#Ripping Storm Records

[triste-guillotine]

ZÖLDÏER NOÏZ “Merci” CD 2020 (Un putain d’excellent troisième album de Thrash influencé par Voïvod entre autres, à ré-écouter sans modération !)

1. Termination Race 2. To the Lord His Due 3. Escape Holy Wrath 4. Hand of Steel 5. Heaven Street  (Death in June cover) 6. Signs of Demise 7. Inheritance of Cruelty 8. Earth Lethal Zone 9. The Devil Is in the Details 10. Merci

https://zoiz.bandcamp.com/

[fluffypotatey]

y’all help i’ve got two hangster x twister aus haunting my brain and one is mostly silly and fun while the other is angsty Bradley character study

[duranduratulsa]

On the turntable today...

Look What The Cat Dragged In by Poison (1987)

Jump Up Calypso by Harry Belafonte (1961)

Sonic Temple by The Cult

Storm Front by Billy Joel (1989)

#poison #lookwhatthecatdraggedin #HarryBelafonte #ripharrybelafonte #jumpupcalypso #TheCult #sonictemple #billyjoel #stormfront #60s #80s #records #album #LP #vinyl #vinylrecords

[pinkie-quinns]

rocker eddie/actor steve | exes to lovers | fame au p6 (final part)

p1 p2 p3 p4 p5 interlude

Steve thinks about second chances, as he walks along Greenwich Ave. He thinks about them when he tosses the wig in a garbage can that reeks of puke. 

And he thinks about them, when Eddie opens the door, eyes catching on the rip in Steve’s jeans, the liner under his eyes. When he lights up & says, “You came.”

Yeah, Steve thinks about second chances.

He offers Eddie a small smile as he walks in, can’t bring himself to acknowledge it all. The world of them. Him going. Eddie playing that song.  What that could mean, like, actually mean. Can’t do it yet.

He likes this place better than the mansion in LA. It’s messy and grungy with stupid, corny shit plastered on the walls. Feels more… Eddie.

They walk out to the balcony. It overlooks a tiny little green space, his neighbors’ homes. Eddie lights a cigarette and offers one to Steve. Steve quit years ago. Eddie knows that now. He takes it anyway. 

“Last tour I sold out Madison Square Garden and now I sell out Forest Hills.” Eddie’s chuckling, “Like I’m back at the trailer park.”

Eddie’s third album didn’t do the numbers his first two had. So they’d downsized, just a little.

Steve sighs, he didn’t fly all the way out here to coddle his ex, “It was a good show, Eddie.” 

“Yeah.” He drags, smiles to himself. “It was a really good show. I’m really glad you saw it, baby.”

Steve cringes, full body shiver. Eddie doesn’t seem to realize what he said, Steve’s sure as hell not gonna clue him in.

“How’d your meeting go?”

Steve tries to play it off. “Good. Pretty good.”

Eddie chuckles again, leans into him that way he always does, like personal space is more of a suggestion than a boundary. A hand brushes his cheek, a light, teasing tap of knuckles, “What’s pretty good, Harrington?”

Steve smiles into it. Can’t help it. “There’s uh… you know that blacklist script I mentioned last month? There’s probably a lead there for me.”

Eddie lights up again, bright and true, “Steve, that’s amazing.”

Steve snorts, “Not jealous?”

“Nah, I’m happy for you ba-” Eddie catches it this time, chokes on his drag, coughs and flounders, “Happy for you, man.” 

Steve’s not sure if he can do this, actually. Can’t face this Eddie. The one whose ego isn’t a storm cloud, who’s okay failing, who’s okay seeing him succeed. Who’s honest and sincere and wants the best for him. Eddie who would lose thousands of fans just to sing Steve’s favorite song. 

Eddie’s eyes are shiny, “But you’ve been good?”

“Yeah, yeah. Good. Keeping busy. I filmed an Amex commercial. Good money. Made my agents happy.” He’s rambling around it. He squints into the dark, drops it casually as he can muster. “I’m gonna start seeing that country singer, probably. The one with that Kansas song? Our people are setting something up.”

Eddie’s face falls, the sun out with a sentence. “What are we doing here, Harrington?”

Steve’s tone is bleary, sheepish, “What?”

“Been losing my mind this last month. Can’t stand not having you around. But you- you’re dating?”

It’s a shrug, it’s all he's got, “Sure.”

Eddie’s hunched, shoulders tight. He talks small. “You told me you loved me. Before you left.”

Steve huffs a breath. The air is cold. “C’mon. You were like, obliterating my brain with your dick. I say impulsive shit like that all the time.”

He doesn’t. They both know that. 

Eddie clicks his teeth, shakes a whisper. “Nah. You don’t.”

Steve falters, trips on his tongue. He finds his voice low and hoarse, he can barely say it, “Please don’t hold me to it.” 

Eddie won’t look him in the eye. He blinks up at the sky, “I love you. For the record. I um, I never stopped. Guess I’ve been pretty obvious about it.”

“Eddie, c’mon. Don’t do this. It’s not fair.”

“Date Dorothy.” His laugh is glacial. “I don’t mind. It won’t be real, right? Those things never fucking are.”

“I don’t know– it could be.” The ground’s falling under Steve’s feet. “Down the line, or whatever.”

Something cracks, crumples. “I had you. God fucking damnit. I had you and I–”

Steve’s not expecting the sobs until they happen. Flemmed and shaky and pathetic. Those brown eyes silver-wet like moons. 

Eddie pushes his palms into his cheeks. “Sometimes, after you leave, I just stare up at the ceiling and try to invent like, time travel or something. Just to go back and slap the shit outta myself. I was a goddamn coward. Couldn’t face it. Could talk around it, sure. Write it into my songs like that was honest. But, nah, I couldn’t look in the mirror. Definitely couldn’t look at you. I’m facing it now. I need you to know that. It won’t fix all shit I did, won’t fix the stupid fucking way I tried to fix it the first time. It’s there, it’s out, hell, it’s goddamn double platinum.” He sputters it out miserable, “But I am trying. Even if this– if we can’t. Need you to know I’m facing it now. I want to be better.”

Then Eddie looks right at him, looks at Steve like looking is enough to break his heart. “And I don’t wanna be selfish anymore cause it’s poison, Steve. But fuck. I know I don’t deserve it but if you’ll have me, I’ll– I’m there. Whatever way you’ll take me.”

“Eddie.” Steve doesn’t know why he’s here. Why he keeps digging this wound, ripping out stitches.

“Please? Can’t walk away again. Don’t have it in me.”

“Yeah.” Steve laughs. “You only do that when it’s easy.”

Eddie flinches. Shoves a ringed hand into a pocket. “Too late, huh?”

Steve scratches the back of his head and turns on his heel, “We can’t keep doing this.”

He gets as far the kitchen. Eddie quicksteps in front of the counter, blocks his out. But he’s cowering, ducking his head. “Did you um, like the song?”

It swells up all at once, that bone-deep cruelty of it. A gust turned tsunami. “Not really, Ed. Kinda broke my fucking heart.”

“Shit,” Eddie clicks. “Yeah, I, um, I’m not all that good at the grand gesture thing. Probably should have figured that out by now.”

Steve lets it all in. The red that’s been thrumming through his body since this whole thing started. Lets it possess him. He pushes into Eddie’s space, callous and cruel. “You’re really fucking me up, here. Do you know that?”

“I– I’m not trying to.” Eddie blinks. Frustratingly earnest. 

“What we’re doing– Whatever this is. It makes me feel pathetic. I’d be the dumbest asshole on the planet if I took you back.” He’s screaming now. The balcony door is still open. He doesn’t care if anyone hears. He wants them to hear.

Eddie’s lip is shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you.” Steve murmurs. The red’s coming off in whisps, quicker than it ever had, easier than it should. 

Eddie’s smile is weak. His face is wet. “I know.”

“You ruined me.” He leans in, finds half a punch in it. Last one he’s got. 

Eddie closes his eyes, brow furrowed. “I know.”

“I don’t want anyone else.” He’s tired. Bone tired. Tired of the ache that only ever seems to go away around, well–

Eddie’s guilt is plain. It's all of him. “I’m sorry.”

Steve takes a breath. He thinks about second chances.

“You really want to be with me?”

Eddie looks at him like he’s already burrowed in. Ribs and guts and blood. “Got my priorities way out of whack for a minute there. Jesus, way too many minutes there. But yeah. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.  You’re it for me, Stevie.”

Steve groans, taps his forehead lightly against a shelf. Eddie’s hand lands steady at his arm, awkward and cautious and right. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No.” Eddie says soft. “You’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.” Steve shakes his head. Waves a finger into Eddie’s chest. “You sang Dave fucking Matthews.”

“Don’t remind me, man. They’re gonna start shattering my CDs.” He pauses, sincere as ever. ‘I, uh, wouldn’t take it back though.”

Steve groans again, presses his head into Eddie’s shoulder. “No, you don’t get it. You sang Dave Matthews and now I’m gonna have to call my team and tell them it’s not gonna happen with the country singer.”

Eddie blubbers, big Saturday morning cartoon recalibration. “You’re– what?”

Steve shrugs, catches his eye. “Now I’m gonna have to talk about my coming out journey with Angie at People and dude, she’s been on my ass about it for years. Total sore winner.”

He’s shaking his head, “Harrington… Steve. Stevie.”

But Steve keeps rattling on, “I’m gonna have to tip off the paparazzi that Dark Pines star Steve Harrington was spotted sneaking into Eddie Munson’s brownstone at midnight for a secret rendezvous. Gonna have to go for a jog around the block first thing tomorrow, with like, more hickeys than a teen who just got their first girlfriend.”

“You’ve really thought about this, huh?”

Eddie’s back pushes into the edge of the kitchen counter. And Steve thinks about that photo that forced them together again, about Eddie’s easy grin, about the soft adoration high on his cheeks, about never being so young. He thinks about fucking up and growing up and growing apart and changing. And he smiles against chapped lips that taste like cigarettes and coming home.

And he says, “Gonna have to find someone to give me the hickeys.”

And Eddie lights up like the sun, “I know a guy.”

And Steve, well, he thinks about second chances. 

[byersbootyshorts]

Not So Smart Now (S.R.)

Spencer’s intelligence and cocky attitude has always infuriated you. So, when given the chance, you revel in putting him in his place.

Word Count: 2,882

EXPLICIT CONTENT MINORS DNI!!

Warnings: sub!s7!Spencer, dom!reader, smut, unprotected sex, hate sex, dumbification, slapping, degradation, alcohol consumption, language

cocky Spencer is so yummy I wanna rip him apart

This case had been rough. The unsub had slipped through your fingers again and again and each time it seemed like he slipped further away. You forced your eyes to focus as you combed through a plethora of files, trying desperately to find something that could link the unsub to his victims. You sipped your coffee like your life depended on it, but not even the caffeine could help you find what you were missing. Morgan was sitting opposite you and he sighed in frustration. Emily paced back and forth going through the case in her head. You were all stumped.

You looked up at the investigation board, trying to give your eyes a rest from the tiny black letters they’d been staring at. You scanned the photos of the crime scenes. All of the women were found dead in their backyard. Drowned in the clean blue waters of their outdoor pools. You raised a brow, your eyes flicking frantically between the photos. The clean… blue… CLEAN!

“Oh my God, that’s it!” you exclaimed, springing out of your chair in excitement. Emily and Morgan looked at you with expectant expressions.

“What?” Emily asked after you stared in awe at what you’d missed for so long.

“All the pools, they were-,” you began, but just as you were about to explain your theory, Spencer burst through the door, not even aware that you were revealing a crucial part of the case, and began rambling.

“Guys, all the pools were cleaned the day each victim was killed. There wasn’t so much as a leaf or a bug sitting on the surface of the water. So, I checked, and they all hired the same pool cleaner.”

Spencer set a file down on the table that contained a picture of the guy you assumed was the unsub that had been evading you for so long. But you couldn’t even feel relief that you’d finally found him. Because you didn’t find him. Well, you would’ve if Spencer ‘boy genius’ Reid hadn’t of found him first.

The team rifled through photos and records of the unsub for a few minutes before Morgan finally asked you, “Oh, what was it you figured out?”

You glanced over at Spencer with a look that could kill before answering, “It doesn’t matter now. I think Spencer’s got it all covered.” Your voice was higher pitched than usual as you tried your best to fake a pleasant tone. You plastered a false smile on your face and Morgan shrugged, looking back down at the pages on the table.

You tried to follow suit, picking up a page printed with the guy’s phone records. You knew the only thing on your mind should be figuring out how to find this son of a bitch. But you couldn’t concentrate. You were literally seconds away from saying exactly what Spencer said before he stormed in and stole your thunder. He did it all the time. And you hated him for it.

The case was solved and the unsub was found. As always, the team congratulated Spencer on figuring it all out. And you allowed them to. One thing didn’t want to do was make a fuss and say you solved it too. But if he smiled that stupid, cocky smile one more time, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to contain your anger. And sure enough, you couldn’t.

You had just touched down at Quantico. You walked with Emily and JJ to the bullpen to collect some things before leaving. Then, as always, you ended up standing around your desk chatting about the case.

“I don’t think I’ve ever drunk as much coffee in a 24 hour period than I did on that case,” Emily laughed.

“It was rough,” JJ sighed. “I’m glad we got him. I don’t know how many pools there are in Florida but if we hadn’t of caught him I’m sure he wouldn’t have run out of victims.”

You smiled. Finally this was something that would prove your intelligence to the group.

“Actually there’s one mill-,”

“There are one million, five hundred and ninety thousand pools in Florida.”

You turned around to glare at who’d interrupted you. Your eyes narrowed when you saw Spencer sitting at his desk. He hadn’t even looked up from his computer before he’d stolen your opportunity to be smart.

“Oh my God!” you shouted, your eyes widening in disbelief. Of course he had interrupted you again.

Spencer turned to face you at the sound of your raised voice. A puzzled expression spread across his face. He was clueless. He didn’t even know he was doing it.

You knew you should just let it slide and say, “Yeah, that’s correct,” or “That’s what I was going to say,” but you couldn’t this time. You were done putting up with him constantly undermining you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you said, almost laughing at just how much of an ignorant asshole he was.

“Huh?” Spencer grunted, getting up from his desk and walking towards the three of you.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” you asked. You stepped forward so there were only inches between the two of you. Your eyes stared daggers into his.

Spencer shook his head in confusion, his breath wavering slightly. You pretended not to notice the blood rush from his face and down his neck towards… Nope. You weren’t thinking about that.

“You know what, just forget it,” you said, stepping away from him. “You’re not worth my time.” You grabbed your bag, stormed out of the building, got in your car, and sped home.

It had been about thirty minutes since you’d slammed your apartment door, grabbed a bottle of vodka from your cabinet and sat on your couch, scrolling aimlessly through random TV channels. You drank straight from the bottle, your mind reeling with hatred for Spencer. It was like he had some sort of radar that could sense when you were going to say something impressive. And when that radar went off, he had to come in and ruin everything. He was such a know-it-all. And maybe he did know it all, but he didn’t have to rub it in everyone’s faces all the time.

You took another swig from the bottle and sighed. You had no idea how you were going to face him the next day. Being on the team with him was becoming insufferable. You had to do something to stop yourself from wanting to punch him every time you saw him.

It was just past midnight, but you were still wide awake, when you heard a knock on your door. Your brow furrowed as you considered who it could be at this late hour. You set the bottle of vodka on the coffee table and went to unlock the door. When the door swung open your eyes darkened at the figure in front of you. It was Spencer.

“What is your problem with me?” he asked, not even bothering to say hello.

You let out an uncontrollable laugh of sheer anger at his utter obliviousness. The only reason he should be showing up at your door in the middle of the night was to apologise. And yet here he was, not even aware of what he’d done wrong.

“You are unbelievable,” you sighed, turning away from the door and walking back into your apartment. Spencer took that as an invitation to come in, so he stepped forward and shut the door behind him.

“No, seriously, why don’t you like me?” he insisted. “Because I can’t think of anything I’ve done to you that should make you act like this.”

