#🗡️. || A WORD IF YOU WILL ; ask & answered

[linagram]

Hiii! Don't know if you remember me, I send you Naomi and Asahi sketches once. I want to repeat how much I like your project and I'd love to draw more for it, but I miscalculated how much free time I have so it took some time (I was supposed to finish the second drawing two months ago or smth...). Anyway! I present to you: the goddes of Linagram, Andou Miki! (I wuv her) Same as last time, I tried to make it look more like Milgram style, this time with color even. Not sure how accurate it turned out, but I kinda like the result. Tbh at first I just wanted to make an art of her, but now looking at the composition and background style... Dunno I just think it looks like it shoud be a series of art of wardens... I really want to make it into a series, but not sure if I will be able actually do it Aaand I guess I kunda screwed up some of her design details (jokes on you, I coildn't even be consistent with her design in my own drawings lol), but it's too late to change anuthing so whatever In the end I want to wish you good luck with both T3 Linagram and Linagram2 development! Oh, oh, and I also want to ask something, but you obviously don't have to answer: are there any special gestures or facial expression traits that your characters (both prisoners and wardens and maybe even victims or side chars) have that you'd like to point out? Like Shun having closed postures or Kei smiling a lot even if it doesn't look like he feels like it? I suppose you've talked about this before, or maybe someone even sent you a similar ask... If it's true, I'll search it!

SHDJAJASJKSJSJ SHE LOOKS AMAZING THANK YOU SO MUCH!! (and yes i remember you!) i love her expression in the first drawing so much she looks like a tiny scared kitten.. (and she kinda is one) i really love the shading on the second one too it looks so much like the milgram art style!! (and it's okay i kinda forget things when it comes to my own designs too 😭)

oh and also i haven't received an ask like that before so here it is! so sorry i think it turned out a bit long ><

akio is one of the characters who has changed the most throughout the seasons. in season 1 (and before milgram), he usually had this kind of annoyed or more serious face expression (but i really like to make his expressions look like he's a bit nervous or even scared maybe? like he's just putting up a front..)

in season 2 he looks much more tired and traumatized for obvious reasons and he's supposed to look like he's in a lot of pain (and he is).

and in season 3, he still looks very tired, but i like to think that now he just kind of.. accepted everything that happened to him. akio doesn't think he'll be able to live that long even if he's able to leave milgram so 😔 akio's character arc is just a humbling experience took too far

aimi's an interesting case! she's actually a character who has the most consistent face expressions and by that i mean. she's literally almost never seen without a smile on her face.

like this art is the only exception??

but also, in season 1 the faces she makes are usually more sad or apologetic-looking! she also likes to do. The Thing with her sleeves

she still has some of that in season 2, but she starts to smile a bit more calmly and even confidently.

and in season 3? she's in her girlboss era!! she's much more confident now, her smile is more wide, she doesn't look sorry at all!!

but some of the art that is supposed to show her outside of milgram shows her having the same smile too.. like she started to look more "like a victim" only when she came to milgram.. huh..

shun is a fun character to draw because most of the time he's either supposed to look stressed (or like "physically he's here, but he's not here mentally") or he's supposed to look so confident that it's kinda scary considering his usual personality. i like to think that in season 1 he mostly looked like the former and started to act like the latter in season 2 only to act like the former again in season 3 because of his punishment.

like!! the difference!! also im not sure if it's easy to notice but when i draw shun i try to make his poses look a bit.. tense? i like to imagine his movements being a bit unnatural, almost like he's in pain or he genuinely doesn't know how to move or make certain poses. it also could be related to why he has his hands close to his face so often, it's almost like he's trying to check if he's real or not!

like aimi, naomi is almost always smiling and her expressions and poses are supposed to make her look like the "mom friend".

she also has her hand on her chest very often, to make her look more.. confident, maybe? like she's supposed to have this "don't worry i'll take care of it :)" vibe!

SHE IS LITERALLY STILL SMILING EVEN IN SEASON 3 it's just that her smile is more wide now and it's supposed to make her look more unhinged rather than someone reliable. like aimi, literally the only case of her having a different face expression is this art.

I HONESTLY CAN PUT KEI, EIKO AND RIKU IN THE SAME SECTION all of them are the smiley characters too but the way they act is a bit different.

kei's smile is supposed to show that there's something. Wrong with this man. like you shouldn't trust him. i'm also not sure if it's easy to see but kei often has this expression like he's looking down on someone. he's supposed to look all cool and when he's drawn with another character, he's almost always going to either look at them or look somewhere else, like there's another person that we don't see.

this is also one of the reasons why this art with him and someone who is (or was?) very precious to him is so important bc he's!! looking UP at the boy!! and he's not smiling!!

riku also likes to smile a lot but it's often supposed to look a bit. forced. it's like kei really believes that he's better than others and breaks when he realizes it's not true, meanwhile riku has the same belief about himself but he KNOWS he's not really special or unique, so he has no choice but to fake it until he makes it. when i draw riku, i always have this sort of rule (?) in mind: riku's smile is never sincere. he is always too worried about his image, popularity and reputation. he hates himself too much to be truly happy even for a moment. which is why him suddenly not smiling in his t3 art is so scary to me it's like.. idk, it's like he's too broken to even pretend to smile now..

eiko is very interesting bc unlike the guys she is a genuinely very confident woman! she doesn't have that many issues with her self-esteem, yes, she's a bit too much of a perfectionist, but honestly, she just has very high expectations from others and if we compare that to kei and riku's problems, that.. doesn't seem too bad to me. her expressions are also often supposed to look like she's laughing at someone or she's about to tell a joke or she's just being playful.

asahi's expressions are surprisingly hard to come up with when i draw him, so i usually just go with whatever i think is cute or shows his personality well. so most of the time he looks disgusted or angry, but i like to make his expressions adorable at the same time too! like akio, he also often looks a bit scared or stressed on the inside. he is also often seen chewing on something.

yurika is another character i find hard to draw when it comes to expressions and poses.. but that's also why i like to take advantage of her. reputation in the linagram fandom and i like to make her look a bit insane!! i get to go crazy with her poses too like girl get a snickers or something!!

and when she's not in a silly goofy mood she just looks kind of >:( i also have a rule similar to the one with riku: if yurika is smiling, her smile is usually fake.

tumblr pic limit is killing me we have to do the rest of this quick!!

reina is another character that changed a lot and if in season 1 she was usually seen smiling, she quickly dropped the facade after it ended and now she is only seen with a more cold and emotionless face expression. who knows, maybe she will smile again one day..

eiji, ironically, was supposed to have expressions and poses a bit similar to kei in season 1, but after it ended and the plot (and yurika) hit eiji badly, i can only imagine him looking more and more stressed with each day. the fact that he's actually similar to kei, but he can't pretend as well as he does..

miki is almost always seen being a bit sad or scared, and she only starts to smile more when season 2 begins and she starts embracing her role here. interestingly, her smile isn't supposed to look fake or forced, and it's actually more sincere compared to kei and riku. when season 3 starts, she lets her hair down and her eyes become more empty (same goes for eiji, who had "swirly" eyes in season 1 and the beginning of season 2) and her tone is more cold.

hinode is a bit.. too relaxed for a guard. he often presses a finger to his chin, like he's curious about something, he's always smiling and his smile is like.. you can't say it's sincere, but you can't say he's faking either. he also often has to lean on something or someone because he gets tired a bit too easily so he's usually seen either sitting or lying down and if he's standing, he's either leaning on a wall or someone's shoulder (usually miki's).

[mcskedrogue]

Tag Dump

[yokumirumerafan]

can i ask for demon slayers reacting on discovering their feelings to y/n and confessing to her?

Demon Slayers Realizing Their Feelings & Confessing to Y/N 💕✨

🔥 Hashira Reactions

🟢 Gyomei Himejima (😭 Overwhelmed with Emotion)

Realizes his feelings through prayer and deep meditation.

“Y/N… I feel as though the gods themselves have placed you in my life.”

Confesses with sincerity and devotion, holding your hands gently.

Might cry while confessing, overwhelmed by how deeply he cares for you.

“Even if you do not return my feelings, I shall always cherish you.”

🟡 Haganezuka Hotaru (💢 Tsundere & Awkward)

Realizes his feelings after you defend his swords from getting insulted.

Spends DAYS grumbling and denying it before giving up.

Confesses aggressively like: “I LIKE YOU, OKAY? DEAL WITH IT.”

Forgets to actually wait for your answer and just storms off.

(Later peeks back, hoping you’ll say yes).

❤️ Rengoku Kyojuro (🔥 Loud & Passionate)

Realizes his feelings instantly—he’s not the type to be confused about love.

Watches you from afar with admiration, feeling his heart race.

Confesses with a booming voice: “Y/N! I HAVE FALLEN FOR YOU!”

Probably does it in public without hesitation.

“MY HEART BURNS FOR YOU LIKE A ROARING FLAME!” (dramatic but 100% serious).

💨 Sanemi Shinazugawa (💀 Denies It for the LONGEST Time)

“Tch. There’s no way I like them.” (Meanwhile, he’s glaring at anyone who talks to you.)

Gets jealous easily but won’t admit why.

The moment he realizes it, he freezes like his brain just short-circuited.

Confesses awkwardly, like: “Look, I—ugh—DAMN IT. I like you, okay?! Don’t make me say it twice.”

Blushes aggressively and looks away while waiting for your answer.

🌊 Giyuu Tomioka (🤨 Quiet but Sincere)

Takes a LONG time to realize his feelings.

He just thought you were "special" to him, but then Tanjiro was like: “Giyuu-san… I think you love Y/N.”

Confesses shyly, avoiding eye contact: “I… care for you. Deeply.”

Struggles to say the word ‘love’ but means every word.

“I don’t expect anything… but I wanted you to know.” (🥺💕)

💜 Shinobu Kocho (🦋 Teases You Until the End)

Realizes it quickly, but won’t admit it immediately.

Flirts with you constantly, watching your reactions.

Confesses playfully but seriously: “Oh my~ I think I’ve fallen for you. What shall we do about it?”

Smiles, but there’s a genuine softness in her eyes.

“You’re my favorite person, you know? I’d like to keep you by my side forever.”

🌿 Mitsuri Kanroji (💗 Pure & Excited)

Falls in love SO FAST.

Gushes about you to literally everyone before even realizing it herself.

When she finally figures it out, she screams into her pillow in happiness.

Confesses enthusiastically: “Y/N-CHAN!! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!”

Tackles you into a hug before even waiting for an answer.

🦋 Muichiro Tokito (😐 Oblivious Until It Hits)

Doesn't realize his own feelings for the longest time.

Notices that he thinks about you all the time and gets annoyed when others take your attention.

When he finally realizes it, he just stares into space like: Oh.

Confesses casually but sincerely: “I like you. I’d prefer if you stayed by my side.”

Doesn’t say much, but his gaze is so intense that you know he means it.

🐍 Obanai Iguro (👀 Shy but Devoted)

Realizes it when he gets irrationally protective over you.

Keeps his distance at first, scared of rejection.

Confesses awkwardly but sweetly: “I know I’m not… easy to love. But I want you to know that you have my heart.”

His face is completely red, and he can’t look at you.

“If you don’t feel the same, I understand. Just… please don’t leave.”

🗡️ Main Trio Reactions

🍃 Tanjiro Kamado (🥰 Gentle & Heartfelt)

Realizes his feelings gradually—notices how happy he is around you.

Blushes a lot whenever he thinks about confessing.

Confesses sincerely: “Y/N… I love you. You make my world brighter.”

Would probably write a heartfelt letter in case he messes up his words.

Holds your hands so gently, waiting for your answer with hopeful eyes.

⚡ Zenitsu Agatsuma (😭 Dramatic AF)

Falls in love with you IMMEDIATELY.

Screams and cries about his feelings to literally everyone except you.

Confesses in the most dramatic way possible: “Y/N, I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU! PLEASE MARRY ME!!”

Falls on his knees, clutching his heart like he’s dying.

If you say yes, he literally faints from happiness.

🐗 Inosuke Hashibira (😡 Clueless But Honest)

“Huh? Love? What’s that?” (Has no clue at first.)

Realizes he likes you when he wants you to be around all the time.

Confesses bluntly: “Oi. I like you. So you’re mine now, got it?”

ZERO hesitation. Just assumes you’ll say yes.

If you tease him, he’ll blush aggressively and yell: “DON’T MAKE IT WEIRD!”

[chaoticrockmusic]

all I want is you...

"ᴮᵃᵇʸ, ʷⁱˡˡ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵐᵉ? ᴮᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᴵ'ᵐ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ʰᵉˡᵖ ʸᵒᵘ ᴬˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘ ⁿᵒʷ, ᵃˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒʷ ᴵˢ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵃˡˡ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵃᵇʸ, ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ" ~ᴿᵉᵇᶻʸʸˣ

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⚓️ Monkey D. Luffy — "I just want you to be okay... okay, baby, alright."

You were the only one who didn't laugh when he shouted he was going to be King of the Pirates.

You looked at him with wide, glassy eyes, and nodded like it meant something more. Like he meant something more. You were the only one who ever looked at him like that.

The others never noticed how quiet you got after the battles. They did not see how you curled up on the deck, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the sea like it might give you answers. But he did. Luffy saw everything — even if he could not always understand it.

“Are you okay?” he had asked once, lips tugging down, unsure.

You blinked like you were surprised he noticed. “Yeah, Captain. I’m just... tired.”

You smiled after that.

But it never quite reached your eyes again.

He did not have words for how that made him feel — how your sadness curled around his ribs like a sea monster, heavy and tight. So, he tried harder. Pulled you into dancing when Brook played, dragged you into snowball fights on winter islands, left oranges by your bed when you forgot to eat.

He even gave you his last piece of meat once.

You laughed. Genuinely. Just for a second.

And he thought, Maybe I can fix this. Maybe if I stay close enough, long enough, loud enough... you’ll be okay again.

But one day, you were gone.

No note. No footprints. Just a jacket left on the rail, your scent already fading into salt.

Now Luffy stands at the edge of the Sunny most nights, straw hat clutched in his hand, whispering under his breath like a prayer he cannot quite name.

“I know what you want… Let me be the one to hold your hand forever...”

And the sea says nothing back...

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🗡️ Roronoa Zoro — "Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really you mean nothing."

Zoro has always been good at two things: fighting and silence.

Feelings? Not so much.

You came into his life like a flashfire — sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, loud and full of life in all the ways he never was. At first, you got on his nerves. Too many questions. Too many looks. Too many feelings.

But you stayed. Through storms, through bloodshed, through his worst moods and longest naps. You were there every time he opened his eyes, and eventually… he started looking for you.

He never told you that.

But he didn’t need to, right?

Except... you started asking. And that was the beginning of the end.

“Do you even care about me?” you asked once, after another close call — blood on your shoulder, adrenaline in your veins, and his voice still sharp from yelling your name in panic.

Zoro had stared at you too long, jaw locked, like the words were stuck somewhere deep in his throat.

“…Of course I do,” he muttered eventually, but his voice was distant. Like he was talking to a ghost instead of the person who had almost died in front of him.

You laughed. Bitter, quiet.

“That’s not enough anymore, Zo.”

You left that night.

You did not slam the door or pack a dramatic bag. You just… disappeared. No note. No goodbye. Just a silence that felt like a sword pressed to his throat.

Now he trains harder. Sleeps less. Bleeds more.

Because the ache in his chest? It is louder than any wound he has ever taken.

He swears he hears you sometimes, late at night — that little scoff you always gave when he got lost, the gentle click of your tongue when he drank too much. Maybe it is memory. Maybe it is madness.

But he talks to you anyway.

“You wanted a real answer?” he mutters into the cold air, voice rough. “Here it is — yeah, I care. More than I should. More than I know how to say.”

His fists curl. His swords stay sheathed.

“Tell me I messed it up. Tell me I pushed you too far. Just… tell me something.”

No reply.

Only the sound of wind and waves.

Zoro turns back to the dojo, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something he’ll never say again.

And in the dark, where no one can see him — not Luffy, not Sanji, not even himself — he finally let out a gentle sob.

______________________________________________________________

🍳 Vinsmoke Sanji — "You make me feel dirty. Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really, you mean nothing."

Sanji had always known how to play the part.

The flirt. The charmer. The perfect gentleman with a rose between his teeth and a cigarette between his fingers. But with you... that mask never fit quite right.

You saw straight through it.

And he hated how much he liked that.

You never swooned. You never batted your lashes when he called you "mademoiselle" or offered your favorite dessert on a silver tray. You always looked at him with something sharper — like you were searching for the man behind the suit, behind the smoke, behind the smile that trembled more than it should have.

“You’re not as good as you pretend to be, Sanji,” you said once, not out of cruelty — but truth.

He never forgot it.

He told himself he could change. That he wanted to. That maybe if he loved you right, if he made you feel safe and seen and special, you would never have to see the broken parts of him — the blood on his hands, the rage in his chest, the cruel voice of his father echoing in his skull every night.

But you saw it anyway.

