#v; wreckage

[galaeus]

❛ i’m more beautiful than anybody else, why can’t i be happy? ❜ from @tricxet

“This is the shit that keeps you up at night?” There’s always something. His question takes one, two, three blinks to comprehend, before her shoulders deflate. “I’unno. Isn’t there a saying, like, beauty’s in the eye of the beholder? You hang around with me all the time. That’ll be a surefire way to make you miserable regardless of how shiny your hair is.”

/ @tricxet

[necoryn-rising]

🎉I now have all but ONE of my hibden slots unlocked🎉

[ebonyforged]

★ Verse: Empty throne. 10 years post-amnesia.

𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖆 𝖋𝖊𝖜 𝖞𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊. . .

After a powerful attack at the Demon King’s very core by a force unknown, Moros is no more. His human form shrivels and turns to dust with no one around to bear witness, Limbo Demons relying on his leadership are instantly left feeling aimless and confused, and the mirror dimension is suddenly without a leader. It cries out, quickly growing unstable without something in control after such a long time. It’s unprecedented for someone’s rule over any part of it to have lasted for millennia, and so is the reality that the power vacuum left behind threatens to do irreversible damage to the thin barrier between it and the human world. For the first time, its very life is threatened, and with it the lives of every living being on Earth.

There aren't many beings, Angels, Demons, or otherwise, compatible with its existence like Moros was. When they are, they stubbornly neglect to hone this skill out of fear of it, fear created by Moros' vision of what the realm should have been.

In it desperation, it finds Ebony in its dark underbelly and pins her to the ground. She thrashes angrily and fights the grip of dark tendrils, curses the dead man's name until Limbo forces her eyed skyward. Confusion finally gives way to understanding when she sees the state of the veil, cracked and threatening to burst apart without the stability of a ruler.

While her eyes brim with tears, Limbo presents to Ebony a gold ring.

She’s not as powerful as Moros was, merely a lost Demon who remembers less of her own life than Limbo could recount to her if it wanted. But she’s there, right next to the crumbled remains of its previous ruler, and the ease with which she has always passed through the veil proves one thing: She’s compatible.

This wasn't what Ebony wanted when she ventured to Moros' core in Limbo with a Holy blade in hand. She immediately knows that she has no choice but to accept, or this desperate search for a replacement will find someone else who seeks only power.

Her hand shakes from the smouldering marks left by the blade's hilt as she holds it out to accept the ring unto her finger, where it fits perfectly. Limbo silences all at once, the Weapon now a Master herself — but she doesn’t want this title of 'Queen'. The dimension is a living thing, its reaching out to her proves it, and Ebony has no desire to manipulate something that already has a will of its own.

In truth, the thought is terrifying.

So she crumbles Moros' tower, basks in the silence for a minute or two, and goes home. No one knows what happened to the Demon King. No one but Ebony is aware that for a short moment, Limbo was reaching out to find any suitable soul who could readily take his place. Maybe no one has to know. As long as Limbo has someone to call its ruler, someone to fill the vacancy while millennia of influence and corruption slowly fade away and Limbo becomes a blank slate once more, maybe that’s enough.

Unfortunately her own friends — Demons she once thought reasonable — don't take well to being left without orders, and it would only take one look at her scarred hands for them to realize who killed their king.

                              𝕴’𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖉 𝖆 𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖊.

[parvuls]

honestly, I hate gore but zombie apocalypse au's are the shit

there's just something so captivating about road tripping through the ruins of the us & finding love in dark times & the sweet siren call of a literal second beginning with a found family, ygm?

[schattenfanger]

“. . .”

[crowncursed]

"Are you going to eat all that?"

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Unlucky Kevin

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“Who’s that?”

Jib looked up from his lunch platter and followed the direction of Tiy’s nod to the lone human sitting at alone in the cafeteria.

“Ah, that’s right,” Jib remarked as he returned his attention to his food, “I forgot you just transferred in so you wouldn’t know the most famous human on the ship.”

“You need to stay away from them at all costs.” Jib finished as he took a bite of the Tunga sticks.

“Why? I heard humans are friendly.” Tiy remarked as her interest was now peaked. “They do not look like they are dangerous.”

Jib shook his head. “You don’t get it; that’s “Unlucky Kevin”.”

“What?”

Tiy snickered at the name but stopped when Jib’s expression did not soften. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am.” He replied coldly.

“What makes them unlucky?”

“Everyone around him dies.”

Tiy leaned over to look at this Kevin but Jib moved himself into her line of sight blocking her.

“Don’t even look in his direction.” He cautioned. “You don’t want to be caught in his death field.”

The look of confusion must have chipped away some of Jib’s nonresponse as he set down his fork and decided to explain further.

“That human is called Kevin Donger. He originally served in the 113th tactical terran  legion when the campaign started.”

“The 113th?” Tiy replied, “But I thought they all died during the failed drop on Morgus III?”

Jib shook his head. “Everyone but Kevin did. He was the only survivor and was then transferred to the 43rd mechanized terran legion.”

Tiy’s eyes widened at this news. “Didn’t they-“

“-get wiped out during the Springs Offensive on Hape Prime; all of them but him at which point he was transferred to the 800thdrop force.”

“Who-“

“-got annihilated at the final siege of Ogmar Fortress on Ceptus IV.” Jib cut in yet again.

Tiy sat in silence as Jib rattled off several more distinguished terran formations that this Kevin had been transferred to, and each having fallen to a terrible fate on the battlefield. At the end Tiy sat in silence and only now began averting her gaze from the human as the circumstances finally seemed to catch up to her.

“If this is true,” Tiy spoke softly, “why is he still at the frontlines and on our ship?”

Jib shrugged. “Word was he is being sent to his new assignment on Keff V and we were the only ship heading there.”

“Does that not mean we are in danger of dying as well?” Tiy remarked as from the corner of her eye see saw the human getting up and begin to leave the cafeteria.

“I pray to the gods that we are-“ -------------------------------------

“This is Captain Morris; we’ve found the wreckage of the Temen Song and are beginning our search for survivors.”

Looking out from the bridge view screens Morris was not hopeful of the last part. Strewn across the empty void of space before his ship was the blasted remains of a Terengi transport ship. Its hull was breached in several dozen places and it looked as if its engine components had violently torn themselves free from the vessels superstructure like rockets fired from a launcher.

“Any idea what could have done this?”

Morris nodded sadly at his second in command’s question.

“Judging by the layout of damage I would wager a jump drive failure while they were in transit.” He pointed to the deep gouges that ran along the hull of the vessel. “The engines overloaded and traveled faster than the vessel was capable of keeping up and as a result the engines dislodged themselves from the ship and pulled several power conduits out along with them like removing veins from a body.”

His second nodded. “The sudden exit from jump transition coupled with unstable power fluctuations would trigger a critical overload of the power core.” She remarked as the pieces finally fell into place. “If that is the case I’m surprised even this much of the ship is left intact.”

“I’ve got a life sign reading.”

The pair turned from their command platform and looked over at the scanning officer. “I’m reading one life pod at coordinates 237-954 by 716-719.”

With a nod from Morris the screens of the command deck shifted to focus on the new location. Drifting amongst the wreckage was indeed a lone life pod, battered but fully intact.

“How many onboard?” Morris asked.

The scanning officer took a few moments to confirm his readings before replying “Only one sir; and they’re human.”

[siilvan]

bloodsport – V

prologue | one | two | three | four | interlude

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: after a talk with price, you decide to make a risky move. keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, mentions of canon-typical violence, makarov's usual bs

word count: 4.3k

note: a very sincere thank you to everyone who sent support and waited so long (a month) for this update :') not super proud of this ngl, i'll try to make the next chapter better and sooner lol

"something to confess?" price utters, brows furrowing as he stares you down with a confused look.

you wring your hands together, feeling the perspiration on your palms even through your gloves. "yes, it's about makarov—"

what's left of the building around you rumbles, pieces of the wreckage crumbling into smaller pieces and falling apart. price tears his gaze from you and glances around before patting your shoulder.

"whatever it is can wait. we need to get out before the rest of this collapses on top of us." he says while turning away and motioning for you to follow, graves and the shadows already starting to move ahead. you huff to yourself and jog after him, sticking close to his side until you reach the sizeable breach that he was leading you to.

you try in vain to talk again once the team is safely outside, but graves speaks up the second you go to open your mouth.

"we need to find where they moved that control center," he says, one of the shadows nearby already grabbing his radio – communications expert, you realize after a moment. "i'm wiling to bet it's still in the city, probably a smaller base."

price nods to graves from where he's standing next to you. "might be in an entirely new spot. tell the squads to keep their eyes peeled." he looks at the communications expert at the end of his warning, directing it at him, and gets a thumbs-up in reply.

"captain, i—" you start, before getting interrupted again.

"we'll discuss this after the mission, lieutenant." price mutters, giving you a tight-lipped smile. "i promise."

you bite your tongue and try to swallow down the lump in your throat, giving him a confirmatory nod of your own. the team moves on from the derelict building, with graves and his shadows splitting off after one of the strike teams radios about a suspicious spot. price and you end up assisting the bravo team with the second-largest base; for once, you're happy to see enemies in a location.

most teams clear out their sectors without much issue, securing canisters of chemical gas and weapon caches, but the supposed nerve center isn't anywhere to be found.

after hours of searching under the scorching sun, price and graves come to a mutual agreement: cut your losses and extract with what you did manage to get your hands on.

the flight back to base is quiet for the most part. everyone's too exhausted to fuss over anything, allowing you to sit in relative peace as you debate on what to say to price. the intel from makarov – the mole within your group – replays in your head over and over again, adding to your ever-growing level of stress. if anyone notices your leg bouncing practically the whole ride, they don't comment on it.

you're chasing the captain to his office the moment you touch down, pushing the heavy door shut behind you as his eyes fall on you.

