#I KNOW I SCREAM ABOUT THIS EVERY GODDAMN DAY BUT I AM JUST SO TIRED!!!!!!!!!

[musical-chick-13]

Post: I hate misogynistic double standards, where is the widespread love for horrible women in fiction.

Inevitably, at least one buffoon in the tags: But what about horrible men! Maybe I love horrible people!

[whoblewboobear]

It’s strange, I’m used to hyperfixating hard on things like HARD (beats my 2yr long beetlejuice musical obsession back with a stick) but Starbreaker- not even fantasy high itself took me over to the point of feeling like a teen about. Like I haven’t had this much fun in fandom in years. I haven’t like- interacted with people this much in fandom in years (which is still not enough but if I beat myself up about social interaction again I’ll jump off a cliff)

But there’s never been a concern of like “this obsession won’t fade for a while but it’ll lose popularity” and that’s fine and surprisingly it hasn’t. But it is different. It’s like adapting to it constantly as the thing itself changes even when there are aspects that you’d like to stay the same. Like that ‘I don’t go to this school of thought, but I’ll still take the class bc it’s interesting’ sorta thing.

And then there’s that feeling of WANTING to contribute but the thing has become such a beast that it’s like oooh I’m so out of my depths here.

Also like constantly having to look myself in the eye and be like ‘bitch you don’t have to talk or contribute to EVERYTHING’ and the sooner I accept that and accept that it is what it is, ill miss things, I won’t get enjoyment out of every aspect and every aspect isn’t for me and that that isn’t a bad thing, I’ll stop having moments of feeling weird and out of place. I have my lil corner and that’s okay

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #16 死

† shooting range and dinner †

"When his insomnia slips out, you decide being a useful fuck buddy is part of the arrengement. Even if sleeping is not exactly what you want to do tonight."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9,3k.

content: jeon taking a nap in j-hope’s office and hobi having none of it, verbal fights between friends, bestie plans being cancelled, shooting range practices that feel like lame excuses to touch, insomnia confessions, sleeping arrangements where both of them fail to simply sleep.

☠ author's note ☠

Y'ALL I'M SCREAMING. Look at my boy Jeon being all emotionally constipated and sleepless and GRUMPY! I cannot with him sometimes (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠)⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

So I'm really exposing my kinks here, but the whole "let's sleep together but actually sleep" trope is just *chef's kiss* perfect. Insomnia-ridden boy who can only sleep well with you nearby? GIVE IT TO ME INTRAVENOUSLY, THANK YOU.

And J-Hope being all "I'm your friend whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole" is everything I needed today. Their friendship is so beautifully dysfunctional I want to frame it and hang it on my wall.

Meanwhile, you guys in the comments are like "show us Jeon's POV!" and I'm over here like "fine, take his whole entire trauma-riddled brain, are you happy now?!" The answer is yes, you're all trauma vultures just like me. No shame in our game.

I had so much fun writing the shooting range scene though! That whole "let me adjust your stance" trope where they're basically just looking for an excuse to touch you? ICONIC. I will never get tired of it. Sue me.

And don't even get me started on that dinner scene. Jeon actually eating with another human being and not hating it? CHARACTER GROWTH, PEOPLE!

Sorry for leaving you hanging with the spicy bits but... actually no, I'm not sorry at all. The slow boil to explosion is the best part and I'm savoring every moment of your collective suffering (◕‿◕✿)

See you next chapter, you magnificent disaster enablers!

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

"Again, Jeon?"

J-Hope's voice hits him as soon as he walks in, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. His body feels heavy, mind foggy with exhaustion.

The medical ward has become too familiar lately—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment, the way the afternoon light filters through the blinds.

He grunts in response, already making his way to his usual spot. The stretcher's not comfortable, not really, but it's better than lying awake in his own bed.

"You can't come here every afternoon, you know. I have shit to do and your snoring is not precisely helpful."

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes. He doesn't snore—never has—but arguing takes energy he doesn't have.

"Then put some background music."

"You—"

He doesn't wait for J-Hope to finish, just rolls onto the stretcher, facing the wall. The vinyl covering is cool against his arm, and somehow it's grounding... perhaps in a way he doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you for real right now? This is the third day in a row you're taking a nap in my office."

"You said yourself I should nap from time to time." His voice comes out muffled, face half-pressed into the thin pillow.

"Yes, but not in my goddamn office!"

The silence that follows is heavy.

He can picture J-Hope without looking—probably pinching the bridge of his nose, that look of exasperated concern he gets whenever Jeon's being particularly difficult. He hears the medic's chair creak as he leans back.

"Look, Jungkook." The use of his real name makes something in his chest tighten. J-Hope only uses it when he's about to say something Jungkook won't like. "I don't wanna be the one saying this to you, but you need to get your shit together."

"Well I am trying to fall asleep right now." The deflection is weak and they both know it.

"That is not what I mean you dimwit." There's that familiar mix of frustration and worry in J-Hope's voice. "Believe me, I'm glad you're finally trying to get some proper rest. But this—in my office? Just why."

Jungkook quiet, hoping J-Hope will drop it. He doesn't want to think about why he keeps coming here, why his own room feels too empty, too quiet. Why he can't sleep unless he can hear someone else breathing nearby.

(He definitely doesn't want to think about how he slept better in that tent, with y—)

"Jungkook."

Not his real name again.

Something in him snaps.

"Fine. I don't fucking know, okay?" The words come out sharp, defensive. He glares at the wall like it's personally offended him. "I just seem to sleep better in company."

"In company?" He can hear J-Hope's brain working, trying to piece together this new information. "Okay, what—? Elaborate right now."

"No."

The word is final, heavy with all the things he refuses to say.

Like the nightmares that wake him up gasping. Or how silence fucking makes his skin crawl. Or how being alone with his thoughts is becoming unbearable.

About how he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since—

"Whose company, Jungkook? This isn't about little bed-hopping habits, is it?"

It's offensive, the question, really.

But all he does is stare at the wall, trying to ignore how his mind immediately conjures up images of you. Of how he actually slept through the night in that tent.

No nightmares, no cold sweats. Just... sleep.

Four fucking years of insomnia, and the solution was this s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ simple?

"No, it's not." His fingers curl into a fist against the stretcher, leather creaking under fingers—and the sound grates on his nerves, already frayed from lack of sleep. "I ain't talking about it. Drop it, Hoseok."

Using J-Hope's real name now is a low blow, but Jungkook is too tired to care. He just wants to test his theory—see if sleeping near someone, anyone, will keep the nightmares at bay. He doesn't need J-Hope playing therapist, doesn't need him picking apart why this might be working.

Because that would mean thinking about you, about that night, about how for the first time in years he actually felt—

No.

"I'm your friend, Jungkook. And as a member of the Council of Nine, I have to know if anything... or anyone is becoming a weakness."

Jeon almost laughs.

A weakness? No. This isn't about feelings. This is about finally getting some fucking sleep without having to relive—

He cuts that thought off too. Focuses on the antiseptic smell of the medical ward, the equipment, anything but the memories threatening to surface.

J-Hope's concern is misplaced. This isn't about compromising the gang or breaking rules. It's about finding a solution to a problem that's been haunting him for four years.

So if sleeping near someone help? Fucking fine. He'll take what he can get.

Even if it pisses him off that it took this long to figure it out.

"There is no fucking weakness, you got that?" His eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. "I just need some goddamn sleep. I've gotta be sharp for the mission. That's all you need to know."

He can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, searching for cracks where light would shine through.

There's none.

It's been a long time since there's none.

But the medic knows too much, has seen too much. Was there that night when everything went to shit, when V—

"And after the mission? What then? You keep coming back here for your afternoon siestas or are you gonna be sleeping with that company?"

The implication slices through without sugarcoating. There's another word hovering in the air between them, pressing down on the air like a goddamn vacuum.

Traitor.

It sits there like poison, like the taste of copper in his mouth from that night.

Jeon pushes himself up, muscles tense, anger corroding his veins. His head is pounding from lack of sleep, making everything sharper, harder to control.

"I'll deal with it when it comes. Besides, who the fuck will notice? You gonna bitch about it to the rest of the crew?"

"Watch it, Kook." The use of his nickname is a warning, one that would mean more if he wasn't so fucking tired. "I'm trying to help you, not rat you out. But if you become a liability..."

"I ain't no fucking liability."

He's on his feet now, wrath burning through the exhaustion. His fists clench until he can feel his nails biting into his palms.

The suggestion that he'd risk the gang again, that he'd let himself be compromised like that... He does not appreciate it.

It makes something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"You think I don't know the stakes? You think I'd let myself become another Sylvia episode?"

"Surely you're more intelligent than that."

The words hit exactly where J-Hope means them to. Because yeah, everyone thought he was intelligent back then too. Look how that turned out.

Jungkook holds J-Hope's gaze, something ugly settling in his chest.

For a moment, he considers telling him about you, about this arrangement that's purely physical—no strings, no complications, just a solution to his sleepless nights.

But the words catch in his throat. Because J-Hope isn't just asking for himself, is he? He's asking for AD too. AD, who still carries Sylvia's ghost like an open wound, who took her death even harder than he did.

Who trusted her, protected her, only to watch her choose Jungkook—and then watch her die for that choice.

The guilt sits like lead in his stomach. He can't do that to AD again. Can't make him watch from the sidelines as another woman gets tangled up with Jungkook, always wondering if history's about to repeat itself.

The weight of Sylvia's death is still a chain around his neck, dragging him down every time he closes his eyes.

So he swallows the truth, lets it burn on its way down. This thing with you—he'll handle it himself. Keep it contained. Control it before it becomes something he can't take back.

His face settles into careful blankness as he meets J-Hope's searching look.

"I fucking am. I don't need your nagging."

It's not even a lie. This isn't like Sylvia. He won't let it be. You're different—safer. You know exactly what this is.

"You sure you don't?" J-Hope's voice rises. "Because from what I recall, you've been a messy piece of shit ever since she's gone."

Something dark and ugly coils in Jeon's chest. "Watch how you sling that shit at me, J-Hope."

"Keeping an eye on it, always. Seems we all gotta tiptoe with our words 'round you, huh? Drop one mention of her, and you're all about throwing punches, no thoughts, just rage. Done you a lick of good, has it?"

"Shut your mouth!"

The words rip out of him before he can stop them, raw and ragged.

Because J-Hope's right, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

Four years, and he still can't hear her name without feeling like he's drowning in it all over again.

"Pull yourself together, Jeon!" J-Hope's voice cracks with frustration. "You've been haunted by those fucking nightmares since she died, and now what? Using someone else's body to quiet them down? Jumping from one disaster straight into another and expecting me to just watch?"

Jungkook's eyes feel like they're burning. "No one's asking for your fucking two cents. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

He wants J-Hope to hit him, to hate him, to stop looking at him with that mix of concern and disappointment.

So his next words are not something he's proud of. But something he feels he needs to do.

"Why don't you go find a bottle to crawl into?"

It's a low blow, and he knows it. Watches J-Hope's hand shake, sees the muscle jump in his jaw.

"Don't you fucking go there, Jeon." The warning in his voice is clear. "I see what you're doing—spiraling because you're losing control. But I'm not playing that game. I'm not V."

"Right, you're not." Jeon's laugh is hollow, bitter. "At least that bastard's honest about not giving a fuck about anyone but himself."

"Jesus fuck, Jeon. You're not the only one carrying shit, you know that?" J-Hope's laugh is all broken glass. "Is that what you want? Me to knock your teeth in? You think that'll fix whatever's going on in that fucked-up head of yours?"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it. Pushing everyone away—that's about the only thing you're good at anymore."

"Don't need anyone. Do just fine on my own."

"Really?" J-Hope's voice is sarcasm. "That why you're trying to sleep in my fucking office?"

"Fucking hell, man. Just drop it and let me rest. I'm not digging into your shit, am I? Let me handle mine." His voice comes out raw, desperate, and he hates it.

"You might not see it, but some of us actually give a shit about you, you stubborn asshole." J-Hope's voice softens, and that's worse somehow. "I might share that council seat with you, but I'm also your friend—whether you like it or not. I'm worried, okay? This isn't how you deal with your demons."

Jeon closes his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. "Maybe it's exactly how I deal with them."

Maybe he deserves them.

He doesn't say that.

"It's a shit way of dealing with anything, Jungkook." The softness bleeds out of J-Hope's voice, and something in Jeon's chest loosens.

Anger he can handle.

Concern?

That's harder to dodge.

"Fuck, I'm not watching you spiral down that rabbit hole again. You can hate me all you want, but I won't stand here and watch you self-destruct. Not a second time."

"I get it. Like I said—not your cross to bear."

Jungkook can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, cutting through his bullshit like always.

"Fine, Kook. Hoard your secrets. But the moment it fucks with the mission, you're answering to me—and the Council."

Jeon knows that tone. It's not just a threat—it's a lifeline J-Hope's throwing him, begging him to get his shit together before everything falls apart.

The anger sits like acid in his chest, but he swallows it down.

This isn't about him and J-Hope anymore. This is about the mission. About the gang. About not letting his f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ weakness compromise everything like last time.

"Got it," he mutters, dropping back onto the stretcher and turning to face the wall. The stone is cold against his face, grounding in its indifference.

Behind him, J-Hope's chair scrapes against the floor as he turns back to his work. The sound is harsh, angry.

But it's okay if he's angry. Better that than worried. Better that than watching Jeon like he's a bomb about to go off.

"Fucking Sylvia," J-Hope mutters.

Then, silence drops.

For all his crankiness, J-Hope won't kick him out. Can't, maybe, because under all that anger is the same guy who dragged Jeon's drunk ass home after Sylvia, who patched him up when he picked fights he knew he'd lose.