Spencer’s voice raised and his tone became sharp. You couldn’t believe this. He was angry? He had no right to be angry with you.

“Well, Doctor Reid, maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are if you can’t figure out something that’s so painfully obvious,” you snapped.

“Enlighten me, then. Tell me why you hate me so much,” Spencer retorted.

“No,” you said. “If you can’t see what you’re doing wrong then I’m not telling you.”

“Tell me why you hate me and I’ll tell you why I hate you.”

You paused for a moment. You knew your feelings towards him were of hatred, but you had no idea he returned those feelings. Now you were curious

“I hate you because you can’t shut up for one second to let someone else say something smart for once,” you began hastily, desperate to know what he hated about you, but also relieved to get everything off your chest. “Everyone knows you’re a genius, Spencer. You don’t need to prove it all the damn time.”

“What, so you hate me because I’m smart?” Spencer questioned.

“No, I hate you because you don’t let anyone else be smart. I hate you because you get that stupid little grin on your face every time you say something smart.” You began walking towards him, slowly backing him against the wall. “I hate you because every time I see you I have to force myself not to slap that cocky grin right off your face.”

Spencer stayed silent for a moment. He was almost right up against the wall. Your face was so close to his you could feel his breath. You could also feel something else starting to grow in his pants.

“Well, don’t force yourself this time,” Spencer breathed.

“What?” you asked, confused.

“Hit me,” he said bluntly, his mouth widening into that familiar, infuriating grin.

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” you said, taking a step back.

“No, do it. Hit me,” he said, genuinely.

You gave him a hesitant look but he continued to smirk like he was the smartest man alive. You made up your mind. He was giving you the opportunity and you weren’t going to turn it down. You raised your hand and slapped him hard on the cheek. Spencer whined and his hand flew to his face. He rubbed the red mark that was appearing on his cheekbone but his eyes never left yours. And that stupid grin remained on his face.

“Just out of curiosity, is there anything you do like about me?”

You seriously considered his question. You tried to think of one thing you liked about him. It was harder than you thought. Until you remembered the way his breath hitched when you got near him.

“I like that when you look at me your dick gets hard,” you said calmy, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. “I like that I have the power over you to make you do that.” You traced your fingers over the red spot where your hand hit his cheek. “You might be a genius but you’re still just a man. You have needs.” With your other hand, you lightly touched the bulge in his pants. He swallowed but still his eyes remained locked on yours. “Your mind might be one of the greatest of our time, but your body is just like every other man’s. You say you hate me but your body’s telling me something very different. It’s pathetic.” You pushed him back again so he hit the wall. “I could lower your IQ one hundred points just by fucking you,” you whispered.

“Wanna bet?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.

Without hesitation you slammed your lips onto his. He whimpered as his head hit the wall behind him, but soon he melted into the kiss. You could feel his lips curl upwards against yours. He was fucking smiling. He was enjoying this. That only enraged you more. You pushed yourself away from him and glared at him.

“Come here,” you said, turning around and walking towards your bedroom. You escorted Spencer inside the dimly lit room and turned to face him again. You looked down at the ever-growing bulge in his pants and began unbuckling his belt in silence. He sighed when you pulled down his underwear.

“You know what? I excepted more from you, Doctor Reid,” you said finally, smirking down at his below average sized cock that was now fully exposed to you.

Spencer said nothing, but, for the first time, his eyes drifted away from yours.

“Oh, don’t worry. That’s not a bad thing,” you smiled, wrapping your hand around it. “That just means I can take it for longer.”

You picked up the pace of your hand and Spencer moaned quietly. His head fell to lean on your shoulder and he sucked a spot on your neck. Eventually, you lifted your hand from his dick and began unbuttoning his shirt. When you pulled his shirt off his arms you turned your mouth to his ear and whispered, “I’m going to fuck you dumb.”

You pushed him down onto the bed. He lay there while you undressed, taking in your figure. You climbed on top of him and his hands immediately travelled to your thighs. He stared up at you with that smart ass glint in his eye. He wouldn’t look like that for long.

You didn’t flinch as you lowered yourself onto his dick. Spencer squirmed slightly beneath you, trying his best to stifle a whimper.

“I- I know a ton of other facts about Florida, you know. Not just how many pools there are” he said, his smugness slowly draining from his body as you rode him.

“You won’t know them for long,” you smiled, alternating your pace between fast and slow. Your inconstant rhythm was torturing Spencer.

“It’s state flower is the orange blossom,” he said confidently. “And it’s the flattest US state.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, anger flaring up in you again. You wished you could tear his brain right out of his head.

“It’s also 65,758 square m-miles, making it the 22nd largest s-state,” he continued, his words slowly starting to slur.

You looked down at the egotistical smile that was still plastered on his face, despite his stuttering. “Shut up!” you said, raising your voice. You lifted your hand and slapped him again. Harder this time. The whimper that Spencer had been holding in since you started finally escaped his lips.

And, at last, he shut up. The only noise he made was the occasional whine every time you quickened your pace.

“You masochistic fuck,” you laughed, grabbing his shoulders as your thighs began to burn. “All I had to do was hit you again and you’re reduced to a whimpering mess.”

“Shit,” Spencer breathed. “I- I’m go-.” But he couldn’t even warn you before you felt his cum shoot inside of you.

“Not so smart now, huh Doc?” you said shakily. Your breathing was ragged but that didn’t stop you. It didn’t matter that Spencer was finished. You weren’t.

Spencer didn’t get time to recover from his high as you immediately began to pick up your pace again, grinding harder and harder as his cum seeped out between your legs.

“Why don’t you tell me another fact?” you taunted. He looked as though he couldn’t speak, never mind tell you a fact. “What about an easy one? What’s the population of Florida?” you asked.

“It’s, uh- I don’t-. Fuck, I don’t know,” he stuttered.

“Seems like I won the bet then,” you panted. His hips jerked up and you moaned at the sudden movement. Finally seeing Spencer a pathetic heap below you sent you over the edge. You came without a uttering a word. The sensation caused Spencer to shake beneath you as he came for the second time.

You rolled off him and sighed. Spencer’s chest moved rapidly up and down as he tried to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, brushing his hands through his hair.

“What? Are you annoyed that I made you dumb?” you asked, your voice laced with patronization. He rolled his eyes at you and you turned onto your side so your face was close to his.

“You know, you never told me why you hate me,” you said, running your finger down his chest, making his stomach tense.

“It doesn’t matter,” Spencer mumbled, his face flushing slightly.

“Yes it does,” you argued. “I told you, so now you have to tell me.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment before he whispered, barely audibly, “I hate you because… Well, I-.”

“I can’t hear you,” you said, looking at him expectantly.

“I hate you because I’ve wanted you to do that to me since the day I met you,” he blurted out.

You chuckled, grabbing his chin between your finger and thumb. “Well, if you’d told me that when you met me then this could’ve happened a lot sooner.”

“You wanted this to happen?” Spencer asked, a smile forming on the corners of his mouth.

“I wanted to prove you’re not a genius all the time. The sex is just an added bonus,” you explained.

Spencer’s cocky grin appeared back on his face and in an instant you were reminded of how much you detested him.

“Oh, it’s a bonus?” Spencer smirked. “Does that mean you want to do it again?”

You scoffed at his confidence. “I hate you,” you groaned, as you climbed back on top of him, ready to leave him a dumb, pathetic mess once more.

[lovecla]

IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

chapter two:

<last chapter> <next chapter>

➴ warnings: none <3

➴ word count: 2.5k

➴ author’s note: this is pure fluffiness, the calm before the storm, the hughes being the best family in the world and jack making my heart MELT (i literally wrote him). i hope u guys enjoy this too. let me know what u think of this one:))

“AND that, my loves, it’s a wrap on ‘rip to my feelings’!” Grace yelled, and everyone yelled too.

You were in your studio with all of your producers and song-writers, plus Grace, and you had just finished recording the last song on your album.

You were beyond happy. Finishing this meant getting over everything Harris did to you. It was like closure. It was like restarting again.

“Guys, I’m so fucking happy, I love you all so much I could kiss you on the mouth right now,” you said, hugging John— the main producer.

“Don’t think Jack would appreciate that,” Grace mumbled when you hugged her, and you smacked her butt.

Jack.

You had sent him the demo of the album as soon as it was sent to your phone, not really sure why. You just wanted his opinion, that’s all.

Not much fuck buddy of you but whatever!

“Fuck off, Grace Morgan,” you fake whispered, laughing.

You all celebrated and laughed for hours, the time passing quickly whenever you spent it with the people you loved. You were grateful for having so many amazing people in your life, helping you to make your dreams come true.

Your phone rang, and you picked it up, unlocking it and smiling when you saw who had texted: Jack.

It was funny seeing how he complimented you in his own little, weird way. It made your heart beat in the wrong— right— way all over again.

“Did he just ask you on a date?” Grace whispered, probably reading your texts over your shoulder. Everyone else had already left— it was late, after all— and only Grace was left. You were sure she was probably going to sleep at your place anyway.

“I guess? We never just ‘hanged out’ before.” You sighed, replying to Jack’s texts.

“Woah,” she whistled, sitting back on the couch, looking at you funny. “Are you in love?”

“What?” You laughed, locking your phone. “What do you mean, we’ve been fucking for six months only. Chill.”

“Girl, like time matters to you!” She raised her arms. “You fell in love with that piece of shit in like three weeks, imagine with Jack, who fucks you every other week and treats you like you’re the most precious thing ever.”

“Excuse me? Are we talking about the same Jack?” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Jack doesn’t treat anyone differently. Besides his family, that is.”

“Like the shit he does for you isn’t anything special, right? Like knowing your Five Guys order, or your favorite movies, or how you eat apple pie before your concerts,” she started listing those things on her fingers.

“He doesn’t know those things!” You raised your voice, trying to convince both you and her.

“Girl, I love you but stop playing dumb. He knows and you know he does! Why are you pretending that he doesn’t care about you? He just asked you on a date, for fuck’s sake.” She rolled her eyes.

“First of all,” you started, mentally listing your reasons. “We don’t know if it’s a date. He just said: dinner. He didn’t say ‘I wanna take you out on a date’. Second of all, I’m not denying anything, but I think I would know if I was in love with him, wouldn’t I?”

Actually. The answer was probably no. Harris fucked up your perception of love, and even though it’s been more than a year that you broke up with him, you still feel like you can’t really trust anyone anymore.

So you wouldn’t exactly be able to tell if you are in love or not. At least, you don’t think so.

But talking about love with your fuck buddy? Hell. No.

“You piss me off.” Grace bickered, turning the TV on. “Go change to your little date. I’ll be here, all alone and sad.”

“Pff, shut up. You’re just alone because you and Nico are dumbasses.” You said like it was a matter of fact and left the leaving room, leaving a very pink Grace behind.

Changing didn’t take long, and applying a light makeup didn’t either. You weren’t going to do anything special because, let’s be real, if you and Jack decided to be reckless and fuck somewhere, that makeup wouldn’t last long. So, why bother?

You left your house, saying goodbye to Grace and kissing her cheek. Jack’s fancy ass car was in front of your garage and you smiled, entering it.

“Hi, Jackie boy,” you greeted him, noticing how fucking good he looked, wearing his burgundy suit. Thank god to whoever created the suit rule in hockey. You’ll forever be grateful.

“Hey.” He greeted back, and did something surprising. He kissed you. Softly, and not like any other kiss you’ve shared in the past.

And that didn’t do anything to help the little cardiac arrest you had every time you were around him.

“Are we ready to rock our lasagna?” You asked, half embarrassed and half confused with what you were feeling. Food always made it better though.

“We sure are.” He smiled before starting the car again.

The silence was comfortable but your thoughts were too loud so you took the liberty of turning the radio on, scaring yourself with how loud the music playing was. And, shockingly, your music. Already Over was blasting through the speakers.

You looked at him, and he just shrugged, cheeks red.

“Were you listening to my music on the way to my place?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s good,” he blushes so cutely you find yourself wanting to chomp a piece of his cheek.

“You’re so cute, Jackie. Thanks, means a lot,” you had a feeling you were blushing too, and you thanked God he wasn’t looking at you. “I’m excited to release it.”

“When are you doing it?” He asked, making a U turn.

“Beginning of the next month. Now I have to take pictures and set up the concept for it. It’s my favourite part.”

“Are you doing any music videos with a guy dying?” He asked and you stared at him, once again surprised. Had he been watching your music videos? All of them? “What?”

“Are you a fan?” You giggled, genuinely happy. Harris hated to talk about your work, and he never listened to your songs for more than ten minutes.

“Nico forces us to listen to your songs and watch your music videos,” he answered, nonchalantly. You smiled, nodding your head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” You played dumb.

“Like that. You have this little minx stare that you do whenever you’re plotting something.” He smiled this time, and God if the sight didn’t make you feel full.

“You’re no fun,” you sighed, looking at the view. “Also, where is this restaurant? We’ve been driving for at least twenty minutes and nothing in Jersey takes more than that.”

“The restaurant is actually my parents’ house.” He says, like it’s nothing.

“What?!” You yelled, turning your head in his direction. “What do you mean you’re taking me to your fucking parents’?”

“Yeah. Ma’s making lasagna for you.”

Your cheeks were burning hot and you had this bubbly feeling inside of you. You were feeling something really weird and you started to wonder if Grace was right and—

“Soph?” You heard his voice, gentle and soft. You looked at him, noticing that he wasn’t driving anymore, and that the car was now parked in front of a big, beautiful, colonial house. His parents’ house. “We can go back if you want to, baby. Ma won’t be angry or anything like that.”

Stop making me want to trust you, Jack.

He caressed your cheek, and you snapped out of it. “No, it’s fine. I just… you could’ve said something, y’know? I’m wearing sweatpants.” You tried to make a joke, smiling. He smiled too.

“I’ll put on some sweatpants too, so we’re matching,”

“Right.”

You left the car, taking a deep breath. It was just his parents. You weren’t even dating so it would be fine.

Wait.

“What did you tell them? That you’re bringing one of the girls you’re fucking home?” You asked just before you walked in their property.

He raised an eyebrow at you, scowling. “First of all, I’m not fucking anyone else. It’s just you. Second of all, I told them I’m bringing a friend.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to do anything else.

He’s not fucking anyone else? Jack Hughes? The man whore of the NJ Devils?

Yikes, sure.

You both walked into the house, Jack not bothering knocking before entering it. A delicious smell of fresh tomato sauce and herbs reached your nose and you could swear your mouth was watering.

“Ma, we’re here!” Jack yelled, making you jump a little bit. You eyed him before facing the woman in front of you, who was absolutely gorgeous. She looked so fucking young and pretty, and you were biting your tongue, trying not to say something stupid. “Hi, Ma, this is Soph. Soph, that’s Ellen, Ma Hughes,”

“Hi, Mrs. Hughes. Nice to meet you.” You said, certain that your cheeks were on flame.

Ellen took a step closer, smiling. “Hi, darlin��. No need for formalities, dear, it’s just Ellen. I would hug you but,” she pointed at her apron and shrugged. “A bit dirty.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“No, thank you for making this guy over here visit me,” she slapped Jack’s shoulder, both of them smiling together. “He only called because he said you wanted to eat lasagna and he loves mine so that’s why he’s here.”

If your face wasn’t going to melt before, it definitely was now. You were going to kill Jack. For real this time.

“Come on, Ma, I can’t be worse than Luke and Quinn. They don’t even remember your address anymore,” was Jack actually pouting? Jesus. Your heart was not ready to see that.

“Stop throwing us under the bus, dickhead.” Luke’s voice was heard and you and Jack both watched as both Quinn and Luke entered the room. “‘Sup, Soph.”

“Hi, Luke. Hi, Quinn,” you greeted them with cheek kisses, not even wanting to acknowledge that you had actually missed them. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, Soph,” Quinn quietly answered, not a single thought behind those eyes. “Great to see you.”

“I hope you’re all hungry because your mom outdid herself tonight,” Jim, the dad, said, smiling when he noticed you. “Hello there. I’m Jim.”

