#I just realized the title says fourteen

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 4 - You Might Be The Same As Me

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we exit the “enemies” phase, think of the enemies to friends as the match being lit and think of the friends to lovers as the candle taking thousands of words to burn. Chapter title from Homemade Dynamite by Lorde

Word Count: 6.9k (nice)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Things start to change in the safe house. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst

Read on A03!

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

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Somehow, after the mission, you slept. Not well, but you did. You didn’t see Soldier Boy for almost fourteen hours after that odd moment in your room, only for him to suddenly drop on the couch next to you, watching the newly-fixed TV, holding a bowl and spoon.

“What the fuck is this,” he gestured to show playing on the screen, his mouth half-full with cereal. Crumbs fell into his beard, and he looked at the TV as if it had personally offended him.

You answered slowly, glancing between his loud, sloppy chews and the milk in his bowl, sloshing up to the sides as he settled into his seat. “Netflix.”

“That’s a stupid name for a show,” he snorted. “What does that even fucking mean?”

You shook your head. “No, the show is called Santa Clarita Diet. I’m watching it on Netflix.” He gave you a glance with a frown but remained silent, raising his eyebrows as you stared blankly.

His voice was clipped when he spoke. “What the fuck is Netflix?”

“Oh, um, it’s like a network. Like a modern TV station. It has a bunch of movies and shows, but you don’t have to wait for a certain time to watch them.”

“Huh,” he looked back to the TV. “Cocksucker mentioned something like that. I thought he was making shit up.”

“No, on demand is a pretty common thing now.” You shrugged.

“So all TV is on Newflux?”

“Netflix,” you corrected, growing more and more bemused by the conversation. “And no. We kind of just reinvented cable in a different format. There’s like a million of these websites, Vought even has their own. From what I can tell, the CIA gave us Netflix, Max, Disney, and Prime.”

“They’ll do that, but they won’t buy me weed,” he grumbled. “Fucking uptight pussies.”

“Yeah, well. They didn’t get us ad-free Disney or Prime, so I wouldn’t hold your breath about them giving you drug money.”

Soldier Boy only grunted, attention fixated on the TV. The silence between you stretched as you tried to figure out a perfect, organic way to bring up the whole “I told you what Homelander did to me and you put away groceries without me asking, what the fuck is happening” thing. Just as you were about to say something, hoping that the words would find you in the moment, you were cut off.

“What the fuck is this even about?” Soldier Boy asked with a sullen voice, still not looking away from the show.

“Uh, suburban zombies. I can change it if you want.” Anything, you thought, to keep this lack of antagonistic conversation going.

“No.” You waited for more elaboration but realized he wasn’t going to offer any, having fully turned away from you. You both remained on the couch, his eyes locked to screen as you remained in your seat, afraid to move and ruin whatever was happening.

The episode ended without any outbursts from either you or Soldier Boy, and you reached for the remote, only to be hit in the head by a soggy cheerio.

“What the hell?” You picked the cereal from your hair, turning to see Soldier Boy’s frustratingly casual expression. “What was that?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked, nodding his head to where your hand had been on the remote.

“Why did you throw cereal at me?!” You snapped, holding the now mushy projectile to his face.

“To get your attention,” he answered, giving you an odd look. “You always get all bitchy when I touch you.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, your confusion only growing. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I can’t read your fucking mind. If it’s because of the Homelander thing, though, then you should remember-“

“No,” you rubbed your face in frustration. “Why did you need my attention?”

He rolled his eyes, as if it were obvious. “We’re going to keep watching this shit. It’s the least stupid thing I’ve seen so far. But you should fucking remember-“

“You could’ve just said that instead of throwing shit at me-“

“Would you fucking listen?” His familiar angry glare was beginning to form, so you closed your mouth. “If the touch thing is because of that Star-spangled pussyfuck Homelander, I meant what I fucking said last night.”

Your body tensed, trying to recall what he might be referencing. Last night, along with the previous twenty-four hours, had been replayed so much in your head it had become a simple blur of bad. "What you said?”

“I’m no rapist. I’m not an ugly pussy asshat who needs to.”

You look at him with an incredulous gape. “Needs to?”

“No part of sex is fun if she doesn’t want it. I like my woman begging me to keep going, and I only bite if they ask.” He gave you a brash grin. “I’ll show you whenever you want, Sunshine.”

“Charming,” you said under your breath, employing your now expert skills at ignoring his advances. “Would you like a trophy for the bare minimum?”

“I’m fucking serious.” He hissed, smile dropping, catching you off guard with the intensity and firmness of his expression. “If that’s why you’re so fucking annoying about me touching you, get over it.”

“Get over it?” You give a laugh of disbelief. “Are you fucking serious? First off, it has nothing to do with Homelander. Second off, if it did, I’m not going to just ‘get over it’ because this is 'annoying' for you.”

“Well then, what will make you get over it?” His question, though impatient, was said with a face of biting sincerity. At least, the closest thing to sincerity you deemed him capable of.

You tilted your head at him. “It’s not something I can get over.” Before he could respond, his mouth opening with a frown and squinted eyes, you continued. “It’s one of my powers. I can feel people’s emotions when I touch them, even if I don’t want to. I can’t turn it off, or ‘get over it’.”

His mouth remained open for another second, and you could almost see his brain slowly turning in his head. You waited, your own mind spinning with possible reactions he might meet you with. Wrathful shouting, angered distrust, cold disgust, forceful words and distance.

“Do you not like what you feel from me?” He asked, no twisted fury on his face, eyes filled with that analytical, intrusive look.

“No, that doesn’t matter to me. It's intrusive, and usually people don’t like when I do it, so I just avoid touching anyone.”

“But you can’t fucking control it.” His words didn’t seem to be directed at you, but his glare made it feel like they were. “It’s not your fucking fault all those pussies have so many fucking secrets.”

You give him a passive shrug. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still against their will.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he mutters. “For fucks sake.”

You tilt your head at him, unable to place where his disbelief and frustration was coming from, even more unsure who was facing the brunt end of it. “I mean, it can’t be that insane that people don’t like it. It’s not like you’d want someone poking around inside your feelings.”

“Sunshine, of all the things to care about, that is one of the most fucking stupid things I’ve ever fucking heard. No, I don’t care about you ‘poking around inside my feelings’, because I’m not a fucking pussy with something to hide.” He gives you another odd look, accompanied by a pause before he spoke again. “Is that where your name comes from?”

“My, my name?” You feel yourself pale, still trying to fully grasp his previous declaration.

He watches you through narrowed eyes. “Your supe name. The Anomaly.”

Your blood might have evaporated, a petrifying cold running through you. “Don’t call me that.”

“I heard MM and the French Prick using it.” He looked slightly thrown by your response, but didn’t stop pushing. “Is it a fucking secret?”

“No,” you answer, trying to keep your voice level, your words acquiring a rambling quality. “It’s completely accurate. I couldn’t think of better one if I tried. Having fou-“ you cut off your slip. “Three completely unique powers on top of the usual supe-sauce is… anomalous. But I fucking hate it. I- I really hate it.” You trailed off, rubbing your arms uneasily.

“Why? It’s just a fucking name.” His voice was casual, almost bored, but he’d leaned forward with feet firmly on the ground, waiting for your answer with an impatient frown.

You’d frozen though, as white walls and straps, cold needles and cuts, and expressionless, masked people above you flashed in your head. Ghosts of fear the first time, devastation the second, emptiness the third, and fury the fourth echoed through your body. Moments of violating change and feelings of uncontrollable, off-balance infestation in your body that would haunt you for the rest of your life. You turned to Soldier Boy, who was still watching with a deep crease in his brow as the TV show played in white noise, and forced words from your chest, to your throat, and out of your mouth.

“If the Russians gave you a name, would you want people to use it?” You said carefully, and watched his first clench at your question, the bowl almost cracking under his grip.

He kept your gaze as he responded, a cool, rough brutality in his words. “I would fucking kill the pussy who was stupid enough to mention it.” You give him a pointed look, and watch the understanding slowly fall into place in his head. All that left him was a grunt, and he turned his body and focused back on the TV, the conversation abruptly over.

The afternoon slipped into evening, the evening into night, and hardly any more words were exchanged. You said good night as you stood to retreat to your room, and he gave a muttered acknowledgment in response. Your sleep was poor but long, and when you walked out into the hall the following morning, you found Soldier Boy standing right outside your door. His arms were crossed, one hand holding the TV remote, and he spoke the moment he saw you.

“Where the fuck is the rest of it?” His intense, demanding tone was far too firm for how early it was.

You gave him a droopy blink, noticing the same shirt and jeans from the day before. “Did you go to bed at all?”

“No. Where is it?” You try to move past him, but he moves to block your path. “Where?”

You rubbed your face, trying to squeeze out the lingering and puffy sleep. “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“The show,” he spoke as if it were obvious, continuing to glower down at you as he waved the remote in your face. “You left, and then it was suddenly over and some weird fucking shit started playing. Fix it.”

You squint at him. “That show was canceled in, like, 2018. There isn’t any more.”

His expression was remarkably distressed. “Why the fuck would they do that?!”

“Netflix isn’t great at understanding popular demand,” you rub your eyes again as the dry of your mouth starts to fade. “But there’s like, an insane amount of shows out there. We can find something else.”

“Nothing else is good,” he grumbled. “All that played after was some stupid dating show. I had to watch a group of fucking idiots sit in rooms and whine about love all night.”

“You had to?” You roll your eyes with a snort. “What, did Butcher arrive with a gas mask and threaten to knock you out if you didn’t? If it’s so painful for you, just change it, or turn it off.”

He glares at your mockery, rubbing his neck as he mutters, “I don’t know how.”

"Huh?" His words had passed right through your ears as you tried and failed to keep your slugglish attention from drifting.

"I don't fucking know how," he practically barked, his face red as he refused to look at you. "It's my fucking fault technology is so fucking stupid now."

“Oh,” You feel a small amount of guilt as you realize that his scowl is one of embarrassment, his annoyed tone most likely rooted in frustration. “Wait, how have you been using it for two weeks?”

“I’d just hit buttons until something happened. It worked fine until you started that stupid Netflix shit.”

With a deep breath and sigh, you extend your hand for the remote. When he doesn’t move, you grab it from him with a tug and duck around him. “Follow me.”

Soldier Boy trails after you as you descend the stairs, stopping at your side as you reach the TV. You raise your arm to turn it off, but glance at his still-scrunched face, his bothered expression, and hand the remote back to him instead.

He stares down at his hands before looking back at the TV, then to you, his scowl only more confused. “Nothing fucking happened.”

“You’re going to do it.” You explain, pointing from the remote to the illuminated screen. “I’ll walk you through it, but you’re going to do it yourself.” “Fuck no,” he tries to return the remote to you. “You do it.”

You hold your hands behind your back. “If you want to live any sort of life in the 21st century after this, you’re going to want to know how to use a TV.”

“I can use a fucking TV.”

“Yeah,” you snort. “A shitty, twenty-year-old motel TV. Unless you want us to put you in a memory unit, gramps, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”

“Bitch,” he grunts, but he stops trying to pawn off the remote.

“Cunt.”

His knuckles are white around the remote as he gives you an impatient, expectant look.

“Raise your hand like this, with that side,” you tap the head of the remote. “Facing the TV.”

He mimics your movements, and you give a nod of approval.

“Good, now hit that button.” When he doesn’t, you grab his finger and adjust to sit where you had pointed. “Ok, now that one.”

“Why are all these fucking buttons hidden and not labeled. Buttons used to be fucking labeled.”

You shrug. “For most people it’s intuitive, I guess.” You point to another button. “Now hit that one, and I’ll teach you how to search.”

This continues for another painstakingly drawn-out ten minutes. Once you’re absolutely sure he can passably navigate, raise and lower volume, and turn off the TV altogether, you step back.

“That’s it,” you offer him a grin. “Easy as breathing.”

He makes a grumbling, incoherent sound, dropping back on the couch. After a moment of staring at the menu on the screen, he looks up at you from his seat with an irritable frown. “You just going to fucking stand there?”

You blink at him, catch that his curt words are meant to be an offer, and move around the couch and to take the same spot you occupied yesterday. He offers you the remote back, and when you don’t take it he throws it onto your lap.

You give him a tired sigh. “The whole point of this-“

“I’ve never seen any of this shit. You said you’d find something else I’d like, Sunshine. Prove it.”

You raise your brows, but your protests die on your tongue, and you start scrolling through the display.

“I’m not that fucking old,” he grunts over your focus.

“What?” Half your attention still on the TV, you watch him shift forward in your periphery.

“I’m not that fucking old,” he repeats. “I’m not your fucking gramps.”

You glance at him, a hum of amusement leaving you. “You’re over a hundred. It’s not like you’re forty and I’m calling you ancient. Besides,” you give yourself a small smile. “Hughie told me about your little trysts with mature women. Mature woman, forty years your junior.” You stick out your tongue at him. “Cradle robber.”

“I don’t discriminate.” He says, leaning back to lounge on the couch. “And it’s not robbing the cradle if there’s no one that’s-“ he cuts himself off as he almost slips and admits your point. He gives you a glower, daring you to say something. “I’m not old.”

“Someone’s sensitive,” you mumble with a small, genuine smile, and before he can jab back, you hit play on a comedy special, turn the volume to max, and recline into the cushions.

The next set of days pass in similar fashion, and though Soldier Boy doesn’t stop grumbling insults and annoyances, picking small fights, or calling you a bitch, your childish psychological warfare has come to a halt, there’s no more throwing of chairs or explosions, and the word “bitch” off his tongue lacks the malice it did before. You quickly discover that Soldier Boy is a lot more like a toddler than anyone could have possibly guessed. You start leaving out snacks of cheese and fruit on the counter and rarely return to find it still in its spot. If you sit with him, he’ll stay shockingly still, but will make little snipes at the television. Sometimes you catch him after a comment, watching to see if you’re entertained by his words, and learn that even a vaguely amused smile makes him take on an overtly smug grin himself. At one point you start writing down a list of his less than progressive phrases, labeling it “Soldier Boy Racist Grampa Highlights," until he catches you, grabbing the list from next to you when he notices his name.

“The fucks this?” He’d asked as he scanned the page.

“I got bored,” you shrugged, and he rolled his eyes.

“This one’s not even that bad,” he pointed to a more recent addition, and you leaned over to read it.

“You called Hughie a cocksucking queer piss-boy. He’s not even here to defend himself.”

“So?”

You just gave him a flat look and returned your attention to the book you’d been skimming. You noticed him pocket the list, though, and over the next few days he started to pull it out whenever the apparently vital urge to insult someone showed its face. While the vulgarity didn’t decrease, the use of language you could only describe as tasteless and bigoted, did. Hughie even received a demotion to a “cocksucking pussy.”

He still rarely slept, instead locking himself in his room late at night and only emerging once you wake up. Once you pass his room on a 3am trip to the bathroom, walking in soft, toed steps to avoid disturbing him, only for the light leaking under his door to flood the hallway as he opens it.

“It’s not morning,” he watches you, leaning against his doorframe. “You should be asleep.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” is what you try to say. But between your clouded brain, restless need for the bathroom, and energy-drained body, what comes out is a string of sounds in a whiny tone.

“What was that?” His voice is taunting, but lacks any real edge.

“Cunt.” You mumble, trying to look at least a little menacing and, based off of what you think is a grin on Soldier Boy’s face, not succeeding.

“Bitch. You know, if you’re not tired, I’d be willing to help get you there.” He’s probably giving you a cocky, suggestive eyebrow wriggle, but between the sleepy squint of your eyes and light casting him in a silhouette, you really can’t tell. When you just make another mumble in response, he chuckles “Go back to bed, Sunshine, you’re going to collapse.”

“Nu-uh,” is all you can manage, and start to shuffle down the hall once more. When you emerge from the bathroom, your vision filled with spots after trying to turn on the lights only to be blinded, his door is closed once more, and you return to your room, collapsing back into useless, terror-fraught sleep.

When you walk into the kitchen that morning, the coffee pot is full.

———-

“What’s the third?”

You look up from your trudge through a CIA-provided, untranslated copy of Beowulf to find Soldier Boy staring at you from the door of your room.

“Third what?”

Taking that as an invitation, he stepped fully through the door to stand at the edge of your bed. “Third power. You’ve got your fireworks and feelings shit, what the fuck’s the third?”

You mark your page and meet his insistent face. “I told you that what, like ten days ago? Did you only now think to ask?”

“Nine days,” he says with an eye roll. “Don’t be fucking dramatic. And you got all pissy about your supe name. Not my fault I tried to respect your stupid fucking woman emotions and dropped it.”

You laugh. “First off, add ‘woman emotions’ to the list. And you totally forgot. I can see right through you, you just didn’t want me to make more old man jokes.”

“You’re fucking doing it anyway." He mutters, taking out the crumpled paper and a pencil from his pocket, using the wall to scratch the addition. “Would’ve been a stupid fucking plan, and I’m not a sensitive pussy who cares about jokes.” He shoves the list back into his jeans, and gives you a scowl as your grin spreads further across your face.

“Literally two days ago you threw a tantrum because I asked you what dinosaurs were your friends.”

“Are you going to answer my fucking question?”

“Fine, you baby,” you snort. “I can heal people by touching them. Technically, I transfer their injuries onto me, and then I heal so quickly it doesn’t matter. That’s mostly what I was doing for the Boys before this.”

“You were playing nurse?” He frowned. “When you can withstand a nuclear blast and are a fucking human molotov? That’s fucking stupid.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I don’t really have any control over the fire. And I wasn’t just ‘playing nurse’, I helped with missions in other ways.”

“Really?” His tone was sarcastic as he gave you a doubtful look. “What, you were a human shield too?”

“Well, yeah.” You mutter sheepishly. “But it was helpful."

“Sure, Sunshine. They must be torn up without you.”

You give him a scowl. “You know, I’m not going to tell you stuff if you’re going to be a fucking dick about it.”

He blinks, mouth curving down. “I was fucking joking.”

“Wasn’t funny,” you shrug, opening up your book. “Get out of my room.”

He doesn’t move. “Why are you being a fucking bitch again?”

You sigh, staring blankly at the pages. You’d admit, even from inside your own head, your anger had blossomed quite suddenly. But his accusations of your team being absolutely unaffected by your absence stabbed you somewhere in your chest, fueling that voice in the back of your head. It was getting louder, reminding you of all that damage in your wake—how your team walked on eggshells when they spoke to you and flinched when you touched them. “Human shield” was the best description of your place within the group. “Nurse” was too generous a term for a person they let touch and heal them only if the hospital was too far away and it couldn’t wait. On rare occasions you’d convince them to forgo their protests and just let you fix their wounds, but it took promises and pleas from you and exhausted caving from them. You look back up at Soldier Boy, who has remained in his place, eyes boring into you as you’d calmed yourself.

“I don’t like being useless.” You say softly. You know the admission could return to bite you in the ass should the peace you and Soldier Boy maintained the past week crumble, but he’d surprised you once. Maybe he’d do it again. “I don’t need you to remind me that I am.”

You watch his reaction, frown growing but fuming annoyance fading. His eyes were overtaken by a surly look you couldn’t figure out. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve heard.”

Your jaw drops, and that thing under your skin starts to claw against your skull. “Get out.” When he doesn’t move, your voice raises. “Get out!”

“Would you just-“

“Out!” You’re at a full scream now, chucking Beowulf at him. “Get the fuck out!”

“Just fucking listen to me!” He’d stumbled back as the book hit, most likely out of shock more than anything else, but remained in your room. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice smoke starting to curl around you, but you’re too angry to try to calm it. He must notice it as well, because his face pinches slightly, no longer trying to move back to you. “I wasn’t done-“

“What, you got more stupid, cruel shit to say? About how I’m not just useless, I’m a stupid fucking bitch? A useless whore who can’t even cook? An uptight fucking prude?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, woman, for once in your life, shut the fuck up!” He’s yelling too now, and suddenly you can’t move. It’s not like he’s never raised his voice before, having frequent appearances in your previous daily shouting matches, but this is different. This seeps through the air into your blood and head, shutting everything in you down until all that’s left is fear. Breathing is hard, your heart can’t seem to keep up with your lungs, and your anger is quickly turning into a light-headed, frantic need to go, go, go and hide, or to start clawing and clawing at whatever comes close until this feeling leaves. All of a sudden he’s right there, he’s in front of you and grabbing your arms, shaking you and saying something you can’t hear. Slowly, the tightness around you starts changing, becoming something solid, something firm. You’re annoyed and frustrated, but under it rests an urge to cover your hands in blood over something. Your fragile terror is washed over by a vigilant alarm, and everything suddenly feels sharper. As you emerge from your own brain, you notice Soldier Boy still there, his face level with yours.

“You’re fine.” It’s not a question. He’s telling you, and suddenly you realize that you are. And as you nod, you feel the distress in you fade into something like relief. Your head drops, and you tense once more as your eyes see his hands on your biceps.

“Um,” you look between his grip on your body and his face, drawn with a confusion you can feel in yourself. You gesture your head back down, his own attention following yours, and he lets out a grunt when he sees what you’re glancing at, dropping himself from you.

He draws himself up and turns, and part of you thinks he’s going to walk out the door and leave the rest of your fight for the morning. But he stops when he opens the door, and speaks without turning.

“You’re not useless. That’s what I was trying to fucking tell you. You’re certainly worth more than any of those preachy hypocrites.” Before you can ever open your mouth, he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

You don’t sleep that night, laying in bed with the sheets feeling too warm and itchy, your thrashing only just slower than your restless thoughts. You stare and stare at the ceiling, trying to comb through the conversation and pick apart every second so you’d know just what to say when the dawn broke. You wanted to, needed to, make sure things didn’t go back to the way they’d been before. That had been exhausting, every part of your waking moments wondering who would blow up first, listing out hypotheticals to ensure that you would win any fight he offered you. You’d take the blame, a scratch in the back of your head told you it was yours anyway, to keep this truce. As the night moves, time becomes uncertain, hours, minutes, and seconds all feeling the same. Your dread turns to shame, to doubt, to a hot, righteous anger.

This won’t wait for morning, you decide. He doesn’t get to do this, make you sink down like this. It might have been your fault, but he doesn’t get to make you sit in it. You’re going to fix this or blow it up, and you’re going to do it now.

He must be up. He’s always up. You’d seen him “sleep” twice, both times in a frighteningly controlled manner, waking himself up the moment his breathing became soft. He’s certainly up, the light in his room is escaping into the hall, and you can hear him shuffling around, but, still, you knock on his door. When it doesn’t open, you knock again, then once more after another minute of inaction.

After the fifth knock, your patience a thin thread, you shout. “I know you’re in there, Soldier Boy! The light’s on, and I can fucking hear you! We need to talk!” The sounds pick up, but still the door is shut. “Let me fucking in, you ass!”

Nothing.

The thread snaps, and you push open the door. The harsh of the light blinds you for only a second, and when your eyes adjust, you're met with the sight of Soldier Boy, asleep, with his face in crumpled in a pained grimace. Sheet askew across the bed as he grunts unintelligibly, his body looks braced against something you can’t see. You’re frozen in your place near the door, agitation forgotten. You want to wake him up, because you know far better than anyone how real these things can seem, how the pain being your head doesn’t stop the echo of it in your body. You want to leave and never speak of this again, because there’s no way he receive you seeing him like this well. But what makes you decision for you, springing you from your rooted place, is the light in his chest starting to brighten as the room starts to hum.

It’s more instinct than anything—you know that the safe house and everything in it has been built to withstand this very thing, but that knowledge doesn’t stop you—as you run to the bed and shake Soldier Boy by his shoulders. When your skin meets his a rush of fear, pure and unbridled fear as strong as it had been from you hours ago, overtakes you. Fear and anger. You don’t think you ever felt this bloodthirsty, savage anger in you before. Your anger had always been cold and zealous, calculating tributes for your sorrow. This anger didn’t care. Somebody just had to hurt, and hopefully that someone would break.

If it’d been any other circumstance, you’d have been terrified by it. But you’re not, focused entirely on waking Soldier Boy up. Later, when several hours were between you and this moment, you’d deal with this. Maybe you’d even acknowledge how, despite the distance, you still may not be afraid of it. But now, with the light only growing, you let his feelings wash through you, and you do something drastic.

You pull back and slap Soldier Boy in the face.

He roars, eyes shooting open and glazed with a feral haze, his body jerking upright and grabbing you by the throat. Even as it happens, hindsight tells you that there probably were other ways to wake him up, but this was the stupid path you’d taken, and you unfortunately could not go back.

Before your vision could grow spotty, before your own fear and images of a flickering light above you could overtake your head, he let go with another shout. You scrambled back, realizing the fever in you had crept out of your spine, trading bruises on your neck for burns on his hands.

You watch him slowly regain control, his face dropping into exhaustion and his eyes searching the room—for what exactly, you’re not sure—and finding you.

“What the fuck are you doing here.” The words are low and rough, and though they don’t sound like a question, you answer him anyway.

“I- I just wanted to talk, and you weren’t answering the door…” You trail off lamely, your words sounding hollow even to you.

He doesn’t yell at your though, or push you out. He just stares at you, as if you’re meant to continue, to try and justify your presence. But you just stare back, unsure if you want him to kick you out, talk to you, or just pass out and forget the whole thing.

Instead of those options, leaving you at yet another loss, he sits back and scoots over to the far side of the mattress. When you don’t react besides another prolonged stare, he gives a half-hearted eye roll and pats the space next to him. Slowly, slightly fearful of misunderstanding his gesture, you walk over and drop on the bed at his side.

