroying you. Not his criticism. Not his demands. Not even his barbs. No. What hurts most is that "almost." That half-look. That aborted attention. The possibility that for one moment, just one, you mattered a little. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, eyes raised toward the ceiling, lungs burning. Your heart pounds too hard, your head spins. You need silence, but nothing inside you goes quiet.

You feel like a dam that's about to break. And him... he always presses exactly where it cracks. And you wonder: how much longer can you take this before you finally sink?

You grab a cushion and violently throw it against the wall. It bounces off weakly before falling pathetically to the floor. It doesn't help. It doesn't ease the anger or the burning in your chest. You want to scream, to smash something. To feel your muscles tense for something other than fear or shame.

Frustration strangles you, drains you, consumes you from within like an invisible fire. You hurt everywhere. Not just your wrist, not just your stomach, but everywhere that can’t be seen. Where Stark's words dig in, where Matthew’s memories cling. The air is heavy in the room, as if the walls themselves are pressing down on your shoulders. You feel like if you stay here another minute, you'll explode. The walls are too white, too clean. The bed is too smooth. This isn't your home, and it never will be.

Each thought crashes into the next inside your head. Stark. His sharp gaze this morning. His condescending tone. That fucking smirk as if he had already predicted everything, understood everything. Then Matthew. Always there. Even in his absence, he's the one guiding your nightmares, dictating your reflexes, stealing your sleep. You thought you'd escaped him, yet he still holds you.

And amidst all this, there’s you.

Living in a fucking futuristic Tower, with high-tech security systems, surrounded by heroes, working on projects anyone would dream of having. Yet, despite it all, you feel like you're walking on a tightrope, ready to fall at any moment. Like you never really left that alley. Like you're still on the ground, a knife against your throat, with no one to hear you scream. You sit up abruptly. You don't think. You have no plan, no destination. You just need to move. To get out. To silence the chaos in your head with exhaustion. You stride across the room, put on your shoes without even tying them. Your heart is beating too fast, your breathing is uneven. You open the door to your room with a little too much force, the handle slamming against the wall. You close it behind you without stopping.

Your footsteps echo through the silent halls of Stark Tower. Too silent. You don't want to run into anyone. Not Pepper. Not Happy. And especially not him. You descend the stairs, ignoring the elevator. Each step is a shock. A blow. A rejection. A thought you crush under your heel as if to silence it. You move forward. Just to keep moving. Because staying still means suffocating. You don't know where you're going. You don't care. You just want to run until your legs give out. Eventually, you push open the door to a vast, silent space. The training room. Clinical. Ultra-modern. Everything is immaculate, everything in its place. Walls covered in mirrors, state-of-the-art equipment, spotless mats. The place smells of sweat, metal, and discipline. Everything you are not.

You stand frozen in the middle, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You could use anything here: machines, weights, combat simulators. But you don't care. You don't want to think. You don't want to "work on your cardio" or "channel your energy." You want to hit something. Your eyes land on the punching bag hanging in a corner, solitary, almost provocative. You approach slowly, as if preparing to face an opponent. You don't even take the time to put on gloves. You want to feel the impact in your knuckles, you want that pain. The one you control.

The first punch is weak. Uncertain. Almost ridiculous. You inhale sharply, jaw clenched, then strike again, harder. The leather gives under your fist with a sharp sound. Not enough. Not yet.

You punch again. Again. And again. Each hit echoes something: one of Stark's words, Matthew's gaze, a humiliation, fear, sleepless nights. Your arms move on their own, your breath becomes shorter, more ragged. Sweat beads on your temple. You hit without technique, without rhythm, fueled only by this consuming rage, this hatred of yourself, your powerlessness, their silence.

You punch until your wrist reminds you to stop.

A wave of pain forces a harsh, brutal groan from you. You tense, teeth gritted. Your arm remains suspended, trembling, unable to follow through. Your wrist, that traitor, that fucking reminder that even your anger has limits. You cling to the bag, panting, muscles burning. You stay there, hanging onto the leather like a lifeline. You want to cry, to scream, to disappear into this perfect void where nothing hurts. But you stay.

You remain half-collapsed, short of breath, arms limp, eyes shining. And all you can think is: "I can't even punch properly. Even that, I screw up."

You stay hanging onto the bag, panting, your hand gripping the strap, your fist still aching. Sweat runs down your temple, cold despite your body's heat. Your heart races, not from effort, but from everything you hold inside. And that's when you hear it. A slight squeak of shoes on the floor, almost imperceptible. A sound you might have ignored if your body weren't so tense, so alert. You spin around sharply, nerves on edge.

Someone is there.

Steve Rogers. Standing a few meters away, arms crossed, posture straight, perfectly calm amidst your storm. He doesn't say anything right away. He observes you. His expression is neutral, but there's that familiar glint in his eyes—that damn silent understanding you can't stand anymore. You don't want to be understood. You just want to be left alone. He steps closer slowly, as if knowing any sudden movement could set you off. He places his hands on his hips, looks at the bag, then at your wrist, then back at you.

— "Are you planning to keep this up until you completely break your wrist?"

His voice is calm. Too calm. A calm that brutally contrasts with the storm still raging in your chest. You look away, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. You could leave now, turn on your heels, dodge the exchange. But you know he won't let you slip away that easily. He doesn't have that reputation. You inhale, still on edge.

— "Why do you even care?" you snap, not looking up, your voice harsh. Not to attack him. Just to create distance. A wall.

But Steve doesn't flinch. He just slightly tilts his head, his blue eyes scanning you with that almost clinical calm. He doesn't step back. He doesn't get offended. He's just… there. Stable. Grounded.

— "Because you're hitting that bag like your life depends on it." He pauses. "And judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing this has nothing to do with training."

You swallow hard. The silence that follows is heavy. Not hostile. Just... true. Too true. You cling to the punching bag like a lifeline, the leather slippery beneath your sweaty palm. You don't want to talk. You don't want to explain. You don't have the words. Or the energy. But he's there. And he waits. Not like someone pressuring you. Like someone who's already been to that place where everything overflows. Who knows sometimes, there's nothing to say. Just to hold on. And maybe that's what throws you off the most. You look away, jaw clenched. You're not sure you can take another conversation. Steve stays right there, impassive, like a quiet shadow in your storm. He gives you space, silence, without demanding anything. Then, in a calm voice, without pressure:

— "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

You don't answer immediately. Part of you screams "yes" with all the violence of a wounded animal. But another... quieter, buried deeper, isn't so sure. Maybe that's what you've always needed. Not someone to save you. But someone who doesn't leave. Even when you do everything to push them away. You inhale slowly, with difficulty. Your breath is still short, jagged, as if your body refuses to cooperate. Your fists are burning, your wrist throbs with every pulse. But none of that hurts as much as what's beating inside.

You look Steve in the eye, jaw tight.

— "You really want to know what's eating me?"

He doesn't say anything. He just tilts his head slightly. He waits. You run a hand over your face, your palm damp, your throat dry.

— "It's Stark. It's this fucking Tower. It's me. It's everything."

You laugh, a cold sound twisted with bitterness.

— "Since I started working here, it's always the same shit. He pushes me, tests me, waits for me to break. And me, like an idiot, I dive in headfirst. Because I keep telling myself that if I hold on, if I do everything right, then maybe he'll end up seeing me differently. Not as a problem. Not as a burden. Just as... someone."

You pause for a second, your throat tight.

— "But no. To him, I'm just a project. A variable in his schedule. A calculated risk. A work in progress."

You punch the bag, not hard, just enough to hurt.

— "And the worst part is that I stay."

You feel your breath quicken again. Shame. Anger.

— "I stay because I have nowhere else to go. Because out there, there are only guys like Matthew. People who look at me like I'm nothing, like I was born to be broken. So I cling to this Tower, this job, this fucking routine, because it's the only thing that still gives me shape. An illusion of control."

You lower your eyes, your face tense, your heart pounding in your chest like a crooked drum.

— "But at what cost, damn it?"

Steve stays there, still calm. Arms crossed, gaze direct. He hasn't flinched at a single one of your words.

— "You think Stark sees you as an experiment? Maybe he doesn't even know yet what you mean to him."

You groan, almost exasperated. You're so done with half-measures.

— "So what? Does that excuse how he treats me like I'm replaceable?"

— "No," Steve replies without hesitation. "It excuses nothing. But you're not replaceable. And you should start believing that."

You stare at him, brows furrowed, suspicion still etched in your expression.

— "And you think Stark will ever admit that? That I’m worth more than that, in his eyes?"

Silence. Steve takes a moment to think, to choose his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer.

— "I think Stark still struggles to admit what he feels about himself. So when it comes to others... it takes time."

You lower your head, your stomach twisted.

— "Great. So I have to wait ten years for him to accept that I exist beyond hourly productivity?"

Steve offers a faint smile. Tired. Clear-sighted.

— "Or you could stop waiting for his approval. And just be you."

You freeze. His words hit like a dull blow. Not because they hurt. But because they’re true. Brutally simple. You swallow hard, rage mingling with the emptiness.

— "And if I fail?"

Steve doesn’t smile anymore. He looks you in the eyes, with that disarming honesty.

— "Then you fail. And you get back up. That��s all."

You don’t know what to say. You’ve never known what to say to that kind of truth. But for the first time in days, your breathing slows. So does your heart. There is a silence in this room now that doesn’t weigh you down. A silence that rests. Maybe that’s all you needed to hear. Maybe all you really needed... was for someone to stay.

On Stark's end, he remained silent after you left, arms crossed, frozen like a statue in the now too-empty kitchen. But this silence is anything but peaceful. It grates, pulses, pounds from within. His fingers drum nervously on the counter, in rhythm with an irritation he refuses to name. He stares at the spot where you were, as if you might reappear there, as if the words spilled just minutes ago could somehow rewind themselves.

The exchange left him tense. Not because of the volume of your voice, nor your sudden exit. But because of that question. That damn phrase that hit him full force.

— “And you... you're okay with this?”

He wanted to shrug it off at first, convince himself it was just something blurted out in anger. That it wasn't worth dwelling on. But it dug its claws into his mind and refused to let go.

Did he go too far? No. Of course not.

He said what needed to be said. What you needed to hear. No sugarcoating, no gloves. Just the truth — raw, pragmatic. He’s not here to coddle a lost kid. He’s here to build, to push forward, to get the best out of the goddamn chaos. But... something’s off. Something resists.

He retreated to his office as usual, tossing out a loud “no one disturb me” as the door shut behind him. He pretended to dive into his work — into calculations, holographic projections. He opened ten different files. None of them went past a blank screen. His gaze stayed fixed on a vague, undefined spot, eyes unfocused. He didn’t read. Didn’t analyze. Didn’t produce a thing. He missed a call from Rhodey. That never happens. Or only when his head’s too far from playing the arrogant genius. Happy swung by, tossed him a simple question: everything okay?

— “Always. Why wouldn’t it be?” he grunted, not even turning around.

But it wasn’t a real answer. Even Happy felt it. Because no, everything isn’t okay. Not this morning. And Tony hates that. He hates that crawling feeling that something slipped through his fingers. That something got to him more than he’s ready to admit. It’s not the first time someone’s called him an asshole. But this morning? It felt different. Because for once, he’s not entirely sure they’re wrong. He’s used to building walls. High ones. Solid. Nearly impenetrable. Barriers made of sarcasm, reinforced with pragmatism, polished over the years to keep people at just the right distance. Not too close. Not close enough to hurt. Not close enough to see.

But you…

You have this exact, brutal, instinctive way of striking where it cracks. Where the armor splits. And he hates that. Hates that raw lucidity in your eyes, that barely-contained rage that reminds him too much of himself. A younger version. More lost. Before the suits, before the billions, before the deaths. He’s been yelled at before. Insulted. Challenged. He’s used to it. He takes the hits, fires back, wins. Always. But with you... it’s different. It’s not a clash of egos, not a duel of equal arrogance. It’s personal. And it stings.

So he does what he knows best: he compartmentalizes. Boxes it up tight, slaps a “not my problem” label on it. He tells himself you’re just a messed-up kid. That you’ve taken too much, suffered too much, and it’s normal you’re blowing up. He remembers your file, your past, your broken wrist, the violence in your nightmares. He tells himself he can’t carry that too. That you’re an employee. Period. End of story.

And yet… His eyes drift to his phone.

One message. What would it take? Three seconds? Less. A snarky: Done being dramatic yet? or Try not to ruin the training room mat, it costs more than your entire room. One of those stupid things he throws out just to fill the silence, just to keep from feeling. But his fingers don’t move. Not yet. Because he knows — the second he hits send, it means he heard you. That it got to him. And maybe even... that he feels guilty.

And that — Tony Stark still doesn’t know how to handle.

You let out one last breath—hoarse, almost painful. Your fist still trembles, red and numb, after hammering the punching bag until exhaustion. Each blow dragged out a little more anger, a little more poison. Now, only fatigue remains. Raw. Heavy. Absolute.

Your muscles burn. Your back is drenched. Your throat is dry as if you'd swallowed ashes. You feel your heartbeat slowly calming down, but your entire body still vibrates with adrenaline. Steve hasn’t moved. He stayed a few meters away, arms crossed, his posture calm yet ready to intervene. But he let you go. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t judge, didn’t treat you like a child. Just... watched. Attentive. Present. When you finally collapse against the nearest wall, your legs barely able to hold you up, your gaze drifts into emptiness. You feel drained, scattered in pieces across this cold and silent room. You’re no longer angry. But you’re not better either.

— "Feels good, huh?" Steve says, gently breaking the silence.

You nod slowly, unable to say anything more. Yeah. It feels good. Not a lasting good. Not a healing one. But a good that stops you from imploding. Just for now.

— "You got it all out—at least physically," he goes on. "But in your head, it’s still a battlefield, right?"

You let out a tired sigh and shrug. You could say yes. You could tell him everything. But you’ve got no energy left. And honestly... what difference would it make?

— "It’s complicated."

Steve doesn’t look surprised. He gives you a small smile—the kind you give someone who’s fooling no one, not even themselves. You sit up a bit, look for a towel, and wipe your face roughly. Sweat trickles down your back, sticking your clothes to your skin. You grab your water bottle like a survival instinct and take small sips without a word. The water’s lukewarm, bland, but it’ll do.

— "You don’t have to fix everything today," Steve says again, his voice steady, almost gentle. "But you don’t have to carry it alone either."

You look away. He says it like it’s simple. Like you had a choice. Like you still knew how to trust. But you don’t answer. Not right away. Because a tiny part of you... wants to believe him. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s soft, breathable. A rare kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. You stay there a few more seconds, catching your breath, letting your heart slow down, your mind settle. Then you slowly stand, your body still sore, and grab your hoodie left earlier on the bench.

— "Thanks, Cap," you murmur as you pull on the still-warm fabric.

— "Steve," he corrects immediately, with that quiet calm that defines him.

You turn your head toward him, surprised. He looks at you without a smile, but his gaze is sincere. Open.

— "Call me Steve."

You freeze for a second, like the word won’t come out. Then you nod slightly, a faint smile forming despite yourself.

— "Okay… Thanks, Steve."

He gives a small nod in response, and that simple gesture is enough to lift a bit of the weight you’ve been carrying all day. He didn’t offer a miracle solution. But he listened. And that, already, is a lot. You gather your things in silence, leaving the training room with slow steps. Your shoulders are heavy, your muscles protest, your wrist throbs with a familiar ache. And yet, something in you feels... less tense. Less raw. The hallways of the Tower are quiet at this hour. The soft lighting gives the walls a gentle, almost muted glow. The steel and glass, usually so cold, seem almost welcoming. You breathe in deeply. You wouldn’t say you’re okay. You don’t believe in that kind of miracle. But at least, for the first time today... you don’t feel alone. And maybe that’s a start.

Then, as you reach the floor of your room, your steps slow down despite yourself. You walk past his office. The door is ajar—just enough to let a thin line of light slice through the hallway darkness. You could keep going. Pretend you didn’t see anything. Ignore that detail you never miss: he always leaves his door slightly open when something’s on his mind. But you stop. Your gaze slips through the opening, drawn in despite yourself. Stark is there, seated at his desk, his face bathed in the blue glow of his screens. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His fingers move nervously across a projected interface, but his expression is tense, less confident than usual. A worried crease marks his forehead; his gaze doesn’t truly focus on what’s in front of him. He’s not working. He’s brooding.

You hesitate, your hand hovering over your bag strap. After this morning’s blow-up, the last thing you want is to see him again. You could just walk away. Leave him in his tower of steel and solitude, true to form.

But... another part of you—the one you kind of hate—keeps you rooted. The part that remembers he patched you up. That he put his hands into your pain, even if he bit back with words afterward. The part that remembers that fleeting look the day before, one that was neither scornful nor indifferent. And as if that single thought were enough to trigger something, he suddenly looks up. Your eyes meet in silence. The moment is brief, but charged. He stares at you, unspeaking, brows slightly furrowed. His eyes move from your tired face to your tense posture, then stop on your hands. Your scraped knuckles, your wrist wrapped in a worn bandage.

A bitter line forms at the corner of his mouth. No smile. No mockery. Just his voice, dry but less sharp than it could’ve been:

— "Survived your existential crisis, or do I still need to monitor you remotely?"

His attempt at irony falls a bit flat. It’s not really a joke, nor an attack. More like another way of not saying what he really means. You grit your teeth.

— "Just heading back."

You could’ve ignored him. You could’ve lied. But you choose truth—raw, stripped down. He doesn’t deserve more than that… or maybe you just don’t have the energy to pretend anymore. He raises an eyebrow, slowly crosses his arms, his eyes still fixed on your bandages. He doesn’t comment, but you see his jaw tighten for a fraction of a second. Something’s bothering him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s himself. Silence falls again. Denser. Heavier than it should be. And you stay there, frozen in the doorway. Caught between running away and the absurd need to understand what he’s really thinking. He doesn’t speak, but you notice the movement—his fingers tapping nervously on the edge of his desk. That tic betrays the inner agitation his perfectly composed face won’t show. You know that kind of mask. You’ve worn one for years.

— "Spent the day with Rogers, huh?" he asks, the tone almost casual, but not quite enough to hide the genuine curiosity behind the question.

You cross your arms, offer a dry smirk.

— "Yeah."

You pause, like testing his reaction.

— "He was nicer than you, if you want to know."

A flicker of a smirk flashes across his lips. Not quite a smile. More of an inward scoff, like he expected that jab.