"never seen you this frazzled, lieutenant." price remarks with a soft chuckle, moving to rest against the front of his desk with his arms loosely crossed over his chest. "what's bothering you?"

you blink at him, the words that you've been wanting to say suddenly dying on your tongue. you want to tell him, you really do, but what will he think of you? what if he takes you off the team for this? brands you as a traitor for working with the enemy?

"petra? y'okay?" price asks, leaning towards you.

you wave the question off and clear your throat. "yeah, i just, uh..." you trail off, before taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, resigning yourself to your fate. "i've been getting intel from makarov."

shock briefly crosses price's face before it returns to a somewhat neutral expression – alarmingly neutral. you know the look, you've seen it a hundred times.

he's calculating his response.

"it started when i was captured," you stutter out, trying to explain. "it was just the information on shepherd at first, but then he showed up at my apartment after you sent me home— there's a mole in our team, whoever it is put a tracker on my phone, and now shepherd knows that we're onto him—"

"lieutenant." price interrupts, his voice as cold as the ice in his stare, shutting you up with little more than a startled whimper in reply.

he pauses, his jaw tight. you stare at him, wide-eyed and waiting for a furious response, but when he speaks again, his voice is soft.

"tell me everything you know. everything."

you draw in another breath and nod your head slowly. "one of the new recruits – someone who arrived recently – is working for shepherd, keeping tabs on us. his men are targeting the one-four-one; after the building collapse, one of them tried to sneak up on me. makarov found him before i did and took him out, but—"

"wait, he was there?" price all but growls, his arms falling back to his sides as his hands clench into fists against the tabletop.

you nod, again, shrinking under the barely-kept tension rolling off him in waves. "i didn't know he'd be there, it wasn't planned," you say, gaze falling to the floor. "but, he's not important right now. what is important is stopping shepherd before he uses the conflict in al-mazrah and urzikstan as an excuse to start a global war."

price doesn't reply at first, but you can see the gears turning in his head. evaluating, scheming, doing what he does best. a painful beat of silence passes between you, prompting you to speak again, uttering words that will earn you a medal, a grave, or life behind bars.

"makarov's given me intel before, captain. he has eyes in places that we don't, more resources than us, more freedom to act—"

"petra—" price cuts in, but you keep talking.

"—if you let me go undercover," you pause, staring into his eyes, searching for approval in his gaze. "i can get the information we need and act on it. shepherd, makarov... we can eliminate them in one fell swoop. i'll use makarov's resources, then take him down from within his own group. we can't do this clean. the gloves need to come off."

you step closer to him, lowering your voice to a quiet murmur that hardly reaches him. "you said it yourself: at the end of the day, somebody needs to make the enemy scared of the dark."

price clicks his tongue before shaking his head, an amused chuckle tumbling from his lips. "this is risky, you'd be inserting yourself right into his inner circle," he comments, tilting his head at you. "do you really think you'd be able to fool him?"

"he's already offered me protection," you say. "i'll figure out a way to gain his trust." you add, grimacing.

"normally i wouldn't approve something like this, but... for whatever reason, he seems to want you on his side. we might as well use that to our advantage." he concedes, earning an affirmative hum from you.

"i'll give him a response, then. you won't regret this, captain."

⋆⋆⋆

"i'm surprised you've called so quickly." you can hear the amusement in his voice after he answers the phone. "have you come to a decision?" makarov asks.

you let your eyes flutter closed and inhale deeply through your nose, hand clenching and unclenching at your side.

"i have." you reply after a long moment. "are you really wiling to offer me protection from shepherd?"

the grin on his face is evident despite you not seeing it. "i am. all you have to do is help me kill him."

you stifle a surprised laugh. "you're asking for a miracle like it's a small favor." you mutter, to which he sighs, heavy through the speaker.

"i'm confident in your abilities, lieutenant. i will arrange a meeting point and send you the coordinates and time. don't be late."

"punctual. i look forward to it." you respond, sealing your fate as you end the call.

once again, just as you return, you're departing again. you haven't stayed anywhere for longer than a day since escaping the prison, and yet, here you are, preparing to deliver yourself to the maw of the beast. it's almost poetic, just how quickly you've leapt back into danger after weeks of wanting nothing more than to get away from it.

true to his word, you receive a set of coordinates and a time from makarov shortly after the conversation. the only goodbyes you give are rushed words shared with the captain before you take off in an unmarked helicopter, leaving behind promises to explain the situation to those who matter and to get you home as soon as possible.

the location isn't anything of significance, that you're sure of as soon as the helicopter touches down. it's a road just outside of a quiet city, unassuming aside from the sleek black car that sits pulled over to the side. as soon as the gravel crunches under your boots, a man emerges from the vehicle to greet you in a gruff murmur of your callsign. you nod once, unmoving from your position, studying the man as he remains still several feet in front of you.

dressed in painfully normal clothing, a black shirt and a pair of dark weathered jeans, you almost think he's a civilian until your eyes find the patch hastily stuck onto his sleeve, the annoyingly familiar snake skull curving around his bicep as if to taunt anyone who sees it.

he's a mercenary, no doubt. probably someone makarov hired to handle the work his soldiers are above – like this.

as you follow the man to the car, settling in the backseat as he sits in the passenger and vaguely motions to the driver, you briefly wonder just how large makarov's forces are; how far does his influence reach?

you're also left curious about the lack of soldiers. a sign of trust, perhaps? you doubt it, but he's not a man whose decisions are easy to understand. maybe his goal is making you question every little thing that he does, forcing you to stay alert until you exhaust yourself and he has the chance to strike.

the car pulls back onto the road, leaving you to stare out the window as it travels away from the city. the forest surrounding you isn't terribly dense, but enough so that you have to squint to see anything through the passing trees. the winding road heading steadily up a mountain makes it no easier; you searched the coordinates during the flight and saw nothing of significance in the area...

where are they taking you?

the man mumbles something to the driver, catching your attention despite not hearing what he said. the response he receives is in russian and, again, words that you miss due to how quietly they're uttered. once the trees start to thin, however, you assume the sight ahead is what they were discussing.

a villa. a grand one, at that. it's not far from the city, you glance at your watch and time the drive as a half-hour, but the location is secluded, sitting on the cliffside overlooking the population below. it's gated, with armed guards staring the vehicle down as it approaches the entrance; like a stronghold, a private residence barred from any unwanted visitors or influence. it reminds you of las almas, of el sin nombre's villa.

the sun starts to set behind the villa as the car passes the gate and comes to a stop in front of it. the door next to you is suddenly pulled open, yanking your focus from the building as you meet the eye of the soldier, clad in a dark uniform and balaclava, staring you down while holding the door open.

wordlessly, you climb out and narrow your eyes at him, watching as he slams the door shut behind you. there's something familiar about him, but you can't quite put your finger on it.

as his eyes meet yours, it clicks.

"are you the guard from the prison?" you ask, his tired gaze bringing you back to your imprisonment. it's barely been a day since your escape, and yet that place – the injuries that left you in near-constant misery, the prying eyes watching you, the all-too-kind doctor, the other doctor, your enemy being the only person you could even begin to trust – it all feels so distant, despite being so recent.

the soldier huffs, scratching the side of his jaw through his mask. "i have been a guard in many prisons, you will have to be more specific."

you cross your arms tightly, his voice becoming more recognizable as he speaks. thick accent, perpetual disinterest worn like a badge, treating you with indifference despite not walking away.

"i hope the trip wasn't too difficult, lieutenant." a voice pulls you away, making you turn your head to the side as a "friendly" figure emerges from the set of doors nearby. makarov regards you with a small smile, something akin to pride and a more sincere emotion – relief? – glimmering in the dark recesses of his gaze.

you shrug, standing stiff when he stops in front of you. "i think the trip was the easy part." you mutter.

"you underestimate my sense of hospitality," he chuckles, taking in your fatigued state. "you've had a long day, i'll keep the tour brief tonight. i'm sure you have a lot of questions, hm?" his head tilts to the side for a second, emphasizing the question at the end of his remark.

his behavior is… unexpected, to say the least. you were expecting cold apathy like you experienced in captivity, but instead, makarov seems eager to have you here. you're sure it's all part of a plan that you're unaware of, bigger and more important than yourself.

"that's putting it lightly." you reply, walking two paces behind him when he motions for you to follow him inside. the masked solider follows you after a nod towards makarov, accepting a silent order from his commander.

the interior of the villa is equally as extravagant as the exterior— your breath catches in your throat as your footsteps echo against the tile floor, eyes flitting to the art dotting the walls and the furniture that you're certain costs more than your apartment.

"it's all a bit excessive, don't you think?" you murmur, sending a glance to the man in front of you.

makarov hums, hardly sparing his surroundings any attention. "i think it's fitting," he says, leading you to an elevator. "konni is not like the other crude, second-rate paramilitaries you've encountered, petra... we have a goal, organization, leadership—"

"—that leader being you?" you chuckle, stepping into the elevator and facing him. makarov waves the soldier off and presses one of the buttons on the wall, leaving you alone together when the doors slide shut.

"do you doubt me?" he asks, brows furrowing. "need i remind you who is shouldering the burden of protecting you?" he adds, leaning closer as his voice lowers just slightly. you recognize the look, the intent behind the way he moves closer, forcing you to take a step back to create some distance.

"let's get one thing straight," you mutter, trying to keep your tone steady despite your back meeting the wall. "i don't need protection because you're any better than me. you just give me the freedom i need to move against shepherd without putting my squad at risk."

you pause, wetting your lips, before opening your mouth to continue. any words you planned to say leave you in a short breath as you're literally cornered in the small space, though, blinking at the man in front of you. makarov holds your gaze, amusement clearly written on his expression as his arm lifts, caging you in with a tight fist on the wall next to your head.

"you need me, petra. that is what matters." he leans closer still, shifting to rest his forearm against the wall instead, his lips twitching up in a crooked smile. you try to avert your eyes, to stare at the wall past him, but his other hand comes up to stop you with a firm grip on the sides of your jaw, keeping your head still. "i strongly suggest you find it in yourself to cooperate instead of fighting me. this is a very unique opportunity for us to help each other."