He’s looking ahead, unreadable from only his side profile, when he speaks.

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

You don’t stop watching him as you respond. “Does that happen every time?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

You don’t have anything else to say—any reassurance you can think of sounding stupid even in your head. So you wait, still watching him, and sit in the silence.

“Do you not have any?” His voice is strangely soft, though no tension has left his body.

You give a small sigh. “I do. But I’m good at hiding them. Stuff like that,” you wave a hand to his chest. “Only happens on bad days.”

“Bad days?” You can see his frown forming as his lips turn down, his voice growing deeper.

“On a few missions, I saw Homelander,” you whisper, now staring ahead yourself. “From afar. Really afar. I know he didn’t ever even see me, because I’m not back… there, but whenever I see him, apparently it’s enough.” You turn back to Soldier Boy, and are met with him watching you.

“Is that what yours are about?”

You give a small nod. “Different things happen, but it’s always him. Always there.”

“Hm,” his eyes don’t leave you as he speaks. “How do you stop them?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. “I don’t stop them, I just keep them in here.” You tap your head. “And I think of before. About how it was.”

“That helps?”

“As long as I don’t let myself remember that it will never be like that again.” You can’t hide the pain the words give you.

“What was it like?”

“Before? It’s was normal,” you shrug. “Boring.”

He tilts his head at you. “Normal?”

“Normal,” you repeat, watching his face as you speak.

He frowns, and looks away. You notice him swallow heavily, glaring at the wall. “Like,” he swallows again. “Like what?”

“Well, I had parents. Siblings. I had friends, I worked, I went to school-“

“School?” He turns back to you. “You're an adult, did they make school fucking longer?”

You feel a small smile quirk your lip. “No, I was doing a postgraduate. I’d actually just finished. Technically, I’m a doctor.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Of Anthropology, yeah. I know less about human medicine than WebMD.” You pause. "That’s like, a website that’s famous for giving bad medical advice. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

“And you think you know less than it?”

“Oh, I know I know less than it.”

He snorted, returning to watch the wall. “That’s fuckin ironic.”

You nod in amusement. “Yep.”

When you don’t continue, he looks back once more. “What else?”

“I lived alone. Small, shitty studio on the Upper West Side. I visited my dad in Boston once a month-“

“Just your dad?”

“Yeah, my mom wasn’t dead, she’s just a bitch.” You hear Soldier Boy cough what might have been a laugh, but you ignore it. “She and my dad divorced when I was like, ten. They had joint custody, but I stopped talking to her when I was fifteen.”

“Harsh,” he mutters. “What, she ground you one too many times?”

You decided that holding back about thing like this was a need long gone. “She tried to send me to a medical boarding school in the Berkshires.”

“What the fuck is a ‘medical boarding school’”

“Like a psych ward where they teach you math.”

“Huh,” he raises his brows at you. “You need one?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I already knew math.”

He stares at you blankly, a smile having crept onto your face. “You’re… making a joke.” He said slowly.

“Yep,” you nudge his shoulder with your own. “That’s what a good one sounds like.”

He lets out a low laugh. “That wasn’t that fucking good.”

“You laughed.”

“You can’t fucking prove it.”

You’re grinning fully now. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, gramps.”

He rolls his eyes. “So your mom’s a bitch, you lived alone, and you can’t even cook. That’s just fucking sad.”

“New York is famous for its food,” you mutter. “And I can heat stuff up, as you very well know.”

“You can’t coast on box macaroni forever, Sunshine.”

“Been working fine for both of us so far.”

He gives you an amused look. “You’re not trying to seduce me.”

“What the fuck does that have to do-“

“You don’t have to impress me,” he continues, unfazed. “Your cooking doesn’t matter. What’d you do when you were hungry for dick?”

You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.” He only returns your glare with a cocky grin.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet, Sunshine.” He winks, and you roll your eyes.

“Men aren’t big pussies about that stuff anymore,” you smile as his face drops at your claim. “And I never spent a lot of time being ‘hungry for dick’, anyways.”

“What, you have a loyal boyfriend?” he taunts.

“Nope,” you give him a grin. “But I had a sweet old lady in the apartment across the hall who brought me food every weekend. You’d have liked her, she was just your type.”

He grunts, but not with annoyance. “All I hear is no boyfriend, no friends, and can’t cook. Like I said, just fucking sad.”

“I had friends!” You protest. “We’d do karaoke every Friday!”

“You can sing?”

“Nobody who does karaoke can sing,” you dodge with ease. “But we had fun.”

He lets out a labored breath, and when he turns to you this time, you notice how bloodshot his eyes are.

“Would you go back?” He asked. He was watching you so carefully, and you once again are left confused by the look in his eyes.

“I don’t think I could.” You answer, your voice sounding far away, a memory of a gravestone flashing in your head. “I don’t think it would be fair to them.”

“Fair to them?” He gives a doubtful huff. “That’s fucking stupid.”

“Really?” You challenge. “I don’t think it’s stupid to not want to pull the people you love into this shitshow. I got a chance to keep them out of this life. Most people aren’t that lucky.”

Soldier Boy only shrugs. “Bad things will still fucking happen to them.”

“Bad things happen to everyone.” Your words are firm. “I’m making sure they don’t fucking die.”

“Well,” he turns back to the wall. “Aren’t they fucking lucky they have you.”

You know his words are meant to be cold and sarcastic, his face has even dropped into a scowl. But there was no sharpness behind them, and the rest of his face just looks… so tired. You hate it, it’s leaking into you and you’re not even touching him. You really, really want it to stop. So, you say the only thing that you can think of.

“Nobody taught me,” you say softly.

“What?” His red eyes give you a confused glance.

“I can’t cook because nobody taught me how. My mom didn’t care to, I don’t think it ever occurred to my dad, and eventually everyone just assumed that I could and I didn’t want to correct them. I turned into some sort of rage against the patriarchy shit in my head, but it’s a just life skill that I can’t do because nobody wanted to teach me.” You give him a sad smile. “I don’t think they felt as lucky to have me as you think.”

“So why’re you protecting them?” He asks, a puzzled frown on his face. “If those pussies didn’t fucking care about you, then they don't fucking deserve it.”

You shrug. “I know. But I’m going to keep doing it anyway.”

His eyes on yours have that look of dissection again, but it’s no longer violating, only prying carefully. You’re not sure how long passes before he speaks.

“It’s late,” he mutters. “You should sleep.”

You hesitate, but nod and stand. You move to the door, glancing back to see his still watching, alone on the bed. From here, he somehow looks more tired, the light making the circles around his eyes more prominent and the color on his face more washed out. You think it’s the most human you’ve ever seen him.

“Good night, Soldier Boy,” you say gently, and turn to leave.

You almost don’t hear his response.

“You don’t have to call me Soldier Boy,” the words are said under his breath, and when you turn, he has a soft frown. “Ben’s fine.”

You blink, and a small, unforced smile crosses your face. “I’ll see you in the morning, Ben.”

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (9) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. 

chapter summary: he is in love. 

word count: 1,823

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: a shorter chapter, coryo’s pov, soft!coryo, obsessive!coryo, pet name (petal), not proofread

Coriolanus Snow was fourteen years old when he fell in love. The academic year was nearly halfway over, just days away from winter break. Coriolanus hated breaks. His one hot meal a day would be ripped away from him for at least two weeks—longer, perhaps, if the weather turned inclement when school was supposed to pick up again in January. The only good thing about a break was not having to carefully construct his image, to ensure that no one realized that the great house of Snow was falling. But he tried to not pay either issue any mind, choosing to focus instead on the Academy’s trip to the opera house. 

It was supposed to be a culture day of sorts. Since the war and the Dark Days, the arts had been slow to return to the Capital. Most of the funding was spent on rebuilding efforts, ensuring that the Capital’s citizens had places to sleep and things to eat. But the Plinth family had been funding the arts steadily over several months since being granted their title, enough so that the opera house could open its doors once every few weeks to hold a performance. Strabo Plinth paid for a Lord’s Room, and insisted that Sejanus’s class be able to attend one such performance. 

Coriolanus did not particularly care for the arts. He could see their value, sure, in being able to memorialize parts of history, to show how the public viewed the changes in culture. It was a history lesson for him and little more than that. 

His mistake, of course, was muttering that to Sejanus as they took their seats in the front row of the Lord’s Room. Or, rather, his mistake was saying such a thing within your earshot. 

“I beg your pardon?” you said, peering around Sejanus. 

Coriolanus stiffened, surprised to be called out so publicly. It was one thing for you to question his ideas in the classroom. He didn’t mind that. It kept him sharp. It made him always prepared to provide a solid rebuttal to a counterargument. But this? He didn’t know what to do with this. “I believe our time could be better spent than listening to people sing in a language that we don’t even understand yet.”

“It is remarkable to think that a boy so intelligent could think so lowly of the arts,” you said, turning your nose in the air. “The arts bring us a sense of community. It allows us to come together and understand the way our society functioned and continues to function. It breeds creativity, and with that, innovation. Do you think we would have such impressive advancements if not for people becoming inspired by the beautiful? You think you’ll become a man of logic, of sound mind, but you will be little more than a cynic if you do not appreciate the arts.”

He blinked. Well. He didn’t know how to rebut that. He tried, though, because Snows do not back down from a challenge. “I can understand the value of poetry and prose. But a performance? It seems more gratuitous than anything beneficial to proper society.”

“Perhaps you are of simple mind, then,” you said. You turned your attention to Sejanus. “Are you also simple?”

Heat rose to Coriolanus’s face. He prayed that he did not look as red as he felt. Before Sejanus could answer you, he said, “Are you of simple mind? I can hardly think of a reason to attack someone’s intelligence other than for a lack of a proper argument.”

Rather than looking as embarrassed as Coriolanus felt, you only laughed. “Fair enough, I suppose. How about, you try to find enjoyment in this performance and if you don’t, you can gloat without interruption or criticism.”

“I shall agree to your terms.”

But as the performance began, Coriolanus could hardly focus on anything other than you. How you sat at the edge of your seat. How you propped an arm up on the railing, cradled your face in your palm. The way your eyes seemed to sparkle as you absorbed every note. You were mesmerized and mesmerizing. He couldn’t look away. Coriolanus might not have learned the importance of opera that day, but he certainly realized you were a work of art all your own. 

Coriolanus Snow fell in love at fourteen years old in an opera house. 

Two weeks later, when the Academy students returned from break, he left a single white rose he begged his Grandma’am for on your desk. You did not know it was from him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Not when you showed the flower to everyone you saw. Not when you wore it so proudly in your hair. 

And, now, ten years later, he brought you another rose as you sat curled up in his palace’s library. 

You had not yet noticed his presence as he stood several feet away. He didn’t mind, though. Coriolanus fell in love with you when you didn’t even realize he was watching, and he fell further in love with you every moment he had to admire you. 

Coriolanus twisted the rose by its stem pinched between his fingers. It was not often that he felt anxious, but it was becoming more frequent. After everything that happened with Sejanus, he found himself becoming paranoid that you might run away. That everything you said that evening was an elaborate ruse and that you were waiting until the last moment to run away to the base Sejanus was stationed at. That, despite his efforts in intercepting Sejanus’s letters to you, one might have slipped through and you were just biding your time. 

Still, he felt the need to apologize to you. He was not sure how truthful you had been when you said you intended to tell him of Sejanus’s plan. He wanted to believe it, to be sure. But Coriolanus had been angry enough to murder Sejanus then and there, and he was sure you realized that. Coriolanus was worried that he scared you, that he might have gone a hair too far in ensuring you would not be taken away. That one day soon he might wake to news that you were gone—running off to a life with Sejanus or a life away from him, he wasn’t sure.

And yet, here you were. You had come to the palace unchaperoned, of your own accord. You had done so every day this week. You let him kiss you, and you kissed him. You let him hold you. He did not go further than that—nothing more than passionate kisses and longing touches. Not because he did not desire it, but because he wanted to know you desired it. It meant little to him to have you as a wife in name. He wanted to drive you as insane as you drove him. 

Your head lifted as his footsteps echoed across the floor. You watched him as he approached, knelt down before you, and plucked the book from your hands. He marked the page you were on and set it aside, replacing the book with the rose. 

You stared at the rose, admiring its pure white petals. “Thank you, Coryo,” you said.

Oh, how he loved for you to say his name. He wished, of course, for it to arise under different circumstances, but he loved it nonetheless. 

You reached down, a hand cupping his chin, and pulled him up to meet your lips. Coriolanus kissed you softly, as if you might break, before he moved away and took a seat next to you. He pulled you into his side, his arm snaked around your waist as your head fell against his chest. Your legs curled up under you. You burrowed yourself further into him. 

“The ton might soon think we have held a secret wedding if you continue spending your every waking hour here, petal,” he teased. He wouldn’t mind if they thought that. Anything to keep the ton from trying to take you away. 

“The ton would believe we lived on the moon if someone was convincing enough.”

He laughed and shook his head. It was nice for you to tease but not direct it at him. “I am pleased you spend so much time here now, though.”

“It…feels safer.”

Oh. Oh, he liked that. How long had he been hoping you would say something like this? Coriolanus lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. As much as he liked the push and pull with you, this was better. This was nicer. This was the sort of life he deserved. 

“Yeah?”

“I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be someone else. When I am with the rest of the ton, I have to still act like a respectable young lady. At home, I can’t even read in peace. But when I am here, I can read and call you horrible names without judgment.”

Coriolanus snorted. “Oh, I judge you for the names you call me.”

“But you don’t stop me either.”

“No, I suppose I don’t.” 

And why would he? He loved your wit. Even if there were times he wished you would tone it down, he appreciated that you didn’t put up with bullshit. Coriolanus had little respect for people that allowed others to walk all over them. In his view, most of the ton was like that. You, however, were a beautiful, shining exception. 

Coriolanus glanced around the room, making sure that Coriolanus the Cat was not around. Whenever he tried to kiss you, that damned cat would appear out of nowhere to try to claw his face off. (Or, as you put, “play with him.”) Coriolanus wasn’t sure if you were in cahoots with Sejanus, but he was certain that you were in leagues with the cat. Once he was sure the cat was not preparing for attack, Coriolanus cupped your face in his hands and pulled you in for a kiss.

“You can call me anything, and I will still adore you,” he mumbled against your lips. “I love—OW!”

You pulled away with a laugh as Coriolanus the Cat pounced on top of his head. You reached for the cat, cradling the beast in your arms, cooing at it. “We don’t attack our papa, Coriolanus,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of its head. “He doesn’t deserve that, does he?”

Coriolanus glowered at the cat. “I don’t think that’s my son. I think he’s a bastard.”

You swatted at his chest. “Don’t be rude, he can hear you!”

Coriolanus leaned down and whispered in the cat’s face, “bastard,” before pulling away before the cat could claw his face off. But, while the cat was trapped in your arms, he did take an opportunity to steal another kiss, grinning as you giggled against his lips. 

Hmm. He could get used to this. 

[python333]

after hours — python³

― ― ― ―

synopsis you've been stalking ghost for a while now. the issue? you didn't even know you were stalking him.

relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.

characters ghost.

word count 4.02k

warnings usage of [name] as a placeholder for your name, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], ghost's pov, stalking, nonconsensual photography of ghost [nothing crazy, just taking pictures of him while hes out and about]

note i have a tummyache :(

You’re very troubled.

Bright red lights dull to a darker, velvety color as they reach a stark black flooring. They illuminate beige twine that’s strung over clean counters and square plates of clear water, twine that carries several photographs held up by clothespins. It’s very monochromatic, the color schemes in the room. The more vibrant, more lively colors are contained in developed polaroid film, labeled with dates, names, and locations. Your most recent one, labeled as 10/30, Riley, Heaton Park, was taken on the very date, in the very place, and of the very person you’ve labeled it with. Organization has always been very important to you.

It’s a weird contrast, your organization against your troubledness. On one hand, you like to keep everything in check, finding joy in having all of your belongings put together through some sort of connection they have―color, size, name―but on the other hand, something about that cleanliness throws you off sometimes. An unsettling ripple will center itself in your chest and create a circular wave that leaves the tips of your fingers tingling and your head a mess, your brain barely in control of your actions anymore, your hands somehow moving on their own and ruining everything you’ve organized. There’s been moments where your pictures have been ripped from the pins and thrown across the room, landing in water or on the floor or in the large vent in the corner of the room.

You’ve been able to keep it under control for a while, though. You haven’t had an episode in a while now. You scan the photos hung across the length of the twine, searching for a date, then finding one that sounds right. 08/17. So it’s been two months and fourteen days since your last outburst. A pretty good accomplishment, if you do say so yourself. 

“‘s been a while,” you mumble under your breath, your index finger and thumb pinching the bottom of the polaroid, observing it. This one is labeled with Riley as well, taken in a tattoo shop somewhere in Sheffield. It’s a long ways away from where Riley lives, funnily enough. The tattoo artist must be good for him to drive so far. You’ve only seen a few of his tattoos, and wonder if he has any that he’s hiding from you. From you, you mentally scoff, as if he’s thinking about you at all. 

He’s only seen you once. Riley’s a particularly mysterious character, at least to you. He only comes into the shop every other week, buying some variation of beef or pork. Two weeks ago he came in for pork belly, about two kilograms of it, and through some painful small talk, you learned he was making a pork dish for a gathering. He didn’t specify family gathering―he never does, which makes you think that either every gathering is a family gathering or no gathering is a family gathering―so you assume he’s talking about some kind of friend get-together.

Considering the dish he was making, all belly porchetta, you think he’s using around half a kilogram of pork belly per person, since that’s what you saw in a majority of the recipes you looked up. Assuming he did, you can guess that he had about three other people over, four if he didn’t make any for himself. You’re pretty confident that you know who the other three are. You’ve seen Riley around a few other people before, and it’s always the same three, and they have these weird nicknames for eachother. 

Or, at least, you used to think they were just nicknames. The more you heard them talk, though, the more you realized that they weren’t just nicknames. They were titles. Ranks, even. Riley is Lieutenant, or L.t., his friend Price is Captain, one of his other friends is either Gaz or Sarge, and his other friend Mactavish is Johnny. That, you think, is an actual nickname, but still. So they’re military. You’ve never dwelled too much on that fact, knowing that it doesn’t change much of what you already know about their friend group. 

You’re drawn to this friend group like a magnet to steel. You’ve taken a particular liking to Riley, though, who you’ve heard been called Lieutenant, L.t., and Ghost. Riley, who wears a black balaclava and has a blonde buzzcut that screams military so loudly you’re shocked you didn’t pick up on it earlier. Riley, whose dog tags hang on the coat rack near the front door of his flat, the black silencer around them rough to the touch. Riley, who chose the worst building to live in, considering the state of their locks. 

You release the polaroid and it sways a little where it’s suspended in the air, before stilling. You feel an itch. An itch that follows the lines of your fingerprints, swirling, a corn maze-like pattern being used as a guide for it. Your I-2 stays hung around your neck by a thick strap, and your hands go to it almost immediately, fitting in the worn grooves that your fingers have created over the years. 

Suddenly, causing you to lose your grip on the camera, the bell rings. Shit. Despite thinking about Riley, you forgot that this is his usual time. You take the camera off immediately and haphazardly set it down on the counter, dusting your hands off on your apron and rushing out of the room. The light outside is almost blinding, an ugly reminder of the outside world, and you squint for a moment to get past the too-white artificial lights and soon your eyes adjust to it. You walk up a few steps and open the door, walking a little further to get to the cash register, before seeing Riley patiently waiting near it. His card’s already in his hand. 

“Sorry about that,” you apologize for the wait, grabbing a pair of latex gloves from under the counter and putting them on, “what’re you looking for today?”

Riley hums and watches you put on the gloves, “‘bout two half-kilos of ribeye, if you’ve got any.” 

“We have exactly that much left, I believe,” you look up from your hands and give Riley a smile, “guess you’re taking the last few.” 

“Guess so.” He’s a man of few words, but you still savor every one he speaks. It’s satisfying, the sharpness of his tone; it almost reminds you of cutting the fat off of a slab of meat. A thin blade against fatty tissue, cleanly hacking away at the white flesh, though leaving rough marks at some points. 

You walk to the back, painfully aware of the window that allows Riley to see your every move, and see a partially butchered prime rib. There’s just enough for a ribeye and a rack of ribs, so you grab a clean meat cleaver from off the wall and chop off a good half kilogram of ribeye, laying the cut on a paper-covered scale and seeing that it’s just about half a kilogram. You trade off the cleaver to your non-dominant hand and reach for a sheet of paper, your gloved hand transferring the ribeye over to the brown paper and setting it off to the side. 

You repeat the process again until you have two half kilo ribeyes, both wrapped in butcher paper, and you take off your gloves before putting on a new pair, not wanting to get meat juice all over the paper. You stack one on top of the other and carry the papered ribeyes out of the room, the door opening and closing behind you as you walk over to the register and set the two down. Riley watches you intently. You revel in the feeling of his eyes on you.

“Date night?” you ask, curious. You wonder if there’s someone new you’ll be able to observe. Maybe someone who can help you learn more about Riley.

He huffs out a laugh, something that makes you hold back a smile, and shakes his head, “No, not a date. Just a night.” “Just a night…” you hum, not prodding further even if you want to, reminding yourself that you can’t poke too much or else he might never come back, “whatever you say.”

“I’m sure he wishes it were a date night,” Riley mutters, to which you let a smile crack through. 

“Good luck with your not-date night, then,” you bid him farewell and Riley nods, leaving you with a “have a good night”, the bell above the door ringing as he exits the room. You let out a breath. Jesus. 

— 

Ghost doesn’t think you know how obvious you are. Given your youth, he supposes he shouldn’t be shocked at this level of ignorance, but still. 

He’ll catch you in the corner of his eye. He thinks you think you’re being discreet, but that little camera you keep around your neck always seems to be swaying, and every time he looks a certain way, he can hear the small click and shutter of the camera. He can put two and two together. He’s not stupid, despite what you must think of him. 

Ghost keeps the packaged meat in his hands, not bothering to conceal them as he makes his way back to his flat. It’s a pretty basic building, with picked-to-bits locks and door hinges in desperate need of some WD-40, something he didn’t really think about too much until you started coming around uninvited. He’s not sure if you’ve noticed the various cameras set up around his flat. If you have, he isn’t sure why you wouldn’t take them out―he’s sure that you can. That you have the ability to. Or, he might just be overestimating you. It’s hard to tell at this point.

Ghost wants to confront you, desperately so. He wants to walk up to you in your own shop, wants to hear you greet him and ask him what he’s looking for that particular day, and wants to see the look on your face as he asks you to bring some lithium grease the next time you come around to rid those doors of their squeakiness. He hopes that you’re frozen when he says it, like a deer in headlights, unable to think until he asks you if you really thought he wouldn’t figure it out. It sounds a little cruel, but he thinks, given everything he’s experienced, he’s entitled to a little cruelty, especially if it’s towards his own stalker. 

You can handle it. He’s sure of it. He hasn’t been stalking you for as long as you have to him, but he’s essentially trained for this type of thing, so it comes much easier to him than he’s sure it does to you. As far as he knows, you haven’t gone through the same training as him. You don’t know what to look for. Given the inexperience you show in your actions, Ghost wants to assume that you’re self-taught, and picked this up recently. He doesn’t know if he should be flattered or not by the possibility of you getting into stalking because of him. Since, for some strange reason, he chose to go to your butcher shop instead of the one he would usually go to before the stalking. 

You’re young. Younger than him, at least, by a lot. You’ve never told him your age or anything, but it’s not too hard to tell by looking at you and seeing the way you talk to other customers. You always seem to be a little more polite around him, less joking, aside from today. You’re more laidback with other customers. He wonders if your stalking habits prevent you from acting normal around him, so you compensate for that by trying to act too normal. Except, it doesn’t work, because he can see how you act around other customers. He’s seen your normal. He knows it’s not what you act like around him. Sure, it could be that you’re only normal around him and no other customers, but he’s seen you outside of work too. The only other possibility would be that you only act normal around him specifically, but that just wouldn’t make sense.

Ghost wonders if you get something out of this stalking. He doesn’t look into statistics too much, so he doesn’t really know if stalking is just more popular among the younger generation, or if you’re just special in that way. It could be a hobby, but he’d think that you’d be a little more careful if it was. A little more experienced, even. It might be that it’s an addiction; maybe you feel ashamed of your stalking, but you just can’t help it. However, if you did, Ghost doesn’t think you’d be so obvious about it. No, he thinks that you’d hide it more, that you’d be more nervous around him. While you’re anything but normal in his presence, you can still make conversation with him, and try your best not to bring up things that you know about him that you really shouldn’t. If you felt any kind of shame about it, he thinks you’d slip up more, because even though you’re sloppy, you still managed to go unnoticed under his radar for however long until he caught you for the first time.

The only reason that he knows it wasn’t your first time when he caught you was because of something that you could’ve easily avoided. You tend to mutter to yourself, whether on purpose or on autopilot, and when you’re taking photos of him, you like cursing out the camera when it somehow malfunctions or whispering directions under your breath. Left, get that thing he’s holding, he’s heard you mumble, oddly loud for someone who's trying so hard to be discreet, right… down… good. 

It was disturbing at first. Ghost doesn’t find many things scary these days, but this came a little close to being scary; the thought of someone always watching him, documenting his every move, studying him like a researcher to a labrat. He’s never liked that caged feeling. Being unaware of your observation, not consenting to any of it, unable to consent to it because he’s not supposed to know that you’re stalking him at all. 