You saw all of it.

And worst of all — you stayed.

Even when he pushed you away with a sharp tongue and clenched fists and long nights drinking too much and saying too little. Even when he called himself a monster, and you cupped his face and whispered:

“Then be a monster who loves me.”

He kissed you like you were salvation. Touched you like you were fire. Needed you like he was drowning.

And still, somehow, he ruined it.

He said something wrong — something cruel in a moment of weakness. You flinched. You left. And this time, you did not come back.

Now, his cigarettes burn down faster. His fingers shake over the cutting board. He makes dishes for you every night and throws them out uneaten.

The others stopped asking questions.

But he still talks to the kitchen walls like you are hiding in the corners.

“You make me feel filthy, you know that?” he whispers into the steam of your favorite soup, eyes red from smoke or something worse. “You make me feel everything I try to bury.”

The spoon clatters. His hands fall to the counter, shoulders shaking.

"Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me you hate me. Tell me anything... just—"

His voice breaks.

No one answers.

Just the soft simmer of something he will never serve.

“Just tell me you love me,” he breathes, softer this time, like it physically hurts to say.

And in the quiet of the galley, he stays alone — waiting for the door to open again, even though he knows it never will.

______________________________________________________________

🎯 Usopp — “I remember crying. I just want you to be alright.”

Usopp always told stories.

Wild, beautiful lies — the kind that made people laugh or roll their eyes or shake their heads in disbelief.

But you? You never laughed. You leaned in.

Every time he said something outrageous — “I fought a sea king with one hand tied behind my back,” or “My aim’s so good I could hit a fly on a cannonball” — you smiled with that soft, knowing look in your eyes.

“Tell me another,” you whispered once, voice small as you lay next to him on the deck, eyes on the stars. “Tell me the one where you save me, Uso...”

He did.

He told it a hundred times. A thousand.

Until one day, you needed saving — and he failed.

It was not some grand battle or dramatic fall. You had been slipping for a while — smiles growing quieter, footsteps growing softer, hands fidgeting with sleeves when you thought no one was watching.

But Usopp was. And he was terrified.

Because he knew all the stories in the world could not fix the shadows in your eyes. Could not fill the silences that stretched too long between your words. Could not reach the places inside you that even you seemed afraid to touch.

Still, he tried.

He made you gadgets. Left tiny presents in your hammock. Carved your name into a seashell and whispered into it, saying, “You’re not alone. You never were.”

He told himself you would be okay. Because the hero always wins in the end.

But then… you stopped coming to breakfast. You stopped meeting him on the deck. One day, he knocked on your door and found it open, the room empty.

Gone. No goodbye.

No final story.

Now, Usopp sits in the crow’s nest with his slingshot across his lap and swollen eyes that have not seen sleep in days.

He looks out over the sea, voice hoarse.

“I know I’m not the strongest. Or the bravest. Or the smartest,” he mumbles to no one, “but I would’ve tried. I was trying.”

He presses the seashell with your name to his chest like a talisman, fingers shaking.

“I remember crying,” he says. “I just want you to be alright. I don’t care if you ever come back. Just—just be okay. Please.”

But the sea doesn’t answer. It never does.

“All I need is you now,” he breathes, forehead against the window, as the tears come again. “All I want to do now… is wait for you to call for me.”

And he does...

Every night...

Even though he knows you never will...

______________________________________________________________

⚕️ Trafalgar D. Water Law — “Fix the holes in your heart, it’s what I wanted from the start.”

Law didn’t mean to fall for you.

You weren’t part of the plan. You weren’t like Cora — loud and chaotic and selfless — and you weren’t like Bepo or his crew, either. You were… soft. Not weak, but gentle in ways he didn’t know how to process. You didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t demand answers.

But you looked at him like you saw him — and that was so much worse.

You never flinched from the cold edge of his voice or the scalpel-sharp way he kept people at a distance. You stood beside him in silence, in storms, in sickbays soaked with blood that wasn’t always someone else’s.

And one night, after a mission that nearly killed you both, you found him on the floor of the infirmary — gloves off, coat stained, hands shaking.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You just knelt beside him and whispered, “Let me help.”

He told himself it was a one-time thing. That letting you touch the cracked, hollow places in his chest wouldn’t mean anything. That he wouldn’t get attached.

But then you smiled.

You made tea for him in the mornings.

You remembered his favorite food without him telling you.

You asked how he was when he was trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t anything at all.

He couldn’t stop it.

He didn’t want to.

So he gave you pieces of himself in silence. Little things. A book from Flevance. A quiet "goodnight." A rare smile when he thought you weren’t looking.

But love, for Law, was never soft.

It was surgical — precise, dangerous, bloody.

And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he began to treat you like a patient. Like something broken he could fix.

He didn’t realize it until the night you finally said it.

“I’m not something you can save, Law.”

You weren’t angry. You just looked… tired.

And he didn’t have the words. Not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that would make you stay.

So you left.

Not with malice. Not with drama. Just with silence. Just like everyone else.

Now, the sickbay is too quiet. The ship too clean. There’s no laughter echoing down the hall, no gentle knocks at midnight asking if he’d eaten.

Just Law, alone with his ghosts, staring at the hole you left in him — too deep to close, too old to ignore.

He’s operating in silence again. Gloves on. Scalpel steady.

But his hands tremble.

“To fix the holes in your heart, it’s all I wanted from the start... That’s all I wanted...” he mutters like a curse, eyes blurring.

He drops the scalpel. Covers his face with blood-streaked hands.

“Come back...” he whispers, so quiet it gets swallowed by the hum of the ship.

And no one hears it but the walls — and the sea.

______________________________________________________________

🔥 Portgas D. Ace — “I got mental issues, always fucking miss you.”

Ace doesn’t sleep well when you’re not around.

He tosses and turns on sheets soaked with sweat, waking up breathless and angry at himself for dreaming about you — again. It’s not even the good dreams anymore. Not the ones where you’re laughing, curled against his chest, warm like sunlight, kissing him.

Now it’s nightmares.

You leaving.

You crying.

You dying.

And he always wakes up too late.

The room smells like old smoke and iron. There’s a cracked glass on the floor by his bed. A shirt that still smells like you shoved under his pillow. And his fists ache — from punching walls, from holding back.

“I got mental issues,” he mutters to himself, leaning against the frame of the bed, shirtless and shaking. “I’m really fucked up, huh...?”

There’s blood on his knuckles. Again. He doesn’t remember how it got there.

There are tissues everywhere. Piled in corners, scattered across the floor. He doesn’t throw them away — like maybe if he keeps enough of them, your scent will linger just a little longer.

He misses you so bad it makes him angry.

Like it’s your fault for being so gentle. For loving him when he didn’t think he deserved it. For touching his skin like it wasn’t a curse, and telling him he was good like you believed it more than he ever could.

He told you once, in a rare moment of stillness:

“You’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel real...”

You kissed his temple and said, “Then be real with me.” smiling.

But he couldn’t. Not fully.

Because what if you saw it? The dark, cracked part of him that asks every night, Was I even supposed to be born? What if you walked into that storm and didn’t come back out?

So instead, he pushed you away.

Not all at once — no, Ace is too cowardly for that. He did it in pieces. A missed dinner here. A half-hearted kiss there. Another mission he took without telling you.

You stopped chasing him eventually.

And when you were gone… when the ship felt too empty and the fire in his chest flickered low — that’s when he realized.

"l'lI always fucking miss them..."

And now he’s sitting on the floor of some cheap inn, holding your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He wants to call you. Wants to say I’m sorry, I was scared, I didn’t know how to love you right, but please, please come back—

But the Den Den Mushi stays quiet.

And Ace stays ruined.

He’s not a storm anymore. Just smoke. Just echoes. Just... want....

______________________________________________________________

🕊️ Sabo — “Please don’t desert me, please don’t desert me.”

Sabo isn’t used to begging.

Not as a revolutionary. Not as a brother. Not as the man who smiled through bloodied battles and watched the world crumble under kings and fire.

But with you?

He begs in silence.

He does not know how to say, “Please stay.” So instead, he leaves cups of tea where you’ll find them. Wraps a blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep at your desk. Brushes your fingers when he passes by, like touch is the only language he still remembers how to speak.

You love him with an ease that makes him ache.

You never demand pieces of his past he cannot give. You don’t pry into the darkness that swims behind his eyes on bad nights — you just sit beside him, wordless, warm. Present.

And Sabo… Sabo falls.

Hard. Deep. Quiet.

He starts to write you letters he never sends. Pages stained with ink and doubt.

—"You make me feel like I deserve to live again.

I can’t lose you too.

Please don’t leave me like he did."

But you never left.

Until you did.

It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t betrayal. Just a slow, quiet unraveling — because Sabo kept part of himself hidden too long. Kept telling you, “I’m fine,” when he wasn’t. Kept pushing you out when all he wanted was to pull you in.

One day, you stopped knocking on his door.

The warmth faded.

Your coat was gone from the hook by his bed.

He found your necklace left behind — on purpose, probably. Something final.

And that night, he drank alone, firelight flickering against the scars on his hands. He could feel himself unraveling.

“Please don’t desert me…”

He whispered it into the dark, broken and too late.

He pressed his forehead to your necklace, eyes stinging with everything he couldn’t say in time.

“Please don’t desert me. Not like he did. Not like—”

But no one answered.

Only the crackle of flame and the silence of a room too big for one person.

He still wears that necklace.

Hidden under his scarf, against his chest.

He tells himself that if he ever sees you again, he’ll say it right this time. No riddles. No brave smiles.

Just—

“I’m scared of being left. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

______________________________________________________________

🎪 Buggy the Clown — “I’ll make you feel special, help you feel less stressful.”

Loud? Yes. Flashy? Obviously. A little bit unhinged? Well, that's Buggy's whole thing. He was the kind of guy who could stand on top of his ship with his arms thrown wide, demanding the world recognize his greatness. And for most people, that was all they saw — the captain, the performer, the clown. His bravado, his flair. The show.

But there was so much more beneath that.

He never let anyone see it, of course. Because if they did, if they saw what was lurking beneath his perfectly painted smile, then they’d know. They’d see that the self-inflated ego was just a shield. A shield to protect a heart that had never truly felt like it was worth anything.

Buggy had always believed that no one could really love him. Not for who he truly was.

He was a pirate, sure, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who got the kind of love he saw in movies or heard in songs. He wasn’t the romantic hero. He wasn’t the charming, smooth-talking swashbuckler. No, he was the laughing stock of every crew, the one everyone used for comic relief. A joke.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the attention — no, he craved it, needed it. But deep down, behind all the clamor and the glitz, Buggy was terrified that if anyone ever got too close, they'd leave. And that thought? It was crippling.

But then… you came along.

You, who didn’t laugh at his jokes just to make him feel good — you genuinely laughed with him. You, who never flinched at his disassembled limbs, never turned away when he got a little too dramatic, when he overreacted or shouted just to make sure everyone was paying attention.

You stood beside him, even when the rest of the world told you to run in the opposite direction.

And Buggy? Oh, Buggy fell hard.

He didn’t know when it happened, honestly. He didn’t know when he’d started thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was someone who could look at him and see more than just the crazy pirate captain with a flair for the theatrical. He didn’t know when he’d started feeling like he could actually be loved. Like he could be enough.

But you… you were there. You made him feel like he didn’t have to hide behind the act. You made him feel special in ways that no one ever had before.

The day he left — the day he walked away, pretending like he was doing you a favor — it wasn’t because he didn’t care. No, it was because he cared too much.

The sight of you laughing with him, your warm smile, the way you didn’t treat him like he was a walking joke, it scared him. It terrified him more than anything in his life.

You were the first person who made him feel like he was worthy. Like maybe there was more to him than just the chaos and the bluster. But he wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to let someone in that close. Because what if you saw the truth? What if you saw all his flaws, all his broken pieces, and realized that even though he had everything to offer, he wasn’t enough?

You were too good for him. He was just a clown.

Buggy stood at the helm, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly as he looked at the ocean ahead of him. The ship was drifting farther and farther from the shore, from you. From everything he’d let himself feel.

He hated this. He hated it more than anything he’d ever hated in his life.

But what else could he do?

He tried to convince himself that this was what was best for you. That he was just some mess of a man, a guy who would only bring more destruction into your life. That you deserved someone who could love you properly, without the chaos. Without the theatrics. Someone who wasn’t going to break your heart.

And yet, every time he looked at the ocean, he could still see your smile in his mind. The way you’d looked at him, like he wasn’t just some eccentric fool. Like he mattered to you.

His chest ached. Damn it.

“I’ll make you feel special, I'll help you feel less stressful…” he muttered to himself, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it true. But even as the words left his lips, he knew they weren’t enough. Not anymore.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered, almost like a plea to the wind. “Not ready for you. You deserve better.”

When the Den Den Mushi call came through, he knew it was you. It was always you who’d pick up the phone when the others just let it ring.

He hesitated for a long time before answering. When his face finally appeared on the screen, he smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes. His usual flair, the confidence, it was all gone. And for once, he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… maybe if I just walked away, you’d be better off.”

“You’re not the problem,” you said, your voice tight, like you were holding back tears. “You’re the one I want, Buggy.”

He wanted to reach through the screen, to take you in his arms and never let go. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“But I’m too much for you,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll just bring chaos into your life. You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve. Not a mess like me.”

You stared at him, your eyes filled with unshed tears. And for a moment, just a moment, Buggy saw something he hadn’t seen in years — something real. Something pure.

“I’ll make you feel special,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Well, I wanted to. But I can’t. Not like this.”

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Buggy felt completely seen.

The call ended. The ship drifted away.

And Buggy stood there, staring at the horizon, wondering if he’d made the right choice. Maybe someday, he’d get the courage to come back. But until then, all he had were the memories — of you, of your laughter, of how you’d made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was worthy of love after all.

______________________________________________________________

🍷 Shanks — “I remember nights we were dancing in the moonlight.”

He never told you he loved you.

Not with those exact words, anyway.

He said it in other ways — in the way he laughed at your jokes even when they were terrible, in how his arm would always find your waist when you leaned too close to the sea rail, in how his eyes lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking.

And sometimes, he’d let the mask slip.

Like that night, on some quiet island no one would remember. The tavern was half-empty, his crew rowdy and drunk. And you, you were warm beside him, fingers stained with fruit juice and salt air, eyes glowing like you had swallowed the moon itself.

There was music playing. Something simple. Soft.

You nudged him and said, “Dance with me.”

He scoffed, sipped his drink, and said, “Nah, I’ve got two left feet.”

But your hand stayed outstretched.

And so he took it.

The floor was uneven. He stepped on your toes twice. His laugh was louder than the music, and your cheeks hurt from smiling. And when the others weren’t looking, he spun you into him, held you close, and whispered—

“If I could bottle this moment, I’d carry it everywhere.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your smile told him you felt the same.

That night, you danced under the moonlight until the candles burned out and the stars were your only audience.

But things change.

Shanks always leaves eventually. You knew that from the beginning.

He told you once, long ago, “The sea is a jealous thing. She always calls me back.”

And still, it hurt when he went.

You stayed behind on some island — a “safe place,” he called it — with a kiss to your forehead and a promise you never asked for.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

You knew better.

Weeks passed. Then months.

No letters. No sign.

And Shanks? He was far away, sitting by a fire on a different shore, holding your necklace in his palm like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to anything human.

His crew thought he was fine.

But sometimes at night, when everyone was asleep, he'd take out the old Den Den Mushi and stare at it. Thumb hovering over the dial.

And he’d whisper—

“I remember hiding, I remember crying... God, I just want you to be alright.”

He never dialed. Never called.

Because he thought maybe you were better off without him.

But if you walked back into his life — wind in your hair, sea in your eyes — he’d say it.

Not with flowers. Not with grand speeches.

Just a quiet, choked—

“I never stopped dancing with you. Even when you weren’t there.”

______________________________________________________________

⚡ Kid — “You control my life. I feel like a fucking puppet.”

Kid had never been the type to lean on anyone. To trust anyone. The idea of someone else controlling his life, controlling his choices — that was something he never allowed. He was a man of steel, a pirate who carved his own path, never bowing to anyone.

But then you came along.

And from the moment you stepped into his life, everything started shifting in ways he couldn’t control. He hated it. Hated the way you made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Hated how his heart raced when you laughed. Hated how his thoughts would drift to you when he was supposed to be focused on his next big heist.

He hated how you made him feel like he wasn’t in control.

At first, it was a joke. A distraction. He’d tell himself that he didn’t care about you, that he could walk away anytime. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed anyone. Certainly not someone like you, someone who had the power to make him question everything he knew about himself.

But then... then the feelings crept in. Slowly at first, like a seed being planted deep in his chest. And then, before he knew it, it had taken root. He couldn’t get rid of it. He couldn’t escape the way you made him feel.

You made him feel alive in a way he didn’t know was possible. And that scared him more than anything.

One night, after yet another pointless argument, Kid found himself alone on the deck of his ship. The moonlight reflected off the ocean, and the cold breeze brushed against his face, but none of it could clear the heat building inside him.