J-Hope's right to be worried—secrets in Kkangpae have a way of turning lethal. One wrong move, one slip, and everything goes up in flames.

Again.

(But this thing with you isn't like Sylvia. It isn't. He just needs to figure out how to sleep through the night without—)

Jeon closes his eyes, lets the antiseptic smell of the medical ward fill his lungs.

Maybe if he lies here long enough, sleep will finally come.

Maybe this time, he won't dream.

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

The message glares at you from your phone screen, all business and no explanation. Typical Jeon.

𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗?

．．．

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯

Great. He's seen it and can't be bothered to reply. Fantastic.

You stare at your phone, trying to will a response into existence. Nothing. Just that stupid "seen" mocking you. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall probably has better communication skills.

Jeon and his one-word texts. The man's got a gift for saying absolutely nothing while still managing to ruin your plans. You had a whole evening of doing absolutely nothing planned, and now? Now you're apparently going to the shooting range. Yay!

You toss your phone onto the bed; angry, petty. It bounces once, screen still lit up with Jeon's oh-so-eloquent message. His profile pic is just a blank space. Of course it is. God forbid he show an actual human emotion. Or, you know, a face.

With a sigh that could probably be heard three floors down, you drag yourself to the bathroom. For once, it's empty. Small mercies, right?

You tie your hair back into a ponytail, all business. Can't have stray hairs getting in the way when you're handling firearms. That's a safety hazard or whatever. Plus, you know Jeon would probably lecture you about it.

Mr. Safety-First-Unless-It's-About-Emotions.

The mirror shows you a face that's equal parts annoyed and resigned.

This is your life now—dropping everything because Jeon decided to grace you with a whole six words. Six! He's feeling chatty today.

You stare at your reflection, wondering for the millionth time how you ended up here. Not just in a gang, but at Jeon's beck and call. The man's like a black hole—impossible to ignore, drawing you in whether you like it or not.

(You like it. You hate that you like it.)

Time to go play with guns, apparently. Because nothing says "fun night out" like potential bullet wounds and Jeon's silent judgment.

This better be good, you think. But with Jeon? It's always a toss-up between mind-blowing and mind-numbing.

Guess you'll find out which one it is tonight.

You finish tying your hair back and grab your phone, typing out a quick message to Yunjin. Your fingers hover over the keys for a second because ugh. You were actually looking forward to dinner with her.

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔?

The card reader beeps when you swipe your ID, sound echoing through the empty hallway like some ominous warning bell.

The elevator ride feels like you're being delivered to your doom, each floor passing with total indifference to your impending crisis.

Ding.

Third floor. You step out into a corridor that feels way too quiet. Your sneakers barely make any noise against the floor, which just makes your heartbeat sound louder in your ears.

You reach the shooting range and—because you're not a complete idiot—you don't just barge in. Instead, you peek through the reinforced glass window like some s̶t̶a̶l̶k̶e̶r̶ cautious person.

And fuck.

There he is, in his own little world of violence.

He's wearing his usual dark t-shirt, fabric's stretched across his shoulders in a way that's honestly unfair for every other man. His combat pants are doing that thing where they show off every muscle without being obvious about it, and his boots are planted like he owns the ground he's standing on.

He hasn't spotted you yet. He's too focused on the gun in his hands, handling it with the kind of familiarity that reminds you he does this for a living. The protective gear—ear muffs and glasses—should make him look dorky, but nope. In your brain that simply catalogs as hot.

Each shot he fires is like... well, it's like watching someone who knows what they're doing. Which, you suppose, makes sense.

The recoil doesn't even phase him—his body just absorbs it like it's nothing. Spent casings hit the floor with little metallic pings, and you find yourself weirdly fascinated by the way his fingers adjust on the grip between shots.

(You're definitely not thinking about what else those fingers can do. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional.)

You watch him reload—movements quick and methodical—like he could do this in his sleep. Probably has, honestly. This is Jeon's comfort zone, after all.

You step inside, and it hits you again how different the air feels in here. Smelling like gunpowder and that underlying tension that always shows up when you're around him.

Jeon doesn't turn around, too focused on whatever target he's destroying. You can't help the little smirk that tugs at your lips because finally—a chance to catch Mr. Perfect off guard. He's so zeroed in on his shooting that he might actually not notice you for once.

(You should know better by now, but hope springs eternal or whatever.)

Your sneakers don't make a sound on the rubber floor as you creep closer. You're already planning it—maybe a sudden clap, or yelling his name. Something to make him jump, even just a little. The thought sends this weird thrill through you, like you're about to get away with something.

You take a deep breath, ready to execute your master plan, when—

"Don't even think about it."

Motherfucker.

He doesn't even turn around. Doesn't move a muscle. Just keeps standing there like some statue of Perfect Shooting Form, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

It's not fair how he does that—makes you feel like you're being predictable without even looking at you.

"You got radar in your head, or what?" you ask, trying to play it off like you weren't just caught being an absolute child.

Your voice comes out light, playful, which feels kind of wrong in a room designed for practicing how to kill people efficiently. But that's kind of your whole thing with Jeon, isn't it? Finding these little moments of tomfoolery in between all the violence and duty.

Sometimes you wonder if he lets you get away with it because he needs those moments too.

Jeon turns around, and as usual, there's this look in his eyes. Could be the fluorescent lights, could be him being a smug bastard.

He sets down his gun with this final-sounding click that somehow makes the room feel too quiet.

"Let's just say I've got a good sense of when someone's lurking in my blind spot."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and you're starting to think he practices that almost-smirk in the mirror.

You watch as he moves to the gun rack, all fluid movements. He picks out this pristine semi-automatic that gleams under the shitty range lights like it's showing off.

"Come on." His voice drops the playful edge. "If we're going to have your back in the field, you need to be able to hold your own. No hesitation this time."

This time.

The words bring back memories of your first shooting lesson with him—how your hands shook, how the gun felt too heavy with the weight of what it could do. You weren't ready then.

But now, with this mission hanging over your heads like a guillotine, you don't have the luxury of not being ready.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. When he hands you the gun, his fingers brush against yours, and even that tiny contact sends electricity up your arm. The metal's cold against your palm, but you grip it like you mean it. Like you're not thinking about how those same hands felt on your skin just days ago.

"Good." He nods, and something warm unfurls in your chest at his approval. "First, your stance—it's all about balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other."

You follow his instructions, hyper-aware of his eyes on you. It feels like being under a microscope, but like, a really hot microscope that you maybe want to kiss again.

You plant your feet, trying to look like you know what you're doing.

"Now, grip. Not too tight—imagine holding someone's hand. Firm, but you're not trying to crush it."

He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels thicker. His comparison makes your brain short-circuit because now all you can think about is holding hands, which leads to thinking about holding other things, which—yeah, nope.

Can't think about that. Not while you're holding a deadly weapon.

His hands come up to adjust your grip, and it should be clinical. Professional.

But there's this undercurrent of something between you, like static electricity looking for a place to ground itself. Like every little touch is loaded with meaning.

You find your rhythm with the breathing, in and out, as Jeon steps back to give you space. He's watching you with that unreadable expression of his, but his eyes are intense, like he's trying to will you into not fucking this up.

"Align the sights." His voice drops low, and fuck, it shouldn't affect you when he's teaching you how to shoot people. "Focus on the front sight—everything else is just background noise. Breathe in, breathe out, and on the exhale—that's when you squeeze the trigger."

You narrow your eyes, zeroing in on the target downrange.

It's not just a paper outline anymore—it's a test.

Another thing you need to prove you can handle in this life you've chosen.

You let out a slow breath, and with it goes some of that nervous energy that's been making your hands shake.

Right now it's just you, the gun, and this need to show Jeon—and yourself—that you're not out of your depth here. That you belong in this world of his, even if it's just at the edges.

The shot cracks through the air like a whip, and the recoil hits your palms. It's jarring but real, solid proof that you're actually doing this. That you're becoming whatever it is you need to be to survive in Kkangpae.

Jeon gives you this little nod, like yeah, okay, maybe you're not completely hopeless. But then—oh. Then his mouth does this thing, curling up at the corners into what might be the most dangerous smile you've ever seen.

"Good job."

Two. Words.

Just two fucking words, but the way he says them—all low and pleased—makes heat pool in your stomach.

It's not fair how he can do that, turn a simple phrase into something that feels like innuendo, voice wrapping around you like smoke, seeping into places it has no business being.

You're starting to think weapons training with Jeon might be hazardous to your mental health. And not for the obvious reasons.

Because the fucker is not just hot—though fuck, he absolutely is—he's something else entirely.

The way he handles a weapon, the easy confidence, how he makes everything look so effortless? It's doing things to you. Things that have nothing to do with training and everything to do with how his hands looked wrapped around that gun.

"Let's try again. This time, focus on consistency. You want to be able to replicate that shot every time."

He moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes severely underrated.

You try to focus on the target, but your brain's too busy cataloging every tiny detail—how his breath stirs the baby hairs at your nape, the way his chest is just shy of brushing against your back.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, but that's a mistake because now all you can smell is him.

Pine and wood and leather.

Jeon.

The gun feels heavy in your hands as you line up another shot, and your attention is split between the target downrange and the way Jeon's presence seems to fill up all the space around you.

The shot immediately cracks through the air, perfect center mass.

You should feel proud—and you do—but mostly you're trying not to think about how close he is, how easy it would be to lean back just a little...

Because you know he's all business, laser-focused on getting you ready for the mission. Completely professional. But there are these tiny tells—the way his fingers linger when he adjusts your stance, how his eyes sometimes drift from the target to your face, staying just a second too long.

It's driving you insane.

Like there's this invisible line neither of you is willing to cross first, even though you both know exactly where this tension is heading.

You've been there before, after all. That night in his tent wasn't that long ago.

You lower the gun, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking—partly from adrenaline, mostly from something else.

The way Jeon's looking at you right now.

"Just like that. Keep it up."

You manage a nod because words? Not happening. Your throat's too dry, and honestly, you're afraid of what might come out if you open your mouth.

Another shot rings out, and you can't help wondering if Jeon feels it too. This crackling tension that makes your skin feel too tight. Or maybe you're just losing it, getting all hot and bothered over a man who's literally just teaching you how to shoot people.

"Reload. Keep your focus sharp."

He hands you a fresh magazine, and your fingers brush against his again—and honestly?

This isn't fair.

You're supposed to be learning important gang shit here, not mentally cataloging how good his hands feel.

Your brain keeps replaying every tiny touch, every moment his body was pressed against yours while "correcting your stance."

Which, by the way? Totally unnecessary.

You're pretty sure proper shooting form doesn't require his chest being that close to your back.

Focus, you tell yourself. You're here to learn how to handle a weapon, not daydream about handling... other things.

You need to prove you belong here, that you're more than just another recruit who can't keep it in their pants around the hot Chief.

(Even if said Chief is making it really hard to think straight right now.)

You grip the gun tighter, channeling all that frustrated energy into your next shot. The bang echoes through the range, and you pretend it drowns out the voice in your head that keeps suggesting alternative uses for this private training session.

The magazine clicks into place with maybe more force than necessary, but whatever. You're determined to get through this without embarrassing yourself. More shots follow, each one a desperate attempt to focus on anything except how good Jeon looks when he's in instructor mode.

(It's not working, but at least you're hitting the target.)

You're about to take another shot when something catches your eye.

Jeon looks... off.

There are shadows under his eyes that makeup can't hide, and his movements are slower than usual.

Most people wouldn't notice, but you've been trained to spot weaknesses.

"You look like shit."

The words slip out before your brain can filter them. Because you're such a professional, apparently. But now that you've started digging this hole, might as well keep going.

"When's the last time you actually slept?"

Dark eyes snap to yours, and you swear something raw flutters behind his eyelashes. Doesn't last long-as never anything really does with him. The walls come slamming back up.

"I'm fine."

His tone screams drop it; the voice in your head screams 'don't.'

Good thing you've always been good at hearing yourself first.

Besides, this isn't exclusively about him anymore.

You set the gun down, turning to face him fully. "Look, I get it—we all have our shit. But if you're walking around half-dead, that's not just your problem. That's how people end up getting killed."

He gives you a death stare, and you're pretty sure he's about to pull rank and shut this conversation down. But then he exhales, and something in his posture just... gives.

"Insomnia's an old friend." An admission that comes out rough, like he had to force the words past his defenses. "Been dealing with it for years. It doesn't affect my work."

"Bullshit." You shouldn't push, but your mouth's apparently on autopilot today. "You slept fine in the tent—"

His eyes narrow, and okay, maybe that was too far. But you're not wrong. You remember how peaceful he looked that morning, no trace of the tension that's radiating off him now.

"That was different."

His voice drops low, warning you away from this topic.

But there's something else there too—like maybe he's trying to convince himself more than you.

He doesn't deny it though.

So you nod, letting the subject drop. But you tuck that little piece of information away like a secret—Jeon sleeps better when he's not alone. When he's with you, specifically. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge yet, but it feels important somehow.

Silence falls. You turn back to the range because it's easier than trying to decode whatever's happening here.

The gun in your hands is simple, straightforward. Point, shoot, repeat. No complicated feelings or midnight revelations to deal with.

You cycle through the weapons Jeon's laid out, each one different but serving the same purpose. Pistols feel natural now, like they belong in your grip. Shotguns still kick like a mule, but you're getting better at handling them. Each shot echoes through the room, filling the space where words should be.

It becomes almost meditative after a while. Load, aim, breathe, squeeze. The routine helps quiet your mind, pushes away thoughts of Jeon and sleep and whatever's going on in that cold brain of his.

You're here to learn how to stay alive, not psychoanalyze your Chief's sleeping habits.