The worst part, he thinks, is that he feels a weird sort of sympathy for you. Again, you’re young, you sell meat for way too cheap despite its quality, you probably barely understand the severity of your actions. He doesn’t want to underestimate you. God knows he’s done enough of that. But, for some strange reason, he feels so strongly that you don’t grasp exactly what you’re doing. It makes him feel a little bad for essentially fantasizing about confronting you, knowing how conflicted you must feel, being so obsessive over someone as mundane as him. Truly, he hasn’t told you anything to pique your interest, so it has to just be something about him that’s got you so eager to witness every little thing he does.

He doesn’t know what it is. He hopes that he’ll find out soon. Maybe that confrontation shouldn’t stay a fantasy. 

Two weeks pass by like a short gust of wind. Quick, but still leaving Ghost a little disgruntled. He’s on his usual walk towards your shop, a small tingle on the tips of his fingers, an itch that won’t leave his palms, lingering on his hands like pins stuck in the cushion. The feeling is inexplicable, only noticeable by the time he had spotted the sign hanging over the red awning outside of your shop. He feels like he needs to grab something. Maybe he’s just that excited to get his hands on the pork tenderloin he intends to buy. Maybe he’s thrilled by the idea of asking you why he hears a camera shutter open every time he goes out in a relatively populated area.

The door bells ring as he walks in. You’re leaning against the counter, fidgeting with your gloves, your head whipping up when you hear the bells. You try to conceal it, but Ghost can see the ghost―haha, get it, ghost? Like his callsign? Oh, whatever―of a smile appear on your face. It should make him feel sick, but for whatever reason, it only makes the itch grow. Ghost looks around the shop, seeing the empty place, and walks up to the counter.

“Busy day?” he asks, making you breathe out a laugh.

“Very,” you reply, your words short but always having that sense of incompletion, “what’re you looking for today?”

“Half a kilo of pork tenderloin,” Ghost answers, leaning against the counter as you nod and head to the back. He watches you through the glass, biting his tongue.

There’s so much he wants to ask. 

You come back quickly, just a few minutes later, and Ghost finds himself face to face with a packaged pork tenderloin. You’re quiet as you type up his receipt, but he doesn’t bother to pull out his card. The itch is bothering him. The itch starts to crawl up his wrist, curling around it like a handcuff, running along his veins and making the hair on his arms stand up. It reaches his shoulder and hits an old scar from a fight a long time ago, then reaches his neck, manages to wrap itself around it like a rope, and suddenly―

“Why’d you take that picture of me?” Ghost’s voice interrupts the calm silence, replacing it with a sort of tension. He sees the way you freeze up, your head slowly lifting up, your eyes locking onto his, all confusion and nerves. 

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

— 

You blink. What? 

“Sorry?” you laugh nervously, but Riley doesn’t budge. He only stares at you. You’re tempted to utilize your right to refuse service, but he isn’t technically servicing you, only talking to you. 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Riley responds, not getting threatening, but still leaning forward a bit and narrowing his eyes at you, “‘bout two or three weeks ago, Heaton Park?”

You stay silent, because despite your excessive planning, you never accounted for a possibility where Riley actually caught you. You guess you were so caught up in observing him that you never thought about what you would do if he ended up confronting you about it. You just didn’t think you were obvious. Maybe you aren’t obvious. Maybe Riley has developed a habit of being more aware of his surroundings or something after being in the military for so long, so much so that he was aware enough to detect your presence despite you keeping your distance.

Whatever it is, it has you choked up. You never imagined that you’d be in this position. It always felt like it’d be him who was confused, maybe even paranoid―but, surprisingly, it’s you.

When you don’t respond for a few more seconds, Riley doesn’t let up. He doesn’t go easy on you. He leans back but the state of his eyes don’t change, they don’t get any less skeptical or stormy, the gray-blue irises staring at you like two camera lenses. You swear you can hear a faint click every time he blinks, like he’s taking pictures of your every move, just as you had done to him. Like he’s observing you just as much as you observed him. You wonder, briefly, if this is how he feels when he senses your burning stare on him.

“Are you scared?” Riley asks, like an English Billy Loomis, “Did you ever think I was scared?”

You can feel a little sweat cultivating on your forehead. You’re sure Riley can see it too. His eyes flicker all over your face, and it feels like you’ve switched roles, with him being the researcher and you the subject. 

You can’t respond. How are you supposed to? You’re not scared, you’re dreadfully curious, wanting so badly to grab the camcorder you haven’t used in a good few years and just record. You want a stenotype and a chair, with a body double to act as yourself, to watch yourself have this conversation and take notes. You need order. You need a judge, jury, and executioner, to be allowed to be the reporter, to copy every word that exits Riley’s mouth. 

This is so out of his element. You knew he was confrontational, but―

“Do you never turn it off?” What? “The stalking?”

Stalking? “I think you should leave,” you force yourself to say, even if it leaves a suffocating feeling in your chest, forcing Riley away like this. 

“I’m not mad,” Riley tries to reassure you, “I’m a little disappointed, though.” 

“Disappointed?” you can’t help but repeat, despite your shock.

“Just a little,” Riley hums, so uncharacteristic of him, so unlike what you’ve seen from him. It’s so fascinating, yet horrifying. 

You’re quiet again. He’s disappointed? You should be more scared of the fact that he knows what you’ve been doing, the hobby that you meant to keep under wraps until you managed to get to a place where you no longer needed to participate in it, but you somehow find yourself more saddened by the fact that your subject is disappointed in you. It makes no sense. You can’t put it into one of the little boxes you’ve folded up in your head.

“Does it make you mad?” What? “Knowing that I know what you’ve been doing?’

You can’t find the words to respond.

“Do you understand what you’re doing?” Riley asks with a level of understanding you could never foresee hearing from him, especially directed at you, “Did you know that you were stalking me?”

That word makes you actually freeze. You stop breathing for a moment, switching from automatic to manual, all because of that word. Stalking? It feels foreign even in your mind, feeling so taboo just to think, the word barely a part of your vocabulary. You can’t recall ever using it to describe what you’d been doing. 

You don’t know if Riley senses this, or if it’s just the look on your face, but whatever it is, something seems to tell him that no, you weren’t aware of that. You don’t know how you didn’t know. Yeah, no shit, of course you were stalking him, how didn’t you know until now?

You genuinely don’t know what to do. Riley’s looking at you like you’re some kind of lost street dog, your palms are heating up, there’s a loud buzzing in your ears, and you think your voice box has somehow been turned off. You want to say something so bad. You want to apologize, even if you don’t entirely understand what you’re apologizing for. You want to defend yourself, because you weren’t aware of what you were doing. You want to do something. Anything.

“I’m gonna leave,” Riley sets a few tenners down on the counter, “but I need you to know that I’m not mad, okay?”

Oh, right. You’re not mad, just disappointed. Which is somehow worse than you being mad. “... Okay.”

Riley looks at you, scanning your face, searching you, “Okay?”

You nod and Riley exhales, picking up his pork tenderloin. “Have a good day.” 

When he’s gone, you feel a wetness on your cheek, and bring your fingers up to your face with furrowed eyebrows. You’re crying.

— 

Ghost doesn’t leave. He stays and watches you close up the shop, watching to see if anyone else stops by. He’s been doing it every few weeks after finding out about your hobby, always justifying it by telling himself he’s just looking out for you. It’s dangerous around here. It’s why he doesn’t live around these parts. You clearly don’t know that. Shit, if you were so unaware of your own stalking, how could you possibly be aware of the dangers around you?

You leave the shop and Ghost watches. You don’t even spare a glance in his direction, and that very fact tells him everything he needs to know. You’re vulnerable out here. You need his protection. You need it. 

Ghost gets up from his kneeling position and dusts his hands off on his knees. He can protect you.

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Caffeine fix and beyond - Part 2

A/N: Did I come up with the worst fic title? Lmao. This is for @elixirfromthestars Thank you for hosting the cutest writing challenge.

Sitting at the Coffee shop AU table, with some sweet treats - “I’m only doing it because you’re cute.”, “Why don’t you tell me what I can do to make your day better?” & Saying ‘I love you’ for the first time.

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warning: fluff!

Word count: 2.4k

Find Part 1 here.

.

It had been a whole fourteen hours since your first kiss with the most famous Avenger and the smile that decorated your face still refused to leave.

After sharing a few more soft kisses and some delicious pizza, Tony left your apartment with a promise of seeing you at your shop the next morning. One could call it the hyper excitement that came with a new relationship but that night, you baked him his favorite blueberry muffins, picturing his handsome, grinning face as you’d feed them to him.

The next day your staff noticed an extra spring in your step as you entered the shop, nobody mentioned the eagerness with which your eyes would scan the door as someone entered in hopes to see that strikingly good-looking face again. The day went by as usual, busying yourself in work seemed the only way to get through without letting nerves get in the way as the clock ticked.

Day morphed into evening and eventually it was time to wind down and head home.

You had checked your phone only about a hundred times to see if there was any message from Tony, every notification only brought disappointment when it wasn’t from him.

He probably had a good reason for his absence but you felt dejected nonetheless. Shrugging your obsessive thoughts aside, you went home and took an elaborate shower. With no updates from the genius billionaire, you turned off your phone and went straight to sleep.

Your colleagues sensed something was up the next day when you arrived, your mood was snappy and irritated which was rare considering how much you loved coming to work. They did their best to not piss you off and you did your best to not have a meltdown over your silly little heart for hoping so much out of that one moment of connection you shared with Tony Stark.

The aroma of freshly ground coffee mixed with delicious baked goods filled the air as usual, something that always brought a smile to your face. But not today. Today you had busied yourself at work to a point where your legs began to ache, you had a headache for some reason and you hadn’t a peep from Stark.

The next day you arrived earlier than you normally would, you hadn’t slept a minute you were in dire need of some caffeine. You almost rolled your eyes realizing the fact that you were behaving like him now. As the day drew on, you were back in your groove, mingling with your regulars at the coffee shop, chatting with your staff.

Commotion could be heard outside as you came back out after lunch. The source seemed to be a few blocks away from the shop, which was also where Stark tower was located. You could see Tony in his suit hovering above the helipad before a blast resounded, making everyone gasp.

You could see a blue beam of light shoot straight up in the sky, making way to a portal that had opened up. You saw Stark head straight up towards it as sentient beings from outer space streamed down from the portal. He hit a few of them effectively, blasting them into smithereens with repulsors but there were too many incoming.

A collective gasp echoed as these creatures flew closer and began firing before people began scrambling to safety. Cars overturned and chaos ensued, making it seem like everything happened too fast and in slow motion all at once.

All while you felt frozen on a spot, there was something bigger incoming from the portal that had opened up, a monster floating down towards the Earth. There was no time to think as a car exploded just a few feet away from you, blasts coming in from all directions making you head back inside for safety.

While it all seemed unreal, you jumped into action by dragging a few injured individuals towards the kitchen, helping a few others get inside right before the glass facade of your coffee shop blew up, shattering to bits as the aliens or whatever these beings called themselves flew by.

You were sure Tony was right in the middle of it all, you just prayed somehow he would come out uninjured. By the looks of it, it seemed like a losing battle, the destruction, debris everywhere, you couldn’t bring yourself to think how many civilians had lost their lives up till this point, and how many would until someone could put an end to it.

Tony’s POV

As unbelievable as the whole situation was, he knew he had to keep going. New York was under attack, it seemed like a losing battle but he knew if the team gave up, the world would probably be ruled by the likes of Loki and his army. They were running out of resources and they were heavily outnumbered. The Chitauri had an endless supply of these monsters and the Avengers, despite their best efforts, were falling short.

He heard Fury over the comms that a nuclear missile was headed towards the city, ordered by the World Security Council. Thinking fast, he decided to use it to their advantage by guiding it towards the wormhole as a last resort.

He knew it could all be over soon, and that he may not make it out alive, but he had to try. The weapon zoomed in and he flew along with it, grabbing it with the suit before increasing the thrusters to maximum speed.

“Sir, shall I try Miss Potts?” JARVIS chimed through the suit, sounding solemn as he too knew there was no way Tony would make it back.

“Might as well.” he mumbled back, partly paying attention while his mind raced through every possible thought; his thoughts landed on you as the wormhole inched closer and closer. Pepper didn’t pick up, the line went blank after ringing hopelessly and he was about to get JARVIS to call you, in hopes that you had somehow survived this, when the AI glitched and went offline.

He released the nuke and watched it head straight towards the enemy before his suit gave up and his eyes turned heavy and he passed out. It was when the missile exploded that the impact of it threw him back towards Earth, sending him hurtling towards the ground just as the wormhole closed.

When his eyes opened, he was on the ground surrounded by the team, heart hammered in his chest, indicating he had by some miracle made it and the mission was successful.

“Please tell me nobody kissed me.” his thoughts quickly returned to you as he said it, wanting nothing more than your lips on his, to let him know he was indeed alive.

.

It seemed like an eternity later that you crawled out of your hiding space, unscathed minus a few cuts here and there, your heart dropped down to your stomach when you saw the condition outside. Dust and rubble had settled but the silence was deafening. You could no longer see the portal that was opened but you couldn’t be sure if all was over.

As people slowly scrambled out and on their way, you found yourself right outside your shop, looking dazed as you plopped down on the street, unable to comprehend.

There was a shuffle behind you, before Tony Stark appeared right by your side and wordlessly took a seat next to you. It was at that point that you felt tears gather in your eyes and cloud your vision.

He pulled you in a hug, clinging onto you just as much as you were to him, stroking your hair in a gentle manner.

“I was so worried, Tony.” you croaked once the tears subsided, leaning into his touch when he cupped your face.

“I know, Y/N. I’m just glad we still have this, well parts of it, anyway. God knows I can’t do without your coffee.” he joked, chuckling when you hit him in the chest and touched your foreheads together.

All the day’s events were made just a little more believable when Tony’s lips touched yours in a kiss that was more of a promise, a promise that you were the sole reason for his more than frequent visits to your little shop.

…

It took more than a month to finally set up the shop post the repair work. You were grateful you had insurance that covered it all, but Tony being Tony, had taken care of a lot of things, even added a few upgrades after convincing you with persuasive kisses and cuddles.

He wore you down, like you even had a chance with that gorgeous smile and doe eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me what I can do to make your day better?”

This was something he always asked, something you didn’t know you needed to hear after a hard day. That one question had the power to dissipate any residual anger, frustration or unpleasant thoughts from your mind.

It made you wonder how on Earth was this guy known to the world as just a genius, billionaire, playboy and philanthropist. He was so much more than that.

It was five o’clock when he showed up one evening, making your little heart flutter as he gave you that winning smile.

“There she is!” Tony exclaimed, holding two cups of coffee as you made your way around the counter to meet him.

“Did no one tell you it was a crime to bring your own coffee to a coffee shop, Stark?” you frowned at the cups in his hands, wiping your hands on the apron you wore.

Chuckling, he placed the mugs aside before wrapping his arms around you, placing a loving kiss on your lips. You felt some heat rise to your cheeks as the onlookers stared at the pair of you. It wasn’t uncommon for him to display his affection for you out in public but it was still something you were getting accustomed to.

“Hello, my gorgeous girl.” he murmured, looking fondly at you while you hopelessly blushed.

“Hello, my handsome boy. How was your day?” you smiled, placing your hands on his chest, idly tracing the outline of his arc reactor.

“Just got better.” he winked.

The cafe was relatively empty as you made your way towards a secluded area which housed a cozy booth. Tony had brought you your favourite coffee from a cafe you loved. You liked yours with a hint of mandarin and there was one quaint cafe that made the best brew. You were shocked he remembered it given you must’ve mentioned it once in a random conversation; the man really was full of surprises. He admitted to having asked one of your closest friends who also worked with you at your cafe about your go to coffee, she had been sworn to secrecy to not mention anything to you.

He had also shown genuine interest in setting up a meeting with your brother, something you assumed he would forget eventually. You couldn’t be gladder that he was proving every assumption of yours wrong.

“This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me, Tony. Thank you.” you placed your hand over his, giving it a squeeze. You noticed how he weaved your fingers together and held them against his slightly trembling ones, letting you know he may have been underslept and over-caffeinated again.

It seemed to you like your life was turned into a romantic movie, with the perfect guy and rose-tinted situations. It was almost too good to be true, but you allowed yourself to dream on.

Tony stayed back as you closed up, even helped you clean up as best as he could, looking rather adorable in an environment that was foreign to him. But he was there for you.

It was then that you realized how hard you were falling for this man. It was inevitable, like you were meant to be. It felt right. He felt right. You and Tony.

“Earth to Y/N?”

You blinked as Tony waved his hands in front of your face, getting you to snap out of your daze. He pulled out a small bag of berries you hadn’t known he’d stashed away behind a counter, making you shake your head fondly.

“What’s going on in that mind of yours, Y/L/N?” he gently prodded again, feeding you a sweet strawberry from the bag.

“I–I love you, Tony.”

You blurted before you could stop yourself, your heart immediately leapt out of your chest at your confession, making it hard for your brain to process. Almost like in slow motion, Tony leaned away from the counter and made his way closer to you, standing between your legs with a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Arms snaked themselves around your waist before pulling you flush against his chest, his face inching closer to yours as that stupidly handsome smile on his face grew.

“Say it again.” he whispered, nose nudging yours lovingly as his eyes scanned yours for signs of doubt.

“I’m in love with you, Tony Stark.”

You said it again, this time a lot more confident in your head as you matched his grin, locking your arms behind his neck.

“Again.”

“I love you, Anthony Edward Stark.”

“Jeez, not my full name, Y/N!” he made a face, chortling when you hit his chest, yelping when your fingers hit the metal arc reactor instead.

“You’re supposed to say something back, Stark. Not leave a girl hanging. Maybe a hey I love you too back, or a sorry I don’t feel the same way. Something? And ow! That really hurt.”

You were blabbering at this point, you were well aware, your overactive thoughts almost resurfacing until Tony Stark finally opened his mouth to speak up, shushing you with a finger on your lips.

“I love you too, Y/N. Of course I do. I think I have for a long time now. I just wasn’t sure if you felt the same way. You are the reason I smile so much these days, ask the team, really. They’re probably wondering what pills I’m on. I’m all yours if you’ll have me, my sweet Y/N. And you’re all mine, sunshine.”

Tony really left you speechless once again, smirking down at you before descending those godly lips over yours to prove how much of truth his words held.

[unhingedoveractivemuse]

Title: Partners in Everything

Characters: Evan “Buck” Buckley, Eddie Diaz, Christopher Diaz

Tags: Canon Divergence, Married Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Established Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Possessive Eddie Diaz

Notes: For Flufftober Prompt #6 Mistaken Identity (featuring Prompt #2 “Left. Other left!”)

The thing is, sometimes (most of the time) Buck forgets that ‘partners’ can mean multiple things. Work partners, life partners, bed partners…

Being one type of partner didn't necessarily mean being the other.

But after three years of marriage to his best friend, he means it in an all-encompassing sense, completely forgetting that some people don't realize that that's what he means, especially when they're in uniform and people just figure he means work partners.

So, when they show up at the annual bake sale for Christopher's school, they get bombarded with various amounts of flirting.

Again.

Buck just doesn't get it. Why are people hitting on two very happily married men?

He shakes his head, trying to get Miss-I'm-no-longer-married-so-I'm-a-Miss-now-Breyers off his back as he's setting up their table, thankful that they had to foresight to arrive another fifteen minutes early. Christopher had separated from them the moment they had stepped through into the gym, the fourteen-year-old not wanting to be caught with his dads. And his husband?

Well, they're both terrible at the arts, but Eddie is dismal at bake sale presentations. Dismal.

Besides, Buck much prefers watching his husband munch on a cupcake with so much satisfaction on that beautiful face that it makes Buck's blood run hot.

“Enjoying it?” he teases when he finally finishes setting up and kindly reminds Ms.Breyers that she needs to set up before the sale opens.

Eddie hums, picking out a cookie from the box Buck specifically reserved for him and Christopher knowing this would be the case. His husband's secret sweet tooth is no joke, and, angsty teen or not, Christopher's is just as bad.

Buck loves watching them devour his hard work with gusto though. He could watch them all day and not get tired of it.

“Buck.”

Buck snaps around, spotting Mr.Harrison (“Please call me Ben”) by their table.

Oh, has it started already?

”Ben, want something from the table?”

”Um, maybe later. I just wanted to talk to you about something before you get inundated with pastry requests.”

”Oh, me? I’d have thought you wanted to talk to Eddie.”

Ben had lost his wife a year ago in a car crash, and he had fallen into a sort of camaraderie with Eddie when his husband had offered his condolences. The two had bonded, went out a bit to talk, and anyone could say they were friends.

Buck had been jealous when Eddie had hung out with Ben (he’s been finding that he has a possessive streak fueled by equal parts love and insecurity), but he’s not going to begrudge his love of friends.

He’s the one Eddie chose and chooses, the one Eddie is building a family with.

They’re even working on adopting, and it’s looking like it’ll happen sooner rather than later.

“Yeah, this is definitely a question for you.”

Buck blinks, coming back to the conversation. “Then go for it, man.”

”Do you…do you think Eddie would be open to going on a date with me?”

If Buck had been drinking something, he would have spewed it out. “W-what?”

”I mean, you’re his partner. You even come to these things with him, so you must know him well to know if he’d be interested.”

”Y-you…you wanna d-date Eddie?”

What in the world is going on?! Ben knows Buck and Eddie are together!!!

”What’s going on?”

Buck turns to his husband, brain still not comprehending what Ben just asked when he spots it.

“You went after the cupcakes again,” he accuses, eyeing the smear of frosting on Eddie’s cheek. How his husband had managed to go through one again so quickly, he’d never know.

“They’re good.”

”Save some for Christopher.”

”If he wanted some, he shouldn’t have run off.” Then Eddie frowns. “How’d you know anyway?”

”There’s frosting on your cheeks. Left.”

Eddie reaches up to swipe it away but doesn’t succeed considering Buck’s talking about his left, not Eddie’s left.

“Other left!” Buck laughs, reaching up to wipe it away for his husband. “There we go. All better.”

“How do I look?”

”As handsome as usual, babe,” he says, the endearment falling out unbidden. They’re usually very good at keeping those at home, not wanting to get in trouble at work, but his brain is still rebooting.

Eddie gives him a look, clearly confused as to what has him slipping on the endearment, then looks over at Ben, who’s looking at them with a shocked look, a light blush on his face.

“What’s up, Ben?” Eddie asks.

“Uh…you two are partners?”

Buck sees the confusion on his husband’s face as he frowns. “Yeah.”

”Work partners?”

”Yep.”

”But-“

The man gestures between the two of them, obviously lost for words.

Then, it’s like the lightbulb goes off in Eddie’s head just as Buck’s brain starts functioning again.

Ben doesn’t realize they’re partners. As in raising a son, having sex, married, and in love partners who also happen to be work partners.

Slowly, he raises his hand where their wedding ring sits, cream and all. It is a little generic, but the inner band where they had their promise engraved is what mattered. Besides, they can’t wear them at work, and neither one of them wants to lose them, only wearing them when they’re sure there’s no way they’ll take them off or do something that they would slip off.

Like now.

Now that he thinks about it, his husband wouldn’t wear his going out with Ben either. Maybe not his silicon one either considering how often Eddie has complained about not liking them.

…Okay, he gets why Ben wouldn’t have realized.

But he has to realize now, right?!

Especially because Eddie just licks the cream off of Buck’s finger.

“Eds!” he protests, face heating up. “The children!”

”Are off doing who knows what,” Eddie says, licking his lips. “And the frosting is good.”

It was not because of the frosting, he thinks when he sees Ben turn and hightail it out of there.

“Possessive, aren’t you?” he asks, feeling smug that the usually private, put-together Eddie Diaz would put on such a public display of affection.

Arms wrap around him, another gesture that has Buck preening on the inside and immediately returning. “I think I know why we keep on getting hit on.���

”Yeah. I don’t think we ever said anything when we went from work partners and best friends to life partners and best friends,” Buck recalls. “And we’ve never really clarified when we say partners.”

”That needs to change. No need to have people hitting on us.”

‘On you,’ he hears.

“Well, I don’t want people hitting on you either. Ben can’t be the only one looking at your ass.”

”Huh?”

“Yeah, he was interested in you, not me,” Buck clarifies, pressing a kiss on his husband’s lips. If Eddie was going to be all affectionate, he was going to be too.

Not that he usually isn’t. He just usually keeps it to places not half-filled with children.

The kiss deepens, and Buck can taste the sweetness from however many sweets his husband has eaten. He smiles into it, the back of his mind happy to let everyone know that this man is his.

“Ugh, this is why I don’t go out with you two.”

Buck laughs, separating from his beloved to look at their son who’s giving them a deadpan look.

“You couldn’t have waited until after the sale?” Christopher asks. “How are we going to beat Richard without people flirting with you two?”

He looks at Eddie, who’s looking just as incredulous as he is. Christopher knew this whole time?!

”Well,” he says, putting that aside for later. “We’ll win on flavor then because if we’re doing predictions based on how your dad likes the results, I’d say we’ll run out in five minutes.”

Christopher turns to Eddie, a look of betrayal on his face at Buck’s false implication. “Dad! Did you save me any?”

Eddie catches on quickly, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe some crumbs.”

”DAD!”

Buck laughs, winding an arm around his husband. He knows there was at least one of everything still in the box, but Christopher was definitely worried about it, making his way over behind their table to check on what was left.