"you..." a frustrated sound escapes from you, only serving to encourage him to tighten his hold, leather-clad fingertips digging into your skin. you need to gain his trust if the plan you discussed with price has any chance of succeeding. we get dirty, world stays clean. killing shepherd is the mission; makarov comes later. play your cards right and you can take out them both.

"fine... i guess i owe you civility, at the very least." you concede, one of your hands shooting up to grab his wrist. "just get your hands off me." you grumble with a pointed glare.

makarov's hand retracts before the complaint even fully leaves your lips. "clever girl. you've made the right choice." he murmurs.

he moves away as the elevator reaches the floor and the door slides open again, immediately revealing a corridor dotted with soldiers – some conversing, some standing guard, others approaching the elevator as makarov steps out with you in tow.

"we'll have time for a proper tour later. in the meantime, if you need help navigating the grounds, any of my men will be happy to assist." he says, marching ahead.

"don't have any more room in your busy schedule for me?" you utter, trailing behind him.

he rounds a corner and keeps walking. "not at the moment, unfortunately." you arrive at a door, where he turns to you once more. "i have matters that require my attention, otherwise i would stay longer. i've arranged a place for you to sleep. i suggest you rest tonight. once we have the general's location, you will be needed."

you nod, admittedly taken aback. "i'll... do that, then. thank you." you stutter out.

"don't mention it." he says, already backing away from you and heading back down the hallway. you try not to stare as he disappears from your sight, intentionally fixing your attention on the door he led you to.

so eccentric, you think.

⋆⋆⋆

you let out a contented sigh as you pull your shirt down over your head, standing in the middle of the sizeable bedroom after your shower. a glance out the window tells you what time it is before you even check— the sun set over the horizon about an hour ago.

when you pick your phone up off the nightstand, there's a message from price waiting for you.

status report? 19:05 pm

you look to the door, debating on a response.

all settled in. nothing significant to report yet. 19:15 pm

good. keep your guard up. 19:15 pm

laswell got into contact with alex earlier. potential base in verdansk. 19:16 pm

need me to handle it? 19:16 pm

no. focus on makarov for now. we'll take care of it. 19:17 pm

copy. good luck. 19:17 pm

save some luck for yourself. stay sharp. 19:18 pm

you shove your phone into your pocket and send the door another look, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth. makarov said he would be busy, but... there's something telling you to seek him out, some horrible feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach. you have a lot of questions and very few answers, things weighing on your mind that, to your chagrin, only he can ease.

"fucking fantastic," you say to the empty room, shaking off the feeling and heading out into the corridor. after getting directions from a handful of soldiers and a short elevator ride, you find yourself up on the penthouse floor, standing in front of the set of doors leading to his personal office.

you knock before you have the chance to psyche yourself out, three short taps in quick succession, your shoulders rigid until you hear an "enter" from the other side.

when you step in, letting the door softly click shut behind you, makarov lifts his head from the papers on the desk in front of him. you don't move immediately, standing with your back pressed against the smooth wood, your eyes flitting around the neatly-kept space before meeting his.

before you can say anything, he lifts a hand to stop you, bringing your attention to the phone next to his ear.

"i don't care about the weather, alexi," he mutters into the speaker, his focus never shifting from you. "you are leading a group of soldiers, not children, they can handle a storm. communicate the old-fashioned way if you're so worried about signal issues." he continues.

you awkwardly linger in your spot, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. his jaw tenses as his gaze narrows, and for a moment, a small part of you worries that the ire might be directed at you for intruding at an inconvenient time.

"i can come back," you whisper, hand already reaching for the knob behind you.

"stay." he replies, making you freeze. "no, not you, сволочь— just deliver the gas according to the schedule. i won't accept anything later than that." he grumbles into the speaker before hanging up the call and dropping his phone onto the papers, sighing heavily and moving to rub the fatigue from his eyes.

gas? as in, the chemical gas you saw in al-mazrah?

"pleasant conversation?" you tease, earning a pointed glare.

he stands from his chair with a soft groan. "what are you here for?"

you step further into the room, watching as he circles around the desk to meet you in the middle. "not sure. care to educate me on the gas you were talking about, though?" you smile, folding your hands in front of yourself.

makarov eyes you down, scrutinizing you, but gives in after a brief staring contest that you arguably win.

"after we succeed in urzikstan and the kremlin realizes what must be done, we will move on to their allies." he begins, speaking slowly. "my soldiers are making the preparations as we speak, planting it within each target nation."

as he continues, that prior feeling returns tenfold, and you mutter, "the gas used in al-mazrah and vondel?"

he nods, unchanging, even as your expression freely gives away the unease and anger steadily building under your skin. "exactly that. this is just the first step."

there's an emotion on his face, something haunting that makes your chest tighten. total apathy, as if the consequences of his actions mean nothing to him. they don't, your reasonable side is well aware of that, but the sheer wrongness of the situation nags at you, pushing you to try to prevent it in whatever ways you can.

"okay, i know you don’t care about innocent lives being lost," you start, crossing your arms over your chest. "but, i do. i'm not going to stand by and watch you destroy the world over some... bullshit hunt for glory! if you use that gas, i'm backing out." you assert. he steps back from you, creating a comfortable distance.

"i thought you were here for a reason, petra. unless, you've changed your mind?" makarov asks with a curious lilt, turning to face away from you.

your arms drop to your sides as your hands clench into fists. "we both know how deadly that gas is – it can kill millions. i'd rather take my chances with the government than assist you with that."

makarov hums in acknowledgement, standing in front of his desk now, and you watch as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey and empty tumbler sitting near the edge.

"are you seriously pouring yourself a drink right now?" you pause your rant, positively fuming while he pours the liquid into the glass. is this all some kind of fucking joke to him?

"i find it easier to listen when i have a drink," makarov replies. he produces a second glass and fills it up, before turning back to you. "but, you do raise a fair point, lieutenant. these plans can be delayed a little while longer." he says, holding it out to you in offering.

you take the glass slowly, confused. "just... like that? so easy?" you hesitate, distrustful— for good reason, too.

the amber liquid swirls in makarov's glass when he moves his hand, dismissing your concerns. "there are still steps between now and then. having you as an ally is far more important in the present."

"wh... just like that?" you parrot, gawking at him when he hands you his glass and walks past you, heading to the door. you spin on your heel and stare at the back of his head as he twists the knob and swings the door open.

he barely acknowledges you when he waves over his shoulder, again, dismissing it. "don't spend too much time on it. focus on the situation in the present."

as he disappears into the corridor, leaving the door to the very private room wide open behind him, you're completely dumbfounded. you came to him for answers; instead of getting that, all you have are more questions.

focus on the situation in the present.

it just sounds like a long-winded way of saying, "direct your anger at anyone but me."

from a tactical standpoint, it's hard to disagree. you're allies with this man, even if it is temporary. no matter how harsh his methods and unreasonable his beliefs, you'll have to learn to tolerate it. your eyes fall to the untouched glasses in your hands, then to the desk behind you, and finally back to the door.

"what the hell have i gotten myself into?"

translations:

сволочь (svoloch) - bastard

taglist: @sofasoap, @roosterr, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @thorrsexual, @miss-nob0dy, @woodeelf, @fbs-fc-ur-mommy, @soap-mactavish, @itsyellow, @johfaam0, @cumbermovels, @chxe-zdechnac, @imagineswritersblog, @emorgz33, @sparda-ly, @ponyboys-sunsets, @frazie99, @chensipstea, @thriving-n-jiving, @preciouslittlecreature, @infinitewhore, @jade-jax, @caramlizedtomatoes, @ohworm-writes

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist! (18+ only please <3)

[starker-raving-mads]

For You: Part I

This is for @spiderlinging who decided this level of angst needed to exist.

Have thoughts on a follow up, unsure if I'll do it.

Edit: decided to make this multi-parted.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX

›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹

It had been a week since the last battle with Thanos. A week since the Blipped had returned everyone, a week since Peter awoke to Dr. Strange leading him through a portal straight into battle.

A week since Tony died.

It's all Peter can think about. The only thing he can think about. Not how traumatizing two battles back to back was, not the chaos and insanity of war, not even of how happy he should be that May and Ned and MJ are actually okay.

Instead, it's Tony, Tony, Tony. His thoughts had revolved around the older man for years now, so it wasn't new. But normally it was excitement, arousal, anticipation, joy. Now, though, it's hugging him as he felt like he was being ripped apart by the Blip. The joy of finding him and being dragged to him in a fierce hug, mid-battle, the billionaire's hands running through his hair. His voice, soft and full of this sort of grieving happiness.

"Peter," he'd said, "oh god, Peter."

And finally it was Mr. Stark's face as he sat dazed against a piece of wreckage amidst the chaos. How blank his eyes were, how little of the man was left, barely hanging on.

That face haunted his dreams, the emptiness filling up his nightmares.

And now here he was, at a lake house he could've never seen Tony living in, with people around him crying and mournful. Like they'd lost a friend when Peter felt like he'd lost a limb. Like his whole heart was being shoved out onto that lake with the last part of Tony Stark he'd ever get to see. Behind him, Happy was talking quietly to Morgan, Tony's kid - Peter's goddaughter, apparently.

He never knew you could make a dead person a godparent before, but there's a lot of things Peter never knew.

Like the thing is - Peter thought he knew grief, knew loss. His parents when he was a kid, Uncle Ben just after he'd gotten his powers. These were huge, space-taking people in his soul but losing Tony? Losing Tony was worse than anything he'd ever experienced before. He felt bad about it, sometimes. Because shouldn't his family have been the ones that meant the most, hurt the most? But then again, Tony had been everything. He'd always sort of thought he loved Tony in the way someone might love an idol, like his feelings were somehow offset by hero worship and being a teenager but it was so much more than that.

It might've started off that way, but after years of knowing him, being his friend through tough times and glad ones - it morphed along the way without him really noticing it. Got deeper, got more meaningful with every lab session and every time Tony said, "Just stay the night kid, you know where your room is. Aunt Hottie doesn't need to be woken up at 3AM with you coming home anyway."