When you switch to the rifle, you can't help sneaking a look at him. He's lurking in the shadows like some kind of sexy gargoyle, watching your every move. Even exhausted, he's still intimidating as hell.

But there's something different about him now—like seeing him tired makes him more... real. Less Chief of Tactical Assassinations, more just Jeon.

The rifle's recoil brings you back to reality. You line up another shot, remembering everything he's taught you.

Breathe in, hold, squeeze, exhale. The bullets hit close together, forming a tight group that would definitely ruin someone's day. Jeon gives you this tiny nod that shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does anyway.

The sun's starting to set, painting the room in long shadows. Empty casings litter the floor around your feet like tiny brass confessions. Neither of you has said much, but somehow it's not uncomfortable.

You've learned two things today: how to shoot better, and that Jeon trusts you enough to show you some of his cracks, even if he doesn't mean to.

You're not sure which lesson is more dangerous.

(Probably the second one.)

You start packing up, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and storing the weapons.

"It's getting late," you say, mostly to break the silence.

When you turn around, Jeon's standing there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing. Or maybe at something only he can see. He doesn't react to your voice, like he's been aware of every move you've made since you started cleaning up.

The lighting in here is shit, but it's not bad enough to hide how exhausted he looks. The shadows under his eyes are getting deeper, more obvious. You think about what J-Hope would say if he saw Jeon like this—probably something cranky and concerned wrapped in medical jargon.

"If it helps," you start carefully, like you're approaching a wild animal, "we can sleep together again. No bullshit—just sleep. Seems like you could use it."

For a second, his face goes completely blank. It's that perfect mask he wears when he's processing something he doesn't want to deal with.

Then—there.

His shoulders drop just a fraction, like someone's loosened a wire.

"I don't need charity."

The words come out defensive, but they're missing that sharp edge he usually uses to keep people at a distance. You recognize deflection when you hear it—you work in the Seduction Division, after all.

"It's not charity." You click the last weapon case shut, buying time to choose your next words carefully. "Consider it... part of our arrangement. We're no good to each other tense or half-awake."

The silence stretches out so long you start to wonder if you've fucked up. Maybe you pushed too far, got too personal. But then he nods, just barely, like he's trying to convince himself he's not giving in to anything.

"I'll think about it."

His voice is gruff, but there's something else there—a hint of relief, maybe. Like you've given him permission to want something he thinks he shouldn't. You pretend not to notice how his eyes linger on you as you finish packing up, like he's already made up his mind but isn't ready to admit it yet.

You glance at the clock, and shit—it's really fucking late. The castle gets quiet around this time, most people already finished with dinner or working night shifts.

Speaking of dinner... you were supposed to meet Yunjin, but someone had to drag you to impromptu target practice.

A thought hits you, and you can't help the little smile that tugs at your lips. It's probably stupid, definitely pushing your luck, but...

"By the way," you say, closing the weapons case with a satisfying click. "Since it's already so late... How about grabbing some dinner together at the cafeteria?"

Jeon looks at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank in your underwear.

There's this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes that would be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. Like the concept of eating with someone is completely foreign to him.

"Dinner? I eat alone."

His voice is flat, but it's as though he's actually considering it, even if he'd rather die than admit it.

"I know, but it's late." You shrug, going for casual even though your heart's doing this weird skippy thing. "Few people will be there, and I had plans that got... rearranged."

You give him a pointed look because hey, this is technically his fault.

"Don't feel like eating by myself."

He stares at you for what feels like forever, face doing that blank thing he does when he's processing something unexpected. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner.

"I don't usually do dinner dates."

You actually laugh at that. "You wish.Think of it as a tactical debriefing over food. Can't strategize on an empty stomach, can we?"

His smirk gets a fraction wider—the Jeon equivalent of a full grin. It's rare to see him look actually amused, and something warm unfurls in your chest at being the cause.

"Tactical debriefing, huh? That's a new one."

"Come on, Jeon. It's just dinner." You try to sound nonchalant, like you're not weirdly invested in his answer. "Besides, you're probably starving after all that shooting."

He does that thing where he goes all still, like he's running risk assessments in his head.

Finally, he nods. "Alright, but this isn't a habit we're starting."

"Of course not, you have a reputation to maintain, thundercloud."

You can't help the smirk as you head for the door. The nickname slips out before you can catch it, but whatever. You're already in deep.

"Not like anybody would believe you anyway, sunshine." He rolls his eyes, but follows you out.

The way he says sunshine—like it's both an insult and something else—makes your stomach do a little flip. But you're not going to think about that.

This is just dinner. Just two gang members having a totally normal, professional meal together.

The walk to the cafeteria is weirdly peaceful.

Neither of you says anything, but it's not that awkward silence that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

It's just... quiet. Your brain's still processing everything—the training, the arrangement, the fact that you're actually going to dinner with Jeon of all people.

The cafeteria's practically empty when you walk in. Just a few night owls scattered around, most of them looking like they're running on coffee and spite.

It's nice, though. No curious eyes, no whispers. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes.

The buffet spread looks like heaven. Your stomach reminds you that you haven't eaten since lunch, growling at the sight of steaming bulgogi and kimchi jjigae. The castle chefs don't mess around—everything looks magazine-worthy, even at this hour.

You load up your tray like you're preparing for hibernation: bulgogi because duh, japchae because the noodles here are actually insane, kimchi fried rice because comfort food is a thing, and those spicy braised potatoes that make your mouth water just looking at them.

Jeon, for his part, goes straight for the protein—galbi ribs, bibimbap loaded with meat, and bossam like he's got something to prove.

You're about to head for a table when you catch him adding even more bulgogi to his already meat-heavy tray.

"Got enough protein there?" You can't help the teasing tone. "Or are you planning to feed a small army?"

Jeon's mouth does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

"I need to keep up my strength." His eyes flick to yours, dark. "Never know when I might need to pin a smartass against a wall."

The laugh that escapes you is only partly nervous. You lead the way to a corner table, far from the few other diners. It feels weirdly intimate, having dinner with someone who usually eats alone.

The food works its magic. You feel the day's tension melting away with each bite, and even Jeon looks more relaxed. That permanent frown he carries around is smoothing out as he tackles his galbi like it's his division's target.

"Holy shit, this is good," you mumble around a mouthful of noodles.

The chefs here could probably work in any five-star restaurant, but instead they're cooking for a bunch of criminals. Life's weird like that.

Jeon makes this little grunt of agreement, cheeks full like a hamster's. He swallows before speaking because apparently assassins have table manners.

"Only decent perk of this place."

You fall into comfortable silence after that, both focused on demolishing your food.

It's strange how normal this feels—just two people sharing dinner, like you don't kill people for a living, like you haven't had your hands all over each other hours ago.

"That rifle technique you used today was solid. Got good instincts."

Coming from Jeon, that's practically a love letter. You hide your smile behind another bite of food, but can't resist poking the bear.

"Well, I have a good teacher. Even if his people skills need work."

He snorts, stabbing another piece of meat with maybe more force than necessary.

"I don't coddle. You get better by doing, not talking."

"True, but positive reinforcement helps too." You gesture with your chopsticks. "I'm only human, thundercloud."

The look he gives you could melt steel. One eyebrow goes up, and there's something dangerous playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm. Almost sounds like you want to be coddled, sunshine."

The way he says it makes heat pool in your stomach. Because that wasn't about teaching at all, was it?

You laugh to cover the way your breath catches. "In your dreams, Jeon."

You ball up your napkin and throw it at him, which he catches without even looking because of coursehe does.

Show-off.

"Still," he says, ruining the moment like he's allergic to peace, "your reaction time needs work."

"I'll keep practicing." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Can't have you worrying about me in the field."

"Who said anything about worrying?" But his eyes give him away—that split-second flicker before his face goes blank again.

"Oh please." You wave your chopsticks at him. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. Probably counting my breaths or something equally anal-retentive."

He just shakes his head, suddenly very interested in his food. But you're on a roll now, feeling brave or stupid or both.

"Admit it, you care about my progress." You lean forward, grinning. "It's almost sweet."

Jeon looks up then, and oh. His gaze is intense.

"I care about not getting shot because you can't handle your weapon, sunshine."

You can't help yourself. Really, you can't. "Mhm? Thought I was getting better at handling weapons, thundercloud."

His lips twitch, just barely, but you catch it. It's fascinating, really, how you've somehow stumbled into this easy back-and-forth with him. How beneath all his sharp edges and your sass, there's this... thing.

This rhythm that shouldn't work but does.

Dinner's winding down, and you notice something different about Jeon. The tension he usually carries—the one that makes him look like he's ready to snap someone's neck at any moment—has eased up. Even his face looks softer, less murder-y than usual.

"This was... not terrible," he says, like admitting it physically pains him. His eyes meet yours across the table. "The food, the company... both exceeded my low expectations."

"Oh my god." You press a hand to your chest, going for maximum drama. "Was that a compliment? Should I call J-Hope? Are you feeling okay?"

He snorts, and there's this little uptick at the corner of his mouth that you're starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

"Too late." You stand up, gathering your plates. "I expect this level of praise at every meal now. Maybe we can work up to actual sentences by next week."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." But he's still got that almost-smile as he gets up too.

"I mean, you already admitted you don't hate my company. That's practically a love confession by your standards."

Jeon shakes his head, but there's something soft in his eyes.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

You drop off your dishes, and both head for the elevator, falling into comfortable silence.

You reach for the elevator buttons, aiming for the fourth floor where your room is. But Jeon's arm suddenly appears in your peripheral vision, his chest almost brushing your back as he leans forward. There's this tiny pause—blink and you'd miss it—before he hits the button for the fifth floor instead.

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow. No words needed.

You both know what this is: him taking you up on that offer to help him sleep. Simple as that. Like picking up takeout or scheduling target practice.

The elevator starts moving, and holy shit why is it so slow? The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Maybe because you both know exactly what this is. No bullshit, no complications. Just sleep. Like you said in the training room—you're no good to each other half-dead from exhaustion.

It's probably stupid, spending the night with your Chief. But you've already crossed that line in his tent, and honestly? If sleeping next to you helps with his insomnia, then whatever.

You're already fuck buddies—might as well be helpful ones.

The doors finally open to the fifth floor, and Jeon steps back. He's giving you space, making it clear this is your call. Which is... weirdly considerate, actually. You step out because why not? This isn't some dramatic decision. It's practical. Logical, even.

The walk to his room feels longer than it should. Your feet are dragging because yeah, you're fucking tired. Today's been a whole thing—training, dinner, and now this weird arrangement that somehow makes perfect sense.

Jeon stops at his door, giving you one last look. Checking if you're sure, probably. You nod because duh. This isn't complicated. You're both adults who sometimes fuck and apparently now sometimes sleep (just sleep) together.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you get your first look at Jeon's private space.

So this is where the Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeps. You can't help but snoop—it's basically in your job description as a member of Seduction Division.

The room is... exactly what you'd expect from Jeon, honestly. It's like someone took his personality and turned it into interior design.

Everything's black, white, or gray, like he's allergic to color. It matches his whole aesthetic—the guy who sees the world in shades of gray, making calls about who lives and who dies. Maybe the monochrome thing is some kind of metaphor. Or maybe he just really likes black.

There's this massive king-sized bed against one wall, all black sheets and dark gray duvet. The bed's made diligently, but you can see the slight wrinkles that mean he's actually slept in it. Unlike some people who just have fancy beds for show.

Next to it is this super minimal nightstand with just a lamp and—oh. An ashtray. Right. His stress-smoking habit.

The furniture could be from one of those fancy minimalist catalogs. Everything's black wood, clean lines, no fuss. There's a dresser that probably holds his endless supply of black t-shirts, a desk that looks barely used, and a chair that seems more decorative than functional.

What really gets you is how empty it is. No photos, no personal stuff, nothing that says "someone actually lives here."

It's like a really expensive prison cell or one of those model rooms in furniture stores.

You spot a door that has to lead to a private bathroom, and fuck, that's not fair. You're sharing a bathroom with like five other girls while Mr. Chief here gets his own shower? The perks of rank, you guess.

The floor's spotless—like, you could probably eat off it. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The whole place is as buttoned-up as Jeon himself, like maybe if he keeps everything perfectly ordered, the rest of his life will fall into line too.

"Well, it's very... you," you say, because what else can you say about a room that looks like it was decorated by a very organized ghost?

"I don't need anything else." He shrugs.

You hover by the bathroom door, suddenly feeling weirdly out of place. Being in Jeon's private space is... different. Not bad different, just different. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, except your teacher is a hot assassin you occasionally fuck.

"Hey," you start, trying to sound casual, "mind if I grab a quick shower first? I always wash up before bed, especially after training." You scrunch your nose. "Pretty sure I don't smell like a spring meadow right now."

Jeon's eyebrow does that thing—that infuriating arch that makes you want to either kiss him or kick him.

"What, you saying I stink, sunshine?"

"We both worked up a sweat today, cloud." You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile. "No judgment, just stating facts."

He jerks his head toward the bathroom door. "Go ahead. Towels and shit are in there."

You can't help yourself—really, you can't. As you pass him, you throw out: "Maybe take a page from my book and grab one yourself after. You know, freshen up a bit."

The snort he lets out is almost a laugh. "Watch yourself. I don't take orders in my own quarters."

But his eyes are doing that thing where they get all dark and playful, and you know that look.

Intimately.

"Just a suggestion between... friends."

You draw out the last word, letting it hang there like bait. Because that's what you are now, right? Friends who sometimes sleep together. And sometimes fuck. But tonight's just for sleeping.

(Sure it is.)

"So pushy." His smirk should be illegal. "What, you wanna shower together now? Could've just asked, sunshine."