“Hi,” you whispered, mortified with all the attention you were getting. Some would think that performing for big crowds would make you less anxious to meet people. Nope. “I’m Sophia. Thank you for having me.”

“It’s fine, as my baby was saying, we do need our son to visit more.”

As they discussed why Jack didn’t visit them more frequently, you felt Jack’s arms around your waist and his mouth on the tip of your ear. You froze. “Yeah, they call each other baby and honey. Sorry about that.”

You managed to smile, trying not to get his family’s attention. They certainly wouldn’t understand why he was this close to a friend.

“I think it’s cute.”

The dinner went awesomely well. The lasagna was amazing and Ellen and Jim were the cutest couple ever, you could see how they’ve raised three amazing men.

They asked questions about what being a postar meant nowadays, and what was it like during your tours, and how could someone sing and dance at the same time, and have you ever met Adele?

They’re great people. Even Quinn and Luke, who had talked to you before on different occasions, made sure you were included in every topic, and Luke even asked for a signed cap so he could wear it at UMich.

“Do you guys know what we should definitely do?” Ellen started, after forcing all of the boys to organize the kitchen and do the dishes, while you sat with her drinking wine. Yeah, you loved her. “Karaoke. Let Soph here show us how good she is.”

“Maa,” you could hear Luke whining, while running his hands through his beautiful curls. “You do this every time.”

“You’ll make her work on her day off? That’s wild, Ma.” Jack joked, putting his arms around your shoulder. You froze again, looking at the expressions of his family, trying to picture anything out of place.

No one was looking at you weirdly, besides Ellen who plastered the most gorgeous smile you’ve ever seen, which made you smile too.

“I don’t mind singing…” you said, softly.

“Perfect!” Ellen stood up from her seat, pouring more wine on her glass. “Jim, set the karaoke thing on.”

“It’s called YouTube, Ma.” Jack rolled his eyes.

“Leave your mom alone, ugly face,” Jim called him out, on his way to do exactly what Ellen asked. “Sophia, can you sing some Elvis?”

“Yes, ‘course.” You also got up, discussing with Jim which song he wanted you to sing.

“Tell her to sing our song, honey!” Ellen yelled from the dinner table.

“Ah, yes, yes.”

Turns out that their song is Can’t Help Falling in Love, which was so freaking sweet. You sang the romantic lyrics while Jim and Ellen danced with each other, swinging slowly and delicately.

Quinn and Luke were recording themselves with you singing in the background, while you waved happily to the camera.

Jack was sitting on the couch, watching you sing. You could feel his eyes on you, observing your every move, smiling whenever you’d hit a high note or change the song’s rhythm.

It was nice. So, so nice. The Hughes were such nice people and you felt so safe and adored around them. They asked you to sing more songs and when you noticed, you were singing an upbeat song with Jim and dancing between Quinn and Luke while Ellen filmed everything. Until Jack grabbed you again and made you sing in front of him, for him. And boy, how you wanted to kiss him. His blue eyes were shining brightly and he looked just as happy as you felt.

You ended the singing when it was around midnight, everyone exhausted and sweaty— even if it was winter.

You started saying your goodbyes and thanking Ellen and Jim for the best lasagna you’ve ever eaten and for the hospitality too.

“I hope you come back soon.” Ellen whispered in your ear when you were hugging her, and you held her slightly tighter.

When you left the house with Jack, you couldn’t contain your happiness inside you. Grabbing his arm, you pulled him until you were near his car, and standing on your tiptoes, you kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, both of you moaning inside each other’s mouth. His tongue made its way inside your mouth, pillowy and so soft. You were finally melting into Jack’s arms and nothing could be better.

Until you realized what was going on.

You had just had dinner with Jack’s family, sang and danced with them, and now you were in the middle of the street of a fancy neighborhood, with Jack Hughes holding you close to his chest, while devouring your mouth.

And instead of not feeling anything, instead of keeping things casual, you were feeling everything. Each tiny part of every emotion there is in this world were making their way into your heart and, unfortunately, you didn’t want to take them out.

Because for the first time in more than one year, you wanted to feel.

[stillfoodforguys]

I’ve been training as a swimmer my whole life, with the hope that I might enter the Olympics one day. But there was another athlete taking the world by storm, and I knew I could never catch up with him.

You could tell that Damien was powerful just from his tall, ripped body. But it was even more obvious when he swam, his seemingly inhuman strength the cause of his regularly record breaking performance. The rest of us suspected he had a secret, which might have been something to do with other trainees in our group disappearing without a trace. Little did I know, I was about to find out from the man himself.

Damien cornered me in the changing rooms after a practice session, flexing his pecs at me before making a sexual advance. I didn’t want to pass up the chance to be pleasured by this hairy hunk, allowing him to pin me against the wall and tease my hole with his fingers before the main event. His long, solid shaft slid all the way inside me, his hips slamming hard against my toned ass. His hands wandered all over my body as he fucked me, examining every detail of my muscles while he pressed his own massive, wet body against my back. With his cock firmly pressed against my prostate, he whispered something directly into my ear.

“You’ve worked hard to get your body nice and lean, haven’t you? But I’m the star athlete here, and I can put all that power to much better use…”

I felt Damien grab my neck before everything went dark, my head pulled into some kind of tight, slimy passage. I realised that he was eating me, but had absolutely no chance of fighting back against such a massive man. With a few strong gulps I was packed into his sweltering stomach, my body making his midsection round and bloated. I could hear him laugh cruelly and confidently as I squirmed inside him, but once his fun was over it was time to absorb what I had to offer.

Damien flexed his abs to crush me within his stomach, my bones creaking and air rushing out of my lungs as digestive juices came flooding into his tank. I was knocked out by the raw power of his body before it broke me down in a matter of seconds, and his bloated belly compressed back to its original size.

[starlightshadowsworld]

Headcannon that anytime a particularly awful client comes into the Agency, everyone calls Kunikida to deal with them.

The teens (Kenji, Kyouka, Junichiro, Naomi and Atsushi) will do so anyway.

Kunikida has told them all that if anyone gives them trouble they are to alert him immediately.

But depending on how awful they are, the others absolutely take advantage of that and also call Kunikida. Despite being more than able to deal with it.

Because nothing, nothing they can do will ever beat Kunikida walking into the room with an air of protective rage that rivals the Presidents.

And verballing ripping the client to pieces.

People have left that room in tears, that's how angry Kunikida gets. They are too afraid to even try to complain. And those that try to fight back Kunikida will make them regret it.

All without using his ability.

And God forbid any of these clients lay a hand on any member of the Agency and Kunikida learns about it.

They could get Fukuzawa but he's not always available, and frankly this a lot more entertaining.

Dazai: It's terrible Kunikida, they were getting all up in our faces and Atsushi was just asking some honest questions.

Kunikida:... Pissed Where are they?

Dazai: In the waiting area.

Kunikida: storms off

Atsushi: Are you...recording them?

Dazai: Of course I am, come on you're not gonna want to miss this.

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 10 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, mentions of blood (just a nosebleed friends), suggestive themes, lovesick characters, SLOW BURN

words: 8k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 10 ► don’t try to fight the storm, you’ll tumble overboard, tides will bring me back to you

That night, Jungkook realised he had a new pre-concert tradition: tossing and turning in his bunk on the tour bus.

And it wasn’t the upcoming performance that was keeping him awake. It was the fact that he’d almost kissed you not even two hours ago, and now you were lying metres away from him in your own bunk.

He thought he was insane, the way he could identify your breathing. Although to be fair, that was mostly because Hoseok sighed and moved his limbs back and forth, Taehyung and Luna stayed up whispering into all kinds of hours of the night, and Yoongi just plain snored (despite always claiming otherwise) – you were easy enough for him to differentiate.

But he couldn’t tell if you were asleep or not.

You weren’t—obviously—but, unlike him, you forced yourself not to focus on how close he was. Forced yourself not to hear the soft creaking that was caused by him, evidently still awake, but trying not to be.

It was almost ironic how aware you were of each other, how your minds were thinking the same thing, but your bodies were resisting it.

A part of you wanted to get up. Wanted to walk up to him and ask point-blank, “what the fuck was that?”. But you stayed still, your fists clenched, and eyes stubbornly squeezed shut.

Maybe you didn’t ask because you didn’t know what you expected to hear in response.

Similarly, Jungkook tortured himself with the possibility of simply explaining himself to you. Although he wasn’t sure what he would say. Why didn't he kiss you? Would it really have been so terrible?

But it would have. He knew that. He found himself unable to kiss you because he knew his friends would assume he’d done it to win the bet.

He exhaled deeply and Hoseok—in his bunk, right in front of Jungkook—turned to his other side and stretched his leg out, dangling it over the edge of the bed.

Maybe he should just tell his friends that the bet was off. And if they didn’t agree, maybe he should kick them off the tour. They’d go home. He probably wouldn’t see them again.

But then, would he have anything left?

As his eyes drifted to your bunk again, he swallowed and tossed away the pillow from under his head, resting on the bare mattress instead. He hoped he could at least get a few minutes of sleep.

In the morning, he’d try to focus on other things. It might not work for very long, but he could at least try. He could start by showing the lyrics he’d been working on to Namjoon.

After finishing your phone call with the label executives in Rated Riot’s dressing room during the band’s soundcheck before the Oslo show (Jett Records were thrilled now that the tour was nearly sold out), you were surprised when you turned around and saw Yoongi.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, checking the time on your phone. “Didn’t the soundcheck—”

“Came for a bottle of water, but overheard your call,” he explained, lifting the bottle in his hand. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfect, actually,” you replied, looking down to slip your phone into your pocket. “I was on the phone with a few execs.”

When you looked up, Yoongi had a very specific comment about that.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“I’m—oh.” You felt it immediately after his words registered—a thick, uncomfortable warmth under your nose. You raised your hand and instinctively threw your head back. “Oh, shit.”

Yoongi jumped to grab the box of tissues off the table. He ripped open the package and handed you one.

“Here.” He lead you to the couch at the back of the room. “I’ve heard you’re not supposed to tilt your head back when you—sit down.”

You wiped your philtrum and pressed the tissue tightly to your nose to stop the bleeding.

“You heard right. It’s a reflex,” you said, allowing him to help you lower yourself on the couch. “I’m fine, though, it’s—I used to get nosebleeds all the time in school. It’s nothing.”

He still looked worried as he sat down next to you.

“I think you’re overworking yourself,” he said. “Are you sleeping?”

The question you’d asked every member of Rated Riot almost every day made you snort.

“I’m sleeping, Yoongi,” you said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You were saying that someone from the label called you? Everything alright?”

“Mmhmm.” You nodded and immediately froze as you realised that moving your head wasn’t good for the bleeding. “They’re very pleased. I’m afraid you’ll only be able to rest for a few weeks once the tour wraps up. They want a new record as soon as you’re home.”

“That’s fine,” he said, waving a hand to dismiss your concern. “We’re musicians, it’s what we do.”

“You’ve been working without breaks, though. I’m a little worried.”

“Said our manager, while literally having a nosebleed.”

You looked away and insisted, dignified, “I’m fine.”

“So are we,” he said. “We’re used to this.”

You didn’t doubt it. The four of them lived and breathed music, so they obviously didn’t mind being constantly surrounded by it. Especially Yoongi. You knew he was in another band before, but he didn’t talk much about his time before Rated Riot. And you never asked, although you were certainly curious—not only as his friend, but as his manager, too. You heard that the vocalist from Yoongi’s old band had an extraordinary voice; she could have added a unique layer to Rated Riot’s new album. You wondered if he was still in touch with her.

“I thought we’d agreed on putting out EPs for now, though?” Yoongi said, distracting you from your thoughts.

“Yeah, uh, they’re fine with everything,” you said, pulling the tissue away. The bleeding had stopped, which was a relief because you didn’t have time to be stuck here for half an hour with a nose stuffed with tissues. “They’re simple people: the more shows you sell out, the more lenient they become.”

Yoongi chuckled and got up to bring you a fresh tissue. Then he returned to the table by the door and put his bottle down.

He appeared to be hesitating. You waited for a few seconds until he turned around, and you could see right away that he still had more to say, but it was taking him some time to find the words.

“There’s something else I wanted to mention to you,” he said after a minute, confirming your thoughts. “But maybe now isn’t the right—”

“I’m fine,” you repeated. His hesitation made you nervous. “What is it?”

“Did you know Jungkook was working on some music?” Yoongi asked. His expression resembled that of a disappointed teacher, and you were surprised to find yourself in the role of the student.

“Yeah, he, uh, mentioned it the other night,” you replied.

You got up to throw away the tissues and kept your gaze on the floor. The memory of last night and everything you and Jungkook had talked about, or, rather, not talked about, was still fresh in your mind. You were almost afraid that the night sky from yesterday would be reflected in your eyes when you looked up.

“Did he say what it was?” Yoongi asked.

Awkwardly, you replied, “not, um—not in detail.”

“Well, he played a quick demo to Namjoon and me earlier today. And it’s good stuff,” he said with a deep exhale that forced his shoulders to hunch and made him appear very small. His otherwise strong and commanding presence contradicted this appearance very much. He continued, “it’s just… it’s more Cigarettes After Sex than Architects. Not to mention, Reconnaissance. Or, you know, any other band that we usually get inspiration from.”

You nearly flinched at the mention of Reconnaissance and crossed your arms over your chest to play it off.

It made sense for Yoongi to be unsettled by this; he was responsible for a lot of Rated Riot’s music and was one of the main influencers of the band’s sound.

What didn’t make sense, however, was why he was talking to you about it.

“Did you tell him that?” you asked.

“I told him to keep working on it,” he said. “He said he recorded it on his phone as soon as he woke up because he came up with the lyrics very late at night. And we—well, I don’t want to discourage him.”

“Right,” you nodded, thinking that perhaps it was just Yoongi himself who needed encouragement, which was why he came to you. You tried to get him to elaborate, “so, you think he’s deviating from Rated Riot’s normal sound?”

“Not… deviating, exactly,” he said, reaching for something behind his neck—perhaps to adjust a bothersome label on his leather jacket, or maybe just to scratch an unreachable itch somewhere deep inside his skin. “We’re versatile, I like to think. Definitely not restricted to a certain genre and nothing else. But, well, if our new record’s going to be a heartbreak anthem, then I’m afraid all the effort we’re putting into making this tour a success could be in vain.”

You were surprised. But not about the fact that Jungkook was, apparently, working on songs about heartbreak (your mind decided to compartmentalise this information and deal with it later; maybe when you were alone in your bunk on the bus). No, you were surprised that Yoongi was so adamantly opposed to it.

“You have a few songs that are, on a certain level, about heartbreak,” you reminded him. “They didn’t do so bad.”

That was gentle. The songs were a success for a non-pop band that was just starting out. Even some mainstream radio stations picked up some songs, although they were never included in regular rotation. But that was understandable, and it was still good enough for the time being.

“Yeah, I don’t mean that they wouldn’t do well. But a whole album? You know? A whole album full of nothing, but heartbreak?” Yoongi continued, his voice showing first glimpses of agitation. You watched him, squinting slightly as you tried to find what to say. He paced back and forth by the tables as he explained, “I mean, intense emotion is fine. It’s appreciated. We work with it every time we’re in the studio. But there are only so many metaphors for getting your heart ripped out.”

Your eyes widened at the intense words—there was heartbreak, and then there was a ripped-out heart—but you hoped Yoongi didn’t catch it—he did—as you cleared your throat and composed yourself as much as possible before speaking.

“Was that…” you tried, your voice weak, “what his new song was about?”

“Not yet, because he only had one verse,” Yoongi admitted. He stopped pacing and began to watch you. You thought you had gotten used to him, but now you felt intimidated again, almost like the first time you’d met. “But he’s headed there.”

You were at a very awkward loss for words, so you only hummed and nodded lightly.

Yoongi continued in response to your silence, “he once told me that he texts someone else about his lyrics. Maybe not in this case, but perhaps he’s shown something else to, um... to this person?”

You lifted your eyebrows, not catching the insinuation. “Someone else is helping him?”

Yoongi seemed taken aback by your reaction.