— "Figures. He likes playing the mentor. Boy scout and all."

He doesn’t add anything else, but his gaze changes. It weighs heavier. More direct. Like he’s trying to decipher what you’re still hiding — or what Steve might have uncovered. Then he lifts his chin slightly, suddenly more serious.

— "Tomorrow, you’re working."

No hesitation. No room for doubt. Just a fact, stated with the certainty of someone who calls the shots. You nod without protest. Of course you’re working. It’s not like you have the luxury of refusing.

— "Good night, boss."

You turn away, ready to end the conversation, to walk away before he irritates you again… but his voice catches you, calmer, quieter.

— "Put some ice on your hands."

You stop dead. It’s not the content of the sentence that freezes you. It’s the tone. Still neutral, still distant—but there’s something else under it. A tiny tremor in his voice, like concern disguised as instruction. You don’t reply. You don’t need to.

You stretch as you enter the break room, arms overhead, your muscles still numb but surprisingly relaxed. A strange sensation runs down your spine, like a body rediscovering itself after days of constant tension. You slept well. For once. No nightmares, no jerking awake in the middle of the night, no cold sweat clinging to the sheets. Just deep sleep. Almost peaceful. And now, this odd heaviness in your limbs, not from exhaustion, but from rest. You can hardly believe it.

Morning light filters through the blinds, soft, warm on the back of your neck as you move toward the coffee machine. You spot Pepper Potts sitting at a table near the big window. She’s holding a cup between her perfectly manicured fingers, her eyes on her phone. When she looks up and sees you, she gives you a smile — professional, but sincere.

— "Oh. You look better than usual."

You raise an eyebrow, smirking as you pour yourself a coffee.

— "Thanks... I think?"

The espresso machine hisses once more before falling silent, and you sit across from her, your hands wrapped around the steaming mug. The warmth of the ceramic grounds you. The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just calm. Filled with the quiet steps of a few employees who pass through, exchanging a quick word before moving on. The smell of coffee floats in the air, familiar, comforting. You glance out the window. The sky is clear for once. One of those mornings when the city seems to hold its breath. And you, too. You don’t know how long this calm will last, but you savor it. Because in this tower, where any second can descend into chaos, a moment like this feels like a luxury.

Pepper looks up from her phone, her expression soft but focused. There’s a sincere curiosity in her eyes, not invasive, just enough to let you know she’s present — really present.

— "Getting used to the Tower a little better?" she asks, setting her cup down, chin tilted thoughtfully.

You shrug, your eyes lost in the steam rising from your mug.

— "I guess. But you know I’m only here by default. I didn’t have anywhere else to go."

A silence. Just long enough for you to wonder if she’s going to reply. But she nods slowly, like your words resonate with something she understands all too well.

— "You know… Stark doesn’t let just anyone live under his roof," she says softly — part reminder, part warning.

You let out a dry laugh, leaning further into your chair.

— "And yet, he treats me like I’m a calculation error."

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued, but doesn’t interrupt. She waits. Like she knows there’s more. And she’s right.

— "One day he’s almost... human. He gives advice, looks at me like I actually exist. The next, he talks to me like I’m a failed prototype ready for the trash."

Pepper gives a faint smile — the kind you make when you hear something painfully familiar.

— "You just summed up Tony Stark in one sentence."

You stare at her, brow furrowed.

— "Not exactly comforting."

She chuckles softly, a quiet but sincere laugh. Then she sips her coffee, her tone turning more serious.

— "Listen… Tony’s complicated. He plays by his own rules. He pushes people to the edge. He watches. He tests. He waits to see who holds."

You squint, irritated.

— "So I’m just another guinea pig? Another experiment in his little social lab?"

You set your cup down a little too hard, the porcelain hitting the wood with a sharp note that slices through the room’s calm. Pepper watches you for a moment, not cutting you off. Then she shakes her head slowly.

— "I don’t think that’s it. Tony’s more... instinctive than that. If he didn’t want you here, trust me, he would’ve already found a way to get rid of you."

You scoff, arms crossed.

— "Yeah. He keeps people around as long as they’re useful. And once they’re not, he cuts them loose. He could’ve let me die the other night in that alley. That would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it?"

The silence that follows is heavier. More real. You notice Pepper lower her gaze to her cup. She spins it slowly between her fingers, like she’s searching for the right words.

— "I think you underestimate just how closely Tony watches everything..." she says at last, her voice softer, laced with meaning.

You roll your eyes, ready to fire back — but something stops you.

Movement at the doorway. You turn your head. And there, leaning against the doorframe, coffee cup in hand and eyes fixed on the two of you — Stark. He hasn’t come in yet. Just stands there, in the threshold, familiar silhouette far too casual, cup in hand, gaze locked on you. But you see it. You feel it. He’s heard everything. His expression is hard to read. Not quite mocking, not quite indifferent. There’s a carefully neutral stance to him, like he refuses to show that your words slipped past the armor. Pepper turns slightly toward him. She gets it too. She knows him well enough to see just how much he’s listening behind that distant air. He pretends to scroll his phone, like that’s somehow more important than your conversation. But nobody’s fooled. Especially not you. Finally, he looks up, aims at you with surgical precision, and drops a line in a mock-light tone:

— "All done with your little morning therapy session? Or do we need to lay you down and cue the violins?"

The line is sharp, almost theatrical in its nonchalance. You clench your teeth, your body tensing despite yourself. You could let it slide. But not today.

— "Oh, sorry. Forgot you’re a mind reader, Boss. Already know what I’m feeling, huh?"

You watch him tuck his phone into his inner jacket pocket without breaking eye contact. His face stays impassive, but his eyes… they flash with something too deliberate to be meaningless.

— "I just know you take up a lot of space… for someone who claims he wants to stay invisible."

Boom.

Direct hit. Right to the chest. Like he pinpointed the exact crack and pressed without hesitation. Pepper sighs, her frustration finally surfacing.

— "Tony..."

But he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at her. He stays locked on you, like he’s testing your threshold. Again. You could explode. Scream. Throw everything back at him. The rage is boiling just beneath the surface, ready to spill. But instead, you just laugh — bitter, sharp, joyless.

— "Yeah. That’s exactly what I said. One day, you save my life. The next, you stomp me like a bug."

You rise slowly, never looking away. You grab your coffee cup — now lukewarm — and head for the door. As you pass him, your shoulder brushes his. Not violently. But enough for him to feel what you’re still holding back.

— "I’m going to work. Since that’s all you care about anyway."

You don’t stop. You don’t look back. You don’t want to know if he’s still watching. And this time, he says nothing. No comeback. No sarcasm. Nothing. Pepper stays seated, watching you go with an expression you can’t quite define. Empathy? Sadness? You don’t know. You don’t want to know. You walk out, the automatic doors closing behind you with a soft hiss.

You move with precision. Controlled. Too controlled. Every mouse click, every keystroke feels like a silent outlet. You don't allow anything else to exist. No break room. No Stark. No acidic line still ringing in your head. You bury yourself in your screen like your salvation depends on it. The familiar interface of your project opens in a blue glow. And instantly, your mind dives into it. It’s your bubble. Your fortress. The only place where you still have control.

You adjust an animation curve, refine a camera movement, realign textures you left hanging yesterday. Your gaze is sharp, your hand gliding across the graphic tablet with the instinct of a craftsman. You soften a harsh light, fix a transition that jarred the eye. Every detail demands your attention, pulls you in, tears you from yourself. The ambient noises blur. The world narrows to pixels, pivot points, layered compositions. You blink less often, your breathing evens out, as if your body remembers what it feels like to be useful. To build, rather than repair.

The anger is still there, of course. It flows in your veins, fueling your determination. But it no longer overflows. It channels. You turn it into brutal, almost obsessive concentration. You work like your life depends on it. And maybe it does. Maybe it's the only thing holding you together. Time slips by unnoticed. An hour. Maybe two. You’re not sure. You’re elsewhere, merged into your screen, into your world of shapes and motion. And in that narrow space between two keyframes, you find a semblance of peace. Fragile. But real.

You don’t want to think about Stark. You just want to prove — to yourself, to him, to this fucking universe — that you're not here by accident. That you deserve your place.

But something refuses to disappear. An emptiness in the air. A silence too heavy to ignore. Stark still hasn’t come back.

You shouldn’t be thinking about it. You should stay focused on your project, keep drowning your anger in the work. But this absence — this unusual absence — eats at you. Usually, he’s here. Always here. Tossing sharp remarks, barking orders like throwing knives, hovering behind your shoulder without ever truly addressing you with a word that sounds like care.

And now? Nothing. No comments. No sighs of contempt. Just this silence, pulsing like a missed beat in a well-oiled routine. Why does it bother you so much? You breathe harder and try to convince yourself: it doesn’t matter.

But a part of you, the part you hate most, clings to that detail like a frayed thread. That conversation with Pepper, the words you let slip... you’re not stupid. You saw him, there, in the doorway. He heard. And he stayed there, without intervening, without a retort. You click back into your project, trying to regain focus, but the screen seems blurry. Your stylus trembles slightly in your hand. Not with anger this time. More… a confused form of nervousness.

Then suddenly, the door opens. Abruptly.

The sharp click of the handle yanks you from your concentration. You jump — just a bit — but enough to make your stylus skid. A clumsy line cuts through your animation, breaking the fluidity you’d just managed to restore. You inhale through your nose, tense, and look up.

He’s there.

Stark walks in, familiar silhouette, confident stride — but something’s off. He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t throw you a remark, not even a sarcastic jab. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. He crosses the room as if he’s not really there, grabs his coffee left on the corner of his desk — you know it’s cold, he knows it’s cold — but he takes it anyway. He holds it like an automaton, eyes still averted.

And in that silence, there’s a different tension. Not the kind from a fight. More like... a storm that refuses to break.

You notice it immediately. This isn’t his usual expression, not that flicker of defiance or calculated contempt he wears like a second skin. No. What’s on his face now is something else. A neutrality so precise, so methodical, it becomes suspicious. Too controlled. Too calm. Like he's struggling not to let anything show.

And that, you recognize. It’s not indifference. It’s control.

Stark didn’t come back from that break room in his usual state. He’s... too quiet. Too still. And deep down, you know that isn’t nothing. You open your mouth. The urge to throw a comment, provoke something, break this latent tension... it’s strong. But you hold back. You don’t have the strength. And maybe also because a part of you, however small, knows he was affected. That something in that conversation with Pepper and Happy hit harder than expected.

So you lower your eyes.

You pick up your stylus and return to your project, like nothing happened, like your throat isn’t tight and your thoughts aren’t spinning. But the silence has changed. It’s denser, heavier. It wraps around you, almost crushes you. No words. No movement. Just you, your breathing, and Stark’s finger tapping lightly against his cup.

You force yourself to move forward. You adjust the final curves. Refine a texture that still seemed too dull. Rework the transition between two shots for the fourth time. Your gestures are precise, automatic. You proceed like a tightrope walker over a void. Don’t fail. Don’t shake. Don’t speak.

Then finally, you look up at the animation. The render is smooth. The colors are balanced. The motion, coherent. There’s nothing more to add.

A quiet sigh escapes you.

You straighten slightly, shake your numb wrist. The hours you spent drained you. But you know you did good work. Maybe the only thing you still control today. You click “Send.”

Your project goes straight to Stark’s inbox. You don’t need to tell him it’s ready. He’ll see it. He already knows. What you don’t know is whether he’ll respond. You lean slowly back into your chair, arms crossed. Your eyes stay fixed on him — just from the corner, barely, as if you don’t want to give him your full attention but can’t help it.

Stark hasn’t moved an inch. Still that impassive posture, bent over his screen, looking focused. His gaze doesn’t shift, his face stays closed, almost carved in marble. No furrowed brow, no blink betraying any reaction.

You wonder if he saw your email. Or if he opened it, then closed it without a word, just to let you stew. That would be his style, right? The king of calculated silence. Of passive-aggressive provocation. He doesn’t need to yell to throw you off — he just has to be there, ignoring you like you don’t exist, and it’s enough to send the pressure skyrocketing. You finally look away, annoyed at yourself. What are you waiting for, exactly? Validation? A satisfied smirk? You know that’s not going to happen. Not here. Not with him. And yet, you keep hoping for it, like a fool.

Your fingers tap nervously on the edge of your desk. Every second of silence stretches your frustration thinner. You hate this uncertainty, this vagueness. You’d almost prefer he throw a sharp remark your way, a clean “you could’ve done better,” something to answer, something to push against. But he keeps typing, unbothered. Like your work — like you — don’t exist. And somehow, that’s worse than anything.

Each second stretches like over-chewed gum. You shift in your seat, sway side to side, pretend to check your notes, tweak a detail, reorganize a folder. But really, your mind is locked on a single point: Stark. And that damn email. You start to doubt. Maybe you should’ve waited. Polished that last sequence a bit more. Rechecked the lighting. The smoothness of the camera move at the end. Does it look amateur? Will it seem sloppy to him? Will he humiliate you again like last time?

Then, a sound. Barely anything. A crisp click, a subtle window shift. You don’t dare look up, but you know he’s opened it. You feel it. The rhythm of his movements shifts. He’s not typing anymore. His fingers — the same ones drumming anxiously earlier — now glide along the armrest of his chair. Slow. Mechanical. Focused.

He’s watching. Reading. Analyzing. You could almost tell when he reaches the final shot, the loop you spent all night perfecting. The silence becomes nearly physical, a weight suspended between you. And still nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. Not even a sigh. He’s there, looking at your work, and he says nothing. And you sit there, frozen, heart in your throat, with one nagging question looping in your head: is that a good sign… or the worst kind of warning?

You stay still, muscles tense. The waiting is unbearable. He's thinking — that's obvious. Or maybe he's just making you stew. And knowing Stark, both are probably true. Finally, you clear your throat, just loud enough to break the acidic silence.

— "So, is it good or…?"

Another silence. No immediate reaction. You wonder if he's ignoring you or mentally crafting his next punchline. Then, without looking at you:

— "It's… acceptable."

You raise an eyebrow, caught somewhere between consternation and irritation.

— "Acceptable? Seriously?"

Stark finally looks up at you, vaguely amused, his eyes gleaming with a sharp glint.

— "What? You want me to congratulate you? Hand you a diploma with a golden ribbon and a little note of encouragement?"

You let out a sigh and sink back into your chair.

— "No, I don’t know. Just… a bit less vague feedback would be nice."

He swivels his screen toward you, his finger tapping a specific part of the animation.

— "See this? Here, the transition works. It’s dynamic, it breathes well. And here, you worked the lighting. It’s clean. But…"

He stops, his finger sliding slightly toward another zone.

— "Here, it's shaky. The effect’s too abrupt. You were trying to make it look cool, but it's sloppy. And this texture... it floats. It doesn’t anchor, it slides on top instead of integrating. You've got the eye, right? So why'd you let that slip?"

You squint. Yeah, now that he points it out, it’s obvious. Maybe you saw it before, but let it go from sheer exhaustion, from just wanting to finish.

— "Okay… yeah. I see what you mean."

You say it reluctantly, but you know he’s right. Stark nods, almost satisfied.

— "Well, at least you're not deaf or completely stubborn. Fix that, and maybe we can talk about progress without blushing."

You roll your eyes.

— "You could say it’s good. Just once. I promise I won’t burst with joy."

He gives you a half-smile — that kind of smirk that only he can pull off, half-mocking, half-complicit.

— "You’ve made it this far without compliments. No reason I should start wrecking your armor now."

You don’t say anything. But deep down, a part of you carefully files away that “you’ve made progress.” It’s not a medal… but coming from him, it’s close. An annoyed sigh escapes you despite yourself, but you can’t deny what stirs beneath the surface. Something quiet. A stifled warmth in your chest. Pride, maybe. Even if you’re not ready to admit it. Because Stark doesn’t hand out compliments. Not really. He doesn’t do “bravo” or pats on the back. He criticizes, he tests, he points out what’s wrong. And the fact that he took the time to analyze your work without torching it? That he acknowledged progress — even in his backwards way? That’s huge. That’s rare. And it gets to you more than you want to admit.

You nod, simply.

— "I’ll fix it."

He watches you for another second, then looks away, already diving back into his notes, like that settles it.

— "Good. And quick. I’ve got better things to do."

Classic. Balance restored. You retrieve your file, transfer it back into your workspace, and pick up your stylus. The silence that follows doesn’t have the same texture as before. It’s less tense. Less loaded. It no longer floats like a threat hanging over your head. It’s just there, simply, like a budding habit. A strange routine between two bruised people who, despite themselves, are starting to understand they function better in each other’s chaos.

You don’t smile. Not really. But your wrist is a little less tight. Your chest a little less heavy.

The office door opens gently, without noise, just enough not to disturb the fragile balance of silence. Pepper enters with that discreet elegance that instantly makes her feel like she belongs, as if every room she walks into partly belongs to her. She’s holding two cups of coffee, steam still curling from the lids, and her gaze sweeps the room instantly. Clinical. Precise. She reads the scene like a report, noticing what most would miss: slightly less tense shoulders, the absence of clenched jaws, a faint trace of calm hanging in the air.

— "Thought a little boost wouldn’t hurt" she says in a neutral tone, almost too gentle not to mean something.

She approaches and sets one coffee on Stark’s desk without another word. He doesn’t even look up, but a slight nod — imperceptible to the untrained eye — signals he noticed her.

The other cup remains in her hand. She turns to you but doesn’t offer it right away. No. Pepper Potts never does anything automatically. She studies you, reads between the lines of your silence, your posture, the nervous motion of your fingers on your desk’s edge. As if she’s waiting for a sign from you, a word, a hint. Something that will confirm what she already suspects: that the calm in the room isn’t entirely natural, but not entirely fake either. Then, slowly, she steps forward and places the second coffee beside your hand.

— "You earned it" she says simply.

A heartbeat passes. You don’t know exactly why, but it gets to you. Because she could’ve said it differently. Because she doesn’t impose it — she offers it. And because after this chaotic morning, hearing someone admit, even halfway, that you deserve something… it means more than you want to admit. You don’t say anything. But you take the coffee. And this time, it tastes a little less bitter. The tension from this morning really has faded — or at least, it’s buried beneath a layer of false calm. As if you’ve signed a silent truce, each in your place, each in your bubble, but with this tight thread between you — this invisible string, heavy with everything unsaid.