You roll your eyes because it's easier than admitting how tempting that sounds. "You wish, thundercloud. I can handle washing myself just fine."

You head for the bathroom, but pause at the door because apparently, you hate yourself.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you add: "But you know... my back is kind of hard to reach..."

"Nice try." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "But we said only sleeping tonight. Go get cleaned up. I'll be here when you're done."

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat wrapped in one—makes you seriously reconsider this whole "just sleeping" thing.

The bathroom is exactly what you expected—black and white everything, minimalist as fuck. It's like the room outside but with more tiles and chrome.

You turn the shower on hot enough to steam up the mirrors and step under the spray, letting it pound against your shoulders.

The water pressure is amazing. Of course it is—Chief privileges and all that. Your shared bathroom on the fourth floor can barely manage a decent drizzle, but this? This is heaven.

You take your sweet time, enjoying the luxury of a private shower where no one's going to bang on the door telling you to hurry up.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jeon's obscenely fluffy black towels (seriously, where does he get these?), steam billows out behind you like you're making some dramatic entrance. Your hair's twisted up in another towel, water still dripping down your neck.

You feel Jeon's eyes on you before you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle.

His face is doing that careful blank thing, but his eyes? They're giving him away.

"Shower's free," you say, aiming for casual even though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. "You know, if you want it."

He just makes this low humming sound that absolutely does not make heat pool in your stomach.

Instead of moving, he just... looks at you.

His eyes track down your body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch.

Like he's thinking about what's under that towel.

You refuse to squirm under his gaze. Two can play this game.

"Like what you see?" You cock an eyebrow, channeling your inner seductress (which is technically your job, so).

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smirk. "Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you'll drop that towel."

"You wish."

You turn your back on him (which is definitely not just an excuse to give him a better view) and head for his dresser.

The drawers are organized because of course they are. You find his t-shirts, all neatly folded like some department store display.

"I'm borrowing this," you announce, grabbing a shirt that looks big enough to work as a dress. You glance over your shoulder, catching his eyes again. "Unless you'd prefer me naked?"

His smirk grows, and fuck, that should be illegal.

"Be my guest."

The invitation in his voice makes your skin feel too tight, but you're not giving in that easy. This is a game of chicken now, and you're not about to lose.

Even if losing sounds really, really tempting right now.

You unwind the towel from your hair and toss it at Jeon, aiming for his face but hitting his chest instead.

"Just sleeping, remember? Go shower."

The towel slides down his front, and you catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he wants to smile but his reputation won't let him.

He stands up in that way he does, all fluid grace and barely contained power. Without a word, he heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon you hear water running.

You grab his brush (because of course he has one, Mr. Perfect Hair) and start working through your damp hair.

It's weirdly domestic, sitting here in Jeon's room, wearing his shirt, using his stuff. The brush is probably expensive—it glides through your hair like it's made of silk or something.

Speaking of his shirt... You pull it on, and fuck. It smells like him—pine, wood, and smoke.

The fabric drowns you, hanging off one shoulder, falling to mid-thigh. There's something stupidly thrilling about wearing his clothes, like you're getting away with something.

Once your hair's somewhat tamed, you twist it up into a bun. The mirror catches your eye—one of those full-length ones that probably cost more than your monthly salary. You can't help checking yourself out, tugging the shirt down a bit because apparently, you still have modesty or whatever.

That's when you see him in the reflection.

Oh.

Jeon's fresh out of the shower, water still beading on his chest, towel riding low on his hips like it's trying to start something. He's got another towel in his hands, drying his hair as he sits on the bed, but his eyes?

His eyes are locked on your ass like it's his favorite meal.

The mirror gives you a perfect view of his face, and holy shit. The way he's looking at you—it's not subtle. At all. His gaze is heavy, hungry, like he's thinking about all the ways this "just sleeping" arrangement could go very, very wrong.

(Or very, very right, depending on your perspective.)

The temperature in the room spikes, and it's definitely not from the shower steam. You can practically feel the heat of his stare through the mirror.

So much for keeping things platonic tonight. A smirk tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Because if Jeon wants to play this game?

Well, two can definitely play.

You reach up to your bun, pretending to mess with the hair tie.

Oops—it "accidentally" slips through your fingers, falling to the floor with a silent grace that would make your Seduction Division trainers proud.

"Oh no," you say, channeling your best innocent voice. The one that fools absolutely no one but works anyway. "How clumsy of me."

You turn your back to Jeon, and fuck, you can practically feel his eyes burning into you.

Bending down—slowly, because you're nothing if not thorough—you give him a view that you know from experience he can't resist. The borrowed shirt rides up just enough to be interesting.

You take your sweet time "looking" for the hair tie, even though you can see it right there. Your fingers trail across the floor like you're putting on a show, which... yeah, you absolutely are.

When you finally grab it, you throw a look over your shoulder.

Jackpot.

Dark, obscure eyes pin you in place. Absolutely hungry. You'd bet good money that towel isn't hiding much anymore.

"See something you like?" Your voice comes out honey-sweet, but there's nothing innocent about the way you're looking at him.

Before he can compose himself enough to answer, you straighten up and sashay over to the bed. The sway in your hips isn't natural, but who cares about natural when it makes Jeon's breath catch like that?

You slip under the sheets, turning away from him because you're evil like that. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you have to bite back a smile.

"We should get some rest." You keep your voice light, casual, like dismissing every inch of space between you. "Long day tomorrow."

He makes this grunt that could mean anything, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the sound of him wrestling with his self-control.

You can picture his face—brow furrowed, jaw clenched, probably glaring at the ceiling like he wants to shadowbox with it.

You wait, barely breathing.

Maybe you read this wrong.

Maybe he's actually planning to be good tonight.

Maybe he really does just want to sleep.

That's fine. Totally fine. This was his idea anyway, right? Just sleeping.

You're about to give up, admit defeat, when the mattress shifts.

Jeon rolls toward you, and suddenly his chest is pressed against your back, all heat and hard muscle. You fight back a shiver as his hand finds your hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles that make your skin buzz. His breath fans hot against your neck, and fuck, this is so much better than sleeping.

"I need to ease some tension, sunshine."

His voice is pure sin, rough and low right by your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach as you roll onto your back, meeting his gaze. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how much he wants this.

"Oh?" You hold his stare, watching his control slip. "I thought you'd never ask."

You're definitely not getting much sleep tonight.

But hey, that was kind of the point, wasn't it?

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[tinyshyteacup]

TW: Cussing

Part 25

Scotch and Screams - Part 26

The clock on the stove blinked 3:32 AM.

The days had all blurred together.

Ever since SAMCRO left for Belfast, time had lost its structure. It was just before the next call or after the last one.

You tried to focus on helping Tara, keeping things moving, keeping your hands busy so your mind wouldn’t spiral into dark places.

But the worry gnawed at you, sinking into your bones. Every time the burner phone stayed silent for too long, your stomach twisted into knots.

And when it finally did ring, it was like coming up for air.

The air was thick with the scent of coffee, laundry detergent, and something faintly metallic—probably from the dishes barely touched in the sink.

You rubbed at your tired eyes, fingers pressing into the hollow beneath as you tried to focus.

The long days, bled into longer nights. Helping Tara, keeping things moving while SAMCRO— while Filip was away—it gave you something to do, something to focus on.

You'd been staying with Tara since they'd left, Gemma's house was too big for you to shuffle around on your own, and you'd felt that odd sensation of being watched even when you knew you where alone.

But now, in the silence of the Teller house, with only the ticking clock and the hum of the fridge, there was nothing left to drown out the worry.

Then, the burner phone on the counter vibrated.

You nearly knocked the coffee over scrambling for it.

"Hello, Filip ?"

"Aye, mo chridhe."

The breath you didn’t even realize you were holding left your chest in a rush.

His name for you felt warm on, like something solid in the middle of all this chaos.

Chibs voice was low, rough around the edges, and the familiar Scottish lilt wrapped around you like a well-worn jacket. "Ye alright?"

You exhaled, sliding into one of the kitchen chairs.

"I should be asking you that, Scotsman"

A small chuckle came through the receiver, but it was tired, frayed.

"Still breathin’. Figure that counts for somethin’."

The words were meant to be reassuring, but there was something in the way he said them—something strained.

"Jesus Filip, dont say it like that" you huffed out

Then—

"How bad is it?" you asked softly.

There was a long pause. The kind that stretched between worlds, between different kinds of suffering.

"We got our work cut out for us, love" he admitted finally. "Belfast ain't changed much, SAMBEL sure as shite hasn’t."

You swallowed, curling your fingers around the edge of the counter.

"And Jax?"

A sigh.

"He’s holdin’ on, still in one piece. Barely. We got our hands full, but we’re workin’ on it."

You closed your eyes for a moment, steadying yourself. "Tara's been keeping it together. Barely sleeping, but she's strong, I'm helping her where I can. Trying to keep busy."

"Aye. Knew ye would be." He hesitated. "And you?"

You chewed your lip. "Holding it together."

A quiet hum of acknowledgment. Then, softer—

"Wish I was there with ye."

Something about those words made your throat tighten.

"Me too, Filip"

You had to pause to keep your voice from being watery.

Then his voice came through again, quieter, rougher.

"I hate leavin’ ye in the middle of all this shite. Should be there, lookin’ after ye, keepin’ ye safe."

Your grip on the counter tightened.

"I’m safe, Scotsman—Tig is here so is Kozik"

"Aye, I know. But still." His voice dipped lower. "Had to leave ye with a goddamn burner phone like some daft wee secret."

You let out a small, tired laugh. "I understand why, honestly its fine, I'm lucky too get these calls"

Silence again. Not uncomfortable, but weighted.

You pulled a blanket tighter around yourself, trying to ignore how cold the kitchen suddenly felt.

"Filip—I miss you."

The words left your lips before you could stop them, quiet, hesitant—like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to say them out loud.

But then—

"Jesus, lass," he exhaled, voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. "Miss ye too. More then I can say."

You swallowed, fingers twisting into the blanket.

Another beat of silence.

"I worry about you."

The words came out, quiet, fragile.

Chibs exhaled, something heavy shifting in his voice.

"I know, mo chridhe."

His voice was lower now, quieter, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

"Ye don’t need to be wastin’ yer worry on me."

"I’ll waste it where I want Scotsman."

He let out a breath, and you could almost picture him—rubbing a hand down his face, the tired lines around his eyes deepening.

Silence stretched between you, the weight of it pressing against your ribs.

"I need you home, come back in one piece, please"

"I’ll do me' best."

You exhaled sharply, sinking deeper into the couch.

It wasn’t a promise, but it was enough.

For now.

The Teller house was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

You sat at the kitchen table, fingers curled around a lukewarm mug of tea, staring at the faint steam that still rose from it.

It had been sitting there for almost an hour—forgotten in the chaos of the day.

Tara was in the next room, pacing, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she muttered under her breath.

She hadn’t slept much. Neither of you had.

The morning had started early, before the sun had even risen, with Tara in the kitchen flipping through medical journals, searching for anything—anything—to keep her mind occupied.

"You should try to eat something," you’d said, setting a plate of toast in front of her.

She barely looked up, shaking her head. "Not hungry."

You didn’t push. Instead, you poured her a fresh cup of coffee and slid it across the table, sitting down across from her.

"Anything I can do?"

Tara let out a tired sigh, rubbing at her temple. "I just need to keep moving."

And that’s what the two of you had done all day—kept moving.

Laundry, cleaning, errands—little things that might’ve seemed meaningless, but in times like this, they were everything.

You’d gone with her to TM in the morning, checking in with Piney and Tig. There wasn’t much they could do either, but the weight of uncertainty sat heavy on all of you.

Tig had looked at you both, his usual teasing glint gone from his eyes, replaced by something close to worry.

"How you girls holding up?"

Tara had just nodded, jaw tight. You had answered instead.

"Trying."

Piney had studied you both for a long moment before just nodding and moving to pour himself another cup of coffee.

By the afternoon, you and Tara had ended up back at the house, folding tiny clothes in Abel’s room.

The silence had stretched between you, the weight of his absence sitting thick in the air.

"He’s coming home,"

You said softly, trying to reassure her, even as you felt your own doubt creeping in.

Tara nodded, but she didn’t say anything. Just smoothed her fingers over one of Abel’s shirts, her lips pressing together as she swallowed hard.

You reached out, covering her hand with yours.

"They won’t stop until they find him."

Her throat worked as she swallowed again. Finally, she nodded.

"I know."

But the unspoken words lingered.

At what cost?

The rest of the day had passed in a blur.

You’d cooked dinner for the both of you—not that either of you ate much.

You’d made sure Tara got at least a couple hours of sleep, promising to wake her if anything changed.

Now, the house was still.

Back to the creeping quiet. Too quiet.

The burner phone sat on the armrest beside you, your fingers twitching toward it every few minutes.

It had been more then two days since you’d heard from Chibs. You knew things were dangerous over there, but that didn’t make it easier.

Your mind kept playing worst-case scenarios, but you didn't know what those worst-cases where not really—

Gunfire. Blood. Silence.

You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a shaky breath.

You curled into the couch, the burner phone resting on the armrest beside you.

The weight of everything pressed down on you.

Abel was still gone and SAMCRO were across the ocean, caught in a storm of blood and old ghosts.

And Filip—

You hadn’t heard from him, since that first call ... fifty-two hours ago.

You weren't counting but the clock on the stove blinked at you like it was mocking you.

Your fingers hovered over the phone.

Could you could call ?

Blink

What if he didn’t answer?

Blink

What if the call went straight to voicemail?

Blink

What if—

The damp chill of Belfast clung to Chibs' skin, seeping through his kutte and into his bones.