The teen thought he'd cried every ounce of pain from him in the week since the battle, but as his eyes misted up again, he turned and headed around the back of the cabin. It was empty of people on this side and he slid down in the corner where the porch extruded out of the building. Hands covering his face, barely aware of the rotting, damp leaves under him. He just needed a minute to get it together. Just one minute and he'd -

A sound of footsteps approaching, light ones, made him stand back up again and wipe his face free of tears. He knew from experience that his eyes would be a horrible red against how pale his skin was, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Around the corner came Pepper in her funeral clothes, looking at him blankly. It was clear she'd been looking for him but he couldn't figure out why. They just stared at each other for a second, neither moving, and as the moments ticked on he got increasingly uncomfortable and awkward around this powerhouse of a woman he'd never really spent time with.

"Sorry, I just needed to step away for a - "

"He did it because of you, you know," she said, voice as neutral as her face. He blinked at her.

"I'm sorry, what - ?"

"He did it for you." And there was the anger. Her face transformed with it, skin flushing a red that clashed with her hair in a way that was still, somehow, beautiful. It was easy to see why Tony picked her out of everyone. Before he could say anything, she continued. "He told me," she said, tears clouding her voice, nose stuffing up with emotion, "that he'd figured it out. Figured out how to save everyone."

She laughed and it was the most hateful sound he'd ever heard. Shaking her head, smiling in a way that said 'fed up', she said, "But I knew. I knew he didn't do it to be the savior of humanity. His ego was always big, and he was always willing to sacrifice if he thought the price was worth it." She stopped again and stared at him, face contorting.

"He saved a lot of people," Peter agreed, spidey-sense screaming at him and he didn't know why. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt like he was being bombarded. It was nauseating.

"He didn't save people, Peter," she screeched, stomping toward him, hand fisted around a cloth handkerchief, finger pointing at his face. "Tony's ego was always enough to think he could save the world," she continued, voice as mad as a wolf's growl, "but he didn't do it for them. He did it for you." She hissed out, "He kept your picture in the kitchen and just stared at it - all the time! Stared at it like you were some missing part of him and if he just looked long enough you'd reappear." She laughed again, rolling her eyes.

Behind her, a crowd was appearing. Sam and Bucky first, eyes scoping out the situation like the heroes they were. Then Happy, peaking around. The other teenager - Harley, Peter remembered - was further back, near the trees, watching with a ducked face, riveted.

"Tony saved the universe," she agreed, voice even more watery. "But he didn't do it for them - he did it for you." She had moved forward enough now to jab her finger into his chest. "He could've killed everyone with his stupid time travel bullshit," she spat, jabbing harder. "He could've undone reality with it, he could've made it to where Morgan never existed." She sobbed and the anger started to drain from her, head bending. "But it didn't matter as long as he got you back." She sobbed again and as much as his heart was rending itself atom by atom by what she was saying, he couldn't fault her anger, her rage, her sadness.

He stepped forward and she dropped onto him, letting him hold her weight up as she continued to sob.

"He did it for you."

And Peter had never heard anything worse in his entire, fucked up existence.

How was he ever going to live with himself now, knowing this.

How?

[haastera]

Call me Absolutely Insane if you Wish

....but is Lizzy trying to set V and Thad up on a blind-date in this scene?

We've only heard Lizzy call a single person her "bestie". V.

The last time we saw Lizzy was in Ep4 where she repeatedly commented on N and Uzi's growing relationship, telling V that she found it gross and thought V was too good for N.

Now she's taking Thad to N, V, and UZI's ship, with whatever they are doing being related to a secret friend of Lizzy.

Her reason for all of this is because she's a good friend and secrets are blackmail.

The secret Lizzy is referring to could be V's feelings for N, and she's trying to be a good friend by setting V up with the most attractive and popular male drone she knows.

Alternatively, perhaps LIzzy knows a secret about Thad and is using that as blackmail to make Thad agree to her plan despite not knowing what is in store for him.

Lizzy is texting someone on her phone the entire time, and we see her first reaction to watching N, V, and Uzi's ship being destroyed is to take a picture of the wreckage and send it to someone.

Perhaps sending it to V, likely not knowing she's currently MIA.

She also mentions that J arriving in Tessa's ship is related to what she's looking for. J was V's squad leader.

As I said before Nori and V are the only two candidates I can think of, but none make perfect sense.

[ebonyforged]

★ New verse: Empty throne. 8+ years post-amnesia. Request only. Plotting required.

( Canon purists will want to look away. )

𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖆 𝖋𝖊𝖜 𝖞𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊. . .

After a powerful attack at the Demon King’s very core by a force unknown, Mundus is no more. His human form shrivels and turns to dust with no one around to bear witness, demons relying on his leadership are left aimless and confused, and Limbo is suddenly without a leader. It cries out, quickly growing unstable without someone in control after such a long time. It’s unprecedented for someone’s rule over any part of it to have lasted for nine millennia, and so is the reality that the power vacuum left behind threatens to do irreversible damage to the thin barrier between it and the human world. For the first time, its very life is threatened, and with it the lives of every living being on Earth.

In its desperation, it presents to Ebony a gold ring.

She’s not powerful as Mundus was, merely a lost demon who remembers less of her own life than Limbo could recount to her if it wanted. But she’s there, at the right place at the right time, and the ease with which she has always passed through the veil proves one thing: She’s compatible.

And she has to accept, or this desperate search for a replacement will find someone else who sees only power.

The ring fits her perfectly. Limbo silences all at once, the Weapon now suddenly a Master — but she doesn’t want the title of QUEEN. The dimension is alive, its reaching out to her proves it, and Ebony has no desire to manipulate something that already has a will of its own.

So she crumbles Mundus’s throne, basks in the silence for a minute or two, and goes home. No one knows what really happened to the Demon King. No one but her knows that, for a short moment, Limbo was reaching out to find any willing soul who could readily take his place. Maybe no one has to know. As long as Limbo has someone to call its ‘ruler’, someone to fill the vacancy while 9000 years of influence and corruption slowly fade away and Limbo becomes a blank slate once more, maybe that’s enough.

                              𝕴’𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖉 𝖆 𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖊.

[itsmeatballworld]

| just a dream |

summary | Bucky and reader are neighbors in Brooklyn. When reader has a spicy dream about the broody man, it sets off a series of events that ignites something in both of them.

pairing | bucky barnes x f!reader

wc | 6k [pls I got carried away]

warnings | smut & fluff babes so 18+ ONLY. Cursing, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, p in v (no condom mentioned but pls wrap it up irl), lots of praise kink, handjob, cock warming (if you squint). If a one-shot could be a slow-burn romance, here it is.

a/n | set during tfatws. I posted this on my ao3 account originally, so here it is on my tumblr account!

Minors DNI, 18+ ONLY [again, 18+ only] Minors, Do Not Interact.

dividers by @/firefly-graphics 

The shimmer of moonlight illuminated the small space in an ethereal glow. Below the bedroom window, a messy bed was littered with pillows. Pictures hung on the walls to hide imperfections laced throughout the simple paint color. 

And you were standing among the wreckage of clothes stripped off your body one piece at a time.

Your hand played with the fabric of your panties, watching the tall masculine figure waiting in the darkness for your next move.

You flicked your tongue. “Your turn. Jeans first.” 

On command, a pair of jeans landed at your feet as proof of his contribution to the clothing pile. 

“Now the shirt,” you said. A hum escaped your lips as you unhooked your bra. You waited until his shirt, now crumpled in a ball, fell to the floor. 

He was nearby, hidden by the darkest part of the room where moonlight failed to highlight his handsome features. 

“Lie back,” his sultry voice demanded.

Bare legs brushed the edge of your bed as you pout your lips. “What’s in it for me, Sergeant?” 

He stepped closer to your scantily dressed body, as only your underwear remained. “Lie back and find out.” 

A grin plays at your lips before you tossed yourself down, burying yourself in the silky sheets. 

Through the dark, it was hard to see him but it was clear he had you in a trance. 

The bed creaked under his weight as he moved closer. “Can I touch you?” 

“Yes,” you mewled, nearly squirming from the never-ending tightness in your lower belly.

You needed him. Wanted him. 

Callous hands gripped your ankles. “Can I taste you?” 

Your breathy voice sputtered out ‘yes’. 

Instantly, his head lowered into the only sliver of moonlight over the bed. His blue eyes were the first thing you always were drawn to. Bright and clear like the sky on a spring morning. But woven throughout were waves of steel, silver, like a shadow trying to dull his brightness. Chiseled jaw with stubble. Short brown hair that clipped perfectly around his face. 

“Bucky!” Bucky Barnes, your neighbor who just moved into the complex, was the only person you wanted in this world.

Those blue eyes drop to your body. 

“Bucky.” 

Fingers trailed up to the band of your panties and within seconds they were gone. “Impatient as always,” his sweet laugh seemed to take on a hint of something hot, something feral. 

“Mhm.” 

His head dipped between your legs. “Baby,” Bucky gripped your thighs as his tongue slid across the softest, most inner part of your skin. “I’m gonna make you feel good. Just like that,” he coaxed as your knees spread to allow him complete access. 

“That’s my girl.” 

Your head dropped back against the bed at the sheer sound of his raspy, honey dipped voice – You snapped your eyes open. 

Sweat pooled at the back of your neck. Sheets tangled between your legs, twisting around into a woven knot. Your hands fell to the thumping rhythm in your chest. 

“Fuck, fuck…” you cursed between pants of air. Like the world was crashing down on your chest, you couldn't breathe. 

Bucky. Bucky. It felt so real. His skin on yours. His touch. His tongue. “What the fuck?” 

Bucky Barnes, your neighbor, who you talk to in passing since he moved in. He was very attractive, you couldn’t deny that. And now you’re having sex dreams about him. 

He was quiet and removed, most likely because of who he used to be: the Winter Soldier.