Stark grabs his coffee with a mechanical gesture, without glancing at you. He takes a sip, his expression unchanged, then lets himself drop back against his chair with lazy ease. The attitude is relaxed, almost careless, but you can read between the lines. You know his mind is still racing. Pepper hasn’t said another word yet, standing between you like a dividing line no one dares cross. Then, with a casually mocking tone, Stark finally breaks the silence:

— "If you came to check whether we killed each other, sorry to disappoint, Potts. He’s still in one piece."

You look up at him without responding right away. The tone is light, but the subtext is clear: it could’ve gone differently. It almost did. It still might. Pepper raises an eyebrow, unamused. She crosses her arms, cup still in hand, and her gaze moves from him to you, like she’s checking this isn’t just another calm before the storm.

— "I prefer days where nobody ends up bleeding, she says simply, her tone as sharp as it is soft."

Stark smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you, you stare into your cup, its lukewarm contents between your fingers, wondering how long this kind of balance can last before everything shatters again. You feel Pepper’s gaze on you — precise, attentive. She studies you like a fragile compass, trying to see whether the needle still points to the storm or if calm has truly returned.

— "That’s already progress, she comments, leaning lightly against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. You made it through a morning without threatening or ignoring each other? I’m impressed."

You give a joyless smirk, eyes locked on your screen, the cursor blinking on your project’s final line. You try to play the irony card, but you haven’t quite pieced your morning back together.

— "He said my work was "acceptable." That’s almost a compliment, right?"

To your right, Stark doesn’t flinch. He stays hunched over his desk, absorbed, like every pixel on his screen holds a vital truth. Then he vaguely shrugs, takes another sip of now-tepid coffee.

— "Don’t get used to it, he mutters flatly."

Pepper softly rolls her eyes, but her attention is still on you. Not on him. You. Because she’s worried. Because she wants to know if something truly got fixed, or if it’s just tape over a crack.

— "And you? You okay?"

You take a second. Just one. Enough time to weigh what you might say, what you might hide. You fiddle with the edge of the cardboard cup between your fingers, the warm paper crinkling under the pressure.

— "Yeah… I mean… Better than this morning."

You don’t look at her, but you hear her breathe, softly, almost relieved. She doesn’t reply, but you can tell she’s taken note. That she’s recording everything — your posture, your tone, your evasive eyes.

She exchanges a brief look with Stark. He, as always, pretends not to see a thing, diving back into his lines of code or schematics like they hold the solution to all the world’s tension.

Then she lets out a discreet sigh, straightens, and smooths the fabric of her blazer with that calm elegance that follows her everywhere.

— "Right. I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to kill each other by tonight."

— "No promises, Stark mutters, still not looking up."

You let out a faint laugh through your nose, despite yourself. It’s not peace, maybe… but it’s a truce. A moment suspended in the usual cold war. Pepper flashes a smile — a real one, this time — and walks out with the soft click of heels on the immaculate floor, leaving you alone again. Alone in this office that, little by little, is starting to feel more like a minefield… or a training ground.

— "So, Boss… are you finally going to apologize, or should I just go fuck myself right now? I definitely noticed your silence earlier."

You don’t look at him right away, your eyes locked on your screen like your project might spare you from the inevitable. But you feel his gaze lift. Slowly. That kind of look that could slice a conversation in half with a single word… or reignite it into a blaze.

Stark sets his mug down with measured calm, almost too slow to be genuine. He crosses his arms, expression frozen in that icy neutrality he’s mastered.

— "Apologize? For what exactly?"

His tone is calm. But behind that polished façade, you recognize the irony, the barely disguised provocation. The test. As always. You roll your eyes, sinking into your chair with an exasperated sigh.

— "I don’t know… Maybe for blowing up at me over breakfast like I was some clerical error, for undoing everything like last night meant nothing, or just to make it clear that I could work day and night and it would never be good enough for you."

He raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair, still looking perfectly impassive.

— "Ah. So now you expect apologies. Interesting."

He lets a silence settle. Not an empty silence — a calculated one. The kind that slowly builds pressure, just to see how you’ll react.

— "You did your job. It was solid. I acknowledged it. That should be enough, right?"

You laugh — dry, bitter, almost hollow. You shake your head slowly.

— "No. Not when the rest of the time you talk to me like I’m some parasite wandering your hallways. Not when every interaction feels like a fucking endurance test."

You put down your stylus, your hands trembling from a mix of anger and exhaustion.

— "If you had the slightest decency, you'd acknowledge you were unfair. That sometimes, you throw your words around like blades without giving a damn what they cut.

You finally dare to look him in the eye. And you almost regret it. Because what you see there isn’t aggression. It’s worse: it’s calculation. He’s looking at you like a complex problem he hasn’t solved yet. Not quite."

He stays silent. And this silence isn’t forgetfulness. It’s a choice. You feel your chest tighten. And still, you stay, waiting for something you’re not even sure you want to hear. Recognition. A word. A crack in his damn mask. And Stark… He’s thinking. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t immediately fire back. He absorbs your words. Maybe because he knows they’re true. Maybe because, for once, he has nothing to defuse them.

Then he exhales. Long. Maybe sincere. His hand runs through his hair with that nervous gesture he does sometimes when he loses the thread or is about to say something he’d rather avoid.

— "Fine."

You frown, wary. It’s rare to see him give any ground, even the smallest bit.

— "Fine what?"

He taps his fingers distractedly on the desk, eyes lowered, then finally looks up at you.

— "Fine, maybe I was… a bit harsh this morning."

You blink. You expected denial, deflection, a perfectly timed jab. But not this. Well — if you can even call it this. You stare at him, your expression wavering between disbelief and cynical amusement.

— "That’s all I get?"

Stark shrugs, already retreating behind his usual nonchalance.

— "That’s already not bad. What did you want, a hug and a card that says “sorry for being a professional asshole”?"

You let out a dry laugh, not truly amused.

— "I don’t know… a word that sounds more like an apology than a clinical analysis of your emotional dysfunction would’ve been nice."

— "Too bad. I left my empathy manual in the car. Probably collecting dust somewhere between sarcasm and self-loathing."

He picks up his coffee and swivels his chair slightly, signaling the end of the exchange. Back to routine. Back to silence.

You sit there, watching him refocus on his screen like nothing happened. And you feel this strange mix inside you: lingering frustration, but also a small, barely-there hint of relief. Because even if it was half-admitted, even if it was disguised under three layers of irony… he heard you. He heard you. And he responded. The silence that follows is less cutting than before. There’s still a wall between you, but it’s not reinforced concrete anymore. Maybe just glass. Cold. Brittle. But transparent. You lean back into your chair, eyes drifting to your screen, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

— "I guess it’s better than nothing, you murmur more to yourself than to him."

And for the first time in a while, it doesn’t sound like resignation. More like a beginning. A fragile clearing. But real.

You stand up in one swift motion, your chair screeching against the floor with a sharp noise that slices through the quiet. But you don’t care. Not now.

In a few strides, you cross the room and plant your hands flat on Stark’s desk. He doesn’t react immediately. Keeps staring at his screen like your presence is just background noise to ignore. You clench your jaw. It’s even worse than if he’d fired a snarky comment.

— "I don’t get your reaction yesterday, Boss."

Your voice is calm — too calm. Each word lands like a blade: sharp, taut, precise. You look him straight in the eye, but he’s slow to return the gaze. When he finally does, it’s with that distant expression you know too well. No cracks. No regret. Just that icy neutrality that always turns your stomach.

— "The night before, you were… I don’t know, almost human with me. And the next day, you tell me you almost regret protecting me. Like I’m some fucking burden. A managerial error. I want answers."

Stark exhales audibly and settles into his chair, arms crossed. His gaze sizes you up like a badly written equation.

— "Answers? What do you want? A dramatic confession? A little emotional PowerPoint? I didn’t hire you to meet your need for affection, kid. This is a job. Not group therapy."

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs. The rage rises, acidic. Your grip tightens on the edge of his desk until your knuckles pale.

— "You’ve been treating me like a child under constant watch while pushing me to the brink every chance you get! I’m done with your double standards. Explain to me why one day you’re picking me up out of an alley and the next you’re looking at me like I’m trash someone forgot to take out!"

Your voice shakes. Not with fear. With anger. That dull ache that’s been churning in your gut for days. You refuse to back down this time. You want a fucking answer. Stark clicks his tongue, annoyed. He slowly uncrosses his arms, leans forward, and plants his elbows on the desk. His gaze sharpens. Colder. Harder.

— "You want the truth? Fine. The truth is, you’re my employee. And I don’t like seeing my employees get their faces smashed in on the street. Because it’s a hassle. It’s messy. It draws attention. That’s why I stepped in."

You freeze. Your legs nearly buckle beneath you. His words drive into your chest like nails. Brutal. Unflinching. You blink, hoping—foolishly—he’ll soften. That he’ll swerve. That he’ll backpedal. But he stays put. Solid. Cold. Untouchable.

— "That’s your justification? Seriously?"

Your voice drops. Wounded. A taut whisper between two silences.

He shrugs, implacable.

— "It’s the only one that matters to you, isn’t it?"

And in his eyes, you don’t know if you see cruelty… or some twisted form of defense. Like he hides behind this version of himself so he doesn’t have to say something else. Something real. Something fragile. But you don’t have the strength to decipher anymore. Not now.

You laugh. A short, dry, lifeless sound. A laugh born of nerves, nearly strangled in your throat.

— "Of course. Because everything’s that simple with you, right?"

Stark doesn’t reply immediately. He just stares, and in that look, there’s a flicker. A crack. Something he’s trying to hide. Hesitation? Guilt? You’re not sure. But it’s there. For a second. Before he slams the door shut again.

— "You done with your performance, or do you want to keep whining?"

The sentence hits harder than it should. Because it’s cheap. Hurtful. And terribly expected. Your jaw tightens, blood pounding in your temples. Your fists clench despite yourself, but you refuse to give him that satisfaction. Not this time.

— "Seriously? After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve proved… that’s all you have to say?"

Your tone is sharp, controlled, but every word costs you. Because you’re not yelling. You’re standing there, tall, and that’s a thousand times harder than screaming. Stark meets your gaze. Frozen, almost sculptural.

— "All you’ve proved is that you can survive, he finally says. Congrats. But surviving isn’t enough."

You’re about to fire back, but he continues, relentless:

— "You’re here because you’re good at your job. That’s it. If you want it to continue, you better get back to work. Not go chasing answers you’re never going to get."

The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there, shoulders tight, breath shallow. You could scream at him. You could blow everything up, toss your badge at his face and tell him to shove it. But you know it wouldn’t change a thing.

Because Stark is like this. Because he’ll never let you reach him. So you back away. Slowly. One step. Then two.

— "Fine. Got it."

Your voice shakes, but it’s ice-cold. As sharp as his.

— "Thanks for your honesty, Boss."

You turn, heart in your throat, and leave the office without waiting for his response. You don’t slam the door. You don’t yell. You walk away, lungs full of silence, fists clenched like angry heartbeats. And you know: you just crossed a line.

You're alone in the break room, the lukewarm mug resting between your hands, caught halfway between needing warmth and wanting to throw it against the wall. Beyond the bay window, New York stretches into the distance — loud, alive, indifferent. Hundreds of people rushing through their lives while you sit there, frozen in this too-silent room, unable to detach from what just happened. Stark’s words loop in your head, drilling into your temples. “You’re here because you work well.” “What do you want, a presentation of what’s going on in my head?” And worst of all, that damn “It’s the only justification that matters to you.” You may have walked out of his office feigning pride, but a dull, familiar rage followed you here. The kind of rage lodged in the back of your throat when tears are forbidden.

You inhale slowly, deeply, as if air might dissolve the bitterness stuck in your throat. The coffee tastes bland. Too cold. Too bitter. Just like the morning. Then, a voice — soft, yet present — cuts through the silence.

— “You look a little… lost.”

You flinch slightly and turn your head. Bruce Banner. Calm, steady, almost ghostlike in the doorway. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t impose. He doesn’t give you a moralizing look or wrap you in syrupy pity. He’s just… there. You nod slowly, unable to lie.

— “Is it that obvious?”

Bruce gives a small smile. Not mocking, just sincere.

— “You’re sitting alone, staring at your coffee like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life, and breathing like someone trying not to implode. So… let’s say I’ve seen subtler.”

You exhale — a real sigh. The kind that releases some pressure.

— “I had a talk with Stark. Well… one of those things people call a conversation but feels more like a passive-aggressive monologue. Deluxe edition.”

Bruce approaches slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break a fragile bubble. He pours himself a cup too, then sits across from you.

— “Fair warning — I’m not here to play shrink,” he says, blowing on his coffee. “But I’m a good listener.”

You look at him for a moment. He expects nothing. Just your choice. And for the first time in hours, maybe even days, you feel like you could talk without needing to defend yourself. And that, already, is a relief. Bruce doesn’t rush you. He takes his time settling in, like he knows that every rushed gesture could crack the wall you’ve been trying to hold up. He sits down slowly, brews his tea with near ceremonial calm, and lets the silence settle between you — not heavy, but necessary. As if offering you space to truly breathe. You take a sip of your lukewarm coffee without looking at him. Yet you feel his presence. Steady. Peaceful. He doesn’t poke at your wounds. He just waits for you to be ready.

Then, after a moment, he breaks the silence, still in an even tone:

— “You know, I saw your medical file.”

Your fingers immediately tighten around your mug. Your gaze hardens. You straighten slightly, defensive. Instantly.

— “Fantastic.”

The word snaps out, sharp. A humorless laugh follows close behind, bitter, sliding from your lips like a blade.

— “Is it handed out to the whole team? Or did Stark decide it’d be easier if everyone just knew I’m a walking mess of fractures and bruises?”

Bruce doesn’t flinch. He blows gently on his tea, takes a small sip, then shakes his head.

— “No. That’s not how it works around here. But… I’m one of the people in charge of internal medical follow-ups. Stark didn’t say anything. It was Pepper who wanted to make sure someone was keeping an eye on you. Just in case.”

You open your mouth to reply, but he raises a hand, gently stopping you.

— “And… you’re still recovering.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. Just truth. A reality you’ve been trying to push away for days. You don’t want to be "recovering." You want everything to move fast, the pain to disappear, your body to keep up, your mind to obey. But it doesn’t work like that. You lower your eyes to your coffee, unable to respond. Because that phrase, said in the quiet of this break room, hurts more than any of Stark’s sarcasm. You’re still recovering. You narrow your eyes slightly, gaze returning to Bruce. You know exactly what he’s getting at. Of course he noticed. Since the fracture, you haven’t done anything serious. No regular follow-up. No rehab. Just work, more work, and the habit of clenching your teeth until pain fades into background noise.

— “Have you had a full check-up since the accident?”

You press your lips together, your thumb nervously rubbing the rim of the cup. The coffee’s warmth is fading, like your desire to keep pretending. You could lie, say you followed everything to the letter. But Bruce… Bruce isn’t someone you can fool. He’s calm. Grounded. But you know he’s already figured you out. The guy is literally one of the smartest minds on the planet. And a former patient of himself, if his past is any indication. You sigh, eyes dropping to the dark liquid you haven’t even really drunk.

— “I haven’t had time.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow slowly, with that quiet patience that makes you feel like a teenager caught red-handed. His voice stays soft, but with a hint of firmness.

— “You mean you didn’t make time.”

He sets his mug on the table, both hands flat, like he’s laying out the terms of a silent contract.

— “Look, I’m not going to force you. But we’re in a place where people train for combat, work on prototypes that could blow up with the slightest mistake, and send terabytes of data in three seconds. If your wrist gives out during a crunch… it’s not just you who’ll be at risk.”

You don’t respond. You know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while. But then he adds, with a looser tone, more… human:

— “I’m not Stark. I don’t expect you to be a machine.”

You look up at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He doesn’t stare you down, but there’s a kind of respect in his gaze. As if your pain isn’t a shameful weakness — just a reality he’s willing to acknowledge. You hold his gaze, caught off guard. You didn’t expect this kind of care. Not from him. Not right now. He’s seen you. Not just physically — but deeper. He saw the tension in your movements, the fire you feed by constantly trying to prove yourself. And that look he gives you, steady and nonjudgmental, shakes you more than you want to admit.

— “You want to give me a diagnosis now, is that it?”

Your tone snaps, sharper than intended. Defensive. But Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. He studies you with that same disarming calm — the kind of calm someone develops after learning to tame tempests far worse than yours.

— “If you’re okay with it, yeah.”

He crosses his arms — no pressure, no threat. Just a stable presence in a world that sways.

— “I just want to make sure your fracture hasn’t worsened with everything you keep pushing through… despite my best medical judgment.”

You glance down briefly, unable to withstand that solid calm while you tremble inside. A laugh escapes — one of those dry, hollow ones.

— “If only that were the only thing breaking right now…”

Your voice fades near the end, like even the words carry too much weight.

Bruce doesn’t comment. He nods, slowly, like he accepts your pain without turning it into a spectacle. No pity. No grand speech. Just someone who hears you. And maybe that’s rarer than anything else. Bruce watches you for a moment in silence, calm yet penetrating. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits — like he’s giving you space to choose whether to breathe… or keep collapsing quietly.

— “You could start by allowing yourself to breathe.”

You let out a small laugh, a bitter smile tugging at your lips.

— “Yeah. Except every time I breathe, someone’s there to remind me I don’t get to let go.”

You name no one, but your gaze drifts toward the window. No need to clarify.

— “Stark, huh?” Bruce asks plainly, voice soft but precise, slicing through the unsaid.

You stay silent, jaw tight. Then slowly, you shrug, like it doesn’t matter.

— “Does it change anything?”

Bruce sighs, sitting up slightly. He takes one last sip of his tea, then stands, calmly setting the cup on the counter and nodding slightly toward the exit.

— “Come with me. I’ll take a look at your wrist. And if you need to talk about anything else… I’m not Stark. I know how to listen.”

You freeze a moment, hesitant. A voice in your head screams this is a bad idea. That asking for help means exposing a weakness, means offering a target. You think of Stark, of Matthew, of all the others — those who turned your vulnerability into a weapon.

But Bruce isn’t any of them. He doesn’t insist. Doesn’t push. He’s just offering a way out. A step back to move forward. And against all odds, you stand. Because this morning took too much. Because your wrist throbs with every move. Because maybe — just maybe — you’re tired of pretending you don’t need help. So, after a few seconds of silence, you nod.

— “Okay. But if you start lecturing me, I’m out.”