The city hadn't changed much since the last time he'd set foot on its cracked pavement, but the ghosts here felt heavier, the air thick with old debts and unfinished business.

Rain slicked the streets, turning the glow of streetlamps into hazy golden smears on the asphalt, but it wasn't enough to wash away the blood that had been spilled here over the years.

Chibs exhaled slowly, the cigarette between his fingers burning low, the embers flaring before dimming again.

The night air smelled like rain, petrol, and the distant, acrid scent of gunpowder—a constant reminder that peace was never an option in a place like this.

He stood in the shadows of an alleyway, watching as Jax and Clay spoke in hushed tones with the SAMBEL boys. His cigarette continued to smolder between his fingers, the slow burn matching the simmering rage in his chest.

They'd come here for Abel, but the deeper they dug, the more tangled this web became.

Jimmy O was at the center of it all, a snake wrapped around their throats. And Chibs knew, better than anyone, how venomous the greasey bastard could be.

The thought of that prick made his grip tighten around the burner in his pocket.

He’d kept it close, thumb brushing over the buttons like a habit, like a tether to the one thing outside this that felt real—you.

Back in Charming, in the relative safety of a world you didn’t fully understand, you were waiting. Holding things together, helping Tara, trying to be strong.

And though you never said it outright, he could hear it in your voice every time he called—the worry, the fear, the quiet longing between the words you didn’t say.

"Filip."

The sound of his name—his real name—spoke in that familiar Irish lilt sent ice down his spine. He turned slowly, cigarette still between his fingers as Jimmy O stepped out of the darkness like a specter from the past.

"Long way from home, aren’t ye?" Jimmy smirked, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his coat.

Chibs took a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose. His voice was steady, cold. "This is my home too, prick."

Jimmy chuckled. "Don't be like that brother. Ye left, remember?"

Chibs’ jaw ticked, but he didn’t let the bastard see the way that cut through him.

"Ye’re lookin’ a bit distracted, brother," Jimmy said, eyes sharp, calculating. "Somethin’—or someone—on yer mind?"

Chibs exhaled smoke through his nose, leveling Jimmy with a look that spoke louder than any words.

"If I was, it sure as shite wouldn’t be somethin’ I’d discuss with you."

Jimmy chuckled, tilting his head. "Ach, well. Can’t blame a man for wonderin’. Heard ye’ve got someone waitin’ for ye back in Charming."

Chibs’ jaw tightened. He didn’t take the bait.

Jimmy leaned in slightly. "Ye know better than anyone how dangerous it is to love someone in this life. A weakness, that. A liability."

Chibs tapped ash off of his cigarette, before stepping forward, voice low, warning.

"Call her that again, an’ I’ll—"

"Wonder what she’d say if she saw ye now," Jimmy continued, tone light but edged with something sharper.

"Doubt she knows what kind of monster ye used to be, eh?"

Chibs flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out beneath his boot as he stepped closer, voice low and lethal. "Talk about her again, an’ I’ll slit yer fuckin’ throat"

Jimmy’s smirk widened, as if he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

"That’s the Filip I remember."

Chibs didn’t trust himself to stay any longer. Without another word, he turned and walked off, fingers twitching with the need to call you, just to hear your voice, just to remind himself that you were real—that you were safe.

Jimmy just smiled.

[damiansgoodgirll]

Can you please write about being jey and jimmy adoptive little sister (so we can feel more included about not looking like them honestly) , reader is like 18/19 and being completely heartbroken about the fact that all reader wanted was for her family to be together and now both jimmy and jey want attentions from her but she won’t chose and this thing is breaking her, and like she’s friend with rhea or the judgment day so she comfort her (sorry for my english i’m from poland!)

Thank you so much if you take my request

the usos x sister!reader

‼️fighting, reader having a panic attack and breaking down

broken pieces

you always had a special bond with jey and jimmy. you were their little sister and they felt overprotective about you. they didn’t want anything or anyone to cause you harm.

but what if they were the ones hurting you?

they both saw it on your face almost a year ago, when you were watching front row jey against roman at summerslam.

the betrayal on your face when jimmy sides with roman, hurting jey and hurting you. they both looked at you and realised something in you just broke.

jey was hurt and confused like you were. jimmy felt tears in his eyes when he met your heartbroken look. you were his baby sister after all, the one he promised to protect with his own life.

and now you couldn’t even stand to be in his presence.

but no matter what you tried to do, they now hated each others and that made you even more furious and sad. those big men were your big brothers, your bodyguards, the people you loved the most and now all you had was a broken family.

almost a year later and things didn’t got any better, in fact, their constant beefing backstage was tiring anyone.

“i can’t believe this” jimmy kept screaming as he wanted to punch jey right in the face.

you didn’t even know where this argument started from but, like every single time you found yourself stuck in the middle of it.

“if only you weren’t so self centred…” jey screamed back at jimmy.

“me? me? are you fucking serious? me? self centred? aren’t you the one going around and wanting to be called main event?” jimmy laughed “so i am the self centred one uh?”

“you going crazy man!” jey spat back “are you planning to ruin every single moment of my career like you’re doing every week on live tv man?”

“stop it stop it stop it!” you screamed at them. you were witnessing this stupid fight and knowing you couldn’t do anything to get to stop was hurting you. so, as you predicted, they kept screaming at each others.

“i ain’t ruining no one’s moment man, it’s just you who can’t accept some people are way better that you anyway” jimmy responded back, making jey laugh.

“so you’re better that me? that’s funny man, so why, if you’re that better than me, why, aren’t you getting booked? uh? cat got your tongue man?” jey sarcastically laughed making jimmy angrier.

you couldn’t stay there any longer.

“fucking stop it!” you screamed once again, tears falling from your eyes “stop fighting like goddamn children! i-i can’t do this anymore, i really can’t” you looked at both at them “all you do is fighting and fighting and i can’t do this anymore…i just want my family back”

jey, sensing your anxiety, tried to take a few steps close to you but you stepped back, not wanting to be close to anyone.

“i’m so sorry y/n…” jimmy apologised, hating to see you cry and hating himself even more, knowing he’s the reason you are crying.

“i don’t care if you are sorry! you always say you guys are sorry and then fight again and again and again and i can’t deal with this shit anymore! i just want my brothers back…i-i…” you were having trouble breathing “i just want this to be over”

“y/n, love, why don’t you sit down a little?” jey suggested when he saw you were struggling to breathe. he knew your anxiety and he knew you struggled with panic attacks and he was hating himself for being the reason you were struggling right now.

“no! no i don’t wanna sit here and hear you fight again! i-i…i don’t wanna…” your head was dizzy and the look jimmy gave jey made them understand each other without sharing a word.

“sit here love…” jey slowly walked you towards the little black leather couch inside his changing room “breath with me y/n…” you did as jey told you to do and you felt all the energy leaving your body.

“you feeling better?” jimmy asked, sitting next to you while jey was knelt in front of your sat position.

“why do you have to keep fighting?” you asked them, your voice breaking a little, now your tears falling down your face again “and don’t say you’re sorry” you warned jimmy.

“we will try to stop okay?” jey smiled at you. deep down he knew he couldn’t keep fighting with his brother forever but at the same time it was hard for him to forgive him so quickly.

“i don’t want a “we will try” jey, i want my brothers back…i want to spend time with you together like we did last year…” you cried harder, your breathing getting worse again “you just don’t understand this…i-i hate seeing you fight every day, i hate seeing you punching yourselves, i fucking hate having to share days with you like you are my divorced parents!”

“hey hey keep breathing slowly sweetheart” jey reminded you.

jimmy and jey both had no idea how this family feud was affecting you. they just discovered it now and they were both hating themselves for hurting you that much.

“you just don’t understand…” you whispered.

“no words can’t express how sorry i am love…” jimmy softly whispered with teary eyes. seeing you having a panic attack was the worst thing he ever witnessed. you were his baby sister who he was meant to protect so why would he hurt you that much?

same thing was for jey.

“i just miss you…” your voice broke a little.

jey cursed himself “i know things between us aren’t the best but our feelings for you will never change. no matter what, you will always be our baby sister and we’ll love you forever…i will try my best to not fight with jimmy okay?” you simply nodded while his soft hand wiped your tears away.

“i promise you we will be better” jimmy went and you nodded again, being happy with their responses.

“now, i’m pretty sure you have work to do so i’ll go back to my hotel room…but, if you’re free tonight can we have a movie marathon like we always did when i was younger?” you asked them, hope sparkling in your eyes.

they couldn’t say not to that.

so they said yes.

they knew they had a lot of work to do, especially when it came to them but, no matter the circumstances, they would always have your back.

[jamil-s-wifey]

Hello :3 Can I get a long scenario with my dearest Jamil?

I really love him so much >///< so here is my scenario, I hope you can accept

Jamil got sick and has a fever. MC stayed beside him and nursed him for 3 days without blinking and finally he recovered. He started to remember her care during his illness after his fever dropped. And when he woke up, MC hugged him tightly. A bit long, huh? 😅 I would be happy with little NSFW, not gonna lie.

Well hello there, fellow Jamil enthusiast~ It has certainly been a hot minute, hasn't it? It is my utmost pleasure to present you with the *long-awaited* scenario at hand! A bit of NSFW, some heart-warming fluff and Jamil finally getting a GODDAMN break, coming right up! It's not full on NSFW, just a lil bit, as requested, I don't know why it turned out like that- still, I hope this is good! (Tbh, it fits the scenario)

P.S. This hit close to home, I used to be a very sickly child and I still catch all sorta sicknesses a lot easier than normal people. So, what he will experience here is all based on very PERSONAL and very SALTY experience. 🙃

"What am I gonna do with you? You can't keep pushing yourself so much!" You murmured, pressing a cold cloth to Jamil's forehead as he slept soundly.

.......

Jamil hated being sick. Pretty normal right? Everybody hates being sick.

But to Jamil, sickness meant pushing through and continuing with his chores, regardless of his wellbeing. Imagine cooking above a hot stove with a high temperature. Can't be pleasant, can it?

But even the hardest stones could crack under enough force - such is the way the world works. It was towards the end of the day, as Jamil was preparing Kalim's dinner, when he felt his body give out under him. All day he'd been going around with a fever, he felt as if his own body was rotting on the inside, screaming at him to stop and have a break. His eyes were watery and felt as though they were burning in his eye sockets.

He couldn't even reach a chair to sit, before his knees buckled and he fell to the floor - too dizzy and too weak. Rarely did he ever get this sick, but this time it was bad. He moved to a more comfortable position and remained like that, trying to gather enough strength to get some medicine..... He most certainly didn't realise he'd fallen asleep, too tired to move, nor did he hear Kalim's worried voice when he found him on the floor in the kitchen.

And Kalim? Kalim was terrified! Quickly he called on his dorm members to move him to his room and immediately called you, crying on the phone, worried that Jamil might never wake up. (That's not how colds work, Kalim-) Worried about Jamil, you immediately rushed to the Scarabia dorm, medicine in hand.

_____________

And now here you are, in the present, taking extensive care of your near delirious not-quite-boyfriend-but-kinda-love-interest. He'd occasionally wake up and exchange barely audible pleasantries with you, drink his "extra healthy and full of good stuff" chicken soup (whatever that was supposed to entail) and then fall back into slumber. His fever has gone down drastically, but the utter exhaustion left in its wake has kept him bedridden. Apparently it was a seasonal fever, which just so happened to hit Jamil, who in turn chose to ignore it in the beginning.

You'd taken the liberty to remain situated in his room for about three days.

Day one was the worst - high fever, clattering teeth and a sleepless night to boot. You'd change his shirt every time he'd drench it in sweat whilst fighting off the fever. You'd switch up the cloth every time it lost its cooling effect, you'd remained by his side the entire time, least he needed something anything at all.

"Once you get better, I'm so gonna yell at you for not taking better care of yourself.... You're lucky I love you." You'd mumbled, barely audible in the quiet of the room as he slept.

Day two was better - he slept through most of it and you could in turn prepare some soup, as well as cover most of his chores, get a pass from the teachers AND even leave him some of your notes for when he recovers. (Look at you go! He'd better propose imo)

Now, on day three he was evidently much healthier. Finally he gave up trying to get out of bed, and instead lay resting, drinking his medicine, feeling utterly pampered by you.

_____________

"How long have you...been here?" You seemed pretty tired in his eyes. The moment you heard his voice you immediately threw yourself gently on him, gently crushing his bones in a hug.

"A while." You responded, face buried in his chest. In reality, you hadn't had a proper night of sleep in about 3 days. You DID sleep, Kalim even prepared a guest bedroom, but you chose to remain next to Jamil for most of the time. "Do you know how worried I was?"

"You didn't have to do all this, you know? You could've get sick too."

"I could've, but I haven't. For somebody with such a keen eye and monstrous deliberation, you really don't know how to take care of yourself properly." You quipped back, moving to sit on the bed next to him.

"As, so I'm being reprimanded now." His gaze softened. "Thank you....for taking care of me these last few days... I've forgotten what it's like to not have to worry or do anything... I feel like I've slept a lifetime... I don't know how I could possibly return the favour."

You can't stay mad at him. He knows it, you know it. Hell, even the Great Seven know it.

"Return it by recovering completely."

He chose not to continue the conversation. He knew arguing was pointless.

"You know, while I was sleeping, or trying to, I was mostly aware of what was happening around me." He began, pushing himself up, in a sitting position. "When you'd quietly hum to yourself, or cuss when you couldn't find something..."

"Ah- well, did you now? Sorry if you had a difficult time falling asleep because of me. " you felt your cheeks warm up a bit.

"No no, please. It's fine. You've taken such good care of me. I just... couldn't help but hear something, which perhaps I wasn't meant to."