“You think that’ll get him to stick around us more?” Eddie asks.

“No. We’re not good enough for him anymore.”

”Well, you’re good enough for me. You’re the best for me. Best partner ever.”

He grins. “Maybe we shouldn’t have clarified our relationship if it gets you all sappy, Eddie Diaz.”

“Only for you, Evan Diaz.”

Buck decides to kiss Eddie later for that one, spotting their first customers.

Throughout the night, they exchange more glances and touches than usual, clueing in many, many of the parents who had their relationship mistaken.

But honestly? Buck wouldn’t even care if the whole world didn’t know besides the two of them and Christopher. As long as he has Eddie, his partner in everything, Buck doesn’t wish for anything else.

[cierraonline]

That’s So Beautiful

chapter three: that’s so beautiful

Masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter 

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 

THE O’CONNELL HOUSEHOLD

"Said out loud," Billie sings, rehearsing the line. Over the past three years, so much has changed for the trio. They went from being ordinary, talented people with individual goals to a signed group under Darkroom Records, unified by a shared mission: to complete their debut album. For Storm, it's even more ambitious, as the label head wants her to create an orchestral version of the album as a standalone project. On top of it all, they're filming a documentary for Apple TV.

"Nice," Finneas compliments, working on digitalizing the orchestral demo Storm created to align it with the pop culture standards of a regular album.

"Said out loud."

"That sounds good."

"Come here," her friend's voice drifts in, almost like a distant echo.

It might be something that shouldn't be...

Said out loud.

"Honestly, I thought that I would be dead by now," Billie sings, as Finneas makes technical sound adjustments. Storm watches closely, trying to absorb his production techniques, unfamiliar yet intrigued. The violins duel with pounding drums, taunting like fighters, until the music transforms into a pulsing bass beat.

"That's dope," Billie nods in approval, clearly pleased with the evolving sound.

What do you want from me?  

Why don't you run from me?  

What are you wondering?  

What do you know?

"Ouuu!"

Why aren't you scared of me?

"I'm so proud of that one," Billie grins, pulling Storm close as they dance, sitting together on the bed.

Why do you care for me?  

When we all fall asleep,  

Where do we go?

"That's cool, right?" Finneas turns his spinning chair to gauge his bandmates’ reactions.

"I'm a genius!" Storm does a little hop, still in Billie’s hold.

"Yes, you are, kitten," Finneas smiles, nodding approvingly.

"This is what I want the album to be called." Billie opens her journal, revealing her title: "When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go?" She shows the camera. "I actually drew this song and had Storm turn it into actual words."

"So far, the process for this album is Billie visualizes the concept, I translate her drawings and emotional descriptions into lyrics," Storm explains, pulling out her own journal, filled with polaroids of Billie’s drawings and next to them are her handwritten lyrics. "Then, during composition, Billie and I choose instruments based on the mood. For ‘Bury a Friend’, we wanted it dark and tense, so we leaned heavily on strings to make it feel like an ancient Roman, dark duel." She reveals her iPad, where she’s recorded each instrumental layer on BandLab. "Once the orchestral part and my layered vocals are done, I hand it off to Finneas to digitalize, replicating it with his setup. Finally, Billie adds her vocals, and we adjust as needed."

"This is the drawing of this song—it's all about monsters under the bed. I want to incorporate wings and do a scene where I drink black liquid, my eyes turn black, and then I bleed black tears."

"That's quite morbid, don't you think?" Storm raises an eyebrow at her friend. "I'm only fourteen. What kind of song do you think I can create that matches that?"

"If I have to, I’ll tape you to the couch and make you watch ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’," Billie smirks.

"That's evil," Storm pouts.

"Anyway," Billie flips the page, smiling as she shares her journal. "Here’s a self-portrait. This is some weird doll, some random guy, a foot. There are drips, and you can decide what they are. There's some bitch. There's a hairy vagina. There, a-- a dick.," she says, giving the camera a tour of her eclectic drawings.

"That's cool."

I can't say no  

I can't say no

Boom, step on the glass,  

Staple your tongue.

"Can we bring it back to the bad dream theme?" Finneas asks, looking for direction.

"The concept is realizing that what you’re experiencing isn’t just a nightmare; it’s actually sleep paralysis," Storm explains. "In songwriting, there’s a rule to hint at the truth without naming it outright. Based on YouTube videos, people with sleep paralysis feel like their eyes are glued open, trapped, only able to see a figure lurking in the corner."

Then my limbs all froze,  

And my eyes won't close.  

And I can't say no, I can't say no.

"Step on the glass, staple your tongue," Billie jumps up, thrilled as she belts out her favorite line.

XXX

“So, this isn’t the first shot,” Billie says to the camera as she films her mother, Maggie Baird, who’s sitting in a chair with Storm sitting on the table positioned in front of her mom. “But this is the angle I want once it zooms out—not fully to the side.”

“What are you doing right now?” Patrick O’Connell questions his daughter as he watches the scene from a distance.

“Shut up!” she quickly remarks, turning her attention back to directing. “And not to the front, just, like… so that…”

“Pepper, uh-uh,” Maggie scolds Pepper, the family dog, as the dog goes to chase after something that catches her eye.

“The chair leg, that’s, like, in the middle. So I want it to start…” Billie tunes out the background noise and continues directing for her upcoming music video.

“Where’s that cat?”

“…with nothing in the background—”

“Give her a gold star.”

“With nothing in the background except… except the white cyc and the white table.”

“Can I ask a question?” Storm raises her hand.

“What?” Billie looks up from the camera view.

“Why am I sitting criss-cross on a table in front of your mom, Mags?”

“Because that’s what you’re going to be doing in the video.”

“Who said I want to be in the video?” The white-haired girl raises her left eyebrow in confusion.

“I did. Now shut up, look possessed, and pass the cup over to my mom,” Billie curtly demands.

“Yes, Mommy,” Storm’s eyes widen in mock shock as she follows the demand.

“Once it gets to this point, I’ll take a drink. Start drinking it. I’m not sure if I want it to stay here while I drink, or if it should come up to me while I’m drinking it—” Maggie sets down the cup, thinking the action was finished, causing Billie to pause mid-thought and redirect her. “Wait, keep drinking. I’m still deciding if I want it. 'Cause I don’t know if I… or—want it to stay diagonal. 'Cause I’m not sure if I want it to…” She stops abruptly, realizing she’s rambling. “What am I even saying?” she exclaims, frustrated.

“That’s what we’re all trying to figure out,” Storm comments, struggling to follow Billie’s verbal brain dump.

“Did I tell you to talk?” Billie turns her head toward her best friend.

“No.” Storm drops her head. “I’m sorry, Mommy Billie.”

“Stop calling me that!” Billie exclaims, a laugh escaping after. “I don’t know if I want to see… Okay, wait. I’ve decided. It’s gonna be here. Once I start drinking, and I’ve been drinking for a second, it’ll come and stay even with this leg in the middle, and exactly parallel to the other leg.” She steps closer to her mother and zooms in on the camera. “Come in so that my face is centered. I think I’ll grab the glass with my left hand so that the shot makes more sense.” Maggie follows her daughter’s vision and adjusts her hand. “Thanks, Mom,” Billie chuckles. “Then you’ll see the black goo disappear as I drink it all. And then Storm will reach over and slowly take the cup away.” Storm, obediently following directions, places the cup back in the center of the table and pauses as a thought strikes her.

“Wait, am I the demon in this video?” She turns to Billie, who’s still recording.

“And then I’ll just look into the camera,” Billie decides to ignore the question and continues with her director’s notes.

“Am I?” Storm repeats.

“And then it’ll stay right there. Don’t zoom! Don’t do any of those flashy moves these bozo filmmakers try to add just to keep things interesting.” Billie’s tone grows stern as she emphasizes her creative control.

“You’re working with a great director,” Maggie interrupts her daughter, not wanting her to get too worked up or overly demanding about the video’s details.

“Shut up!”

“He’s a genius.”

“Yeah, sure, but I’m telling you, don’t be an idiot. Don’t move the camera, and as I look into it, the black will drip from my eyes.”

“I just want to know whether or not I’m the demon in this video?” The camera shifts back to Storm.

“Yes, you are. Happy?” Billie finally answers.

“Why a demon? Can’t I be something friendlier?” Storm gives her best puppy-dog eyes, hoping it’ll sway Billie.

“No.”

“Okay,” Storm sighs.

“Billie, be nice to Stormy,” Maggie chides her daughter, giving Storm, who’s like a second daughter to her, a gentle pat.

“I’m always nice to her. Right, Peaches?”

“N-”

“I’ve got a mini-verse ball with your name on it,” Billie offers a playful bribe, knowing it’ll work.

“Billie treats me so well,” Storm offers a big smile. “She treats me so well I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

“See?” Billie turns to her mother with a triumphant look.

“That was just sad, Stormy,” Maggie playfully shakes her head. 

XXX

In a scene that felt like a manifestation of their dreams, the girls found themselves on set for ‘When the Party’s Over’. After an hour in makeup applying prosthetics for the black tears Billie envisioned in her video, they were ready to film. On a wide, white podium, Storm sat perched with her mouth agape and head tilted, mimicking possession. Billie, seated in front of her, held a cup of black ink, a crucial prop. Slowly, Storm extended her hand, taking the cup from Billie in a deliberate, practiced motion.

“Put it down. Slowly.” The cup touched the table with a soft clink. “Reset it. We’ll try it again.” After another cut, they repeated the scene because Billie wasn’t sure what expression she wanted for the next shot.

“Cut. Cut, cut, cut, cut.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do,” Billie voiced her frustration as they reviewed the playback.

“Keep an eye on the shot when Storm takes the glass, and it’s still in the air before she sets it down. I think you break character when you feel like the camera isn’t on you anymore,” the director began before Billie interjected.

“It’s still capturing me?”

“Yeah, so the idea is for you to stay in character until the camera is solely back on you for your ending expression,” the director explained.

“Got it. But I can’t tell when it’s fully back on me, so if you could call it out, that’d be great.”

“You want me to say, like, ‘Billie camera’?”

“Yeah,” Billie agreed, adding specifics, “or just, ‘Camera’s coming back to you.’ Then I’ll know to get my face ready.”

“Okay. Cool.”

Once again, they went over the scene, and this time they completed it without issues.

“Cut. Yeah.” The crew applauded as the shot concluded, Billie’s face smeared with black ink while Storm remained fixed, staring at her.

“For the next videos, I’m directing them all myself,” Billie declared, walking off set hand-in-hand with Storm as they headed toward her mother.

“What?” Maggie looked at the girls in confusion. “What happened?”

“He just wasn’t it. The video wasn’t it, but I don’t want to make everyone redo everything,” Billie shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “He only took some of the notes I gave him; the rest was his own ‘creative vision’ or whatever.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Storm tried to comfort her friend, hopeful that this was just a minor issue that would fade once the project was finished.

“No, it’s not,” Billie sighed, looking to her mother. “The whole point was for Peaches and me to end forehead-to-forehead, white eyes meeting black eyes. Not with us at a distance, black eyes meeting black eyes. Peaches’ signature look is white eyes—when has anyone ever seen her with black eyes?”

“Did you tell the director you wanted Stormy with white eyes?” Maggie attempted to stay neutral, hoping to salvage the experience.

“Yes!” Billie exclaimed. “He said her white eyes wouldn’t make sense with the black goo. But Storm having black eyes makes even less sense! She looks weird with black eyes—everything about her is practically white except for her skin tone. But no white eyes, yet they’re okay with a red lip?”

“I looked weird?” Storm asked, looking up at Billie.

“No,” Billie sighed, pulling her friend into a hug, resting her head on top of Storm’s. “You looked fine. I’m just aggravated that I took the time to plan this video, and I wasn’t listened to,” she mumbled into Storm’s white hair.

“Call it a lesson learned,” Storm offered optimistically. “Now you know what you like and don’t like, and you’ll know what to do for the next ones.”

XXX

“Record this,” Billie suddenly stood up behind the studio microphone. “Record this. Oh.” She put her hand to her mouth to remove her Invisalign, sucking slightly to keep any drool contained.

“Oh, my God,” Finneas laughed.

“Eww,” Storm grimaced, instinctively touching her own Invisalign.

“The first track of the album should just be that,” Billie laughed, plopping onto her brother’s bed.

“All right, I’ve taken my teeth out. Let’s make an album,” Finneas jokes.

“I’ve taken my teeth out,” the girls laughed.

“My Invisalign has…”

“I have taken out my Invisalign…” the trio chanted together, adding to the joke.

“I have taken out my Invisalign… and this is the album,” Billie grinned. “Peaches, you should take yours out, too.”

“That’d be a spit nightmare,” Storm shook her head, shivering at the thought. 

XXX

"Blocking an intersection during rush hour traffic is not permitted unless you entered the intersection on a green light." Billie’s goal for the year is to get her driver’s license, and she’s very determined—even if it means studying after a two-hour session in Finneas's studio. “Under any circumstances, even if your light is green, unless you have the right-of-way or a green light—it's under any circumstances,” she read aloud. “Because if there’s traffic and it’s stopped, you can’t enter the intersection. That blocks everything. That’s illegal. Yeah, so... no.”

“It’s called ‘don’t block the box,’” Storm chimes in from her spot, lying with her head on Billie’s lap.

“Yes, correct.”

“That’s what they say in New York. ‘Don’t block the box,’” Maggie adds to Storm’s comment.

“That about vagina,” Billie shakes her head. “And how do you know that?”

“You literally won’t stop reading the handbook out loud,” Storm sighs. “I’m pretty sure if I wanted to take the test, I’d pass.”

“You could take it and get your learner’s permit,” Patrick suggests.

“No, thank you. I’m meant to be driven, not the person doing the driving,” Storm says, a little sass showing through.

“You gonna be my passenger princess,” Billie babbles in a baby voice, covering her best friend’s face in kisses.

“Get off me!” Storm laughs, trying to push Billie away, though she’s still lying on her lap.

“Never!”

"I’ve always wanted to drive. I just, like, love cars,” Billie says from the passenger seat of her dad’s car, talking to the camera facing the back seats. Today was the day Billie was officially given legal permission to start learning how to drive, having passed her permit test. “Of course, my mom has a van, my dad has a Mazda, and Finneas has a Honda Fit, so I’m just, like, drowning in losers.”

“Oh, my gosh,” Maggie laughs at her daughter’s comments.

“All I want is a matte black Dodge Challenger.” Billie stops mid-sentence as her phone vibrates in her lap. Picking it up, she sees a text notification from Storm. “Peaches just texted me,” she announces to everyone in the car. Opening the text, she finds a picture. “Ahh, my best friend loves me!” she cheers, bouncing in her seat and tapping the roof of her dad’s car. She turns her phone to show everyone the picture Storm sent.

“She bought me gifts, decorated my room with balloons, and I’m pretty sure those are Polaroids of us hanging from the ceiling,” Billie gushes, turning the phone back to herself to admire the picture.

“That’s so beautiful,” Maggie smiles, clearly appreciating the special friendship her daughter shares, something many people long for.

taglist @allaboutnayeli @zendayasredbottoms @tacoboutstuff @jules19sstuff @siyuziii @danc1ngqu33n @christiniawcb @riddlette13 @thebignunfun @xxloveralways14 @lordfarquad-k @rhearipley-69 @danversrailme @amberg1998 @zzzz-zzz1 @htttpcasti @lidiyabest @wwelovergirl @lesbianpoetess @jamiemundy7773 @pixelorange06 @steampunkprincess147 @brbblog123 @h3artss44le @harajukub4rb1e @billiesrighthand

[dracoxmalereader]

HELLOOOOO 😁😁😁

I request that you PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEEEEEE continue making chapters to the Intense series PLEASEEEE 🙏😩 I'M BEGGING ON MY KNEES (not really lmao) PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏

anyway slay ALL day pookie 🫶🫶 😘

Tempermental

Draco x Male Reader

Context: Yes I know the title is misspelled. No I don't care. Why is there an 'A' in temperamental? I refuse to endorse that. Here's the eighth chapter of "Intense" which can be read in full on Ao3 or Wattpad

Summary: Draco's entirely too satisfied with himself having knocked that scarhead down a couple pegs in the train car. What a peculiar coincidence he just so happens to bump into you...

Word Count: 695

The train door clutters shut behind him. Draco steps onto the platform of Hogsmeade station. 

Anger lingers in the breath he lets out, rolling his eyes at nobody in particular. He takes a moment to scan his surroundings, not quite thoroughly enough as he rounds to his right and a body slams into him. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale echoes a trill into the wet air.

“Watch where you’re going, prat.” He barks, instinctively shoving the weight away from him. 

“Hello to you, too, Draco.” Your familiar voice makes his lungs stutter in his chest.

He swallows the lump of guilt that bubbles up the back of his throat, watching you wobble to stability. He fights the urge to reach out and steady you himself.

You brush his shove off the front of your clothes, and Draco looks you up and down. His sneer etches deeper into his face even as his heart picks up. A bag, cartoonishly large, weighs you down on one side. Book-shaped indents show through the fabric. How scholarly.

Your teeth catch a gleam of light from one of the lanterns, pointing a smile at him. It makes him want to kiss it off you. An uncomfortable wriggling under the skin of his arm unsettles him, makes him clench his left fist until his knuckles curl up past the hem of his sleeve. He reaches over to tug it further down.

“Dreadful summer you’ve had, no doubt.” You say. His frown deepens, brows tilting in. He decides that Potter isn’t the only subject that sounds bad in your mouth. “It’s all over the papers. You alright?”

“Chuffed.” He sarcastically huffs. His lips curl up around it as he speaks.

An amused puff of air files through your nostrils, your smile closing around your teeth. He internally mourns the sight of them. The tension in his chest settles into background noise, sparks popping to life against each of his individual ribs. Your hand reaches out to him in his peripherals.

He’s almost giddy for the contact, but another pang of white-hot pain swells in the ink that’s etched into his arm. He panics as your fingers creep around the fabric now dwelling at his wrist. With a scared breath and the quiet snag of your nails on fabric, he jerks his arm away. 

You break the eye contact he hadn’t realized he’d been lost in to glance down and then back up again. Your eyebrows draw tight, one quirked up in confusion. Your smile falls. Draco feels his face heat up; sweat prickles at his pores. 

Your hand lingers awkwardly in the space between the two of you. Part of him wants to reach out and grab it, lace your fingers together and feel your palms on his, only the more apprehensive of him nudging the urge to dormancy.

A smaller, more fragile part feels like he’s fourteen again. The last of his oxygen leaves his body when your eyes meet for the second time.

Thick silence hangs in the air, but then your fingers are rerouting themselves higher. He lets his arm fall back to his side, subtly trying to hide it behind himself. Your fingers brush up and slip under the lapel of his jacket. Draco feels like he’s swallowed his own tongue.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” You say it as the playful grin creeps back onto your face.

For a moment, he forgets he’s been given any task to complete this year at all.

He nods dumbly in agreement, head swimming when you back away from him. He hadn’t noticed when his face had relaxed, nor when his mouth had started to hang open, but he sucks a shaky breath into tight lungs and forces it closed as you turn away.

The airiness in his diaphragm filters out as the memory of his mission this school year comes back to him. He waits until you’re weaving into a fog-marred group of other Ravenclaws before he lets himself breathe out. 

Standing there, watching you go, even as dread boils in his stomach; all he can bring himself to coherently think is: Merlin, I’m so in love with him.

Hope you enjoy your request pookie. You've all no idea how many rough drafts it took me to figure out where to go with this story. TT

Happy international women's day. Shout out to my mom and my sister and my best friend for being women. And any of you guys that are women and are reading this. I don't know why you're reading male reader fic if you're not a male reader but a reader is a reader fr. Good job being women, that shit is NOT for the faint of heart. Or so I'm told.

Working through my requests, but the brunt of my graduation project that's left is mostly waiting for people to email me back, so I shouldn't be as spotty as I've been. 18 days left until I have to present, lets get this bread (diploma).

Tags: @nowayisthistakenyet @gayaristocrat @siuspider @dracoshusband @skrunklespoingo @esperfraud @joongbin @midwestemosblog @we2222 @ashton-laufeyson @0-alastair-0 @mqzze @itsfitzroyy @dolly-dollar @pinkb4t

[fcble]

Post format inspired by Dulce @almostyours and JJ @chcrryade. Thank you to everyone who let me mention their OCs!

"I stopped my pace and wanted to shout. / Wings, spread out again! / Fly. Fly. Fly. Let me fly once more. / Let me fly just once more." — The Wings by Yi Sang, translated by Ahn Jung-hyo

깃털 (FEATHER) is the debut mixtape of INTAK, of fictional boy group FABLE. It was released digitally through streaming services and SoundCloud on August 16, 2024, seventy-nine years and one day after the liberation of Korea from Japan's colonial rule. Unlike his work as a member of Fable, he released it under his previous SoundCloud username WND3QUD, from the phrase 중3병 typed out on the Korean keyboard. Deriving from the somewhat derogatory Japanese term "chuunibyou," his recent usage of the name is meant to be an acknowledgement and greater understanding of the person he was at fourteen when he identified strongly with it. With the album's themes of the self and the meaning of money, it is also loosely inspired by Yi Sang's 1936 novel The Wings.

The record boasts an impressive array of features from other idol groups, surprising fans who were previously unaware that Intak "knew people like that." In line with Fable's concept and what Intak sees as his due diligence as member of the group, a few of the songs contain Fable's signature traditional instrumental sound. This was a decision that went over well with the majority of the group's fans. The vocal minority are a few Haksu solo stans, who realized that the teased solo debut of this year went to Intak, and not Haksu.

There was little promotion prior to the album's release, aside from a few social media posts with the title and release date, and one Weverse post from Andrew almost two months in advance spoiling the eventual release.

▶ PRESS PLAY

YOU SEARCHED FOR...

TRACK 001. 한국 (KOREA)

"@1:32 ik he was mad as hell in the recording studio. andrew count your days?" ─── A comment on the official music video, August 16, 2024

"Intak released his mixtape a couple of days ago and to say I'm obsessed is an understatement. For everyone else who missed their old sound, this is for you. KOREA is obviously the most Fable song of them all. Between the lyrics and the instrumental, the song posits Intak, Fable, and their music as representatives of Korea. I was under the impression that was their goal from the beginning. These past couple of years haven't shown that, but Intak is bringing it back." ─── 'Old Fable is back and I'm living for it' by bangchanslefttoe on r/kpopthoughts, August 18, 2024

"Ah… isn't it too much? How can he call the song KOREA and then release it under a Japanese name? He should know better. Really, it's disappointing. He said the album was inspired by Yi Sang too. Doesn't that just make it more embarrassing? F*ck I want Haksu's solo album instead." ─── '[enter-talk] WHAT CULTURE IS FABLE REPRESENTING, ANYWAY?' by pannchoa on pannchoa.com, August 19, 2024

TRACK 002. 꼴통 (BASTARD) ft. NOAH of DEEPDIVE @bluwavez

"[checking calendar] ya we still have time for BASTARD summer" ─── @kcdjification on Twitter, August 16, 2024

"I think BASTARD had a lot of potential. I wish there was a little more in the lyrics. One Yi Sang pun in this song and it's in Noah's verse? Come on, Intak, you're better than that." ─── A comment on the album's official discussion post on r/kpop, August 18, 2024

"I know Intak's 'Feather' flew under a lot of people's radars, but I tuned in. 7/10 if I'm being generous. My favorite song is definitely BASTARD. Is it because Noah is there? Um. No comment." ─── 'ranking every kpop comeback (august 2024),' shineesback on YouTube, September 1, 2024

TRACK 003. CASH

"just listened to CASH. close enough welcome back karl marx!" ─── @h4nd__dr4wn on Twitter, August 17, 2024

"What did I write? Nothing. This is Intak's solo album. He's always written our music. [pause] If he asked, I would have. If not, it's patronizing. If I wanted to release a solo album, would you expect Intak to write one of the songs? [pause] Rhetorical question. Let's listen to CASH." ─── Andrew via Weverse Live, August 17, 2024

"For my solo album, I want Andrew-hyung and Intak-hyung to both write it. They're both important to Fable, and I can't image what we'd be like without them." ─── Haksu via Weverse live (immediately after Andrew's comments), August 17, 2024

TRACK 004. GOAT ft. CYRUS of XPLOIT @ripsoff, JC of LITTLE HOUSE @okmgi

"did anyone else have flashbacks to 2013 goat remixes or was that just me" ─── @yjuntual on Tumblr, August 17, 2024

"Let's talk about the worst song by far. GOAT was certainly a choice. It's the most generic track on the album. Any rapper can call themselves the goat. It's a jarring disappointment right in the middle of an otherwise decent album. And of course I can't forget the worst part. What on earth possessed Intak to make him think it would be fun to make goat noises on the track? Easiest 0/10 I've ever given." ─── A Rate Your Music review, August 19, 2024

"i know it says ft jc in the title but tell me why i still jumped when i finally heard his voice at the end 😭😭" ─── @GOLDFlNCHS on Twitter, August 20, 2024

TRACK 005. 태권도 (TAEKWONDO) ft. ANGEL of LUCKY @lvcky0ne

"Did everyone listen to 'Feather' yet? If you didn't, go listen to it now and then come back and tell me what your favorite song is. I like TAEKWONDO. Eolssu~~~~" ─── Byeonghwi via Weverse, August 16, 2024

"not to be overly parasocial or anything but intak and andrew's arguments in the fable dorms must go crazy bc andrew would never write a song like this. open discussion does andrew even know what TAEKWONDO is." ─── @kkotcheoreoms on Twitter, August 17, 2024

"promotions for this album are literally so bad if i wasn't locked in to literally everything lucky does i would've missed out on angel content 😔" ─── @.cheonsarang on Twitter, August 19, 2024

TRACK 006. BUCK ft. HERO @anqelblccm

"🔥🔥🔥" ─── Mingeun via Instagram stories, August 16, 2024

"you guys don't understand how badly i need a live performance of BUCK hero would eat that shit UP please please please please please" ─── @hrts4hero on Twitter, August 17, 2024

"Ever since Fable's Intak released his mixtape earlier this month, I've been hooked on a handful of the songs. I know everyone likes Fable for their traditional concept, but they have some extremely solid b-sides in their discography. Enter BUCK. Went platinum on my Spotify last week." ─── 'recent underrated bg b-sides you should listen to,' evvnemoon on YouTube, August 27, 2024

TRACK 007. 무리야 (FLAKER)

"3. FLAKER. Introverted king. He's so me. #intakforpresident2k24." ─── 'ranking every feather song! (nothing to do with sabrina carpenter lol),' @flwrble on TikTok, August 17, 2024

"everyone is clowning intak for putting a song about introversion on an otherwise deep album but i think there's a deeper meaning here where he's trying to be a different person except this is his nature and he can't escape that and anyway it ties back to the wings bc that protagonist is in a pit of self-deception so deep he might as well be six feet under and intak's interpretation moves past that to the slightest glimmer of self-realization like bro looked in the mirror so yes i've connected the dots" ─── @cyb3rn1ghts on Threads, August 18, 2024

"'You're Intak's token extrovert.' I see everyone's listened to FLAKER. You mean his friend. That's how friendship works." ─── Kiyoung via Instagram live, August 20, 2024

TRACK 008. 날개 (FLY) ft DIAZ of VARSITY @ncrdyboyz and EUNJUN of ARM CANDY @hearthr0b

"idk why but this part of the song always makes me tear up 🥹🥹 fable ur sooo important to me" ─── @berryseop at 1:42 on SoundCloud, August 17, 2024

"Another Feather factoid: The Korean title of FLY is the same as the original title of Yi Sang's novel that inspired the album." ─── @prodbyfable on Twitter, August 17, 2024

"FLY is a dreamy collaboration between Fable's Intak, Varsity's Diaz, and Arm Candy's Eunjun. The trio delighted us with the back-and-forth narrative between Intak and Diaz, paired with Eunjun's smooth vocals. Although a b-side, it definitely has title track potential." ─── '10 of Our Favorite Recent Kpop Collabs' by S Kim for Soompi, August 31, 2024

TRACK 009. 풍각쟁이 (PUNGGAKJAENGI) ft. JAESEOP and EUNSU of FABLE, ???