People whispered about him in the complex, sharing secrets on the elevator. I heard he’s killed thousands of people. I heard he worked for Hydra and is still working for them. 

You ignored their stupid comments, knowing damn well he wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore. When those blue eyes looked at you it was clear that he was a wounded shell of a man trying to find himself in a new world, not some soulless machine. 

And those vibrant eyes carried into your dream. A dream that felt too real. 

You wobbled off the bed, which was easy considering you were inches from falling. Padding to the bathroom you jumped into a luke-warm shower. The more you scrubbed and washed the thoughts away the more you could feel him on your skin. Under your skin. In every inch of your mind. 

He was like a drug, lingering in your system. A drug you didn’t expect to be so potent. It’s just Bucky. He’s just some guy you met from across the hall. He’s a nice guy.

Maybe it was because you helped him not too long ago when he moved in as a “welcome to the neighborhood” greeting. Since then, you both have done little things for each other.

For one, you brought him muffins because he’d mention quickly how he likes blueberry sweets. It was a simple thing that offered no reciprocation. But then, he brought you a bunch of Japanese sweets that were out of this world amazing. And the little things kept on happening. Now, you chat in the halls and you look forward to it everyday.

Shit, maybe you were kind of crushing on Bucky Barnes. 

“UGH!” a frustrated yelp escaped your lips. The tile wall became a post to rest your wildly spinning head. 

No, this dream – these feelings – they were all just in your mind. Right?

He replayed the scene in his mind. Over and over, he circled back through the hazy nightmare. Blood. Bullets. Knives. He killed people, he knew it was him in those memories. It was his finger pulling the trigger, and yet it was like someone else did it. 

It wasn’t really him. It was what they made him to be. A monster. 

“—still having nightmares?” 

The question cut through his dissociative moment, but like a statue he kept still. His eyes focused on the corner where the tile met the molding. 

“James,” the woman pestered, “I asked you a question. Are you still having nightmares?” 

“No.” Bucky Barnes tipped his head back, staring up at the blank white ceiling above him. 

“James. I can’t help if you’re not being truthful with me.” 

He didn’t respond. He knew there wasn’t any way he’d get out of these mandatory therapy sessions. The longer he sat here, the less sanity Bucky could maintain. 

“Okay,” his therapist sighed wistfully, “no nightmares?” Her eyes burned into him. “Fine. Then let’s move on. Have you talked to anyone recently? Sam? That neighbor across the hall?” 

His eyes snapped towards the mid-aged woman. “My neighbor?” 

“Now don’t play dumb.” 

“I’m not—” 

“The neighbor who helped you.” He stared blankly at the therapist. She sighed, scribbling something in her notebook. “She fixed your radio—” 

“Gramophone.” 

Her pen moved as her eyes circled him, curiously. “A what?” 

“You know, a gramophone. A record player.”

The woman hummed and Bucky clenched his fist. He started to silently plot how he could escape the questions he was currently under fire for. He didn't want to talk about the nicest woman from across the hall. The kindest stranger with the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. He’d like to keep it to himself. 

“Well. This woman who fixed your gramophone is the same woman you mentioned,” she scanned the paper before wildly circling something, “knocking at your door with…muffins.”

He paused, contemplating her words. He’d be lying if he said he hasn't thought about his neighbor on more than a few occasions now. 

On the elevator, he’d nod when she said ‘good morning’. Another time, she knocked to tell him about the roofing construction in the complex that would start early in the morning. It was sweet of her to tell him, but Bucky never had the nerve to say he never slept so the noise never bothers him. 

She’s the one with the sweetest smile and pleasant conversation. He couldn't help but like her a bit more each day they interacted. Just last week, he walked with her up to their complex from the street. 

Although Bucky told that to his therapist, what he didn't say was how he knocked on her door with homemade dorayaki. It was a gift from his friend Yori but he wanted to share something sweet with the kindest woman he knows. 

But none of that would leave the confines of his mind. Instead, a snide smile seemed to match his tone. Bucky sighed, “boy did I say all that?” 

“James.” 

“Doc.” 

She groaned, clicking the pen again. The look on her face was something Bucky was used to now. The woeful stares and patronizing expression were a part of coming back from being the monster they made him into. The weapon of a man Hydra used at their disposal until he was no longer necessary–until he wasn’t a puppet anymore. 

“James, did you ever think of trying to make friends? It’s healthy to have people in your life.” 

He didn’t respond. Instead, Bucky focused on his black leather gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. The only person he wants to talk to is his neighbor.

Maybe the doc was right. Maybe he should be friends with her.

“Look, why don’t we start fresh next session,” the therapist sighed as the notebook dropped onto the side table. “Hopefully you’ll be more open and honest.” 

Bucky sighed, his tongue flicked over his teeth. “Sure, doc.”

The text message was very clear: be there in ten minutes. That was two hours ago. Either your date had a series of terrible events happen or he stood you up. You checked the clock again. 8:12pm. 

It was dark outside now and you could barely see past the street lamps on either side of the road. Tonight was the first of many real dates in a long time. Whatever the reasoning, whether it was no guy was good enough or you were just too terrified to put yourself back out there, you agreed to go out with the guy from work. He seemed nice enough. 

But your kindness was running short. He was late. Very, very late. 

Now it’s 8:16pm. 

Heels tapped impatiently as you sat in the lobby of your building. 

“Miss?” A deep voice called out from across the room. The night concierge peered over the desk. Coffee in hand, he raised his mug. “Sure you don’t want some?” 

“No, but thank you.” Your smile dipped. These past few hours you’ve been sitting downstairs with the sweetest concierge named Joe asking if you needed anything. He nearly handed off the homemade pupusas he had in his lunch bag after an hour of waiting. 

You sighed, tapping the screen until you reread his message again. Ten minutes. You typed out a quick response, again, hoping he’d at least –

The screen flashed to a new text. 

Your Date: Shit I forgot. Sorry. Rain check?

The screen went dark. Anger and sadness swirled through your body and there was no distinction between them. You were furious — and rightfully so. He forgot? He was acting as if he misplaced his car keys or left a sweatshirt at his friend's house. 

You stood up, mind racing, blinded by swirling emotions and – something hard bumped into you. You stumbled, grasping at emptiness until a strong arm grabbed ahold of you. 

“You okay?” Staring down at you, Bucky Barnes gawked. 

Those steel eyes froze you. “I’m fine…” 

He nodded, slowly helping you back up to your feet. You flattened your outfit into place as Bucky handed off your phone. “Thanks.” 

“Miss,” Joe called out. “Any luck?” The concierge tapped at his wristwatch. “If he was my son, I’d yell at him for keeping you waiting.” 

Bucky didn’t move from his spot near you. 

“Um,” you cleared your throat. “He’s not coming.” 

Joe slapped the desk, spinning in his chair. “Now that’s some grade A bullshit!” 

“It’s fine. I’ve got a pint of chocolate ice cream in the freezer calling my name.” You turned slightly to Bucky, staring anywhere but his eyes. The same eyes you dreamt about the other night. So instead, you fixated on his hands. The same hands you fantasized about touching you. His chest. The same chiseled and bulky body you’ve caressed in your dream— 

“Do you wanna go get some dinner?” 

Your face scrunched in response. “What?” 

“I was just thinking about eating at this diner down the block.”

“With me? You want to go out to eat with... me?”

“I’m asking, aren't I?”

“You’re talkative tonight,” you chuckled.

There was a spark in those mysterious eyes. Maybe it was because he asked you out or maybe it was because you were actually going to say yes.

“I’d love to.”

One month later.

Bucky ducked down. 

“Right there, no on the left–” 

“My left?” 

“Yes,” you laughed. He reached lower until you nodded with approval. You clasped your hands together as he brought the next round of vinyls over. 

The small office in your apartment was converted into a book/music room where you housed everything in messy but surprisingly organized stacks. Rows and rows of bookshelves kept your things lined neat enough to tell the difference between albums and novels. A dresser sat across the shelves topped with the record player and lots of random things you owned. Opposite that was a small loveseat you dragged back to the apartment from a flea market. 

It has been a month since your dinner dates started. Neither of you said they were real “dates”, but both of you secretly felt like it.

Every Friday night (and a few Saturdays too), Bucky knocks on your door and walks you to a restaurant. A cute little Italian bistro or a modern Thai restaurant in the midst of old school Brooklyn. Then, it was back to your place for music, movies, and pure enjoyment of another person’s company. 

Each night has been more exciting than the last. And somehow in the midst of dinners and getting to know this solitary man, you felt it.

That spark.

It sounded stupid but it was real – that feeling you get when you fall in love. The butterflies and tingling when talking to him. The way he smiled made you melt. The goofy laughs and excited conversations about his obsessions. You were head-over-heels, mind numbingly in love, with Bucky Barnes.

And those feelings were getting harder to ignore. 

“Listen to this one,” you dropped the record player’s arm down. “You’re gonna love it.”

A soft melody echoed through the space and he nodded his head in approval. “Told you. It's a good album.” 

“Yeah, but I never heard of them.” He leaned against the dresser. 

“Never?” 

“No,” his eyes flickered from you to the album. The Bee Gees. His gloves were removed, piled on top of the mahogany colored wood. Stacks of vinyls towered over the old-school record player you owned. 

“Here, this is one of my favorites.” You yanked a record out from the stack and handed it to Bucky. “Take it home with you, listen to it, then tell me what you think.” 

His brows furrowed. “Why not now?” 

“It’s getting late, I don't want to bore you all night.”

“You’d never bore me,” Bucky said as he twisted the record. “I like being with you.”

Instead of focusing on him and those hands, and what he just said, you dove through the next pile of records.

/-/

When you looked away, he grazed his eyes down your body. He was infatuated with you. The way you moved, the way you smiled. Everything you did had Bucky’s eyes locked on you. It made him feel like he was going crazy. Maybe he was going crazy. He’s never felt so attracted to someone like this before. When he asked you to dinner, he chalked it up to trying to be friends. But that wasn't it. He liked you. He liked you but was too afraid to make a real move. 