He had tried to push you away. Tried to act like he didn’t care. But all it did was make him feel more desperate, more broken.

And now, here he was again. Standing in the same spot, staring at the empty horizon, trying to ignore the voice inside his head that kept calling your name.

The ship creaked behind him, and then he heard it. The soft sound of footsteps.

You. Of course, it was you.

He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t face the person who had so completely taken over his life. Who had him tangled up in knots, unable to let go.

“You’re still pissed?” he asked, his voice rough, trying to mask the vulnerability bubbling under the surface.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you walked up beside him, standing in silence. He could feel your presence, feel the weight of it pressing against him. You were close enough to make his breath hitch, but he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. Not yet.

“Kid,” you said softly, and the way you said his name made his insides twist. “You know I don’t want to fight with you.”

He scoffed, turning away to hide his face, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders. He clenched his fists at his sides, as if the action might stop the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

“Don’t even try to act like you understand. This isn’t some game. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, alright?” he spat, his anger rising in a desperate attempt to cover up how raw he felt inside.

But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“I don’t need you to explain it to me,” you said, your voice calm, like you weren’t afraid of his anger. “But you don’t have to push me away, either.”

Kid felt his heart skip a beat, but he refused to look at you. He couldn’t.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, the edge of his anger beginning to fade. “You don’t get it. I don’t want to feel like this. You can’t just come in and change everything. You can’t just control me like I’m some damn puppet.”

His words hit harder than he intended. There. He’d said it.

You stood there for a moment, not saying anything. He could feel you staring at him, waiting for him to break the silence.

“Kid,” you finally said, taking a step closer, “I never wanted to control you.”

He shook his head, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

“Then what the hell is this?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Every time I try to pull away, you’re still there. Every time I think I’ve got my shit together, I— I start thinking about you. About how you make me feel—”

He stopped, his throat tightening, but he couldn’t stop himself. His frustration, his confusion, his desperation all came out in one breathless sentence.

“I’m losing control. And I hate it.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t need to explain yourself, because you understood. You’d always understood.

You reached out, gently resting your hand on his arm, and for the first time that night, Kid looked at you. His eyes were stormy, conflicted, but beneath it all, there was something more — something softer. Something that made his heart feel like it was going to burst.

“I’m not trying to control you, Kid,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I just... I just want you to be you. No masks, no act. Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He swallowed hard, his chest tight. You weren’t asking for anything more than that. And somehow, that terrified him even more.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, barely audible. “You make me feel like I’m not enough. Like I can’t even control my own damn life anymore.”

You smiled softly, and for once, Kid didn’t see pity in your eyes. You weren’t looking at him like he was a broken thing.

“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all together,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m not here to control you, Kid. I’m here because I care about you. And that’s all.”

He stood frozen for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. And just like that, all his walls came crashing down.

“God, I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. Instead, there was just that undercurrent of raw emotion he had never wanted to show. “You make this so damn hard.”

And maybe that was okay. Maybe being vulnerable for once, letting someone else in, didn’t make him weak. Maybe it made him stronger.

“All I want is you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, but you heard it anyway.

You smiled again, this time with a tenderness that took Kid by surprise. You didn’t say anything, just stood beside him, silently offering the support he never knew he needed.

For once, Kid didn’t feel like he had to fight it.

______________________________________________________________

[djadins]

— A R G H U R Y S 🗡️ • 3

+ pairing | ser harwin strong x f!princess!reader

+ a/n | not me posting this as if i didn’t up and disappear for a year o o p s

It was getting late enough that the sun’s light no longer adequately lit the book you had been staring at. Rubbing at your eyes, you yawned and stretched out your arms. You had been out here since after morning’s end at least. Supper would have to consist of whatever you could convince the chefs in the kitchens to cook for you.

The roots at the back of the heart tree, or rather, where you joked the ass should be carved (to the Septa’s annoyance and your later punishment), had a nice dip in them that served as a hammock for your body. Add in the many pillows and blankets that had a permanent residence under the tree, and you had yourself a nice little hiding spot that you had frequented for as long as you could remember. Unless one walked all along the side of the heart tree, it was likely a passerby wouldn’t notice you.

“Ser Harwin was looking for you.”

A yelp escaped your lips, much to your sister’s delight. Her airy laugh floated amongst the trees in the Godswood.

“Seven hells Rhaenyra!”

She giggled again, sitting down next to you. You playfully pushed her arm. She feigned offense, then wrapped her arms around you and placed a delicate kiss to the top of your head.

“Ser Harrold told me he was the one who took you hunting in the Kingswood for Aegon’s nameday.” She looked at you expectantly. You shrugged in response.

“That was over a fortnight ago! You weren’t going to mention it to me,” she paused, pressing her flattened palm against her heart, “big sister, best friend, closest companion?!”

“Well you didn’t exactly talk about your night in the Kingswood with Ser Criston, bloodied and disheveled. I thought we were going to drink and leave Aegon’s nameday behind us.”

Rhaenyra gave you a knowing look. “This,” she waved her hands in a circle, “is different. You’re already blushing at the mere thought of him.”

You rolled your eyes at her. “The dramatics are over the top tonight, Rhaeny.”

“Dramatics or not,” she turned her body to face you, grabbing your forearm, “you two would make a fine match someday.”

“Match?! Rhaenyra, he’s Lord Lyonel’s oldest boy. Don’t you think a marriage proposal would be for you?”

Rhaenyra smirked. “See, that’s another thing Ser Harrold told me. When father was discussing my future matches,” she paused at the word to stick out her tongue and fake sick, “with Lord Lyonel, he joked that the Lord would advise I wed his son, Ser Harwin.”

“…And?”

“And,” she leaned in closer to you, “He disagreed. Instead, he counseled Father that he believed I should wed another.”

“Who?”

Rhaenyra slapped your arm. “It doesn’t matter who sister, point is, Lord Strong is not putting his son up for my hand. Furthermore,” she continued, while you rubbed your stinging arm, “Ser Harwin is not interested in me. As soon as we ran into each other, the first thing out of his mouth was to ask if I’d seen you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything, Rhaenyra.”

“Is that right? Well, answer me this — whose dagger has been occupying space in your chambers? Because I know you did not convince the smiths to craft you one with the sigil of House Strong in the hilt.”

“You went in my room without me!” you pushed her.

“Sister,” she grabbed both of your shoulders, “you keep missing the point.”

“Which is?”

She lowered her voice. “That not only would the two of you make a handsome match, one that father would actually consider and if need be, we could sway him toward, but, that you could also be happy. You could wed for love. You could,” her voice cracked and she cleared it, “you could have what mother and father had.”

Tears welled at both yours and Rhaenyra’s eyes at the mention of mother. She pulled you in and hugged you tightly. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispered.

You squeezed her back and inhaled her familiar scent. “I love you, sister.”

“And I, you.” She pulled back and smoothed out your hair. “Now head to the library. With any luck, you might still find him there searching for you.”

You grabbed your book and hopped up to your feet. You began a brisk pace towards the library, the halls of the Red Keep surprisingly empty during the walk there.

You rounded the corner into the library and saw a familiar, tall, dark knight pacing the shelves in the back, looking at the various volumes on hand.

“Can I help you find what you’re looking for, Ser?”

Harwin turned on his heel, clearly a little startled by the sound of your voice. He took in your appearance as you returned the book you had been reading back to the proper shelf. The corners of your mouth were upturned into a smile.

“Princess,” he greeted.

You picked up a different book and offered it to him. Flora of the Seven Kingdoms by Maester Tollett.

“Hmm… I think I would rather have lessons from the expert than read about flowers from a Maester who’s been dead half a century.” His smile was large, his eyes bright as he looked down at you. You put the book back down on the shelf and began walking around the library, running a stray finger along the spines of the books.

“Expert, hmm?” you questioned. “I’m surprised a man of the City Watch has time for something as silly as flowers.”

Harwin walked over to you, the soft patter of his boots with every step emphasizing just how slowly he was moving. He lifted a hand to your cheek. “I make time for the things that are important to me, princess.”

You smiled up at him as he gently brushed his thumb against your cheek. “What brings you to the library?”

“Well,” he dropped his hand from your face, bringing it instead to his and rubbing the length of his stubble. “I had dinner with father and Larys. Father said I should learn what it means to be Master of Laws if that is the path I want to follow someday.”

“What about the City Watch?” you tilted your head slightly.

“Mmm, I intended to climb up the ranks, princess. However, it seems father wants me to have all my options open. Says I could make for a fine politician like him.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate he didn’t believe that. “I asked for a transfer to the barracks here at the Red Keep to be closer.”

“You’ll get to patrol inside the Keep?”

He nodded. “Both inside and out now, yes.” He took a deep breath in.

“Oh Ser Harwin, that’s wonderful. You’ll get to see Lord Lyonel and Larys a lot more now.”

“Yes, princess,” he paused, reaching a hand out to brush some hair behind your ear. “My family, and others who are dear to me.”

Your cheeks grew hot. You eyes left Harwin’s and looked down at your feet. His feet stepped in closer to yours and you could feel his breath against the crown of your head. His hand gently wrapped around to the back of your head…

He jumped back like he had been burned at the sound of feet behind you. Maester Runciter had entered the library, oblivious to the princess and knight who currently occupied it. He began scattering various papers around his workspace and talking to himself.

You cleared your throat and peered up at Ser Harwin through your lashes. “Would you accompany me on a walk through the Keep? Or are you on duty tonight?”

He offered his arm out and you took it. “I am free tonight, princess.”

You waved to Maester Runciter on your way out of the library but you were pretty certain he did not hear or see either of you during his time in there. You giggled at this and Ser Harwin could be heard chuckling under his breath.

“You know, I have a book on the small council in my chambers. You’re welcome to it, Ser Harwin. Admittedly, I have been using it to press flowers.”

His laugh was more audible this time around. “Thank you princess. I will be sure to find you a heavy replacement.”

The two of you walked what felt like the length of the entire castle, talking and laughing. The evening air brought with it a cold front that had the hairs on your arm standing up tall. A shiver ran through you as the wind ripped your silver hair behind your shoulder. You let go of Ser Harwin for the first time to rub your own arms.

“Princess,” he stopped you. You turned around to face him. His gold cloak had been pulled from his own shoulders and he was holding it out to you like a blanket. You nodded and turned, letting him wrap his cloak around you.

“We should get you inside,” he murmured in your ear. You shivered again, admittedly not from the cold this time. Not wanting the night to end but knowing he was right, you reluctantly agreed. You nuzzled into the gold fabric, breathing in the woody smell of Ser Harwin as you followed alongside him.

Ser Criston had a strange look upon his face as the two of you rounded the corner towards your chambers. He nodded wordlessly to you before eyeing down Harwin. Harwin, who had also taken notice of the way your Kingsguard had been watching him, placed a firm hand at your back, rubbing up and down tenderly.

You twirled around, having reached the double doors to your chamber. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” you smiled up at him. Harwin simply bowed and you took this chance to stand on your tiptoes and place a soft kiss upon his cheek. When you both pulled back, Harwin’s eyes found the floor, his face flushed. Ser Cole cleared his throat.

He looked at you after a moment, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Good night, sweet flower.”

You curtsied before opening the doors behind your back and pushing yourself in. When they were closed and at your back, you brought your fingers to your lips where they still tingled from the scratchiness of Harwin’s beard. It took your full willpower not to run back outside after him.

It was then that you realized you still had his gold cloak. You fingered it lightly for a few moments before throwing it atop your bed. When you were ready to tuck yourself in, you brought the cloak underneath the covers and wrapped yourself in it.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Northern Attitude

Next chapter

a/n guilty... guilty... guilty... I caved in. I own up to my weaknesses. Promised myself to never write for this man and here I am now. This is my first time so be gentle. 🗡️🫧

summery: mission gone bad, feels a little like enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort sort of goodness.

warnings: injuries, blood, bleeding out, alcohol, needles, death, trauma fun stuff.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You two hated each other. That was a fact, and there was no way around it. It was scowling glares, sharp jabs during training if you two were paired together, and bitter remarks thrown here and there. And the joy of it all was that Price had granted you a shared room on the base. First, the excuse was that there was simply not enough room; the team had grown. Then he said he wasn't having a team that was up on biting each other's necks out. So in conclusion, he had set it up on purpose.

Did it help? No. It was a disaster. The man was insufferable. And, in all honesty, you had no idea what you had done. You had thrown a sexist card at him multiple times because you simply couldn't find another reason for his unmeasured dissatisfaction as to why you shouldn't be here. Never had he said anything nice your way. You got it; the guy was secretive. You didn't need to look far. The fact that he never took his mask off was proof enough. But to be so against someone you didn't even spend time with?

"Clean your mess", Ghost huffed, dropping his wet towel on the bed. You lifted your head away from your book. At least you two had separate beds on the opposite sides of the room. "It's on my side", you said, pointing to the white line that Ghost had drawn on the floor like a kid the first night you dragged your stuff here. The rule was simple: you stayed on your side, he on his. The bathroom was the only exception. "Yeah, I have to look at it, don't I", he grumbled, tossing the towel into the laundry basket. You paid him no mind, your eyes turning back to the pages. "Poor you, does it mess with your posh tea time?", you chuckled under your breath, earning a growl from the other side of the room.

And that's how it went. More than not, you considered any word coming out of Ghost's mouth a win. Because a new tactic the asshole had adopted was pretending that you weren't even a thing. You were an actual ghost, and Simon didn't believe in the paranormal clearly. You fastened your vest, double-checking that your on-hand weapons were right where you wanted them. "Do you need me to do a touch-down for you?", your head darted up, only to be met with a smug-looking scot. Soap. You couldn't help but let out a breathy chuckle. "Do you think that if you keep asking, the answer will eventually change?", you snickered back, shaking your head. Soap shrugged. "You tell me, bonnie?", the man teased back. Leave it to Johnny to joke around right before a mission. You hummed, "Maybe I'm more into you undoing it", Gaz snickered somewhere in the back. Soap's smirk grew even bigger. You knew that it was all good fun. Neither of them would make a move. They respected you. To most, you were like a sister. They had become your family. One you never had. Before Soap could say anything in return, the back door swung open, and in strolled Ghost. God, he looked good. Six feet of pure muscle. And when this man was in his full gear... You allowed yourself a moment to appreciate the way he looked before dropping your gaze. Suddenly, you were way more interested in the guns on the table than anything else.

Johnny came to stand next to you as the team gathered around the table. Price loved to gather everyone around before it all went off. John was like a father to most. You were no exception. You liked to tease the boys that you were his number one. His girl. And well, by law, you were. Considering that he pulled you out of the foster home, you owned this man a lot, even if he said that it was all in the past.

"You know the drill; go in, grab what you need, and get out. Try to keep it clean", Price said, pulling three sheets of paper and scattering them around on the table. "Soap and Ghost, you're together. I'll go with Gaz. Sugar, you're alone on this; we will clean the path for you, though". It was supposed to be a joke that name. You wanted something cool. Something as cool as Ghost, but Johnny was quick to remind you that his nickname was soap "And sugar", He had said, "That's quite literally white death". So it stuck.

You nodded your head, only to find Ghost shaking his. "Got something against it, LT?", you snarled. His eyes met yours over the table. With the war paint, his eyes were even more radiant. "She can't go alone. She doesn't know how to hold herself back and will do something stupid", now it was your turn to growl. Scratch the fact that you found this man attractive. You will suffocate him with a pillow in his sleep when you return to base. "Want to go with her, Ghost?", Price said calmly, knowing full well the answer would be a hard no. "We meet in the safe house afterward", Price continued without acknowledging the death glare Ghost was wearing, "Come back in one piece, you bunch". Everyone nodded quietly, reaching for the masks, double-checking the cartridges and radios. You were all climbing into the motorcar when Soap nudged your shoulder. "I'll hold you to the undressing part", he winked, hurrying to sit down. Your anger simmered down as you flipped him off in return, his laughter booming. It was Ghost, whose unimpressed eyes followed you two, gripping the gun in his hands tightly as he chose to stare ahead.

It was nothing—the mission. The base that needed to be checked out was pretty much abandoned. A couple of kills. A smoke bomb here and there. It was easy. Simple. They laid a clear path for you to do your thing. Your small frame was what they needed here. Air vents weren't the best of friends with hulky soldiers. "Do your worst, Sugar", Price had muttered into the radio some time ago. Your response was a cold, "Copy". The four of them were left to watch over the main entry points. Yet sending you into the belly of the beast felt wrong. At this point, Simon had lost count of the number of times he had reached for his radio, ready to call out to you. But he talked himself out every time.

"Got it", your voice pierced the silence. Ghost's shoulders drooped. "Good girl, bring it home", Price called back. Soap looked out of the window, "We should go meet them at the-", but his voice was cut by the cracking that came from the radio. Then it all died down. Silence. Soap locked eyes with Ghost. "Price, you copy?", Soap called out. Silence struck again. "All good here, you copy?", the captain called out. "Positive", Ghost muttered into the radio. Gunshots echoed deep within the base. It was you. The noise had to come from you. Ghost felt his heartbeat picking up. He had to find a way to get to you. To cover you. Yet the rational side of his brain screamed at him, saying that there was no way for him to do so.