He reached out, tangling his hand in your hair.

"Something about you loving me?"

...

Nope, all that heat in your cheeks? Gone. Now it was just coldness and dread.

He saw your frazzled state and chuckled. "I guess I'm really lucky, to have you to take *such* good care of me, huh."

He leaned in, but stopped just centimetres away.

"I shouldn't."

You heart dropped even lower, if that was even possible.

"I could get you sick.~" There was a lilt to his voice, but his eyes showed concern.

"Oh, for fuck's sake-" you leaned in, smashing your lips onto his. He smiled into the kiss, pulling you towards him.

Naturally, you moved to sit in his lap, his hands moving to your waist.

"Your feelings are returned, for the record." He mumbled in between heated kisses. The more heated the kisses became, the more his hands would wander until-

In the blink of an eye, he flipped you over, so that you were underneath him. Skillfully he unbuttoned the first few buttons of your uniform, revealing more of your neck and collarbones. "I think I have a way of returning the favour. You took such good care of me, I think it's my turn~"

His attention moved to your neck, leaving heated languid kisses and playful bites on your skin. His hand trailed down to spread your legs, moving between them. Every single touch of his was intoxicating. Pretty quickly your shirt was thrown on the floor, the supple flesh underneath - covered in hickeys.

"Are you not going to undress as well? Or should I do that for you?" you asked, breathless, yet teasing in manner. Well. As teasing as one could get, given how achingly turned on you were. "Like you didn't have more than enough time to appreciate the view, during these last few days." he teased right back, but his hands moved to grip the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time." He practically purred, fingers gliding over your stomach, gently trailing lower and lower.

"Of course, you can tell me to stop anytime."

"I don't want you to."

"As you wish, my dear. Then I'll make sure to indulge, taking, tasting, touching every single part of you. "

[docholligay]

How did you get bit by a rattlesnake??? I want the story!!

It was a hot, sunny day up in Helena, Montana, and my girlfriend at the time--a cattle ranch kid with Young Leo good looks and a bad attitude that was only surpassed by my own--decided that we should go for a hike up in the nearby gulch. We called a couple of friends, packed some sandwiches and beers, and went on our way.

The hike itself was mostly a nondescript affair, in that I'd done it dozens of times. Just off of a bunch old digging sites from the gold days, down into some trees and then up along a rock ridge.

The ridge would be the problem, here.

I'm a decent person to hike with, a lot of the time, because I'm great at keeping bears away. I like to talk, and my voice carries, and I am in good enough shape that it takes something to wind me. So we're cresting the ridge, where we're going to sit and drink a beer, so I'm looking forward to it--a fair criticism of my hiking style is that I don't like to sit and look, I want to achieve the objective--and I'm talking along about some irrelevant bullshit, as I am wont to do.

Which means I don't hear the rattle. I hear my girlfriend.

"Doc! Don't move!"

Which I immediately disobey by whirling around to face her. At my ankle is a huge fucking rattlesnake. Before anything else can happen, it lashes out and digs both fangs into my calf, then dashes off into the grass.

Now, there's a certain calm in the worst that can happen just having happened. What the fuck else was going to happen, a grizzly come screaming out of the bushes? unlikely.

We're about four miles in, so the decision is made that because we're about an hour or more drive from the hospital, we had best try to keep me immobile. So between my girlfriend and her friend, they take turns packing me out of there like a goddamn mule.

Every few minutes, she's asking me, "You okay?"

"Minus the giant puncture in my calf, I feel fine"

About 2 hours later, we get our way to the truck, a 1980s Silverado with a grey side strip and flaking paint, and an hour after that, we get to the hospital. Now, having sat in the car for an hour gives people plenty of time to stop being tired, and start being worried, and my girlfriend has taken full advantage of this opportunity. There's no point in giving everyone an earful while you're all doing whatever it is you can--at least if all four of you are Montana kids, which we are--but the second we get the truck parked, she throws me onto her back and runs into the emergency room.

I can only imagine what it must have looked like from the inside of that waiting room, some butch dyke in a rolled-sleeve western shirt piggybacking a twin braided redhead with burnt shoulders and short shorts, like some kinda goddamned redneck rodeo.

And she comes in yelling, "My girlfriend's been snakebit!"

Well, after some conversation with the doctor and more than a little snickering from the nurses, I get asked if I'm doing okay. I tell the doctor same as I told her: Other than a pretty annoying puncture wound I feel fine.

Burning? No.

Tingling? No.

Any kind of blurred vision? Not at all.

So, come to find out, rattlesnakes aren't quite as stupid as you think, and half the time when they bite humans they don't envenomate, because they know they can't eat it. They don't tell you this, because they want you to come to the damn emergency room.

I walked out of there with a fancy-looking bandaid.

[musedisorder]

A collection of lyrics - one from every song on every album by my favorite artist ♥

"And I promised myself I wouldn't let you complete me."

"I'm a believer, got a fever running through my bones."

Don't forget me. I wouldn't leave you if you'd let me."

"Already choking on my pride, so there's no use crying about it"

"I'm helpless, clinging to a little bit of spine."

"but we don't feel like outsiders at all."

"Would it really kill you if we kissed?"

"Don't belong to no city. Don't belong to no man."

"And the timing's never right."

"You say that you're no good for me cause I'm always tugging at your sleeve."

"I know I've only felt religion when I've lied with you."

"They know you walk like you're a God, they can't believe I made you weak."

"I'm such a fool to pay this price."

"You put a fever inside me and I've been cold since you left."

Are you deranged like me? Are you strange like me? Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?"

"Goddamn right, you should be scared of me."

"I know you wanna go to heaven but you're human tonight."

"I can't stop wishing that I never gave you anything."

"Now if I keep my eyes closed he looks just like you."

"You thought that you were the boss tonight but I can put up one good fight."

"As soon as you meet me, you'll wish that you never did."

"Need to know that you're mine."

"Sorry that I can't believe that anybody ever really starts to fall in love with me."

"I'm tryna' give the impression that I get the message you wish I was dead."

And we both hope there's something, but we both keep fronting."

I know that you're afraid I'm gonna walk away each time the feeling fades."

"I don't give a damn what you say to me."

"I miss the memories replaying in my head."

"Now it's my own anxiety that makes the conversation hard."

"But I scream too loud if I speak my mind."

"I only wanna die some days."

"I just need everyone and then some."

"It's funny how the warning signs can feel like they're butterflies."

"You can't love nothing unless there's something in it for you."

"Cause I could never hold a perfect thing and not demolish it."

"There's power in the words you whisper."

"And really I could fall in love with anybody who don't want me."

"I'm the worst of my enemies and I don't really know what to do with me."

"Put you right back on your feet just so you could take advantage of me."

"But you're right here now and I think you'll stay."

"Bad news, think I'll probably die before I have you."

"And all I want in return is revenge."

"Self-loathing and pride live in my heart."

"Wanna scream but what's the use?"

"I know that I've done some wrong but I'm trying to make it right."

"And I can't believe I still feed my fucking temptation and I'm still looking for my salvation."

"I hear the wicked get no rest but when you do I hope you'll dream of me."

"Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby."

"You can be kind to the one that you love."

"Ask for forgiveness. Never permission."

"It's not a happy ending."

"You liar! You don't love me too!"

"And by now I don't need no help to be destructive."

"I feel better when the boys stop calling."

"Well is this the life that lies ahead now?"

"But only you have shown me how to love being alive."

"Just leave me in the place you found me."

"I love every second, it's fucking fantastic!"

"But I sabotage the things I love the most."

"I just wanna feel something, tell me where to go."

"'Cause I never wanted saving, I just wanted to be found."

"Darling, you will bury me before I bury you."

"I'm tired and angry, but somebody should be."

"I hurt myself to make sure I exist."

"Do you think they'd laugh at how I died?"

It's all done now, so who am I kidding? I'm doing way worse than I'm admitting."

'Cause I'm not old but I am tired. I'm not strong, I'm very weak."

"I don't wanna be somebody they wanna get rid of."

"Because you make me fucking nervous, and I don't know what it all means."

"Would you leave when it gets hard?"

"I think I might start trying because I haven't been."

"I don't wanna hurt, so get it over with quick."

"There ain't a reason on this earth I'd go back to my hometown."

"And you can rest your head down and not feel any shame."

"They say that God makes no mistakes, but I might disagree."

"And when you're done you can discard me like the others always do."

"Am I a victim in your game?"

"I should be getting better but I'm only getting worse."

"Or maybe this is just another trick that hasn't happened yet."

"And I told everybody I was fine for a whole damn year."

"Please God, oh, you've gotta be sick."

"They don't know I'm lonely and they don't know I'm kind."

[theageofsims]

Let me tell you all something... I can not wait until this mofo starts going gray... DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!?! Let me calm down. lmao. I need to pray that he makes it that far first of all... so... let us all pray because I know somebody else out there crazy for Andre English, too. I'm not sure if I'm going to make him wait until his Elder age (fingers crossed... ONE HAND!) to turn him slightly gray or if I'm just gonna start while he's still in his adult phase... he's younger than Sulani so... ya girl got time to see his ass age like fine wine...

Seriously though -- where in the hell did this one even COME FROM? I am so TIRED of people complaining about pre-mades and game generated Sims when this dude just came walking down the goddamned sidewalk in Oasis Springs! (I'm like convinced all the hotties live in Oasis Springs -- like no bullshit, William lives there, Ken does too... they're in another save, but still -- lmao, I can feel it in my heart!).

I can't even think of a time in this legacy where someone actually had a damn job that entered the legacy -- like seriously. And not working as a vender or something like that, but a college professor? A COLLEGE PROFESSOR? EXCUSE ME!!!!

I don't even know though. Sulani was just pulling dudes with jobs from DAY ONE. Well -- she only pulled Gavin Richards before Andre, but his ass had a job, too! And he called her to ask her about "action plans" like, the literal day after.

And Sulani don't even need a dude lmaoooo. Like she literally is making tons of money being a best-selling author -- which makes Andre even BETTER lmfao. Because he exists in this legacy only because Sulani WANTS him and doesn't NEED him... I AM SCREAMING!!!!!!!

Sulani did so good. I wanted that girl to have the best EVERYTHING like since forever ago, but didn't even know if it were possible and then the game was like -- she gonna have the best EVERY GODDAMNED THING ... including Andre English.

I'm shutting up now lmao.

[joey-marvel14]

Holding on..(oneshot)

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: you notice Bucky is been more quiet then usual. He’s not talking to anyone, not even you. Bucky becomes withdrawn, his eyes are more puffy and sleep deprived, you notice he’s not eating as much either.

Warning: ‼️ ANGST, MENTIONS SYMPTOMS OF DEPRESSION AND SLIGHT GORE, SOME COMFORT, PANIC ATTACK.

———————————————————————————

I’m usually up at ridiculous times in the morning, I’m quite productive in the early mornings. So I simply walk around the avengers tower until I feel sleepy enough to go back to bed.

This was one of those mornings.

I travelled down to the kitchen to go and grab a snack, I looked out of the big windows to see the beautiful pink and yellow sunrise. I smiled at how gorgeously detailed the sky was. I continued to walk downstairs. As I entered the kitchen I saw a figure, I immediately recognised who it was. I smiled widely, happy to see him

“Hey Bucky-” Bucky turned around. My smile slightly faulted.

My eyes travelled to his face..

His eyes seemed like they were sunken in by the dark eye bags it looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I took a closer look at his eyes and they looked red and puffy, like he’s been crying, fresh tear stains glided apon his cheeks. My stare slowly appeared downwards to his chest and ribcage, his body looked skinnier, malnourished. I stared at him not completely recognising the person in front of me. What happened to the other Bucky?

I looked at all of him…together. A concerned feeling settled in my chest.

I thought about a way to approach him. I softened my tone and eyes

“Hey buck, Are you alright?” Bucky responded with a nod and a grunt. His face was expressionless, numb even.

Bucky pushed past me and quickly walked to his quarters. I instinctively ran after him. I approached his door to his room. And softly knocked on.

“Bucky..” I called apon him softly. There was no answer. I decided to push down on the handle, I wander into Bucky bedroom. It was dark and messy.

“Bucky?” I gently called out to him.

My eyes wandered throughout his room, until I saw his balcony doors were open, the curtains were softly blowing towards me, almost leading me onto the rail. I gulped hardly, I felt sick to my stomach, wandering what i could find. Hopefully an alive Bucky I thought.

As I got closer I saw a silhouette of a figure sat down. I breathed out a sigh of relief. I got closer to Bucky, Bucky didn’t even looked over to see who it was, he was curled up, leaning against the railing. A shiver went down my spine. I decided to sit down with him I sat the other side. Not once did he look at me, to which I found bizarre. I saw his Adam’s Apple bob up and down. He looked so tired…

I spoke up.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk. But I won’t be leaving you like this. We can just sit here in silence if that’s what you want. But just know that I’m here for you.” I placed a hand on his knee to let him know that I am actually here. I saw Buckys jaw clenched and his eyes quickly glance at me then to the hand on the knee.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, his eyes looking down. It looked like Bucky was having an internal conflict

“I can’t cope anymore.” I sat there in silence waiting for him to say more

“I hear there screams…there screams. The ones that I killed” his voice broke a little.

“There cries for me to stop, to have mercy on them. . They haunt me. Every goddamn face is attached to me in my dreams. There’s not one moment of peace where I get to just take a breath, without the reminder that I’ve killed someone.”

I nodded gently, still listening.

“I am….bearly…hanging on and nobody can see how much pain I am in.” The tears in his eyes began to fill, as his voice cracks.