"he credited eunsu as eunsu of fable. brb i'm gonna break down NO ONE TALK TO MEEEE 😭😭😭😭" ─── @twosuluvr on Twitter, August 16, 2024

"PUNGGAKJAENGI is a really fun song because every verse is in a different dialect. Jaeseop's uses the Gyeongsang dialect. Although he was raised in Seoul, he was born in Gyeongsan, in North Gyeongsang. Intak's is Jeolla's dialect, given that he considers the South Jeolla province home. Eunsu's uses his Gangwon dialect. As a side note, this might be the first time Eunsu has so openly spoken satoori. If I didn't know he was from Taebaek, I would have thought he was born and raised in Seoul." ─── @prodbyfable on Twitter, August 17, 2024

"crediting the pansori singer as a bunch of question marks is certainly a decision! not sure what they were thinking there" ─── @haksubak on Twitter, August 17, 2024

[stomach-bugg09]

what about neteyam bringing home someone (romantic) and fali and y/n just teasing the shit out of them in front of the family😭😭

summary: [y/n] knows neteyam’s big secret.

a/n: okay i’m actually crying this is so short but so sweet. like not only does it embody fali and [y/n]’s dynamic , but it’s a strong example of how much [y/n] loves her baby siblings. she would do anything for them , despite how much she teases them. i hope you all enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing !! reblogs + feedback are always appreciated !!

tags: @rafeslovergirl @wxnderingthoughts @liyahsocorro @bonnibuckets @hjkshshjkhklhkl @itssiaaax @grierpilots @fleurbeass @23victoria @nyotamalfoy

warnings: literally nothing, sm fluff, the cutest thing i have possibly ever written, healthy sibling relationships

words: 895 ( sorry y’all , it’s much shorter than i meant , but i didn’t wanna ruin it by adding too much !! )

baby brother’s got a girl

not once in her life could [y/n] have imagined any of her baby brothers bagging a girl.

sure, they had their father’s genes, but they also had their father’s stupidity, a trait that was communicated through their inability to woo any girl their age. trust me when i say that [y/n] has witnessed a multitude of failed attempts, especially back when they still lived in high camp.

as long as she knew her brothers, which was for about fourteen to sixteen years—roughly—she also knew they were a hot commodity based on their mere titles as the sons of the toruk makto. that always crashed and burned as soon as they talked due to the unfortunate fact that boys were just too awkward to flirt back.

that’s why [y/n] was absolutely floored when she found out lo'ak's attempts with tsireya were actually successful.

hey, she supposed. anything can happen in awa’atlu, right? i mean, i found love, which was thought impossible just a year ago.

but, there was a difference between impossible and just out of this goddamn world. it was just a few days ago that [y/n] realized, not only did lo’ak have a girl of his own, but neteyam did.

neteyam, of course, had no idea that [y/n] knew. he was trying to keep it a secret. only until they were, well, official past the mutual flirting stage. he also thought that he was being sly… he was not!

it was one night when, after neytiri and jake left to go meet up with some of the clan’s adults for some social thing ( the metkayina loved to party ), neteyam quietly tip-toed past where [y/n] laid stretched out on the ground, admiring the ceiling in complete and utter boredom.

“where are you going, bro?” [y/n] sat up with a grin.

he froze immediately, eyes closing in frustration. “uh, just… out.” neteyam slowly turned towards her with an innocent smile.

“out?” she questioned, eyes widening in amusement. when he only nodded, she pushed herself up off the ground, standing on her two feet. “so, this has nothing to do with ipey?”

“shit,” he cursed, head dropping in defeat.

“ahah!” [y/n] declared, pointing at him. at the sound of the rest of their siblings shifting in their sleep, she immediately quieted down. “ahah,” she repeated in a whisper.

“[y/n],” he bagged quietly, walking towards her and grabbing her shoulders. “please do not tell anyone. please!” neteyam pulled her in, nose to nose, and [y/n] had to keep herself from breaking into laughter. “i do not need mom and dad up my ass about this right now.”

[y/n] bit her bottom lip in amusement. “aw, poor baby boy and his private life.” neteyam only gave her an unamused look. “okay, okay!” [y/n] stepped backwards, hands raised in mock defense. “your secret’s safe with me.”

“thank you,” neteyam breathed out, relief flooding his voice.

“but!” he looked back up, eyes flaring in concern. “only if you don’t mind fali and me just… taking a casual stroll on the beach, maybe keeping an eye out for disobedient teenagers.”

“are you kidding?”

[y/n] only smiled. “not in the slightest!” at that, fali stepped out from the doorway where he’d been standing for the past few minutes to listen to the discussion.

“don’t worry, bud, we’re just gonna be out there to keep our favorite sully boy from doing anything gross.” fali grinned deviously.

at the same time that neteyam protested, “you are disgusting,” lo’ak’s voice called from where he slept. “hey!”

neteyam’s jaw-dropped at that. “now lo’ak knows?”

[y/n] only laughed. “oh, please, he already knew.”

“yeah!” he yelled from the back of the marui. “i’m the one who told [y/n] and fali in the first place.”

“he also told the rest of us,” kiri mumbled with a tired huff. tuk hummed in agreement.

neteyam dropped his head in defeat. “i hate all of you. like, every single one of you. so, so much.”

“aw, you don’t mean that, little brother!” [y/n] cried teasingly as he spun around and stomped out the door. “you love us!”

“stay safe, make good choices!” fali echoed, the couple laughing as he only shook his head, shoulders tense and full of annoyance.

they only watched from the dock as he made his way across the beach, disappearing once he turned the corner. [y/n] smiled from where she leaned against fali, his arm wrapped around her in comfort.

“you think he’s gonna be okay?” fali wondered quietly.

[y/n] only chuckled. “i hope so. i cannot handle a heart-broken neteyam. that would be, like, the worst thing in the entire world.”

“is it because you love your brother so much?” fali teased.

“uh, no,” she replied dryly. “it’s because i don’t want to deal with tears and snot.”

fali dropped her head back, letting out a loud stream of laughter at that. the vibrations of his chest sent a smile across [y/n]’s face, her body melting into his embrace even more.

“oh, please,” he whispered once he calmed down. “you would drop anything to make sure he’s okay.”

“i hate when you’re right.”

with that, he pressed a kiss on top of her head. “and yet, here we are.”

she nodded slowly, closing her eyes and leaning her head against him. “here we are.”

[thebiscuiteternal]

I love your larger age gap Nie Bros au! I want to float the idea of a role reversal larger age gap au where Nie Huaisang is the much older sibling of the pair, and Nie Mingjue is the baby brother.

Whew.

Honestly, it would lean more towards the "bitter" side of bittersweet, because Nie Huaisang has spent his entire fourteen/fifteen years of life knowing that even if his father has tried to love him, even though he has tried to be a good son, he's not the kind of heir his father or the sect wants and never will be. He's sharp and clever, but also small and sickly and exhausted easily and will never be a good night hunter or battle leader. He's so very un-Nie-like that only the fact that he shares his father's eye color and a few of his facial features keeps people from making accusations about his parentage (and even that doesn't stop them sometimes).

But at least his father never tried to replace him or his deceased mother, right?

And then, right after his father has just died, a midwife shows up with a strong healthy baby and a bundle of paperwork declaring the child fully legitimate, and Huaisang has to grapple with the realization that his father did very much try to get a replacement, and since the paperwork is all nice and legal, the elders and senior disciples likely knew about it and said nothing.

He wants to scream or vomit or break things or hit someone, but he does none of the above and just sits beside the crib and stares at nothing while the elders debate his future like he's not even present.

Then there is a little tug on his hair, and when he looks down, little Mingjue has a fistful of it stuffed in his mouth and is staring up at him with big green eyes and... dammit, he can't hate this kid. Mingjue doesn't know what's going on, has no idea how he's destroyed what little of a life his older brother had just by existing. It's not his fault.

Huaisang sighs and gently tugs his hair free, then reaches in to let Mingjue clutch his hand and giggle and gnaw on his fingers.

It's eventually decided that Huaisang will be (a puppet) sect leader, with provisions that as soon as the sect has decided Mingjue is old enough, he will abdicate and leave, so as not to complicate his brother's position by hanging around.

Needless to say, this does not make Huaisang feel the slightest bit better, but he has no choice other than to at least try to do well by his new title, which proves to be more difficult than it has to be because literally every single one of his decisions gets argued and debated and he's constantly being patronized even though it's apparent he's not as stupid as people expect him to be.

Ironically, the son who will replace him winds up becoming his only refuge. Since they didn't have the years of being brothers from the Reverse Nie "canon" timeline, Mingjue never grows up absorbing the disdain everyone else has for Huaisang. Rather, Mingjue has already imprinted on him and throws unholy fits when people try to keep them apart.

It's more common than not that Mingjue sleeps cuddled against his brother's chest in Huaisang's bed instead of his own crib. He starts developing a fierce protective streak before he even knows how to walk or talk, scowling at anyone whose tone he doesn't like when they talk to his brother and trying to grab for hair or throw things at them when he gets really upset about it. People learn quick that if they want to badmouth Huaisang, they have to do it out of earshot of Mingjue, and that only holds more true as he grows up and begins grasping language and starts becoming aware of the disparity between how hard his brother is trying versus the things people say about him.

Everyone else better start watching their insults before they find that Mingjue has grown to have more loyalty to the brother who loves him and does his damnedest to care for him despite all his other duties versus the sect who wants to split them up.

And that's as far as I've currently gotten with this idea.

[mollywog]

When the Stars Align

RegencyLark Part 1 | RegencyLark Part 2 | RegencyLark Part 3

She needs to find a husband. She came to the conclusion within an hour of Peeta’s return.

After she’d seen him, she’d wandered the streets aimlessly, unable to return to his home, for that’s what it was; his. She’s been living on Peeta’s charity these last two years, though that’s not entirely true. She’s been managing the estate in his absence which must count for something.

She’d only come to town this year for Primrose’s debut season, but now she’s glad of it. She’ll need to begin her search immediately, so she changes direction towards the Odair house to speak to Finnick on the matter.

~~~

As a child Katniss had assumed her life would always be an endless string of golden days; Her parents were hopelessly in love and she had the most perfect companion in her sweet little sister. Though they weren’t rich they lived comfortably and most importantly, they were happy. But then at eleven her father had died and she’d watched her mother die a slow and agonizing death from a broken heart. Their modest house was entailed to a distant cousin who was only fourteen himself with a mother and three siblings to support as well and Katniss’s days had faded to a dull gray hue while the Everdeen sisters had mourned their parents and struggled to adjust to their new lives.

Then her God-father, Lord Abernathy, had discovered their situation and invited them to live on his estate as his wards, and while their days had brightened to a rosier glow, Katniss could never forget the hollow look in her mother’s eyes in the weeks after her father’s death as she slipped away from them. Katniss would not allow that to happen to her. She knew she must marry one day, but she swore to herself that she’d never fall in love.

Luckily, she was friends with Finnick Odair; a staple of fashionable society and as such a collector of confidences. When she’d told him of her resolve, he’d been determined to assist her; To not love a husband was one thing, but to not respect him another.

An Earl was much more than the unexceptional daughter of an unknown gentleman could have expected, but they both had trusted Finnick’s judgment in the matter. He’d introduced them at a ball and though many found Graham Mellark’s reserve off-putting, she’d seen the practicality in the man who spoke directly to the purpose or not at all.

He’d called at Abernathy place the next morning where they’d shared tea in companionable silence and within the month they were married.

The first few weeks of their marriage, however, had been painfully awkward. Katniss might have begun to second guess her decision, had it not been for her new brother-in-law. Peeta began visiting frequently and seemed to always know just what to say to lighten the mood and put them both at ease. She realized she had never heard her husband’s laugh before his brother had visited. It had been Peeta who had given her hope that her marriage wasn’t a mistake, but beyond that, she’d enjoyed his company on its own merits. It wasn’t long before she had considered him among her closest acquaintances.

But then Graham had died and despite her careful planning and arranging she’d crumbled, because in the end, she had loved him in her own way. It wasn’t a desperate, wild, romantic love like her parents, but one born of familiarity, friendship, and mutual support.

Worse still, along the way she’d lost Peeta as well and although he’s returned in body, she will not allow herself to believe that they can ever be as they once were.

~~~

“I’m in need of a husband,” she announces as soon as the drawing room doors close behind her.

Finnick doesn’t seem surprised, appraising her over his cup of tea before speaking, “This is sudden.”

“Peeta- eh. The Earl of Bakerston has returned home.”

He nods his head, “then this seems an easy solution. You already hold the title, already live on the property and know the estate, you are both unattached, and last I saw, you are both mad for one another.”

She jerks back at his declaration, before she begins shaking her head, the force making her dizzy. “No. No, no, you are mistaken, we are friends… or we were friends… but that was long ago. I have not had a single word from him in two years!” She begins pacing the room and the words begin tumbling out, “oh Finnick, I don’t know what to do. He just… left. I know he had every right to do it. But oh, how I needed him. No, I am certain that he hates me. He would not have gone otherwise. Yes, he was mourning his brother, but so was I! Would it not have been natural for us to find solace in one another?”

“Only too natural and likely why he felt he must put distance between you two.”

Even in her grief she’d known how improper it was for her to ask Peeta to hold her as she’d fallen asleep. She’d asked too much of him. She was not his responsibility and making herself so had driven him away. She hazards a glance in Finnick’s direction to see if he knows the truth of it, but he’s wearing an impassive expression. She shakes her head before continuing, “And now he’s come back, to claim his dues, find his own countess and sire an heir. I have no legal right to any of it. I am at his whim, he could toss me out at a moment's notice. There’s no room for me in Bakerston any longer. Nor at Abernathy house.”

“He has told you this?”

“No, his arrival took me by surprise. I have yet to speak to him.” Oh, she was a coward.

“Ah, yes. That sounds correct.” She scowls at her friend but he waves a dismissive hand, “Sit down, lest you wear a hole in the rug.”

She sinks down on the sofa, “so will you help me?”

“Katniss, I am still not convinced my assistance is necessary. You really should speak to him. Unless you plan to uproot to Abernathy house in the interim, you’ll be sharing a home.”

She makes a distressed noise in the back of her throat. Surely he would take the Earl’s room right beside her own. The idea of sharing a wall feels… intimate. The act of an Earl and his Countess, not a man and his dowager burden. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. Perhaps she could have her things moved down the hall?

“Katniss, I know your reasons for seeking an uncomplicated match the first time, but now that you’ve weathered the worst and come out the other side, would it not be better to take your time and marry for affection? You will not need my help for that.”

She rubs her temples. She was relying on his continued understanding on this front. She wonders when he’s become such a romantic.

He sighs , “well if you are determined, I will only ask that you speak to Peeta before I lend my services.”

It seems a fair enough price, she’ll have to speak to him sooner or later anyways, so she nods, “consider it done, but ready your recommendations, for I am certain I’ll be in need a husband before the season is through.”

[mask131]

So you want to know about Oz! (3)

Last time, we left on our sick and despaired mister Baum, as he realized he could never kill the child of his mind and despite his best efforts, the Oz fan would NEVER LET GO.

So, he decided "What the hell... If they want Oz books, they'll get Oz books!". And so he wrote more, and more, and more Oz books. At least, Baum understood that, in effect, people literaly did not care about any continuity. They were just interested in A) seeing old characters return and B) having more inventions and new lands thrown at them. They were all about that nostalgia and worldbuilding, without any care in the world for any cohesiveness or continuity error. So Baum gleefully invented and added as much as he could and went full whimsical-worldbuilding in what is truly a chaos to piece together when you try to look at Oz as a cohesive fantasy.

However that's the thing with Oz: it is not a cohesive fantasy series. The first two novels were not meant to be serialized or have sequels, as such, when he started doing them, Baum was forced to change things. It is as early as the fourth book, "Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz", which I like to call "BIG RETCON - the book" because it was Baum's first time at doing a huge lore retcon conflicting what was said in earlier books. Many people like to oppose in terms of worldbuilding Tolkien and C. S. Lewis - but I do believe Tolkien's archnemesis would be L. Frank Baum, with C.S. Lewis standing in the middle of the spectrum. Baum was just as prolific in content and enormous in scope as Tolkien when it came to worldbuilding... but when you put all things side by side it literaly makes no sense unless you look at the outside reasons that forced Baum to change his lore every three books or so. You know, it was a different time, fictional lore wasn't even a thing...

From six Oz books we went up to FOURTEEN Oz books in total. The man literaly kept writing them until his death... The last of the Oz books Baum wrote was "Glinda of Oz", published in 1920. L. Frank Baum died in 1919 from a stroke - he had finished the last Oz book, but it was only published posthumously... Yes, we can say the power of Oz was so strong it survived Baum...

It actually DID survive though... In a way you might not expect.

There are many, many ways to "cut" the Oz book series. There is the "original trilogy". There is the "original six books". You can go with "the fourteen books Baum wrote". But for decades the dominating division went by an official title, used by both publishers and fan-circles around the USA... The Famous Forty.

Yes, you heard it right... Famous FORTY.

"But... but why are there FORTY Oz books if Baum only wrote FOURTEEN? It's a mistake in spelling right?"

No. There are FORTY Oz books that are considered "official" (I am not even getting in the non-official ones) by Oz canon. Well, only if you are not a purist who considers that only the books Baum wrote are Oz-canon and the rest are just fan-sequels (I am such a purist). It doesn't help that so far ONLY the books L. Frank Baum wrote are in public domain, the others are still under copyright law.

And why did we go from fourteen to fourty? Why... For money of course! It has always been the reason why Oz went beyond its original "stand-alone novel format". "Money makes the world go round" as the song says...

When Baum died, his publishers of the time, Reilly & Lee, started SWEATING. Because the Oz series was still their best-seller, their cash-cow, their sacred little idol... They couldn't JUST stop it there! They needed to have the series continue... And you know what they say in the editing world! "If you author dies... JUST REPLACE HIM!"

The idea of replacing Baum as the author of the Oz novel actually worked like a charm thanks to something Baum himself introduced... Baum, as the series was serialized, inserted himself as a character of Oz. More precisely he refused to present himself as an author or inventor, and when dealing with fan mail (literal mail, letters) or writing his prefaces, he presented hmself as "The Royal Historian of Oz". It was part of the fun game he had with children: he pretended the Oz novels were all official chronicles of what actually happened in Oz, and that it was his job to write them down. (That's also why he hoped the sixth book great finale of "Oz is cut off from the rest of the world" would work at killing the series, because "Oh well, I'm stuck in the USA, too bad I can't get in Oz anymore to write my... What? What did you say? THEY SEND RADIO BROADCASTS NOW?")

When it came time to replace Baum, the editors just went "Hey, so, a new Royal Historian was hired by the Crown of Oz! Don't worry, the chronicles of what is going on in this new land are still around!". That's how Ruth Plumly Thompson came in the picture.

Now, I am not as knowledgeable on the other "Oz Royal Historians" as Baum. As I said, I am kind of a Baum purist. But here's some of the few things I know...

Ruth Plumly Thompson, the second "official Historian of Oz" by the editors' system was a huge fan of Baum's work, and so she jumped on the occasion to write more Oz books. (There were even rumors at some point that Thompson was Baum's niece and thus that the Oz books was just a family business). The Oz books were her main source of income, and so she worked VERY hard at doing Oz chronicles: she published one book each year.

Ruth Plumly Thompson's way of doing Oz was VERY different from Baum. I can't list all of the differences, but most notably Thompson' stories were closer to the traditional European fairytales, while Baum had always tried to subvert traditional fairytale tropes or avoid fairytale cliches at the time to truly do something new and fresh (him having a GOOD WITCH in the first Oz novel was a HUGE thing in the 1900s America where all witches were by default evil). Thompson also favored male protagonists (Baum always was fonder of female protagonists for Oz), and she introduced a lot of romances and love stories - something Baum was STRONGLY against, because in his aesthetic children did not care about romance and romantic love had nothing to do in youth literature.

Thompson wrote 21 OZ BOOKS, yes, 21, from 1921 to 1976. Well, to be exact, she wrote 19 books in one swift series from 1921 to 1939, then took a long Oz pause, and wrote two additional Oz books in the 70s, but these two books are not considered part of the "Famous Forty". The last of these two was not even an Oz book originally but rewritten to fit an Oz novel - "The Enchanted Island of Oz", published the year of Thompson's death. [This tactic of taking a standalone fantasy novel for children, and reinventing it as an Oz book, had been used by Baum himself prior. His tenth Oz book, "Rinkitink in Oz", was originally its own thing, before he rewrote it as part of the Oz series, explaining why Oz only appears in the final chapters of this novel].

While most of these novels are just as forgotten, if not more obscure, than the many other Oz books Baum wrote, there is one element that tends to regularly pop up in Oz adaptations. Have you never wondered why the Good Witch of the North is sometimes called "Tattypoo"? (A name I personally HATE). The name appears for example in "The Muppets' Wizard of Oz", despite Baum never giving any name to the Witch of the North. Well, this was a Thompson invention! She was the one who named the Witch Tattypoo in her book "The Giant Horse of Oz", where she worked at giving a backstory to this character... a VERY divise backstory among Oz fans for many, many reasons too long to explain here.

Now, I said famous FORTY, and yet with Thompson's books added we only have 33 books.... What's the rest?

Three Oz books, "The Wonder City of Oz", "The Scalawagons of Oz" and "Lucky Bucky in Oz", were published in the early 1940s by John R. Neill, considered the third "Royal Historian of Oz". What is very interestng is that John R. Neill had worked on the Oz series for a very long time... since the very early Oz books in fact.

Everybody remembers the original illustrations for "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" - these were done by an artist named W. W. Denslow. It was the art where Dorothy is this chubby little brunette girl. Well, you might be surprised to learn Denslow only worked on this Oz novel. When Baum wrote the sequel, "The Marvelous Land of Oz", Denslow did not return. Rather John R. Neill entered the picture. He would become the "official" artist of Oz, illustrating not only all of the Baum books (except the first one), but also all of the Thompson books. And while he originally tried to match Denslow's style to make a smooth transition for the child audience, he quickly grew his own style - he notably was the one who brought to us a tall, thin, blond and fashionable Dorothy that is a far cry from the more "proper farm girl" Dorothy of Denslow. In fact, Neill's work as an artist does show in the way he writes Oz, as he has very cartoony ideas and works heavily with the visuals, so that the text can allow for cool-looking illustrations.

Unfortunately, the Oz curse strikes again: Neill died in 1943, the very year following the publication of his third Oz book. There was a fourth Oz books in the plan, that he had written the manuscript of right before his death: "The Runaway in Oz". However, Reilly & Lee refused to publish the unfinished work... We would have to wait until 1995 for this book to finally see the light of day: kept by Neill's widow, it was finally published by the house Books of Wonders, in a format edited and illustrated by Eric Shanower (another prominent Oz artist which we will have to talk about later).