The crackling filled the air around him once more as they rushed toward the spot where the team had agreed to meet. "Abort", your breathless voice came through the radio. "Get your asses out", you were panting. Ghost could hear you reloading your gun. "Sugar, what's the situation?", even Price's voice sounded more panicked. And the old man kept his cool. They all did. This whole shit could have been a setup for all they knew. Even outside, the sound of bullets pierced the silence didn't ease. Simon wasn't sure what he was waiting for, but your labored voice still twisted at his heart, "Get. Out."

The safe house had never felt so quiet. Usually, at least Soap was a never-ending chatterbox. Now the male stood in front of the window. Not moving. His eyes were glued to the forest in front of him. Price was half a bottle down on the bourbon. Gaz's leg hadn't stopped bouncing. They all had minor bruises, but that was expected.

"We need to go back", Soap said, rubbing his palms together. "You know that we can't, Johnny", Price puffed out a cloud of smoke. He was no doubt thinking of ways he was going to break the news to his wife. "She wouldn't fucking leave us", Soap snarled back. You would expect a handful of army men to be able to hold their composure in situations like this, but... You had dragged them all out of a dark pit. You were undoubtedly good at what you did, yes. But you offered much more. The safety blanket. A proper homemade meal when there was time, and that was a lot for a man who had been stuck in the base for months, missing home. There had been so much more laughter and smiles since you joined the force. As if you had breathed back humanity and a sense of life into their ice-cold bones. And now they all had to go back to...

The handle of the back door creaked. All four of them reached for their guns in unison. But no one besides them was supposed to know where the keys had been stashed. A lucky coincidence? The odds were too slim. But the door jerked open, and they all lost the breath they were holding.

"What a fucking greeting", you muttered, dropping your helmet to the side. Soap moved toward you first. Simon would have loved to beat him to it, but he found himself sitting back down, his legs suddenly feeling wobbly. "Here", you yanked the chip from your vest, pushing it into Soap's hand. "Mission complete, captain", you eyed Price. Before moving to undo your gear. "How many?", John asked, taking a drag from his cigarette. The blood on your forehead was crusted. But the sound of drops hitting the wooden floor was constant. "Six", you breathed, moving to undo your vest, and that's when the first growl left your lips.

"You're bleeding", Johnny breathed, reaching for your shoulder, but you pulled away. "I'll lick my own wounds", your tone was cold. It was colder than it usually was. Ghost watched you slowly walk towards the stairs, but not before you had reached for the Bourbon. "I'll come to stitch you,", Price had called out, only to be harshly cut off with a harsh, "No".

You locked the doors behind yourself. Your vision was going hazy. You had managed to get away. You had no idea how because there had been a moment when you were sure that death was standing right behind your back, breathing at your neck. You had killed before, had blood sprayed all over you. Yet something about this felt different. Maybe it was the fact that there was a moment where you weren't the one in control. When they had managed to yank you across the floor by your ankle. You shivered at the image of a knife being jabbed on either side of you as you dodged blow after blow.

Your hands gripped the sink. You will do this. You will patch yourself up. Swallow a couple of pills and go to sleep. You knew there was no way you were getting your shirt off, so you wasted no time as you sliced the fabric with your pocket knife, wincing. Slowly peeling the damp material from your shoulder. Would this be easier if someone else did it for you? Yes. But you didn't want anyone's hands on you. Not now. Not when your brain was still fuzzy. The trickle of blood ran down your chest and through the sports bra you had on. You knew what followed next. You've done it multiple times. Drink bourbon. Splash some on the wound. Dig the fingers in to fish for the bullet. More bourbon. Stitch it up. You ran yourself through the steps one more time. One more look in the mirror before you force yourself to do just that.

Simon's hands were gripping the chair he was sitting on. Every little whimper from upstairs ripped at his composure. Stubborn girl, never knowing how to accept help. And a whimper, a whimper he could handle, but when a loud cry filled the quiet space, Simon was up and going. Every other step was skipped, and he was right in front of the second-floor bathroom. Hand on the handle as his shoulder hit the locked door. "Open up", Ghost banged his fist into the surface. "Go away", your voice was barely audible. Too long. He had sat downstairs for too long. He should have come barging in the moment you tried to play a big girl. Should have carried you back downstairs. "Don't make it bloody difficult", Simon's voice was husky. His own body ached, but he wasn't about to sit back and watch you bleed out.

You didn't answer him. "Sugar", he called out, "Open the fucking door, or I will break it", he wasn't even sure why he was bargaining with you now. But he respected your privacy. He always did. Even in the room you shared. His face was always facing the wall when he knew you were taking a shower. Just in case you had forgotten your clothes and would need to quickly get to your side of the room, this was different; his stalling could cost you your life. So he doesn't say anything else. Backing a couple of steps back, Simon braced himself for the impact. The hinges were old, so one shove from him was enough to break them; the rest he could handle with his two hands.

Ghost's breath hitched once more. "Stubborn, bloody woman", he hissed. The floor was covered in your blood; there was not a single clean towel. Your figure was slumped by the bath. "Price", his voice was more of a roar that made even you jerk your head up. "Get out", you breathed, trying to put distance between you two. "Like fuck, I will", Simon grunted, reaching towards you, his palm pressing into your shoulder. You cried out, your nails digging into his wrists, but the pressure didn't ease. "Fucking hell", the captain called from behind, "Get her downstairs".

"No", you hissed as Ghost lifted you, "Get away". But you knew that it was over now that they'd seen you. Simon tried to lower you down, but you whizzed in pain. "From the back", you say through gritted teeth. "What?", His eyes searched yours; you knew he was struggling to understand you. "The bullet", your breath, "from the back". Simon's eyes darted up to John, who slowly nodded his head, "Keep her up, then", and you could feel him pulling the rest of your shirt off.

"Liquid courage", a bottle was dangled right in front of you, and you could just about make out Soap's shaky hands. "I don't need it", you muttered, feeling the way Simon's chest rumbled with a disapproving growl. "Don't fight it, kid", Price called out from behind you, "You know how it's done". He was looking through the medical bag, no doubt making sure that he had everything he needed on hand. You open your mouth, and Soap quickly takes the hint, tilting the bottle upwards.

"Bite this and hold onto Simon's shoulders for me", the captain delivered his words like an order, but you still shook your head. "Jesus women, do you have a death wish or something?", Ghost muttered, hands moving from your legs that were still wrapped around his torso to your hands, pulling one of them over his shoulder and the other, the injured one, across his torso, so Price could work on it easier. But your palms stay pushed away from his skin. So does your chest. He was too close. You couldn't. Simon doesn't like his personal space being occupied by anyone.

"Deep breath for me", was the only last warning John gives you before you feel a pain like no other ripping through your back. And that was all it took. All it too, for your hands to clamp around Simon. Nails were in his skin as you yelled out, trying to pull away from whatever Price was doing. Simon's big palm cupped the back of your head, guiding you down onto his shoulder. "You got this, love", he muttered against your ear. The grip he had on you did not falter, not even for a second. "Almost there, Sug, just a bit more", Price said through gritted teeth. You could feel him digging through your back. The burning icy cold now.

Your body was working on its own accord. Hand reaching for the side of Ghost's face as another wave of pain ripped through you, making you holler out. Simon didn't pull away. And maybe you were high on pain, but you could swear you felt his lips against your palm. Kissing your skin through the material of his mask. Your breathing got shallow. You wanted to pull back to look up at him. Into his eyes. At least one more time. But your body felt heavy. Your fingers gently caressed the side of his face. The smell of him calmed you. You pressed a weak kiss against his neck, feeling a shiver running down his back.

"Keep her talking, Simon,", Price grumbled in frustration. Something probably wasn't going how it was supposed to. But it was okay. You had made your peace with it. "Come on, look at me", Simon pulled your limp head away from his shoulder, tapping your cheek a couple of times. "Keep your eyes open, eh? Or I'll leave my wet towels all over our room for the rest of the month", there was a tinge of something new in his voice. Some kind of light worry. Frustration. You blinked a couple of times, the corners of your lips turning upwards. "You wouldn't dare", you rasped out, your mouth feeling way too dry all of a sudden. "Why is that?", Simon asked straight away, his eyes not leaving yours. You let yourself breathe for a bit; you didn't have enough strength to answer right away. "I'll get you pink sheets and...", a cough made your body seize, and Ghost's grip on you tightened instantly. And there. There it was. A flash of worry caught his eye. "A fuzzy rug", you finished finally. Simon's palm ran over your sweaty forehead. "I'd like to see you try, darling", he breathed out, but there was no amusement in his voice.

"She's too fucking pale, Price", you heard Soap's voice from the side, or at least it sounded like it. "Shut up, Johnny,", the captain grumbled. "Don't close your eyes, Sugar", you felt another nudge from Ghost, making you blink up at him once more. "It's cold", you muttered, feeling your hand slip down his torso, falling limp by your leg. "John", Ghost said in a warning tone. He was trying to make you hold back on him, but your hand slipped away every time.

It was the way your hand limped against Simon's face that sent the last wave of panic through him. Your clammy skin pressed against him. And he was back there, back in the house where his family was killed. No, he couldn't lose you. Not now that he had found you. Not without you knowing that he also cared, just like everyone else. "Y/N", he called out softly. He had never called you by your real name. Never had a chance to see if your eyes would shimmer when he did. "Don't do this", he breathed again your not injured shoulder, "Don't you dare fucking die on me". But he was met with nothing. Only then did he realize that he would have to live with nothing but regret and your blood on his hands. All because he couldn't find a way to let your light shine through his cold demeanor. All because he was afraid of the fact that he had found himself caring again.

[yeetmyboi]

Knight!Johnathan Price x Princess!Reader 🗡️🌿🌟

— — —

You’re a princess from a long bloodline of nobles, descending from the gods themselves. The pearlescent blood in your veins is proof enough. If not, then your gift of visions surely would be.

John is your chosen Head Knight (and possibly the whole task force as well because harem lol), sworn to protect the next monarch in line for the throne for the rest of his life. And being that you are descended from the gods, it is deemed blasphemous for a mortal/commoner to touch you (again, because harem). So, not only is John sworn to be your guard—but also a companion and lover (platonic and romantic).

You tend make his job harder than it needs to be. Constant attempts to avoid stuffy events with other nobles. Evading any mentoring lessons. Slipping out to the village whenever possible. It’s all a common thing with you.

One day, you manage to slip out once more.

With a cape and headscarf (typical ‘I’m blending in’ princess disguise), you manage to wander the village. A small pull in the pit of your gut guides your feet this time. This isn’t like all your other escapades, no, something’s calling for you.

It isn’t until John finds you in the shady underbelly of the city, the home of dark alley deals and illicit activities, that you realize you’ve had visions of this. His hand gently grasps your elbow, slightly tugging you out of the trance-like state you’ve been pulled into.

“Your highness,” he intones, “I believe you’ve wandered a touch too far from the light.” His eyes are stern but hold a flicker of something softer. "It's time to return. Your absence has not gone unnoticed."

He attempts to pull you away from the various stalls and merchants that you’ve been wandering down. Usually you admit defeat when caught, but now you’re fighting against his gentle hold. Something’s not right. John picks up on this and it uneases him.

Your feet stay planted. You have yet to find what you seek. You tell him so.

"And what, pray tell, are you seeking in a place like this, Your Highness?" He steps closer, pulling your bodies closer together, concern and suspicion melding in his gruff voice. His presence is an unspoken reminder of his sworn duty to protect you.

You hastily speak of visions, an overwhelming feeling in you, that the gods are calling you and you must answer.

"I know not what visions haunt your thoughts, but I beg of you — do not let them lead you into peril." His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a silent plea as he softly speaks your given name. "You are the jewel of this kingdom. Too precious to be cast into such depths."

The use of your name is a reminder of the intimate bond you two share, forged in secret moments stolen from the watchful eye of the kingdom. It's a bond that transcends mere duty and protection.

Reluctantly, you both concede slightly, softened by his words and your pleading eyes. You allow his presence and he allows you to continue. But you push for John to distance himself as he’s drawing more and more unwanted attention. The peddlers are already whispering…

It isn’t long until to you find what’s you’re searching for, what’s summoning you.

An amulet. Ancient and weathered. Its siren song unconsciously calls you to reach out and touch. But as you do, your hand is slapped away by the peddler. Causing John to tense and his hand to reach for his sword but he still keeps his distance as promised, not stepping in unless you call for it.

Your lips recite words in a tongue long dead. A phrase you’ve never heard before leaves you without your permission. The merchant simply smiles and asks for payment, to which you give. The amulet is passed to you, its new owner.

With the trinket now in your possession, you know what happens next. Ambush. You rush to John’s side, not stopping to explain more than, “We’re leaving. Now.”

"Stay close," John growls without missing a beat, falling into step beside you. It's not a request, but a command. He prays to the gods, silent and fervent, for guidance and protection. His strides are long and purposeful, his body a shield blocking you from any pursuers. "Anytime you're ready to tell me what this is about, I'm listening.

Little does he know, that in order to save his life from this ambush, you must sully your own hands. All over an old necklace and some silly visions you’ve yet to understand.

Oh gods, what have you gotten yourself into?

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Inspired by the last question you answered (or at least the last one I saw; the one about animals in the afterlife) I’m curious what other headcanons you have about spirituality among the Rohirrim in general? What sort of relationship do you imagine the average person in Rohan having with the afterlife or with the Valar? I know this is a broad question and it is intended as such; I mostly would just love to hear more of your thoughts on this topic!

Oh, hey, what a great day for me to get multiple chances to muse about Rohan!!! ❤️🗡️🐎

I always try to start with what I can take from Tolkien’s actual words, and the big takeaways from that (to me) are:

The Rohirrim are aware of at least *some* parts of what we’d recognize from the Silmarillion as the metaphysics of Arda. According to the appendices, they know who Oromë is even though they call him by a different name, and they know he lives in the far west. 

That being said, we never see them talking about or engaging in spiritual or religious practice. Unlike Faramir and his facing west before a meal, in Rohan all of that stuff is either nonexistent or not such a significant part of the culture that we see evidence of it in the story.

The one exception to that is that they’ve got some specific beliefs around an afterlife, as reflected by Théoden’s reference to joining his fathers after his death. That’s a bit different than what we hear from other communities of Men in Middle Earth, where death was either feared or acknowledged as an unknown.

SO, from that, I landed here:

Rohirrim spiritual and metaphysical beliefs are a mix of the Silmarillion-style telling (sometimes modified in unexpected ways as those tales were handed down) and some of their own homegrown ideas and traditions that came to them from their non-Edain ancestors. They acknowledge Eru and the Valar as “the gods,” generally, but all of the details and specifics didn’t necessarily translate. They’re particularly attached to Oromë (Béma) as the god who was most associated with their own ancestors and who bestowed horses on them, and a lot of their culture is modeled on attributes of Béma himself — horsemanship, obviously, but also a primacy on coming to the aid of allies (as Oromë rode against the servants of Morgoth on behalf of the Children), a tendency toward sternness of personality (doing hard things with grim determination), announcing themselves with the blowing of great horns, etc.

They don’t believe the gods are overly involved in the ordinary lives of Men (seeing very little evidence for this), but they do occasionally make appeals to the gods for help in desperate circumstances and phrases like “Béma help us” are just a standard part of the lexicon. They might sometimes leave little offerings to him around when they need particular help, but this is more cultural practice than a religious expectation that a god is going to directly intervene in their lives. There’s no organized religion in any sense — no holy men or common rituals, prayers or practices — and a lot of what they believe is just handed down informally within and between families.

They do believe that Béma’s wife comes to get them when they die (per the Silm, flowers bloom in her wake, and they see the appearance of simbelmynë on their grave barrows as evidence that she has been there), and they go on to an afterlife in the halls of their forebears if they’ve earned the honor. (Anyone who hasn’t doesn’t get condemned or left behind — they get put in service to the gods until they’ve earned their place.) And that hooks back in to part of my answer to the last ask, about it being an afterlife but not a pure paradise. 

I wrote a more detailed version of this early last year, but this is the overall gist of it! And, as always, I’m always super interested to hear others’ takes and opinions. Since this is almost entirely head canon territory, there’s room for so many different interpretations and directions!

[thesuperiorrobin]

Untitled

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.0k

Warning: none

A/N: also reminder all my requests have been completely deleted after I had gotten a new phone. I’ll open up requests later I just don’t know when. I’m a bit disappointed in myself bc I didn’t get to them sooner. So again sorry if your requests won’t be done anytime soon.

You’re never the first to call.

Most of the time it’s Damian.