Bruce gives a faint smile.

— “Deal.”

[violetjedisylveon]

The Search Begins

Summary: Clone Force 99, and Rex lands on the Spælf homeworld of Cxylor in search of the Jedi Cid pointed them too. A meeting with civilian Loth-Werewolves shows them how little they actually know about what they are.

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: mentions of blood, self harm, child harm, swearing, implied self hate and self deprecation.

A/N: Hello! I'm back with Omega still not having a good time, funny what repression of a key part of you will do, right?

Happy last day of pride month🌈, but tomorrow begins disability pride month! Fuck yeah!

Caoimhe Peli(oc) here!

Bad Batch werewolf AU link here.

________________________________________________________________________________

Naylaz got to the shop early in the morning, enjoying the cool air and the sparkle of morning dew on everything. She pulled her hair into a short ponytail with her bandana before heading it.

She was always the first, despite being almost the youngest of her siblings, she was an early riser and enjoyed the peace of the mornings.

She got straight to work setting up the shop for all her siblings' various uses, they wouldn't all be here today, it would be too chaotic if they were. Someone was always missing, a lot were missing today with offworld or other town business, maybe visiting some of the aunts and cousins.

Today it would just be herself, her niece Caoimhe, and her two older sisters, Dulcé, an amazing baker, and Zarol, an excellent woodworker, they worked on opposite ends of the shop. Caoimhe would help them both when she got back from school, which would be about noon. She would handle check outs and their handcrafted weapons, she doubted she'd have much time, but maybe she could eek out a bit to teach Caoimhe a bit more on weapon crafting, the girl absolutely loved it, almost as much as spending hours in her studios working on whatever she fancied.

It would be a good day.

XXX

Omega stared at the speck of purple in the meadow behind them as it got smaller. She hadn't gotten much of a look at it, the colors had caught her eye just as the ship began to swerve away.

She felt eyes on her… like whatever was down there was staring at her too.

Her brothers' voices drew her attention, she peeked her head out from her makeshift room. They were going somewhere, she assumed they were there now, but she hadn't been told where or why yet.

Rex was with them though.

She retreated into her room at the sound of footsteps. Her stupid ears wouldn't go away, they were starting to hurt from her band on them. So much so she was considering not wearing the band, but a little voice chided her for such thoughts. She caught Tech's scent outside her room.

"Omega, we are going to be landing soon." He told her.

She didn't say anything and was disappointed when he didn't just walk away.

"And we'll need you to come out with us." He added.

She squeaked and tucked herself into the blanket cave she'd constructed over the course of the trip. She didn't want to leave the safety of the ship. She heard Tech shuffle and type something on his datapad.

"Would knowing about this planet before we land incentivize you to come out?" He asked her.

"Mhm." She nodded.

"The planet we are landing on is called Cxylor. It's a very nice planet with four seasons, the natives are Spælves and they do a remarkable job at living harmoniously with nature. Their architecture is designed so plants can grow and thrive on it, if it's not already built into a tree. There are large forests of many kinds, some have massive trees in them that Spælf families carve and build their homes into, and there are many trees that are smaller, girth wise, and easier to climb closer to open space like the meadows, plateaus and beaches. The water is pleasantly cool and it doesn't go down terribly deep like Kamino, new land masses can form easily and the planet has very colorful beaches." He paused so she could take in the information.

"We are going to a village in the middle of a plateau meadow, you can see the ocean from it, this one has an orange beach, I think you'll like it. The people are nice here, Spælf are friendly towards Loths, the one we are going to see is Loth." Tech said.

Omega peeked out of her blankets and found Tech peeking into her room. He smiled at her, no teeth, and motioned for her to come out. She grabbed her cape, pulling it tight around her ears, and crawled out of her room. She latched on to Tech's hand once she was out.

Her eyes found the calming blue waters contrasted with peachy orange sands, just like Tech said through the windshield.

"It's so pretty." She whispered.

"It is aesthetically pleasing." Tech agreed.

She giggled a bit, then her eyes landed on the settlement in the meadow and her anxiety returned.

She held onto Tech's tail for comfort, he gave her a little, hesitant pat.

Everything's gonna be fine. She willed herself to believe it.

XXX

Naylaz heard the desk bell ring, she grunted and shifted her load from one arm to another.

"Just a minute!" She called.

She was glad to not hear any annoyance from the customers. The day had gone great, Caoimhe hadn't caused any trouble since getting here and had been mostly glued to Dulcé's side as she made a syrup infused bread that was smelling heavenly about now. There was steady but not overwhelming foot traffic outside, and no entitled customers had bothered her today.

It was all good.

The bell rang again, someone had short patience. She grunted and decided to just take her load with her to the front to attend to the customer.

"Coming!" She called out.

She set the overflowing basket down on the front counter and pushed it, and what had spilled out of it, aside.

"What can I do for you?" She asked before getting a good look at the customers.

Six people dressed in what looked like clone armor were crowded around the front desk. She saw a tiny hint of red and leaned over a smidge to see what it was.

A small girl, no older than Caoimhe, with a red hood pulled tightly over her head looked up at her nervously. Though she was doing her best to hide it, Naylaz knew the girl was Loth, she could see the characteristic nose even if she saw nothing else. The girl was nervous, but Naylaz knew a scared Loth child wasn't to be tested and opted not to comment on it.

She gave the girl a smile then looked back to the girl's pack.

An odd pack it was, they were all male, most Loth packs had a variety of genders. One's without it had usually suffered some tragedy beforehand. However, the armor told her there was another reason for their pack's make-up.

The girl seemed to grow more nervous by the second, and Naylaz smelled blood on her. It wasn't quite the same as menstrual blood, but she figured it needed mentioning, discreetly so she didn't embarrass the poor girl to death.

"Do you need a pad, sweety?" She asked.

The girl's nose turned slightly pink and she shook her head. Most of her pack seemed confused by the question. She safely assumed they were clones.

Naylaz turned her full attention to the girl's pack.

"What do you need?" She asked, angling her ears forwards as she leaned on the counter.

"Are you Naylaz Peli?" One clone, the shortest, asked.

Naylaz raised an eyebrow and tapped her name on the employee directory, which told customers who did what and where to find them.

"I'm pretty sure that's me." She said.

The girl stifled a snort.

"What can I help you with?" She asked.

The clones were bulky and took up a lot of space, luckily, no one else needed to check out right now, so she didn't need to be upfront about getting to the point. 

"Well? I don't have all day." She prompted when they still didn't say anything.

"We need to talk with you about something important." The clone with white armor painted blue stated.

"Can it wait? I've kinda got a shop to run." Naylaz pointed out.

The clones shifted uncomfortably, the biggest one looked like he was in pain.

"We don't have much time." Blue & White said.

"If you have an emergency, why didn't you go to the hospital?" Naylaz asked.

"We don't exactly trust that." He said.

"Don't trust anything your bosses don't run?" Naylaz joked.

It fell flat on all but the girl. The clones looked nervous at her comment.

"You are clones, right?" She guessed.

Evidently, the clones didn't know how to act in a situation like this. Naylaz thought of a few people who would find it funny.

"If it's not an emergency, there's medical supplies and first aid in the back, Úlfr isn't here so you'll have to check everything yourself." She told them, gesturing towards the pharmacy area.

"Oh, and the establishment and it's employees are not liable for any ill effects as a result of customers not listening to our instructions on what to use." She added.

The clones still didn't move. Naylaz suppressed a sigh, customers would start complaining soon.

"I really need you to move along, a line's forming." Naylaz said politely.

"We need to talk about something very important, discreetly." Blue & White said carefully.

"This is a market front shop, it's not discreet, you want to whisper secrets, go to the bakery on the edge of town, the one with the tree that's always in bloom, wonderful place and you can talk about anything there." She advised.

"We were told to talk to you." He said.

He got an elbow from the short clone, it must've been a very sensitive topic. Naylaz leaned forward, her interest piqued.

"By who?" She asked.

The clones hesitated. Naylaz frowned and grabbed her basket.

"If you aren't going to explain yourselves, I can't help you. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a shop to run." She said, turning away from the clones towards the inventory.

"Cid sent us."

It was barely a whisper, Naylaz's frown deepened. Contact with Cid had always been spotty, Cid wasn't as entirely trustworthy, but she'd come through when needed. Now why would she send clones my way? And with a kid? She turned back around, holding the basket on her hip.

"In back, don't touch anything." She ordered.

She opened the gate to the employees only area and let them through, giving the little Loth a friendly smile as she walked by.

"Kiwi! I need you to cover the check out! I've gotta deal with something!" She shouted.

An audible groan came from her niece, but the girl dutifully made her way over. Naylaz left her basket and went to the back to speak with these clones.

All except for the youngling were standing awkwardly in the back room. The girl was currently fascinated by the terrarium with a pair of hatchling dragon snakes coiled under the light.

Naylaz dropped the storefront formality and got straight to the point.

"Spill it, what's Cid want? She need to be bailed out or did her arms get ripped off by a Wookiee again?" She asked.

"That's happened before?" One asked.

"Yeah, happens all the time, now hurry up and say it. I can't leave Kiwi at the checkout for too long." She said.

"Is this room secure?" Shorty asked.

"Yep, no Empire on the planet anyway." Naylaz answered.

The clones looked uncomfortable, perhaps they didn't actually want to tell her what was up.

"Cid told us you knew someone who could help a very unique situation. Someone with unique skills." Blue & White said quietly.

"I know lots of people, wanna narrow that down?" She suggested.

"Jedi. We are here to talk about Jedi." The tall, lanky clone said, getting straight to the point.

"Why would clones need a Jedi?" She asked, immediately skeptical.

"We have a problem and need a Jedi to help fix it, and Cid said they could help our pup over there." Shorty said.

To her, it was very clear who Cid wanted them to find, and the little pup needing help would give them some degree of security. Naylaz didn't entirely trust them.

"Why would there be a Jedi around these parts? Sure it's remote but too obvious to hide in." She paused, dark thoughts flushing her head, "Besides, didn't you kill them all?"

Apparently, that comment struck a nerve. The lanky one straight up growled at her, she growled and snarled right back.

"Don't threaten me in my territory." She warned.

It was intensely disrespectful, to be allowed into her territory and then to threaten her, especially for such a young Loth.

Blue and White one stepped up, again. He was the oldest, so he was the leader even if he wasn't fully part of this particular pack, at least until an older Loth joined them or the pup came of age.

"Your packmate needs to learn respect." She snarled.

The aforementioned Loth sneered at her, his leader put up a hand and Shorty shot him a glare.

"Yes, he does. I'm sorry about that, they don't have much experience with these situations." He apologized uneasily.

"I can tell." Naylaz snipped.

All of these clones acted like they owned any planet they set foot on. Part of that may have been due to their upbringing and lack of proper influence from other Loths, but they were so damn disrespectful and they were pups. They might look full grown but any Loth with a functioning nose could tell how old they really were.

"You lot are terrible at this." She snapped.

Apparently, this ticked off the lanky one, again. He was easy to piss off.

"We don't need your to correct our manners-"

"What manners?" She cut him off.

"Just tell us where to find the damn Jedi!" He snarled.

He just barely shifted, just a change in his face, his muzzle growing and fangs, and maybe it was just heightened emotions, but it was still a threat.

Naylaz growled and shifted, now towering above the humans. She snarled and puffed up her fur. They wouldn't get away with threatening her on her territory.

"Whoa, ma'am calm down, he didn't mean it." Scomp said, urgently trying to diffuse the situation.

"Do not order me around." She hissed.

The goggled clone elbowed his intensely disrespectful brother and stepped forwards.

"I'm so sorry about him, we really do not mean you any disrespect." He said.

Naylaz glared at the offending clone, but forced her body to relax. She didn't shift back, no, she was still determined to remind them that they were in her territory.

"Who are you really looking for? Cause I am certain there are no Jedi on Cxylor." She asked with a soft growl.

"We're looking for someone called 'Blue', Cid says you know her." Shorty said.

Naylaz examined the clones again, looking for any hint of their true intentions. Her gaze was drawn towards the small pup, she had taken one of the dragon snakes out and was playing with it. Anxiety, nervousness, fear and hate all underlined her fairly typical, although somewhat odd, pup scent. Naylaz watched the girl and her mannerisms for a few minutes, until it all clicked together.

"What's wrong with your pup?" She prompted.

The clones bristled slightly at the mention of their youngest, but wisely didn't repeat the same mistake. Shorty glanced at the oblivious pup with a guilty expression.

"We uh, we don't know." He admitted reluctantly.

Naylaz stared at him in disbelief, he didn't know? It was clear as day that something was seriously messing with the poor pup. She felt a touch of anger at the clones.

"You adopted that pup with no idea of how to care for her? Who let you become parents?!" She barked.

The pup yelped at her sudden outburst and whimpered, ducking under a table. Naylaz recognized it as a frightened baby sound, and expected the clones to have been growling and snarling at her for scaring their pup, but they weren't. It almost seemed like they didn't register the sound as the cry for help it was, or they didn't know how to respond, just casting guilty looks in her direction.

Seeing as the pup was still hiding and the clones still clueless, Naylaz took matters into her own hands. She pushed past the useless clones and knelt down to the terrified pup. She gave the girl a gentle nudge with her snout.

"Are you alright sweety?" She asked, softly purring to let the pup know she was safe.

Terrified brown eyes stared at her from the relative darkness, she saw a tuft of blond fur poking out from under the pup's oversized cape, and her snout. The girl was looking back and forth between her pack and Naylaz frantically.

Naylaz took the hint and positioned her body and tail to conceal the pup from prying eyes. She could see what the pup was so desperately trying to hide now.

All along her back were thin red scratch marks, her skin was red and irritated underneath the pulled out fur. Naylaz checked over the rest of her body for any more scratches, her legs also had those same marks.

She looked back to the pup and instantly felt so much worse for the poor girl, she was shaking so much. Naylaz cooed sympathetically, it was a gentle, comforting sound that got the pup to relax a bit.

I understand why Cid sent them here now. She thought.

She briefly wondered what had caused this pup to feel the need to tear her own fur out before her thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected intrusion.

"Auntie Nal, is someone hurt back here?" Caoimhe, her niece.

"Whoa, where are you guys from?!" She heard Caoimhe's tail thumping around excitedly.

Naylaz glanced over at her niece, the young wolf was eagerly sniffing the clones and making them very uncomfortable. While it was amusing to see hardened soldiers lurch away from a child like she was going to kill them, it wasn't necessary.

"Kiwi, can you go back to the register? I'm dealing with something." She said, giving the pup a gentle nudge with her tail.

Caoimhe didn't move, her bi colored eyes were fixed on something behind Naylaz. Before Naylaz could stop her, her niece had already approached the other pup. The pup in question was not thrilled to be spotted, she growled softly at Caoimhe.

"Are you okay? What happened to your back? How did you get hurt?!" Caoimhe asked, genuinely concerned for the other pup's safety.

Internally, Naylaz cursed herself for not getting Caoimhe out of there fast enough, her niece was kind and incredibly sympathetic, but she couldn't read a room to save her life and often said things that should have stayed quiet, she never meant to cause any harm. So despite her good intentions, the room stilled at her words.

"Hurt? You're hurt?!" Shorty exclaimed.

The rest of the pack had similar responses, but only two of them, Blue and White and Scomp, had the sense to step the fuck back and give more space.

In his shock, Shorty shifted back, the pup curled in on herself, tail pulled close to her body. The other two got too close as well. Naylaz shouldered the Loths aside to keep them from crowding the stressed pup.

"Back off, you'll only frighten her." She warned.

The stubborn clone growled at her and tried to shove past her. Naylaz gave him a low warning growl. Fights weren't good for pups to witness, she really wanted this to de-escalate quickly.

"Stand. Down." She growled.

Caoimhe suddenly yelped in pain, Naylaz whirled around to see the pup had bitten her niece's tail and had her pinned. She instantly recognized the wide eyed panic of the blond pup and knew it was a panicked fight or flight response.

"Omega!" Shorty snarled.

Instantly the pup let go and gave her packmate a terrified stare. She frantically looked around the room, sides expanding and contracting with her rapid, shallow breaths.

"Omega…" Naylaz said softly.

The pup howled at her and bolted out the exit.

Naylaz sadly watched her run away, her pack clueless on what to do but follow their pup. Blue and white stayed behind, he wasn't really one of their pack, so it made enough sense. Naylaz turned her attention to her own pup.

Caoimhe was staring after the other Loths, her tail had small spots of blood welling up. She looked at Naylaz with guilt and confusion.

"Did… did I do something wrong again…?"

XXX

The Loth-wolf clung to the shadows as she climbed up the docking bay's walls. The ship that had snared her interest had already been investigated by any curious pups in the area, her scent would be easily hidden under all the intertwining aromas of the village. Not that she planned on getting close enough to leave her scent on anything.

She glanced around quickly, checking for the ship's owners, before approaching the edge of the docking bay. A quick sniff told her the owners were gone, she'd have to wait.

Fortunately, she didn't have to wait long.

A pup reeking with the stench of fear and shame and blood bolted from the bay entrance to the ship, quickly disappearing within. She heard a door slam shut inside.

Soon after, other Loths came, adults. The pup's parents. She assumed. They were too focused on their pup to notice her, and she easily slipped out of sight, but not out of ear shot. These had been the Loths, the pup specifically, that had intrigued her, she wanted to get a feel for the adults, she already had a good idea of how the pup was.

"She's locked herself in the fresher, she won't come out." One said.

She frowned at the troubling thought of whatever the pup could be doing in there, but forced herself to walk away. That pup had adults, a pack, to help her, while she had no one. Hard as it was sometimes, she had to prioritize herself over strangers.

So she stuck to the shadows and trotted out of town, to the edge of the forest near her friend's territory. She might as well observe this pack while they were here, and it wouldn't hurt to see some friends.

She settled down in a nice, soft patch of grass and waited for nightfall.

Right on time, at dusk, her friend and their pack made it to the border. 

The Spælf pack was disheartened and upset. She caught a faint whiff of blood, mixed with guilt, from the youngest. That was certainly something she could bud into.

She rose from her resting spot and stretched her back.

"Hello there."

Four pairs of eyes landed on her, and five tails began wagging excitedly.

________________________________________________________________________________

Mega go CHOMP!

I like to traumatize Omega in case you haven't noticed yet. I feel bad for doing it cause I don wanna see the lil baby hurt, but I do it anyway cause it's also stupid fun.