So asking you to dinner after being stood up seemed like the easiest way to ask you out without putting himself out there. And every Friday for just over a month has been heaven and hell. He was ecstatic to take you out. To make you smile. To hear your laugh. 

But he was in hell—a hell centered around his paranoia. He doesn't want to lose you if he tells you how he feels. 

Shit. It was getting harder to ignore his feelings for you. 

Some time passed and you both wound up on the couch. Conversations came and went. They were silly topics and some things more personal. He let out a slow exhale. “I don't get it.” 

You sat up. “Get what?” 

“I don’t understand why you’re so nice to me. I know you know who I am… or who I was. I just can't understand how someone so kind and smart and–”

“I know a good person when I see one. Maybe it’s hard for you to see that you’re not a bad person. You’ve done bad things, most people have. But that soldier isn't the man who’s in front of me listening to music.” Your hand gently brushed his vibranium fingers exposed past the henley sleeve. “The past doesn't always have to define who you are today. If you know the bad stuff, understand the horrible things you've done, and you grow from it? You’re a better person than the rest of us, Bucky.” 

He didn’t move or speak. He just watched you as if your next move would be the one to level him down to nothing but ‘the real him’.

The real him—when he was just a dumb kid from Brooklyn heading out to fight for a war he knew little about. You saw him for who he was: wounded and broken, but not irreversibly damaged. You could see him for who he wanted to be and Bucky wasn’t ever going to let that go. 

“You’re something else,” he murmured your name like it was a prayer on his tongue. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

He lifted the vinyl. “Well I should head home. I’ll play this tonight,” he smiled softly.

/-/

That smile – Oh. Oh. You felt a rush of nerves and excitement through your body. 

“Thank you. Tonight was fun.” 

“I had a lot of fun too.” He was warming up to you. Or you were warming up to the cold, grumpy ex-Winter Soldier. 

He gave you one last smile but you were too in your head to realize. You liked him. You really, really liked him. Bucky was already out in the living room when you called for him. “Next Friday?” 

You wanted to do this again. More than Fridays. Many times. For dinner. Drinks. Anything. He sparked something in you that couldn't be put into words. Something unknown. Unfamiliar. Exciting. You wanted, no, needed more. 

He poked his head through the doorway. That light smile plastered across his face, warming his tense features. “Next Friday.”

One week later.

You polished off the last handful of popcorn. Bucky slumped against your shoulder as he tapped his fingers on his jean-covered knee.

“Okay you were right. I really hated that movie,” he turned to you with a dreamy expression.

“If you liked the Hobbit that much when it came out–”

“When it came out in 1937 it was a masterpiece.” He rested deeper into the couch as the credits rolled and it brought you back to the streaming platform’s screen. “Now that was poorly executed.”

Bucky could ramble on and on about his love for fantasy and science fiction and you would happily sit through every second of it.

“We should watch Princess Bride next.”

Resting blue eyes flicker to your face. “Game on,” he murmured with a grin.

“Need another drink?” You stood up and moved towards the kitchenette.

“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks.” He kept that sweet smile for most of the night. So you played vinyl after vinyl while making cookies. Then movie after movie. At two in the morning, you were wide awake and no matter what excuse you used, tonight was the best night in a long time. Barnes was a surprising man under all that stoic exterior. He was flirty. Goofy. A bit of a nerd. He was more than who he thought he was before.

“You’re staring.” Bucky stood to meet you. The lip of his shirt dropped over his exposed muscular mid drift, but not before you caught a glance at his defined abs.

You nearly choked when you remembered the abs you dreamt about the other week and how eerily similar they were. “I was just thinking about how late it was.” You turned and shut the fridge. “Maybe we should go to bed.”

We.

“Yeah, you’re right. We should go to bed.” He didn’t correct you either. A wave of excitement and nerves bundled inside.

“I’ll set up the couch in the office if that’s okay?”

“Fine with me,” he stretched again.

Carefully, you stepped into the book infested room to fix the cushions. “I had a lot of fun.”

“Me too.”

“Next Friday?”

He nodded, “next Friday.”

“Feel free to leave a note on my door if you need to switch out a vinyl.”

“A note? Like a love note?”

The flirty side that you’ve seen of Bucky was back. He was in this trance, watching you. He was mesmerizing but you continued fixing his bed. You moved towards the dresser in the room, opening the top drawer for blankets.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind,” you whispered.

“You wouldn’t?”

You shook your head. “I’d write back but don't expect anything poetic.”

“Well then.” Bucky leaned in, “guess I’ve got some writing to do.”

“Guess so.”

He was so close to you. If it weren't for his shirt, you’d be staring at his abs again. “What would you say?�� Your voice was so quiet.

“Hm?”

“In the note.”

“My love note?”

“Yeah.”

He kept that piercing yet warming gaze on you. “I’d say that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. You’re the kindest person to ever walk into my life. You look at me and I can’t help staring back. I’d say…you’re amazing. And that I’d be an idiot not to tell you. I’d be even more of an idiot not to show you how I feel.”

Those butterflies returned with a sense of urgency. Hot, twisting excitement buried deep in your belly as his rasping voice sucked you in. It wasn’t a matter of how you would tell him how you feel. It was a matter of when. And this was it.

“How would you show me?”

He stepped in close. “Show you how I feel…” he pondered the question. Searching his mind, Bucky seemed to be in a swirling pit of emotions in front of you. “If I was the old me, before everything, I would take you out to dinner.”

“Check,” you grinned. “Next.”

“Well, then walk you home.”

“Bucky, this sounds like any old Friday–”

“And I’d kiss you.” He was so close yet not close enough. You needed him. The dresser’s edge dug into your back as he stepped towards you again. “I’d kiss you softly so I could savor each second.”

Something hot and urging was burning through you. Then, his hand brushed against your wrist. “Is this okay?”

“Touching me?” Your voice felt heavy.

“Yeah. Touching you.”

Your breathing was rapid and deep, each inhale bringing you one second closer to smashing your lips on his. “Yes.” You were breathless. Then his arm brushed your hip.

“And then…what would happen?”

A wolfish grin crossed Bucky’s face. “Honey, we’d barely make it to the bedroom.”

Warmth rushed to your belly to the core of your body. You wanted to be held by Bucky. Kissed. Licked. Fucked. One more touch and you were sure there wouldn't be anything stopping you. And you were desperate for him.

“Touch me again,” you whispered. The wooden dresser dug into your back but the pain was so faint compared to the toe curling feeling Bucky gave you.

He loomed over you. Skin and vibranium trailed up your jeans until he clamped down on your waist.

“I’m a bit rusty,” Bucky whispered. “But I wanna make you feel good. Tell me if this is okay.”

You feverishly nodded, tugging at the henley he wore. “I want you. I need you.”

Those bright blue eyes darkened as something primal took over. His hips pin onto yours as his knee slides between your legs. You hitch a breath as he leaned into the movement. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip like he was thinking about his next move–contemplating his options.

“That so?” His mouth hovered above yours. Tentatively, Bucky squeezed your waist as his warm breath trailed down your cheeks.

You whined and inched closer until you kissed him. It was soft, just like he said. His lips danced with yours while those hands migrated up to your neck. He circled the delicate skin at your clavicle, tracing it back and forth.

Savoring every morsel of his kiss, you leaned in with a whimpering sigh.

He moaned in reply and twisted his fingers into the back of your hair. He pulled and angled himself so you were pressed more into him rather than the dresser.

“You’re… rusty?” you gasp between kisses.

“I used to be pretty good at this part.”

“Mhm,” you slid your hands down his chest. “I’ll say.”

Within seconds, you were straddling Bucky as he carried you down the hallway. He was strong. Never did you doubt the ex-winter soldier to carry you across your apartment. The man was multitalented.

He kissed you again, tugging on your soft lips with each step to the bedroom. You slide your hips down a little with the hopes of relieving the already budding ache. But it was his bulge that halted your movement.

Bucky pulled back, “shit. You feel that? You feel how hard you make me?”

A mewling moan escaped your lips and you pushed down onto his cock. “So fucking hard.”

He growled when you rutted against him. “Oh, God.”

You liked the way he quivered under your body as if your touch made him desperate to relieve his own ache. His arms pulled you closer, “Christ, I'm not gonna hold out much longer with you doing that to me.”

The bedroom door opened and closed with a quiet thump. His hand was firm on your ass while the other wrapped around your waist as he maneuvers through the pitch-black room.

You nudged against his stiff cock again. “Please.”

Without hesitating, he lowered you to the bed. Bucky dropped to his knees as your pants and underwear were tugged down instantly. It was all his pent-up excitement fueling this sleep deprived man.

As he made a move for your top, you pressed your hands against his chest.

Your tongue flicked between your lips. “Slow down, now it’s your turn. Shirt.”

He grinned, tossing the henley to the floor with your clothes. You pushed him back to admire his chiseled body. But you also couldn't help but stare at the scars. The vibranium.

Bucky moved with you on the bed and nestled between your legs. Any clothes left were tossed over the side, forgotten.

He kneeled above you, heavy eyes scanning your body. Every inch.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.” He dipped low, nestling himself fully between your opened legs. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

Tentative movements of his hands explored your body. His mouth drags hot, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thighs. Then, that mouth was on your pussy. Gentle and unsure, Bucky started to figure out what you liked. Understanding what wasn’t comfortable. But eventually, he had a handle on it.

He picked up on the way you twisted and pressed down. Sensing your love for his movements, he continued. Your hands gripped the short brown hair on his head. You gasped, “Bucky please.”

He rolled his tongue then flattened it, twisting and stimulating your sensitive clit. His vibranium hand slowly trailed up until it reached your breast. He squeezed as Bucky continued the same pattern over and over. Inching you closer to the inescapable height of your orgasm.

You whined, “oh. Oh, yes.”

“So good. Just like that,” his finger slipped inside. Then another. You bucked up as he curled and fucked you with his thick fingers. “You’re so tight,” he moaned into your pussy between licks. “Come on baby. Just like that.”