Damian needs something in his life that no one in his family could give him. They could, but it wouldn’t be the same if he got it from you. You’re in your room, it’s late. Too late where the streets of Gotham have gone silent—and that alone should say something. You're humming a song of your choice that plays in the background of your bedroom as you sew up a piece of your jacket that you had accidentally ripped when you were out during the day. The music cuts off as your phone beside you starts to ring. It’s a facetime call.

incoming call 🩷🗡️Damian🩷🗡️….:

You’re quick to answer it… pressing the green button as you propped up your phone up against a couple of books you had laying around on your small desk you sat at so he could get a better view of you. There’s a smile on your face when he shows up. I'm your view on the phone. He’s laying down on his bed looking tired and beaten. Damian had just gotten back from a night of patrol before he decided to call you.

“Hi!” You great, he greets you back with a quiet hello “what are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing” you hum as you focus back on your jacket.

“Well, my excuse is I took a nap— at like—I don’t know-five? Maybe six? Anyway I woke up not even an hour ago. So I’ll be up the entire night” you laugh at yourself softly “What about you? Why are you up?” He’s quiet for a moment, and that worries you. He says nothing for a few scones seconds, you look up and stare at your phone—staring at his reflection on the other side of your device. There’s something about him that you can’t read well. And that says something because you could usually read off his emotions based on his expression.

“Just got done with patrol” he finally speaks and you nod slowly “how was your day beloved?” A question that’s quick to get you.

Damian loves listening to you talk about your day, even if it was just you doing absolutely nothing. You are quick with your answer.

“I didn’t do much! I only went to the mall today with a friend and let me tell you—twenty-five dollars in this economy ain’t shit. I think I spend around one hundred dollars? I think and I only went to like three stores but I still have money left over. Also Victoria secret underwear is not for the weak at all. They’re cute but some of them are just eh—not made for wearing them all day—“ you stop yourself from saying anything else. You look at your phone to stare at Damian who says nothing. The more you look at him the more he looks exhausted.

“Damian?”

“Yeah?”

“Come over” a soft smile grazes your lips “‘my parents aren’t home. Away on a business trip or something like that”

“oh?” That seems to spike his interests “what’s the occasion?” You shrug as you think for a moment, your ripped jacket now forgotten and placed aside

“movie night? I was watching a scary movie on Max called Barbarian. I was watching it alone but ten minutes in I got scared” Damian let’s put a small laugh that warms your heart. He’s slowly coming down from whatever he was going through.

“So?”

“I’ll be there. Just give me a few minutes”

“yay. I’ll see you in a bit. My windows open so you can just come in whenever”

You say your goodbye before you hang up on each other.

When Damian finally comes round you’re in the kitchen standing in front of the microwave as you make popcorn. Too engrossed on your phone you don’t notice him until his reflection covers your screen. You're quick to turn around and greet him with a hug that lasts longer than usual. It had you wondering. It’s not until the sound of your microwave beeping, you two pull apart but not fully. Hands linger on his face longer, palms against his tan cheeks.

“You okay?” Softly, you ask and he nods against your hands—his own hands coming up and grasping yours bringing your palm closer to his lips. He kisses it softly before he nuzzles into them again.

“Yes, with you I’m always okay” you hum as you smile up at him.

“Okay….” The microwave beeps once more, a reminder that the popcorn is ready. You let go of Damian as you make your way towards it, opening it and taking out the hot and steaming bag. You place it on the counter as you go and retrieve a bowl.

“You can go sit on the couch if you want” you say dumping the popcorn into the bowl

“I’ll be there in a minute” he nods but you can’t see, you hear his footsteps disappear as he walks away. You spot Damian sitting on the couch waiting patiently, there’s no expression on his face as he stares blankly at your T.V. A frown paints your lips as you walk up to him and hand him the popcorn—he doesn’t say a word as he takes it from your hand and watches as you search for the remote. When you do find it you sit next to him draping a blanket that was placed over the arm of the couch. There’s a static silence between the two of you as you search for the movie. Damian drapes his arm over your shoulder—leaning down onto you.

“Tired?” You laugh slightly—hand coming up to ruffle his black hair as you press play on the movie. He shakes his head

“No. I’m never tired” he smiles

“Okay, whatever you say” rolling your eyes playfully you lean closer to him. The popcorn was now in your hands, placed on your lap. Damian arms were wrapped around you protectively. You two to engrossed in the movie you were watching

Damian was always okay. He just missed you. Today was the first time he’s been over your house in the past six months and talking to you through the phone wasn’t doing any justice to him. Missing you kinda gives him a home sick-y feeling.

Also I recommend watching Barbarian on MAX. It’s not really a jump scare kind of horror movie. It’s more like an uneasy kind of movie. 10/10. Although I do have to give a warning bc there is blood and gore and also mentions of rape and incest.

[johnwickb1tsch]

Constantine x Reader x Wick Imagine

🗡️Ahhhhhhhgrgh OK SO you used to date John Constantine, but he pushed you away and broke your heart when you accidentally said the L word. You move to New York, and now you're with John Wick, who is ever so good to you, but you don't ask what he gets up to in the wee hours of the night or why he comes home with bruised knuckles. It's old hat to you, considering who you used to date. Constantine happens to know, however, that Wick is a demon half breed, and its driving him insane thinking about you with him. He found out from one of his less than savory contacts, and its been eating at him ever since.

He confronts you in Central park, where you like to go on your lunch breaks to read. "Nice, y/n. I turn my back for two seconds and you're fucking a demon." "First of all, fuck off, Constantine. Second, what the fuck are you talking about? Third, what the fuck are you doing in New York?” “Your little boyfriend’s boss Tarasov is cooking up something wicked. Something that’s going to harvest a LOT of souls for his master.” That would be Lucifer Himself, of course. You roll your eyes, even if in the very back back room of your head, you wonder if he’s telling the truth. Could John Wick be a demon? The sex was amazing, but that didn't necessarily mean he was the Devil's minion? You had noticed though, out the corner of your eye, that sometimes his pupils seemed to have a fiery glow. And sometimes, when he came home all sweaty and hadn't showered yet, you'd get a weird whiff of sulfur. You'd always shrugged it off, but... “Sure he is.” Seeing Constantine hurts like a knife between the ribs. You'd loved him so much, and he was such an asshole to you. The fact that he’s come all this way trying to warn you should not inspire this kind of warmth in your heart. “Just stay away from me, Constantine.”

😈Of course, he doesn’t. He never told you, but you're the only woman he's ever truly loved. You’re out with John Wick when Constantine strikes, trying to deport your [apparently?] demon boyfriend. Wick gets the drop on him though, and he’s about to finish the job before he hears you scream. He sees your face and knows it will hurt you irreparably if he kills Constantine. So he lets him go, throwing him across the darkened street into a building. You leave with Wick, and he takes you home. You have so many questions, but he refuses to answer them. He kisses you goodnight before he has to go out again, a sorrow in those soulful puppy dog eyes that breaks your heart. How is it possible that he’s a demon? He’s so good to you.

♥Little do you know, John Wick never really had a choice. He was damned for something he didn't really have control over, and working for the Devil is way better than seething in the Pit. He's good at what he does, but his heart's never really been in it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him.

😇👹You were never really down with all this angels and demons shit. Constantine kept you insulated from it, and to be honest you're not really even a believer. It’s kind of why these guys are attracted to you, tbh. Being around you is like a little break from their lives. You’re a good person for the most part. You go about your day and do your best not to be a total piece of shit, and usually that works out, but you don’t get caught up in the whole Heaven! and Hell! thing. Though one time when you confessed to Constantine that you don’t believe in God, he’d bitterly said, “That doesn’t mean He doesn’t believe in you, the asshole.” For someone supposedly on God's side, Constantine never seemed to like Him much.

🔥You follow Wick one night, desperate to know if Constantine was right. You get caught, because you are just human, and Tarasov decides you’ll make a perfect little sacrifice for the profane ritual they’re setting up. Constantine, of course, was following you. Before the knife can fall MAYEM ensues. SO MANY Demons get their asses deported, but you almost die anyway. In the end, Wick pulls a Selfless Act saving you, and he gets turned into a halfbreed angel instead.

😡Constantine is so fucking pissed off about this.

🤷‍♀️You love them both and have no idea how you’re going to choose.

[elextricbeauty]

Hello!!!

This is an updated version of my introduction, which will unfortunately replace my original one since I have a lot more followers. Feel free to skip it.

Welcome to my blog!!

I often post about stuff on my mind or when I'm bored, meaning my blog doesn't have a certain aesthetic at the moment. 

More often than not, I post about Lana Del Rey, but I still love other movies and may make references too.

Harry Potter 🪄

Melanie Martinez 🧚

Miss Peregrines Home For Peculiar Children 🏚️

Fear Street 🪓

The Hunger Games 🏹

The Tudors 🗡️

The Virgin Suicides 👑

Scream 🔪

Priscilla 💄

Thirteen 🚬

Along with that, I often just use most words, and I very recently started making mood boards. 

Now for more details about me.

I am 15 years old

I am Bisexual.

My MBTI is ESTP.

I do like fan fiction so feel free to message me snippets of any work you are working on, and I will judge it fairly.

With that also said, I will not be reading any fan fiction with pedophelic relationships; this includes any universe where a person is originally 18 or older but, due to time travel, is aged down to a minor. 

I will also not be reading NSFW content, and any of that content will result in you getting blocked.

I won’t be having any of my social media accounts in this area due to the creepy men and women on the internet, but I do have Pinterest and TikTok with some of my pins and fun reposts. 

So if you're interested, please message me, and I will give you my username.

But I also recently found a master post with every unreleased Lana del Rey acapella, cover, demo, instrumental, monologue, music video, album, and song. 

Message me if you're interested. 

I also have two Spotify playlists for just-released Lana and Mel music that I have been listening to lately, so message me if you want the link to that.

My blog is supposed to be a safe place for everyone of any race, gender identity, or lifestyle. 

So please dni if you are racist, transphobic, or homophobic. 

Please don't bash ships in my comments or show hate to those who support them in my comments. 

Feel free to ask me any questions you have, and I promise I will answer them. 

I also love getting messages from people, so don't hesitate to message me if you're upset about something or just to say hi.

Anyways, thank you for reading all of that have a great day!!

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

For the character ask game thing: Rei. Obviously. 1, 2, 12, 15, 16. I tried to limit myself and not just say "all of them" but if you want to answer more of them, go for it. <3

For this ask meme

Oh dear, you've given me a lot to think about (thank you, I like thinking)

✨🔪Rei🗡️✨

1. Canon I outright reject

Alright, so. I'm actually good with most of canon. Not because I'm such a big fan of it, but because of my tendency to overthink things and go "okay, but how can this still work."

We'll get to what I think doesn't work in a moment, but first I have a bone to pick with Aoyama's word of god, aka his answers in the interviews. My gripe is mostly that I think he doesn't think his answers through (in the cases where he doesn't just give a non-answer).

Some I can work with. I've come around to "Scotch was a sniper in the BO" because it opens up the possibility of sniper due Scotch & Rye, even though I think Hiro deserved his own speciality (and also Aoyama is never going to show us Scotch sniping, so that's just a waste of potential).

Some I am undecided on. Aoyama refuses to give us answers on Rei's family, even though it would be quite relevant for his character (someone with a family that supports him would not be so cripplingly lonely). I hope Aoyama won't botch that, but I will hold my judgement until then.

Some confuse me. What do you mean, Rei wanted to keep Sherry (who he recognised as Elena's daughters) alive, but give her to the BO?? Wouldn't it be a great source of intel for the PSB??

An then there's the things I just can't get behind. Aoyama means to tell me that the whiskey trio didn't exist, that Rei's outrage and betrayal at seeing Rye over Scotch's dead body was...born in the moment? That Rei decided on making revenge his whole personality based on...nothing prior? That he and Vermouth accurately recreated Akai from a grainy bodycam video? I can, of course, read Rei as that kind of instantly obsessive guy who doesn't actually know Rye. But it's just no fun, that way, so I refuse. It's better if there was a simile of trust that could be broken.

Now, ignoring word of god and returning to actual canon, we're not quite there yet, but when it comes to the way things are going atm, I fear we might eventually head for a ship I have no good feelings about: amua*u. I'm certainly biased, but Rei deserves better than to have a girl who doesn't actually know his true self, not his name, not his face; better than the microaggresions and racism that when he calls her out on, she defends herself with "I'm not as smart as you, bleh"; someone who doesn't say she hates spending time with him because it will get her bullied online. Rei deserves someone who will stand by his side, keep up with him, and loves him for who he is. This girl is not that, and if it comes to it, I will reject this ship. But for now, this is only a hypothetical, and I really hope Aoyama will reconsider.

(Actually, while I was thinking about this, I figured out something that is canon, but that I outright reject: Rei's "crush" on Elena. I believe that he loved her, but that he saw her as a mother figure, and he's most certainly not still pining over her, shut up Matsuda.)

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on

Uh. Okay. What's a hill I could comfortably die on when it comes to Rei. Something that is mildly controversial, perhaps. Um.

I think Rei would look great with knives, but that's not really worth dying for, is it?

Hm.

I had a whole paragraph written about how I would like to see a more nuanced take on Rei, and not exaggerate things as much for comedic purposes, but I'm also guilty of that, so that would be quite hypocritical for me to say. And I try not to be that person.

Instead, I'll just stick with my guns. Rei definitely tops more often than Akai- /shot

12. Crack headcanon

Oh god. Hm. I mean. I think my beloved Demon Lord Rei (hail) counts as a crack interpretation of the character?

I don't really have crack headcanons lying around, if anything I usually go for the crack treated seriously approach and make an AU out of it. See also: way too many words on the sweater AU, which started with the crack take of Rei stealing Akai's sweaters.

Just for you though, I saw this

image just now, so today's crack theory is that Bourbon wears contact lenses. Maybe they're superspy contact lenses that block him from being identified in iris scans. And also this would explain (partially) how he was so comfortable dressing up as scar!Akai-

(See? See this is the problem, I'm trying to rationalize it again. Can't have pure, unadulterated crack in this house.)

15. Worst thing they've ever done?

Do you want an excerpt from a wip on that?

Throughout the years, Bourbon works whichever jobs the syndicate demands of him.

Fence, enforcer, honey pot.

Spy.

Torturer.

Executioner.

The list goes on.

Each of them ruins someone's life, some more directly than others.

Among the more insidious jobs, for its false promises of fortune to the desperate and destitute, is working at the casino in Las Vegas.

I like to think that Rei has committed a variety of crimes for the sake of the job. Naturally, he wouldn't feel great about them, but what choice does he have? They're simply necessary to maintain his cover.

When it comes to bad things, there's probably a few that would make the list. Perhaps trying to kill Elena's daughter is somewhere on it. Perhaps he doesn't have compassion for her; Rei, after all, appears to be focused on specific people that hold his attention, not their surroundings.

If one asked him, though, under duress and the influence of a truth serum, he'd probably say the worst thing he's done is to drag Hiro along with him right down into hell. Got him interested in the police academy, and then the PSB, and then this mission.

The price was too high, but Rei only came to realise it after it had already been paid.

16. Deepest darkest secret they won’t even admit to themselves?

Rei is cripplingly lonely, struggles to make new connections, and eventually, his job will not be enough to stave off the dark hours of night. He can work himself to the brink of exhaustion, or even death, but it won't matter. There is only one of him, and so, so many crooks that want to exploit and kill and destroy.

And eventually, if he lives long enough, he'll need to stop and face all his life's mission has cost him. The countless hours of sleep lost because he'd rather work than face the nightmares. The lives of his friends, which he didn't get to see aside from the few times they went to visit graves. The thankless nature of it all, as he works in the shadows to keep the public safe. He can't ever be a Hiro hero, he won't be; the public would condemn him for his deeds.

(It's already started; his hatred for Akai has superseded the mission. If that's gone, too, what will he have left?)

And at this point, at this crucial junction, I hope he finds a new reason to breathe. Because otherwise, I fear he might break down and disappear.

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ POV: Jungkook

Jungkook has to take care of a few things, and he makes a mess.

Or, the one with Jungkook, a cocktail of drugs, a bandolier of kunai knives, and 15 dead men.

❗ THIS IS A CHARACTER POV CHAPTER!!!

if you do not wish to perceive any POV that is not the main character, please feel free to skip this one!

🗡️Jungkook x a male stranger, Jungkook x Taehyung

🗡️ word count: 8.5k

🗡️ mafia au, complicated relationships, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit, 21+

🗡️ warnings: discussion of drug use and manufacturing (mdma/ecstasy, methamphetamines, amphetamines); mention of homeless people being thought of as disposable; actual drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy laced with meth, all while drinking whiskey); use of molotov cocktail as a weapon; hand-to-hand combat; graphic knife violence & broken glass used as a weapon; killing 15 men; getting stabbed but not too badly; plenty of my annoying sense of humor.

🗡️ note: hello! welcome to the character pov chapters! these used to be locked behind a paywall but tbh i don't feel good asking people for money, so i am setting them free (cue Jimin.) this chapter is possibly my favorite written chapter for all of Collateral, and it is gory as all hell. i hope you love it!!!