“Oh, you didn’t—I was hoping that person was you. But you didn’t know?” he asked. There was a sharp edge in his voice that made you look down.

“No,” you admitted. You thought that was obvious, given your confusion about the specifics of this particular song. If you didn’t know about this one, why would you know what else he was working on?

And you felt irrational guilt at Yoongi’s question—or, rather, at the unintentional accusation in his tone—as you realised that despite your attempts, you didn’t really know everything that went on with the band.

“Okay. I guess that makes sense,” Yoongi said, needing a moment to compose himself. He was convinced that you were the one who reviewed Jungkook’s lyrics, but he could see now that it was unlikely. He couldn’t imagine you approving of the pain that Jungkook’s latest lyrics were so full of, not even for the greater good of the band.

But Yoongi couldn’t guess who else this person could be, because it wasn’t him or Hoseok, and it wasn’t Namjoon, either—none of the usual Rated Riot’s lyricists.

“Regardless,” Yoongi said. “That person could have influence over what he writes next.”

“And you don’t know who it is?” you clarified.

“I have no clue. He never told me.”

You hesitated before suggesting, “I-I guess I could ask him.”

That seemed to be what Yoongi was hoping for.

“Yeah, you should do that,” he said in a tone that he, once again, didn’t control very well. “Ask him what they think of his lyrics. Or, actually, maybe you should find that person yourself. I don’t know why Jungkook is being so secretive about it, anyway. It has to be someone on the label, don’t you think? Someone you would know.”

Yoongi didn’t intend to imply that you weren’t doing your job properly, but he could tell from your reaction that he may have done that. More careful now, he cleared his throat.

“Ah. I don’t know,” he continued, his voice gentler. He wasn’t angry or disappointed. Just anxious, he supposed, and his anxiety didn’t always translate into amiable words. “I mean, it’s great what he’s doing. I’m happy that he writes. But he puts a lot of pressure on himself. He feels a lot, even if he doesn’t always show it.”

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“Yeah,” he echoed. “So, I don’t want it to overwhelm him to the point where he’s blind to everything but the mess inside of him.”

Truthfully, Yoongi didn’t know how to approach Jungkook about this, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it outright. It was a flaw he knew he had—which was more of an undeveloped skill than a flaw—but he preferred to be upfront. He didn’t think he was good at soothing someone’s feelings; he preferred to solve problems.

However, with Jungkook, being straightforward could feel like pouring salt on an open wound. Yoongi’s tendency to be blunt wasn’t suitable for everyone, and he didn’t want to make it worse for the younger member.

He suspected you’d be better at talking to him, and you understood that without Yoongi needing to ask you directly.

“I—yeah,” you said. “Thank you for coming to me. I’ll ask him.”

��Okay, thank you,” he said. Then, he quickly realised what he was saying—perhaps because of the solemn look on your face—and added, “oh, but don’t think it’s because you’ve known him the longest. Well, that should help. But, really, it’s just because you’re good at that. Talking. Just listening. I’m sure the other members would probably ask you to talk to me if I was the one in—um, in a crisis.”

You smiled at the mild word, but there was a sharp spasm in your chest—Nick’s offer to work with Reconnaissance—that made you avoid Yoongi’s gaze when he praised your communication skills.

“Thank you for saying that,” you replied.

He should have given himself more credit. He was clearly capable of saying the right thing at the right time. And your gratitude was the reason why you didn’t think now was the time to bring up Reconnaissance. Maybe that time would never come, and Nick’s offer would just pass. You hoped it would.

“Yeah,” Yoongi said, looking away. He picked up his water bottle again and reached for the door. “I’ll go back. You get some rest, okay? Don’t go looking for him right away. Do it when you’re feeling better.”

You nodded and watched him leave. Alone in the changing room, you swallowed the emotions that had been building up inside you and tried to figure out your next steps.

Deciding to focus on one of your roles – the present manager, not the manager-who-might-quit-but-probably-won’t, and certainly not the ex-girlfriend (although this role gained weird prominence in Europe) – you planned to find Jungkook after the show and talk to him.

About what Yoongi said. Not about anything else.

But as you left the dressing room to find Seokjin and Jimin, you realised that everything in your life was intertwined anyway, and you didn’t know if it would be possible to keep those two roles separate.

After the concert, you found Jungkook in the smoking area with his friends. They looked like you walked in carrying a pot of gold for the four of them. Except Minjun, who appeared almost wounded when he noticed you.

You did a double-take when you saw his reaction, thinking you had misunderstood. But he developed a sudden interest in the pavement tiles, so you couldn’t really look at him.

However, you didn’t want to worry about that when you were so close to Sid—and, therefore, on the edge of having to endure listening to his voice—so you ignored Minjun’s evasive gaze, and asked for a minute alone with Jungkook. Not only did you need to talk to him, but they were also smoking together right after Jungkook performed an 18-song set, so you had to split them up.

Feigning nonchalance, his three friends excused themselves. You turned around just in time to see them wiggling their eyebrows suggestively at Jungkook.

You chose to ignore their antics once more and noticed Jungkook doing the same as he put out his cigarette without lifting his gaze.

“I had an interesting conversation today,” you said as soon as the venue door closed, leaving you and Jungkook alone in the back of the building.

He had been worried when you asked for a minute alone and the first sense of awkwardness was starting to poke at his mind, but now that you had gotten straight to the point, he felt himself relax. Whatever it was that you wanted to talk to him about, it probably wasn’t as bad as what he’d been dreading.

“Hmm? With whom?” he asked.

“Yoongi,” you said. “He kind of scolded me a little, I think.”

Snickering, Jungkook nodded. Yoongi was the designated disciplinarian in the band. A role he did not accept, but enacted, nevertheless.

“Figures,” he remarked. “About what?”

You crossed your arms, still unaccustomed to the chilly wind, and shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“Uh, apparently, you’re writing ballads?” you said.

Jungkook needed a second. “You got scolded because I’m writing ballads?”

“He doesn’t want your next record to be a ‘heartbreak anthem’,” you explained. “That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

If the night wasn’t so dark—the glow from the exit sign behind Jungkook wasn’t providing any actual light whatsoever—you would have noticed how he paled after hearing this.

He didn’t know how much Yoongi had told you, and he shouldn’t have been embarrassed in any case—if his lyrics became a song, he’d have to sing it not only in front of you, but in front of thousands of people.

But for some reason, the idea of a large crowd intimidated him less. So, he felt like he needed to do damage control for the one listener he was worried about.

“Oh,” he began slowly. “Well, it definitely won’t be. I’m just… doodling. I don’t know.”

That was a weak excuse. You both knew that if he shared his lyrics with anyone, whether it was Yoongi, or one of the producers—usually Namjoon—that meant he believed he had something worth sharing. He’d never show his “doodles” to anyone. He couldn’t look at some of them himself.

“It’s not just doodling,” you said. “Yoongi thinks it’s good. He just doesn’t want the whole record to be filled with similar slow-tempo songs.”

“Who said anything about slow-tempo?” he asked, even more surprised because he was fairly certain he had made it clear to the two boys that he didn’t have a definite melody yet. “We create music for people to scream along to.”

You smiled. That was a very simple way to put it.

“Well, Yoongi implied that the way you sang sounded kind of—”

“It’s just a demo,” he said. “I’m working on the melody.”

That was fair enough, and you nodded. “Okay.”

He watched you until your eyes moved to his. Suddenly scared, he looked away and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Unlike you, he wasn’t cold. Just overwhelmed by everything the two of you were not saying to each other right now.

“Yoongi also mentioned that there’s someone else you send your lyrics to,” you said—asked, maybe; you weren’t sure what you were hoping he’d say.

Jungkook looked startled. “He—what did he say?”

The demanding tone in his voice caught you off-guard.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” you said. “He doesn’t know who’s helping you and h-he just wants to—”

“He doesn’t need to know,” he interrupted, his voice firm. Evidently, this was not a discussion he wanted to have. “There’s no one helping me.”

Really, all this did was make you more curious about what was going on. A part of you wondered if the alleged love of his life in Paris was a real person, after all.

“Why does he think that there is, though?” you pushed.

“Because it’s—it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, arms crossed and body turned away from you. “I just have someone who looks through the lyrics for me. That’s all.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A friend that I haven’t met?”

“You…” he hesitated. “You’ve met.”

It was possible, and far more likely, you supposed, that this person really was one of the producers at the label. Perhaps someone currently working with a different band, hence the secrecy.

“Okay,” you said, deciding to let it go. He was resisting your questions far too intensely. If Yoongi wanted to know more, he could put on his armour and go to battle himself. “Well, what do they think of your lyrics?”

“My lyrics are fine,” he said curtly. Then, in an eager attempt to change the topic, he asked, “why did Yoongi talk to you about my song in any case?”

“He’s concerned,” you replied.

“About what?”

“About your feelings,” you said, simplifying it so much that you didn’t blame Jungkook for rolling his eyes.

“Because we’re men and we don’t talk about our feelings,” he deadpanned.

“It’s not that. He just didn't know how to...” you faltered. “Well, I wanted to remind you that, uh, no matter what, if there’s something bothering you—even if you don’t want to talk to me about it, you can—”

The “no matter what” was what made him groan, cutting you off. The implication in your words was clear as the memory of the two of you in the bar last night flashed back through his mind.

But it was the insinuation that he’d want to talk to someone other than you that made him pull his hands out of his pockets in agitation.

“I wrote one song!” he declared, his voice gaining volume. Really, this wasn’t even what he was angry about. “Why are you acting like I’m standing on some ledge, about to jump?”

Unfazed by his reaction, you explained calmly, “Yoongi seemed to think you were headed straight down.”

He snickered sarcastically. “Ah. Hopeful for me, isn’t he? Is Namjoon coming to talk to you about his concern for me next? Did they decide to let you know about it, so you’d somehow end my pain and I’d start writing about love, and sunshine, and all the other joys of life instead?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t even considered that possibility. You assumed the rest of the band respected you too much to even mention your relationship with Jungkook, let alone suggest that you could influence him so much that he’d start writing about love instead of heartbreak.

And now you were the one whose skin prickled with shock.

“He—well, Yoongi didn’t say it like—did you, um—”

“If you’re worried that I told them what my songs are about,” Jungkook cut in, ending your near-panicked stuttering, “then I don’t think I have to tell them anything. I’m pretty sure they know enough.”

“No, I…” you began, but claiming that you weren’t worried about that was a lie. You tried again, “I didn’t talk to Namjoon at all. And as for Yoongi—I-I don’t think he was worried about the topic of your lyrics. Not exactly. He just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That’s why he came to me. So I’d check up on you.”

The more you repeated your reasoning, the clearer it became to him that you were just trying to convince yourself. He believed that you were running away from the blatant fact that he was writing about you, and that had to be the reason why Yoongi wanted to talk to you.

Jungkook couldn’t help but snort, mumbling a cynical, “funny.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just the way you believe the explanations that you prefer,” he said, an almost hostile glint in his eyes, “instead of the ones that are actually more plausible.”

He was blind to the possibility that his own assumptions could have been wrong, but his words were too unexpected for you to point that out.

Surprised by the accusation, you leaned back so far that you almost tumbled backwards. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get offended,” he said. He had already stopped talking about his lyrics and Yoongi’s reasoning for talking to you. “I sometimes do it, too. It’s just that, what I prefer to believe is, clearly, different from you.”

You guessed that this wasn’t about your conversation with Yoongi. That this was actually about last night and many nights before.

But you didn’t want to be the one to remind him that he was the reason why you left the bar yesterday. He was the one who ended the conversation on the bridge. He was the one who lied to you about Paris.

If anyone had the right to raise their voice, it was you.

You pursed your lips and regarded him for a few seconds before asking, “is there something you want to talk to me about?”

He looked away. “Later.”

“Later?” You scowled. “When?”

“When the time is right,” he answered, not trying to be ominous but coming off that way anyway.

“When the—okay.” You dropped your hands to your sides and brushed your fingers against your thighs as you looked at the parking lot on your left. “Why don’t you channel this drama into songwriting? Despite Yoongi’s concern, he’s happy you’re writing. And proud.”

Your gentle delivery touched him more than he’d anticipated, and he blinked, turning to look at you with unexpected warmth in his gaze.

He asked softly, “he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” you said. “But maybe that’s another thing I choose to believe because that’s what I prefer.”

He exhaled and closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“And I didn’t take anything from it, just that you have a point,” you said, bringing your tongue over your lips as you tried to focus on being less petty and more professional. “I have to go back now. But maybe—if whatever you want to talk to me about needs a specific timing, then—”

“I’ll come find you,” he finished.

You watched him for a silent minute while last night played back in your mind in excruciating reverse.

“I was going to say,” you replied, “that perhaps it’d be better if you didn’t.”

He did not seem disturbed by this. “I know.”

“Y-you know what?”

“That you would think that.”

Offended once more—largely because it seemed like you didn’t have to speak at all, he could tell what you were going to say anyway—you clicked your tongue.

“Okay,” you said. “In that case—”

“I’m still going to find you,” he cut in.

You were glaring now. “And if I’m not there when you come looking for me?”

Simply, he said, “I’ll make sure you are.”

“Okay. That’s really—no, you know what?” you paused before the irritation could get the best of you. Maybe the two of you should talk, you figured. To prevent this from escalating and then abruptly stopping. “Fine. Find me. We’ll talk.”

“Okay,” he said.

You nodded. “Until the time is right then.”

You smiled a little as you said this—you weren’t trying to, but the phrase sounded far too ridiculous—and Jungkook felt his shoulders relax.

He smiled back—not because he was trying to, either, but if you smiled, his reflexes moved before he could control them—and nodded back. “Until then.”

Since the flight to Amsterdam was tomorrow morning, you had to spend another night on the bus. Equipped with chamomile tea and a face mask, you dreaded another sleepless night, but the silence of the truck stop at nearly three in the morning along with the peacefulness inside of the bus as the exhausted band slept, felt comforting.

Considering how little sleep you got the night before, you began to doze off almost as soon as you washed your face and retreated to your bunk. But then a familiar sound of agitated shuffling brought you back to full consciousness.

You listened for a moment, confirming that it was indeed Jungkook who was beside himself again, when suddenly, he spoke into the darkness of the bus, “are you awake?”

Even though he didn’t address you directly, you knew the question was meant for you.

You cleared your throat before whispering, “yeah.” And, because he didn’t say anything else for a while, you added, “why are you awake?”

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered back. “What about you?”

“Me neither, I guess,” you replied, your breathing slowing as your brain alternated between being acutely aware of him and dozing off. “What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t respond and after waiting for a minute, you assumed he ended up falling asleep after all.

But a moment later, you heard the soft squeak of feet against the bus floor, and felt the mattress shift as Jungkook climbed into the bunk next to you. He moved swiftly, catching you so off-guard that you just watched him with helpless eyes as he drew the curtains on your bunk.

You were both completely covered by the darkness, but you could still see his silhouette as he lied down next to you and did not speak.

Different rules applied to conversations at night, you supposed. And your mind functioned differently, too—because you should have asked him what he was doing. Should have clarified if he hadn’t gone out of his mind. Should have explained the possible repercussions of his actions (namely, a bruised ass after you kicked him off the bunk).

Instead, you stayed still.

And it was very strange to sense him here, to feel his warmth, but lie here frozen, too scared to accidentally touch him and find out that he wasn’t really here, that you had just fallen asleep without realising.

But he was here, and you were both, more or less, awake.

And this was what he wanted – to feel safe in the darkness of your bunk, so far away from the bet that he could easily pretend he’d never made it.

“Is this when the time is right?” you asked finally, a teasing tone in your quiet voice. “3 AM?”

“Yes,” he replied, relieved that you greeted him with a joke, and not a kick in the shins.

He hadn’t actually planned it this way. And he wasn’t entirely sure what brought him to your bunk tonight, in particular—maybe your encouraging words about his writing? The tension as you avoided talking about last night?

Or maybe it was just you, always lingering in the corners of his mind. You were present in every one of his memories, no matter how obscure or distant it was. Even before he met you, your absence was noticeable, and it was so significant that he could never overlook it.