“Please,” your hand tugged his hair again. But he wasn’t relenting. Bucky’s fingers continued their rhythmic pattern in and out as his tongue lapped your clit. You cried out, “Fuck, baby—”

He rocked his hips into the mattress. You knew he was still so hard. The image of his hard cock and the feeling of him between your legs sent you over the edge. The throbbing sensation of your orgasm hit you like a train. You cried out, bucking under his weight. It was hot and fast, but you could still feel another orgasm begging for release once again.

His mouth slipped away from your throbbing pussy as he dragged his devilish tongue up your stomach.

To your happy surprise, his thick fingers stayed inside you. Slowly moving in and out as if he could feel your second orgasm building up quickly. His lips trailed to each of your breasts. He nipped at the sensitive skin before finally kissing you.

A breathy gasp escaped your lips. He was relentless with those fingers of his. He grinned, pinning himself against you. His hard cock pressed down on your stomach.

“Bucky.” Your hands traveled down. You squeezed.

Bucky’s eyes rolled back as a gasping moan left his lips. You squeezed again, rubbing up and down his cock already slick with his own pre-cum. “I can help you feel good too.”

He dropped his head, “but I’m not done with you yet.”

“I want to make you feel good too.” You squeezed his cock again. He nearly toppled over. “You deserve it.”

He moaned in response. “Yes, keep goin’ baby. Touch me.” His words were as hot as the room.

In that instance, he moved his thumb back over your clit. His fingers continued to thrust in and out. You grasp his cock again, watching the blue of his eyes deepen. You pumped him, but the stimulation was getting to you.

“S-shit,” you withered. “Fuck, I need you. I knew it the moment–” you gasp as his fingers curl up. “I-I knew it when we went out the first night.”

Breathless, Bucky propped himself up higher. His eyes roamed your body and how determined you were to make him cum with you. “Mm, that’s my girl, getting off at the thoughts of the first date we went on.”

“You looked so g-good.” You mewled, feeling the pinnacle of your orgasm again.

Bucky groaned as you flickered your thumb back over his tip. “What do you need?” It was a statement, a demand, not a question. He knew exactly what you needed. What you wanted.

“I need you.” His mouth found yours as he seamlessly screwed you with his fingers. The moment he brushed over your sore and aching clit for the last time, the spasm rocked over you. Waves of heat rolled over your body.

“Yes, oh, god yes!” It was earth-shattering but you needed more. It was obvious he needed more.

“Inside,” your hand continued to thrust his throbbing cock. He moaned as you squeezed his shaft, rubbing your thumb up the tip. He was not going to last much longer. “Inside me. Now.”

Those blue eyes widened and you opened your legs wider. Grabbing a small pillow from the bed, Bucky nudged it under your hips. He moved slowly as he aligned himself. His tip nudged at your opening.

Fuck, he was huge. No matter how many orgasms you had, his aching cock was bigger than you’ve ever taken.

“Tell me to stop if it hurts.”

He moved in, gently stretching your already relaxing muscles. You gasped as he pushed in a bit deeper.

Those blue eyes shot up to you, “I should stop–”

“No.” You lifted your hips and he slid deeper. You tossed your head back. “Keep going.”

You exhaled as he sunk down to the base of his cock. He pressed into you, leaning above by his elbow. The motions were slow and steady at first as Bucky found a solid rhythm again. You dug your nails into his back as he thrusted deeper. Harder. Faster. He was fucking you so deep, so good.

Bucky kissed you. His vibranium fingers found your clit once more. The sensations were too much to bear.

You cried out in pleasure as he groaned into your neck. Harder. Faster.

A third orgasm wrecked your body. The sensation of his cock slamming into you with the rub of his vibranium thumb on your clit sent chills down your spine. Twisting and writhing under his touch nearly had Bucky spilling over. He bared down on you, feeling every inch of your pussy tighten and throb. You mewled, “oh god yes. Fuck yes.”

When you were finished, he was close behind. It was like he waited for you. Hoping to please you first like he insisted the moment he kissed you.

Bucky slammed into you again and came with a breathy groan. “I knew you could take it,” he grunted, spilling inside as he leaned down to press his sweaty chest against your breasts.

“That’s it,” he moans. “S-so good to me. Take it.”

It was all too much. His body against yours, the feeling of him inside you. You were folding at his touch. With one final rut, he was finished.

Against the bed, Bucky collapsed into you. Both bodies were covered in sweat, panting like it had been the most intensive work out of your lives. He kissed your lips, not bothered to pull out.

He liked how he was still throbbing inside you.

“Wow.” He murmured your name, “That was…you’re amazing.” He brushed your cheek. “Was that okay?”

“Y-you’re kidding, right?” Your chest bounces as you laugh. It wasn’t intentional, but you couldn’t contain yourself.

Bucky lifted enough to see your smiling face and glossed over eyes. You looked drunk on him.

“What?”

“How the fuck are you rusty?”

His tight lips turned into a wide grin as he joined in on the laughter. “We made it to the bedroom at least,” he hovered above your body.

“Barely.”

You smiled. He kissed you. Pressed together, slick with sweat, you held each other tightly.

Sunlight danced across the bedroom leaving a rosy glow everywhere. You stretched, remembering the feeling of his skin pressed against your body.

Remembering last night. 

His kisses were hauntingly beautiful. Each time his lips brushed yours, it felt like parts of you were placed back where they belong. Like pieces of yourself had been missing for years and he was putting you back together. You’d never be able to forget the way he felt, the way he tasted.

His kiss would linger on your skin even after tonight because you knew that he was more than just a dream.

He was your reality.

Almost on cue, a strong arm draped across your waist and tugged you backwards.

“Morning,” Bucky yawned.

“Mm, morning. Want some breakfast?” You spot the time on your cell phone wedged onto the nightstand. “Or I guess brunch? I can make waffles.”

His fingers trailed the length of your body and you rolled over until his sturdy chest pressed to your front. “Waffles?” 

“Mmhm,” you nestled close. “Only if you want.”

Bucky refused to pull away. Every morsel of his being was tied to you, right here, right now. He smiled. “I do.”

“Perfect,” you grinned.

His pink tinted lips pressed against your temple as his vibranium arm tucked you under his body. Rolling over, he hovered above you. “I happen to make the best cup of coffee in Brooklyn.”

“Well, it just so happens that I love coffee.” You leaned into his embrace as his lips met your eager mouth.

Neither of you moved from bed.

And it was perfect.

-xx-

-xx-

a/n 2.0 | thanks for indulging in my chaos <3

[celandeline]

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (26)

We fuck three times, and by the end of it, I’m completely exhausted. Exhausted enough that it takes the slamming of a door to rouse me from my slumber. The sun is high in the sky, streaming through the window onto the bed. Farleigh’s head rests on my chest, one of his arms slung around my waist. He startles awake as well, lifting his head up to blink blearily at me. 

I sit up, my spine cracking from the movement. “Jesus-” My head pounds, and the light stings my eyes. “What time is it?”

“No idea.” Farleigh’s voice is raspy. “Who-?”

Another door slamming down the hall interrupts him. A voice drifts through the walls - a little frantic, a little lost. “Felix?” Two more doors creaked open and then slammed shut again. A pair of heels click rapidly back down the hall - a sound I’ve come to associate with the house staff. 

The overwhelming sense that something is wrong washes over me. I’ve never heard a door slam in Saltburn before. I’ve never heard the house staff run either. Farleigh looks at me, and I know he’s thinking the same. 

I slip out of bed, and pull on a pair of boxers, and a Warped Tour tee shirt from two years ago.  Farleigh follows suit, pulling his clothes from last night off the floor and sliding back into them. I slip on a pair of flip flops, but Farleigh pushes on without any. He steps out into the hallway first, revealing the wreckage of last night. 

Glitter coats everything like dust, and streamers litter the floor. One of Venetia’s heels sits in the hall before her bedroom door. I peek into her room - empty. That’s weird - in the same way that the slamming doors is weird. If she’s hungover, she won’t get out of bed unless she absolutely has to. But her room is empty. 

“No V?” Farleigh asks, waiting at the top of the stairs. A pair of plastic fairy wings hangs from the banister, left behind.  

I shake my head, and follow after him, heading down the spiral steps. 

The entire estate is a mess. Forgotten drinks cover every available surface - any table with a glass covering sports a dusting of coke. Pieces of costumes are littered around - a butterfly shaped mask, a silver sequined skirt, a suit jacket, one of the cufflinks still in the sleeve. Farleigh and I pick our way through the mess, heading towards the library until I spot a head of bleach blonde hair through the window. 

I stop, grabbing his arm. “It’s V.”

He leans back, following my gaze out into the yard. We watch as Venetia stumbles through the mess, frantically searching for something. 

Farleigh and I break into a run at the same time, dashing to the nearest door. He jumps down the stone steps into the grass, and I follow. It’s like she’s in a world of her own - she doesn’t even see us until we’re standing in front of her, and even then her eyes still shift around, frenetic. Something is really really wrong. 

I place one hand on her arm, and the other cradling her cheek. “Are you okay?”

“What’s going on?” Farleigh asks. 

“It’s Felix.” She says, fast enough that she almost trips on the words. “No one can find Felix. No one’s seen him since last night, and it’s been hours since Mum and Dad started looking and no one’s found him yet.”

“Oh fuck.” Farleigh’s voice is strained. 

A spear of panic strikes through me. “Have you tried calling him?” I ask.

Venetia nods. “He won’t pick up. Or his phone’s dead-”

“Okay.” I say. “Where have you already looked?”

The sun rises higher in the sky as Farleigh and I join in the hunt, scouring the grounds that haven’t already been combed through. We sprint down to the tennis courts, we sift through the tall grass of the field, Farleigh climbs onto the roof. The more places we look to no avail, the heavier the panic sets in. We’re running out of places to look. 

Venetia is beginning to sound hoarse from shouting. “Felix?”