Outside of these three main Historians, three more were recognized by the editors. Jack Snow, who in the late 40s published two "official" Oz books, "The Magical Mimics in Oz" and "The Shaggy Man of Oz". He also created an "official guide" called "Who's Who in Oz", but which was noted to have some inconsistencies with the books (which is expected given the Oz series is INCONSISTENCY - THE SERIES). There are a lot of rumors around of a third, unpublished Oz book by Snow called "Over the Rainbow to Oz", but nothing allows us to confirm the existence of such a book.

Rachel R. Cosgrove published one "official" Oz book in 1951, "The Hidden Valley of Oz". She had prepared in 1954 a second Oz book, called "The Wicked Witch of Oz", but Reilly & Lee refused to have it publish because, at the time, "Oz books didn't sell" (CRAZY, right? Now, in the mid-50s, Oz books didn't sell anymore?). She still managed to have it published in the 1990s, by The International Wizard of Oz Club (another beast we'll have to talk about).

Finally, the last official "Royal Historian of Oz" was Eloise Jarvis McGraw, but she wrote her only official Oz book in collaboration with Lauren Lynn McGraw, her daughter. Their work was "Merry Go Round in Oz". They created another Oz novel, "The Forbidden Fountain in Oz", but while it was published it was not included in the "canon" Famous Forty, and in 2000 Eloise Jarvis McGraw published a third Oz novel alone, "The Rundelstone of Oz".

And thus you have it! The Famous Forty. The Forty books Reilly & Lee, the official publishers of the Oz books, deemed, edited and sold as the "canon" Oz books.

... But of course, this being Oz, and the Oz books entering public domain in the 50s, 60s and onward, the Famous Forty as far from the only Oz books to exist. Oh no...

On one side, you have The International Wizard of Oz Club, which I talked about previously. From the 50s onward they worked as the second main publishers of Oz books, since Reilly & Lee had stopped doing Oz novels on the accounts that "it doesn't sell anymore". It was the Club that published the last two Oz novels of Thompson, and the fourth unpublished novel of Neill, and the rejected novel of Cosgrove, and the second book of the McGraw duo, and many others! They published 8 Oz works in total from 1958 (Jack Snow's short story "A Murder in Oz") to 2006 (Gina Wickwar's Toto in Oz).

To that you can add three Oz novels that were recognized as "official" by the Baum Family Trust. Two were written by William Stout, "The Emerald Wand of Oz" (2005) and "Trouble Under Oz" (2006) ; the last was by Kim McFarland, "Sky Pirates over Oz" (2014)

And I am not even talking about the many books written by several descendants of L. Frank Baum! Two of Baum's sons attempted doing Oz books: Frank Joslyn Baum, the eldest ("The Laughing Dragon of Oz", 1934) and Kenneth Cage Baum, the youngest ("The Dinamonster of Oz", written in 1941 but only published in 1991). However the most prolific Baum-related author is without a doubt Roger S. Baum. Great-grandson of the original author, he wrote FOURTEEN Oz books, yes as much as his great-grandpa, starting with "Dorothy of Oz" in 1989, and ending with "The Oz Enigma" in 2013.

And ALL OF THAT is not even accounting for all the non-official Oz authors and their many, MANY books... Go check the Wikipedia pages for the list of Oz books, or the many pages of the Oz Wiki, you will be impressed.

I wasn't lying when I was saying there were Oz bookS in plural...

[ghostsbimbo]

give me a reason - simon ghost riley x reader

cw: implied dubcon, implied grooming, mentioned age gap relationship. a/n: simon is INNOCENT in this. he is helping reader come to terms with the status that they were a victim. simon isn't being a groomer, he's not guilting reader into consent, and they're not in an age gap relationship. title is from dial tone by catch your breath. please stay safe. minors, if you see this: that adult (18+ year old) is not into you. adults, if you see this and you ignore the fact that your friend is talking to a minor in a romantic aspect: you are part of the problem. words: 437.

All I wanted was an answer All I needed was to know Give me a reason I need a reason All those messages I left you All those nights I spent alone Give me a reason 'Cause all that I hear is A dial tone Dial tone

you two have been sitting silence. you didn't know for how long. all you knew is that the crushing realization of you being in a not so great relationship when you were only 14 with an 18 year old wasn't on the plate of things to do today.

"so all my friends....?" you questioned softly. simon sighed softly, simply nodding. you had talked to him about being with an 18 year old when you were 14, thinking it was normal, it was healthy. it wasn't until you noticed the concerned look he was giving you that it wasn't.

you even talked about the multiple times you tried to reach out to your ex, missing them- even going as far to include the fact he tried to get back with you when you were twenty and well past the age of being a legal adult.

you let out a soft sigh looking up at simon. "i'm an idiot, aren't i?" you questioned softly after the long silence of you mentally going over everything in your head.

simon just sighed softly, putting his arm around you before finally deciding to pull you into a bear hug. "no, you're not an idiot, you were a kid blinded by the fact that class mate was just like you and you fell for the attention he gave you." he pressed a kiss to your forehead, slowly rubbing your back - an attempt at him comforting you.

he didn't need to say anything else, you were slowly coming to the realization you were groomed, that your friends even encouraged so much of it all - peer pressure, wanting to be like your friends who were older than you, not wanting to be considered a loser because you were a virgin, and then on top of it all, your significant other making you think you wanted it - when in all reality, you were fourteen. you were a kid, so even if you did think you wanted it, you probably just actually didn't and just gave into peer pressure.

you finally let some tears fall. "i feel so stupid for falling for him." you mumbled. he didn't say anything, he just held you and let you cry until you fell asleep in his arms. thankfully it didn't take long, considering letting yourself accept the fact you were a victim, did take alot of energy out of you.

he stayed though, he stayed just to make sure you felt safe, and so when you woke up, you knew that no matter what, he wasn't going anywhere. you were stuck with him, just like he was stuck with you.

[kingofbodyrolls]

My Heart's Home (m) | pjm | fourteen

🐴Chapter summary: After breaking up with Jimin, you realize how much you love him, and that maybe that love should be enough to carry you through your new life— being a parent, for someone else’s child.

🐴Chapter title: I Wish the Past was Different

🐴Pairings: jimin x reader (main), jungkook x reader (only happens once in the first chapter), jungkook x OC (jessi), namjoon x OC (jessi), yoongi x hoseok, namjoon x oc, seokjin x oc, taehyung x oc

🐴Characters: female reader (isn’t mentioned by name and no “y/n”), Jimin, Jungkook, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, Taehyung and four female original characters.

🐴Genre/AU: ranch!au, slice of life!au, soulmate!au, cowboy!au + smut, humor, fluff, romance, slow burn and angst

🐴Rating: mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact!

🐴Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

🐴Chapter warnings: angst (is this really a surprise?), mention of pregnancy (not oc!!!), a riding accident, a lot of thinking and overthinking, sadness and angst, jealousy, working through feelings.

🐴Status: completed 🥳

🐴Word count: 10.5k 

🐴Taglist: @kookswifesblog, @kiki-zb, @babejinnie, @ownthesunshine, @allie-is-a-panda, @glllhjh, @bergandysam, @13-manggaetteok, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @antisocial-mochi267,

*tumblr isn’t letting me tag you! There could be a lot of reasons for that, check out this lovely post about it.

🐴Now playing 💿 “Time Turn Over” by Rebecca Lavelle. [Wanna listen to the serie’s playlist?]

🐴Author’s note: OC is being very Bella Swan in this chapter, I’m sorry again 😭 BUT!!! The angst goes away in this chapter too, because I just wouldn’t do it (I’m tired of the angst, lol). Because of said angst, it was tough for me to write and I actually ended up asking my husband for advice because I was stuck, not meeting my own word length deadline and because I just felt stuck in general 🥲 But alas, he gave me a good idea, and I went with that! There is very minimal angst going forward from this chapter, like it’s so minor compared to all the rest, so I hope you’ll enjoy mostly unicorns and rainbows after this chapter ☀️

You can send in your questions for the characters or me here → Ask away 💜*

*for people on AO3 you can also participate if you want to, just leave a comment (guest/anon or not), and I’ll reply to that and I’ll add your question in the Epilogue 💜

It’s been cross posted to AO3 if you prefer to read there.Wanna see the book cover?

← previous | s.masterlist | m.masterlist |  next →

“And oh, I wish the past was different And oh, I wish it wasn’t so But in the end, because I’m here now In the end, I think you know I can’t say it and you can’t feel it but I can not let it go And oh, I wish the past was different And oh, I wish it wasn’t so” ‘I Wish the Past Was Different’ by Rebecca Lavelle

You’ve thrown yourself into your work with the wild horses, seeking solace in their untamed spirits. Yet, the bittersweet reality of having to work at Jimin’s place constantly tugs at your heartstrings. Each encounter with him reignites the longing to be wrapped in his arms, to find solace in his embrace, and to believe in a future together. But then you catch sight of Deiji, and the floodgates of jealousy and insecurity and self doubt burst open once more, drowning you in feelings of inadequacy and unpreparedness for the daunting prospect of motherhood, especially when it's someone else's child at the center of it all.

Why does life have to twist and turn in such cruel ways? The weight of this pain is crushing, dragging you down with each passing moment, threatening to shatter you into irreparable fragments.

You find yourself yearning for an alternate reality where Jimin never crossed paths with Deiji, where their relationship was just a figment of imagination rather than a painful reality. The ache in your chest resonates with the desire to assign blame, to point fingers at anything but your own heart for walking away. It’s easier to lay fault at the feet of Deiji and Jimin than to confront the agonizing truth of your own decision to part ways.

You scuff, a tempest of anger and sorrow swirling within you, each emotion battling for dominance, leaving your stomach tied in knots. Amidst this tumult, focusing on the wild horses becomes a difficult task, prompting Hoseok to step in and assist Yoongi more frequently while you remain perched atop the fence, a silent observer of the scene below.

The love between the two men is palpable, their synergy evident as they collaborate seamlessly. Yet, as you observe them coaxing a once-wild gray horse into submission, a bittersweet symphony plays in your heart. Their laughter, like tinkling bells, fills the air, but with each shared chuckle, a pang of longing grips your soul. You can’t help but notice the gentle caress of Hoseok's hand on Yoongi’s arm, the way their eyes meet with an unspoken understanding, and their voices, light and airy, carrying the melody of their affection.

Their effortless relationship is both heartwarming and gut-wrenching to witness. You adore them both and revel in their happiness, yet a pang of envy lingers as you yearn for a similar bliss with Jimin. The prospect of parenthood looms over you like a daunting storm cloud, and you're lost in a tempest of uncertainty, unsure of how to navigate the tumultuous waters ahead.

Hoseok’s hands caress the sleek coat of the gray horse, his touch a delicate dance of reassurance and patience. The majestic creature stands serene under his guidance, a testament to their bond of trust and understanding.

Yoongi pivots, his keen eyes catching the shadow of sorrow that’s cloaked you for days, casting a solemn hue over your features.

He strides over, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of your storm. Perching beside you on the fence, he offers a reassuring pat on your shoulder. “It’s going to be alright,” he assures, his voice a soothing balm to your troubled soul.

You highly doubt it. You replay the choices in your mind like a broken record, each decision leading you to this moment of heartache. You could have chosen to stay with Jimin, to endure the pain silently, but the weight of it all felt unbearable. A heavy sigh escapes your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil within.

You turn your gaze towards Yoongi, the question burning on your lips, a mixture of curiosity and longing swirling in your chest. Despite knowing you shouldn't pry, your heart yearns for a glimpse into Jimin’s world. “How’s Jimin holding up?” you inquire, your voice tinged with a fragile hope, betraying the emotions you've been grappling with.

Yoongi’s eyes meet yours, a silent plea evident in their depths, urging you to reconsider your question. His expression carries a weight of concern, as if he’s shielding you from the painful truth that might follow.

As the silence lingers, you press further, your voice a whisper weighted with apprehension. “Is he... back with Deiji?” The words hang heavy in the air, fraught with a mix of dread and longing for a truth you're not sure you're ready to confront.

Yoongi’s features contort into a mask of sorrow, his gaze drifting downward to the grains of sand within the pen, as if seeking solace in the mundane. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself with questions like this,” he murmurs, his tone heavy with empathy and resignation. “But no, Jimin is still very single.”

The revelation doesn’t exactly lift the weight from your heart, though it's a relief knowing he’s not rushing back into Deiji’s embrace. Still, a melancholic ache persists, knowing that things have unfolded this way.

Yoongi’s words land like a gentle breeze, stirring a mix of emotions within you. “You know,”  he confides, his tone carrying a thread of hope. “Jimin misses you a lot. He talks about you everyday. He wishes that you’ll change your mind and come back home.” As his gaze meets your weary eyes, a glimmer of optimism dances in his own.

Tears have become an unwelcome companion, tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, staining your pillow with the remnants of your sorrow. Night after night, you find solace in the lullaby of tears, until even your sister’s concern casts a shadow upon your weary soul. Your eyes, once bright with laughter, now betray the weight of your heartache, swollen and heavy with the burden of your grief. Yet, in the face of it all, you couldn’t summon the energy to care.

You draw in a shuddering breath, grappling with the tempest of emotions swirling within you. “I miss him too,” you admit, your voice quivering with raw honesty. “But I can’t bear the thought of being in a relationship with him, not with his child on the way with another woman.”

You release a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping under the weight of exhaustion and emotional turmoil. Every task seems monumental, even the simplest ones, and just coaxing yourself out of bed feels like an uphill battle. A tear teeters on the edge of your waterline, a silent testament to the inner turmoil gnawing at your soul. Desperate to divert your thoughts from Jimin's memory, you draw in a deep breath and pivot the conversation. “You and Hoseok seem really happy,” you remark, attempting to steer the dialogue towards a lighter topic.

A gentle chuckle ripples from Yoongi’s lips beside you, a soothing sound amidst the heaviness of your emotions. He senses your need for a reprieve and graciously allows the shift in conversation. “Was that a question or a statement?” he quips, his laughter like a beacon guiding you away from the shadows of sadness, urging your weary spirit back towards the light.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, a brief respite from the weight of your thoughts. “Definitely a statement,” you reply with a hint of self-awareness, the sound of your laughter mingling with the breeze, carrying a fleeting moment of lightness through the heavy air.

“We are happy,” Yoongi affirms, a genuine smile spreading across his face, revealing the warmth in his eyes. Together, you observe Hoseok’s movements with the gray horse below, the sight of him successfully saddling the animal a testament to his skill and patience.

“That’s great. I’m so happy for you, Yoongi,” you express, mustering a smile, though it lacks the usual sparkle that once defined it.

“Thank you. But I can see it’s tough for you,” he starts, his gaze probing yours, seeking something elusive, something you're not quite sure of.

You brush off his concern with a casual flick of your hand. “I put myself in this situation,” you say, the weight of your words heavier than you intended.

You slump further against the fence, sinking into the sanctuary of your own fragile thoughts.

Hoseok remains focused on the horse, his movements fluid and purposeful, while Yoongi stands steadfast beside you, his arm enveloping you in a comforting embrace, a reassuring anchor amidst the tumult of your thoughts.

“Thank you Yoongi,” You express your gratitude to Yoongi with a heartfelt whisper, leaning into his comforting presence. His embrace is a sanctuary, enveloping you in warmth and the refreshing scent of mint, a soothing balm to your troubled soul.

“What for?” With a soft chuckle, Yoongi queries, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.

“For always being there for me,” You utter, your voice laced with profound gratitude. The weight of your words hangs in the air, a testament to the depth of your appreciation for his unwavering friendship.

The relentless sun beats down upon you as you toil alongside Soo-ah, Ara, and Ha-rin, laboring to scrub clean the water trough for the cattle in a distant paddock. Beads of sweat form rivulets on your brow, and you futilely attempt to brush them away with the hem of your shirt, but the relentless heat refuses to relent.

The scorching heat bears down upon you relentlessly as you vigorously scrub away at the trough, determined to rid it of its slimy residue, accumulated grime, and encrusted grease. Each stroke of the brush is a testament to your commitment, knowing full well the vital importance of this cleaning ritual to ensure the cattle’s access to pristine water during their time in the paddock.

“Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” Ara’s words pierce through the haze of your thoughts, jolting you out of the cocoon of self-pity you’ve wrapped yourself in. 

Beside you, Soo-ah and Ha-rin exchange startled gasps, their synchronized reaction prompting you to arch an eyebrow in curiosity, silently urging Ara to continue.

“That’s so inconsiderate of you to say, Ara!” Soo-ah’s reprimand cuts through the air, her words laced with a protective edge, while Ha-rin’s support echoes her sentiment, amplifying the intensity of the moment.

“What? But she seems so miserable, Jimin too, why don’t you just work it out?” Ara’s voice carries genuine concern, wrapped in a gentle tone, yet it strikes a nerve within you. You sense her good intentions, but the thought of rehashing your struggles yet again feels draining. With a heavy exhale, you opt for silence, allowing your frustration to seep out in a weary sigh.

“Don’t you think she would work it out with him, if she wanted to?” Ha-rin’s words cut through the humid air, laced with a hint of frustration as she vigorously scrubs the steel trough. It’s a valid question, one that resonates with the unspoken doubts lingering in your mind. You ponder her inquiry, the rhythmic sound of metal against metal providing a backdrop to your internal turmoil.

It’s a surreal sensation, like eavesdropping on a conversation about your own life from a distance. Their words hang heavy in the air, echoing the unspoken complexities of your situation. You stand there, a silent observer to your own narrative, grappling with the strange disconnect between your presence and their discussion.

Ara’s voice rises, her words infused with a desperate plea for understanding. But like, last time they didn’t talk for months and it was just a stupid misunderstanding,” she insists, her eyes searching for empathy among her companions.

Soo-ah interjects with a firm tone, “Do you even comprehend the sheer effort it takes to raise a child?” she questions, her gaze piercing. “If she’s not prepared for that responsibility, then she’s simply not ready.”

It feels funny, how they are talking about you and Jimin, you might as well say something.

The scrubbing of the trough halts abruptly as you pivot towards Ara, your expression a mix of vulnerability and resolve. “It’s not that we aren’t talking,” you begin, your voice carrying the weight of your emotions. “We still communicate, but it’s the sight of Deiji that stings the most. Knowing they’re expecting a child together... it’s hard not to feel consumed by jealousy,” you confess, the words heavy with raw honesty.

Ara’s eyes soften with understanding, her nod a silent acknowledgment of the tumult of emotions you're navigating. “It sounds like you want a child of your own, with Jimin,” she ventures, her words carrying a gentle empathy that resonates with your innermost desires and fears.

Ha-rin’s reaction is a blend of admonishment and hushing as she playfully nudges Ara’s arm, silently urging her to tread carefully while also chiding her for broaching a sensitive topic.

“I’m not entirely certain about having children,” you start, your words measured and tinged with uncertainty, “but raising someone else’s child is certainly not what I imagined or wanted to do.”

Soo-ah and Ha-rin exchange understanding nods. “Do you think you might change your mind later?” Ha-rin inquires gently, her voice carrying a tone of empathy as she continues with her task.

You pause, mulling over her question for a moment, before responding thoughtfully, “I’m not entirely sure... perhaps. It’s just... I can’t quite envision how it would all come together, you know?”

“I just... when I envision Jimin embracing fatherhood, cherishing that little girl of his soon entering the world, it’s her child, not mine,” you sigh in frustration, yet oddly finding a glimmer of relief in the honesty of your words.

“So you’re jealous that it’s not going to be your child?” Ara teases beside you, prompting a scolding glare from Soo-ah.

“You just said you didn’t want kids, but now you say you do... make up your mind,” Ara adds, rolling her eyes in a playful yet challenging manner.

“She doesn’t want Deiji’s kid, can’t you get that?” Soo-ah says, coming to your defense once more, her voice firm with conviction.

“Guys! I’m just not sure I want kids, period. Why can’t I be undecided on this?” Your words hang heavy in the air, a plea for understanding, as you return to the task of scrubbing the trough with a vigor that betrays your inner turmoil.

“Yeah. Let’s not badger her, okay?” Ha-rin’s voice cuts through the tension like a soothing balm, her gentle plea for empathy echoing your own sentiments. You catch her soft gaze, a silent acknowledgment of her understanding, offering a momentary respite from the probing questions.

“But can I say something?” Her demeanor shifts with a mix of hesitance and determination, her gaze seeking reassurance before she speaks. You offer a nod, granting her the space to voice her thoughts, curious about what might follow.

“You still love Jimin and he still loves you— don’t you think you could focus on that, and just like, not focus on the kid?” Her words hang in the air, a delicate plea woven with threads of hope and uncertainty. You feel a pang of longing as she speaks, her sincerity piercing through the heaviness of the situation. Despite the weight of her suggestion, you can't help but consider the possibility buried within her question.

As her words sink in, you find yourself grappling with a newfound perspective. The idea of focusing on your enduring love for Jimin rather than fixating on the looming presence of a child is both liberating and daunting. It’s a notion you’ve never entertained before, a ray of light piercing through the clouds of uncertainty that have engulfed you. Could it be that the solution to your turmoil lies in embracing the love that binds you, rather than allowing fear to drive you apart?

Each stroke of the brush across the canvas feels like a dance, a rhythmic movement driven by the whirlwind of thoughts swirling through your mind. Jimin’s presence looms large in your thoughts, refusing to be ignored or pushed aside. Ha-rin’s words echo in your ears, a gentle reminder to reconsider your perspective. As you ponder the notion of shifting your focus away from Jimin’s impending fatherhood, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope flicker within you. Could it be that amidst the chaos of uncertainty, there lies a path illuminated by the enduring flame of love?

You remain ensnared in the labyrinth of uncertainty, grappling with the weight of your emotions and the intricacies of your relationship. The truth is a bitter pill to swallow: Jimin’s impending fatherhood would inevitably redefine the contours of your relationship, demanding a portion of his time and attention that you would never begrudge. Yet, amidst the tangle of doubts and fears, a flicker of understanding begins to dawn. Perhaps, in the vast expanse of love, there exists room for compromise, for navigating the labyrinth together, hand in hand.

The question lingers in the depths of your soul, a haunting refrain echoing through the corridors of your mind: are you truly prepared for it all?

Ready to become someone’s mother. Step mother?

Ready to raise a child?

Yet, can you truly provide a nurturing environment for a child if one of the adults harbors resentment towards their presence?

You understand it’s not the child’s fault, but the mere thought of it being Deiji’s offspring churns your stomach. You harbor an intense dislike for her, and a nagging suspicion still lingers, whispering that she’s up to something.

You’ve never laid eyes on any proof of the paternity test, and the unsettling thought lingers: did Jimin even ask to see it? Perhaps it's time to broach that topic with him.

As you reminisce about the warmth and intimacy you once shared with Jimin, a wave of melancholy washes over you, leaving you adrift in a sea of longing. Doubts creep in, questioning the wisdom of your choices. Should you have held onto what you had with him, despite the challenges?

The canvas before you mirrors the tumult within, a chaotic blend of muddy hues—gray, brown, beige, and dark blue—an unexpected abstraction of your inner turmoil. It’s a reflection of your tangled thoughts, much like the surprise abstract painting that has emerged from your brush. Yet, beneath the layers of color, a longing persists. You ache to create something different, something infused with the joy of yesteryears—perhaps the serene landscapes that once graced your canvas. Yet, as you realize nearly a year has passed since your return to the ranch, a flood of memories rushes in, dominated by thoughts of Jimin.

Oh, how you wish things were different.

On an unassuming day, bathed in sunlight, you find yourself quietly eating breakfast in the kitchen, lost in your own solemn musings. Suddenly, the tranquility is shattered as Jungkook steps into the room, jolting you out of your reverie.

You’re acutely aware that since parting ways with Jimin, you’ve been teetering on the brink of depression. It was a painful but necessary decision to safeguard your shattered heart. Yet, despite your efforts to protect yourself, you’re haunted by the gnawing realization that no matter what path you choose, your heart remains irreparably broken.

“Hey,” he greets you with a warm smile, but as you return the gesture, your own smile falls short of matching his infectious happiness. Your gaze lingers on him, curiosity piqued as you notice something clutched in his hand. Why is he carrying a letter?

“How are you doing?” he inquires, and you respond with a bitter chuckle. Can’t he see how you’re doing? You’re well aware of your appearance, having been reminded by your sister that you look like a mess. The truth is, you’re consumed by a constant sadness, and you’ve exhausted all your energy trying to conceal it.

“I feel like shit,” you admit, opting for raw honesty because pretending otherwise seems futile. Jungkook knows you well, understands the depth of your pain stemming from the breakup with his brother.

He offers you a reassuring smile, closing the distance between you as he gently places the white envelope on the table. Your eyes drift down to it, and you immediately recognize your name scrawled across it in familiar handwriting—it’s Jimin’s.

“This is from my brother,” he murmurs, his nerves palpable as he scratches the back of his head, causing you to shift your gaze between him and the letter, your mind racing with anticipation. What could possibly be contained within? Will it offer solace or inflict further pain? The uncertainty grips you tightly, leaving you on edge.

“Can’t he speak for himself?” You question, a hint of frustration seeping into your voice as your fingers hover over the letter, finally grasping it to inspect its contents.

“He’s torn about whether to give you space or not,” Jungkook confides, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “And he has no idea that I snatched the letter.”