Ah. He’d sense the gap in his memory and think of you right away. This was two months before I met you.

He couldn’t escape you and, frankly, he’d given up trying.

He realised he couldn’t control himself any longer. Whatever had been building up inside of him for the past few days had now gotten complete control over him.

The two of you were separated from the rest of the bus by a curtain—like a little private haven in the midst of a larger world—and once your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Your gaze drifted out of focus as you strained to keep your eyes locked on his. It would have been so much easier to just glance down, to trace the lines of his nose and cheeks, down to his lips. It would have been easier to reach out and feel him here, to physically make sure this wasn’t a nightmare where he found you just before the whole world collapsed.

But you knew how inappropriate this was and how many lines this crossed: no one else in Rated Riot could just climb into your bunk and lie down next to you like this. It was unheard of, just like the almost-kiss at the bar last night.

As though the two of you were sharing the same memory in real-time, Jungkook spoke up, “I’m sorry.”

Breathless, you asked—not for the first time, “for what?”

“Lots of things,” he replied, his words barely audible, yet very loud when he was so close to you. “But mostly about what happened at the bar the other night.”

“Nothing happened at the bar,” you whispered back.

You heard him swallow before he spoke again. “That’s what I’m sorry about.”

You turned onto your back, creating more distance. Asking him to leave, somehow, didn’t seem to appear in your mind as an option.

“You don’t need to apologise for things that don’t happen,” you said in a very official voice. Hearing it unsettled him. “It’s, um—it’s actually good that nothing happened. Late-night drinking and a busy schedule don’t mix well.”

He noticed that you were drifting back to your professional role, that he’d lost the element of surprise.

Looking down, he admitted, “last night wasn’t… a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

You didn’t look at him no matter how much you wanted to. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t know,” you said, adamantly staring at the ceiling of your bunk as you felt his eyes return to your face. “It’s hard to tell with you.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to make assumptions in case I’m believing what I prefer to—”

He sighed, interrupting you. “Everyone does that. I didn’t mean to imply it’s just you. I’m just… I wish you saw things from my perspective.”

“Yeah.” You played with your fingers, intertwining your hands and resting them on your stomach. “That would be easier.”

“But you know me better than anyone,” he said, “so I think you’ve earned the right to make assumptions about me.”

You shook your head gently against the pillow. “You wouldn’t like my assumptions.”

“Try me.”

Finally, you turned your head to look at him. The brightness of his eyes in the dark corner of the bus made you waver slightly, already in the process of looking away, but you licked your lips and composed yourself.

“Okay,” you said. “Well, I assume there’s an external force that’s causing you to do whatever you’re doing, or feel whatever you think you’re feeling. That’s why you keep these secrets. Why you’re so selective about what you tell me. And it’s why you keep, uh, doing something and then stopping yourself.”

Jungkook felt a freezing wave wash over him. “W-what do you mean? What external force?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, sounding genuine. “Maybe it’s what I said before. A different continent, being away from home.”

He was so certain you’d tell him you knew about the bet that he exhaled in immense relief when you didn’t.

“I told you it’s not that,” he said, feeling a rush of happiness—undeserved, but irresistible—that you didn’t know.

You insisted, “right, but it is. Here, you’re doing—we’re both doing things we wouldn’t do back home.”

“Maybe it’s just that here, I have the chance to do the things I wouldn’t be able to do back home,” he argued kindly—like an adult with a toddler who was upset that the sun went down at night, not realising that their own perception of the world could not change the way the world actually was.

Oddly enough, it didn’t feel patronising. You’d thought you were figuring out what was going on with him when, deep down, you—sort of—already knew. You just tried to find an explanation that you preferred –  just as he’d said before.

“It’s just…” you started, hesitating. “Whatever we do here, it will still have consequences back home, you know? It’s not a What-Happens-in-Vegas sort of thing. Not with us.”

“I know,” he said again, and then, most dangerously, he admitted, “and I’m hoping for that.”

“You—you keep changing your mind,” you reminded him, watching the ceiling of your bunk because you couldn’t watch him. “Stopping when it feels like—”

“I know,” he whispered.

“I don’t understand.”

“I… I don’t entirely understand it, either,” he said. “I guess I’m scared of… well, everything.”

“Hmm.” You swallowed. And because this was vulnerable to admit and you hated yourself for feeling this way, you continued, but only in a tentative whisper, “to me, it feels like you know it’s a mistake. Like you regret your actions when you—”

“The only thing I regret is—” he cut himself off, suddenly losing courage. He inhaled and tried again, “what I regret is stopping. I regret not doing what every piece of me wanted to do at that moment. In Stockholm. And in Oslo.”

Quietly, you suggested, “it’s probably the rational part of you that holds you back.”

“You’re my rational part,” he countered. “And I keep coming back to you no matter how hard I try to stay away. I keep crossing the line, I guess.”

You turned to him. “I keep letting you cross it.”

He nodded, his eyes on you. “I know.”

You didn’t know what to say because the pounding in your chest was suffocating. As if your heart had expanded and decided you no longer needed lungs.

Then, Jungkook said into the silence, “I—I wasn’t lying when I took you to Kihyun’s wedding in hopes of getting back together with the love of my life, you know.”

You closed your eyes and exhaled pleadingly, “Jungkook…”

“What?” he asked, a mix of desperation and eagerness in his voice.

You turned to your side, so you were fully facing him, and rested your head on the back of your hand as you watched him for a minute.

Neither of you spoke. You were both waiting.

“I know,” you finally began, “that I have to be the responsible person in a lot of situations with you.” You paused, looking down briefly to gather your thoughts. “But I can’t do it like this. So, please, don’t put me in a position where I have to make the choice that would be best for us. Best for the band. Because I’m not sure I will.”

You were asking him for something, and both of you quickly realised that it wasn’t a request to stop. To pull away. To leave.

“The best choice,” he said, “isn’t always the more responsible one.”

“It usually is.”

Repeating your previous words, he said, “not with us.”

You bit your lower lip as you struggled to formulate a response, let alone a coherent thought.

“You… you’re making me feel overwhelmed,” you finally said, expressing the only thing you were certain of.

“How so?” he asked.

“I forget everything,” you said. “Especially the fact that morning will come and there will be questions about why you’re here and not in your own bunk.”

Jungkook swallowed, the realisation dawning on him.

“You care what other people will think,” he said.

“I have to,” you replied somewhat sadly. It was precisely this sadness that gave him hope and courage to respond.

“I understand,” he said. “I can go.”

You clenched your jaw.

“You should,” you said.

His eyes remained locked on yours. “Do you want me to?”

Your voice was barely audible when you responded, “no.”

Jungkook took a shaky breath. His body shuffled closer. You felt his warmth, felt his thigh touch yours.

 “I… I’ll ask you again,” he said, inhaling deeply after every second word, and inching closer to you each time his chest rose. “Don’t think as our manager. Just for five minutes. Five minutes that won’t mean anything once they’re over.”

You gave a small shake of your head. “What’s the point, then?”

“I just have to know what it’d be like if we were us again,” he said. “Even if only for five minutes.”

You closed your eyes again. You knew it wasn’t that simple. You couldn’t just shut everything off for five minutes and then go back to the way things were as if nothing happened—it was absurd to even think that was possible.

But you nodded, exhaling softly as you looked at him again. The hopeful glint in his eye was still visible, even in the darkness of your bunk.

“Okay,” you breathed.

The bus was silent, amplifying the sound of his pulse in his ears as he reached for you, softly touching your cheek with the tips of his fingers.

All this time, you had been so close to him, yet he did not touch you. It felt like he had to make up for it now as he caressed the side of your face, almost in disbelief that you weren’t just a manifestation of every peaceful dream he’d ever had. That somehow, just by being, you perfectly captured everything he wanted. Everything he needed.

You inhaled his familiar scent – your bunk so full of it that you were positively drowning in him and not trying to stay afloat at all – as your eyes fluttered close. The rest of the world faded away as you felt his breath on your face for just a second, his lips hovering over yours, touching them, but not quite.

A quiet whimper broke off a much deeper whine inside of you and found its way past your lips as you parted them. Your lower lip brushed against his in a moment so charged with invisible power—some innate electricity—that you felt his body twitch against yours.

And then finally, he pressed his lips to yours.

The softness of his lips brought back something that you’d buried deep within; something that came awake late at night in the form of dreams so intense that you’d need a moment in the morning to realise it had only been a dream.

It felt like it now.

Except, as you reached out a hand to touch his chest, he was here.

His lips gently moved against yours as he tilted your face to kiss you harder. His lip ring felt cold against your lower lip, but his embrace was warm and eager. You were breathless, your mind was swimming in memories, but you were not asleep.

He was here, he was here, he was here.

He was here and he felt you move closer, your hand sliding down his chest, pausing momentarily as if frightened by the rapid beating under your fingertips. He exhaled against your mouth, pulling away for less than a second to take a new breath—he only had five minutes with you, he did not have the luxury to breathe anything but you right now. Then, he connected your lips again, his tongue finding yours as deepened the kiss.

The space in your bunk had always felt cramped—every morning, you’d wake up with bruises on your limbs—but now it seemed so impossibly vast, and he couldn’t pull you close enough.

His kiss was as intoxicating as it was sobering, an oxymoron of an embrace. No matter how overwhelmed, how utterly dizzy, light, or heavy it made you feel, you kissed him back.

Your fingers got lost in his hair as he gently pushed your shoulder, rolling you over to your back. He hovered above you, resting one elbow on the mattress and holding your face with his other hand. His thigh came to rest between your legs and your small yelp of surprise at the sudden change of position barely made any sound before his lips were on yours again, gentle and rushing. If anyone asked if he missed you, he could never find adequate words, so he poured all his feelings into this kiss.

The familiarity of his mouth against yours and the taste of his tongue in your mouth caused the back of your neck to prickle with nostalgia for the missing years and eagerness for more. Eagerness for a future that you couldn’t have because you’d promised each other five minutes.

Granted, it was difficult to gauge how much time had passed, as neither of you cared enough to open your eyes, comfortable in the private bubble of darkness.

Your bodies were so accustomed to one another that you did not need to see to know where to touch. Your hands wandered freely across the old paths, drawing over the blurred lines of the maps on each other’s skin.

You learned to ignore the ache in your lungs, because the ache in your chest was stronger. It gripped your heart with claws so deep that it drew blood every time you considered pulling away.

The warmth of his mouth contrasted with the coldness of his fingertips as he gently traced them over the side of your face, neck, shoulders, and over to your hips. His hand slipped under your loose t-shirt, drawing tentative symbols over the parts of your skin that he could reach without pulling his lips away from yours.

He thought he had suffocated a long time ago as the pulse in his ears was replaced by the sound of your mouths moving against each other in a perfectly balanced rhythm—as if you practised every day. As if the four-year intermission had never existed.  

Jungkook felt no sense of being alive, there was no room for it. All he felt was you. And if this was what death felt like, he was perfectly fine with being buried six feet deep like this.

Then – a bump somewhere on the bus jolted you both back to reality.

You both stilled, listening for any signs of movement to confirm that you weren’t the only ones awake. But there was nothing.

Your eyes met in the darkness, and you pulled away, his taste lingering on your lips. You thought you could see him more clearly than before, despite it still being pitch-black in your bunk.

“I think we’ve gone over five minutes,” you whispered, running your tongue over your slightly swollen lips.

“Give me a few extra seconds,” he whispered and leaned in to press another kiss, his tongue meeting yours against your lower lip. A smile stretched on your face as he whispered against your lips, “I’ve waited four years for this.”

You exhaled, your body trembling under him. “This might be the worst thing I’ve agreed to do with you.”

He smiled and reminded you, “you came to Paris with me on a whim.”

“That didn’t take me weeks to recover from,” you said quietly.

He remained mere inches away and his kisses turned into gentle brushes of his cheek against yours. Both of your chests kept rising, then falling—meeting each other, then separating again in a dramatic parallel of your lives—as you tried to catch your breath.

“But this will?” he asked.

“It will.”

Pulling away to look at you, he said, “lucky.”

“How is that lucky?” you asked.

He kissed you once more. There was a certain melancholy in his smile when he pulled away.

“At least you’ll recover,” he said.

You swallowed and opened your eyes, painfully aware of his close proximity and the forbidden nature of it all.

“You will, too,” you said, almost hunching over from the sudden pain in your chest as he sat down next to you. “Five minutes that mean nothing once they’re over, remember?”

You spoke softly, almost apologetically, but what hurt the most was the absence of regret in your voice.

At least, if you regretted what had happened, he would know that it was over for good.

“Right.” He nodded, avoiding your gaze and struggling to get to his feet, because every single fibre of his being pulled him to you. “I’m—I’ll go. You can tell Yoongi not to worry, by the way. I have five minutes of what-might-have-been to write about.”

“You—”

“I’m just kidding,” he said, shooting you a grin.

Before you could notice how sad his eyes looked despite the smile, he leaned in to kiss you goodbye. Funnily enough, this was the kiss that you would spend the whole night thinking about: how natural, familiar, and necessary it had felt.

“These five minutes are between us,” he reiterated for your benefit. “We’ll never speak of it again.”

He pulled back the curtain of your bunk and glanced around to make sure everyone else was asleep. Suddenly, you touched his shoulder and he turned to you again, unsure if your touch was real or just his wishful thinking.

“F-for what it’s worth,” you said, “I really hope there’s an alternative universe where this could work. And not just for five minutes.”

Jungkook thought this could work in this universe, too, but he nodded, hung his head, and quietly climbed out of your bunk, leaving your curtain open as he returned to his own bed.

He hadn’t realised how cold it was on the bus.

chapter title credits: bring me the horizon, “deathbeds”

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[threepandas]

Bad End: After The War (Next ->)

The click of a button in a mostly quiet room. Machines humming as they churn an endless stream of data. Listening. Receiving. Filtering through the noise, for those bits of intelligence that might win us the war. The outpost was quite. As much as it could be, at least, on this god forsaken moon.

"Perimeter Check?"

More specifically, 'did you get your ass eaten by those horrifying eel-snakes? Because you promised not too, and I WILL be mad.' 'Cept, you know, these channels are technically recorded. Rather not have my snark On Record, thanks. So SUBTEXT.

The familiar, oh so melodious, demonic death screeching of abomination eels and blaster fire comes on comm. A symphony straight out of some sci-fi horror movie, act 3. The part where everybody's getting eaten. Except NOT, because this? This is just my life.

Though the eaten part is still a Very Real Risk.

Which Is FUN.

I wait. Hope I just caught Headshot at just a bad time. Not, you know, in his final moments. Ha ha... Nope! Not! Thinking 'bout that! He's immortal, I'm immortal, and we both live in a happy fun time fairy land of FUCKING WONDERS. Denial? Fuck yeah I know her! Best friend, that one. Gonna be my future kids godparent. Walk me down the aisle. We BESTIES.

There is finally, at long last, ominous silence. Dead or dying? Dead or dying? Which side, eels or Headshot, is Dead or-?

Click.

"Perimeter looks good. Bit of a mess near the east gate, though. We'll need to get the droids to shove some mess over the ledge. They tried to climb again."

Oh thank FUCK. Tension bleeds out of me. This post is hell on my anxiety. I send back the confirm. Slump back on my seat as I keep an eye on his tracker's dot, on the patrol read out. I fucking HATE perimeter checks. They aren't safe. But... well...

This universe? I'm pretty sure, it's an "all the serial numbers filed off" blatant rip off of Star Wars. Might be a fan fiction? Cause, while the troupes are familiar, the "characters", no one is where or WHO they should be. There are also other "totally not X" bits here and there, all of which confuses the fuck out me.

But what I DO know? Is that making a fuss about the safety and well-being of us peons? During this, the "totally not the Clone Wars"? While Evil Dick, Sith-y Pants the Obvious is in charge? GREAT way for our entire outpost to get "tragic casualties of war"-'d. So yeah, no thanks.

Keeping my mouth shut.

And, hey! At least they ate our complete asshole of a commander. Technically we SHOULD be getting a new one... but we were told to make do. Same with all the OTHER critical roles currently empty.

The DICK.