🗡️ early draft beta read by @blog-name-idk - but it has undergone some pretty big non-beta'd edits

🗡️ posted feb. 2024 - originally sept. 2022 | read on ao3

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

The sounds of Jeongguk grunting while his fists repeatedly hit his punching bag are all that can be heard in his spacious home. So when Jeongguk glances up to find this morning's hookup standing against the frame of the hallway entrance in light blue boxer shorts, he startles, and, in a flash, pulls his gun from the holster around his hips. 

The man jumps and throws his hands in the air while Jeongguk sighs and shakes his head, recalling who he is. He reaches back and slides the barrel of his weapon into place at the small of his back.

"Why are you still here?" Jeongguk asks, returning to punching the red sand-filled bag that hangs from the ceiling of his mostly empty living room.

Sweat runs down Jeongguk's face and neck, sticking his hair to his forehead. He wears his hip holster, a pair of black basketball shorts, and nothing else. With each strike of his bare skin against the bag, his knuckles sting.

"That's no way to speak to the guy who sucked your soul through your dick this morning," the man teases, and Jeongguk grimaces as he looks at the man, who grins.

With a scoff and a roll of his eyes, Jeongguk says, "I never even learned your name. It's not that serious."

The man opens his mouth as if to respond, but Jeongguk raises his hand and says, "I don't want to fucking know. Be on your way."

For a brief moment, the man just stands and stares owlishly with his mouth gaping open, and Jeongguk resists the urge to pull his gun on him once more. Then the man shifts around on his feet and mutters, "You drove us here," with a dejected frown.

Jeongguk sighs with vexation. He pulls his phone from his pocket, thumbs around through his contacts, and calls Hoseok, who answers after the second ring.

"Ggukie bun, to what do I owe the pleasure?" It sounds like Hoseok has his phone on speaker, which means he is most likely driving.

"Hyung, are you busy? I need someone driven home."

"I happen to be on my way back to the property now. Gimme ten? Gonna pick up Seokjin and then I'll swing by."

"Sounds good. Thank you, hyung."

Hoseok chuckles, says, "My pleasure, little bro," and hangs up.

Jeongguk shoves his phone back into his pocket and nods toward the front door, saying, "Your ride will be here in ten. You can wait outside."

With a huff, the man turns on his heels and walks back down the hallway to the guest room from which he came. Irritated, Jeongguk abandons his workout and walks to the kitchen for a glass of water. His house is a spacious and open concept with black countertops and silver appliances, all of which are pristine and practically empty.

Jeongguk pulls a tall, thin glass from the rack beside the sink, fills it halfway with water from the tap, and drinks most of it, only to dump out the rest. Then he rinses the glass off, sets it in the same spot it was before, and he returns to his punching bag, waiting for his guest to leave.

It only takes another moment for the man to appear in a black tee untucked over tight blue jeans. His hair is short, dark brown, and disheveled, and Jeongguk spares him a final passing glance before looking away. Some shuffling around is heard as the man puts on his shoes before the front door opens and closes.

Jeongguk grabs his gun from its holster and twirls it around his finger as he makes his way through the space and locks both deadbolts on the front door—not that the man would be able to bypass a retina scan and passcode to return inside. He heads up a flight of stairs beside the entrance toward his master bedroom and en suite to get ready to meet with Yoongi and Namjoon in thirty minutes, whistling some tune that is stuck in his head while the heavy, familiar weight of his glock grounds him.

Meetings make Jeongguk anxious. For as long as he has been part of Yoongi's family, nobody has given Jeongguk a reason for his anxiety; it is simply his natural state of being. He hates sitting and brainstorming, always finding himself spacing out and needing whoever was speaking to repeat themselves. He would rather be given an order and sent on his way. 

And with the new girl in the house, everyone has the habit of getting sidetracked and steering the conversation to her. Especially Namjoon and Hoseok.

It is not as if Jeongguk doesn't like having her in the house, but he is tired of having to pretend to give a shit about new people. And, after the debacle with Ryujin, he is not eager to watch his boss fall in love with an outsider.

If there is one thing this world has taught Jeongguk, it is that to love is to die.

In his standard-issued black button-up tucked into black slacks, Jeongguk checks his appearance, running a hand through his unstyled hair. The front is growing out, falling just below his eyebrows, and it is another thing on the long list of shit he does not want to deal with.

Jeongguk straightens out his rolex and heads out through his dimly lit bedroom, down the short hallway to the flight of stairs that leads right to his front entrance. He sits on the second to last step and puts on worn-out doc marten boots, taking care to double tie the laces, and he adjusts the gun holster on his ankle so that it sits comfortably above his right boot.

Not that he will need a gun to go to Yoongi's place, but he may need one for where he plans on going after.

Jeongguk's home is the second closest to Yoongi's mansion, so rather than drive, he gets on his trusty 7-speed mint green bicycle. Strapped to the handlebars is a light brown handwoven basket in which he tosses a small black duffle bag. Jeongguk straddles the bike, gripping onto the soft brown handlebars, and sets off down his driveway, waiting as his weight triggers the security gate to open and let him be on his way.

It only takes three or so minutes for him to pull up to Yoongi's front gate. There is a path that connects all of their homes and allows them access without leaving any security gates, but the road has a nice steep hill that Jeongguk can get some real speed on, and he prefers that to the private path that is much more level.

As the gate opens granting Jeongguk access, he spots Hoseok and Seokjin standing hand in hand on Yoongi's stoop. From the smell of it, they are smoking a joint, and as Jeongguk gets closer, the sound of his tires on the cement driveway calls their attention.

Jeongguk grins and flicks the small aluminum bell on the handlebars twice, ringing it playfully. Yoongi's head appears from behind Seokjin's broad shoulders, and he smiles his wide, gummy grin that always sets Jeongguk at ease. Hoseok lets go of Seokjin's hand, and he turns to greet him.

"Who was the boy?" Hoseok teases.

Jeongguk rolls his eyes and shrugs. "How did you get back here so fast?"

"He didn't live too far," Hoseok responds with his hands on his hips. 

Jeongguk knows the look in his eye—the squinted glare that suggests he isn't getting the information he desires and that he plans to pry more. 

Hoseok continues, "I'm impressed you let him stay the night."

With a sigh, Jeongguk says, "I didn't. Picked him up this morning."

"This morning?" Seokjin asks as he turns and mimics Hoseok's stance—whether intentionally or simply because they spend too much time together, it is hard to say.

This is the facet of being the youngest that Jeongguk hates; he is always subject to twenty questions about what and who he does despite him almost never sticking his nose into their business. They love to pick on him, and it drives him crazy.

"Yeah, this morning," Jeongguk grumbles as he gets off his bike, walks it to the garage, and leans it against the painted steel panel door. "I had pent-up energy and couldn't sleep, so I went to Paradise and found someone to fuck."

Yoongi scoffs. A crooked smirk tugs on his lips—nothing but trouble—and Jeongguk braces himself for what he is about to say.

"Pent-up energy from bashing a man's brains in?"

Jeongguk hums in agreement and pushes his hand through his hair. "As if I'm the only one," he grumbles, making his way to the stoop. Seokjin holds a joint up to his lips, and Jeongguk reaches out and snatches it, sticking his tongue out as his elder, who squawks in dissent.

"You're certainly not the only one," Hoseok responds with a waggle of his eyebrows, and Yoongi shakes his head as he chuckles.

Jeongguk takes a deep inhale of the joint, enjoying the faint crackle of tobacco that has been mixed in. Smoke fills his lungs, and he holds it in, then tilts his head upward and blows the small plume out.

"Shall we?" Seokjin asks as he wraps his arm around Hoseok's waist. They are both dressed in black suits with white undershirts, with their hair styled a little nicer than usual, and Jeongguk wonders what they may be up to, but he doesn't want to ask. Unlike them, he hates to pry.

Yoongi, however, can always be trusted to unveil people's plans. "You'll be back in an hour or so?" he asks, reaching to smooth the lapels on Seokjin's dress shirt.

Hoseok nods and gives Yoongi a soft smile. "Seokjin is meeting with a few brokers at House of Cards, so while he's busy wooing them, I'll return in time to meet with you and Taehyung."

"Perfect," Yoongi responds with a satisfied smile. He turns to Jeongguk and says, "Namjoon's inside. Shall we?"

Jeongguk hums and holds the joint out toward Seokjin, who holds up his hand and shakes his head. Seokjin and Hoseok wave their goodbyes and walk toward the black SUV parked a few feet away, and Jeongguk waves the two fingers that cradle the slowly diminishing joint and follows Yoongi through the front door.

As he kicks out of his shoes, Namjoon comes down the stairs wearing a stupid smile that makes Jeongguk's stomach turn. What he and Yoongi get up to is their own business, but after what happened in the past, he hates the thought that the cycle is repeating itself. He has always wondered why the two of them can't just be happy together without having to play house with a third. But it is none of his business.

Smoking weed is probably a mistake. As Jeongguk lifts his hand to pass the joint to Namjoon, he already feels a little spaced out and way too relaxed. He approaches the blue velvet couch, sits on the end furthest from Yoongi's chair, and leans into the corner of it with one arm up on the armrest and the other slung around the back. Namjoon sits in the other corner, as close to Yoongi as possible, and angles his body toward Yoongi like the obedient little puppy he is.

As expected, the meeting loses Jeongguk's attention almost immediately, and he spaces out, rubbing his fingertips along the velvet fabric of the couch to make it dark and rough, only to smooth it out again. 

Occasionally, Yoongi asks Jeongguk's opinion, catching his attention and reiterating whatever point it is he wants Jeongguk to weigh in on, and Jeongguk looks up, nods, and grunts.

The meetings always go this way. Everyone has a conversation around Jeongguk, and then they cater to Jeongguk's lack of attention in order to ask his opinion on trivial matters. He doesn't understand why this can't be done over text.

When they conclude the boring chunk of the meeting, and Jeongguk has grunted and nodded somewhere around eight to ten times, Yoongi sits forward in his chair—a movement that always catches Jeongguk's attention—then he angles his hips to reach into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a small baggie full of pills.

There are about eight pills in the bag, and they are little pink semi-squares. Without having a closer look, Jeongguk knows that they are ecstasy pills pressed with methamphetamines that were shipped from California, but he picks up the baggie anyway, inspecting them for the Iron Man logo imprinted on the back.

"These are trash," Jeongguk says, tossing them back onto the table.

One of these pills will have the user grinding their teeth so hard they are likely to chip one. Jeongguk once woke up from a bender that included these and other substances, and the sides of his mouth were so chewed up and swollen, he could barely eat soup.

Since then, he keeps a mouthguard in his duffle bag along with his weapons. He will never understand why Americans so willingly settle for garbage drugs.

"That they are," Yoongi responds with a smirk. "But we have already begun to manufacture smoother MDMA that gives you the high minus the mouth grinding, and I would like your guys to try to emulate a pill that has those qualities, plus the amount of methamphetamines found in these."

Jeongguk rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "If you want an upper that doesn't have a negative effect on the user's mouth, meth isn't the way to go."

"What about drugs that are meant to treat attention deficit?" Namjoon butts in. 

Jeongguk tilts his head to show Namjoon he is listening and tenses his jaw to let him know that whatever it is, he better get to the point. Namjoon has a tendency to get long-winded, and Jeongguk finds it annoying. Namjoon seems unaffected and continues with a soft smile.

"Those pharmaceuticals don't often cause users to grind their teeth or get the other 'meth mouth' side effects. Perhaps we can find out how much meth is used in these pressed pills and test whether that same amount of Adderall or something similar would have a more pleasant effect. If your team doesn't still have Adderall or anything similar on hand, I'm sure we could get some smuggled in by the end of the week."

"Adderall isn't meth," Jeongguk mutters. "Amphetamines are a different class of stimulant, but...it might work. And I'm almost certain we have some on hand."

Jeongguk does not hate the idea. But he is not a scientist—none of them are. He has no clue if this idea will actually pan out. He does, however, have scientists under his employ, so he takes the baggie and shoves it into his pocket.

"Fine," Jeongguk says. "I'll talk to the team about it. Anything else?"

Namjoon shakes his head as if Jeongguk was directing the question to him, and Jeongguk ignores him to glance at Yoongi.

With a soft smile, Yoongi says, "Of course, we need to figure out who that Jae fellow is, who—"

"Already on it," Jeongguk interrupts, to which Yoongi sits up with a smile. "After some digging I found Jae and fourteen men who either knew about his plan or were helping him carry it out. I invited them all to a party at the private club. I'll pop by the warehouse on my way—kill two birds with one stone."

"Kill as many birds as needed," Yoongi responds with a dark, knowing gaze that sends an excited shiver through Jeongguk.

"You got it, boss."

* * * 

Jeongguk stops at a red light just outside the city, gathers saliva under his tongue as he takes the baggie of shitty pink pills out of his front pocket, and pops one into his mouth. He makes a mental note of where everyone will be in an hour or two, banking on Seokjin still being in town, knowing he will be in absolutely no shape to bike home. Then he runs a hand through his hair, gives the bell on his bicycle a celebratory ding as the light turns green, and takes off.

The air is warm, but the breeze that hits him as he rides at a slight incline feels nice and cool. It centers him—a calm before he kicks up a storm. 

So little of Jeongguk's life has ever been calm, and so he takes these moments whenever he can and holds them close to his heart. Driving would make everything go faster, and it would be much more convenient, and that is precisely why Jeongguk rides his bike instead.

Jeongguk's drug operations primarily take place in a warehouse district on the outskirts of the city in an abandoned area that has been left impoverished and ignored with intention. The syndicates like having dumping grounds—a place to make people disappear—and when Yoongi took over and extended his reign to this area, there were talks of cleaning it up to improve the quality of life, which he staunchly declined. 

In fact, the area seems to only have gotten worse. Ironic, perhaps, that some of Yoongi's most state-of-the-art equipment is housed in this very district.

There were homeless populations, but once the warehouses became more useful and Jeongguk employed a team of scientists to begin manufacturing some of their heavy-hitter drugs, everyone was pushed out or eradicated. Or, if they had their wits about them, they were brought onto some of the more disposable teams.

Jeongguk veers from the busy streets and begins an uphill journey that quickly turns to dirt and gravel terrain. The bike bounces as Jeongguk leans into each stride, and then he pulls up to a small concrete compound of four identical grey rectangles with steel panel doors and a few run-down cars outside. He thumbs over a key fob in his pocket to cause the steel door on the second building from the left to lift open, and skids to a halt in front of it.

Whether the drugs are slowly starting to take effect or Jeongguk is anxious about meeting with his team, he is unsure, but there is a tremor in his hands as he rides into the dark cement enclosure and taps the button over the fabric of his slacks once more to close the door behind him. 

Jeongguk parks his bike off to the side of the entrance, closes his eyes to take a deep exhale and shake out his limbs, then makes his way through the empty building to a set of steps in a far corner.

Two stories below is where the science team works, and Jeongguk takes the baggie of pink pills from his pocket, pulls one more pill out, seals the baggie shut, and rubs his thumb and finger over the plastic-covered pills as he makes his way downstairs.

* * * 

The phone rings thrice before Seokjin picks up, and Jeongguk rubs his hand over his nose, stifling a sniffle as cocaine drips down the back of his throat.

"Yeah, kid?"

"Jin-hyung," Jeongguk says in a tone that lilts on being ragged and unsure. "A-are you still in Seoul?"

Jeongguk hears Seokjin sigh. "Are you high?"

"Hmm...not yet. But I will be."

Jeongguk absolutely is high. It crept up as he was discussing Yoongi's idea with the science team, and he got so antsy that he needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

Luckily, there wasn't much to say to the team in the first place; they are used to these kinds of requests and know more about the processes than anyone else, so Jeongguk had nothing to explain—he simply plopped the baggie onto a metal table, muttered their idea, and was out rather fast.

"Do you need a ride?" Seokjin asks, voice stern in a way that always makes Jeongguk anxious—like he is being spoken to like a child.

"Yeah," Jeongguk mutters. His mouth shivers and moves a little too slowly. "Yoongi encouraged me to go b-bird watching, and I'll probably overdo it."

"Bird wat—what did he tell you, exactly?"

Jeongguk giggles, realizing his mistake. Bird watching—how silly. "I'll be in your district. Gotta knock skulls together and find out who lost my pills. Might get messy."

"And you need a ride?"

"Yes, hyung."

"Did you drive?"

"Yes, hyung."

Another sigh. "Send me the coordinates. I can be there in about an hour."

"Thanks, hyung," Jeongguk sing-songs in a dazed voice as he pulls the phone from his ear and hangs up.

His bike tires crunch on gravel as he sits back on the seat, grips his handlebars, and begins to ride. Inside the wicker basket sits an empty duffle bag, the contents of which have been strapped to Jeongguk's chest, scratching his skin ever so slightly beneath his shirt.

The ride from the warehouses to the river feels simultaneously too fast and incredibly slow. Jeongguk's heart pounds as he continues to come up on the pill and ease into two too many tiny spoonfuls of cocaine. He wants a drink—something stiff as hell to take the edge off.