Your eyes widen as you fix your gaze on him. “Are you sure I should read this then?” You inquire, a hint of apprehension creeping into your voice. “Maybe Jimin doesn’t want me to read it.”

Jungkook offers you a gentle smile. “It’s fine,” he reassures, his tone laced with determination. “If he gets mad, it’s on me. But you need to read it. I’m tired of seeing you both suffer like this.”

With those words, he leaves you to grapple with your thoughts and the letter, its edges slightly crumpled, a testament to the turmoil it contains. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind weighed down by a heavy burden, and your eyes dry from the countless tears shed. You resolve to open the letter, sliding it out slowly; its handwritten contents are adorned with dried tears, each smudge a poignant reminder of the emotions woven into every word. Even before you begin to read, a lump forms in your throat, and your vision blurs with the tears welling up in your eyes.

Despite your trembling hands and the overwhelming emotions coursing through you, you summon every ounce of courage within you. With a determined resolve, you steady your gaze and immerse yourself in every heart-wrenching word penned by Jimin in his letter.

My love,

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you more than words can express, and the ache of missing you is a constant companion. I’m deeply sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. No apology could ever capture the depth of my remorse for hurting you repeatedly. My heart weighs heavy with regret, and I want you to know how truly sorry I am. I wish I could undo the hurt I’ve caused. I understand that you may not be ready for motherhood, and I would never want to pressure you into anything. But I hold onto hope that we can find our way back to each other. I love you endlessly, and the thought of being apart is unbearable. I know I don’t deserve your kindness and forgiveness, but please, consider giving me another chance. You are my everything, and I long for us to be reunited. 

With all my love and remorse,

Jimin

As your tears mingle with Jimin’s on the page, your heart aches with a poignant mix of love and pain. Despite the hurt he’s caused, your love for him remains unwavering, yet it’s accompanied by the uncertainty of whether you’re prepared for motherhood. However, amidst the turmoil, a flicker of hope ignites within you—perhaps, just perhaps, you can find the strength to be ready for that journey with him.

You sense the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you. There’s an urgency to clear your mind, to escape the labyrinth of your own making. And you know precisely what remedy awaits: a ride. Out onto the sprawling expanse of land surrounding your ranch, where the wind whispers secrets and the horizon stretches endlessly. It’s your sanctuary, your refuge from the turmoil within—a chance to lose yourself in the rhythm of hoofbeats and the vastness of the world beyond.

Typically, when you saddle up, the chaos in your mind settles, and you allow yourself to sink into the serenity of the natural world, letting the rhythm of hoofbeats replace the cacophony of thoughts.

That’s why you find yourself in the barn, carefully saddling Mikrokosmos, feeling the familiar weight of the leather in your hands, the comforting scent of hay and wood surrounding you. With each buckle tightened and each strap secured, a sense of anticipation builds within you. Leading Mikrokosmos out of the barn, you’re eager to immerse yourself in the healing embrace of nature, seeking solace in the rhythmic cadence of hoofbeats and the whispering winds.

With a steady breath, you slide your foot into the stirrup, feeling the familiar weight of your body settling into the saddle. As you swing your leg over, a surge of anticipation courses through you, mingling with the raw energy emanating from Mikrokosmos. With a gentle nudge of your heels, you coax her into motion, feeling the power of her muscles ripple beneath you as she eagerly responds to your command, propelling both of you forward into the boundless expanse of the open land.

With each rhythmic beat of Mikrokosmos’ hooves against the earth, you surrender to the wild abandon of the ride, seeking solace in the untamed beauty of the landscape unfurling before you. Away from the suffocating grip of memories and uncertainties, you allow the wind to carry away the weight of your burdens, embracing the freedom of the open horizon as you ride further into the unknown.

As the wind weaves through your hair, its gentle touch whispers a symphony of freedom, entwining with the rhythmic melody of Mikrokosmos’ hooves tearing through the earth. With each stride, she paints the landscape with her fervent dance, sending plumes of dust swirling into the air. In the harmony of nature’s cadence, your spirit soars, liberated from the weight of doubt and longing. Each thunderous beat of her hooves resonates with the pounding rhythm of your heart.

Surrendering to the rush of wind and the pounding of hooves, you relinquish the burdens that have tethered your soul, allowing them to scatter like leaves in the breeze, if only for a fleeting moment.

As the sky transforms from serene blue to ominous gray, then to the cloak of night pierced by flashes of lightning, you sense the electricity in the air mirrored by Mikrokosmos’ subtle twitch, a silent acknowledgment of nature’s impending fury.

As the thunderclouds gather with ominous intent, you’re acutely aware of the danger of being caught in the open during a storm. Lost in the vast expanse, you realize with a sinking feeling that you’ve ventured too far to return before the tempest strikes. Yet, the urgency to seek shelter pushes you onward, driven by the instinct to find safety amidst the approaching chaos.

Amidst the dense foliage, you urgently guide Mikrokosmos, a steadfast companion in the tumultuous terrain. Suddenly, a deafening rumble ruptures the air, and the heavens ignite with a blinding flash. Your loyal steed startles, veering sharply as a nearby tree becomes a target for the furious lightning. With lightning’s crackle still echoing, Mikrokosmos rears in panic, jolting you from the saddle. You plummet to the earth, pain searing through your body upon impact, a harsh reminder of nature's unforgiving power. Fuck it hurts.

Mikrokosmos, wide-eyed and trembling, lingers by your side, almost like she wants to make sure you’re okay. You extend a trembling hand in reassurance, craving the solace of her presence, but as another deafening thunderclap reverberates through the sky, she recoils in terror. With a swift and panicked motion, she breaks away, vanishing into the wilderness, leaving you alone amidst the storm’s fury.

“Mikrokosmos, come back!” Your voice echoes through the wilderness, a desperate plea swallowed by the roaring tempest. With each strained syllable, you feel the weight of your fear and frustration, your heart racing in sync with her retreating hoofbeats. As you struggle to rise, the sting of pain ignites along your spine, a harsh reminder of your vulnerability amidst nature's fury. Damn it - you should have prepared her for moments like these, should have been more vigilant in her training with sudden loud noises. Now, your failure looms large, a bitter taste of remorse in the storm's relentless assault.

As the rain pours down in relentless sheets and the sky is intermittently illuminated by flashes of lightning, she finds herself lost in worry. Hours have slipped by since her sister embarked on her ride, and with each passing minute, concern gnaws at her like a persistent ache. In the midst of such tumultuous weather, her sister should have returned by now. 

Where could she be? What if something has gone wrong out there in the storm’s fury?

Anxious tendrils grip her as she leans in closer to Jungkook, her voice trembling with concern. “Kook, I’m really worried about my sister. She should have been back by now,” she confides, her words laced with a sense of urgency. Jungkook’s eyes widen in alarm, his grip tightening on the beer bottle as he absorbs her distress.

As she gazes out the window, her heart lurches at the sight of a panicked Mikrokosmos darting around the yard. “Mikrokosmos is running wild out there, but still no sign of my sister. This can’t be good,” she murmurs, urgency coloring her voice as she hastily slips into her boots and jacket. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Jungkook is right by her side, his expression mirroring her concern as they prepare to investigate.

Jessi manages to soothe Mikrokosmos, her fingers gently curling around the reins. “Easy, girl,” she murmurs, her voice a soft reassurance in the midst of the storm.

She strokes Mikrokosmos’ mane, her touch a comforting anchor in the chaos of the storm. “Easy, girl,” she whispers, her voice a soothing melody amidst the thunderous symphony. “Steady, now,” she repeats, her words a gentle plea for calmness.

She whirls around to face Jungkook, urgency etched across her features. “This isn’t good. Where’s my sister?” Her voice quivers with worry, each word punctuated by the pounding rain outside, echoing the frantic beat of her heart.

Jungkook pivots, his eyes widening at the sight of Soo-ah hurtling from her cottage. “What’s Mikrokosmos doing here alone?” His voice is laced with concern, mirroring the panic in Soo-ah’s expression.

Jessi relinquishes the reins to Soo-ah, her voice trembling with worry. “I think something has happened to my sister, otherwise Mikrokosmos wouldn’t be here alone. Can you please take her into the stables, calm her down, and we’ll search for my sister?”

Soo-ah seizes the reins with determination and offers Jessi a firm nod, leading Mikrokosmos over to the stables. Jessi’s expression is etched with concern as she turns to Jungkook, her brow furrowed in deep distress.

“Let’s go look for her, she shouldn’t be out in this weather,” With urgency etched in his voice, he clasps her hand firmly, a silent promise of support. Together, they hustle to his truck, determination fueling their actions as they race back to Bell Ranch, intent on rallying more help to find you.

They dash through the rain-drenched yard, urgency in each step as they burst into the house where Jimin, Hoseok, and Yoongi lounge in front of the TV, oblivious to the mounting concern etched on Jungkook and Jessi’s faces.

Urgency floods Jungkook’s voice as he interrupts their tranquility. “Guys, Jess’ sister is missing. We need your help to find her,” he implores, his words slicing through the calm of the room like a thunderbolt.

Jimin’s muscles tense, his expression darkening with concern as his heart quickens its pace. Yoongi springs from the couch with such urgency that he should feel lightheaded. In a synchronized rush, the trio leaps into action, snatching up their boots and jackets.

The weather outside is relentless, the midday darkness accentuated by the unyielding rain and gray skies, enveloping everything in a shroud of cold, damp chill.

Jimin’s voice cuts through the tension, his hand already reaching for the keys to his truck. “Should we split into groups of two or three?” he suggests, urgency lacing his words like a silent plea for swift action.

Jessi’s voice holds authority, her words cutting through the air like a command. “I think two are fine,” she concedes, her tone firm and resolute. “But you’re not driving.” Her finger jabs towards Jimin, swiftly snatching the keys from his grasp and passing them to Yoongi with an unyielding resolve.

Jimin’s expression shifts from disbelief to begrudging acceptance as he grapples with Jessi’s unexpected assertion. Despite his initial astonishment, a flicker of understanding ignites within him, and he obediently trails after his brother and Jessi, braving the torrential rain outside.

Yoongi and Hoseok climb into Jimin’s trusty blue truck, equipped with a walkie-talkie in hand, their fingers poised to establish a connection with Jungkook, Jimin, and Jessi in the other vehicle. As they settle in, the anticipation in the air is palpable, their shared determination driving them forward into the unknown.

Yoongi’s voice crackles over the walkie-talkie, edged with concern, as he asks, “Do we have any idea which direction she might have gone?” His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of uncertainty, echoing the urgency of their search.

Jessi’s voice crackles with determination over the line as she directs the plan, “We’re clueless about her direction. Let’s split up – you take the eastern side, we’ll cover the western.” Meanwhile, Jungkook twists the key in the ignition, setting the window wipers to a frantic rhythm. Jimin, gripped by worry, perches on the edge of his seat in the back, craning forward over the center console to scan the rain-soaked landscape ahead.

They embark on their respective routes, traversing the treacherous terrain of the rugged hills. The landscape is unyielding, but the sturdy trucks with four-wheel drive prove to be invaluable companions. Jungkook guides their vehicle with practiced precision, a stark contrast to the frantic urgency of their previous search when Jessi was missing. This time, he maneuvers cautiously, each movement deliberate, mindful of the perilous conditions and determined to avoid any mishaps.

Jimin’s voice cuts through the tension in the truck's cabin, his impatience palpable. “Can’t you drive faster?” he urges his brother from the back seat, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment.

Jungkook’s tone carries a hint of frustration as he scuffs, “No, this terrain isn’t really made for fast driving. And relax. We’ll find her,” his words a gentle reassurance amidst the mounting worry.

Jimin huffs impatiently in the back seat, realizing there’s nothing much to do but wait until they find you. Each passing moment heightens his concern, hoping against hope that you’re safe amidst the storm and uncertainty.

Jessi turns to Jimin, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere in the truck. “That ring you bought a while back, is it just collecting dust, or do you plan on giving it to her soon?” Her directness adds another layer of urgency to the situation, hinting at the unresolved emotions lingering between him and you.

Jungkook chuckles beside her, a brief moment of lightness amidst the tension, yet his gaze remains fixed on the rugged path ahead, emphasizing the gravity of the situation they’re in.

Jimin stumbles over his words, his voice strained with uncertainty. “I just don’t think now’s the right time,” he admits, his words tinged with the weight of recent events. “This whole thing with Deiji and then your sister breaking up with me, I don’t think it would be appropriate.” His voice trails off, the unfinished sentence hanging heavy with unspoken emotions.

She scoffs, her tone laced with incredulity. “Appropriate?” Her disbelief echoes through the cabin, challenging Jimin’s hesitation with a raw intensity.

She turns her whole body in her seat to face Jimin, her eyes ablaze with urgency. “I’m sorry, but this whole thing with Deiji is hella suspicious. And you love my sister, right? She loves you too. She’s almost sick, because she broke up with you, did you know that?” Her words hang heavy in the air, charged with a blend of concern and accusation, demanding a response from Jimin.

Jimin’s eyes widen at her words, a mix of surprise and guilt flashing across his face, but he remains silent, his thoughts swirling like a tempestuous sea, grappling with the weight of her accusations.

“She doesn’t eat properly anymore. She’s lost weight, she’s not sleeping— shall I keep going?” She crosses her arms, her voice edged with a mixture of concern and frustration. This whole thing just makes her mad. She hates seeing her favorite people hurt like this, consumed by a storm of emotions that threatens to engulf them both.

“Oh, did you know she cries herself to sleep every night?” she adds, her voice trembling with a mix of hurt and vulnerability, as if she’s revealing a secret that should have remained buried.

Jimin’s breath catches at her revelation, his eyes widening in shock. “I didn’t know,” he admits, his voice tinged with guilt and regret.

“Listen, I don’t know why she can’t talk to you,” Jessi continues, her tone a blend of frustration and concern. “But having Deiji around makes it incredibly tough for her— and I’m not suggesting you abandon her or your future child. However, finding a balance that allows space for my sister without causing her this kind of pain might be worth considering.”

“But she’s made it clear she’s not ready for kids,” Jimin murmurs, his voice barely audible over the increasingly rough terrain.

“It’s not just any kid, Jimin, it’s hers, for heaven’s sake! Can’t you see the weight of that?” she practically scolds him, her voice firm and resounding with frustration.

Jimin is rendered speechless—his mind swirling with conflicting emotions, leaving him utterly at a loss for words.

“You really hurt her when you started dating Deiji, you know. When you shut her out, assuming she was with Yoongi,” she adds, her voice laced with a raw intensity, fighting for you, voicing the unspoken turmoil you’re grappling with. “She loves you deeply, but I’m certain Deiji triggers memories she’d rather bury.” She pivots back, her tone searing with frustration. “And why the fuck would you do that? Why couldn’t you just talk to her?”

Jimin’s gaze locks onto hers, his eyes widening with a mixture of remorse and vulnerability, as if on the brink of tears. “I know I behaved poorly. I—I don’t know, I was just consumed by jealousy. I know I was petty.”

Jessi nods, her expression softening with empathy. “See, you were jealous and didn’t speak to her. Now she’s jealous and doesn’t speak to you. Do you see a pattern here?” Her words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of truth, urging Jimin to confront the echoes of his own actions.

Jimin nods, his heart heavy with a mix of gratitude and remorse, appreciating both the insight and the gentle reprimand from Jessi.

“Now. If you don’t get your shit together and talk to her, I’m going to ask your little brother to beat your ass up,”  she teases, a playful grin lighting up her face. Her hand finds its way to his thigh, a reassuring squeeze emphasizing her point. “But seriously, she’s going to be alright, and you’re going to talk to her.”

Jungkook’s laughter fills the truck cabin, and Jimin nervously bites his lip, but he nods in acknowledgment to your sister’s words. He’s well aware that he needs to have that conversation with you, even though attempts in the past have been met with avoidance on your part. It’s clear that seeing Deiji has been a trigger for you, and the realization hits him hard. He's caused you so much pain, put you through hell, and it's a weight he can't bear. This isn’t how it should be, and he knows he needs to find a way to make things right.

As the rain continues to pour relentlessly, the passage of time becomes a blur, lost in the rhythm of the storm pounding against the truck's windshield.

“Have you had any luck?” Jessi’s voice crackles through the walkie talkie, a lifeline in the storm, as she eagerly seeks any sign of hope or progress.

“Not yet.” Yoongi's voice cuts through the static, tinged with a hint of frustration, indicating the ongoing struggle and the uncertainty of the situation.

Suddenly, Jimin’s voice crackles with urgency, breaking the tension in the truck. “I think I see something—over there, by that bush!” His finger jabs towards a dark figure, barely discernible amidst the downpour, a beacon of hope in the relentless storm.

Jungkook steers the truck towards the figure, the engine growling with determination. As they draw nearer, their headlights cutting through the rain, the silhouette resolves into a familiar form—there you are, huddled against the elements, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, each tremble echoing their worry.

With a surge of relief, Jessi flips on the walkie talkie, her voice slicing through the storm like a beacon of hope. “We’ve found her!” Her words, charged with emotion, resonate through the static, breaking through the tension like a ray of sunlight through dark clouds.

Yoongi’s voice carries a wave of relief, cutting through the tension like a soothing melody. “Thank god,” he exhales, his words echoing the collective sentiment of the group, a chorus of gratitude amid the storm’s fury.

Despite the lingering heat, your body trembles, a stark contrast to the relentless downpour that now subsides, replaced by a calm silence broken only by the soft patter of raindrops.

In the distance, headlights cut through the gloom, bouncing over the rugged landscape, gradually growing larger and clearer. As the familiar black truck draws near, a wave of relief floods your weary and trembling form, soothing your frayed nerves.

The truck grinds to a halt just a stone’s throw away, and in an instant, three figures spill out onto the rain-soaked earth: Jungkook, your steadfast sister, and Jimin, his urgency palpable in every stride.

Jimin sprints to your side with an urgency that echoes his concern, his strides propelled by an undeniable determination. His embrace envelops you, a reassuring anchor amidst the storm. “How are you holding up?” he implores, his voice a blend of worry and relief. You offer a nonchalant shrug, masking the turmoil within. “Could be worse,” you reply, your words betraying the weight of your ordeal.

Your sister’s gaze scans you intently, her eyes mapping every contour, searching for any sign of harm. “What happened?” she inquires, her voice edged with concern. “Mikrokosmos returned without you.” Her words hang in the air, punctuated by the gravity of the situation, each syllable laden with the weight of unanswered questions and looming danger.

“The thunder spooked her and I fell off,” you explain, feeling Jimin’s firm hand pulling you upright. The words spill from your lips, mingling with the pattering rain as you recount the moment of panic and disarray.

“Any injuries?” He inquires, his eyes scanning you with the same meticulous care as your sister had done moments before. Yet, to your relief, there isn’t a single scratch or bruise to be found on your body.

“I-I just feel sore,” you manage, your voice tinged with discomfort, the chill of the rain making your words stutter slightly. Jimin immediately envelops you in his arms once more, leading you gently towards his brother’s truck. Your sister, too, lends her support, her gaze fixed on you with concern. As you glance down, you catch a glimmer from her left hand, and there, amidst the rain, you spot something sparkling.

“What’s that?” You inquire, your voice a mixture of curiosity and exhaustion as they guide you back towards the truck, their arms offering steadying support.

“What?” your sister inquires, her brows furrowing slightly as she holds the door open for you to climb into the backseat.

“That ring on your finger,” you observe, noting the flush creeping up her cheeks. She attempts to conceal her hand, but it’s too late—you’ve already caught sight of it. With gentle insistence, you grasp her hand and bring it closer for inspection. A delicate gold band adorned with a simple white stone gleams in the dim light, its beauty striking you. Glancing at Jungkook, you’re met with a tender expression, silently affirming the significance of the moment.

“You proposed to her?” You inquire, your voice catching on the brink of tears, emotions swirling within you—a mix of overwhelming joy and heartfelt sentiment.

His laughter dances in the air as he admits, “I did,” his grin radiating warmth, all while your sister playfully attempts to wrest her hand from your firm grasp.

“When did this happen?” Inquisitively, you pivot between them, anticipation lacing your voice. Their eyes momentarily break contact, drawn down to the damp earth beneath them, as if searching for the right words amidst the glistening droplets.

“A week ago,” Her admission comes in a hushed tone, tinged with a hint of regret, the weight of secrecy palpable in the air. It's as though the words have been lodged in her throat for days, finally finding release, yet carrying with them the burden of silence she bore for an entire week.

“And you didn’t tell me?” You exhale a mix of disbelief and hurt, your incredulous gaze bouncing between them like a pinball in motion. Reluctantly, you yield to Jimin and your sister's gentle insistence, allowing them to guide you into the shelter of the backseat, away from the relentless downpour. With a comforting presence, Jimin settles beside you, while your sister and Jungkook join you in the truck, cocooning you in a blend of warmth and unspoken apologies.

“We wanted to tell you,” your sister starts, her voice carrying a blend of sincerity and hesitation, mingling with the hum of the engine as Jungkook maneuvers the truck down the hill, steering back towards home.“We just didn’t want to make you sad, so I didn’t wear the ring, until today…” she continues, her eyes betraying a sadness mirrored in your own conflicted emotions. You wrestle with the complexity of her consideration, torn between gratitude for her sensitivity and the ache of your own hidden sorrow. After all, shouldn’t you be thrilled for them? Yet, beneath the surface, your heart echoes with a quieter, more personal ache, one that whispers of your own unspoken battles with sadness and despair.

“Why would you make me sad? It makes me sad that you’ve been hiding it from me,” you lament, a tinge of frustration coloring your words as you grapple with the chill seeping through your sodden attire, clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Each droplet feels like a weight, echoing the heaviness of the withheld truth, leaving you to mire in a mix of emotions, neither warm nor settled.

Sensing your shivers, Jimin swiftly sheds his jacket, enfolding you in its warmth with a tender gesture, a shield against the biting cold that had crept beneath your skin.

“I only wanted to spare you from pain,” your sister’s voice softens, regret lacing each syllable as she meets your gaze, her words heavy with remorse. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

You nod, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Despite the sadness clouding your heart, you grasp onto the flicker of happiness for your loved ones. It sucks that she didn’t tell you, but you do understand why she did it.

Your gaze shifts to Jimin, a whirlwind of unspoken words swirling within you, a thousand thoughts clamoring for attention. Each thought jostles for prominence, yet amidst the chaos, you find yourself lost in the labyrinth of your own mind, grappling with the weight of unsaid feelings, uncertain where to begin or how to articulate the storm raging within.

“Thank you for the jacket,” Gratitude tumbles from your lips for the jacket, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm of silence that has grown between you, though its weight feels heavier with unspoken tension. There’s an unfamiliar air, thick with unresolved emotions, a palpable unease that lingers like an unwelcome guest. You’ve been avoiding him, grappling with the aftermath of your decision to end things, haunted by the specter of his past relationship and the fragility of your own heart, torn between the longing for reconciliation and the fear of further heartbreak.

“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs, his gaze a tender caress as he studies you intently, as if attempting to decipher the intricate layers of your being. You can’t help but wonder if he notices the shadows beneath your eyes, heavier now than before, or if he sees the telltale signs of your daily tears etched upon your swollen, puffy face. Does he perceive the subtle changes in your physique, the way your clothes hang looser, mirroring the weight of your burdened heart? In the depths of his gaze, you question if he glimpses the essence of your soul, the silent yearning for his touch, for the rekindling of his boundless love that once enveloped you in warmth and security.

“What for?” You inquire, a soft sniffle punctuating your words, yet your gaze remains unwavering, locked onto the depths of his captivating brown eyes. In that moment, a wave of longing washes over you, the realization of your own foolishness crashing against the shores of your consciousness. You’ve yearned for him in his absence, now understanding the foolishness of your pride. Love pulses within you, a beacon amidst the stormy seas of doubt, begging the question: shouldn't love be reason enough? Isn't it the only thing that truly matters in the end?

“For treating you so poorly. For every misstep, every hurtful word, every moment of silence that drove a wedge between us, for dating Deiji, for not realizing how much it all has hurt you,” he confesses, his voice a fragile whisper teetering on the edge of remorse. Tears glisten in his eyes, a testament to the depth of his regret. His trembling hand finds solace in the curve of your cheek, tenderly cupping it as if to anchor himself amidst the tempest of his emotions. You yield to his touch, the warmth and softness of his hand a balm to your wounded soul, melting away the barriers that had stood between you, allowing you to surrender to the familiar comfort of his embrace.

“I’ve been unbelievably foolish, and I’m utterly sorry,” his voice catches in his throat, the weight of his remorse evident as a tear breaks free from his lashes, tracing a silent path down his cheek. “I never meant to hurt you like this,” he confesses, each word heavy with regret. “I love you so much,” he whispers, the depth of his affection echoing in the tremor of his voice, a testament to the sincerity of his devotion.

“I know you broke up with me because you’re not ready to have kids, and I completely understand that,” his hand intertwines with yours, a lifeline in the tumult of emotions that swirl between you. His gaze searches yours, seeking understanding, seeking reassurance, perhaps seeking forgiveness. “But I can’t shake the feeling that we belong together— I want you back,” he confesses, his voice a soft plea tinged with hope. “I love you, and I believe in us. I never imagined this path for us, but I truly believe we can navigate it together,” he asserts, his grip on your hand tightening as if to anchor his resolve. “And the child, she’ll have her own home with Deiji,” he adds, a note of reassurance in his voice, as if to alleviate any concerns that lingered in your heart.

“I got your letter,” you murmur, your tone laden with emotion, observing the shock that washes over his face.