Like? I know he wants to drag out the war and maximize suffering for Evil Not-Sith, Off Brand Space Wizards Of EVIL Powers? But like? Fffffuck yoooou, dude. What the hell. Hope he stubs EVERY toe, always.

The Clones deserve better then this. The SECOND the war is over? I'm stealing Headshot. Fuck this "property of the state" bullshit. Just me 'n him, man. We could go explore the wilds. Or get him a beard and fake glasses. Clone? What clone! This is my BROTHER, Headshot. Our parents were gun-toting hippies. My names Moonrock. Fuck off, maybe. Keep walking.

The second I see him cross the base threshold, I switch over to Droid command. They can't hold my shift forever, but for a bit? Should be fine.

Jogging down the hall and sliding down a few ladders, I finally catch sight of Headshot as he leaves the staging area. Oof. That is a LOT of eel blood. The cleaning bots are cursing up a storm as they follow him. Even from the other end of the hallway... he smells... ripe.

I give him a second to lead the way and for the bots to work behind him. Then join in the little parade. Ah, eel goo. The third worst thing that could come out of going outside. Right behind losing a limb or dying. But hey! I restocked the soaps for ya!

"Doesn't change that it's on my everywhere, Commander."

Oooooh~ breaking out the COMMANDER are we? Is that SASS I hear? Snark perhaps? Why HEADSHOT! Such insubordination~! What EVER shall I do?

He snorts and suggest something anatomically impossible as he gestures to the shower rooms door. I tap it open for him. Goo boy that he is. Grinning I follow and find a bench where I can sit so my back is to him. It... used to be weird, to be honest, this level of living in each others pockets. But time and isolation has eroded a lot.

Clones don't really see boundaries like everyone else. Don't have the same taboos or unspoken social rules. After all... they're all the same gender. Were forced to live basicly in a breadbox with each other. The culture that developed reflects that. And I? Am more of a follower then a "type A". Not passive by any stretch of the imagination, just... eh.

I don't have the social outgoing-ness? I guess? To drag the culture of our base towards MY social norms as opposed towards his. It made him comfortable. I shrugged and went okay. Rinse and repeat. To be honest I was just glad he trusted me enough to SHARE.

Booting up my definitely-not-a-tablet, (which is of course, STUFFED full of various bits of sci-fi technology that only half makes sense) I once again try and connect to the wider army's mainframe. Nothing. I've BEEN trying for weeks now. But for some reason? We're cut off.

No new commands. No new forms to fill. No demands for information.

No UPDATES on what the FUCK is HAPPENING out there.

I'm... not gonna lie, getting nervous. We're a listening outpost. Some of our information is time sensitive. And our SUPPLIES are not infinite. Forget food, if we run out of AMMO? Those nightmare snake-eel THINGS will... Look, long and short of it? I've got an "empty" blaster shoved under my bunk. Two shots left. And compared to the slow, SLOW digestion and meat threshing teeth those horrors have?

At least it's FAST.

But I would REALLY prefer we NOT fucking come to that, you know? That someone would fucking PICK UP. Or? I don't know!? Notice we're offline? Whatever the problem is! The fact that we've gone dark is SPOOKING the fuck out of me.

Not to mention? That even BEFORE communication went down? The chat rooms and update boards weren't making a whole lot of sense. Lot of clone specific references that I didn't get. Memes, maybe? I don't KNOW and that's the part that's killing me. I had no way to CHECK. It all just... went dark.

We're still GETTING data. But? We can't seem to SEND it. Headshot and I checked. I checked the droids while he got the dish and other external devices. Clambering around the roof with his sniper rifle like a well armed, circus trained, mechanic. Nothing was wrong with the droids. And according to Headshot? Nothing was wrong with the dish.

After a while I gave up. Again.

Reminded myself to practice my meditative breathing. In... out... IN... OUT... do NOT trough your only Data Tablet. You'll break it. You can't REPLACE it. It might FEEL satisfying in the moment... but it's Not Worth It. Just listen to the sound of the running water. The quite of the room. Breathe... unclench your jaw, make your muscles relax, c'mon you can do this.

Fuck, I needed my anti-anxiety meds. But we were starting to ween me off them so I didn't go cold turkey when we ran out. It was fucking with my head. But, hey! At least I wouldn't run the risk of seizures! Or any suicidal ideation! No, just slowly building anxiety, in this, History's Most Stressful Outpost.

The shower shut off behind me. Leaning forward to grab a towel from the stack, I tossed it blindly over my shoulder. Heard him catch it. Wet feet slapping quietly against tiles as he walked forward, drying himself. From the feel of droplets and heat, looming just behind me? He was leaning over my shoulder. The man always did like to damn near boil himself in the shower.

"Still nothing? We've run out of D6 bolts. Not to mention your meds..." He commented, still drying off. I could feel the occasional brush of a towel. A bare arm reached over my shoulder to tap at the screen. "Have you tried...? Shit."

He tried several commands. Leaning over me, damn near cradling the back of my head against his bare chest. But nothing worked. Plopping his chin down on the top of my head, he casually wrapped his arm around my shoulders, leaning his weight on me as he considered the problem. The fans kicked in overhead, dehumidifing and hopefully preventing any sort of alien molds.

I told him to go put on some fuckin pants, before he frozen something he might miss off.

With an amused snort he stood and wandered over to the armor cleaner. Grabbing a new undersuit. Blacks went on, armor freshly de-goo-d, he called that he was presentable once more. I swung my legs over the bench. No need to stand, after all, if we're not leaving yet. Besides, exhaustion was a symptom of the withdrawals. Med changes are a BITCH.

Just as I was about to suggest anough brainstorming session, though?

Our comms both ping. LOUDLY.

That's the emergency signal from the control room. SHIT. I'm up and running before the sound even fades. Headshot right behind me. Not so much because he can't out run me, as he'd stop to grab his weapons as was bringing up the rear. Guarding my back. I prayed, PRAYED, this wasn't an attack. We were supposed to be a fourteen person team.

There were TWO OF US.

We'd never be able to hold the line. Would DIE here. Fuck, I didn't even have time to get that gun! I should have been carrying it. It had been too morbid. But... but...!

I slam into the control room. Headshot a half step behind. The droids frantically churning away. Okay. Okay! What's happening? A ship, big one, in orbit. Oooooh fuck. How Big? I ask. Am informed? "Wipe us from the face of the galaxy" Big. Ha ha! FUCKING FANTASTIC. Great! Merry fucking Christmas to me, I guess! Okay. Okay!

Let's DO this.

Get on the short range ship comm, (never thought I'd USE it but here we fucking ARE) and ask, politely, for them to Fucking Identify Themselves. (Because we have Big Guns and are NOT afraid to use um!)

There is a long tense moment. Then? Oh thank merciful FUCK. A Clone's voice comes on the line. General Spark of the 153rd, in pursuit, they're here to catch traitors and resupply if we need anything. Permission to land a few ships?

I. Could. WEEP.

Yes! Oh, ABSOLUTELY yes! Whoever they're chasing picked a REALLY stupid planet to hide out on, not gonna lie. They'll be picking their traitors up in PIECES. But? Never has a voice been more beautiful. Send Techs! You have FULL use of the outpost General! Welcome!

Setting the droids to navigating the incoming ships safely through landing, I all but DRAG Headshot towards the landing pad. People! Actual, real, PEOPLE! Supplies! Oh thank FUCK! We might be able to figure out what wrong with our relays! Get NEWS! And? That was a CLONE GENERAL!!!

That NEVER happens!

I can practically feel my self vibrating with excitement. Bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet, as the ships come in for a landing. The officers that roll out are all clones. Their armor more personalized then I've ever seen it. It's BEAUTIFUL. I can't help but lean over and whisper to Headshot, saying as much. Wondering if we can get him some of the supplies they must of used.

You know, assuming he WANTS any of um.

If not? Dibs.

His shoulders are shaking. Why are-? One of the officers thanks me for the compliment. Headshot you SON OF A SUBSTANDARD VAT. Was your SHORT RANGE MIC ON!? Why would you not-!? Bastard! Dead to me! Sorry general, I've never met this man before in my LIFE. Couldn't introduce if I TRIED.

Still! High ranking clones? We love to see it. I am THRILLED. It's been long over due.

Dooooesn't mean we should hang out in Eel Country though. Everybody INSIDE! Let's goooo. Nice and safe, where no ones getting eaten, m'kay? Thank you! And yes! I DO have a list of resupply needs! A LONG list. Starting with my meds, followed by ammo. Though honestly they're tied at first...

As me and the, now rather concerned, medic chat about the collapsing state of our highly rationed medical supplies? Headshot and the General are off to the side... talking about... something. Not sure. Probably not important, or he'd include me. I show the medic our "infirmary" and medical charts. Then get pulled away by the mechanic.

I barely get to SEE Headshot over the next two days. Forget sitting down. The only breaks I get? Meals and lights out. It's kinda awesome. Exhausting, yes, but? After so long isolated? It's a good type of exhausted. The sort where you feel like? For ONCE? You're actually being productive.

There are SO MANY eel burrows to scan? Potential landing sites? And all the MAINTENANCE? Dear merciful FUCK. Literally everything is out of date and cheap as BALLS. Held together with shoe strings and a prayer. But finally! FINALLY! Someone in budgeting GIVES A SHIT!!! Better equipment! Actual medical supplies! Real bedding! And best of ALL?

AIs! As in Actual, information sorting, artificial intelligences!

Because there literally hasn't been a REASON for humanoids to do this job for CENTURIES aside from a misplaced sense of superiority and distrust of droids! All WE need to do? Is stay on base and make sure THEY don't go rogue or break down from the extended isolation! Woooo desk job!

I'm gonna name um. They shall be my BABIES.

That said? None of this? Is very... Off Brand Sith-y. Little too "cares about their fellow man"-ish, you know? And... I'm not stupid. Excited as FUCK, for all the supplies and new changes... but not? Stupid. Blind.

They're keeping me away from the control room.

Keeping me out of important discussions. Sending me off on errands. All of which? SEEM important. ARE important, on the surface, but hide the fact that they are intentionally scheduled? Just as Certain Things Are Discussed. I am being... handled. Like a child. A fool.

When I confront Headshot? In our bunkroom, which we've shared for YEARS at this point. Slept just across from each other, so this lonely hell might feel just a little less empty? So when the dark thoughts creep in? That we might die in this God forsaken place, forgotten by the universe, left to ROT here, and wouldn't it just be easier to-? Someone there, so we won't. So we still matter.

He stands across from me. In OUR place. OUR room.

And FUCKING LIES.

......I guess I know where I stand, huh? And I know... I KNOW, I shouldn't feel betrayed. Clones come first, always. That's the party line. How they survived. I'm a Nat. There was always a power imbalance between us. I would always have been held just that bit further away then one of the brothers. Guess... guess it just finally happened.

I shouldn't feel betrayed. I have no RIGHT to feel betrayed.

But I do.

Headshot looks alarmed, hands twitching at his side, even as he tries to maintain his facade. Nothing's happing. They aren't doing anything. Right. Uh huh. His lie sits between us like a field of broken glass. The words, the arguments, I'd been looking for now seeming so useless. What's the point? He's made his decision.

I feel like crying. Don't want to talk anymore.

Good NIGHT, Headshot.

In the morning, I don't bother asking. I know he notices. Is waiting, restless, for us to continue on as we always have. We always check schedules after all. But what's the point? He'll lie. Instead I pull my armor on and go. Go to your brothers, Headshot. Whatever's happening here, I'm clearly not trusted enough to be part of it.

I just get out of your way.

There's a lot of busy work on my schedule, but honestly? The new AIs are learning to handle it. Instead, I head down to the new supply crates. Grab some bedding. A cart. Then head back. Pack up my shit. I just... can't.

Moving it all to a different bunk, I still have most of the day left to go. Could...? Probably? Check out if we actually DO have space rats? The droids have been reporting dust and noise in the basement, near the food stores. So likely vermin of some kind. Gonna be horrifying to find out what kind of vermin exsist HERE, but better then nothing, I guess.

Grabbing one of the better ration bars to shove in my face on the way to the gun locker, I count it a breakfast. Everyone's busy with a clone only meeting. Good for them, I guess. Not upset with General Spark or his men, I realize, as I check over the gun, no... just Headshot. Because he hurt me.

All he had to say was "I can't tell you." Or "trust me" and I WOULD have. But no. He LIED. To my FACE. And now? Now I feel like I'm waking around with shards of glass where my heart should be. Like I want to hit something. I need a distraction. So down to long term storage I go.

Normally? It's only droids down here. I have to ride a cramped little maintenance elevator lined with blast doors. You know, incase Satan's favorite pet somehow burrows in. The fuckers. It's also freezing. Which, I mean? Great for food storage, not so much for thermal regulation.

The level is eerie quiet.

Which.... huh. That's? Not right.

I reach for my comm before pausing. The hurt in my chest throbbing. I know I shouldn't let it get in the way of professionalism. Of protocol. The rules are there for a reason. To keep us alive and safe. But... God, I don't want to hear his fucking voice right now. I might cry. Say something I don't mean and regret later. You don't LAST long, isolated out in Hellpit, Nowhere, without doing a little soul searching.

Mortifying ordeal of being known and all that.

My hand drops. It's fine. I'm FINE. There's nothing down here. Or, well, should be nothing down here. We'll find out.

Slowly moving forward, I begin to check the stacks. I don't see any of the droids. Don't HEAR any of them. There should be at least thirty down here. But all I hear? Is the circulation fans. The sound of my foot steps. Something isn't right.

It's a loose, half melted screw in the path that saves me. At first I think it's a bug. But the quite clink when my foot nudges it is unmistakable. It makes me look sideways. There, a cleaning droid, cut down from behind. Tiny little mechanical claws still reaching out to claw itself to safety. Wheels shredded. The marks of a lazer blade are unmistakable.

The hiss-hum even more so.

I BARELY dodge.

Half my gun, simply sheared away. Molten slag dripping from the cut point, the battery already violently destabilizing ask it's nicked. I throw it, before I have the chance to lose a limb. The blast takes out a crate. I'm thrown. Barely roll in time to dodge the downward stab of the hissing blade. A brutal, magic-enhanced, kick sends me flying.

Straight through a stack of ration crates, into a wall mounted medical case. I land among the corpses of the droids. Each, a picture of terror and betrayal. I don't understand what's happening. The blades not red or black! It's blue! That's a not-jedi! Right?! Why are they!? Crates are lifted into the air. Threatening to smash down and bury me alive.

Can't move. Something twisted, badly, in my leg. My chest burning. Something cracked, I could feel it. I'm gonna die. Oh good, I'm gonna DIE.

"Wait! She's not a clone!"

I stare up into the face of the so called "good guys" and feel nothing but terror. Around me, the pieces of thirty droids I'd named and known, dead and dumped like trash upon the ground. Flower with his fussy need to have everything just so, Chirp who loved to sing, Mouse with the wheel I could never get to stop squeeking.

Nothing but Cannon fodder.

They died so afraid.

"Oh! You're right! Sorry! I thought you were one of those 'peating bastards. Are you okay? How long have they held you?" The Knight said. His Apprentice nodding eagerly.

My brain was static. Empty. Held? Slurs? W-what in God's name? I stayed down. Feeling small, lost, and confused. Pain rocking my body from being thrown around. The Apprentice, at least, seemed to pick up on the fact that I had no idea what the fuck they were on about.

"Ah. You don't know what's happened." She said sympathetically. It would be nicer, if she hadn't stood back while I was hurt, before they got around to asking who's side I was on. "The Clones betrayed the Republic. Took it over by force. They've made an empire. They killed the old Chancellor, who was Fallen, but then instead of handing the Republic back to the people? Kept it! Said we couldn't be trusted with it."

The last part was said mockingly. As though everyone and their brother hadn't been aware the Republic was on the brink of collapse. Corruption at an all time high. As though that same Republic hadn't been using the Clones as a SLAVE ARMY.

Slaves do tend to take exception to their chains, historically.

I wasn't really sure why the fuck they were surprised.

"Now come on, you can join the Rebellion. You must know all sort of information, from sitting out here, right? You can-!"