Tonight, in a private club near House of Cards, fifteen of Jeongguk's men are enjoying an evening of drinking and taking it easy in celebration of a great month of getting product onto the streets and sold. This, of course, is a lie; their month tanked once one of them pulled a significant amount of pharmaceuticals and ecstasy, and Jeongguk has gathered them all for easy disposal.

Namjoon and the lamb met with Changkyun to rough up a couple of men who spilled the beans about someone named Jae fucking with their supply. Afterward, Jeongguk put his ear to the ground and immediately started to hear whispers of other men who may have been working to help him. He found out who had been working close to Jae and who had been hanging out with him while off duty, and he made sure to extend invitations to all fifteen of them for a party at the club tonight.

Everyone who is actually worth a damn is currently in one of the warehouses having a lowkey shindig of their own, far away from the others, and none the wiser. They will all find out eventually, and Jeongguk looks forward to their loyalty being tested when they do.

The sun has begun to set, and a pinkish-orange glow colors the sky. Jeongguk likes to imagine the pink as a runoff of blood, picturing the stars above spilling the crimson liquid onto the earth, getting soaked up by the clouds.

He stands, straddling his bike, and stumbles it into a rack, feeling the dizzying tendrils of his high begin to wrap him in a tight hug. A valet worker walks over with a bike lock and begins to anchor the vehicle into place, then sends Jeongguk off with a deep bow.

"Mister Jeon," the buff security officer working the front door mutters with a bow of his head. He pats Jeongguk down as he asks, "What's on the menu tonight?" fingers tracing over pointed steel between his pecs.

"Teaching a lesson in loyalty," Jeongguk responds with a wide, sadistic smile. "Boss will send a cleanup crew; you just need to worry about keeping the men inside once the bartender leaves through the back."

The guard rubs his palm over the gun on Jeongguk's ankle, then stands and says, "Understood."

When Jeongguk walks into the small club, the men are all crowded in a circle, shouting over the sounds of skin slapping against skin. Whenever these low-lives get thrown into a room together, all they want to do is fight. Jeongguk can barely see a tousle of bodies in the center of the group, but the sounds of grunting as hands and feet make contact with limbs and cheeks has adrenaline coursing through him.

The space is cast in a drug-induced fog, and Jeongguk's eyes slowly scan around and attempt to make sense of everything. There are no windows and only one exit, save for a secret door only staff have access to behind the bar. The building itself is solid brick with mahogany floors and deep red wallpaper. Lighting in the space is dim, appearing darker still since the scarce furnishings are rust red.

Jeongguk makes his way to the bar and orders a double whiskey neat—the shittiest they have on the rail. He likes to feel the burn as it travels from his lips to his chest—likes how every inch of his body responds in protest against something so wretched.

"You're off for the night," Jeongguk mutters, and the bartender nods, grabs a towel to wipe a wet spot from the bar top, and then walks into the back, abandoning his post.

Jeongguk pulls a vial of cocaine from around his neck, unscrews it, and begins to tap a small pile onto the sticky counter. He leans and sniffs as much as he can, first through one nostril and then the other, leaving the rest behind. 

Then, he pulls the second little pink pill from his pocket, takes a dizzy step back, and pops it into his mouth. He reasons that the only way to come out of the other end of a bloodbath without ruining his ability to sleep at night is to become relentlessly high.

With the remainder of his whiskey, Jeongguk washes back the pill and attempts to formulate a plan. One of the men approaches the bar, and Jeongguk turns to find him leaning against the edge and looking around.

"Where the fuck is the bartender?" the guy asks, glancing at Jeongguk.

Recognition hits the man, and his eyes widen, then he stands up straight, turning to Jeongguk with his head bowed forward. "S-sir," he mutters, "I didn't see you there."

Jeongguk's heart pounds as he undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, reaches past the fabric, and pulls out a sharp steel kunai knife with a hole on the end of the handle through which Jeongguk sticks his index finger. He twirls the small, heavy knife and takes a step toward the man.

"Are you having fun tonight?" Jeongguk asks with a voice that is far too steady for how he feels.

The man eyes Jeongguk's knife and gives him an ugly, toothy smile. His hair is greasy, his brown shirt is stained on the front, and he smells like piss. "So much fun, boss! Thank you for giving us the night off."

Jeongguk nods. "I wanted to give a special congratulations to Jae. Have you seen him?"

At the mention of Jae, the man's eyes open widely, and he nervously looks around the bar. Then he nods with his chin and says, "Red shirt. W-want me to get him for you, boss?"

Every inch of Jeongguk tingles. A hazy, thick euphoria embraces him tightly and makes him want to dance—dance and sing and slit all of these men's throats until the floor is sticky with blood.

Jeongguk opens his mouth, aware of how tense his jaw is becoming, and moves it around as if stretching it out. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rounded plastic container in which he stores his mouthguard, and he shakes his head at the man before him.

"I'll take care of it," Jeongguk says as he pops the container open, pulls out the clear guard, and shoves it snugly into his mouth.

"Oh—okay," the man says, taking a step away from Jeongguk, who continues to stare him down with his lips spread over the clear plastic covering his teeth.

Jeongguk twirls the kunai on his finger and takes a step toward the man. The man jolts as if startled by a jump scare, and he takes a clumsy step back, tripping into a barstool and reaching back with his hand to steady it. Everything seems to move too fast and too slow, and Jeongguk finds he can only process that which is immediately in his line of sight—everything else is a hazy wash of light and color.

This is the sweet spot. Any higher, and Jeongguk might not be able to perform.

Jeongguk spins on the balls of his boots, places his palms onto the sticky bar, and hoists himself up, landing surprisingly steadily on the bar top. Then he hops down onto the other side and straightens himself as he allows his eyes and brain to catch up to one another, scanning the bottles on the shelves. There are a lot of clear bottles, but only one of them is the vodka he desires.

"W-what are you doing, boss?" the man asks.

"Making a cocktail," Jeongguk shouts over his shoulder.

"Gin...close..." Jeongguk mutters to himself, mouth full of plastic and twirling his kunai. Fidgeting helps him focus, especially with methamphetamines coursing through his blood.

"W-what kind of cocktail, boss?" the man asks, and Jeongguk huffs an impatient sigh. He hates being bothered; why is this man bothering him?

"Ah, here you are," Jeongguk mumbles as he finds a nearly full bottle of Smirnoff 100-proof vodka. He pulls the bottle spout out and drops it to the floor—metal clattering on brick—then turns and searches the rail for a rag.

"Molotov," Jeongguk shouts as he takes the corner of the stained rag and begins twisting it into a small enough tip to shove into the bottle.

"What?"

Jeongguk has to use the kunai to slice part of the rag away, and he tosses the useless strip over his shoulder, then continues to shove the rag into the neck of the bottle, leaving a couple inches sticking out from the top. 

Satisfied with his work, he pulls a gold-plated zippo lighter from his pocket and flicks it open against his thigh in one swift motion, igniting the flame in the process. Then he holds the flame up to the rag and watches with delight as the end of the dirty fabric catches. He pops the lighter closed and drops it back into his pocket, then he sets the flaming cocktail aside.

With the kunai dangling from around his finger, Jeongguk pulls out his mouthguard, dribbling spit that has gathered around it down his chin as he says, "Molotov," more clearly with a grin.

The man looks on in horror, frozen in place, and Jeongguk shoves the guard back into his mouth, places his palms onto the sticky bar, and hops back up, onto his feet in a squatting position. Without warning, Jeongguk picks up the bottle, chucks it overhand toward the crowd, sending it high enough to hit the ceiling, and he smiles widely as the bottle explodes and rains liquid fire down onto the men.

Laughter rocks through Jeongguk, and he loses his balance, falling backward onto his palms against the bar. He sits flat on his butt and swings his legs over the edge of the counter, watching as men panic and scream.

Most of them will have minor burns. Several men run around flailing while their shirts and hair singe, and one man rolls on the floor, desperate to put out the flames. In the chaos, Jeongguk spots Jae off to the right, away from the fire, and he hops down from the bar to make his way over to him, pulling his mouthguard out.

"Yo, Jae!" Jeongguk shouts, and the man in red turns quickly and begins to run toward Jeongguk.

"Boss, you have to help us!" Jae shouts frantically, clearly drunk. "Someone threw fire at us!"

Jeongguk giggles and takes Jae roughly by the bicep as he mutters, "You, come with me."

Jae stumbles but compiles, and Jeongguk drags him several more feet away. Beside the bathrooms of this old building are thick pipes that stick out from the brick, and Jeongguk yanks the man close to one as he reaches into his pocket for some metal handcuffs, fumbles with opening one end of the cuffs, then locks it around Jae's wrist in a tight squeeze.

A shout rips through Jae's chest, and he attempts to get away but then throws a punch. Jeongguk takes the impact of his fist to the jaw and then slams his forehead into Jae’s face, knocking him backward into the wall. 

Jae's head hits brick, making him grunt, and Jeongguk manages to reach the man’s hand over his head and secure the open cuff to one of the pipes.

Adrenaline from absorbing the punch has Jeongguk's nerves singing to life, and he punches Jae in the stomach for good measure, then turns to find the man at the bar shaking while leaning against it with a look of horror on his face.

"Why so scared?" Jeongguk mock pouts.

The man shakes his head and whimpers, "Wh-what's going on, boss?"

"You know what's going on," Jeongguk mutters with a grin.

The man shakes his head again, this time more frantically.

Jeongguk cocks his head to the side, sending a dizzying wave through his body. "No? Because if you told me what happened, I would consider letting you live."

The flash of hope that widens the man's eyes tells Jeongguk everything he needs to know, and he advances quickly—crowds the man's space. A quick glance over his shoulder shows the rest of the group is still broken out into chaos with men attempting to help others put out the remaining fire and get to their feet. A few blurry bodies are on the outskirts of the crowd, but nobody appears to be approaching him.

"Tell me what happened," Jeongguk growls as he turns back to the man at the bar.

"J-J-Jae s-said if w-we cover for him, we'd get a cut."

"A cut of what?" Jeongguk asks.

The man screws up his face as if Jeongguk's question is ridiculous. "Money, s-sir."

"Money for what?"

The man shakes his head. He knows he is fucked—that he has already said too much—and he nibbles on his lip, which trembles. Jeongguk brings the kunai up to the man's throat and presses the tip against his jugular notch.

"Answer me."

"P-pills!" the man shouts. "Narcotics and party drugs. He t-took them off the last shipment while you were distracted."

"Distracted, hmm? Tell me, what was I distracted by?"

At this, the man begins to panic and twist as if hoping that he can get away somehow. So there is more to this story than them simply stealing from him to turn a profit. Interesting.

"Boss?" a voice comes from behind Jeongguk, and he grits his teeth hard and pushes the kunai into the man's jugular, turning his face away from the spray of blood. The man gargles and thrashes, and Jeongguk takes a step back and allows him to fall to the floor and bleed out.

One down, fourteen to go.

Jeongguk pops his guard back into his mouth, spins on the balls of his feet with a wide plastic smile, and finds two worried-looking men standing before him. He reaches into his shirt, pulls another kunai off the bandolier of blades strapped to his chest, and begins to twirl them both—one on each index finger.

The major downside of having to be this high to commit mass murder is that his aim is shit. The entire point of having so many knives strapped to him is to throw them at his targets without needing to immediately retrieve them. Instead, Jeongguk straps the belt around his chest as a means to ground himself—a tight, scratchy hug.

Jeongguk advances on the two men. One stumbles backward and begins to run back to the group while the other gets an angry glint in his eye and comes in swinging. Jeongguk guards his punch by driving the tip of a knife through the man's forearm, then punches his other knife into the man's neck. For good measure, Jeongguk kneels as the man falls and slices his throat open to quicken his bleeding.

Two down, thirteen to go.

When Jeongguk stands, stumbling as he finds his balance, he notices some men crowding around him while others attempt to escape. Jeongguk feels himself fly into a blind rage as he approaches the small group and begins punching and stabbing, absorbing hits that are nowhere near as damaging or lethal as the ones he doles out. He barely feels it when fists make impact with him, and he giggles wildly when one punch lands on the kunai under his shirt and slices the man's knuckles.

"You ruined my shirt, you fuck," he complains through his mouthguard as he punches a knife into the soft tissue and cartilage the man's face, still giggling like a madman.

A glance around the space shows Jae in his corner, three men at the door attempting to beat it down, and two men on the far-end wall huddled up. A couple men groan and crawl against the floor, and Jeongguk has no idea how many of them are dead or dying, so he advances on the three by the door.

Jeongguk takes a chance and flings one of the knives, and it whirs satisfactorily and hits one of the men in the shoulder. The man yelps and falls to his knees, clearly assuming something far worse has happened to him, and Jeongguk takes the opportunity to advance and take the other two out while he is down.

A knife to the throat here, a headbutt followed by a knife to the throat there, and Jeongguk is bending behind the last man, pulling the knife from his back and reaching around to the front of his neck to slice it open. Jeongguk gets to his feet, stretches his neck from side to side, and turns to survey the scene.

The two men who were by the far wall must have gained courage, and they come barreling toward Jeongguk. One slips on blood and falls back against the floor with a loud smack, but the other manages to get close enough to attempt to slash at Jeongguk with a piece of broken glass. Once again, Jeongguk blocks the punch with a knife to the forearm, then punches a knife into the throat, watching with a plastic grin as the man falls to the ground.

Groans and gargles fill the space, and Jeongguk catches his breath as the room sways and twists before him. His mouth is dry, and the smell of brassy blood is overwhelming, and Jeongguk wants to curl up in a ball and take a nice big nap. 

On the floor, the man who had slipped and fallen convulses, and Jeongguk wonders if his head has been pierced by broken glass. Nobody seems to be getting up, so Jeongguk surmises he must have fourteen down with only one left.

Jeongguk wipes the back of his wrist against his forehead, undoubtedly coating it in sweat and blood, and he turns back to Jae. Blood runs down Jae's wrist, and he shakes like a leaf on a tree—he has clearly been attempting to pull himself from the handcuff. Jeongguk pulls his mouthguard out, sucks in some of the saliva that has pooled, and shoves it into his pocket beside its case.

"Last man standing," he slurs as his high becomes unbearable. "You have three minutes to spill before I kill you."

The tangy scent of urine hits Jeongguk's nose, and he looks down to find a large wet spot on the front of Jae's jeans. He shakes his head and scoffs.

"It wasn't my idea," Jae whimpers. Jeongguk cocks his head and studies the man's face—is he crying? What a fucking wimp.

"Whose idea was it?"

"You know whose!" Jae shouts. "The same family that sent the man to fuck up your boxer! The same family who attacked your whore! They're sending people from all sides to throw you off your game and shake you up!"

"My whore?" Jeongguk growls as he grabs Jae tightly by the jaw. "Jimin isn't my whore, and speaking about one of my family men like that is a good way to get a knife shoved into your filthy little piss hole."

Fear visibly shakes through Jae, who thrashes in Jeongguk's hold. He even grabs onto Jeongguk's wrist with his free hand in a feeble attempt to yank Jeongguk's grip off of his jaw. Jeongguk headbutts him again and squeezes tighter as a dizzying quake rocks through him.

"Why did you accept her offer? Were you really stupid enough to think you wouldn't get caught?"

Jae scoffs and shakes his head, appearing to act tough with tears on his cheeks. "She has men on the inside."

Jeongguk squints, losing his ability to see clearly even as close to Jae as he is. "On the inside? On my team?"

"Well...she did. You killed most of them."

"Who are the others?" Jeongguk demands, and Jae laughs.

"You got everything from me that you could," Jae says. Jeongguk thinks he sees Jae's eyes flash to the side and back, but it takes him too long to process it before Jae mutters, "Kill me and be done with it."

Jeongguk takes a step back, ready to drive the knife into Jae's throat and move on, but an arm snakes around Jeongguk's torso and hot, piercing pain hits him on his side. Jeongguk drives a knife into the hand around his waist, piercing his own skin from the impact, and he yanks the knife away in time for another piercing pain to hit him between his shoulder blades.

Only as Jeongguk spins and finds one of the blood-soiled men holding a jagged, bloodied piece of glass does Jeongguk realize he has been stabbed. He grunts as he thrusts both of his knives into the man's guts and shoves the man back until he slips on blood and falls to the floor.

"Fuck!" Jeongguk shouts in frustration as he spins around and slices Jae's throat open in a broad, sloppy motion. He does not want to deal with stab wounds of all fucking things.

Jeongguk slowly steps back and looks around the room, swaying as he turns and attempts to survey the carnage left behind. Everything is a blur of reds and browns with hints of whites and blues, and Jeongguk stumbles toward the bar to sit down on a stool and catch his breath.

The pain in his side and back tingle-throb, and Jeongguk attempts to remember how to tend to a stab wound, but all he can do is grind his teeth and rest back against the bar top. When the door to the club flies open, Jeongguk doesn't register who approaches until he hears Seokjin's nagging shouts and feels him prodding at Jeongguk's torso.