“I just can’t do it…anymore.” Bucky broke down, his breathing became unsteady, as tears streamed down his face his chest rised up and down quickly, as I could hear him struggle to keep calm. I slowly moved myself closer to bucky. I cupped his hands, and brought them forward so he looks at me.

“James. Breathe.” My gaze was soft I looked him in his eyes, and took a breath, held it, and let it go.

He repeated the action. Slowly he began breathing more steadily.

“What was that?” Bucky asked, he averted eye contact.

“It was a panic attack.” I responded.

“Bucky look at me. You need to understand that you didn’t have a choice in becoming the winter soldier. What you did…it wasn’t your fault, You hear me?. You fought back for as long as you could. You did your best. You tried, and that’s all anyone could ask for.” My words were firm but reassuring. I saw buckys body somewhat relax, however I could tell he was still on guard.

“Can I hug you?” I asked, he looks like he could use one. Bucky slightly nodded.

I moved myself next to Bucky, I held my arms open. He moved in slowly, I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze. He let go first and instead rested his head on my shoulder.

“Your not alone James, you’ll always have someone in your corner even if you don’t think you do”

“Mhm” he responded, I looked over and saw that Bucky was drifting off, his eyes looked so heavy, he looked like he could just collapse at anytime.

“Come on buck. Let’s go to bed” I slowly began to stand up. I grabbed Buckys arm and hinted at him to stand up too. He reluctantly got up. I led him to his bed. To which he shook him head and said:

“No. I don’t sleep there.” He pointed at the floor I saw a thin cushion, and a blanket filled with holes. I turned around to him.

“I understand however, just for the rest of the morning sleep on the bed please” I compromised with him, hoping that it would get him to understand that sleeping on the bed for one night wouldn’t hurt him. He nodded. I pulled back the black duvet, Bucky sat down on the bed, and eventually laid down, I saw he had shoes and a jacket on so I took them both off, too make him slightly more comfortable. I placed the duvet over him, and moved the hair out of his face.

“Goodnight” I smiled.

“Wait. Could you stay here until I atleast fall asleep ? I would feel better if I had someone in the room…” he looked a tad guilty.

“Sure” I smiled. I went over the the cabinets and picked out a soft blanket. And made myself comfy on the small chair he had in the corner.

Eventually quiet snores could be heard from Bucky. I felt like I could take a breath. I felt tired as well, so I decided to take a nap..

———————————————————————————

helllloooooo thank you for readingggggggg I hope it was okay :)

Goodbyeeee

[snaitf]

Hi. My brother sexually abused me growing up. My mom figured out when I was in third grade.

I was a terminally honest kid, but X had said to keep it a secret. I'm 33 now.

Maybe 5 years ago, I was talking to my cousin. Normal complaints about parenthood. She's aggravated that her daughter seems to lose her socks and underwear every time she visits her dad's house. It sends me in a tailspin. I tell her that hey, maybe ask your daughter a couple questions cause uh. That's how my mom realized something was going on.

"Something was going on with what?"

"Uh. With me and X?"

She didn't know. She'd never known.

I'm in. Fuck. 5th grade? At my friend/ neighbor's house. Her baby sister is showing me a game her friend showed her. It involves throwing a blanket over both our heads. I freak out. Tell her mom. Have NO IDEA, in 5th grade, how to phrase "talk to your daughter about her friend and sexual abuse, cause why is there a game involving us under a blanket?"

First or second year of my first job. I'm rambling in the car on the way to or from lunch. Normal day. I say something about X and the situation. My boss cried. CRIED. What??

I have 3 brothers. The oldest one sexually abused me. I found out literally tonight that my youngest brother never knew. My uncle never knew. I find this out because I fucking told them about it. Me and my uncle were complaining about X and how he can never seem to get his fucking shit together. My youngest brother is 2 years older than me. We were living in the same goddamm house. In third grade, I was being pulled out of school weekly to go to therapy. I'd had to be interviewed by CPS and the police.

I'm in high school. I broach the subject with my mom, about. I don't know. I'm ready to tell people? She tells me, to my face, that my grandma will die not knowing what X did.

My grandma died 5 years ago. As far as I know, my mom got her wish. Grandma didn't know. Fuck, I'm a little glad. I don't fucking know how to broach that subject about her grandkids.

(Doesn't seem to stop me from being the ONLY ONE broaching that fucking subject, but hey).

So. Hi. I exist. I was sexually abused by my older brother, up until I was in third grade. And I'm getting real fucking tired of realizing people don't know that while I'm mid-sentence.

I'm so goddamn tired. Of saying to myself "well, nothing *happened* happened, he just took my clothes off and we laid in bed together. It could've been worse."

I'm so goddamn tired of thinking "my parents responded as best they could." My own brother didn't know. My family doesn't know.

X's shit is in the back of my car. He went to jail (again) and someone needed to hold onto it til he got out. Why am I doing this?

I dunno. Hi. I exist. I feel like I need to scream that.

[cloama]

School year is almost over and I’ve been struggling with a student in my class which is so unlike me. I’ve had every type of child from every background from abandoned at a fire station to gets dropped in a different fancy car every day. I always get through and my children go on to very wonderful educational experiences. I am fucking good at this.

Still, I could not reach this kid and I just learned why. His mother is a fucking boymom TikTok personality. This child is the star of the TikTok account.

He doesn’t know how to function in the real world without trying to get clicks. This was the first year I failed to meet goals with a child ever. I feel horrible. That’s ultimately on me but I’m learning and will be prepared for the next one. I didn’t put together what was happening until the end of the school year because his mother is secretive and a habitual fibber.

My main challenge was something I’ve never seen in a child before: This child always wants an audience. Not like a class clown. No. Something way worse, imo. He takes kids away from their activities and away from their teacher so they can watch him play. YEAH. HE DOESN’T WANT FRIENDS TO PLAY WITH. HE WANTS KIDS STOP WHAT THEY’RE DOING TO WATCH HIM PLAY. HE LITERALLY WANTS VIEWS. I could fucking scream. I was in a constant battle for 20 kids attention every goddamned day for months before I realized what was happening. He’d try to get children to leave in the middle of music lessons, karate, field trips, regular lessons with me. He didn’t care. Especially if the lesson or activity was really great, he’d be having fun then think, “oh I gotta get someone to watch me enjoying this.” Then grab two or 8 friends and try to convince them to put down their things and watch him.

I never complain about kids and tech. I even defended it the Christmas everyone got the first iPads and tablets because I was hopeful. I always make it my job to adapt to the times but I’m twenty years into teaching. I know teachers weren’t ready when we all got cellphones and easily hidden earbuds. But this year with this child actually broke me. It is just so far apart from what a child should be experiencing at his age. He is losing so much and there was no way I could have done more without knowing everything. His mother knew that and didn’t care. Because it doesn’t matter what he does in real life, as long as he’s cute for the camera.

I hate when I can tell I’m bout to burn out again. This shit is for the birds man. I am so tired. Like for real, genuinely I ask: What kind is new shit is this?????

[atmilliways]

Wrong On The Money (52)

part 52 of 55 | 1894 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

It’s been three days since Steve told Robin about the blackmail, and Eddie is a goddamn wreck. 

This is a mean place to leave off, but the next chapter goes up on Monday. In the meantime, enjoy your Friday the 13th. ❤️

52.

It’s been three days since Steve told Robin about the blackmail, and Eddie is a goddamn wreck. 

Spring Break had left him with plenty of physical damage—scars that start on his left cheek and continue down to his thighs, deepest near his middle where he’d almost been eviscerated, and on bad days he still has a trace of a limp. 

There’s non-physical stuff too. Nightmares. He now has first hand experience with going to war against and being eaten alive by literal monsters, after all. And there’s Chrissy. . . . Always Chrissy. Those few but terrifying days had shattered his long-held beliefs in the difference between real life and fiction without any pause to let him pick up the pieces. What a mindfuck.

He still has nightmares, even with Steve in bed beside him; they both do. The comedown is easier together than alone, but it still happens. What surprises Eddie, though, is that his are about familiar things made horrifyingly unfamiliar. Running from the cops or angry jocks, for example, now supercharged with the cops pumping him full of lead and the jocks pummeling him to death, or coming at him with knives and stabbing out his entrails. Yeah, the bats and the blood and the fucking vines everywhere are in the mix too, but they’re horror movie props. They’re the spectators, the window dressing, even though every bullet or blow or knife feels like it has teeth.

Everything from Spring Break happened so fast, is the thing—even though the essence of it all is seared into his brain, his dreams never get the details quite right. All that Upside Down shit feels less real in the light of day, and like maybe he went crazy and imagined all of it. Sometimes the only way to make sure is to ask Steve, or Dustin, or any of his new monster hunting friends.

Worst by far, somehow, are the nightmares where those friends, the only people in this shitty town who had been right there in the trenches with him when public opinion screamed for his head on a pike, just . . . lose interest in him. Where they lose touch, slip through his fingers, and all he’s got to show from knowing them is a mangled torso and a tendency to jump at shadows. 

Lately, he’s been dreaming that Robin, the first fellow queer friend he’d knowingly made in this hellhole town, is the first to turn away from him, and he can’t even blame her.

“She’s making me sweat it out on purpose,” he groans, face-down on the floor in Jeff’s temporary room at his aunt’s house. It smells like dust and old cigarettes down there, but he figures it’s what he deserves. 

“Dude, you blackmailed her best friend,” Jeff points out. Unhelpfully, in Eddie’s opinion. “Not very well, but still. If someone pulled that shit on you I’d be out there slashing tires and egging their house.”

“You’re such a comfort,” Eddie mutters into the carpet. “I’m so glad I come to you with my problems.”

He can practically hear Jeff rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I am. She might be messing with you, but at least she’s not fucking with any of your shit. I know you consider the silent treatment to be the most hideous form of torture—”

Face still hidden, Eddie winces. Because Jeff’s not wrong, but Steve and Robin have been actually tortured for information by evil Russians and he’s a total wimp in comparison. 

“—But it could be a lot worse.”

It could be. He knows that. And Steve keeps assuring him that everything’s fine, that he talked it out with Robin and she’s calmed down by now. Eddie nods along but keeps gnawing his nails down to the quick anyway, because that’s with Steve. She’s fine with Steve, calm with Steve, and still her schedule has casually omitted running into Eddie in any way. As far as he’s concerned speaks for itself.

And it doesn’t help when he tells Jeff about telling Steve about telling Jeff—which, okay, fine, it sounds stupid when put like that—his best friend had rolled his eyes and said, “Really Ed? You only just now thought to mention it?”

One more thing for Robin to rip his head off over. And Steve probably won’t pick him over her, which makes Eddie want to crumble to dust. 

Well. He doesn’t think Steve should pick him over Robin. The actual ‘he picks me, he picks me not’ shit is something his guesses seesaw back and forth on all the time. 

The world hadn't stopped for the apocalypse, let alone Eddie nearly dying or Eddie freaking out. Thatcher Tire doesn’t want him back after the murder charges and the government payout won’t last forever, so he’s spent the entire day going from storefront to storefront in what passes for downtown Hawkins.

He knows that Steve is working at Family Video today, because he’d pried himself out of bed and Eddie’s starfish grip that morning for that very reason. He also knows that Robin isn’t on the schedule today, because he’s thought to ask before dozing back off for a few hours. So he feels no hesitation before sailing into the video rental store from the deserted parking lot and announcing with a flourish, “You are looking at Melvald’s newest stock boy, courtesy of one benevolent Joyce Byers!”

It comes out as a weird mix of triumphant and resigned, falling flat in the still air of Family Video. Because yeah, he has a job, but it came at the heels of a series of rejections and feels like a pity offer. Does it count as nepotism if it comes from the matriarch of their weird little unofficial monster-hunting family?

When his declaration goes unanswered, Eddie takes a moment to really take in his surroundings. He’d expected no one else to be in the store, and there isn’t; but it isn’t Steve behind the counter.

It’s Robin. 

The door has already closed behind him, cutting off the easiest escape route. He could open it again, but that would be going out of his way to run from danger, something he’s promised himself he won’t do anymore. And . . . Steve had sworn up and down to him that everything’s fine. 

The deliberately blank look on Robin’s face suggests that Steve was incorrect.

Eddie moves forward by sheer force of momentum, jamming his hands in his jeans pockets and clearing his throat. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello,” Robin replies, in a tone that implies that the rest of that sentence is ‘and welcome to Family Video, where the theater comes to your living room,’** or whatever corporate bullshit she and Steve might technically be required to say but never actually do. Eddie’s heard her customer service voice before, but never directed at him. He almost trips over his own feet hearing it now. 

“So. . . .” Eddie usually prides himself on knowing what to say, or at least being able to vamp for time and posture a lot until he figures it out. To have it happen with someone he knows well is absolutely excruciating. 

A tiny part of him worries that Steve had set him up for this, faked having work today or something to force this meeting and get it over with. But Steve wouldn’t do that.

Right?

“Is Steve around?” he asks finally, aware that the silence has been dragging and Robin, unusually, is making no attempt to put it out of its misery.

She narrows her eyes and jerks a thumb over one shoulder towards the door marked Employees Only. 

So, okay, Steve is probably on break and Eddie had just misremembered Robin’s schedule. That’s fine. That’s something, anyway. He can work with something. 

With a vague salute that he hopes to god comes across as inoffensive and casual, Eddie beelines for the break room. He’ll feel a little better with Steve at his back, or at least after he gets a chance to hiss “I told you so” and work some of the panicking out of his system.

The break room, however, is empty save for a flimsy card table, some shitty folding chairs, and a couch that's definitely seen better days. Eddie looks around, dumbfounded, and even ducks into the adjoining manager’s office to double check that Steve isn’t holed up in there for some reason. He hears the break room door swing open and shut again and darts out hopefully, but—

It’s Robin again. “Steve felt a migraine coming on a couple hours into his shift and called me to fill in for him,” she announces. “I just flipped the sign to closed. We, Eddie Munson, are going to have a talk.”