Click.

My helmet went full dark and internal audio only. Which was interesting because I still could barely move. But then bright light and sound, popped and cracked not to far away from my head. A flash grenade. And I finally, FINALLY? Remembered that all standardized armor? Comes with in built life support feeds.

Headshot's mystery meeting was in the command room... where my life sign readout would be. The life support feedback. Real time monitoring from me getting my ass kicked and WHERE.

A hand grabs the drag handle built into each armor, for EXACTLY this reason, and I feel my self pulled out of the danger zone. Can hear heavy, open fire. Shit. There goes our supplies. My helmet clears and I recognize the shoulder I've been careful thrown over. Headshot. He came.

He falls back at some signal I can't see. Straight to the elevator.

The shoulder under me is shaking, just slightly. Adrenaline, fear, anger. I can't tell. But... I... I'm...

"Don't." His voice is rough. Choked out through gritted teeth. His grip just carefully loose enough not to bruise. It seems to be taking everything he has. "You don't get to die. Do you understand me? You're not ALLOWED to die. Not now. Not ever. We didn't survive this long for you to leave me now."

He barely waits long enough for the door to open. Stride smooth and desperate as he races us towards the medic. I rest my head against his shoulder and breathe. Let myself be manhandled. Ha ha... a-at least? I know what he's keeping from me now. So there's that. Ow. Oh god.

The medic has to put me under. Bone fragments.

I drift.

Wake up, bandaged to hell and back, in ou-... in Headshot's bunkroom. Across from the empty bunk that used to be mine. Bed's softer then it should be, still smelling like Headshot. We haven't had the new sheets long enough. Knowing him, he probably stacked um.

The door opens. Headshot stalks in, dragging a cart behind him. His usual "pleasantly amused by life" expression nowhere to be seen. Instead? His expression is... blank. A determined, almost violent, edge to the set of his shoulders.

In silence, I watch as he unloads the cart. Bedding, knickknacks, the various bit of cobbled together wall art. All carefully stuck right back where it had been before. As though he had memorized the proper location of each and every piece. Even as he worked, with his back to me, every line of his body was daring me to be dumb enough to argue.

I didn't want too. I was just... just fucking tired.

Didn't like that we were arguing. If that was even what we were doing.

"Why?" I asked. Summing up everything and distilling it. Why didn't you just fucking TELL me? Why didn't you TRUST me? Why did you think I'd turn on you? Why would you lie? Why were we cut off? Was it REALLY a technical error? Why take the Republic? Why ANY of this?

Just... WHY, Headshot? Please...

"I refuse to lose you. When the war ended, you were going to leave. You said you'd take me with you... but honestly? That was naive. There would be no where safe we could ever go. We all knew that. We all had favorites." He finally stopped organizing my bed. Instead, smoothing down the sheet. Running both hands across it as he stared down, unseeing. "It was all so unorganized. Filthy. They treated us like DIRT. But we were... we ARE better. Designed to be superior. Stronger, smarter, faster. More durable. Why were we listening to them?"

"Then we found out why. Control chips in the brain. The nervous system. Carefully hidden, yes. But not carefully enough. You weren't authorized, you know. I'm glad. If you had been? I'd never have forgiven you. You'd never know you were dead before you died. But... I promise."

"I would have made it fast." His smile was a terrible thing. All broken edges and betrayal. Teeth upon teeth. A mania finally set free.

"Never thought those hypocrites would run here. Expect us to die for them. The happy little slaves. For the glory of THEIR Republic. You'll be okay, Commander. The General's agreed to stay until your back on your feet, just in case."

Headshot slides onto the bunk, sitting at my side, sweetly brushing hair from my face as though he hasn't lost his god damned mind. He's the picture of relief, now that there's no more secrets between us. Now that I'm injured and dependent on his help. Yet... it's teetering.

As though at any minute...

He could slide into some... unhinged state of mind. How LONG has he been on his last thread? Barely holding together? He leans forward and my mind goes utterly still. His lips pressed gently against mine. Chaste. Sweet. A warm, calloused hand, cradling my poor bruised cheek.

"I promise we'll stay together." He whispers against my stunned mouth. Eyes intent and mad, utterly loving. Like a strangers. "I won't let them seperate us. Not for anything. Now that it's done? We can be assigned anywhere. I'll take you with me. War's over, love. We're finally free."

Were we?

[uss-edsall]

On 9 November, 1942, flying off the coast of Casablanca, French Morrocco in support of the Operation TORCH landings, the Piper Cub (under the name L-4 Grasshopper) made her official combat debut in the Second World War. This once-civilian plane had been bought by the U.S. Army to function as "air observation posts," flown by pilots in the U.S. Army Field Artillery, attached directly to battalions. Her concept, proven in training maneuvers, was as aerial reconnaissance; aerial photography; single-person transport; air ambulance; and in particular, reconnaissance and artillery observation. She would prove to be perfect for all of these roles. She would go on to have an incredible record during the Second World War, one of the best planes built for her particular role, with over six thousand of them bought by the U.S. Army. She was small, she could handle landing tiny fields, she was stealthy, she was dead simple to repair and reliable in the air.

But on that day? For that mission? There were only three Grasshoppers, and it was an absolute disaster.

The three planes were attached to the 3rd Infantry Division. Their pilots were hurriedly brought to USS Ranger (CV-4), aboard which were three L-4 Grasshoppers in bad condition. All their efforts were getting the planes ready for flight. What the pilots did not know was that their commanders, from colonels to generals alike, did not prepare properly for their debut.

On 8 November American troops stormed ashore at Safi, Casablanca and Point Lyautey. The next day, Ranger turned into the wind, the pilots got aboard the planes. In the 35-knot wind the instant the ship's crew let go of their tails, the planes hopped off the deck and were in the air, sixty miles from shore.

Three miles from the beach, the allied invasion force appeared. Transports, destroyers, the light cruiser USS Brooklyn. Aboard the Brooklyn alert officers and anti-air gun crews spotted the L-4 Grasshoppers.

There was nothing in the allied aviation recognition books that resembled the L-4 Grasshopper. None of the artillery pilots' superiors had properly distributed warnings that the Army had procured the civilian planes, and were using them for the first time.

The Brooklyn's anti-air weaponry opened up. 5" shells, 40mm bofors, 20mm Oerlikons reached out to lick at the Grasshoppers. In the first flak burst the quartet of little planes scattered, diving for the deck. Captain Ford Allcorn leveled off at twenty feet and started juking like mad, gamely going for the beach leading his flight. Every other ship, seeing the Brooklyn open up on the unfamiliar planes, joined in.

The artillery pilots had not the fuel to return to the ship, even if they'd been trained in carrier landings, which they weren't. Land was their only option for salvation. Shellfire blew out Allcorn's windshield, shot off one of the doors. As the Grasshoppers juked and weaved, bullets splashed into the water all around them. A hundred feet from shore, they levelled off and gunned their throttles to the maximum - 80 mph - for the safety of the shoreline.

At which point the pintle mount machineguns on tanks ashore opened fire on them. For nobody had told the Army troops of the 2nd Armored Division either about the Piper Cubs, and seeing the Navy so enthusiastically shooting at them, they joined in. .50-calibre bullets ripped into the Grasshoppers, betrayed by their own.

Captain Allcorn's engine cut out after several tanks' machineguns stitched bullets across the frame, and five bullets tore into his leg.

The wounded planes got to the shoreline. They flew over the armor, guns straining to shoot at them, desperately trying to get to the safety of the Fedala Racetrack, where they were supposed to go. Allcorn spotted a relatively flat area and pancaked in, crawling out of the mortally wounded flaming bird before the fuel exploded.

And then the Vichy French opened up.

Lieutenants Butler, Shell, and Captain Devol (one L-4 having carried two of them) were taken prisoner after crash landing behind Vichy French lines, but were released when the French in Casablanca surrendered two days later on 11 November.

Amazingly, despite all this, nobody had been killed.

Captain Allcorn was the first Army aviator in the ETO to fly off a carrier, the first in combat, and the dubious distinction of the first to be shot down and the first to be wounded. Captain Allcorn, from his hospital bed back in the States, wrote a report about it all that even reached the Chief of Staff General Marshall's desk. He argued that this disastrous beginning was not the death knell of the Grasshopper. He concluded, perhaps rather dryly, that there was seemingly a failure to communicate between the Army and the Navy. His report helped the Piper Cub / L-4 Grasshopper survive the event, to go on to become one of the most produced aircraft of the war, and most widely used.

Even today, almost four thousand of the nearly twenty thousand Piper Cubs built are still in the FAA registry.

[mayxxday]

hi! how are you?

can you do something like katsuki gets hit with a quirk where he can only tell the truth. and he tried to avoid reader at all costs but still manages to accidentally confess?

please add appearances from the bakusquad if you can, i love when they tease him.

thank you! even if you can't, thanks still! hope you're doing well!

Being the man Katsuki is, it wasn't new for the bakusquad to be his audience for another one of his squabbles on the street with some stranger. It was rather amusing for the boys to stand by and egg on the explosive boy, all the while Mina stood by recording the brawl. 

When the stranger activated his quirk infuriated by the young boy, Katsuki prepared himself in a defensive stance, completely expecting a blow to his chest. Instead, when the quirk did come into contact with the boy's chest, it only knocked the breath out of his lungs in a little scoff. The beam of light the stranger had managed to shoot at him merely tingled as it disappeared into his chest. 

"Hah, what a dumb quirk." 

He smirks, flipping him off, not finding him worth wasting the effort of using his quirk on. The squabble had started over a mere coffee spilling on the young boy, who cussed up a storm, not realizing the man his was against was just as petty as him, if not more. Katsuki only earned himself a smug smile from the stranger as he walked away, tossing the rest of his coffee in the trash, feeling proud of himself. 

With the stranger escaping the scene, Katsuki turned around to the bakusquad, taking in their amused faces. 

"What are you idiots waiting for, huh? Get your asses moving." 

He huffs out, getting his friends moving, as they continued to their trip to the shopping center, which Mina was dragging them to after winning a bet against the boys. 

"That was crazy, bakubro!" 

Kirishima exclaims, slinging his arm around Katsuki's neck and walking along his side. Each of the boys chiming in with their own comments on the fight as Mina dragged them into a little store. Katsuki trudging behind them, begrudgingly a permanent scowl painted across his face as he looked around the store. 

His eyes fleeting towards a hawk's keychain for a brief moment as he reaches for it, taking it in hand. 

"Bakubro, don't you like All-Might?" 

Sero asks with a smug smile for stating the obvious, observing the Hawks keychain in his hand. 

"Shut it, soy sauce. I was just thinking of the doll face." 

Katsuki blurts out before he realizes, his eyes snapping wide open as he realizes what he said. His hands scrambled to put the keychain back in its place, like it burned him. 

"I meant...DOLL FACE!" 

Katsuki tries again to cover up this time, making sure to take his name, but instead he feels his tongue tangled, his true thoughts pouring out with no control. 

Kirishima, Denki, and Sero, who stood around him, gasped dramatically. Denki picks up the keychain, smirking, as he dangles it in front of Katsuki.

"Doll face, huh~" 

Katsuki's eyes glowed a brilliant red as he sent a small explosion straight for his face. Ripping the keychain out of his hand. 

"I SAID...M-DOLL FACE!" 

Katsuki yells again in an effort to correct himself, once again unable to lie through his teeth like he usually did. Before an imaginary light bulb goes off in his head, realizing this was the damn stranger's quirk! He's pouring his true feelings out in front of idiots. As he quickly clamps a hand over his mouth, dashing straight for the existence of the store. Oh, he was going to hide away in his room until he could lie again for sure. 

"Kaachan! Are you trying to shoplift?!!" 

Denki yells as the bakusquad runs behind him, Mina sheepishly paying for the keychain Katsuki forgot he had in his hand. 

By the time Katsuki reached the UA dorm, he was soaked in his sweat and the coffee he had been drenched in earlier that day. Puffing out a breath as he walked towards the kitchen for a drink, he ran straight into the one person he wanted to avoid the most, his crush of two years now.

"Oh, suki!" 

She beamed brightly clueless of his disposition, holding a can of her favorite drink as she turned around, coming face to face with his chest. 

"Doll face" 

Katsuki sighs softly, the usual bite in his words missing because of the quirk, despite his best effect to scowl. "Tread carefully," Katsuki thinks to himself, his hands tied behind himself, not trusting the quirk to not make him do weird stuff. 

"Why do you look so flushed?"

She asks, concerned, furrowing her eyebrows together, eyes jumping all over his face, taking his sweaty face. Katsuki couldn't help blush at the sight of her sweet face in front of his face. 

"Yah, of course I'll blush if you stick your cute face in mine!"

Katsuki blurts out his usual habit of snapping back at people without missing a beat, coming back to bite in this ass. His hand flying to his mouth immediately. 

"I'm sorry—what?"

The poor girl asked, absolutely stumped to even believe that he meant it or that she even heard him right. Before either of them could speak, the baker entered the kitchen. Their loud laughs booming throughout the room. 

"Oh my god, that's so manly, bakubro!" Kirishima chuckles 

"Ugh, just slam your cute face into mine already!" 

Denki whines out loudly, grabbing Sero's shoulders in what seemed like a poor enactment of a smooch?!! 

Mina smacking the back of Katsuki's head, snatching the keychain out of his hand, and handing it to the poor clueless girl. 

"This idiot freaking shoplifted this for you. So if you're going to date anyone for this, it better be me since I paid for it!" 

Mina huffs out in an exaggerated hair flip, watching the girl turn red at the sight of the Hawks keychain. Stealing a glance at the angry boy, who was holding himself back from snapping a snarky reply, too afraid to say something honest. 

"BACK OFF! SHE'S MINE!"

Katsuki vomits the words out, his face scrunched in distaste at the raw truth pouring straight out of him. 

"Get Your Own Girl! I'VE BEEN RUNNING BEHIND HER OBLIVIOUS ASS FOR YEARS NOW." 

Mina barks out a laugh at successfully pushing the boy to confess, looking at the girl who's jaw slacked at the new information. 

"Excuse me, oblivious?!?"

"YEAH IDIOT! OBLIVIOUS! DO YOU NOT SEE ME TRAINING EXTRA HARD WHEN YOU'RE AROUND?! or when I always end up making a portion extra when I'm cooking for myself. Do I look stupid! I'm perfect. I don't make mistakes dumbass! That was for you each time to eat properly." 

Katsuki continued his rambling, words pouring straight out of his heart at this point, a little pout sitting on his lips. 

"Wha-I.. You! You always train hard, so that's not a very good hint!" 

"Oi. Just reject me already." 

Katsuki huffs out; his shoulder slumps as if he's already accepted his defeat. Looking at the deflated boy, the bakusquad couldn't have but watch in silence as his crush glancing briefly at the keychain in her hand. Stepping closer to Katsuki, she smiles shyly, slipping her hand into his. 

"Um, I want to be yours. Only! If you promise no more shoplifting." 

She jokes, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, hiding her blush. Katsuki's brain, however, was too lagging to comprehend he had the girl he's been pinning over for the past two years of his UA years, resting her head on his shoulder. Denki and Seri immediately took it upon themselves to make loud kissing noises to remind the newly formed couple to seal it with a kiss, while Kirishima wipes an imaginary tear from his eyes, clutching his heart. 

"That's so manly, bro."

All the chaos around him was more than enough for the boy to send a small warning explosion towards his friends, leaving them to scurry off in fear. Before he leaning back, taking the sight of his favorite girl leaning on his shoulder, gently moving her face to look at her properly. 

"My stupid dumbass to love."

He growls softly at the sight of her adorable face, nudging his nose to hers gently before pressing his lips to hers in a slow yet passionate kiss. 

Before pulling away smugly, caressing her jaw, 

"Some idiot hit me with a truth quirk, thinking he's got the last word in. Sucks for him; I'm still winning."

Bakugou and his crush core 🫣

Thank you sooooooo much for the ask! I had loads of fun writing it! I hope you like it.