Spælves tend to have really big families, this is amped up for the Loth Spælves with the higher chance of multiples in one pregnancy, so family, kin and community are very important to them. Another fun thing about them is when they have a kid with all parents eye colors in their eyes is when they stop having kids(they don't have too many either way), since they've had a perfect mix. Caoimhe is one of those kids, hetero chromia is the only thing hetero about her. Hetero chromia is also fairly common in Spælves, roughly 20% of them have it.

I didn't get to this but Spælves are generally red orange to yellow in skin color with splotches of cooler colors, Naylaz is orange with blue splotches, Caoimhe has purple.

Naylaz is also aro ace.

Happy pride month 🌈!

I hope you all have a good day, whatever that is for you!

VJS Out!

[05emerald05]

Here's my (previously makeshift bel) OC Dawnna (She/They or They/She). Her other alias is Bella Dawnna. She's a fallen angel who resides in Sloth, working as an IT for Belphegor's Pharmacy, mainly as tech support for the drug haulers. While she's not at her job, she likes doing a lot of flashy looks and does drag. :3 The left is her regular look w/o makeup, the right is one of her doing a Belphegor-inspired look (based on the official design reveal).

[hellfireclubmember3]

I'm having so much fun writing my bad batch fic. Please consider following me along on this journey. For the full story, head to my wattpad page.

On The Run

Chapter 4

The Marauder landed at the refueling station, a bleak looking depot that seemed to have had better days. We disembarked and gathered together as Hunter gave orders, “Tech, Echo, you two see to the ship. Y/N and I will try to find some rations and other supplies.” He looked at Wrecker and Omega. “You two… just try to stay out of trouble.”

“Can do, boss.” Wrecker said confidently, but was met with doubtful looks from the others. 

“We’ll be fine.” Omega assured. And with that, the group went their separate ways.

Omega and Wrecker, bound and determined to not cause any issues, headed back into the Marauder to find a way to occupy their time. Meanwhile, Tech and Echo went to work on the ship.

“Sure does feel good to get off the ship, it’s feeling a bit crowded these days.” Echo voiced while stretching his limbs. 

Tech nodded, “The habitable area on the ship does seem to be insufficient. But we’ll manage, just like we always do.”

Although Hunter and I were walking away from the ship, I overheard Tech and Echo’s conversation. I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I was using up their already limited resources and was putting them in danger just by being in the same area as them. It didn’t feel right, but the Bad Batch seemed to have their mind made up. It would be rude to leave them now. 

Hunter and I stopped at a few small vendors who had set up shop nearby the refueling station. All of them seeming to just be getting by. There was a dismal assortment of goods to choose from, but enough for our needs. We stocked up on rations and purchased some more first aid materials just in case. I did insist upon using my credits, what little remained, to pay for the supplies as I didn’t want to add anymore burden to them because of my added presence. 

“Thanks for that.” Hunter said in appreciation when I handed my credits to the vendor.

“It’s no problem, truly.” I insisted, stepping away from the makeshift shop. “It’s the least I can do after inconveniencing you all like this.”

Hunter stopped abruptly. “You’re not inconveniencing us. We want to help you. Why do you not see that?”

The informality of his words was surprising. I was used to clones always addressing me as their General. I had grown close to the clones that I led during the war, but even then, we made sure to maintain a certain level of formality. I supposed things were different now though. 

“I- I’m sorry.” I muttered, clearly caught off guard.

Hunter moved to face me. “You don’t need to apologize. Just recognize that we do genuinely want to help. We can only imagine the things that you have been through in recent times.”

I nodded my head, acknowledging his words, and we began our walk back to the Marauder. “The past year has been very challenging…” I admitted. Hunter didn’t respond, a silent offer to continue if I wanted to. I obliged, as a small weight began to lift off my shoulders even after my brief moment of vulnerability. “When Order 66 happened, it sent my life into a whirling chaos.”

I found myself starting to recount my whole story of that fateful day, unable to stop the words from flowing out of my mouth. “My squad and I were on our way back to Coruscant from a covert mission. It was a smaller group, due to the nature of the mission, but still formidable. I sensed a disturbance in the force like none I had ever felt before, and then my Captain was moving into my room, blaster drawn. I tried to ask him what was going on, but all he could manage to say was, ‘Good soldiers follow orders’. The next moments are a blur. I managed to take control over the ship, subduing the clones who were once my loyal soldiers. I picked up a transmission urging all Jedi to return to the temple, but as I approached the planet, the transmission changed. This time it was General Kenobi’s voice commanding all Jedi to stay away, it wasn’t safe anymore.” 

I took a moment to breathe deeply, letting the feelings from the day wash over me before I continued. Hunter was intently listening and watching the entire time. “Before I could change coordinates, Coruscant in view, troopers in their ships were firing on me. They must have picked up my ship’s signature and knew that I was on board. As quickly as I could, I jumped into hyperspace and abandoned my ship at the earliest possible chance. It was all so confusing to me, but I’ve been able to piece together what happened since based on things I’ve heard while on the run. I haven’t stayed in one place too long since… ”

Hunter was quiet for a while, processing everything that I said. “I’m so sorry, General.” He said solemnly. 

My heart ached at his words. It ached for the comfort and familiarity of the past. It ached for the friends who had lost their lives. It ached for simpler times. 

Growing up in the Jedi temple, I had always been taught to control my negative emotions. To not let them overtake me. But that has become harder and harder as of late. With all the tragedy in my life, it is getting harder to wholeheartedly stick to the Jedi code. 

I took a deep breath, “Thank you, Hunter, for listening. I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.”

Hunter gave me a kind smile, “Happy to help.” His face then turned more serious, “I’m not surprised there’s a bounty on you though. With how you escaped, the Empire knows that you’re still alive.”

“Yes…” Was all I could manage to say. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.” He assured me.

As we approached the Marauder, we could hear yelling coming from inside the ship. Immediately, Hunter and I jumped into action, ready to face whatever was happening on board. However, to our pleasant surprise, the ruckus was simply Omega and Wrecker wrapping up a heated game of holochess. 

The two of us let out a sigh of relief. “At least they didn’t get into trouble.” Hunter said with the slightest bit of laughter. 

It was a much needed reminder that there are still good things in the galaxy. Innocent things. Things worth fighting for.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Zenitsu with a shark demon s/o (like they have fin ears and a shark tail and sharp teeth) with a habit of biting literally everything

This ask kinda reminded me of the shark demons from helluva boss!

Zenitsu x shark demon Reader

★ This boy was legitimately scared of you, and for good reason. You have a jaw full of spikey teeth, rough skin and a predatory look in your eyes. Anyone you met would try to kill you on sight. But he didn't (probably because he was paralyzed by fear)

★ You mostly say around ocean towns and hunt fish during the night. Like real-life sharks you are often feared, but ultimately harmless.

★ Fun fact, the salt in salt water makes the water molecules pull the sodium and chlorine ions apart, increasing the conductivity. Basically giving him the ability to make salt water electric with his attack. But this doesn't happen with fresh water.

★ He wants to get you something hard for you to gnaw on. You can grow back teeth really quickly, so he's not to worried about that. What he is worried about is you getting into trouble over chewing up people's things.

★ The closest thing he can find is a makeshift chew toy fashioned out of a carved horse bone, and then turned into a necklace. And you know what? It actually gets the job done while managing to look pretty!

★ He might try and teach you some self defense moves that he learned from Shinobu, in exchange you tech him how to swim.

[niffala]

Love Me Again

Pairing: Jake Jensen / Plus-size OFC (Maisie)

Summary: Jake’s back, but the Loser’s sixth member is still M.I.A.

Warnings: fluff, angst, feels, bad attempt at humor, guns, killings, mention of memory loss, post breakup, enemies to lovers

A/N: This is a sequel to You Loved Me Once. Reader insert version found here. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated. 

You Loved Me Once    Main Masterlist     

Clay’s unit awaited him in a motel parking lot in Adelaide. He secured their post mission rooms and returned keys in hand. "Okay, I got good news and bad news... We can all look forward to hot showers, clean sheets, and a complimentary breakfast. However, there were only three rooms available, so we will have to share.”

The responding groans of protest were expected. “Would you prefer to sleep on the ground for another night? No? So shut your pieholes.” Clay pocketed one of the keycards and set the remaining on the vehicle in front of him. “Aisha will be sharing with me. One room has a king, the other two double beds. Work it out amongst yourselves.”

Wordlessly, Jensen, Cougar and Pooch launched into a game of rock paper scissors. It had been weeks of travel, tents and living on top of one another. The victor cheered, scooping up the keycard to the private room.

“No! Come on, best two out of three.” When his friend shook his head, Jensen changed tactics, “I’ll give you that bitching crossbow I got last op if you switch with me… my watch… a hundred bucks. I’ll even throw in a foot massager, top of the line.”

“No way man. I need a night to myself. The Pooch has earned this.”

Jensen hung his head, accepting defeat. Bunking with his bestie wasn’t so bad, at least there were separate beds. Sharing one with Cougar wasn’t fun, the man was a cover hog. Jake was still grateful Clay reinstated him eight months ago. His teammates were ambivalent about him at first, but eventually everything returned to normal. Well, almost everything.

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

The Loser’s current operation led them to South Australia. They’d been hired by a distraught (and wealthy) father as part of a rescue team. He hadn’t seen nor heard from his daughter, Isla, in two years. She had been kidnapped by an illegal arms dealer who forced her into marriage. All prior attempts to get her back had failed. No amount of negotiation, payment, threats or pleading could sway the nefarious man to return her.

A rendezvous with the rest of the group at their makeshift campsite, plus a thirty minute drive east put the Humvees at the perimeter of the target’s estate. “Alright, you all know the drill,” Clay barked into the comms. “We get our asses in there, extricate the woman, send her back to her daddy, and take down anyone that stands in our way.”

Meanwhile their tech genius had already hacked into the system to disable the security and jam communications. Once the cameras powered down, Pooch floored it, ramming through the gate, the other two vehicles followed close behind.

“Eww... This guy’s got raptors picking at a bunch of bones and sinew on his property, always a good sign. You’d think he'd want to be more inconspicuous.”

Pooch’s face scrunched up at the image, “Pretty sure that's just a dead animal.”

Jake shook his head, pursing his lips in mock disapproval. “There's a lot of places to bury a body in a vineyard, all I’m saying. Keep the place tidy.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Aisha deadpanned.

“What do you call that… carrion, right?”

Clay grumbled from the front, “I'm close to calling it Jensen.”

“Yes, sir. I hear ya loud and clear. Shutting up…” he paused for dramatic effect, “now!”

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

“This whole goddamn thing’s going tits-up!” Clay had thought his team was prepared, ready to engage the moment they entered the property, but the intel their employer provided was crap. The location was more heavily armed than believed. His unit was at a disadvantage despite the extra help. Outmanned and outgunned, a few men were down and one lost within the first ten minutes.

“Well look at the bright side, we're outside enjoying some fresh...” Jensen’s quip went unfinished as he dove for cover. Incoming drones zoomed through the air spraying bullets. They must have been linked to an independent off sight system because the primary and secondary security had been obliterated. 

Jake focused the scope of his rifle, aiming at the nearest flying pest. “Here birdie birdie…” ‘Wait. That - that’s.’ Still in disbelief, he shouted, “Guys! Guys, that's one of Maisie’s drones!”

Pooch was skeptical, “How can you be sure?”

“Cause they’re like my step kids. Franny, Freddy, Felix, Frank and Foxy. It’s been painted, but that's Frank,” he insisted before taking off, sprinting toward the assailing device.

Clay eyes widened at the other man’s actions, “Jensen, you realize it's shooting at us! Stand down!” Seeing his order ignored, he screamed at the rest of his group, “Cover his dumb ass.”

Disregarding his boss, Cougar pulled out his cellphone and spoke in hushed tones to the person on the other end.

Aisha grit her teeth at her teammate while continuing to fire at their opponents. “That idiot lost his mind, now our sniper decides to make a phone call mid battle. Are you ordering a pizza?”

“Don't forget the breadsticks,” Pooch chimed in. Laughing at the increasing absurdity of the situation.

Jake removed his helmet and dropped his weapon. Frantically jumping and waving his arms, repeatedly calling out ‘Angel.’ A drone moved in and shot at his feet, before slightly pulling back, continuing to hover above him.

“Understood. Our apologies. Copy that.” Cougar hung up and waited.

The remaining drones collected above Jensen’s head. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. However the moment he dreaded never came. The devices turned and began taking out the guards with quick precision. When only Clay’s men remained, they flew off. 

Sticking to the plan, the team continued to the manor. Wary of a possible ambush awaiting beyond the front door, in lieu of breaking it down, Clay instructed Jensen and Cougar to go through the nearest second floor windows, clear the immediate area and let them in.

Cougar nodded, but walked right through the unlocked door instead. To everyone’s shock but his, it was clear. Raising his chin toward the staircase, he proceeded up them.

“Okay, so we're just following him then?”

Clay shrugged, “Good enough for me.” He had the Losers head upstairs, leaving the rest of the group to keep watch at the entrance.

Cougar seemingly knew exactly where to go. Navigating the twists and turns of the large house with ease. Any lingering guards they came across were swiftly handled. Within the master bedroom’s closet, hidden behind sliding shelving they found a 16-point locking, bullet resistant, biometric fingerprint panic room door. 

Before Jensen could get his gear out to crack it, Cougar tapped the scanner, confirming it was off. He pulled the heavy door open, immediately shooting the two guards inside as if he was expecting them.

Jensen scratched his head. Not knowing what to make of it. “What is going on?... Are you a T-1000… What's my dog's name?”

Cougar just looked at him and chuckled.

“You laugh, but I'm legitimately concerned.”

Clay took point, announcing his entrance into the room, “Honey, I'm home.”

The occupants sat on a couch, Isla held a crying baby in her arms, wincing from her husband's hand on her thigh, squeezing painfully tight. The baby’s presence gave everyone pause. No one was aware there would be a child involved. There has been one surprise after another today.

“You lost, asshole. Now let them go and come quietly.” Clay slung his rifle over his shoulder and moved toward them, attempting to calmly apprehend the man.

The target pulled out a gun, shoving it into Isla’s side. “Stay where you are.”

“Don't be like that. This doesn't have to get more ugly than it already is.”

Seething, the man turned the gun on Clay, who discharged his sidearm, firing two shots into the arms dealer’s chest before he could blink. The group hurriedly moved Isla and her baby out of the building into one of their vehicles. Assuring the frightened woman that she was safe and going back to her father.  Pooch voiced his concern over their lack of carseat.

“Then drive extra carefully.” Clay smiled at the rescuees, “Let's get you both home.”

Riding in the second Humvee, Jake stared down a silent Cougar. He offered no explanation as to why Maisie's drones were on the property or who he had called, but it was pretty easy to connect the dots.

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

Hours later, Isla and her daughter were safely on their way home. At Cougar’s request, and after a stop at the motel for much needed showers, the team waited at a bar in the city. Leaving one chair empty, correctly guessing who they should be expecting.

Jake was a bundle of nerves. The hand gripping his empty glass started to cramp as he watched the door. He wondered if they had Boys II Men on the jukebox to help set the mood. ‘Would that be too presumptuous? She probably moved on by now. Has a new special someone in her life. Somebody else loving her, touching her, making her laugh.’ He wouldn’t blame her. His amnesia may have been temporary, but the damage he caused wasn't.

“You stare at that door any harder and it will burst into flames.” Aisha refilled her teammates' glass, encouraging him to relax and breathe.

“She'll be here soon, won't she? She's still coming, right?”

Maisie took a deep breath before entering the tavern. Her former teammates were easy to spot. Cougar gave her his number when she quit, asking her to keep in touch. It took a few months before she found the strength to do so. Even after learning of her exs' recovery, she couldn't bring herself to return yet. She wanted her Jakey back, but was scared of his rejection. Plus she was on assignment, the timing was off. The weight of this reunion wasn’t lost on her. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you losers walk into mine.”

“Well that's unfair, you walked in after us.” Grinning ear to ear, Clay pulled her into a tight hug. “Missed ya, Maise.”

“I had a few things to handle before getting here. So you beat me, but I've been dying to say it." She squeezed Clay tight before facing the rest. "I missed you all too. Sorry about earlier, I didn’t recognize you guys in all that fancy schmancy gear.”

Jake felt unsteady the moment she walked in, his blood roared in his ears. It was really her, his Angel, more gorgeous than ever. He watched her warm greeting with Clay, swallowing a lump in his throat. She was wearing the jacket he bought her. He hoped that was a good sign.

The group stood to welcome and embrace their former member. Jake waited through the exchange of pleasantries for his turn. Longing to throw his arms around his Angel and hold her close. It had been nearly a year since he’d done so. Ten months, three days and seventeen hours since he kissed her goodbye to go on that ill fated mission.

However, he noticed Maisie’s smile falter when their eyes met. Abandoning his desired hug, he forced a smile, awkwardly waved and sat back down.

“Hey Jake.” She crossed her arms, suddenly feeling self-conscious in front of her old love.

As everyone took their seats, Jensen glanced at the entrance then back at his Angel. “So are we um… waiting for anybody else?”

“Like who?”

“No-nobody. Nobody. Just wanted to make sure there was room for everybody. Everybody together again. It’s good to be together.” Jake took a long sip of his beer. His brain screamed with the knowledge that there was no boyfriend in the picture.

Maisie filled them in on her whereabouts since her departure. She’d gotten a job as private security for some rich asshole’s wife. Mostly involved keeping her in and others out. The winery was lovely, but the running of guns and heavier artillery, and the dabbling in human trafficking ruined the ambience. Of course, she knew he was dirty when she accepted the position, so Maisie did all she could to throw wrenches into his operations without being detected. Quietly dispersed his ill gotten gains into several hidden bank accounts, the biggest for Isla. She was helping the wife and baby prepare for a safe and covert escape. Simultaneously gathering evidence against the husband and his associates.

“It was all set to go down in a few days, and you guys just broke in and killed him. All that planning and hard work for nothing.” Maisie shoved Clay’s shoulder.

“Yeah, well it was the quickest way. Can’t argue that.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let months of work go to complete waste. So I allowed you guys to be the heroes while I tied up some loose ends. That’s why I was late. Had to reroute the latest shipments, funnel the rest of the money to charities, victims and of course, a nice sum for myself. Scrubbed the camera footage and removed any evidence of us or Isla being there. Then I alerted the authorities to handle the rest. They’ll find all they need to take down the whole thing.” She took a deep breath, trilling her lips to exhale. “But I’m still mad at you about it.”