-

** I read the "Welcome to Family Video, where the theater comes tyo your living room" line in Cut and Changed and Rearranged by AidaRonan and could not get it out of my head, so it crept in here. And then I had to dig around until I found the fic it was from, because my memory for titles is like Swiss cheese. Anyway, great fic, highly recommend!

[drowninginblox]

Torched

Part 2

Part of him hoped that the last few days were a dream, that at any moment he'll wake up in that damn chair or even from his corner in the basement of the shit shack. But the bread in his pocket served as a guarantee that's not gonna happen anytime soon. Combined with the lakes of sweat keeping him awake in this living nightmare, Fit can only pace in frustration. “If you want, I can give you some time to ponder this. Although I am an immortal being, the concept of thinking on such large decisions is one I'm not lost on.” Fit sighed. Will you be gone? He didn’t mean to sound as harsh or vulnerable as he did, but it felt wrong for him to be guarded in his own mind. It was probably the emotional exhaustion getting to him. “I won’t be far warrior. Just call for me and I will come.” A moment passes before a shiver runs up Fit’s spine. A body-wide shake follows. And then silence.

So soft. The infamous FitMC has gone so, so soft. A lump in his throat closes his throat. He takes a breath and lets his shoulders roll. The muted pop and click of bones act as a good grounder in this otherwise devastating scene. Remember yourself. What did you do back then? His eyes close. For a moment, the humidity mutes. The cold air subsides. And rather than the stale air he’s been breathing in for a year, the smell of gunpowder and the taste of flesh linger on his tongue while a younger, lost soul, takes a daring step into the unknown.

Explosions, first vibrant in sound as they were in action, slowly mute as the souls of Fit's feet felt the ware of running for hours on end. From what, he didn't know. Anything though. There was always a reason to keep moving in the wastes, whether it be from the monsters that came out in the night or the people that just so happened to spot you out of your periphery. It's always something. Rest was a pipe dream. Always brief when there was some time for it, but it was always greeted with another reason to get off your ass. The howls in the night, the crunch of the ground sounding too close for comfort, the sizzle of TNT, or an offshoot explosion on the horizon. Sometimes you wouldn't know what's outside the cave until the preditor makes itself known. If you're lucky, you could see the obsidian being placed before the end crystal. You barely have enough time to block yourself up or dig away, but a chance is always worth fighting for. That's something he can't live without; chances.

Fit' likes to think he's grown since his time away but there's only so much calculation you can do before something makes itself known. It's ugly. Messy too if shit really hits the fan. Maybe that's why Fit was a janitor. When shit gets messy, someone has to note and take care of the problem. Speaking of- Maybe it was a few minutes? Could’ve been a few hours. Either way, his arm weighed heavier on his shoulder. A scowl was the only thing to meet him as he blinked away the aches. "What would Pac do?"

The words tumbled onto the cavern, making Fit's stomach twist at the cruel reminder. He could've sworn the weight in his chest didn't weigh this heavy. Last time it felt like a baseball. Now it's gotta be a bomb. I never asked for this, He screws his eyes shut. I know I agreed to this. I know I can't back out even if I wanted to, but- He couldn't help but choke out a chuckle. "Am I selfish by patching myself up with the people I care about?" He blinks a few times at the haziness only to feel the wetness of tears. "Fuck, really?" A groan rises from his stomach, intermixed with venom and the heat of untapped rage. An animal clawing at its cage to be released, the keeper, tired of the constant severance relinquished the beast of its cage, gilded with the pretenses of civility for station's sake. For everyone's sake. The noise progresses into a scream. One that even Fit could hear. Guttural and raw and for every sake of the word, it wasn't just the beast that was freed from captivity, it was the whole goddamn zoo.

The emotions can't take him away again. Not further than this. The stampede can kick his damn ass he will remain. Securing himself in a ball, that was all he can do against the impending release. Months of not knowing whether or not his friends and family were truly safe, years of stress built up and hardened only to be broken by people who thought they knew better than him how to live his life, days where the terrors crawled up his back to the point of mind-numbing exhaustion. All that was left of him ran away or dried up after the flood.

This was a long time coming. "For such a prolific warrior amongst your kind, you are very weak." A scratch of a cough was all Fit could do as a rebuttal. Does it look like I give a fuck right now? A warm laugh resembling the cackle of a campfire. For some reason, fit could feel the warmth of it. If the damp and cold of this cave was December in Alaska, then this feeling is the inside of a cabin. Right beside the fireplace. He almost smiles. Are you here to taunt me? "Oh no. I'm just here to make sure you're okay, warrior." Fit forces himself to stand. He wobbles slightly on the way up but he manages to steady himself with a deep breath. I don't think I deserve to be called that. It shouldn't have surprised him that the sun was gone. The night should follow the day after all. What was a surprise though was the lack of a moon to light up the sky. Things were illuminated as if there was one. And yet, there is none. Of course. "Oh?" Nonetheless, he eyes up the wall. "So tell me then, FitMC, the so-called legend of 2B2T, what are you?" Fit sighs. The scarf's coming off. "What I am is tired la-" he coughs out, swishing some saliva around to get the horseness out of his throat. "Emperess. My bad, It's Emperess right?" All the while wrapping the scarf around his only human hand. "This is gonna do a number..."

A hum mimicking shock meets him. "I'm impressed, here I thought respect was foreign to you. It appears the brute can show some." "Hey now," he rubs his hands together. the grime from the cave will have to do. "I may be from hell, but that doesn't mean we don't know the concept of authority." Snuffing it out united us them. He hops in place for a minute. It's been more than a minute since he's done this. "Then you should learn this lesson quickly, I am more than above your station FitMC. I am millennia worth of energy and intellect and wisdom, collected all into a flame that grows and develops as time progresses. You are but a spark compared to me." He smirks. "Degradation isn't my thing you're majesty. Nice try though,"

Fit leaps, holding onto a sturdy ledge before securing his feet. "Know your place, little warrior." Ma'am, yes Ma'am! He mimics with a little salute. This is gonna be a long climb.

[winterbrrrd]

Thrift store angel

Thrift store angel in the aisle

Catches my wide eyes and smiles

Golden sweater, see-through dress

Reveals her breasts and navy thong.

I tell her that I’m lost and weary,

Never seeing myself clearly.

And she says that I will find me,

Just so long as I keep looking.

I will find where I belong

Among these words sung to myself,

A song I sing so loud and proudly,

But my audience

Is gone.

My thrift store angel floats away

I hear her say

She’s fine alone

Because she knows her fullest power,

Knows the glory of a poem,

Knows the magic

Of pulling up in a school bus

All barefooted,

Free, and braless,

Pit hair sprouting like alfalfa in someone’s wallpapered kitchen.

She is solid in herself,

Among her friends down in the valley

While I sit here shooting shame

In some corrupt, blackened back alley.

How I wish that she would take me in her school bus to the creek

So I could wash my feet beside her,

Eat the foraged foods she eats

But I am running from myself,

Driving five hours almost daily

To escape the pain of knowing

That my worth is for the taking,

For the taking as I’ve given it away

Like it was nothing,

A religious pamphlet stranded in a bathroom stall for bumping

Lines of coke

Three in a row,

Get this circus on the road,

The chimps are screaming in the train

Because my brain is overgrown.

She says she lives off-grid,

Outside of town,

No running water,

Homemade shower,

Chewing sap,

Forgetting time,

Forgetting power -

All the people who could hurt her

Never find her in the valley

By the creek in which she bathes

And by the trees she likely prays to,

Prays for solace from the men who mark the two of us like tallies

In a thrift store by the river

In the valley ‘neath the mountains

Where I hold her words

like newborns

On the day of

Nan’s finale.

We have fled domestic violence

And we’re talking about men

Who scream and cuss and hit

When they feel challenged or threatened.

We are sifting through discarded

Vintage sweaters and tossed junk

And we are holding big white pillars

With our hands

While you rise up

And take our places in the stars

And with the angel

That I gaze at

As she walks out the front door,

My eyes shiver with amazement.

And I’ll never see this angel

Once again in this short lifetime

But I’ll see her in the stars

Or at least among the lightning

Where we’ll cast down cold, cruel demons,

Like we’re Zeus pursuing heathens

And we’ll dance among the clouds,

Big greyscale beings giving me reasons

For this angel to live with me

Even though she lives in Marshall,

I will carry pieces with me

Like the bricks and concrete morsels

That I gather from the piles

Where old houses once stood proudly,

Bulldozed finally by a town

Prioritizing wealthy families.

I will keep her in my pocket,

Like the pocket of her sweater

Where she keeps her precious secrets,

Secrets that hold her together

Proud and stately like a statue,

Hanuman atop a mountain,

Warrior and sweet protector

Of the souls burst from the fountain

Fed by rivers of sweet time

That gets more sour by the hour

As the bodies start to writhe

Under the weight of what they’ve carried

Up the mountain

Only for the weight to fall.

I am jealous of this angel,

But trying not to be jealous.

Trying to respect her refuge

How she hid me in her trellis

With her purple morning glories

And her vivid, creeping stories

Of a town that once was wild

And is now so goddamn boring.

She is everything I wish for,

Every gift I’ve ever asked for,

Every quality I crave,

Every whisper from the mountains.

She is freedom at the cost

That freedom takes when it is taken.

She is working off the land,

Oh vicious USA forsaken.

She is tired but she’s settled

In her mind and in her spirit

And she knows that she is worthy

Of a man who always sees it

And who holds it like a bluebird

Not in clasped hands,

No they’re open,

So the little bird can breathe and

When she needs to,

Can leap forward,

And she’ll fly from up the mountain

Down into the lonely valley

And she’ll fly where she so pleases,

No apologies, just proudly.

She will fly back to his hands

When she is ready

And not sooner.

She will rest in his warm palms,

Embracing comfort that won’t call her

Just to laugh at spirit stories

Of the creek and of the mountains,

No he’ll see the beauty in her,

All the souls within her fountain.

And if he doesn’t see her,

She will leave him like this world

She left behind.

[roxanadiaz]

ℂ𝕒𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕥 𝕞𝕪 𝕥𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕦𝕖

𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕴 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝕴 𝖌𝖊𝖙 𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆𝖓𝖞𝖔𝖓𝖊

the sounds of a sea of screaming people calling your name, but you can't name one of them. bruised knees and bandaids are just a small part of the lessons learned. singing in the bathtub for the acoustics. thrifted betsy johnson dresses worn to big premieres. your messy room fully reflects your messy mind. where has your heart run off, now? trying to get people to see the real you, only to be perceived as cool. you hold grudges to the point your heart begs for you to stop and let it go. revenge is in your nature, much like asking for forgiveness. just try not to fall off stage, this time - please.

ℕ𝕠𝕥𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕋𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕤

Ballad of a Homeschooled Girl by Olivia Rodrigo Roxana Diaz || " Laughed at the wrong time / Sat with the wrong guy / Searching 'how to start a conversation' on the website / Talked to this hot guy, swore I was his type / Guess that he's been making out with boys, like, all night / Everything I do is tragic "

Enchanted by Taylor Swift || " This night is sparkling, don't you let it go / I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home / ... Lingering question kept me up / 2AM, who do you love? / I wonder 'til I'm wide awake "

Not Another Rockstar by Maisie Peters || " Talk about me, but make it all about you / Caught you rippin' your jeans, and that's when I knew / You'd leave me dead if it set you apart / And I'm like, "Oh goddamn, not another rockstar" "

Nonsense by Sabrina Carpenter || " I'll be honest, looking at you got me thinking nonsense / Cartwheels in my stomach when you walk in / Think I got an ex, but I forgot him / And I can't find my chill, I must've lost it / I don't even know, I'm talking nonsense "

All American Bitch by Olivia Rodrigo Roxana Diaz || " Forgive and I forget / I know my age and I act like it / Got what you can't resist / I'm a perfect all-American bitch "

Too Well by Reneé Rapp || " It's easier holding a grudge / Rather be angry than crushed / I'm doing too much / I'm back where I started again / Crying and calling my friends / This shit never ends "

When Emma Falls in Love by Taylor Swift || " 'Cause she's the kind of book that you can't put down / Like if Cleopatra grew up in a small town / And all the bad boys would be good boys / If they only had the chance to love her / And to tell you the truth, sometimes I wish I was her "

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔹 𝕊𝕚𝕕𝕖 ( 𝘢 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 )

older by Sasha Alex Sloane || " The older I get, the more that I see / My parents aren't heroes / They're just like me "

Older Than I am by Lennon Stella || " My heart's seen things I wish it didn't / Somewhere I lost some of my innocence / And I miss it "

Baby, You're a Haunted House by Gerard Way || " And the nights, they last forever / And the days are always making you blue / In the dark we laugh together / Cause the misery's funny to you "

Mean Something by Lizzy McAlpine || " I saw your name on a street sign / In the middle of nowhere / And that has to mean something "

Suburbia by Troye Sivan || " Have you heard me on the radio? / Did you turn it up? / Are you blowing that stereo in suburbia? "

making the bed by Olivia Rodrigo Roxana Diaz || " Sometimes I feel like I don't wanna be where I am / Gettin' drunk at a club with my fair-weather friends / Push away all the people who know me the best / ... I'm so tired of bein' the girl that I am / Every good thing has turned into something I dread / And I'm playin' the victim so well in my head / But it's me whose been making the bed "

The Lucky One by Taylor Swift || " And they tell you that you're lucky, but you're so confused / 'Cause you don't feel pretty, you just feel used "