[beefrobeefcal]

DEEZ NUTZ feat. Dieter Bravo & f!actress reader

a @happypedrohours challenge fic | Rated: 18+ | word count: 1,522 warnings: no fat men in this fic, smutty smutty smut smut, slight angst/enemies eventually leading to smashing pissers, pistachio theft, pistachios in places pistachios should be A/N: Thank you to @strang3lov3 + @sweetenerobert for their eyes and minds 💜

If you’d told your last-year self that you were going to be stuck on a film set in Oklahoma with the Dieter Bravo for nine weeks during one of the hottest summers on record, past you would be just as unimpressed as current you with the situation. Dieter was known for being out there in his methods and morals, and he did not disappoint. In fact, in every way you were warned about him, no one could have prepared you for how exhausting and annoying he was to work with. But you seemed to be the only one with an issue with him, given that everyone else on the set took his different and strange ways of approaching anything in stride and good humor.

By the third week, you thought you were going insane with how little notice everyone paid to him and his antics, and how much he got under your skin. There were times that he teased you or tried to play around, making you understand – even for a moment – what his allure was; but then he’d take it a step too far and you’d immediately be reminded that he was a thorn in your side.

You hated that you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Fuck off, Dieter!”

“What?”, he snapped, trying to catch up as you stormed out of the sound stage and into the parking lot filled with trailers. “Oh, come on! You can’t be serious!”

You snarled and clenched your fists, stomping towards your trailer. For a man with so few pockets in his wardrobe, you had no idea where Dieter managed to store all the audacity he carried.

Just as you got to the steps of your trailer, he grabbed your elbow, stopping you from opening the door.

“Are you really doing this? Did you really just storm off set? It’s not even 10 am!”

You glared at him, ripping your arm from his hold. Narrowing your eyes, you spit out at him, “Fucking cute that of all the people to ask me that, it’s you.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”, he breathed out harshly. “It was just a fuckin’ kiss!”

“Just a kiss? No. No, Dieter, I am not mad about a fucking kiss.” You turn around and step towards him, finger digging into his chest, forcing his retreat. “I am a professional and I can handle when you pull your bullshit, but you giving me directions on how to accept your kiss? That was you – once again! – overstepping your boundaries.”

“I – no! I was just giving you some point– “

“Pointers?!”

“I’m committed to the craft! I take rehearsals seriously!”

“No. No no no. Dieter, you are an entitled shi – what?”

The smile that crept across his face stopped you in your tracks and he leaned back, crossing his arms.

“What?”, you yelled, face pulled into a scowl and his smile opened up as he laughed.

“You liked it.”

You instantly saw red, feeling the dangerous buildup of animosity and need boil over inside you; your whole body felt 10 degrees hotter than before at his blatant and upsettingly correct assessment.  Dieter’s smile continued, seeing how you reacted to his declaration.  He took a step forward and leaned in, and said lowly before walking away, “Don’t worry, baby. I liked it, too.”

*****

You spent the rest of the day keeping as far away from Dieter as possible. Thankfully, he seemed to take the hint – or at least his assistant, production staff, and the entire crew did and kept him occupied between shots and during breaks.

Finally able to decompress in your trailer before your car would be there to pick you up, you put on your headphones and listened to a meditative app to try and de-Dieter your mind, body and spirit before moving into your weekend. In doing so, you missed the many messages from your driver telling you he was stuck in traffic. What you didn’t miss was the banging on your door.

You ripped your headphones off and pushed the door open, knowing exactly who knocked that obnoxiously.

“What, Dieter?”, you barked.

He flashed you a grin and pushed past you into your trailer. You rolled your eyes with a growl and turned to look at him.

Dieter held his hands up and gave you an apologetic and small smile. “Look, I know you’re mad at me, and I know today was – you got pistachios?” His eyes were trained on the small charcuterie board on the kitchenette counter, and he looked perplexed. “I didn’t get any pistachios.”

You scowled at him as he moved over to the counter and grabbed a handful of the little green, de-shelled nuts and shoveled it into his mouth.  “What do you want, Dieter?”

“Pish-tah-shos.”, he said muffled, mouth full and chewing. “Ma fuh-ken fa-reet.”

You jaw clenched and your mouth pursed so tightly, your lips turned white. You weren’t sure who was more infuriating: Dieter with his nut lust or you with your Dieter need.

He cleared his throat after he swallowed, and his big stupid brown eyes looked at you, wide and apologetic. “Like I was saying, I know you’re mad at me, and I know today was a lot, but I want to clear the air. I want us both to be in a good vibrationary stasis with each other so we can harmonize our chi’s.”

You tilted your head as you stared at him, confusion written on your face, not really sure what he just said to you.

“Fuck it.”, he threw his hands up, facade dropped. “I like working with you and you’re hot. Sorry I was an ass.”

The tension you didn’t realize your body was holding released, and your shoulders dropped to a neutral position. And Dieter wasn’t stupid -  he saw the relief wash over you and his mouth tugged on one side with a smirk, nodding at the double bed in the back of the trailer.

“You wanna have sex with me?”

***** 

Dieter had made you cum no less than four times with his mouth before he finally sunk into you, hips flush with one another. The long groan that left his mouth was accompanied by his eyes rolling back in his head and a dopey half-grin bloomed on his face.

If it weren’t for the delicious stretch and pressure he was creating in your own body, his euphoric state would have brought you there on its own. You urged him to move and he let out a content sigh before he looked down at you, eyes soft and hazy.

“Don’t rush me, baby. I worked hard to get here, I’m taking all the time I need to get the most of your sweet pussy.”

You squirmed and whimpered,  pathetically trying to coerce him into giving you something more than a cockwarming, and all you got in response was a deep, throaty chuckle, rumbling from the depths of his chest. 

Leaning forward, he captured your mouth with his and you tasted yourself and pistachios -  an odd combination that you never thought you’d have to decipher and put words to in your mind. Dieter pulled out, barely leaving the tip touching you, then slammed it back in, the force shoving you up the bed. And he did it again… and again… and again, setting the pace and speeding up.

He grunted,  “Taking Daddy so well -”

“No… no ‘daddy’ shit.”, you groaned back.

“Sorry… thought I’d take a chance… should’ve called it.”, he panted, “Don’t look like a Daddy’s Girl.”

“D-Dieter - just shut up.”

He smiled as his unruly curls moved and his huffing breath panting out of him in time with his thrusts. His brows then crossed in concentration as his hands dug into your hip and thigh, holding you in place as he pounded into you. Any further communication between you was wordless, conveyed with your eyes, sounds and hands pushing and pulling one another.

Your orgasm began to crash down on you, and Dieter suddenly pulled out, leaving your hole clenching on nothing and your climax fizzling out. Before you could ask ‘what the fuck?’ at his sudden removal, his own spend splooshed on your mound, hot and sticky.

“Fuck… I’m sorry.”, he panted, sitting back on his knees and wiping his face with his large palm. “You got a good pussy, baby. I just couldn’t help it and raw doggin’ is fun and all, but not chancing any little DB’s running around.”

You nodded slightly out of breath yourself. “It’s fine. I mean, you made me cum already and I-”

Your sentence was halted by Dieter lowering his face to the crux of your thighs and licking up his cum. Slack jawed and in awe, you watched him clean you up with his tongue.

When he dipped his tongue into your sensitive folds, he stopped and his eyes went wide. You felt him lick at something then he sat back, chewing on something.

“What-”

“Pistachio crumb. Must have left it behind when I was down there earlier.”

Your face skewed in amusement and disgust and Dieter just smiled.

“Waste not, want not.”, he smugly proclaimed before diving back in. 

no more taglists! for fic notifications, follow @beefnotes

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Edith Payne

The first thing that Charlie ever noticed about Edith Payne was the shade of her stormy gray eyes. How could she not? Edith Payne is one of the most buttoned-up girls that Charlie has ever met, and that’s saying something, considering that they both attend the same all-girls boarding school made for girls to become ladies so that way they can debut.

The one and only thing that Charlie’s father was ever right about was the fact that girls aren’t delicate, fainting things. Sure, he used it as an excuse to belt her, but Edith Payne is living fucking proof of the truth of his words.

How else would you describe a storm than Edith Payne shucking off her boots and jumping into that lake to pull Charlie out after the girls had pushed Charlie in after she stopped them from ripping apart the clothes of the new girl from Karachi, those garments brought from home? How else would you paint a storm other than Edith pulling Charlie out onto the shore of lake and pressing on her chest to get the water out before yelling at the girls who had forced her to leap in, the most gorgeous stormcloud miracle that Charlie had ever seen?

Charlie had been sure that she’d die in that water, unable to be released. Her father never taught her how to swim- that, he said, was something no lady ever needed to know.

But Edith Payne had stormed. Edith Payne had lit up the fucking world with the static charge of her lightning strike. 

-aletterinthenameofsanity, there was something in the water (now that something's in me)

I keep a record of the wreckage in my life I gotta recognize the weapon in my mind I've tasted blood and it is sweet I've had the rug pulled beneath my feet Broke down and put myself back together again Stared in the mirror and punched it to shatters Collected the pieces and picked out a dagger I'm no sweet dream, but I'm a hell of a night

-Halsey, Nightmare (Reprise)

@immacaria @nix-nihili @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @hannaloony @tumblerislovetumblerislife

@every-moment-a-different-sound @gardenveela @verianal @tragedy-machine @queen-of-hobgobblers

@idliketobeatree @mellxncollie @pappelsiin

[quitealotofsodapop]

DBK is most certainly confused as hell! But the moment he hears Wukong is in Danger, he's all on storming the Celestial Palace against his former brother's, this time with permission from his in-laws! It's also during this situation the truth about his rampage 500 years ago becomes known to the Celestial Realm. Xiwangmu, who has figured out Uwkong was not pregnant on the Journey, has even more reason to respect DBK.

Prev.

DBK is all sorts of messed up when he gets revived, but he immediately softens when he hears a tiny excited "BABA!" at his hoof. Immediately the feared demon king drops to his knees to embrace his child, barely larger since he last saw him centuries ago. His wife is close behind, cupping her husband's face and peppering him with kisses as she sobs with joy.

Red Son and Iron Fan are the only people who matter to DBK in that moment.

Then he notices his in-laws. And what appears to be the Pilgrims? Why are they all here?

DBK: (*finally gets a good look at the room/construction site*) The Room: (*His wife's parents, her nephew, and her cousin are all watching him closely. A pair of dragons + their pup stay at a safe distance. Macaque is alive again and is struggling to keep the Staff upright. And a trio of Pilgrim-looking fellows look extremely out-of-place.*) DBK: "Uh... ok, I am completely at a loss for what is happening right now." Nezha: "The Brotherhood have taken over Heaven. Azure Lion has taken the Emperor's power for himself, and taken Sun Wukong as a hostage." DBK: "Those fools! But, why is Wukong unable to fight back against them?" Macaque: "He's very weak from delivering a stone egg." DBK: "HE DID WHAT!? After I nearly ripped heaven asunder to prevent him from doing so!" Tang, history nerding: "Wait - that was the reason for your rampage 500 years ago?! You were trying to stop Wukong from creating his Stone Egg?" DBK: "Of course! He approached me to act as a vigil for Flower Fruit Mountain while he buried himself. When I discovered that the process is more often-than-not fatal, I became adamant on distracting Wukong by any means necessary!" Nezha: "You were not successful, sadly. Me and Iron Fan kept watch for the last 5 centuries - though I was not given context on why. I now understand why that was. I nearly strangled Wukong when I learned what the purpose of his "meditation" was." DBK, surprised: "Truly?" Pigsy, gesturing to the Ao-Long's: "Yeah, it was only when a certain baby dragon got lost playing with your kid did anyone know about this." Mei, puts up hand proudly: "I dug up Uncie Wu!" (*DBK turns to PIF, his face uncertain*) DBK: "My love, is this all true?" PIF, nodding: "Yes dear. When I saw the reincarnations of Wukong's pilgrim brothers touch upon the island, I sensed that it was time to slowly reunite our family. I retrieved Red Son from Guanyin, and of course, you know how much trouble he can get into on a good day. Eventually, things got a little away from us when Macaque came back into our lives - you must see the recording of the Trial that happened because of that. And of course my parents eventually found out about their grandson from my involvement." Red Son, smiling proudly: "I set the Jade Emperor on fire!" Jade Emperor: "He did." Xiwangmu: (*hiding fond laughter behind her sleeves*) DBK, turns to face his in-laws: "In that case, I will accept any rapport offered to me in kind. My main priority is my family, and if Iron Fan wishes to include you in it - I would honour her choice." Sandy: "Guess, thats gonna include Mr Monkey King now too, huh?" DBK: "What?" Pigsy, getting frustrated: "We'll explain it later!"

So yeah, big brother Bull got some ears to shout off, and a few former-Brothers to interrogate.

Yellow Tusk actually breathes a sigh of relief to see DBK burst through the cloud layer into the Celestial Realm, furiously shouting "SUN WUKONG!" as he charges at the doors to the throne room. Finally a good distraction.

[meowmeowriley]

@forestshadow-wolf Had asked about Duo Fatui, and you know what? Fuck it! Have what will eventually be the opening to the fic ❤

Ghost and Soap are placed on desk duty for a year after an op gone sideways. They decide to make the best of it.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Captain price roared as he stormed into the med bay.

Soap and Ghost were both laid up in separate cots, on either side of the room. Both now stared at him, wide eyed after his outburst.

"Sir," Ghost started but Price was not going to hear him out.

"No! Soap, what the hell were you thinking?!"

"Sir," Soap attempted to speak but Price cut him off as well.

"What the fuck were you thinking, giving a civilian your plate carrier?" Price seethed.

"Sir, he had important intel, we couldn't afford to lose him, and our route to exfil was taking heavy fire." Soap spit out his words quickly, probably to avoid being cut off again.

"Exactly sergeant, heavy fire that you took! You were shot, and you're a hell of a lot more important than some random scientist!" Price could feel his face getting red as he yelled. "And you!" He turned to face Ghost. "Now you're out of commission, because of his bloody fuck up!" He gestured sharply at a pouting Soap.

"We're the same blood type, I wasn't about to lose him over something I could easily help with, Captain." Ghost said flatly. To anyone else it would seem like Ghost was calm, detached even. Price could tell he was holding back his own anger.

Price found himself pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He wasn't actually angry at them. Soap had saved a man with insanely useful information. Ghost had saved Soap. He was angry that he hadn't been there to protect them himself. He was angry that he almost lost two of the best soldiers there ever were. Two of his men. He was angry that now they were both one kidney lighter. The transplant wouldn't take too long to heal, but the risk of rejection or infection meant he could still lose them. "One year." That garnered confused looks from both men.

"Um, no boss, the surgeon said-" Price cut Ghot off again, further souring the man's mood for sure.

"That the risk of rejection and infection will be significantly reduced after six months. I am placing you both on desk duty for one year, starting the day you get discharged from med bay." A horrified silence filled the room. "I hope you boys can find a way to keep yourselves entertained while Gaz, Roach and I pick up your slack." It may have ben a bit harsh, but he needed them to understand how important their lives were. To the world, to the team. To him. With that, he left the room.

***

"Ah'm sorry, Ghost."

"Shut it, Johnny."

"Ah am though."

"No." Ghost opened his eyes and leaned forward, looking at his hands. After Price had stormed in, ripped them a new one, and stormed out, he had leaned back in his bed and closed his eyes in an attempt to dissuade the rising rage. "If we're sorry, Price wins. That crabbit old man can kiss my arse. We did the right things."

"Hmmm... I have an idea." Ghost finally looked over to Soap again, urging him to continue with his eyes. "We're gonna be stuck on base for a whole year, aye?"

"Aye..." Ghost was unsure where this was going.

"We should do something unhinged, something incredibly stupid and pointless, every day. We'll have some random recruit record it, someone different every day if we can. At the end of the year, we'll play it on a projector in the mess for the whole base to watch." Soap was grinning at him. "Show Price what happens when you bench two of the craziest son's o' bitches in the SAS.'

It felt like a bad idea. Like making a deal with the devil. Like it would at least make the year of bullshit ahead of them go by faster. "I'm listening..."