"Yah, are you injured?" Seokjin shouts, fussing about at Jeongguk's side where his hand is weakly pressing against a wound.

Jeongguk hisses and nods, and then he giggles at the thought of any of these men thinking they could kill him. How stupid of them.

"Where did you park?" Seokjin asks as he gets Jeongguk onto his feet with his arm draped over Seokjin's broad shoulders.

"Front," Jeongguk mutters.

All the world is a blur of lights and colors, streaked and sloppy before Jeongguk's eyes. He steps into the cool night air, and the security guard says something he does not comprehend, and then he fumbles down the short set of steps, onto the sidewalk.

"Jeongguk, I don't see any of your cars," Seokjin says as he shakes him roughly.

Pulled to alertness for a split moment, Jeongguk hums and says, "Ol' minty," while flinging his hand in the direction of his bike.

"Wh—Jeonggukah!" Seokjin shouts. "You said you drove here! I asked you if y—oh, this is unbelievable."

"I dr—I drove my bike," Jeongguk slurs.

Jeongguk is led to his bike where the blurry valet attendant is bowed before him, and Seokjin gets him to straddle the small metal cargo rack above the back tire.

"Feet on the pegs!" Seokjin barks as he lifts Jeongguk's feet one at a time and places them onto small metal pegs that are screwed onto his back tire.

Jeongguk somewhat obeys—he has done this many times before—but his feet slip a few times until he is steady. Then Seokjin moves the bicycle away from the bike rack, tells Jeongguk to hold on tight, and once Jeongguk wraps his arms around Seokjin's ribs and leans his head on his back, they are off.

Seokjin smells nice. Like cigars and the expensive cologne that Hoseok insists he wears. He takes in a nice deep breath and groans happily before letting it out. The night air feels cool on his skin, and he smiles as Seokjin drives them home.

From time to time, Jeongguk hears an unintelligible grunt or groan, but he ignores it; he will undoubtedly hear it again once he has sobered up, so there is no use trying to strain the few remaining brain cells that are still working to try to make sense of it now.

The ride from the city to the property is usually around thirty minutes when it is just Jeongguk. He has no concept of how much time has passed as he attempts to watch a tree line blur by, and although the scenery is familiar and Jeongguk thinks he has some idea of how close they could be, he does not dwell on it. Instead, he closes his eyes.

When the bicycle finally skids to a stop, Jeongguk nearly topples over. Seokjin swears and mutters, and Jeongguk attempts to place his feet on the concrete driveway, but his legs melt like hot wax, and he sinks downward as the weight of his collapsing bicycle drags him to the ground.

Seokjin manages to get Jeongguk untangled from his vehicle and picks him up over his shoulder, carrying Jeongguk potato-sack-style toward a light that shines out into the night through some windows. He hears the mechanical beeping of the locking mechanism and then the door crashes open. The sounds of three particular voices gasping tells Jeongguk that he has been brought to Yoongi's house.

"Taehyung," Seokjin mutters. "I think he's been stabbed. There doesn't seem to be a lot of blood loss; I think he's delirious from being high."

There is some shuffling around, and Jeongguk hangs over Seokjin's shoulder, feeling sleepy and, frankly, completely unbothered by anything. 

So he may have gotten stabbed once or twice, so what? He found out more information, and he got to let go of some of his pent-up rage. His jaw aches, however, and he wishes he had not taken his mouthguard out.

Jeongguk is transferred to a different strong person, and Jeongguk wraps his arms around the different neck and hugs closely. After a split moment, he realizes by the clean smell of lotion and eucalyptus shampoo that it is Taehyung, and Jeongguk smiles as he carries him back outside.

"Stabbed?" Taehyung mutters curiously as the night air hits Jeongguk's cheeks and makes him shiver.

The walk to Taehyung's house from Yoongi's is short, and Jeongguk buries his face into Taehyung's neck as he mutters, "Mmhmm."

Silence falls, save for the crunch of dirt under Taehyung's shoe. Jeongguk thinks he begins to fall asleep, roused by the sound of Taehyung's deep, soft voice.

"Are the wounds deep?"

Jeongguk shakes his head, although, truth be told, he has no idea. There is a wet spot on his back, but it does not feel very big, and the one on his side is pressed against Taehyung.

"How many bodies?" Taehyung asks softly.

The sounds of Taehyung's feet crunching over gravel feels oddly calming to Jeongguk, and for some inexplicable reason, he feels the urge to cry.

"Fifteen," Jeongguk mutters with a tremble. He is cold, and he grips onto Taehyung tighter in search of warmth.

Taehyung tsks and chuckles. "So reckless. You don't have to do these jobs alone, you know? You can take one of us."

"Sorry," Jeongguk mutters, feeling defeated and miserable.

Another chuckle comes from Taehyung, instantly lifting Jeongguk's spirits and making him feel okay. "Don't apologize, baby. We just worry about you."

Jeongguk nods against Taehyung's neck and mutters, "Okay."

"I can't believe how mean you are to me," Taehyung whines in a mocking tone as he leans the two of them forward to punch in the password to his front door. 

Taehyung opens the door and switches on a foyer light, then makes his way down a short ramp into his basement, where his exam rooms and surgical equipment are. The fluorescent lighting makes Jeongguk groan and squeeze his eyes closed.

"First, Hoseok tells me you brought home some nobody to fuck," Taehyung continues to mock-pout, "and then you show up all cut and bruised. Starting to make me think you don't need me anymore, baby."

Jeongguk knows Taehyung is being playful, but he cannot stop himself from taking it very personally, and the sloshing of heightened emotions has him feeling incredibly sad. 

Taehyung means more to him than anyone in the world, which is precisely why Jeongguk tends to keep him at arms-length sometimes. Tears spill from Jeongguk's eyes.

"S-sorry, hyung."

"Awe, my poor crybaby," Taehyung sing-songs as he sets Jeongguk onto a leather exam table covered in a white paper sheet.

Jeongguk continues to hold onto Taehyung tightly until two strong hands wrap around his wrists and pull his arms down. He does not want Taehyung to see him cry, even though it would not be the first time—nor the last.

"Are you bored of me, Ggukie? Is that why you don't call me anymore?"

"D-don't want to bother you," Jeongguk whimpers pathetically, swiftly crashing from his high and feeling the full array of his emotions.

Jeongguk opens his eyes a crack to find Taehyung hovering over him and unbuttoning his soiled shirt. Taehyung chuckles at the sight of the blades and reaches around Jeongguk’s back to undo the belt and pull it free. Then he pulls Jeongguk's shirt away, making Jeongguk shiver, and he surveys the first wound.

"Not too deep," Taehyung says as he meets Jeongguk's gaze and smiles. For the first time in a while, Jeongguk can clearly see in front of him, and he thinks Taehyung is more beautiful than ever. Taehyung quietly studies his face. "You seem to be coming back to me. How do you feel?"

Terrible, Jeongguk thinks. He can't tell if he is fully coming down or if the second pill still has more high to give him, but he trembles and his bones feel restless in his skin, and he cannot keep his emotions from teetering from one extreme to the other, especially with Taehyung looking down at him the way he does.

"Shitty," is all Jeongguk says.

"Let's get you into a nice warm bath," Taehyung suggests with a grin that makes Jeongguk melt. "We'll clean your wounds, and then you'll show me what you did to that pretty boy who you picked up this morning. Sound good?"

Jeongguk will need a lot of cocaine to keep up with Taehyung, especially in this state, and he nods and attempts a smile, feeling his teeth clatter in his mouth.

"That's my good baby," Taehyung groans in a tone so deep, it makes a chill rock through Jeongguk.

There is only one person who Jeongguk lets his guard down for—lets do anything he pleases. And although Taehyung is absolutely terrifying and will undoubtedly be the death of him, Jeongguk cannot tell him no.

* * *

thank you so much for reading!!! i hope you enjoy these extras. i lament only writing from one point of view, so these have been a lot of fun for me. hopefully it's not too confusing plopping them into the story as early as chapter 10.

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD OF THIS SITE, BUT LIKES ARE ALSO SUPER APPRECIATED!!! THANK YOU FOR READING, I LOVE YOU!!!

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Collateral is copyright 2022 - 2024 theharrowing, all rights reserved. no translations or reposts allowed!

[scarlettohairdye]

Fic complete!

The 9th and FINAL chapter of "i only came here for you" is up! The fic is done!!!

🗡️ 13.5k words for the chapter/86k for the fic 🗡️ Xie Yun asks questions 🗡️ A'Fei actually answers them 🗡️ The comfort part of the emotional hurt/comfort 🗡️ Hot sex 🗡️ A happy ending!

[fluentmoviequoter]

A Place to Grieve

Pairing: Aragorn x fem!reader (Aragorn and Strider are used interchangeably)

Summary: After losing a loved one, Strider offers you a place to grieve. 1.5k+ words

Warnings: loss of unspecified loved one, angst, fluff, Sindarin, canon divergent, spoilers for The Fellowship of the Ring

A/N: I’ve never written for Strider before but I really want a hug from him, so this is completely self-indulgent. Honestly, this weekend has been pretty rough and I was really unmotivated to write until I started this. I hope it’s okay and if you have any feedback please leave a comment or drop it in my inbox!🤍

Photo from Pinterest

“… is gone.”

Aragorn only hears the end of Gandalf’s news, but his sad smile and comforting hand on your shoulder are more than enough to show it is bad news. You shake your head in a small motion, blinking quickly before whispering something and stepping back.

This is no time to mourn. No place to grieve.

Turning away from Gandalf, you lock eyes with Strider. Nodding, you silently tell him you are fine. However, Strider is a good friend and a better ranger. Lying to him is not only impossible, it is unwise.

Gandalf leads you and the hobbits at the front of the company, sending concerned looks your way whenever you near him. Frodo and Sam distract you with stories of The Shire, and though you try to let your mind drift, you can only think of the gnawing sense of loss rooting itself deep in your chest. Learning of your loss, it feels as though you have lost a piece of yourself, a portion of your soul ripped away with hidden mourning.

Behind you, Strider ignores Legolas as he watches you. Your distant expression and sorrow-filled gaze worry him.

“An inn!” Sam exclaims. “We wish to stop for the night, do we not?”

Gandalf sighs, smiling as he gestures toward the city. Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin waste no time as they race toward the first sign of civilisation in countless miles. Legolas taps your shoulder kindly as he steps around you. After he falls into step with Gandalf, you take a shaky breath and close your eyes tightly, burying your rising emotions. Strider’s hand meets your arm, gently tugging you toward him. You look toward him but not at him, concerned you may fall apart if he asks what plagues your mind. Shaking your head, you pull away from him and follow Gandalf.

“Mell nîn,” Strider mutters under his breath. “Your heart calls out yet your mind silences it.”

Knowing that he is not always a good communicator, yet unwilling to risk losing your camaraderie and closeness, Strider often talks to you when you do not hear. Tonight, sensing the sadness deep in your being, he craves your words more than ever.

✨🗡️✨🗡️✨

Your breaths grow shallow and your eyes glassy before you stand, jostling your chair as you rush out of the dark pub. Strider follows you immediately, ignoring Gandalf’s soft laugh and guarantee that Strider can handle it. Gandalf knows that the hobbits and Legolas have grown attached to you; he has as well, but he is also the only one to notice your unique relationship with the ranger and rightful king of Gondor.

Strider says your name as he moves before you, raising a hand to stop you. You obey, halting as you wipe your freshly fallen tears off your cheeks.

Wishing to speak, comfort you, and welcome your words, Strider attempts to talk but falls speechless at the brokenness hiding behind your eyes, being slowly revealed as your tears continue.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, continuing around Strider.

He repeats your name, stopping you again. “I am sorry.”

“Why do you apologise?”

“Whatever news you have received ails you.”

Tightening your jaw, you move away from Strider again. Talking about it makes it real, solidifies it within your mind and heart and makes it impossible to hold yourself together.

“Please do not make me use force to comfort you, meleth nîn,” Strider pleads.

“You have no rule here, my king. There is nothing you can do to make me answer your questions,” you point out angrily.

“Then do as you are, take your anger out upon me, but do not run from me in your flee from feeling,” Strider answers, a mix of care and exasperation in his words.

The tears increase in both number and intensity as you lower your head. Releasing the first sob, you reach out for Strider, surprised when he pulls you into his embrace. His cloak grows damp under your cheek, his hand cradling your head to his chest.

“There is no shame in responding in this way, in being who you are,” Strider comforts quietly.

You don’t notice Strider move, but when you raise your head again, you find you are tucked between buildings. The dark corner provides the privacy you need to be honest with Strider.

Repeating Gandalf’s news, you tell Strider that someone you love is gone. His slow exhale accompanying his kind arms circling you makes you feel safe enough to accept it.

“I am sorry, mell nîn. Your loss will be felt through the miles and the centuries, I am sure.”

“This is no time to grieve,” you tell him. Hearing your thoughts aloud makes them seem inappropriate; as if someone so special is unworthy of your tears.

“I know what you mean,” Strider says, interrupting your thoughts. “This is a trying time and the company has a long journey ahead of us, but there is no good place, no good time to grieve.”

“Right here is acceptable,” you whisper, looking up at Strider.

His gaze drops, his arms still holding you against his chest. Though his words are few, they are never without meaning. The sudden silence during such a moment alerts you to your mistake.

“My apologies, my king,” you mutter, attempting to pull back.

“Then here you will grieve, will mourn, whenever you need,” Strider insists, refusing to let you retreat into yourself once more.

“But, my king-“

“I am no king,” Strider begins.

“Not yet,” you interject.

He smiles down at you, and the world seems to brighten. “But what kind of king would I be to deny a lady a shoulder on which to cry? To rest as she travels, as she experiences gains and losses with no other consistent place to rest?”

“You have responsibilities, as do I. And neither provide time for sadness. The grief will come later.”

“Your grief is not to be set aside. You are not a burden to our company, if that is your concern. Feeling nothing is not an option, meleth nîn.”

You nod, leaning closer to Strider.

“Thank you.”

“Mell,” Strider repeats quietly.

✨🗡️✨🗡️✨

It hits when it is darkest, a deep ache with no evident relief. Moving through the darkness, you approach Strider’s side, his watchful eyes gazing into the night.

“Strider?” you ask quietly.

He wordlessly opens his arms toward you, allowing you to rest against his shoulder as his cloak closes around you.

“Does it stop hurting?”

“Slowly. Soon the memories will be a welcomed kindness. A reminder of good times rather than an amplifier of the bad," he replies.

Nodding, Strider’s comfort, warmth, and kindness lull you to sleep. You wake tucked against his side and well-rested.

✨🗡️✨🗡️✨

After a week of sleeping at Strider’s side, you are not as sad as often as before. The emptiness has made way for early acceptance, though some moments still seem hopeless and void of all happiness. Your life will never be the same following the loss of another’s life, but you must continue living rather than stall in the moments of memories.

“Why are you so kind to me?” you ask Strider as he leads you to his guarding position.

“You are good. Everyone good deserves kindness,” Strider replies simply.

“The way in which you treat me differs from your actions toward Gandalf and the hobbits.”

“They do not hold a piece of nin hûr.”

Strider’s eyes are on you in the dim forest light.

“Why do you do that; speak in Sindarin, when you know I do not understand?”

Strider’s hands rise to pull you close, his fingers ghosting over your jaw.

“Because words are not easy for me. You mean more to me than words can express,” Strider admits quietly, his voice soft against the rustling leaves.

“Your hûr?”

“My heart.”

“Mell nín?”

“You.”

“So you have said,” you reply with a kind laugh. “But what am I to you?”

“My dear,” Strider says, dipping his head to kiss your forehead. “My beloved, my sweet.”

Smiling up at Strider, you repeat, “You hold my entire hûr, my king.”

“Ara.” At your confused hum, Strider smiles and translates, “King.”

“Aragorn,” you say, pulling yourself closer to him.

“Rían nîn,” he replies. “My queen.”

“Me?” Strider nods, pressing his head against your neck as your arms loop over his shoulders. “That is why you are so kind to me.”

“I have wished to love you since you joined the company. Since you joined my side.”

“What should I call you?”

“Call me whatever you wish, as long as I am yours.”

Moving your head to Strider’s shoulder, you return home.

“Thank you for allowing me to grieve. For welcoming me, my brokenness.”

“You are not broken,” Strider insists, standing as he cups your cheeks in his strong hands. “Your dark nights, your grief and mourning, do not define you. Your love, kindness, and joy with your friends do.”

“My heart, my love, my joy are yours.”

Strider falls silent again, pulling you against him as his lips meet yours in the dark forest. Though you miss those you have lost, Strider holds you close and leads you through the dark and the light of mourning.

[ask-lute]

Are you and Vaggie exes? Because honestly, y'all give off that energy. Don't be shy, just admit it. We all know it hun.

I've answered this a few times before, ex is too concrete of a word for what I and Vaggie had. She meant a lot to me, I think I meant a lot to her but there was never anything official, though we did have our intimate experiences.-🗡️

@ask-vaggie