Aisha offered compensation, “I don’t think anyone here will object if you want in on the pallet of wine we rescued."

“Bold of you to assume I didn't take my own,” Maisie laughed.

After a few rounds, the Losers felt they were sufficiently caught up on each others lives. Pooch and Cougar announced they were going to play stripes and solids, inviting Aisha and Clay as their opponents. It was obvious that was an excuse to leave the ex-lovers alone.

Jake wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity. Putting on his most charming smile, he slid over next to Maisie. “G’day mate, fancy meeting you down unda. Maybe I can show you my down unda lata. I promise I'm koala-fied.” He tittered at his themed pickup line, but she didn't react. He desperately wanted to make her laugh. If she laughed, he knew things would be okay.

Trying to shake off the nervousness, he cleared his throat and continued his attempted seduction. “I like your jacket, where’d you get it?” He couldn’t backpedal fast enough seeing the alarmed look on her face. “Joke, really bad joke. Oh my god, I'm sorry. That was… Fuck,” he grimaced.

Maisie remained stiff and unsure. Wanting to give in to his flirting, but waiting for the other shoe to drop. The defeated look on Jake’s face broke her heart, so she attempted to bridge the divide with a safe topic, “How are Stephanie and Hannah?”

“They're good, they're good, um,” he scratched the back of neck, unsure how to proceed. His sister, having seen him at plenty of his worsts, forgave him instantly. His niece took a little bribery, but they were back to their usual shenanigans. “So, uh thanks for clearing the way for us back there, you know, after you shot at me.”

Her mouth dropped open, “Excuse me, I shot near you.”

“Tomato-tomahto.”

Cougar gestured with his eyes over to Jensen and Maisie, knowing he was striking out. Pooch got the hint. He called the man over and handed him his room key. Demanding he take it before he changed his mind. Jake practically ran back to the table to ask Maisie to his room to talk in private. He was amazed she agreed.

Aisha’s lips pursed watching the pair leave. “If he doesn't blow this, we'll have to put up with them being nauseatingly cute with each other again.”

“You don't want them to make up?” Clay rested his hands on her waist.

“I do,” she huffed. “Look, I don't know if I believe in that true love, princess bride, bullshit. But they are the closest I've ever seen to it... They belong together.”

“Agreed.”

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

The entire car ride to the motel passed in uncomfortable silence. Both anxious and unsure about the outcome of this night. Each stealing glances at the other. Jake noticed how hard her hand clenched around the steering wheel. Maisie caught sight of each time his hand reached for the radio before pulling away without turning it on.

Jake felt butterflies in his stomach as they pulled in the lot. Painful butterflies… Vampire butterflies. He drummed on his legs before hopping out of the vehicle. Maisie was quick to follow. They walked to the room without a word shared. Jake kept looking over his shoulder to make sure she was still with him. He swiped the keycard several times without success. The red light and negative beep mocking him. The twisting in his belly intensified. ‘Yep definitely vampire butterflies.’

Finally, the door flashed green and unlocked. He sauntered in, pretending to be calmer than he really was. Turning on the old Jensen charm, he bowed and waved his hand over the large bed. “Have a seat, m'lady. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but I hope it will be to your liking.”

“It's a nice room. We've stayed in much worse.” She spotted the bobblehead chihuahua on the nightstand, smiling coyly as she sat down. “So this is Pooch’s room?”

“Nah, it's mine. At least now it is.” He plopped down beside Maisie. “Sooo, how’ve ya been?”

“Good, until earlier today when I lost my job and residence cause some assholes charged in guns blazing.” Maisie sighed dramatically, “At least I can take solace in knowing Isla and her daughter are home safe. What about you?”

“I - I’m okay… most days. Um, so what's next for you? Seeing as how your life's been upended by a bunch of inconsiderate assholes.”

Maisie hummed, thinking of a response. “Well, I’ll have a lot of time on my hands, plus a bunch of money. So I'll probably make a few brothers and sisters for the F-team. Maybe one with a flamethrower.”

He turned to her with a lopsided grin. “That would be badass, like its maker.”

Maisie’s heart fluttered. He looked at her with such adoration, like she held all life's answers.  That, that was her Jakey.

“Looks like the possibilities are endless now that you're homeless and unemployed.” Jake’s eyes squeezed shut, cringing. Not meaning to sound so callous.

She snorted, “I'm sure I'll be fine. I always land on my feet.”

Jake breathed a sigh of relief that she found humor in the situation. “Definitely, definitely… But if you're interested, I know of a job opening. Fast paced, high stakes, danger… romance,” he whispered the last word, blushing. “It’s with a great bunch called the Losers. I could put in a good word for you. In fact, I'm sure the two of us could strong-arm the boss to agree to any demands we want.”

“I'd have to move back to the states.”

“If you need a place to stay, your key still works… I um, kept the house. After you quit, I kinda skipped town. Woke up in Ohio about a month later. At first I completely panicked cause I didn't know where you were or where I was. Then it hit me that I REALLY didn't know where you were… and it was all my fault,” his voice cracked, on the verge of crying.

Her head lowered, unable to hold back her own tears. ‘If I had only waited longer.’ “You must be so disappointed in me for not sticking it out when you weren't yourself. I tried, I swear I did, but it was too much. I should have been stronger and held on until you were you again. I’m so sorry, Jakey.”

“No, Angel no.” he wiped Maisie’s cheeks with his thumb. “There's nothing to forgive. You didn’t abandon me, I drove you away. I don't blame you at all. Hell, I deserved it. I was a total asshole.” Jake took a deep breath, “I was so angry… I was in pain, confused. I felt trapped with no room to breathe. Was sick of everybody telling me things I was supposed to already know. Telling me over and over to relax and let myself recover when I couldn't calm down to save my life. I kept fighting with my sister, was short with my niece, rude and snapped at everyone… And you got the worst of it… When I saw you, there was something there in the back of my mind, just out of reach. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew your presence made my headache worse. So I aimed my frustration at you and chased you off. I can't say how sorry I am.”

Maisie gently touched Jake’s head, running her fingers through his hair and rubbing small circles with her fingers. The urge to comfort him stronger than any apprehension she felt before.

Jake leaned into her touch, “It's all better now. I'm better… I wish this was a cartoon so you could've wacked me in the head again to reset my brain and stop all the bullshit I put everyone through.”

She pulled her hand away too soon. “I'm glad you're better… You really hurt me, Jake, but you have to know I already forgave you.”

His eyebrows shot up, “You have? That fast? Are you certain, I mean…"

“It took some time. Months to push through that pain, but I'd be the bigger jerk if I didn't take into consideration that it wasn't completely your fault. You literally had a doctor's note to prove it.” Maisie smiled at him, brushing away a few more escaped tears.

“So you don't hate me?”

“I could never hate you, Jakey. Do you hate me?”

“Impossible.”

“It's going to continue to sting for a while though.”

He nods in understanding. Jake got on his knees before her, taking her hands in his, his face more serious than she's ever seen him. “I need you to believe me when I say I have NEVER thought those horrible things about you. You didn't deserve any of the awful things I said and I swear I didn't mean them. You’re my perfect Angel and I love everything about you. Every curve, every line, each and every inch of beautiful skin because it’s yours. You are the most incredible person I ever met and I can't stand knowing that I made you feel otherwise for even a minute. Please say you believe me.”

“I do.”

Jake leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her lips. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have her back.

Maisie returned the brief kiss. This was a good start, but she was exhausted. “It’s been a long day. I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped out. Can we pretend, just for tonight, that we’re good? That everything is back to normal? We can work on us in the morning, and everyday after, but right now I just need you and unconsciousness.”

‘She wants to sleep here, in my bed, with me.’ Jake jumped up, enthusiastically agreeing. His pants down around his ankles in an instant.

Her face became heated at Jake’s sudden nudity. Maisie bit her lips, shyly telling him she was going to change in the bathroom.

Jake realized he was jumping the gun. He pulled up his batman boxers, removed his shoes and remaining clothing. He turned the toy dog around, just in case. “Sorry mini Pooch, no looky loos.”

Maisie walked out in panties and t-shirt, tugging it down in an attempt to hide more of herself as she skittered to the bed and got under the covers. Jake frowned, he needed to mend his Angel's heart, squash the insecurities he created. He scrambled up the bed, took his glasses off and sat them on the nightstand. Hesitating at the edge of the bed.

“You can come closer.”

He didn't need to be told twice, scooting over and joining her under the covers. He sat next to her, tentatively wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Intent on never leaving her side again. “Hey, tomorrow, do you want to check out this awesome mini golf course I found? Just the two of us.” The smile that adorned his face when she agreed fell. His voice lowered to a whisper, “I'm terrified of screwing this up.”

“So am I,” Maisie admitted, lacing her fingers with his.

Jake kissed the top of her head. “I don't think I ever told you.”

“Hmm?”

“The moment I knew this was it for me… Remember our first comic con together, we had that bet going on over how many people we could get to follow us doing the bunny hop around the convention center. I said five, you bet nine, and we ended up having thirty-five people in line behind us.” He chuckled at the memory. “We had Link, predator, three Spidermans, a wookiee in a bikini and just so many others. I was behind you, my hands on your hips having the time of my life. And there was a moment midjump, midlaugh, when you looked back at me, making sure I was having fun too, and I knew with absolute certainty that I was going to love you for the rest of my life. That you were the one for me and there'd never be anyone else. That hasn't changed.”

Maisie’s eyes watered, an unreadable expression on her face. Somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “I knew then too. Slowly throughout the day, then all at once in one defining moment. You were like a squirrel darting around, but you never lost me. You held my hand the whole time, squeezing it when you felt me get nervous. And when we parted for even a minute, you always found me. But the moment that sealed it was when we stopped for refreshments. I couldn't drink my water properly because of my costume and seeing my struggle, without a word, you slid behind the counter, grabbed a straw and placed it in my drink, holding it to my lips. It was something so small but so considerate. I've never had anyone be so sweet to me. I never had anyone look out for me like you did. I knew you were the one for me.”

Not trusting his voice, Jake kissed the hand he held.

“I love you, Jakey.”

His heart skipped a beat. “I love you, my Angel.” The reunited couple shared another kiss before lying down. Maisie snuggled into his chest and closed her eyes. Jake wrapped his arms around her. “Would it be wrong if I copped a feel right now?” 

She laughed, “I missed you so much.”

Jake blinked back tears. He thought he'd never hear that sound again. “I missed you more.”

A few peaceful minutes passed, her warm breath ghosting over his chest. He noticed she was trying to stay awake. Each time she began to drift, her eyes popped open to search for him. He rubbed her back to soothe her asleep. “I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere, Angel, I promise.” Jake made sure she was sleeping soundly, before he allowed himself to follow her into slumber. 

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

Heading to his original room to get his belongings, Pooch was halted by a hand on his shoulder. Cougar, refusing to let Jensen and Maisie be disturbed, turned his friend around and led him to their shared room.

Pooch glanced back with a frown, “I'll guess I’ll get it in the morning.”

Cougar nodded, smiled and patted his shoulder. Tomorrow was looking like a very good day. The Loser’s would be a full team once more and his best friend would have the love of his life back. He didn’t save his best man’s speech for nothing.

The End

A/N: A special thank you to everyone that has read this. I appreciate you all and I’d love to know your thoughts.

Sequel: Love Me Forever

[gojcsatoru]

Hello, there. Glad to see you write for jjk. I read some of your works. I really like it. Can I get a hc for Satoru, Yuuji and Megumi? Like their s/o taking care of their wounds after they come back from mission or just a normal practice. By the way thank you. Feel free to put my request aside. I don't want to burden you. Take care, stay safe, and have a nice day 💕 -🍰

HCS for WHEN HE GETS INJURED

tag(s): fluff, descriptions of injuries but nothing graphic!

GOJO SATORU

gojo’s a little pissed that he even got injured since he’s “the strongest”, but the cursed spirit he was fighting was seriously overpowered

anyway, since you’re around... well. he might as well make the most out of being injured, right?

he returns to jujutsu tech with a massive gash running down his arm

you instantly drag him to the infirmary and start disinfecting the wound yourself when you see ieri busy handling another sorcerer

“baby,” he whines, sitting on the cot. “it hurts.”

but he’s grinning

he’ll say things like: 

“i need something sweet to get me through this pain... c’mere. gimme a kiss”

“yeah that cursed spirit got me here but you should see the damage i did to him” (poor baby’s ego’s been bruised lmfao you better take care of that too)

one second he’s trying to play up the pain, the next he’s all “can’t even feel it” make up your mind oml

anyway gojo’s really touched by how seriously you’re taking care of his wound

it makes him fall even harder for you because you’re being so careful and loving and tender... he’s not really used to this treatment, being the strongest and all

(it’s nice being pampered by someone who loves you)

after ieri takes care of the rest–– and she has to because it’s like a two-foot long gash down his arm–– gojo wraps his good arm around you and takes you out for dessert

“thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “you’re the best.” and then because he just said something super sappy, he adds, “and i’m the strongest. we’re the perfect pair.” LOL

ITADORI YUUJI

you and itadori are on a mission when you’re ambushed by two grade-1 cursed spirits

you emerge relatively unscathed–– a few scratches and bruises here and there, but that’s the spirits were targeting itadori anyway

he’s worse for wear: he has deep cuts all over his body and you think you heard a bone break during the fight

“stop,” he grits out when you rush over and try to get him to sit down. he scans the area with wide eyes. “we’re not safe here. we have to keep moving.”

even while he’s injured he’s still prioritising your safety awww

and he’s stubborn as hell so you know it’s useless arguing against him. he bears the pain for another hour before you return to your makeshift headquarters at a hotel

by the time you’re in your room, his clothes are soaked in blood

“no,” he mutters, pushing your hand away. “i can do it myself.”

“let me, please.” you look at him with so much love and concern that he just lets you do it

you have cut his clothes off and wash all the dirt and grime off his body

itadori hisses as you disinfect the wounds and dress them

“does it hurt?” you ask, trying to be more gentle

“just a bit.”

you kiss every wound after bandaging it up, hoping it’ll bring a smile to his face

(it does)

and by the time you’re done splinting his broken arm, he's so tired that he's about to pass out

“i love you,” he sighs, falling back onto the mattress

“yuuji! careful,” you scold, rushing over to check if he messed up his bandages

but he just grabs you with his good arm and tugs you down onto the space beside him

“shhhhh,” he laughs softly. “can we just lie here?”

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI

when you find fushiguro nursing an ice pack around his head on the steps by the track, you know he’s been sparring with the second years

“did you get your ass handed to you by maki again?” you ask, taking the seat beside him

“shut up,” he huffs. “i didn't get it handed to me.” and it wasn’t just maki he was sparring. but he doesn’t tell you that :/

you bump his shoulder playfully, but he lets out a pained groan and his hand instantly goes to his stomach. it actually looks like he’s about to hurl

“megumi,” you say sternly, crouching down on the step below him so that you’re facing each other. “are you hurt there, too?” you point at his stomach

at first he denies it because he doesn’t want you thinking he’s weak 

but then you poke it lightly and he groans and folds over

“lift up your shirt,” you murmur

megumi does as you say, knowing he’s been caught. and then you see the massive, dark bruise over his abs. and then he moves his foot and you see that he actually has another ice pack behind his legs–– one that he was hiding

“why aren’t you icing that?” you ask

and that’s when you see the way his other hand, the one not icing his head, has been bandaged so that he literally cannot hold anything

“oh my god.”

“yeah.”

without a second thought, you grab the ice pack and place it to his abs. “you’re so stupid,” you laugh. “you could've just asked me to help out”

“i didn’t want to bother you,” fushiguro replies

you kiss his cheek and rest your head on his shoulder. “not possible. you’re never a bother to me.”

“thank you,” he whispers, feeling warmth spread all over his body from your words

and the two of you just sit on the stairs, icing his wounds until the ice has melted and the sun has begun to set

[an-anticlimactic-bass-drop]

Tall Part 2/?

Prompt: Tech is too tall for his own good. Constantly hitting his head on objects and desks as he works on projects. The other bad batchers make fun of him for this but you find it endearing.

Tech X Reader

Slow Burn/ Angst

Warnings: Mild 1.11 Spoilers, Deviates from canon

Word Count: 1.5K

Part 2/?

partly inspired by this gif 

(it won’t let me put it in but its the one of tech catching omega)

Omega nudges you awake from where you are napping in the pilot’s seat. The small girl’s blonde head peeks over the arm of the chair as she looks out the window. 

“Look!”

The sounds of explosions and blaster fire are erupting from the city center a few klicks away. You quickly lean forward and start firing up the takeoff controls for the Marauder. You are sure your boys are the ones behind the explosions and you smile gently as you imagine Wrecker’s gleeful expression as you see a cloud of smoke rise into the air in the distance.  They can’t be too far off if the nearing sounds of blaster fire are any indicators. Omega rushes to the landing ramp as Hunter’s voice crackles in through the comms. 

“Omega! Get ready to bring the senator aboard!” Hunter sounds a little winded and Wrecker cackles in the background as another explosion rocks the tunnel they were in. You remember the new security system Tech put in place and shake the last cobwebs of your nap out of your mind as you recall the specifications that he had told you about before leaving. Your hands fly across the panels as you disarm the system and lower the landing ramp. You head to the ramp as Omega jumps up and down waving at the men as they trek towards the ship. 

“Ladies! Meet the newest passenger of the Havoc Marauder, Senator Avi Singh.” Hunter introduced you to the senator and you looked him up and down. The senator doesn’t look like he’s all that happy to be leaving his planet in the hands of the Imperials. Singh is wringing his hands and has a look of worry on his face. 

“I should not leave my people. They need me here!” The senator says quietly. Echo leans in with a hand on the senator’s shoulder. 

“If you stay here you will be hunted down and murdered. It is better to live to fight another day than to die unnecessarily.” The clone looks almost defeated as he tells the senator this. Singh’s shoulders slump forward as he takes one last look around his planet before boarding the ship, nodding in agreement at Echo’s words. 