Farleigh pushes his hair away from his forehead, wide eyed and frantic. “Fuck. Fuck.” His gaze falls on the lake. “You don’t think-”

He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence before we’re all running towards the lake, splashing into the water. Sweeping my arms in great circles under the water, I start feeling around for anything that might resemble a human body. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. 

Doing the same, Farleigh still shouts. “Felix?!”

I paddle farther out from the shore, and take a deep breath before I submerge myself completely, sinking to the bottom and churning up the mud as much as I can, primed to feel for skin or hair or those golden angel wings he was wearing. I stay under the surface for as long as I can, until my lungs are screaming. I burst through the water to screams of Felix’s name. I take a few breaths, and blink open my eyes. On the balcony, a figure in a red dressing robe, the kind Felix wears to breakfast sometimes, stands, surveying the chaos. For a moment, my heart leaps and I think it’s him, but then I really look, and he’s too short, his hair too dark. 

It’s only Oliver. 

I take another deep breath, and sink back down beneath the lake, blindly searching for anything that could be Felix. 

This time, when I come up for air, all I hear is a blood-curdling scream. 

As fast as I can, I swim back to shore, and haul myself out of the lake, sprinting after Farleigh and Venetia as they take off towards the maze, following the sound of the scream. Something is terribly wrong. 

I don’t think I’ve ever run as fast as I am now, tearing after Venetia, having overtaken Farleigh easily. I don’t know the maze, but she does, and it isn’t long until path opens up into the center, the minotaur staring down at us as we stumble to a stop. 

I see Elspeth first. Her face is devoid of color, gaunt and drawn. She looks like she’s about to vomit, or cry, or both. She doesn’t even seem so see us as we arrive, even though we run right past her. 

In front of me, Venetia stops so suddenly that I almost run into her, her gaze cast down. For a moment, she’s frozen, and then she sobs, collapsing. On instinct, I grab her before she can hit the ground, and follow her gaze. 

Felix, face down on the ground, his angel wings still on. I’ve never seen a dead body before, so I’ve got nothing to compare him to, but somehow I still know he’s dead. 

Farleigh stumbles in after us. “Oh my god.” He chokes. 

Venetia clutches at my arms as she sobs, nails ripping into my skin. I can’t feel it. I don’t care.

James staggers in next, shadowed by Oliver, still in Felix’s robe. I can’t bring myself to look at their faces as they take in the scene. 

James is the first one to touch the body, laying a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Darling, darling boy. My darling boy.” He turns to look at Oliver and Farleigh. “Help me move him. We need to get him inside. Get him warm.”

Venetia’s sobbing so hard that she’s hardly breathing, only taking big lungfuls of air every thirty seconds so she can keep crying. I hold her as best as I can, despite my urge to vomit as I watch James try to lift the body by himself. 

“We just need to get him warmed up.” He continues, matter of fact. “Felix, darling, where's your jumper?.. Where's your jumper?” He looks back to Oliver. “Come on now! Help me!”

Farleigh sounds utterly broken. “I don't think we can move him, James. I think the police-”

Elspeth finally moves, running her hands along the sides of her legs. “Yes. Yes. Come away, darling… It's nearly lunch.”

In a trance, James backs away. “Yes. Lunch.”

I get a look at the body - Felix’s - face as he moves away. It doesn’t look like Felix. 

&lt; previous part | next part >

[its-avalon-08]

charles leclerc x reader part6

themes

enemies to lovers redbull v/s ferrari female driver overprotective max and checo spice maybe??

Chapter 6 - Flames and Unsaid scars

It was race day and the drivers were driving better than ever. Y/N in a particularly daring turn was pushing her car to the limits. The desert sun beat down on Las Vegas, but the heat paled in comparison to the inferno raging on the track. Y/N, a comet of silver and blue, was locked in a fierce duel with George Russell for third place. They touched wheels, a sickening screech ripping through the air, before Y/N's car lurched, spun out of control, and slammed into the barrier.

Flames erupted from the sleek car and the track went silent. Whizzing cars were passing by as the fire grew in size.

Panic erupted in the Red Bull garage. Christian Horner's face drained of color as he hammered the radio button. "Y/N, Y/N, respond! Are you okay?" "IS Y/N OKAY? CHRISTIAN IS SHE OKAY?" Max yelled into his radio. Checo whispered a prayer as he tried to contact his race radio.

Static. A chilling, deafening silence. Max and Checo, still in the race, wrestled with their emotions, their focus torn between the track and the unfolding drama.

In the Ferrari garage, the air hung thick with dread. In his own whizzing car at P2, Charles, his heart pounding like a trapped bird, clutched his radio, his voice trembling with desperation. "Is she okay? IS SHE ALIVE DAMN IT SOMEONE ANSWER ME."

Then, from the fiery wreckage, a miracle. A figure, shrouded in flames, emerged. It was Y/N, her helmet cracked and singed, her racing suit smoldering. But she stood, defiant against the inferno, a phoenix rising from the ashes.

For a moment, the entire race froze. Drivers and mechanics alike gaped in stunned disbelief. Then, a collective gasp broke the silence as Y/N, overwhelmed by the smoke and heat, stumbled and fell. Charles stopped his car with sudden brakes and leaped out.

Medical personnel, already on the scene, swarmed her. Charles, was the first to reach her. He knelt beside her, hands shaking as he checked for injuries.

"Y/N, Y/N, can you hear me?" he pleaded, his voice hoarse with fear.

Y/N, her vision blurry through the cracked visor, met his gaze. Her lips, cracked and dry, formed a weak smile. "Charl…es," she rasped, her voice barely audible. "I'm… okay."

Relief flooded Charles' face, washing away the fear that had gripped him. He gently touched her cheek, his fingers tracing the soot and grime. "Don't you ever do that again," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N, her eyelids fluttering, squeezed his hand. "Promise me… you won't… give up… on me," she whispered, her voice fading.

Charles, tears welling up in his eyes, leaned down and kissed her forehead, a silent vow etched in the desert heat. "Never," he murmured, his voice raw. "Never, Y/N."

As the medics loaded her onto the stretcher, Charles remained beside her, his hand clasped in hers. He watched as she disappeared into the ambulance, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air: he would protect her, no matter the cost.

The race resumed, but it was a hollow victory. The cheers of the crowd seemed muted, the energy drained from the air. For everyone, the image of Y/N emerging from the flames, a phoenix rising from the ashes, would forever be etched in their memories. It was a testament to her resilience, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, hope can flicker, defiant and bright.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the desert sky in fiery hues, Charles knew one thing for sure: this wasn't the end. It was just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a journey forged in fire and tempered by a love as fierce as the flames that had almost consumed Y/N, and as unyielding as the woman herself.

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

Eight days post-crash, the air in Monaco crackled with unspoken tensions. Max, ever the fierce protector, had transformed into a mother hen, hovering around Y/N like a guardian angel with a clipboard of rules. Charles, on the other hand, had retreated into a shell of silence, haunted by the echoes of his own past and the near-death experience that mirrored his own childhood trauma. They had not spoken since the hospital, too afraid to recognize their feelings.

Y/N, though physically recovering, bore the invisible scars of the incident. A jagged line, a brutal testament to the fire, stretched across her stomach, hidden beneath layers of clothing. This secret weapon, nestled against her inner strength, was the one thing stopping her from rejoining the grid. For Y/N, her scars weren't just marks of a past battle; they were a potential disqualifier, a threat to her dream.

One sun-drenched afternoon, a pool party at Max's villa served as a fragile truce between the Red Bull and Ferrari camps. Laughter rang out, punctuated by the clinking of ice against glass. But beneath the veneer of merriment, Y/N felt isolated, adrift in a sea of carefree faces.

That's when she crossed paths with Charles. He stood by the pool, his eyes shadowed, a stark contrast to the vibrant world around him. Their gazes met, a silent conversation unfolding in the space between them. It was then, as the sun glinted off the water, that Y/N noticed a flicker of recognition in his eyes, a reflection of the shared trauma that bound them.

With a silent plea, Y/N excused herself and led Charles away from the crowd. They settled under a secluded palm tree, the breeze whispering secrets in their ears. The air buzzed with unspoken fears and a mutual understanding that words couldn't quite capture.

As Y/N hesitantly lifted her shirt, revealing the angry red scar to the light, Charles' breath hitched. He saw not just the burn mark, but a warrior's badge, a symbol of the storm she had weathered. His eyes met hers, filled with a mixture of admiration and pain.

"Don't tell anyone," Y/N pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. "Not Max, not Checo, not anyone."

Charles nodded, his heart heavy with empathy. He understood the fear, the desperation to reclaim her life on the track. He, too, bore invisible scars, reminders of a battle fought and won.

He reached for the first-aid kit on the table, his movements gentle, almost reverent. As he applied the cooling ointment, his touch spoke volumes. It was a silent conversation, a language of shared pain and unspoken promises.

"How are you now?" Charles muttered. "Doing alright Charlie boy, you don't have to worry about me" Y/N replied with a weak smile. "Right, I don't have to worry about you when you have a fucking cut across your stomach." He replied, eyes burning with anger and concern.

Y/N's gaze softened as she said "Charles, I just need a few days to recover and if Max or Checo find out, they won't let me practice. I need to win because. I just need to." "I almost lost you cherie. I almost lost you and I don't even know what you are to me. I wont tell Checo or Max anything, but you best believe I'll be around to make sure you dont die again." Charles retorted with a shaky voice.

In that moment, under the dappled shade of the palm tree, their rivalry, their animosity, it all faded away. There was only this, this connection forged in fire, this understanding that transcended words. Y/N, leaning into his touch, found solace in his silent support, a promise of unwavering belief nestled against her wound

And as the shadows stretched long and the sun dipped below the horizon, a new chapter began. It was a chapter written in unspoken fears and quiet promises, a chapter where scars, both visible and invisible, became not reminders of battles lost, but symbols of battles fought together. The storm had passed, leaving behind a fragile trust, a bond forged in the crucible of their shared vulnerability. And on the racetrack of their lives, it was a bond that held the promise of healing, of victory, and ultimately, of love.