“How?” His voice quivers slightly, betraying the turmoil raging within him, and a pang of guilt washes over you as you realize you probably shouldn’t have read the letter, especially since he didn’t give it to you personally.

Your gaze shifts towards Jungkook, and Jimin instinctively follows the direction of your eyes, noting the scuffs, before returning his attention to you. “I meant every word I wrote in it,” he declares, his tone unwavering despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

As you nod, waves of his love wash over you, intertwining with your own affection and flooding your veins with a warmth that knits together the fragments of your once-scattered heart.

Your heart flutters within its cage of ribs, caught in a dance of uncertainty and longing. His words resonate with you, stirring a flicker of hope in the depths of your soul, yet doubt lingers like a shadow at dusk. You’re torn, teetering on the precipice of indecision, but amidst the turmoil, one truth remains steadfast: your love for him burns unwaveringly, an eternal flame that illuminates the darkness of doubt. And in that flicker of certainty, you find solace, trusting that love, in all its complexities, will guide you through the labyrinth of uncertainty.

“Okay.” The word escapes your lips like a fragile whisper, hanging in the air like the delicate balance of a teetering scale. In the ensuing silence that envelops the truck, you observe the shift in Jimin’s expression, his features morphing into a silent query, a question mark etched upon his face, seeking to decipher the weight of your response and the myriad emotions swirling within you.

“What do you mean?” Jimin’s voice breaks the silence, tinged with confusion, his brows furrowing in bewilderment at your curt response. His inquiry hangs in the air, an invitation to unravel the enigma of your brief words, beckoning you to delve deeper into the intricacies of your thoughts and feelings.

“I want us to be together again,” you confess, your gaze locked with his, the shimmer of tears mirroring the depth of his remorse. Yet amidst the regret, his love for you radiates like a beacon, casting aside the shadows of doubt. You can’t deny the intensity of your own affection, a love that courses through your veins, unwavering and undeniable. It’s as if destiny itself has woven your souls together, an unbreakable bond that transcends time and distance, a truth you've known since the moment your eyes first met after all those years apart.

Without hesitation, Jimin closes the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a fervent embrace. The kiss is hurried, tinged with the salt of his tears, yet you savor every moment, for his touch ignites a fire within you, reigniting the vibrant hues of your world. In the warmth of his embrace, you feel the dull ache of sadness dissipate, replaced by the kaleidoscope of emotions that accompany the return of his affection. It’s as if life’s dull monochrome has been replaced with a symphony of colors, painting your world anew.

Rekindling your relationship with Jimin has been more than just good—it’s been a revival of your soul. With him by your side, you feel whole once more, the missing piece of your heart seamlessly slotting back into place. Despite the challenges that still loom on the horizon, you find solace in the simple truth that you have each other to rely on, to support and uplift in times of need. 

As two full moons have passed, the looming prospect of Deiji’s imminent labor hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the complexities that have woven themselves into your life. Despite the passage of time, your disdain for her remains unyielding, fueled by a nagging sense of distrust that refuses to be quelled. You’ve voiced your suspicions to Jimin, laying bare the unsettling behaviors that gnaw at your conscience—her reluctance to reveal the results of the paternity test, the cryptic details surrounding her medical appointments, the sudden refusal to allow Jimin to accompany her, especially after your request to see the test results. With each revelation, Jimin’s eyes begin to open to the unsettling truth lurking beneath Deiji’s facade.

A creeping suspicion takes root within you, whispering the unsettling possibility that Deiji’s claims may be nothing more than elaborate fabrications. The thought lingers like a shadow in your mind, casting doubt upon the foundation of your reality. While a part of you entertains the notion that perhaps she never carried Jimin’s child at all, the implications of such deceit weigh heavily upon your conscience. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, the idea that unraveling her web of lies could potentially simplify your life, yet the thought of the devastation it would bring to Jimin is a sobering reminder of the delicate balance between truth and consequence.

In the face of adversity, you and Jimin are actively striving to strengthen your communication skills, recognizing the tendency to retreat into your own worlds when challenges arise. Both of you understand the paramount importance of articulating your thoughts and feelings openly and honestly, realizing that true connection and understanding can only flourish in the fertile soil of effective communication.

And so, you find yourself once more within the comforting confines of his home, the tantalizing aroma of dinner wafting through the air, stirring your appetite and igniting a sense of eager anticipation. As hungry as you were during your previous visit, this time the atmosphere is charged with a newfound warmth and intimacy, infusing the meal with an extra layer of significance. With each bite, you’re not only nourishing your body but also savoring the love and care that your boyfriend has poured into the culinary creation before you.

“Jimin, this looks absolutely mouthwatering,” you exclaim, your fork poised eagerly above the food, ready to indulge in the culinary masterpiece before you.

“Thanks, I hope it tastes as good as it looks,” he replies, a radiant smile gracing his features as he joins you in savoring the meal he's prepared with care.

The first bite is an explosion of flavors on your palate, a symphony of tastes that dance and mingle, leaving you craving more. It’s a culinary masterpiece, each ingredient harmonizing perfectly to create a sensation that delights every sense. This incredible man’s cooking never fails to amaze, leaving you in awe of his talent and grateful for the privilege of tasting his creations.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” he interjects between bites, his expression thoughtful as he pauses to address the topic weighing on his thoughts.

Locked in a gaze brimming with boundless affection, you find yourself lost in the depths of his eyes, a silent exchange of love and understanding passing between you. With a gentle nod, you encourage him to continue, your heart swelling with anticipation for the words he’s about to share.

“I’ve been thinking about the arrival of the baby,” he begins, his eyes alight with curiosity, sparking a smile to bloom across your face in response. “Do you think we should prepare a special room for her? And where do you think she should be sleeping?”

“I believe she should start off in our room, close to us, but later she can get her own room” you propose, a smile gracing your lips as you envision the cozy arrangement.

“Hmm. Good idea. Thank you for being so cool about it and wanting to do it with me,” he expresses, his eyes shimmering with affection as he extends his hand across the table, silently inviting you to join him in this journey.

You cover his hand with yours, gently tracing circles on his skin as you speak softly, “I don’t know if I’d call it being cool, but I’m doing my best to navigate this new territory.” Despite the uncertainty looming ahead, you offer him a reassuring smile, knowing that embarking on this co-parenting journey will undoubtedly present challenges. Yet, with Jimin by your side, you feel a sense of strength and reassurance, a reminder that together, you can weather any storm.

“Well, thank you. It means everything to me,” he murmurs, his voice laden with gratitude as he leans across the table, closing the gap between you to plant a tender kiss on your lips.

You draw back slightly, your hands tenderly cradling his face, locking eyes with him as you whisper, “I love you, Jimin,” the words carrying the weight of your devotion and the promise of forever.

A warm smile graces his lips in response to your declaration, a silent acknowledgment of the deep love you share. Returning to your meal, a comfortable silence descends upon you both, enveloping you like a soft embrace, a tranquil refuge from the chaos of the world outside.

Raising your gaze, you wait patiently for his eyes to meet yours, the urgency of your words evident in your expression. “I truly believe you need to have a conversation with Deiji,” you urge, a sense of unease settling in your stomach. “There’s something off about all of this, something I can’t quite decipher,” you add, your voice laced with concern and the unspoken weight of intuition.

Jimin nods solemnly, his brows furrowing in concern. “You’re right. It’s been bothering me too. She’s been unresponsive to my texts lately,” he admits, his voice tinged with apprehension and a growing sense of unease.

“Perhaps it’s time to pay her a visit and have a heart-to-heart conversation,” you propose, a gentle smile gracing your lips.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he responds eagerly, his eyes alight with determination. With a renewed sense of purpose, you both continue to savor the meal, engaging in light-hearted conversation as you contemplate the impending discussion with Deiji.

For an entire week, communication between you and Jimin has been scarce, lost amidst the whirlwind of chores and responsibilities that accompany life on your respective ranches. From dawn till dusk, your days blur together with the relentless tasks of sheep shearing, cattle herding, and countless other duties demanding your attention. Exhaustion seeps into your bones, leaving little energy for anything beyond the essential exchanges of ‘goodbye’ and ‘good morning’ shared over the phone, a stark reminder of the physical and emotional toll of your demanding lifestyles.

Tonight is one of those nights when every muscle in your body aches with weariness, longing for the soothing touch of Jimin’s hands to unravel the knots of tension and stress that cling stubbornly to your frame. The thought of sinking into the warm embrace of his oversized bathtub offers a glimmer of solace amidst the weariness, a sanctuary where the trials of ranch life can be temporarily forgotten. Despite feeling battered and bruised, the exhaustion of the day weighs heavy upon you, dragging you into the welcoming arms of sleep within mere minutes.

You’re unsure of how long you’ve been lost in slumber, but a peculiar scent and an eerie sound stir you from your rest. As consciousness slowly returns, your head feels heavy and your senses are muddled, the faint aroma of something resembling a campfire teasing your nostrils. The source of the scent eludes you, shrouded in the fog of fatigue that clouds your mind, as the haunting creak of wood contracting fills the air, sending a shiver down your spine.

Author’s note(2): Thank you so much for reading! 🌸 I would very much appreciate it if you reblogged the chapter, if you liked it ✨ A small review or a comment would also mean a lot to me, and even a like. But please, don’t be afraid to let me know what you think; your kind words makes me extremely happy 💜 Remember the Q&A that is coming in the Epilogue— if you want to send in some questions for the characters, you can do it now (and later too) → Ask the characters (or me), anything ❣️

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[love-in-the-time]

The Shrine: Fourteen/Donna

Title: The Shrine Author: love-in-the-time Rating: Harmless Summary: The Doctor takes Donna to the beautiful planet Mridula, for some vacation time. He discovers they've built something new.

The planet Mridula has two suns. Both of them are far away enough that the surface doesn't incinerate, so the weather is generally balmy and pleasant, and it's one of those clear blue days when the Doctor lands, with Donna in tow.

He steps out and holds a hand out to her, saying, "You should see this place." And Donna emerges into the sunlight the same way she always used to, and it took his breath away then and now. The streets around them are paved with pale stone, reflecting the heat of the sunlight away, and so the alleys and throughways are cool and comfortable. The sky arches overhead, a vibrant blue with not even a cloud to disrupt the sheer expanse. They are in the middle of a market.

The people of Mridula are bipedal, analogous to humans in many ways except for their faces, which have an extra third eye in the center of the forehead, and the greenish skin. "They have a magnificent museum, and a shrine district that has to be seen to be believed," the Doctor says. He leads her to a large sign, which turns out to be a directory. He scans it and then his eyes fall on something. "A Lady shrine," he murmurs, and looks to Donna. "You should see this place," he says again. "C'mon."

In an old, an ancient gesture of love and familiarity, they walk the streets hand-in-hand. The comfort of each others' presence warms them from inside. For now Donna has nothing to fear and nothing to worry about.

Down a long street flourishing with trees and all kinds of flowers, lined with beautiful buildings, the Doctor leads Donna into a specific temple, round and made of white stone decorated with paintings of flowers and animals, with a gold orb atop it. "You'll like this one," he says to her.

Donna steps inside, and comes face to face with a six-foot tall statue of a woman, dressed in majestic Mridulan ceremonial robes. She looks it over in awe and then suddenly she realizes.

"This looks like me," she says in disbelief, reaching out to touch the soft silk of the dress on the statue. "Look." The gown is made of pale green material with a delicate yellow underdress, covered in embroidered flowers, surrounding the statue as if it's a real woman. The stone is masterfully carved into a fall of magnificent red hair down her back and around her shoulders. It's painted to look like Donna, with traditional Mridulan goddess imagery of eyes lined in black and flowering red lips. Her hands are extended in a ritual pose of blessing, the left open palm up, the right with four fingers extended, palm out, and the thumb tucked. The statue is surrounded by flowers and fruits both real and stone.

"What is this?" Donna asks.

The Doctor, still a bit overwhelmed at the sight, just points to the brass sign embedded in the base of the statue. It simply says LADY PROTECT US.

"They've got you almost to the life," he says. "Not a patch on the real thing, of course, but there you are."

"Why?" she asks. "Who is this lady? She can't be me, not really."

"It's you," the Doctor says. "You and I fought off a few baddies for this galaxy, and so the Mridulans worship you as their protective goddess." He gets closer to the statue, and sees that her eyes are made of cleverly cast precious stones, so that they catch natural light and flame equally. "Look at all the offerings," the Doctor says. "Fruit and flowers and beautiful things."

"I'm a goddess to these people?" Donna asks.

"Many people. Remember Pompeii?" the Doctor asks.

"Never forget," Donna says, and the words have much more meaning now. "Couldn't."

"You know they added us to the pantheon of minor gods," the Doctor says. "I can show you carvings."

"Rubbish," Donna says, turning back to the statue. "I know you're telling me the truth, but... rubbish. Superstitious nonsense."

The Doctor laughs, and twines one hand with hers. "Take her in," he says. "Like I said, she's not as beautiful as you, but she's close."

"How did you know about this?" Donna asks.

"I didn't know about this one until we got here," the Doctor says. "But I know about Donna shrines." There's a little silence where he pulls her against his side, his arm winding around her hip. "These people love you. They know you as the fiercest protector of their lives, even if they've never seen you except as a statue. The stories are known."

"Where else are these shrines?" Donna asks. "Do they all look like this?"

"Oh, there are too many to count," the Doctor says. "The one on the Oodsphere is my favorite. It's the most beautiful."

"The Ood?" Donna asks. "Do I have all that spaghetti hanging out of my face?"

The Doctor laughs. "No. You look like... a goddess. A winter goddess. And there's even a little painting of me there too."

"Phwoar, you're a god too?" Donna asks. "They just hand out those godheads to anyone these days, eh?"

The Doctor grins at her. "Must be," he says. "D'you want to see it? The Ood shrine?"

Before she can answer, two people enter the shrine, and the Doctor and Donna move aside and into the shadows to give them their privacy. One of them is a woman, her face glowing in a beatific smile. She comes to the statue, arms full of blossoms. The other person, a man, is holding a basket of fruits. She puts the blossoms at the statue's feet, and opens her outer robe to reveal an infant securely wrapped against her chest. "Praise to the Lady," the woman says, with tears in her voice. "My daughter was born safely this morning."

"Praise to the Lady," the man repeats, and arranges the colorful fruits and flowers around the base of the statue. They kiss her outstretched hand. There is a small silence where they are clearly praying, and then they leave the shrine with a final bow before the statue.

"These shrines exist all over the universe," the Doctor says. "Don't you want to see them?"

In the shadows of the temple Donna doesn't answer immediately. "I..." she says. "I suppose I do."

"You sound diffident enough."

"Isn't it wrong?" Donna asks. "People praying to me? I'm just a person."

"Not to them," he says. "Not to so many. Not to me."

"Oh, don't tell me you're offering flowers and fruit too."

His smile is brief and bittersweet. "Before I... changed my face," he starts. "You know, after I lost you... I used to visit as many Donna shrines as I could. Just to feel like you were still around." He clears his throat and she realizes his eyes are wet with tears. "There are hymns they sing, you know," he says. "Songs about you."

"Have you heard them?"

"Many of them."

"Where else are these temples besides here and the Oodsphere?" Donna asks.

"There's a big one on Meridion Ten," the Doctor says. "Remember the bonfire city?"

"The bonfire city," Donna says simultaneously.

"They keep an eternal flame lit at your shrine," the Doctor says. "The idol is holding it." He masters himself and inhales deeply through his nose. "Right! Shall we go see it?"

* * * *

Donna is as openmouthed before the Meridion Ten idol as she had been on Mridula, the crackling of the eternal flame in the statue's hand perfumed with something sweet and sharp. The temple is clean and well-maintained, and no one disturbs them while they stand there.

The plaque set into the floor in front of the statue reads:

DONNA NOBLE, KEEPER OF THE FLAME OF MERIDION, BELOVED OF THE DOCTOR, PEACE BE TO HIM

"This one's lovely!" the Doctor says, smiling at her. "She looks like you too!"

"Yeah, fifteen years ago," Donna says. She reaches out to touch the black gown. "This is all stone," she adds. "How amazing." She looks back at him. "What did we do for them again?"

"The dying forest," he says. "Remember the rotting trees?"

"Oh yeah," Donna says, nodding. "Yes. We helped them fight off the parasite infecting the trees. Restored their atmosphere. Saved them all, really."

"Right."

"That was the night we danced on the beach in front of that huge fire," Donna says. The Doctor smiles; she can see the memory in his eyes. "I'd never seen four moons at once before."

"If they knew we were here there would be a massive celebration," the Doctor says. He inclines his head toward the TARDIS. "I can show you another?" he asks, his eyebrows raised.

"I thought you said this was a vacation," Donna teases him.

"Shall we go to the Balkean beaches and see their waterfront temple?"

"I'll take a beach," Donna says. "Let's go."

* * * *

The statue on Balkea is contained within the Sea God's Temple, the main house of worship for the Balkeans. She is adorned in a gown of blue and white, like water and foam, offering a blessing. Her face, however, is turned to the horizon, a wistful expression as if she is longing to sail away on the waves.

"She looks sad," Donna says. She reaches out to touch the hand of the statue. "I understand you," she says to the stone, as if it can hear her and will turn and look into its own face.

"There are some sad ones," the Doctor says. "There are a few paintings that would break your heart."

"Statues and paintings?"

"Donna, you have no idea the impact you made," he tells her.

"What are these paintings?"

"The most famous one is called The Rueful Fate of Donna Noble," he says. "It's an art piece in a museum. If you want to see it someday, I'll take you. It's a bit hard for me to look at." He looks up at the statue, her face serene even in sadness. "There's the Order of the Celestial Lovers we got on Amara, Queen Heli made a lovely statue there. There's the Celebration Goddess on Habara, but it's controversial if it's a representation of you or not. There's the fertility idols on Kataa Flo Ko, but those are a bit raunchy. So's the Karissan monument."

There is a little silence which the waves and the breeze fill for them. "I promised you a vacation," he says finally.

"Shall we?" Donna offers her hand.

The Doctor walks quietly beside her back out onto the sunset beach. He watches her contemplatively, gauging her reaction to the news of her godhead. She is quiet, her face pensive. "Isn't it strange," she says.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Isn't it all so fucking strange and wonderful."

Donna smiles, huffing a little laugh out her nose.

"Did you like those statues?"

"Well," Donna says. "I s'pose it's nice to be venerated for good reasons." She pulls him gently along the sand. "Can we see the Oodsphere one? One last one? Then I demand a vacation."

He grins at her. "One vacation, as you wish."

* * * *

The Oodsphere is as wind-whipped and snow-blinded as ever, a perpetual winter with planets spangling the sky. They land near a huge stone temple, adorned with the curling script of the Ood language, which the TARDIS helpfully translates.

THE SHRINE OF THE LADY OF THE LIBERATION

"The what?" Donna asks.

"The Ood venerate you for freeing them from slavery," the Doctor says. "And me, but more you. Come on. This one is my favorite."

"Oh, my god," Donna says in awe as they approach the enormous statue. She is clothed in a rich gown of brown fur, and Donna smiles, remembering her giant old coat. Underneath is a gown of night sky blue spangled with stars and constellations. At her feet are broken chains, representing the freedom of the Ood. In one hand she holds a heavy sledgehammer, carved with the words DONNA NOBLE in Oodscript. Above her other outstretched hand is a small TARDIS, floating just over her palm. The statue is standing on a snowy pedestal, her hair and clothes tossed by wind. At her feet is a plaque, inscribed with the words THE BELOVED COMPANION.

"The beloved companion," Donna reads. "They call me that?"

"They do," the Doctor says. "Because you are."

"And the Lady of the Liberation I suppose is self-explanatory," Donna adds. Then she smiles, a blossom across her face. "What the fuck," she says, for the millionth time. "How strange. And wonderful."

The Doctor steps forward and puts a hand on the statue's base. "I spent a lot of time here after," he says. "Missed you."

Donna comes to lean against him and wrap him up loosely, proprietarily. "How about we get to that vacation before we get too maudlin?" she asks softly.

"Ah," he says. "All right, I guess I'm done being sentimental being as you're not dead and all."

"Right!" Donna says. "Come on. It's cold here."

Back in the TARDIS she helps him get them in flight and leans on the railing, sure of her skill in a smooth takeoff. "There's no one like you," the Doctor tells her. "Quite literally."

Donna shrugs. "Good," she says. "Let's be one of a kind together on a beach somewhere with very intoxicating drinks." She gives him a cheeky look. "Something very hot about being the only two who know something no one else does."

"You won't feel left out?"

Donna dismisses that immediately. "Everyone else is who's left out," she says. "Not us. We are special."

He smiles. "Okay," he says. "Good answer."

"Yeah, good enough to deserve a vacation," she quips. "Where are we going?"

"A very lovely beach on an uninhabited island," the Doctor says. "Planet Melisan, the Cloud Island. No one around for kilometers."

"Why not?" Donna asks.

"It's private land," the Doctor says. "Owned by the Emperor Melisondo. He gifted it to me a long time ago."

"Fuck yes," Donna says. "Amazing. A private alien island." She helps guide the TARDIS to a gentle landing and steps back. "I'm getting changed," she announces. "Don't forget your slides, the sand will probably be hot."

He watches her hurry off, the same flight of red hair and enthusiasm. For a moment he thanks whatever is out there that she's back and he doesn't have to go stand at statues and miss her anymore.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Baby's Driver

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: Sketcheun

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Endgame Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, mentioned past Sam/Jessica, past John/Mary, mentioned background Belphegor/Ardat, past Kelly/Lucifer, past Bobby/Karen, implied past Dean/Lee Webb, mentioned past Dean/others, mentioned past Cas/others, Garth/Bess, past Bobby/Crowley, Chuck/Becky, past Chuck/multiple unnamed women

Length: 140000

Warnings: Major Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence Other warnings: ableism, graphic depictions of illness and injury, graphic depictions of medical treatment, childhood cancer and associated diseases, canon-typical violence, canon-typical child neglect, canon-typical childhood trauma, trauma, sexual harassment, minor character death, mentioned sexual assault, kidnapping, alcohol use, mentioned alcoholism, guns.

Tags: Alternate Universe, getaway driving, heists, music, selectively mute Dean, neurodivergent characters, mutual crushes, found family, happy ending, pop culture references.

Posting Date: October 23, 2023

Summary: Dean has been working as a getaway driver for Crowley for the last fourteen years, and has survived by developing a few simple rules: always pick the right music, keep an eye on the time, never give out his real name, and most importantly, make no personal connections with anyone on the job.  Making no personal connections with anyone new is easy when he has difficulty talking in his own words.  Enter Cas, who, in order to pay for his nephew Jack’s life-saving medical treatment, decides to break bad by joining Crowley’s operations. Unlike most of his brothers, he’s new to the world of crime, but Gabriel’s list of survival tips, and their driver’s skills and quiet demeanor have a way of reassuring him.  Throughout the course of several months, their rules fall to the wayside as they fall for each other, each unable to say the words ‘I love you’ for differing reasons.  Cas’ past family life complicates things when Lucifer comes around, wanting to know how Cas is getting the money to pay for Jack’s treatment. Everything comes to a head, and they realize just how connected their world is when Dean is kidnapped.  A Baby Driver-inspired AU.

Excerpt: With little over four minutes counted on his internal clock, a trilling alarm pierced the air as three figures ran out, each with stuffed bags in tow.  Right on time.  While the other two piled in the back, one of the masked figures frantically pounded on the passenger side window with the butt of his shotgun. “Open the door!” he yelled, voice muffled.  Dean rolled his eyes, popping the handle, showing that it was already unlocked. Dean pressed play, not waiting for him to finish closing the door behind him before tearing off.   His tires burned rubber on the pavement.  One street, two streets, three streets whizzed by as Dean narrowly avoided red lights, ignoring honks and angry yells from other drivers, racing to get onto the next access road.  “Get your motor runnin’, head out on the highway!” Dean weaved between the beats of the music and the cars around him, riding the gas a little harder to try to put as much distance between their car and the bank as he could.  The goon in the backseat and Bela, who had played fake hostage, looked behind them and swore. Dean glanced up at the rearview mirror to see that civilian cars had started to part like the Red Sea for a squealing squadron. The sirens chased them down, joining in and almost drowning out the lyrics– “Yeah, darlin’, gonna make it happen”– so Dean cranked it up in response, lowering the rear windows so that they could put their firepower to use.  Whether it was intentional or coincidence, if it was set to some kismet choreography by the Powers That Be, or if it happened because Dean had a preternatural sense about timing things like this, Bela and Backseat shot their guns in sync to “Fire all of your guns at once,” popping the tires of two of the closest police cars. The cars skidded sideways and to a halt, causing a pile-up behind them.  Dean smoothly ducked under an overpass only to be greeted by a row of road spikes being laid up ahead when he emerged. With a glance to the side, he noticed that some construction workers had graciously left behind a gift for him, and decided to take advantage. Dean made a sharp turn, avoiding the teeth of the spikes.  The tempo of the drums picked up pace as Dean picked up speed. Bela put her seatbelt on and held on tight to the grab handle above her, while the guys in the backseat and next to him started begging when they realized what he was doing. “No, no, wait–!”  “What are you–?” “We can climb so high, I never wanna die…” Dean went hard on the throttle up the construction ramp, gathering enough momentum so they could soar over a concrete divider. In the few seconds that they were up off the ground, the bags in the backseat lifted off the laps of his accomplices, suspended for a moment — “Born to be wi-ild…”

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