The trip back to Cid’s bar was uneventful to say the least. The senator and his droid are quietly sitting in the cargo hold. You offered him a cup of caf earlier but he graciously declined. The men are scattered around the ship as hyperspace speeds by. Echo and Hunter are attempting to sleep in the bunks while Wrecker and Omega are playing Saabac on the box that functions as a makeshift table. You just poured yourself a piping hot cup of the precious brown liquid that keeps you going through bouts of insomnia caused by the nightmares and the general lifestyle of the Bad Batch. Wandering up towards the cockpit, you aren’t expecting to trip over Tech’s long legs that are stretched out into the aisle. 

“Kriff!” Tech curses as your cup spills slightly onto the top of his blacks. He slides out from the wall he was buried in and starts looking around for a towel to wipe the hot caf off of his shirt. 

“Sorry! I didn’t see you there!” You frantically bend down to help him. You grab one of his grease rags from the toolbox you notice off to the side and dab at the stain on his shirt. 

“No worries. I will be fine.” Tech strips off his shirt and you swear you can feel the temperature of the air heat up several degrees as you realize just how close you are to the taller clone. “There. No harm done. Would you mind putting this in the laundry for me? I need to finish this last bit of wiring before heading back to check on the flightpath.” You flush as you tear your eyes away from the bare chest of the man in front of you. 

“Hm? Sorry! I’ll just get right on that.” You hurry away with the stained shirt and a blush on your face. You left your cup of caf on the floor near where Tech was working. He let out a small chuckle as he steals your drink. Not his fault if you left it in your hurry. 

The ship lands back at Cid’s bar without incident. The senator thanks you all graciously and departs into Cid’s office to discuss payment. Wrecker and Omega not so sneakily sneak off to get Mantell mix and Echo follows them at a distance to make sure they stay out of trouble. Tech goes to the bar to get a drink and you sit beside him to discuss the mission. You flush as you think about the previous night on the ship and you clench your jaw to avoid licking your lips at the thought of the bare chest of the taller clone next to you. You aren’t ashamed to say you dreamed of the expanse of skin and what it might taste like while you were in your bunk after that episode last night. 

“Am I boring you? I can stop if you would like.” Tech looks concerned as you zone back into reality and realize you have been watching him with a blank expression for a beat too long. You blink in surprise as you shake away the untamed thoughts that have been plaguing your mind. You really can’t be anymore obvious in your crush can you? At this point you might as well have a giant sign that follows you around that says “This person has a crush on the tall nerdy one!” 

“No!” You exclaim a little too loudly and get some irritated looks from the other patrons of the bar. “Sorry I'm just distracted today. The mission has me a little rattled. I am not used to being that deep into enemy space.” You say in a quieter tone.

“We are also not used to it. I always knew we would make it to Raxus someday however I never thought about it being to save the seperatist leader. Echo was most displeased about the idea and protested greatly. I tried to convince him that it was just a job and we need to pay off our debt to Cid but he does not see it this way.” Tech seems saddened at his brother’s inability to see the mission without the politics. You can see Echo’s point of view and point out to Tech that Echo’s trauma probably makes it hard for him to trust the separatists seeing as they had kidnapped and tortured him for 2 years before he was rescued. 

“The Techno Union treated him like a computer! An algorithm! Barely even human! I really don’t blame Echo for not trusting the separatists. He has barely recovered from the trauma of being in that machine for so long. He is still really pale and frail and you haven’t finished working on his new limbs yet so he still has the prosthetics they forced on him. Speaking of which, if you need help working on those I am always available. He has every reason to be upset about this mission.” 

You are fully involved in the discussion and don’t hear Echo and the others enter the bar as they make their way over to you and Tech. Echo catches the tail end of the conversation and tries to announce their presence with a small cough that turned into a hacking one that left Omega looking concerned. Her big round eyes are full of unspoken worry as she gazes up at him. Echo glances down at the young girl and forces a smile, patting her head. 

“I am fine little one. Don’t worry about me.” He says reassuringly.

Hunter leaves Cid’s office with her and the Senator. He comes over to where the group has gathered and steals Tech’s abandoned drink. He chugs the rest of it and gestures for the group to follow as he heads back to the ship.  Tech stands up and offers his hand to you to help you off of the bar stool. He has a habit of making sure none of the Bad Batchers fall over, a habit he has picked up from their upbringing on Kamino where the other 3 clones were not the best balanced due to their enhanced abilities. Your face flushes again as you become uncomfortably aware of how close you two have gotten during the conversation. He leans away from your touch as if he also hadn’t realized how close you two had gotten. Tech turns to follow Hunter out the door and has to stoop a little to avoid hitting the door frame, Echo cracking a quiet joke about not having to worry about hitting the top of door frames since he lost a few inches. Only Omega and you caught the joke and you give a chuckle as Omega just looks confused. 

“The legs you see? Lost a few inches? Oh well.” Echo gave up on explaining the joke to the kid and followed Wrecker out the door towards the ship. 

Once back on the ship Hunter announces that they have been given a few days off courtesy of Cid since the mission went so smoothly. The other bad batchers glance at each other, not sure of what to do with their new time off.  You were pretty sure they have never had free time in their entire life.

“We could visit Cut and Suu? See how they are settling in!” Suggests Omega. 

“Too dangerous for them. We attract too much attention. The last thing they need is to be recognized as republic sympathizers.” reasons Tech. 

“I think we deserve a few days of downtime! We can take a well deserved vacation and rest up before the next mission.” you say as you pour a cup of caf from the pot Tech started when you arrived back at the ship. “We can get some repairs done on the ship and maybe even explore the city! I know Omega has been dying to go to the museums in the city center since we got here and I'm sure you boys would enjoy it too.” 

Hunter thinks for a moment and nods in agreement. 

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Taglist: @haloangel391 @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s

[puff-yy]

Heyo! So as I was writing this I felt that it would be better just to send it as a submission. So here are my ideas for Class 78, minus the Despair Sisters, as Remnants of Despair.

Sayaka Maizono: Using her popularity and idol talent, she would bring in millions of followers with her siren like voice. Legions of fans would turn to despair as her new songs revolve around embracing the beauty of despair and tearing the old world apart. Sometimes she orders her followers to capture rival idol singers and force them to compete against her. The publicity of having her compete, defeat, and execute, the idols would bring upmost despair to any non-fans.

Leon Kuwata: He uses his baseball talent to attack enemies and topple buildings. He uses a specialized bat and explosive balls that can destroy anything on impact. Sometimes he partners with Sayaka on her tours and plays guitar alongside her. The guitar also comes equipped with a flame thrower that can burn people

Chihiro Fujisaki: Is in charge of manufacturing Monokuma drones and weapons for the Remnants. Thanks to Alter Ego, they can hijack the software systems o manufacturing buildings and weapon-themed facilities to use for the despair agenda. During the first stage of the Tragedy, Chihiro implemented virus software on a majority of the world’s government systems making it impossible for them to fight back against the Remnants. 

Mondo Oowda: Leads the Crazy Diamonds to destroy everything in their path. They pillage and plunder the largest of cities destroying using their weapons and bikes. Mondo’s bike was modified to use rocket launchers and gadgets capable of taking down foes on the road. Mondo also has a preference for fighting one on one with any rival gang leader or authority figure who stands in his way. His preferred weapons include a heavy chain and the stop sign from his splash art as a hammer.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru: A vigilante hero who hunts down politicians and public figures who claim to be noble/good-natured but have actually committed heinous deeds in their past. Ishimaru would hunt them down and interrogate them on their wrongdoings and force them to confess. All of this is done while recording them for the world to see how corrupt those figures really are. He also wields a katana and kills them using it.

Hifumi Yamada: Creates propaganda themed artwork and posters that celebrate the new era of despair. He and his Monokuma helpers go around plastering his artwork around to highlight the aesthetic of despair in the cities he visits. He rarely kills people but he does use his art supplies to fight back and is quite deadly when provoked.

Celestia Ludenberg: Organizes killing games where she kidnaps elite or wealthy people and forces them to participate. She uses games and traps similar to the ones from the Saw movies only with a casino theme to give it some showmanship flare. When she’s not holding those killing games, she’s residing in her makeshift mansion being attended by her brainwashed servants and treated like the queen she believes herself to be. She also goes all out with Victorian and Gothic dress designs 

Sakura Oogami: One of the main fighters in the frontlines. She enjoys the challenge and is always eager to fight back against Future Foundation or anyone who would be a threat to her beloved friends. She’s a strong as ever and isn’t afraid to hold back when it comes to delivering devastating blows. Some people say that she’s capable of destroying buildings if she’s really mad.

Yasuhiro Hagakure: A television preacher who proclaims the word of despair to the public. Using his visions of the future, he would preach about the upcoming horrors that await for them and how the only salvation is by embracing despair. He also gets help from Chihiro as the programmer granted him high tech TV screens that can broadcast his “visions” for the public to see. He’s gained alot of followers who give him all their worldly possessions. Money, gold, fancy cars, deeds to their property, even their own children. 

Aoi Asahina: She mainly goes around providing supplies to her fellow Remnants. Either by driving armored cars or going through aquatic systems, she delivers her packages to help her friends continue the despair agenda. She’s also an exceptional fighter and often accompanies Sakura when she fights enemy forces.

Touko Fukawa: She spends her days wandering the ruins of fallen cities to write about them. She now publishes despair inducing novels and retellings of the Despair Wars and how it’s impacted the world around them. She personally enjoys seeing victims and random civilians succumb to despair and tries very hard to copy those emotions for her writings. 

Genocider Syo: Now that Gloomy is part of a terrorist organization along with the world having gone to hell, she doesn’t have to worry about holding back anymore so she’s tehcnically the only one who wasn’t tempted by despair. She’s free to continue killing cute boys as she sees fit and isn’t afraid to do so in public. Although she still proclaims that Togami is her one true love no matter what. She often teams up with either Sakura or Mondo when it comes to fighting Future Foundation. 

Byakuya Togami: He mainly spends his days inside a makeshift manor that he calls his empire. He employs brainwashed servants to rob people and buildings of their resources and riches to make his empire stronger. He sits in a gold and ivory throne reminiscent of the one Xerxes used in the 300 movie and is dressed like an emperor in white. 

Kyoko Kirigiri: Kyoko is the only one I have trouble with as a Remnant. I figure that she would be the only one who didn’t fall into despair as she knew about Junko’s plan and was able to escape and join Future Foundation. But it still eats her that she didn’t stop her in time and allowed her classmates/friends to become monsters. 

Makoto Naegi: I imagine he would be the Izuru Kamakura of the group as his grim presence would inspire despair and chaos all around him while he’s too stoic and passive to stop them. He mainly just wanders the ruins of the world as he sees his friends tear it farther while innocent lives continue to be lost. However, once in a blue moon, if he were to meet with an unlucky civilian, he does offer some words of encouragement or helps them through a difficult moment. Even though he disappears, his “kindness” would allow the victim to move forward to confront despair another day. Kinda like the Pandora’s Box fairy tale where all the evils of the world are unleashed, the speck of hope remains and is shared sparingly.

And those are my ideas for Class 78 as the Remnants of Despair. What do you think?

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

HOLY SHIT THEY ARE SO GOOD 10/10

[friendsim-more-like-lovesim]

can we have some hcs or drabble (whichever you prefer) with marvus and human s/o where its cold season on alternia and marvus just want to cuddle s/o to warm up but because hes cold feet supreme his s/o is like "bro dont fucking hug me, its already cold and ill freeze to death if you hug me"

i did a kind of mix of headcanon and imagine with some longer bullet points, hope that’s ok!! i love this imagine bdhdhhd

◒ We all know humans are mammals, and therefore warm-blooded in the literal sense of the word. You were quite rudely reminded of this fact, when the colder seasons of alternia rolled in, making you shiver in the blanket you’ve currently wrapped around you in your makeshift couch-bed. Damn, your crappy diy house/hive really wasn’t built for long term usage, huh?

◒ Admittedly, it had taken you a little bit longer than your troll friends to really notice the colder season - it didn’t really get cold enough for snow or anything, Alternia is slightly warmer and dryer than earth, and you’d imagine that’s why it’d be more comfortable to be cold blooded over here.

◒ Nevertheless, your warm blooded body finally caught up to the memo that ‘hey dipshit, it’s cold out’ so now you’re doing your best to cocoon yourself with anything even remotely soft and pillowy enough to keep warm. You momentarily ponder about the similarities to how trolls cocoon or evolve when they’re grubs. Do they cocoon? You’re pretty sure they do. Anyway, you’re too tired to have internal discussions about troll biology right now, so instead you pull out your palmhusk from the depths of your comforters.

◒ As you open chitter, the first thing you see on your feed is marvus promoting his upcoming “dark season tour” (which was apparently a month or so from now), and before you know it you’ve slid into his dms. Damn you’re smooth.

◒ You ask him if you can come over to his hive - simple and to the point, and a split second after you’ve hit ‘send’ he’s replying. huh. he must’ve been lurking or something. He tells you to “com oan right over buddii ;o)” and really, who are you to refuse that delicate wording.

◒ Marvus’ hive is exponentially more comfortable than your little fort, which you guess is to be expected. He’s got heaters on, and you let the warmth deep into your now, once more, cold form. Despite the heated up slime couches (of which you took the liberty of slamming yourself into - it’s not like he’s gonna mind, you could rip apart his walls and he’d give you his patent lil smile and cheer you on), Marvus himself was confer than ever.

◒ As you tech up your arms for that sweet clown embrace, you immediately regret it, as he clutches onto you tighter and you feel as though you’ve been hit by a snow-truck. He’s cold as ice, and you know there’s a reason for that but it still feels so.. Wrong and unnerving. You’re only reminded he’s not a corpse when he lifts you to his lap and lays down with you, wanting a cuddle.

◒ And you know what? fuck that, you’ll find a warmer friend to cuddle. You look marvus in his eyes, and tells him you will not tolerate an igloo troll right now, and make your way out his hive again, leaving a very confused chilly clown.

“come back when you’re warm you big chunk of iceberg.”

“ :o? ”

[toorusbaby]

second choice, pt. 4

summary: being in love with hajime iwaizumi is like riding a rollercoaster of emotions. it’s thrilling as it is exciting, but you feel a little lightheaded... because he doesn’t know how you feel. the worst part? he thinks you’re in love with his best friend.

warnings: just pure fluff, oikawa cockblocks, slow burn, slight angst if you squint real hard

word count: 1,885

part five here

Your face burned at how blunt your words sounded when spoken aloud and it took extreme self-control to not facepalm yourself in embarrassment. You nervously bit the inside of your cheek. 

That definitely sounded better in my head, you thought. 

The only sounds you could hear were the shuffling of your feet beside Iwaizumi. The ace however, was taken aback by your response and had remained silent to gather his thoughts. 

She wanted to spend time with me? Wouldn’t she want to spend time with Oikawa instead since she likes him?

Unable to hold his words back, the blushing boy had blurted out the question that had bothered him for months. 

 “Y/N, do you like Oikawa? Romantically, I mean,” He asked, his voice slightly wavering. Nonetheless, he didn’t look away from your face; he wanted to see your entire reaction. Iwaizumi was terrified to hear what you were going to say next. Even though he was hoping you didn’t feel that way towards his best friend, the spiker knew there was a low possibility of you returning his feelings anyways. Despite his self-doubt, your answer still mattered to him. When he heard you chuckle, Iwaizumi was confused.

“You keep asking me questions about Oikawa, Iwa,” you sighed and twirled the pom-pom keychain on your purse. “I won’t ask why, but this is the last time we’re bringing him up today.” You teasingly scolded the ace with a small grin, approving of his quick nod. 

“I think Oikawa is extremely attractive, not to mention charming. He’s incredibly sweet,” you started off. 

Gross. Iwaizumi couldn’t help but grimace.

“But I only see him as a friend. Nothing more, nothing less,” you shrugged your shoulders. The adrenaline in your veins gave you the courage to say one last thing. You turned your head and cheekily grinned at Iwaizumi’s indistinguishable expression. “I do like someone else though, even though he’s pretty clueless for a smart person.” 

Iwaizumi felt his chest constrict at your words but he resisted the intense urge to question who the lucky person was. Although he was silent when the two of you continued to walk, the volleyball player’s mind was filled with questions. If you didn’t like Oikawa in a romantic way, which other boy were you interested in? Iwaizumi was aware of your friend circle; the only boys you interacted with were on the volleyball team. As far as he knew, you weren’t into younger guys so he could count out the underclassmen. Iwaizumi also wasn’t suspicious of either Hanamaki and Matsukawa since jokesters weren’t your type. So who the hell could it be?

Unless the person was from another school. 

Hajime had to stop himself from clenching his fists at the thought of you swooning over a student from Karasuno. Or Date Tech. Maybe Shiratorizawa? Please God, not Shiratorizawa, he pleaded internally. But in truth, the school didn’t matter. Although he was desperate to know who the mystery boy was, Iwaizumi respected your privacy. If you wanted to tell him who the boy was, Iwaizumi would allow you to do so on your own merit.

He just really wished it was him. 

“You see that over there?” Your voice broke the green eyed boy’s train of thought. Startled, Iwaizumi looked in the direction of your finger. When his eyes landed on what you were pointing to, he was surprised. How did he not see that earlier? It was nearly impossible to miss. Iwaizumi quickly looked at you, only to be met with your twinkling eyes. Despite the icy air, you felt warm inside. The beaming smile on Iwaizumi’s face was definitely worth the cold walk. It was the giddy sparkle in your eyes that warmed Iwaizumi’s cheeks. 

“I figured you’d like it. But,” You slid your purse off and clutched it to your chest. The spiky haired boy watched you, oblivious to what you were about to initiate. Before he could question you, your body positioned itself into a running stance. “The last one there loses!” You shouted and took off. Iwaizumi blinked to himself, clearly at a loss for words. Seconds later, the blushing wing spiker found himself running after you, shouting at you to be careful. 

༺♥༻

“All I’m saying is that you should’ve never tried to go up against me,” Iwaizumi snickered, the rare sight of a smug smirk making you roll your eyes. 

“Well someone’s cocky,” You flicked the volleyball player’s forehead, eliciting a small groan from the tall boy. “But we all know that I let you win.” You grinned.  

There the two of you stood, on top of the wooden arched bridge that hovered above the koi fish pond you had grown to love over the years. Watching the koi fish never failed to comfort you, even if you had always done so alone when visiting Osaki. Today however, was different. Although you felt as if the pond was a ‘secret’ of yours, you decided to bring the special boy who meant just as much to you, along.

Despite the many clouds in the sky, a bit of sunlight had been able to shine through. The branches of willow trees that dangled over the pond that was scattered with lily pads was truly a sight to behold. With his body leaning against the railing of the wooden bridge, one would assume that Iwaizumi would be focused on the swimming koi fish just below him. After all, he was surprisingly fond of fish; the beautiful scenery before him was an additional plus. Iwaizumi never took mother nature for granted. But if that was truly the case, why couldn’t the green eyed boy take his eyes off of you?

Beside him, you were also against the bridge, your chin resting in the palm of your hand. From the way strands of your hair fell onto your face because of the wind, to the way a small crinkle formed at the corner of your right eye when you smiled down at the pond, Iwaizumi noticed it all. 

The distance between you wasn’t large by any means; it was close enough for the boy to truly study your features. The fading acne scar on your cheek, the tiny zit on your chin, a small beauty mark or two in different places. The way your mascara was a bit smudged under your lower lashes due to moving around the entire day, walking through the smoke of barbecues at the festival. The way your lipgloss had naturally faded away even after you reapplied, but hints of the color remained, reminding Iwaizumi of strawberries on a warm, summer day. 

Despite what you’d consider flaws, he thought you still looked breathtaking. Before today, neither of you had been so close in proximity physically; everything was always from a distance. However, after spending the entire day with you, the hours filled with laughter, teasing, and smiles, Iwaizumi had never felt closer to any other person, physically or emotionally.  

A large koi fish had caught your attention, surprising you at how its white scales sparkled from under the water. “Haji, look at that one!” With widened eyes and a beaming grin, you placed a hand on his arm. Lifting your gaze away from the pond, you turned your head to face the boy beside you, whose green eyes were already on yours. 

You had never had the chance to really look at Iwaizumi’s face before, especially not up close. Hajime’s dark brown hair actually had a few lighter strands, a likely result of being out in the sun for hours on end in the summer. His warm green eyes had flecks of grey within, framed by the long dark lashes always made your knees weak. You could tell that his pink lips were soft, seeing as Iwaizumi always applied a layer of Burt’s Bees lip balm; you could smell the faint scent of peppermint from where you were standing. From the obvious details to the smaller ones such as the very few fading acne scars and the small chicken pox scar Iwaizumi had next to his left eye, your mouth became dry. He was just so handsome.

Iwaizumi felt his cheeks burn at the thought of you observing his features. The way your eyes wandered across his face caused the volleyball player to purse his lips together, a wave of shyness washing over him. Was there something on his face? 

Suddenly, you felt a small itch in your nose. Quickly, you turned away to quietly sneeze, awkwardly grinning afterwards. “Oh, excuse me,” you sniffled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear to face the boy once again. This time, Iwaizumi’s lips were formed into a small frown.

Way to ruin the moment, Y/N. You sighed to yourself and pulled your sleeves out far enough to bury your clenched hands underneath the turtleneck. 

“It’s pretty cold, huh? Even so— Iwa? What are you...” 

Iwaizumi stood straight, eyebrows furrowed as he began to undo his scarf. With a sigh and click of his tongue, he expertly wrapped the navy blue fabric around your neck, lifting your hair out of the way. Frozen at his sudden action, your arms felt like jell-o at your sides.

“Geez, you’re gonna to get sick, Y/N. Why didn’t you bring a scarf in the first place? Or gloves?” Iwaizumi gently scolded, huffing in the process. His green eyes were quick to glance at your clenched fists that were hiding underneath your now-extended sleeves. 

The feeling of Iwaizumi’s body heat along with his signature pine scent that lingered on his scarf caused blood to rush to your face. You were sure you’d pass out at any given moment. Much to your luck (and confusion), you remained conscious, staring at the boy with wide eyes, especially when he began to remove the black gloves from his hands. 

“Iwa,” You called out, placing a hand on his to stop his actions. “You don’t have to do that,” you mumbled, your eyes darting away from his face in embarrassment. If you thought you had been shy around the volleyball player before, this situation took the cake. You couldn’t help but stare at your makeshift sweater paws.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N. If you catch a cold—“

“Iwa-chan, what are you, my mom?” 

The infamous death glare Iwaizumi sent in your direction to intimidate you only caused a loud laugh to escape your lips. It wasn’t long before you accidentally snorted, causing you to cover your mouth to laugh even more. At the sound of your snort, the ace’s frown morphed into a smile before he chuckled himself. With a lopsided grin, Iwaizumi began to slide his gloves on to your ice cold hands. You didn’t stop him. 

“Even without him here, it’s almost as if Shittykawa’s presence remains.”

“You make it sound like he’s dead, Iwa.”

“He will be if he keeps influencing you like this, you dummy.”

Iwaizumi’s teasing smile made you grin cheekily. There was truly no other person in the world that could compare to the boy leaning his side against the railing before you. 

“Shush,” you joked and used your now gloved hand to play with the ends of the soft scarf around your neck. It wasn’t just any scarf though.

It was Iwaizumi’s.

🏷️ taglist: @webkinzfroggie​ @isseikawa​ 

feel free to ask, dm, or comment to let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! <3

[angrymongol01-archived]

A/N: Am reposting two of my shelved discontinued fem!Hinata fics from my old blog here (for exposure ig? Also I didn't delete them completely there, they're just posted privately lol); for those who've read the original post before and wondering why this blog repost another blog's work, supplies~!! OP here, filling this blog with some Haikyuu content from last October. Enjoy ^^;; ALSO DO NOT SEND HATE ORZ smh

My Masterlist

Prologue | 01 | Omake 01

tho it doesn't looked like an extra chapter at all smh ahaha

Omake 01

wc: 1.9k words

warning: mentions of thigh touching (and probs kidnapping but not implied), a bit of OOC-ness, a few ‘damn’ mentions.

note: indented paragraphs -> flashbacks

*NOTE: since purple/violet is unavailable via PC (using desktop beta lol), I'll use yellow for Ushijima instead.

“…ta…nata…Hinata!”

A female’s voice continued calling her from her deep slumber.

The faint smell of ammonia wafted in the air.

Eyelids slowly opened as she regained consciousness.

“Ah, thank goodness you’re awake now, Hina-chan!”

“Yachi-san?” She groggily glanced at her friend.

“I’ll tell the others she’s awake!” Suddenly, the owner of that voice earlier, Date Tech’s manager, Nametsu Mai, stood up and headed outside the door. Yachi nodded her thanks.

“W-what happened… Where am I? Is this not our—the managers’—room?” she asked.

Hinata started to sit up from where she was laying but wobbled.

Luckily, Yachi and their second-year senpai Kinoshita Hisashi helped her out and gently positioned their fellow member on one corner of the classroom-slash-makeshift sleeping area.

Her senpai sheepishly replied to Hinata, “This is Date Tech’s sleeping quarters. We were having our first practice match of the day, against them, when Sugawara-san called to inform that they’ve found you together with Shiratorizawa, and their captain carried you on—“

The decoy shivered, thinking about the restroom incident hours ago.

“—and fainted on Ushijima’s shoulder. Ma~n, Suga-san’s so furious back then Kageyama had to stop him from killing them.” Kinoshita chuckled.

“Your room’s kinda far away from where they found you, so the managers decided to drop you off here since it’s the nearest one.”

Hinata sweatdropped, a bit embarrassed.

“Ah… thank you, and sorry for whatever inconvenience I have caused earlier…”

Yachi shook her head. “No, no, it’s fine! You’ve done nothing wrong, Hina-chan~,” she grinned at the orange-haired girl.

Smiled back also.

Then she suddenly facepalmed. “I forgot about the practice match! Is it still going yet?”

“It finished an hour ago, we lost—2-1,” a scowling Kageyama answered, trudging towards the three.

“K-k-kageyama…!!!” the female middle blocker blanched with fear, hands gripping the blanket draped on her lap, while the raven-haired setter shot a menacing glare at her, which she averted. “I’m… I’m sorry for—“

“Are you alright?” he quietly asked Hinata, his hand perched on her head.

His deep blue eyes swimming with concern and worry.

She felt a slight flush on her cheeks while meeting his gaze.

“H-hai, I’m fine!” the chibi assured Kageyama. “Nothing to worry about, Bakayama-kun~!”

And she smiled at him.

The boy suddenly became hot and turned to look away from her, hiding his flustered face with the back of his hand.

“H-hinata boke… idiot,” Kageyama stuttered, his heart thumping louder than normal.

Ahh… he sure is whipped for Hinata, that Kageyama boy, Kinoshita thought, shaking his head.

While their blonde manager only giggled.

Recovering from his blushing mess a while ago, the raven-haired setter took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes at Hinata and quipped.

“But I guess you do know that we lost in the match earlier because of your carelessness around your surroundings, right, dumbass?”

He smirked.

This pissed the female decoy and threw in some punches at Kageyama, which he constantly dodged. “Shut up, you!! I said I’m sorry, alright?!”

“No, you did not!”

“Yes, I did, Bakayama!”

There goes their ‘lovers’ quarrel’ again… hahaha…

“Hinata!” Sugawara’s sweet voice boomed inside the room as he entered together with their team’s captain Sawamura Daichi. Beside them tagged along Hinata’s friend from Date Tech, fellow middle blocker Aone Takanobu.

“Ah, Sugawara-san!” The first-year idiot duo stopped their bickering when the gray-haired setter all of a sudden hugged her.

Hc’d Suga and Hinata are chummy-chummy but in a mother/daughter sort of way.

He is, after all, Karasuno’s Sugamama.

“Honey, are you alright now? Did those Shiratorizawa bastards hurt you? Don’t lie to me!” She blinked in reply, baffled.

He might cry in an instant now—

“Oi, Suga, calm down,” Daichi said, drawing circles at the fellow third-year’s back to calm him down.

Aone then stepped closer besides Hinata and sat with his legs crossed, his eyes gazing at hers like Kageyama’s.

“Are you okay?” he asked her, his deep voice nearly startled both Hinata, Yachi and Kinoshita.

Date Tech’s one-third of the famous Iron Wall is a man of few words, and his replies were mostly grunts, hand gestures, and nods.

So it’s rare for him to speak, or ask a question, especially to a member of the opposite sex—or, in this case, at Karasuno’s Number 10. At Hinata Shouyou.

She held both hands at Aone’s now flustered cheeks, and grinned.

“I’m okay now, Aone-san! Don’t worry too much~ nn?” She tilted her head while looking at him.

C-cute… she’s cute, No-Eyebrows thought to himself. Even the other boys thought so, too.

Then he nodded.

Hinata patted his shoulders. “Good!”

Ahhh the power of friendship, feat. AoHina—

“Say, Hina-chan,” Yachi looked at the orange-haired girl. “Care to say to us why you fainted on Ushijima-san’s shoulder?”

The chibi stilled herself, cheeks starting to get a bit red. Kageyama noticed it.

“A-a-ano!! H-hinata-chan, it’s o-okay if you d-don’t have to tell us! S-sorry for asking such a foolish q-question—“

“Yachi-san, calm yourself down, too—,” the captain sweatdropped.

Looking at the people around her, Hinata slowly opened her mouth to speak.

“My thighs are kind of ticklish when being touched,” she muttered, face in an embarrassed state.

“Ha?” “Ticklish?”

“He—Ushijima-san touched the back of my thighs, but just to keep myself from falling down his shoulder!” the female middle blocker said aloud, pouting. “That’s why I… f-fainted earlier.”

Her partner remembered the face she made while being carried on Ushijima Wakatoshi’s shoulder.

“USHIJIMA-SA—hyaah! …P-please… stop—“

A vein pop ticked on the raven-haired setter’s face, his jawline twitching slightly.

Kageyama’s fists gripped hard, his face a big scowling mess.

Damn that Ushiwaka guy—

Another dark aura emitted on another corner as vein pops ticked on both Dadchi and Sugamama.

Wearing their scary faces.

Both Hinata, Yachi and Kinoshita panicked, while Aone furrowed his brows.

“Did you bring some shovels, Daichi?”

“They’re inside the bus compartment, Suga.”

“Good. We’re digging some graves for some perverted volleyball dorks to bury down later—wanna help us, Kageyama?”

———

Meanwhile, at Shiratorizawa’s side of the training camp, the members were at the sidelines, taking a break from practice when—

“ACHOO!!!” Tendou sniffled for the nth time already ever since coming back to the gym with Ushijima after the incident with Karasuno’s Number 10. “Uh, yizz…”

“Tendou-san, are you really alright?” their team’s first-year ace-in-the-making Goshiki Tsutomu asked, his face scrunched with worry. “You’re sneezing constantly.”

The redhead shook it off with a wave of his hand in reply, and smiled grimly.

“Yeah, I’m a-OK, thanks for your concern, Tsutomu-kun!”

“Oi, are you sick?” Shiratorizawa’s team mom third-year setter Semi Eita stared at his fellow third-year teammate with disgust. “If you are, please stay away from us! We don’t wanna get infected by your cold… Goshiki, don’t go near him!” “Eh? But, senpai—“

Tendou narrowed his eyes on him. “Semi-Semi, if I do have a cold, I will first go straight at ya and share my germs, duh!”

“DON’T CALL ME BY THAT STUPID NICKNAME, YOU IDIOT!” the team mom seethed, throwing a pack of tissues at the middle blocker in reply, hitting his arm.

A quarrel ensued at Shiratorizawa—

“Okay, guys, that’s enough! Save your bickering later at lunch period,” another third-year, Oohira Reon, chided and managed to stop both Tendou and Semi from tearing off their heads.

While the rest of the team just sighed and/or watched at a distance.

“Ano sa…”

Some of them turned their heads at the semi-deep voice of second-year starting setter Shirabu Kenjiro.

Idk how to describe voice ranges ‘cept high-pitch, deep blah blah sorry—

“Tendou-san, you mentioned earlier that you and Ushijima-san met Karasuno’s Number 10, right?”

“Aye~ we have!” the redhead then nudged Ushijima, who was sitting near him, on the side. “Right, Wakatoshi-kun?”

He nodded. “Un. We met Hinata Shouyou early this morning, outside the gym.”

“EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! You two met that cute sunshine already upon arrival!?!!” Both their libero, Yamagata Hayato, and middle blocker, Kawanishi Taichi, squawked at their captain.

Their faces looked like (‘◉⌓◉’), with Kawanishi gripping the collar of Shirabu’s shirt, shaking wildly.

“T-taichi, stop shaking me, goddammit—!” Whack!

Said second-year middle blocker started to wail in a dramatic way.

“WHYYYYYYYYYYY—!!”

Dunno how to grasp Kawanishi’s personality here tbh so stfu dejk—

“We were about to bring her here back though…” Then Ushijima’s usual stoic face darkened a bit.

“…if only those Karasuno setters didn’t show up.”

“Ah, that Kageyama guy and their vice-captain, isn’t it? Number 2?” Shirabu pointed out. “That guy’s really scary even though he has the face of an angel; their captain also.”

Oohira asked, “Wait… so you two attempted to kidnap the girl?”

“No, no, ‘kidnapping’ will only cause us trouble,” Tendou said, waving his hand in a disapproving way.

“Let’s call it ‘luring her with some sweets then put her inside a potato sack’—“

“ARE YOU A DOWNRIGHT LOLICON!?!!” Semi screamed straight at the Guess Monster’s face, pissed at his earlier statement.

Tendou vs Semi, Round 2–

“I-I heard from Date Tech’s Koganegawa-san that Hinata-chan fainted on you, Ushijima-san,” Goshiki stammered, red tinge on both his cheeks due to embarrassment, maybe? “Is that true?”

Ushiwaka nodded curtly. “Ye—“

“EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! SHE DID WHAAAAAAAAAAT!?!!” Both Yamagata and Kawanishi squawked again, interrupting his response.

Their faces now looked like (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾, with Kawanishi again gripping the collar of Shirabu’s shirt, shaking wildly.

“KAWANISHIIIIII!” An uppercut.

Chaos ensued inside the Shiratorizawa Academy (High School Division) Men’s Volleyball Club.

Their captain declared to himself, his olive-colored eyes shone with determination:

We will take Hinata Shouyou here, in Shiratorizawa. She should have (come here). Whatever the consequences be.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU SLACKING OFF, YOU NIMRODS!!! GET YOUR ASSES BACK TO PRACTICE!!!!”

“HAI!!!!”

———

How did the supposed-to-be ‘rumor’ begin? It all started when…

“Aaaarrrggghhh!! This is not right, Ryuu!”

“Huh? What d’you mean ‘not right’, Noya?”

“I want to sit next to our cute kouhai Shouyou on the bus earlier, but it’s always that bastard Kageyama who gets to sit beside her!! Hnnnnnngh—!!! He gets to touch Shouyou’s hair whenever she dozes off, or place her head on his shoulder to sleep on! Or-or maybe even take a candid shot of her sleeping cutely—dammit!!! This is frustrating!!!!!”

“Ahhh~ I know how you feel, bro! I, too, want to sit next to our precious Hinata-chan on the bus! B-but… Noya, what about Kiyoko-san?”

“Ryuu bro, our loyalty is always on our beautiful goddess Kiyoko-san—BUT SHE’S DIFFERENT FROM SHOUYOU! Our kouhai is literally the epitome of a living sunshine~! She cures our blues away! Remember that time during our match with Wakunan, when you were kind of down about Daichi-san’s injury then Shouyou suddenly hugged and peppered you with words of encouragement?”

“Oh, yeah! It calmed my senses down… and also! Remember when you came back from your suspension, and me and Hinata noticed bruises—“

idk I really need to refresh my HQ knowledge by rereading the whole manga orz—

“—on your arms? Ma~n, she freaked out and began applying those with some ointment she had in her bag. And you told me later that time Hinata’s hands were very soft even though she spiked and blocked so many balls in her lifetime? Also that expression on your face! So priceless!”

“Ahhhh~ I wanna touch Shouyou’s soft hands again longer! Not just a high five—but holding hands!”

“Me too~ Damn, I wish there’d be some kind of (rotational?) seating arrangement whenever we’re on the bus, traveling to matches and stuff…”

“Ryuu! Noya! Heya!”

“Tora! Our shitty (city) boy from Tokyo—wassup!”

“We can’t wait to play another game against you guys later! ww”

“Same here!”

“Ah, what are you guys talking about?”

“OUR PRECIOUS KOUHAI HINATA/SHOUYOU!!!”

“Eh? Shrimpy-chan? What about her?”

“It’s like this….—“

The two crows and mohawked cat walked their way inside the camp premises, talking.

Unbeknownst to them, two eagles accidentally eavesdropped on the earlier conversation.

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